“The prodigal son.” Tom gave Edward a fierce look. “You have abandoned your studies?”
“For the moment, sir. I left London because—”
“We’ll discuss your reasons in private.” He wheeled about, his tone an unspoken command to follow.
Not too loudly, Mr. Willing said, “Welcome back. I’ll have a boy deliver your trunks.” Edward thanked him and hurried off, forgetting to make a polite inquiry about Willing’s daughter.
In the years since the Fort Moultrie victory Charleston had remained a busy open port. Obviously the Crown’s new campaign in the South was closing it down. Sheds that warehoused rice and indigo on Bell’s Bridge were empty. The scale house and small kitchen building were padlocked.
Edward followed his father into a dim and cluttered office. Tom Bell sat behind his desk and began to pack his pipe with the fragrant tobacco he flavored with vanilla. He didn’t offer his son a chair.
“Now, sir. Explain yourself.”
“Yes, sir. Last month I heard news of Clinton’s armada. I was worried about you, and mother.”
Tom pounced on Edward’s hesitation: “Is that all?”
“Lydia. I was worried about her too.”
“As well you might be,” Tom said with a curious look Edward didn’t understand. “Sir Henry Clinton has marched up the coast from Savannah with approximately nine thousand men, including mercenary companies from the German province of Hesse. Admiral Arbuthnot’s fleet is anchored off Simmons Island1
1Present-day Seabrook Island
and will soon bottle up the harbor. Commodore Whipple was sent down by Congress with seven ships.” “I saw them inside the bar.”
“No match for the enemy squadron. I expect Sir Henry will be on James Island, within artillery range, in a matter of days. You chose a poor time to return.”
“Well, the deed’s done, so I hope we needn’t wrangle about it.”
“You expect me to accept this calmly, Edward? I spent a devil of a lot of money to send you abroad. I am grossly disappointed in your behavior.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll try to make it up somehow. If not the money, at least the disappointment. May I ask whether you’ve seen Lydia?”
Again that odd look. “Not lately, no.”
“Is mother at Oyster Point?” That was the site of their house, the southern point of the peninsula, named for the middens of oyster shell that bleached white in the sun.
“No, I sent her out to Malvern as soon as we got word of the enemy landing at Savannah. I thought the countryside would be safer. Now I’m not sure. Clinton may cross the Ashley and occupy the Neck, cutting us off by land as well as by sea. Further, there are loyalist partisans operating in the parishes. They are not honorable men.”
“I’ll bring mother to Charleston anytime you say.”
“Thank you. Your brother’s already left Prosperity Hall in the care of his slaves. He’s staying at his town house.”
“I’ll go there now, if I may.”
“You’re more likely to find him at William Holliday’s tavern on Queen Street, idling his time away with his friends of similar disposition.”
“And Poorly, sir? What about him?”
“At the moment Daniel Poorly is working at Malvern.”
“You wrote that he’s married.”
“Sally, a light-skinned kitchen girl.”
“So I own two slaves?”
“Not yet. Remember that under the code, slave marriages have no legal standing. Is that all?”
Awkwardly, Edward extended a hand, as though to touch his father. He hoped Tom might stand, let Edward embrace him. He didn’t. Edward’s hand fell. “Only this, sir. Whatever else happens, I’m very glad to see you.”
After a long, steady look Tom said, “My feeling as well.” He spoke gruffly, to hide any trace of sentimentality. “If you choose to walk through the city, you’ll hardly recognize it. Much of the damage from the great fire of two years ago has been repaired, but the damage from this war grows more evident every day.”
Edward took his leave. Near the head of the pier he passed by three large iron cages designed to hold slaves fresh off the ships. The cages were empty, free of their usual stench. From the top bars of each cage hung pairs of chains and manacles, to restrain any man or woman feeling rebellious after the long passage from Africa. The breeze rang the metal cuffs and chains like chimes.
A few steps beyond, near the hurly-burly of Bay Street, Edward saw a young woman approaching, Mr. Willing’s daughter, Joanna. She wore a workaday long-sleeved dress, brown wool, a laced-up leather bodice, a small round cap, latched shoes of cowhide. “Edward. What in heaven are you doing in Charleston?”
“Change of plans. I heard about the invasion. I thought my father might need me.”
“Indeed he may. They say Clinton’s brought artillery, horses, and those dreadful Germans who fight for money.”
Edward remembered Joanna as a small, serious girl, exceptionally neat in her personal habits. That was not a trait inherited from her father. Esau Willing kept an untidy office that Joanna continually tried to clean and organize. Her mother came from the German colony up at Orangeburg. He recalled little about the woman except her face and the different spelling of her name, Johanna.
During his absence Joanna had matured into a beautifully proportioned young woman no taller than his shoulder. She had her father’s round face, a good bosom, large brown eyes, and lustrous brown hair with strong reddish lights in it. Always neatly arranged, her hair reminded him of a hunter’s cap. Her forehead was high and smooth. She smiled easily, and with warmth; she had good teeth.
A constant subtle tension gave her body a slight forward tilt, as though she was anticipating a problem or searching for one that needed her attention. Even when she conversed, he felt that her mind was clicking with a hundred other concerns. Joanna Willing was a person he’d known reasonably well but had no great interest in, especially since she tended to be an annoying scold on one subject.
“Are you looking for Mr. Willing?” he asked.
“No. I’m going out in the harbor with an oyster rake. I found a bed where the oysters are big as dinner plates. Two of those will feed Papa and me nicely.”
“My father says the city’s greatly changed.”
“Not in every respect.” She glanced at the cages. A hanging chain and manacle moved in the wind, throwing its shadow on her face.
“You still believe we’re wrong to trade in slaves?”
“Absolutely. The British are on the right side of that issue. They’re encouraging slaves to run away and join their army.”
Her air of rectitude annoyed him. “Joanna, for years part of your father’s salary has come from the profits of slave trading on this wharf.”
“I am not my father.”
“Still, slavery paid for your education at that fine young ladies’ academy.”
“And education taught me to hate slavery.”
“Well, there’s independency, eh? I surrender.” He smiled. “I’m out of arguments.”
“I don’t find the subject amusing. Slavery is an abomination before God. It paid for your glorious holiday in England, didn’t it?”
“Damn, Joanna, you’re—”
“The tide’s running. I must hurry. Good day, Edward.”
And off she went, her broad hips swinging in a way that might have intrigued him in other circumstances. He shook his head. Not much of a homecoming, this. He hoped he’d experienced the worst of it.
3
Adrian’s Thunderbolt
The return of the British had changed his city. Soldiers, vagrants, blacks, bawds, and refugees from the country crowded the dirt streets and the footpaths on either side. Wagons and chaises and couriers on horseback added to the clamor and congestion. Families squatted on empty patches of land with barrows and bundles holding their few possessions. Edward guessed that Charleston’s population of twelve or thirteen thousand might have doubled.
&n
bsp; North of Boundary Street at Meeting, slaves with shovels and barrows were building a sizable hornwork from tabby, a kind of masonry made of lime mixed with oyster shells. The hornwork was the centerpiece of a line of fortifications running east and west toward the two rivers. He climbed a mound of dirt to observe more black men digging a broad ditch some distance in front of the earthworks and parallel to them. He approached a sweating engineer studying a diagram. “Sir, what’s the purpose of the ditch?”
The annoyed man barked at him. “To save your life, sir. We expect Clinton to cross the Ashley and come at us from the Neck. The ditch will be dammed at each end, and tidal seepage will fill it. Behind it we’ll have two abatis, another moat, and there”—he pointed downward—“a fraise.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know the term.”
“A fraise is a barricade of sharp stakes, pointing at the enemy. Obviously you’re not an army man. You certainly look old enough.” He didn’t mean it as a compliment.
Edward walked south again. The soldiers he saw were a hard lot, armed with muskets and fowlers, tomahawks and knives. Blue uniform coats with white-edged buttonholes, the uniform of South Carolina regulars, were scarce. Most of the soldiers wore leggings and long hunting shirts dyed an assortment of bright colors. Whether the men were regulars or militia, Edward couldn’t say.
He turned over to King Street a block west of Meeting and found more than one merchant hammering up boards to protect a shop. Packs of wild dogs fought for garbage strewn about. The only laughter came from youngsters romping as though no enemy threatened.
Mr. William Holliday’s Queen Street taproom, a successor to Dillon’s, was a favorite of the young gentry. Here, in the middle of the afternoon, Adrian Bell sat drinking and chatting with two friends.
Adrian resembled his younger brother and was nearly as tall. The strongest differences were large jug-handle ears and a pinched, off-putting face; Adrian’s eyes were set too close together. What he lacked in good looks, he made up for with a prosperous appearance and a cultivated air of importance.
Adrian’s friends were scions of wealthy plantation owners. The first, Storey Wragg, was a glutton with a face as red as an uncooked mutton chop and a stomach big enough for a woman about to deliver triplets. The other, Archibald Lescock, was a fop who perfumed his wig with cloves and cinnamon and padded his breeches to enhance the shape of his legs. All three young men were in fashion: long, narrow-tailed coats showing elaborate turnback cuffs, standing collars, stocks, fancy hose garters. Lescock’s wig was expensive human hair. Adrian’s was of less costly goat hair. The miserly Wragg settled for horse mane.
“I thought Gadsden was our resident radical madman, not Henry Laurens,” Wragg said between forkfuls from his trencher of pork loin. “I consider Laurens a man of moderation. I can’t believe he endorsed the wish of General Lincoln and the Congress to put slaves under arms.”
“And free them afterward,” Adrian said. “But surely they’d be poor soldiers. Then the battle would be lost, and we could return to being a Crown colony. Not entirely undesirable, in my estimation.”
“You think niggers wouldn’t fight?” Wragg plucked at a piece of fat dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t forget Stono.” In 1739 slaves had massacred a dozen whites at Stono Bridge, twenty miles south of the city. Planters on horseback interrupted the slaves’ dash to freedom in Florida, killed fourteen immediately, and shot others after questioning them. But some escaped, provoking a manhunt that lasted for weeks. More than forty suspects were rounded up and executed. The memory of this worst and bloodiest slave rebellion had terrified Charlestonians ever since.
“My wife can’t forget Stono,” Lescock said in a hushed voice. “Her parents told her how awful it was to tremble in their beds every night, fearing they’d be murdered.”
Adrian mused aloud. “I wonder what Mr. Laurens would have us do if he takes away our chattels? Slosh around in the rice fields ourselves? Sweat to death in the heat?” The others laughed at the ridiculous idea.
At that moment Adrian saw his brother approaching. “My God. Am I looking at a ghost?”
Edward smiled. “No, I’m back. And not in our father’s favor because of it.”
“I’m stunned. Stunned,” Adrian repeated as he rose and embraced his brother. “These are my friends.” He introduced Wragg and Lescock. Edward thought, Corday’s cousins. Smooth, pale hands; an air of condescension as they in turn looked the new arrival up and down. Edward’s clothes bore stains and patches unsuitable to a man of quality.
“You must tell me how this came about,” Adrian said. “Storey, Archibald—you’ll excuse us?” They left, Adrian called for tankards of ale, and Edward briefly described his decision to break off his studies. When he mentioned Lydia Glass, he noticed a sudden nervousness in his brother’s manner. Adrian asked, “Have you been home?”
“Not yet. Father told me you might be here, so I stopped.”
“You know mother’s at Malvern?”
“Yes.”
“Edward, I’ve something to tell you. Duty compels it.”
“Fine, I’m listening.” With some of the rich dark ale in him he felt relaxed and happy.
“While you were away, I asked Lydia to marry me. She consented.”
Edward slammed the tankard down so hard that other patrons broke off conversations to stare.
Adrian flushed, leaned toward him, spoke in a pleading way. “Look here, it shouldn’t be so hard to understand. I’ve always admired her. What man in Charleston doesn’t? You were too busy to notice.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“Why? You may be the romantic in the family, but I’m the steady one. I offer Lydia a better future. I will make a pile of money. I’m also on the right side. I believe the British will win the war.”
“Because you’re an opportunist,” Edward snarled. “I’ve a right to knock your head off your shoulders, you damned—” He choked back the filthy name.
“Edward, she made the choice.”
“I want to hear it from her.”
“Yes, you should. She’s in town, with her father. Please, Edward. Try not to be too angry.”
“What were you expecting, congratulations, or my hearty thanks for stealing Lydia behind my back?” He knocked over the tankard with a sweep of his hand; the contents slopped on the pegged floor. He stood abruptly, overturning his chair.
“Edward—”
“Go to hell, Adrian. You just go to hell.”
Edward wandered the streets and visited dramshops for most of the afternoon. Twice he almost turned his steps toward Lydia’s house but decided he was too angry.
Sunset found him by the State House at the northwest corner of Broad and Meeting. In the crossway grateful citizens had erected a marble statue of William Pitt, honoring the great statesman’s defense of the colonists when they protested the Stamp Act. Edward gazed up at St. Michael’s steeple and listened to the sweet notes of the eight bells announcing the hour.
The sky was pale as his hopes, the stars dim as his future.
The fine single house of the Bell family, stucco on brick, fronted the harbor at Oyster Point, sometimes called White Point. It overlooked a vista of marsh grass, the middens of bleached oyster shells, and the partially constructed fortifications he’d seen when he sailed in. In the hazy dusk the lanterns of Commodore Whipple’s warships rode the gentle swells of the evening tide.
The three-story house was rectangular, the narrow end toward the street. A gate on the east side led into a walled garden dominated by a live oak taller than the house. A long piazza with the family entrance in the center faced the garden. Tom and Eliza had built the house at the end of the Seven Years’ War, when Bell’s Bridge shared Charleston’s economic boom, and many merchants and planters “bragged in brick” to announce their newfound affluence.
Candlelight washed the windows of the front room on the ground floor that Tom used for a combination office and library. Edward went in through t
he garden and the piazza. Pharaoh, the aging black house man, greeted him and said his trunks had already been delivered. He found his father writing in a leather-covered book with a gilded clasp, one of his diaries. Tom Bell had filled several in Edward’s lifetime. The room was warm and welcoming with its dark furniture and walls of bookshelves.
The books were there because of Eliza. Shortly after her wedding, Eliza Trott had taken over her young husband’s education. Tom had learned only basics at the St. Philip’s Free School, which was no longer favored by the gentry because it attracted too many poor children.
Eliza had directed Tom’s reading; instilled in him a lifelong passion for learning. Tom supported the Charles Town Library Society and kept a private collection of over two hundred volumes, weighted heavily toward works on dissent. Locke and Rousseau were there, as were Cato’s Speeches, The Independent Whig, Davila’s History of the Civil Wars in France, and several works on revolutions in the Roman republics. From these books had come Tom’s conviction that the Crown was interfering with Englishmen’s rights to self-government and full enjoyment of life, liberty, and property, said property including human beings.
“I saw Adrian,” Edward said without preamble. “He informed me of his wedding plans.”
Tom laid down his quill, more sympathetic than he’d been that afternoon. “Several times your mother suggested I write you. It wasn’t my place. Adrian should have. Your brother often avoids the hard choices. I’m afraid he’s a secret Tory.”
Edward slumped in a chair, stuck out his legs, picked a bit of dried dung off his boot. His eyes looked sunken, shadowed with strain. After a prolonged silence Tom said, “What will you do?”
“Speak to Lydia about it. Ask for an explanation.”
“She was never formally promised to you, Edward.”
He stamped the floor. “My own damn fault. I should have seen to it. I was too confident of her feelings.”
“What if she’s determined to marry Adrian? What will you do then?”