Celia Garth: A Novel (42 page)

“Yes,” she said, “I’ve just thought of one.”

She spoke quickly. His remark about her hair had given her a twinge of strangeness. Her shock at Bellwood had been so stunning that she had felt washed out of life for good, and Luke’s words reminded her that she was still, in spite of Bellwood, a girl that a man could find pleasing. The reminder was a little bit frightening, like taking the first step after an illness. She hurried to answer his question.

“I could give a signal with my cap-pin. I have several. One is a silver butterfly—I could change to the butterfly when I have something to report. It couldn’t be seen from the street, but Ida is having some kerchiefs made at the shop. She can come in as often as she likes, to see which pin I’m wearing.”

“Not bad. Try the butterfly pin.”

“And when Ida’s kerchiefs are made,” Celia said, “could we tell Madge to order something?”

Luke shook his head, laughing again. “Madge is no good at anything subtle. Just naturally too straightforward.”

Celia understood. An affectionate, candid person, normal as a loaf of bread, Madge was not made for adventures.

There was a tap at the door, and Darren came in. “Report’s on the way,” he announced blithely.

Celia felt a shiver of pride. No doubt Madge was a happy woman, but Celia was glad she was not made that way herself. Darren was crossing the room, and as he came near she gave a cry of astonishment. “Darren!”

He stopped. “What’s the matter?”

She heard Luke laughing, but she did not look at him; she was staring at Darren. “Your cane!” she exclaimed. “Your limp—”

Darren held his cane in his hand, but he had not put it to the floor since he came in. He laughed too, a little shamefacedly, and Luke said, “I told you she noticed everything.”

With a sigh, Darren laid his cane on the table. “Miserable thing. Walking stiff-legged makes my knee so sore that I’m likely to be really lame before this war’s over. Here in the Westcotts’ cellar I can walk naturally and it’s such a relief, I forgot you didn’t know.” He sat down on the bench across from Celia and rubbed his aching knee.

“But why do you pretend to be lame?” she demanded.

“To keep out of the king’s army,” Darren said mirthfully. “I’m just what they want—healthy and under twenty-five, so since Clinton revoked the paroles I’d either have to fight for old George or be in trouble. But I did get a leg-wound during the siege, I’ve got a scar to prove it. All right now, but if I say I’m still lame they can’t prove I’m not.”

They all laughed together. It was such a simple trick, and yet so effective that it gave them a feeling of triumph. It occurred to Celia that she had laughed more this morning than during the whole time since she came back to Charleston.

Flexing his knee, Darren said, “I want to go with Marion, but they say I’m more useful in town. Just a born errand boy, that’s me.

He and Luke went on to tell her more about the work they were doing and how they did it. How notes were hidden in cabbages, in the hair of farm girls who brought eggs to town, even in Mrs. Westcott’s fancy twists of bread. How Marion’s men slipped through the swamps with the silence they had learned in years of hunting there, sometimes coming so close to British camps that they could steal guns and powderhorns without rousing the guards. One of their best swamp-dodgers was Amos. Most Britishers were not used to Negroes and knew very little about them. Amos could, whenever he felt like it, drop into a fieldhand dialect and give the impression that he didn’t know nothin’ about nothin’.

Luke told her how a scout, hidden in a tree, would signal his comrades with a low soft whistle that could be heard for a remarkable distance. Marion himself had devised the whistle. It was so much like a bird-call that only a trained ear could tell the difference.

They talked and talked. They forgot the passage of time until they heard another tap on the door and in came Mr. Westcott, a round little plump fellow who evidently enjoyed his wife’s cooking. Mr. Westcott said “Howdy, ma’am,” to Celia. He told them that there were several couples here now, in the ladies’ side of the tea-shop, and this would be a good time for Darren and Miss Celia to come up by the kitchen way.

He toddled out to wait on his customers, and Luke told Celia that Mrs. Westcott made it a point to be proud of her kitchen. She invited the customers to come in whenever they pleased, to see how spick-and-span it was. Celia and Darren could go up the stairs, but instead of turning toward the refreshment rooms they would go to the kitchen. Celia would give the proper compliments on its neatness, then they would go into the tea-room and order some of Mrs. Westcott’s dainties. The kitchen visit would justify their coming into the tea-room by the back door.

Leaving Luke in the cellar, Celia and Darren climbed the stairs again. The kitchen was dustless and gleaming, with big brick ovens watched over by maids in shiny white caps and aprons. The odors were so luscious that Celia did not wonder at the size of Mr. Westcott’s paunch. Another couple came in, a ruddy middle-aged pair, the housewife admiring the kitchen while her husband sniffed with appreciation. They all four went together from the kitchen to the tea-room.

Several tables were occupied. As Celia crossed the room she saw Mr. and Mrs. Leon Torrance, but they did not appear to see her. Observing the round innocent face of Leon Torrance, Celia thought again how much he looked like Sophie. She recalled that it must be about time for Sophie’s baby to be born. Probably that was why she was not in town, taking part in the gay life she enjoyed so much.

Darren chose a table by a window, and Mrs. Westcott bustled over to serve them. The nut-bread was delicious.

J
OHN CRUDEN, THE MAN
in charge of confiscating rebel estates, went seriously about his work. Two days after Celia’s talk with Luke, Mr. Cruden chose the residence of Charles Cotesworth Pinckney, a rich American officer now a prisoner of war. Colonel Pinckney’s wife and children were told to go and live with any friends who would make room for them. Mr. Cruden let them have their clothes, but they had to leave everything else.

The family moved out and Mr. Cruden moved in. Having taken care of himself, he was now ready to take care of other people.

It was a bright October and business was good. The town was full of people. Besides the Britishers, merchants from the West Indies were here to buy and sell; men had come from the country to take orders for army supplies; Tories had poured in from other colonies to reap the rewards of their Toryism. Day after day as she minded the parlor Celia listened to their talk, and she had never known there were so many ways to pronounce the English language.

Some of the talk was heartbreaking. She heard of plantations confiscated by Cruden and sold for a fraction of their value to friends of the king. She heard that half the men in Washington’s army had no shoes, and winter on the way. She even heard that Cornwallis had started on his northward march.

“Is it true, Luke?” she asked despairingly, next time she saw him.

Luke, however, was not concerned. “Yes, it’s true,” he said. He smiled as he added, “It’s a lot easier to start somewhere than to get there. You keep on listening.”

So she kept on listening, and sometimes—not often, but sometimes—she heard items of real value, items that might help win the war.

They had no more news of Cornwallis, but Luke kept his merry courage. “I don’t believe,” he said, “that Cornwallis will get far. In fact,” Luke went on serenely, “it wouldn’t surprise me if we made things so tough that instead of his going north to help Clinton, Clinton should have to send more men south to help Cornwallis.”

Celia gasped. “Oh Luke, we don’t want any more!”

“Oh yes we do, Sassyface,” he assured her. “We want all we can get. The more men here with Cornwallis, the less chance Clinton has to close in on General Washington.”

He laughed so confidently that Celia laughed too. No matter how dismayed she might have been, Luke always made her feel that they could do anything.

And then Luke was gone.

Celia learned of his departure one morning. She had finished the last of Ida’s kerchiefs the day before, and Miss Loring had told her to deliver them after breakfast. The maid who answered the door led her upstairs to the little sitting room, where Ida told her Luke had left town. Ida said Ricky Westcott had come by yesterday to tell them. Ricky did not know when Luke had left; he knew only that his father had sent him to say that Luke’s work in town was done, at least for the present, and he had slipped out in secret to rejoin Marion’s men.

Before Celia had time to think about how much she was going to miss him, Ida was saying, “Now I have a surprise for you. A nice one.” As she spoke she crossed the room to the bedroom door. Celia heard her say, “You may come in now,” and through the doorway came Marietta.

With a joyful cry Celia sprang to her feet. Marietta ran to meet her and they hugged each other. “Oh, Miss Celia,” Marietta exclaimed, “I’m so glad to see you!”

“When did you get here?” Celia asked eagerly.

“Last week. But Miss Ida said I’d better not go to the shop to see you, I should wait till you came here.”

“And what are you doing in town?”

Marietta glanced at Ida. “It’s all right to tell Miss Celia everything, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes,” Ida said, “only keep your voices down, both of you.”

She left them, saying she wanted to speak to the cook about dinner. Celia and Marietta sat side by side on the long chair.

Marietta said Amos had come to Sea Garden several times, bringing letters to be passed on. He had told her about Marion’s men. Marietta wanted to help. She had felt so useless, polishing silver and arranging flowers, things like that.

“I know just what you mean,” Celia said fervently.

“So Miss Vivian said, if we could figure out some way for me to come to town, I could work for Miss Ida, and do things to help Amos.”

“How? Oh never mind, we’ll come to that. First tell me how you got here.”

Marietta said a redcoat troop had come by Eugene Lacy’s plantation some time ago, and had taken a lot of meat and fodder, and his best horses. They had given him one of those promissory notes in payment. But not only did Eugene Lacy have a son who had fought with the Continental Army and was now on the prison-ship in Charleston harbor, also Eugene himself had given aid and comfort to the rebels whenever he could. He could not get a pass to come to Charleston and cash that note on Queen Street.

However, since it was better to have a little money than no money at all, Eugene had asked his friends, if they heard of any Tories going to Charleston, to say he had a note that he would sell at a discount.

“And Miss Celia,” said Marietta, “you’ll never guess who bought it.”

Celia felt a tweak of misgiving. “Not my cousin Roy Garth!”

“That’s right, Miss Celia. He and Miss Sophie came by Sea Garden again, and asked if they could spend the night on their way to Charleston. They have a baby boy now, did you know that? Mr. Herbert told them about Mr. Eugene’s note, and Mr. Roy said he’d be glad to oblige. He bought it for a very small discount, I don’t know how much but I know Mr. Eugene was surprised, he said he hadn’t expected any Tory to be so generous.”

Celia remembered what Herbert had said of Roy last summer. “No honest man needs to be
that
charming.” She wished she knew what Roy had in his mind.

“So then what happened?” she asked.

“Well, Miss Vivian told them her daughter-in-law Mrs. Bernard needed some extra help now that she had two officers staying in the house. She asked if they would take one of the maids from Sea Garden to Charleston with them. Mr. Roy said of course, glad to be of service. So I came to town on their boat.”

“Now tell me what you do here,” said Celia.

Marietta said Major Brace and Captain Woodley often had visits from other officers. Marietta brought them tea or drinks, came in to open or close the windows. They were not so careful of their talk around a colored housemaid as they were around Godfrey and Ida.

Marietta helped hang out the laundry, on a clothesline that had been arranged so one end could be seen from the street. Ida had some kerchiefs with blue borders. If Godfrey had a message to send but could not take it himself without attracting attention, Marietta hung a blue-bordered kerchief at that end of the clothesline.

“And as time goes on,” said Marietta, “we’ll find other things I can do.”

Celia had heard all she said, but at the same time Celia herself was thinking of Roy. “Marietta,” she asked, “where are my cousins staying?”

“With Miss Sophie’s brother—Mr. Leon Torrance and his family. They’ve got a big house on Church Street.”

Celia felt uneasy; she did not know why. She was of age now, there was nothing Roy could do to her—unless he found out she was a spy for Marion, and this was a risk she faced every day from everybody on the king’s side.

The door of the sitting room burst open and Godfrey’s voice exclaimed “Ida!” He stopped on the threshold. “Oh Celia, I’m sorry—didn’t know you were here. Where’s Ida?”

He spoke jerkily. Something was wrong. “Ida went out to the kitchen,” said Celia. “Godfrey, what—”

“Marietta—please go and find her,” said Godfrey—“ask her to come up here.”

Marietta gave him a glance of concern as she went out. Godfrey slammed the door and stood there, softly beating one fist on the palm of his other hand. Celia stood up.

“Godfrey, shall I leave? Do you want to speak to Ida alone?”

“No, it’s no secret. Everybody in town will be talking about it before night.” He ran his hand back over his hair, and took two or three breaths to steady himself. “Celia,” he asked, “did you ever hear of a man named Benedict Arnold?”

The way he spoke the name, it seemed to rattle around the room. Celia began, “I’m not sure—I believe I have—” and Godfrey said shortly,

“He’s commander of the fort at West Point. I mean he was.”

“What’s happened?” she exclaimed.

Godfrey walked across the room to a window and stood looking out. “A ship has just come from New York with the news. Wait till Ida gets here. Then I won’t have to tell it more than once.”