Celia Garth: A Novel (46 page)

This vault was called the Provost. It was the only place where criminals were kept nowadays, for the town jail was being used as a barracks for British soldiers. The Provost was a stone-walled room, damp and almost airless, crawling with vermin. The place was already jammed with fifty-six human beings. These were men and women, white persons and Negroes; they were killers, drunkards, prostitutes, street-brawlers, some of them suffering from loathsome diseases. There was no separation by sex, day or night. There was no privacy at all, not even for what Simon Dale referred to as “calls of nature.”

As he talked, Simon nearly choked with fury. He said he knew the Misses Sarazen. They were
ladies,
and Simon made it clear exactly what he meant by a lady. Also, said Simon, the fact that the Sarazen sisters had never been married made the whole business even more of an insult. It was an insult, he added, to every decent woman in town.

Celia felt Ida pressing closer to her. Ida carried a fur muff; she took Celia’s hand and drew it into the muff and held it, as though for security. Celia returned the grasp. They were both trembling with the thought, This could have happened to me.

“Now, now, good people,” said a tired young voice with a British accent. “Walk on, don’t crowd.”

“Very well,” said Godfrey, and turning to Simon Dale he said good night. By the glow of the street-light Celia saw his face. Godfrey looked sick. He too was thinking, It could have happened to anybody. To my friends. To my wife.

Simon Dale was right, thought Celia. It’s an insult to every decent woman in town.

For the next few days, everybody talked about the affair of the Sarazens. People on both sides were shocked. They said it was just about what you would expect of Balfour.

Balfour knew—how could he help knowing?—that rebel news had been going out of Charleston. But they said, and had been saying for a long time, that he was too drunk and lazy to carry through an efficient plan of stopping it. His guards had arrested a few boys posting news on fences, a few fishermen smuggling notes written by other people. These fellows were usually thrown into the dungeon until they paid a fine.

This procedure, no matter how often repeated, did nothing to dig up the roots of the spy system. The rebels had scoffed at Balfour. So had some of his own subordinate officers in Charleston. Many of these men had given years of real service to their country, and they did not enjoy taking orders from a fellow who had used Balfour’s methods of getting ahead.

Prodded to do something about the informers, one day Balfour angrily shouted the order to throw the Misses Sarazen into the dungeon. People in general agreed with Simon Dale that he had chosen them because he thought the indecencies there would be especially painful to women used to living in maiden isolation.

Balfour’s own officers waited on him with such violent protests that after three or four days the Sarazen sisters were allowed to go home. They were besieged by visitors. Some of these were busybodies panting to hear a sensational tale, others were genuine friends. In their state of distraction the sisters could not tell the difference. They locked their door, and refused to discuss their days and nights in the dungeon. What had happened to them there, nobody ever knew.

Nothing was proved against them. This might have been because there was nothing to prove, or because the British authorities were so eager to forget the episode that they did not try.

After her first shock, Celia found that she was not so much scared as she was just plain mad. She felt a burning defiance. For the first time since Luke had kissed her, she was thinking of something besides Luke. She was wondering, Does Balfour think this is the way to stop us? I’ll show him.

She found herself again keeping her ears alert. With no effort at all, she thought of a new signal she could give from the side window. Because of the gloomy weather she suggested to Mrs. Thorley that they brighten the parlor with some potted ferns. Mrs. Thorley said it was a good idea, and Celia then suggested that the pots be of different colors, such as red and yellow and white.

When she saw Darren again she told him that next time she had a message to send she would put the white-potted fern at the window. The white pot could be easily seen through the glass.

She felt refreshed, glad she was back on the job. In spite of the rush of business she managed to listen. December ended, the year 1781 began, and in January her attention was rewarded. She heard Mrs. Hendrix bragging to another stout overdressed woman that Mr. Hendrix had been
so
busy lately, collecting wagons to take barrels of gunpowder up to Camden.

Mrs. Hendrix had a great deal to say about her husband’s importance in this matter. Celia guessed that all he had done was guide some British officers to plantations where they would find the sort of wagons they needed, so the British could take these and give the owners promissory notes, which Mr. Hendrix would then buy at a discount. Many Tories did this. They were most helpful, leading the way to supplies of all kinds. Naturally they took care to recommend that supplies be bought from people who for one reason or another could not come to town to cash the notes for themselves.

However, this did not matter right now. What did matter was that in the course of her bragging Mrs. Hendrix clearly said the wagons were gathering at Dorchester, and would start very soon unless it rained again.

Celia thought it was likely to rain again, for the winter so far had been a mushy one and she saw no sign that it was drying up. But sooner or later the wagons would start. Meanwhile, some bright fellow could be sent to Dorchester to keep an eye on them. Now at last after her weeks of uselessness she had something to report.

Everything went well. She thought of a new excuse to get up to the bedroom alone and write her message. Putting some wood on the parlor fire, she smudged her arm; raising her arm to push back a lock of hair, she wiped the smudge on her nose. So she had to step out and ask that somebody take her place while she went up to get washed.

When she came down she had her note in her pocket. As soon as she had a minute alone she took hold of the stand holding the fern in the white pot, and moved it to the window. Before anyone came in she had returned to her sewing.

She waited serenely. Odd to remember how jittery she had been about this at first. All she felt now was a cool triumph. Balfour thinks he can scare us, does he?

Late that afternoon Marietta came in. Curtsying politely, she said to Celia that she had come to pick up a package of ribbon for Mrs. Bernard. According to plan, Celia handed her the package and the note together. Marietta went out. She would deliver the note to Godfrey, who would start the news on its way. Celia had learned by now that many of her messages were passed by a certain bartender at a tavern on the highway. As Marietta went out, Mrs. Baxter came in. Celia smiled at her pleasantly, and Mrs. Baxter said she wanted to order some gloves.

The shop continued to be busy. Celia had expected a quiet period after the turn of the year, but there was none; trade at the port was good, so the Tories had money and were spending it. Celia ran up and down the stairs until she thought her leg-muscles must be as hard as those of an infantry soldier.

On a Sunday morning late in January she decided to rest by staying in bed. Becky and Pearl went to breakfast, as they were both going out for the day with their boy-friends; and Becky brought Celia the glass of milk that had stood by her plate. Celia drank it gratefully and lay down again.

She had a restful morning, dozing and reading. It was nearly noon when a maid knocked on the door and gave her a note. The maid said the boy who brought it was waiting for an answer.

The note was signed “Sarah Westcott.” Mrs. Westcott asked Celia to be her guest at a little private luncheon today. She said Ricky, who delivered the note, would walk with her to the tea-shop.

As soon as she saw the signature Celia’s heart began to thump. Sunday was the Westcotts’ busiest day. Mrs. Westcott had no time for a little private luncheon. This was a summons.

Luke must be here. Her heart thumped harder, and it seemed to be up in her throat instead of in her chest where it ought to be. She wet her lips. Trying to speak to the maid as if she was merely pleased at having a chance to go out, she said, “Tell the boy I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

With Ricky, she walked uptown toward Cumberland Street. It was a silent walk, for she could not talk about Luke and she could not think about anything else. Ricky led her to the family living quarters at the back of the shop, and saying, “I’ll call my mother,” he left her there.

When Mrs. Westcott came in, she laid a warning finger on her own lips. Silently she led the way along the back passage, and pointed down the cellar stairs. Celia nodded, and Mrs. Westcott bustled back to her customers.

Celia crept down the dark staircase and felt her way to the door of the muffled room. Here she paused. Her mouth felt dry. Luke was there, on the other side of that door, she was sure of it. He was going to remind her of what he had said. Six weeks ago—she should have made up her mind by now, but she had not. She was scared. It was a strange sort of scaredness, not the way she would have felt if she had heard somebody tiptoeing behind her on a dark street. Not that, but—what? She did not know. She thought, I’ve got to go in, I’ve got to speak to him, answer him, I’ve
got
to—

The door opened and two imperative hands grasped her and pulled her in between the curtains, and his voice said roughly, “Thank God you’re here! I’ve never been so worried in my life—tell me, Celia, are you all right?”

One hand still gripping her shoulder, with his other hand Luke pulled the door shut and dropped the curtain across it. All Celia could think at the moment was that with Luke, nothing was ever the way you thought it was going to be. In a voice thin with astonishment she answered, “Of course I’m all right! What did you think was wrong?”

Luke strode across to the table, where stood the hourglass and a candle. He struck the table with his fist, so hard that the shadows leaped crazily around the room. “You little fool,” he burst out, “what made you send that message about the wagons at Dorchester?”

Celia’s knees felt weak. She made her way toward him and grasped the table with both hands. “Oh good heavens—did I make trouble? Weren’t the wagons there?”

“Oh yes, yes, the wagons were there—but Celia, you half-wit, you reckless imbecile—what made you send any message at all? After what happened to those Sarazen women—suppose you’d been caught?” Luke was pacing up and down. His voice and gestures were so violent that the room seemed like a cage too small to hold him. “Balfour might have put you in the dungeon, or sent you to St. Augustine, or anything else his evil mind could dream of—didn’t you think of that?”

Celia shook her head.

“Well, I thought of it!” roared Luke. “I haven’t had a night’s sleep since—”

Celia felt a wicked amusement. “Luke!” she cautioned. “Keep your voice down!”

Luke tried to. “I’m sick with worrying!” he said. “If you weren’t thinking about yourself couldn’t you have had some consideration for me? Away out in the swamp, not knowing—”

Celia began to laugh. She could not help it, and she could not stop laughing until Luke grabbed her shoulder and gave her a shake.

“What’s the matter now?” he demanded.

Her lips still quivering with merriment, Celia managed to answer. “Now you know what other people have borne because of you.”

“What?” said Luke.

He spoke blankly. Celia thought with sudden understanding, We’re like each other. He hasn’t thought of that, any more than I thought of it.

“But this is war!” said Luke. “I’m a soldier. Soldiers always—” He broke off again. “Oh, stop talking about me. I want to talk about you. Celia, didn’t you know—”

“No I didn’t know!” she retorted. “It never occurred to me that I was in any special danger. I was just so mad with Balfour, for doing such a vile thing to those two women, and thinking he could scare us that way—”

“Well, maybe he didn’t scare you but he sure did scare me,” said Luke. “And now you listen.” He was trying to speak calmly but he did not sound calm at all. “Here’s what I came to tell you,” he went on. “You’re getting out of Charleston. Right now.”

“What?” gasped Celia.

“Yes,” said Luke. “You’re going to Sea Garden. To my mother. Sea Garden isn’t safe—there’s not a square foot of South Carolina that’s safe now—but if anything really bad threatens, you can always get out by that passage you saw General Marion use. Mother will show you.”

“But I’m useful here!” Celia protested. “That shop is a perfect listening-post. You said so yourself.”

“No!” Luke insisted. “You’re going to Sea Garden.”

She tried to answer reasonably. “Luke, it’s not right for me to quit! I’m not a soldier but I’m as good as one. Don’t you remember what King David said, those who stay by the stuff are as important as those who go into battle! You told me yourself.”

“Stop telling me what I said myself. I talk too much.”

Celia pushed the bench back from the table to give herself more room. “Don’t you want me to help win the war?”

“No!” Luke exclaimed. He walked to the end of the little room and back again. “When I think of you I don’t care what happens to the war. Celia—” Luke planted his hands on each side of his waist and blurted—“Celia, when a man gets to the place where he doesn’t care about his country nor his character nor his sense of duty, where he doesn’t care about one single thing but a woman—then, Celia, he’s got it bad. And my dear, that’s the way I’ve got it. You’re leaving this town if I have to tie you and gag you and bury you under a load of live mackerel in a fishing-boat.”

Celia stood between the bench and the table, staring at him. Luke said,

“Well, that’s how I feel about you. It’s not important how you feel about me, not now. You go to Sea Garden now. You can make up your mind about me later.” He stopped to catch his breath.

Celia heard her own voice speaking.

“But I’ve made up my mind. I’m in love with you.”