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Carolina Crossing

By Kit Hawthorne

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North Carolina, 1780.

Fergus Shaw peered through his spyglass at a jagged heap of fire-blasted stone. It might have been an ancient cairn on a Scottish heath, but the battered mantelpiece and charred timbers showed it to be the chimney of a burned house, with a birds’ nest tucked in a hollow between stones, and pine seedlings springing from the old cellar. A block or so behind the house loomed the hollow hulk of a church, with sunlight shining through the fallen roof, and brambles spilling out of windows and doors in a riot of spring green. More pine seedlings stood in the streets of what had once been the thriving port city of Brunswick Town. Farther back still, the pine forest rose somber and dark, stretching away from the western banks of the river called Fear.

He lowered the spyglass, and the scene shrank to a miniature ruin far away across the broad expanse of water. The sun shone warm on his shoulders, penetrating the thin linen of his best summer frock coat. Beside him, his sister Catalyn fanned herself.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he told her. “You’re still not strong enough.”

She’d grown thin and pale since the baby came. Fergus had heard Tavish, his brother-in-law, all but order her to take to her bed and rest. But Catalyn had only laughed and said the work wouldn’t do itself, and no one could argue with that. With only an occasional small vessel able to slip out of port for a quick trip to the French West Indies and back, the supply of goods in town was meager at best, and there was no money to buy any of it anyhow, because they couldn’t sell their own wares either. The demand for tar, pitch, and turpentine, the Shaw family’s livelihood before the war, had all but dried up. Everyone had to work harder than ever to keep food on the table and clothes on their backs. And now here they were, about to take in someone even worse off than themselves.

Not that Fergus grudged Miss Melina Bryant a place in his father’s house. Taking her in was no more than common decency—and Patriots must help one another, now more than ever. As Mr. Franklin had said, We must, indeed, all hang together, or most assuredly we shall hang separately.

“I had to come, brother,” Catalyn said. “’Twould hardly be seemly for you to meet Miss Bryant by yourself and drive her back to the farm across twelve miles of lonely road.”

“Nay, but I could have brought Nessa or Morna instead.”

“I’m the eldest daughter of the house. ’Tis right that I be the one to welcome Miss Bryant.”

“You mean you wanted to keep an eye on me. Make sure my manners aren’t lacking.”

A hint of a smile curled the corners of Catalyn’s mouth. “Aye, well, you do tend to gawp. You’re an excellent young man, Fergus, but conversation is not your strong suit. Have the passengers finished boarding the ferry yet?”

He pointed the spyglass across the river toward the southern edge of Brunswick Town and adjusted the depth until the ferry dock came into focus. “Aye. They’ve just started crossing.”

A murmur of relief ran through the small crowd at the river’s eastern shore—Patriots from Wilmington and the surrounding countryside who’d risen before dawn to drive to the ferry and meet the refugees from war-torn Charlestown. Even the best dressed among the townsfolk looked threadbare, out at the elbows and down at the heels. Four years of war and blockade had taken their toll.

Through the glass, he saw passengers and baggage filling every inch of the flat-bottomed, shallow-draft ferryboat. Two upright posts stood along one side of the boat, with a stout rope passing through holes in their tops, like a single thread running through a pair of needles. The rope’s ends were fastened one at each shoreline. The ferryman pulled on the rope, hand over hand, moving himself and the boat along the rope, and drawing the ferry across the river.

“What a shame that Sir Henry wouldn’t let the refugees travel by ship,” Catalyn said. “’Twould have been so much quicker and easier. I don’t understand what he was thinking.”

“I do. ’Twas a senseless act of petty tyranny. He did it because he could.”

“I suppose. Poor Miss Bryant. Six weeks of siege warfare, then an overland journey in summertime, with the British army at large in the countryside, plundering and…insulting the inhabitants.”

Fergus didn’t answer. They’d all heard the stories of how the British Legion’s marauding dragoons treated the property, and the wives, of Patriot soldiers in South Carolina. Nothing like that had happened close to home, at least not yet. In fact, for most of the war, the British had left North Carolina alone.

Four years earlier, in seventy-six, Loyalists had raised a large force around Cross Creek with the goal of sweeping down the Cape Fear River to Wilmington, the province’s most important port. The British had believed North Carolina was ripe for conquest and, once taken, would act as a springboard for vanquishing the rest of the southern colonies.

They’d been wrong. Fergus had been among the Patriot soldiers who’d beaten the Loyalists at Moore’s Creek Bridge, along with his father and brother-in-law. The British had left North Carolina and not come back.

But they’d looked southward again once France entered the war on America’s side. Still convinced that the southern colonies were hotbeds of Loyalism eager to return to royal rule, the British had launched offensives against Georgia and South Carolina. Savannah had fallen late in seventy-eight, and Charlestown a year and a half after. British raiding parties spread from the capital into the South Carolina Lowcountry: stealing horses, plundering provisions, burning houses. Now they were moving into the mountainous backcountry of both Carolinas. No one doubted they’d try to take Wilmington soon.

The ferry was close enough now for Fergus to see faces. Women and children, mostly, and a few boys and old men, but no men of soldiering age. They looked draggled and weary—all but one. A girl, standing near the bow, shoulders back and head high. She was slender and shapely, leaning forward with an air of open eagerness, like a ship’s figurehead.

The ferry reached the dock and was made fast, and the passengers began to disembark. Most of them knew their Wilmington hosts and went straight to them, but Fergus and Catalyn had never laid eyes on Miss Bryant. They knew only her age, which was twenty, a year younger than Fergus.

The crowd thinned, leaving only one unclaimed passenger—the figurehead girl.

She was smaller than she’d looked, with hair of rich, vibrant gold, piled high in coiled masses beneath an improbable hat whose plumes seemed to leap. Her features were fine-boned—delicate, even—but with a set to the chin that made Fergus think of an Arabian saddle horse.

And her clothing! Fergus was no expert on women’s apparel, but this young woman’s gown had a great many parts: panels and ruffles and laces, and ruching, if ruching was the name of that crinkled stuff around the edges. A very fine gown indeed, far finer than the one Catalyn had on—finer even than Catalyn’s best gown, that she’d worn to her wedding.

The girl swept the dock with a quick, searching glance, then approached Catalyn with a smile.

“Miss Shaw, I presume?”

If Catalyn was as shocked as Fergus, she gave no sign. “I am Mrs. MacGregor, Mr. Shaw’s married daughter,” she said. “This is my brother Fergus. And you must be Miss Bryant.”

Fergus could not agree. Nay, this spirited, vivid, befeathered, beribboned creature must not be Melina Bryant, the war-starved refugee he’d pitied from his heart only moments ago.

“Indeed I am. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. MacGregor, Mr. Shaw.”

The ladies curtseyed, Miss Bryant dipping so low that Fergus could see deep into the creamy bosom above her gown’s low neckline. As Catalyn rose, she cleared her throat at Fergus, and he realized he was standing stiff as a shingle, and gawping like a country oaf.

He took off his hat, bowed, and muttered a quick “How d’you do, Miss Bryant?”

She shrugged and said something he couldn’t understand.

“I beg your pardon?”

Amusement flickered in her eyes—hazel eyes flecked with green and gold, haughty eyes beneath high-arched brows. “The phrase is French, Mr. Shaw. It means I’m as well as can be expected, which at present is not very well at all.”

Fergus felt his cheeks flush. He’d had a little Latin from Reverend Tate’s school in town, but no French. He ought to have at least recognized it, for his mother was French herself and had sometimes read aloud from her French Bible, but he’d never wished to study it, nor felt the lack of his knowledge until now. He didn’t like being made to feel its lack. And he didn’t like Melina Bryant, would never like her, didn’t want to like her.

“How was your journey, Miss Bryant?” asked Catalyn.

“Abominable! Mile after mile of rutted roads through uncivilized country. Bad food and public inns, and not even a girl to do my hair. Nothing to see from the Cooper River to Georgetown but marsh grass, oaks, palmettos, and pines, with an occasional rice or indigo plantation. And the heat was so oppressive, I was simply gasping for air. The Long Bay was a change for the better. Such a lonely stretch of coastline! The road was good—hard fine sand packed with seashells, right alongside the Atlantic—and the ocean breeze cooled the air wonderfully. But then I thought what a terrible spot it would be to meet highwaymen, for there’s absolutely no place to take shelter. On the other hand, if desperate men did try to waylay us, we’d see them coming from miles off. So I scoured the horizon for horsemen, and imagined how I’d fight, and that passed the time better than anything. I was almost disappointed when we reached Withers Swash without meeting so much as a single brigand. Then we crossed the Little River into North Carolina. We stayed last night at the plantation at York, and early this morning set off for the ferry. And here we are.”

She smiled at Fergus, looking as if she were secretly laughing at him behind those gold-flecked eyes.

“I’ll get your luggage,” he said.

“’Tisn’t much,” said Miss Bryant. “I’ve only the one valise, the little red one over there. We weren’t allowed to bring more. My trunks will follow later by wagon.”

The red valise was not what Fergus would have called little, but he loaded it without comment, then silently helped Catalyn and Miss Bryant into the carriage before climbing into the box seat. It was a relief to put his back to Miss Bryant, because now he couldn’t be expected to contribute to the conversation.

“’Tis ever so good of you all to take me in, Mrs. MacGregor,” said Miss Bryant.

“Not at all,” Catalyn replied. “We’re family, are we not?”

“That’s right. Fifth cousins, is it?”

“Sixth. Our fathers are fifth cousins.”

This family relationship had only recently come to light. Five months earlier, in January, the Wilmington militia had gone to Charlestown in anticipation of a British invasion. Father, Fergus, and Tavish kept their terms of militia service staggered, so there’d always be at least two men at home. This time it had been Father’s turn. He’d gone to work erecting breastworks, and one night, in a Charlestown tavern, he’d met Mr. Bryant. When Father gave his name, Mr. Bryant said that his mother was a Shaw, and after much comparison of family trees, they’d learned that they were kin, descended from two brothers from the Scottish lowlands. One brother had gone to County Down in Ulster Plantation, the other to Barbados.

By evening’s end, Father and Mr. Bryant were friends. Besides being fifth cousins, they were both widowers, eldest sons, irrationally afraid of grub worms, and exactly the same age, even sharing a birthday.

Father’s militia duties didn’t leave much leisure for social calls, but he did see Mr. Bryant once more before the end of his enlistment period in March. By then the entrenchments were finished, and the British had their siege works well underway, with a few artillery pieces already pointed at the city and a flotilla lying in wait outside Charlestown Harbor.

After Father’s return, Tavish set off with another group of militiamen to reinforce the beleaguered city, carrying with him a letter from Father to Mr. Bryant. That force never arrived. They received word on the road that the siege was over. Charlestown had fallen to the British.

It was a sickening blow, the worst Patriot defeat yet in a war that had brought many defeats. The Patriot army wasn’t granted the honors of war, but was marched out of the city without colors and without arms. More than five thousand troops surrendered unconditionally, including nearly three thousand Continentals from Virginia and the Carolinas. Four hundred cannon, five thousand muskets, three Continental warships, assorted smaller vessels—the toll went on and on, through livestock and property, powder and munitions, and the lists of the dead.

By the first of June, Tavish was back home—with Father’s letter still in his pocket. Two days later, Father received a letter from Mr. Bryant, written from a prison ship in Charlestown harbor. Melina, his only child, was alone now, in a city ruled by martial law. Would Mr. Shaw be so good as to receive her into his home, and then send her on to other friends in Newport or Boston, where Mr. Bryant would join her as soon as he could gain his freedom?

Father had read the letter aloud to the family, then set it down on the dining table and said, “Well.” No one had asked or wondered what answer he’d give. Of course they’d take her in. Times were lean, but the Shaws were far from destitute. Mr. Bryant was a Patriot and a kinsman. He’d entrusted Father with his daughter’s care, and Father would not fail him.

Now, as Fergus drove Melina Bryant home and listened to her lively stream of chatter, he couldn’t escape a sense of unreality. Was this the poor fugitive who was to receive his family’s charity? She sounded like a giddy girl on her way to a ball.

“What a charming road this is, with the zigzag fences and the fruit trees so heavy laden! How far is it to your father’s estate, Mrs. MacGregor?”

“I’m afraid we’ve a long drive ahead of us, a good three hours. But my sister Nessa will have dinner ready, and then perhaps you’d like to go upstairs and rest before supper.”

“Indeed I would. ’Twill be so luxurious to stretch out on a real bed in a private home, and not have to hurry away in the morning. Tell me, what was that sad wreck of a town where I boarded the ferry?”

“That was Brunswick Town,” Catalyn replied. “It used to be quite a prosperous little place. Heavy-draft vessels would stop there to let off some of their cargo before continuing to Wilmington. The British razed it in seventy-six and it hasn’t been rebuilt. The ferry used to do a brisk business but ’tis hardly used at all anymore.”

“What a shame. I saw the ruins of a fine building near the riverbank. It looked like two stories, with the remains of good stables and coach houses and a fine orchard. It reminded me of Trailing Oaks.”

“That was Bellfont,” Catalyn said. “One of the governors built it years ago. ’Twas a very grand house indeed, before the British burned it down.”

So the governor’s mansion reminded Miss Bryant of home? What would she say, how would she look, when she saw Father’s estate, and the bedroom she must share with Nessa and Morna? Fergus didn’t want to know, couldn’t bear to watch. But he couldn’t always be away from Miss Bryant. She’d be there for dinner, and supper, and breakfast tomorrow, on and on until Father could manage to get her onto a ship bound for Newport or Boston.

The Haulover Road had never seemed so long.
*

By the time they reached the home track, Fergus’s temples were throbbing from Miss Bryant’s trilling laughter and French phrases. Near the cookhouse, his brother Rory—twelve years old, with gangly limbs and a mop of dark hair—came running to take the reins. Fergus halted at the dooryard gate and helped Miss Bryant and Catalyn out of the carriage. As he unloaded the red valise, he steeled himself for Miss Bryant’s reaction to the plain house with its unpainted riven siding.

But she wasn’t looking at the house. She was watching Father as he approached along the orchard footpath, dressed in his work clothes, with his canvas tool bag slung over his shoulder.

“Is that your hired man?” she asked.

Fergus had to get away, now, before he said something he’d regret. Rory stood holding the reins, ready to take charge of the carriage and Boudicca. Fergus shoved the red valise into his little brother’s arms, climbed back into the box seat, took back the reins, and drove to the carriage house himself.

The smell of horse and leather and neatsfoot oil calmed him instantly. He took off his frock coat, loosed his neck stock, and turned up his cuffs, then unhitched Boudicca and gave her a brisk rubdown. While she ate her oats, he wiped the harness and leathers and hung them on their racks.

The work was finished too soon. Fergus didn’t want to join the others, didn’t want to hear what fresh outrages Miss Bryant was visiting on his family.

Perhaps this would be a good time to give the carriage a thorough cleaning.

With a bristle brush he cleaned sand and grit from the underside and wheels, then wiped down the body with a soft rag. He worked slowly, lovingly, losing all sense of time, until he heard footsteps.

“I’ll be along presently,” he said without turning.

“Very well, but you’d better hurry if you want anything to eat other than oats and bran mash.”

It was Miss Bryant’s voice.

“Nessa sent me to call you in to dinner,” she said. “Well, she told Morna to do it, but I said I’d go. My, aren’t you a careful horseman?”

Fergus didn’t answer. He ran his rag into the carriage’s grooves to remove all traces of dirt. Maybe if he ignored her, she’d go away.

Then he heard her walking toward Boudicca’s stall. He turned to warn her off, but saw her moving slowly and quietly. Boudicca pricked her ears forward in calm interest and sniffed the visitor. Miss Bryant gave her a good scratching under the mane and murmured to her in a low, loving tone.

Well, she knew how to approach a horse, at least.

“I saw the geldings in the paddock,” Miss Bryant said. “Handsome fellows. Are they brothers?”

“Aye. The grullo is Hector, and the black is Bran.”

“And what is this lady’s name?”

“Boudicca.”

“After the Celtic queen?”

Fergus glanced up. “Aye. Not many know that.”

“Well, I may be a bit more distant from my Celtic roots than your family, but I do read. I know about Hector too, and Bran the Blessed. All very martial names.”

“True. Bran’s two years old now, and he’s getting martial training.”

“Cavalry?”

“Light infantry. He’ll carry me and my gear to battle and home again. Not as demanding as cavalry work, but he must learn not to bolt at the sound of gunfire. ’Twill be a boon to me to have him trained. Soldiers who provide their own mounts and weapons are allowed a shorter enlistment period.”

There was no need to elaborate. Everyone knew about the shortages plaguing the Patriot forces—of horses, men, arms, gunpowder, and money. Fergus was tired of hearing and talking about it. How the Patriots had managed to hold out as long as they had was a marvel.

Miss Bryant laid her cheek against Boudicca’s and curved her arm under the horse’s neck. “The British brought horses with them from New York to the South last December—enough for the Light Dragoons, the Jaegers, and the mounted portion of the Legion. The voyage was rough, and not many of the horses reached the shore alive. Perhaps they drowned in the holds of sinking ships, or had their legs broken in rough seas, or were blown so far off course that their food and water ran out. Perhaps all three.”

Fergus laid his rag aside. Miss Bryant’s face was closed and still, her lashes casting a fringed shadow on her cheeks, as she combed her fingers through Boudicca’s mane. “Do you know, Mr. Shaw,” she said, “there were over a hundred and fifty Americans killed in the Charlestown siege—soldiers and civilians—and around a hundred British. But it is the horses that haunt me. I think of them being led onto those New York transports, trusting and obedient, never to see green grass or open sky again.”

“I think of it too,” said Fergus. “Of the use and misuse we make of beasts in war, I mean. I sometimes wonder if ’tis wrong of me to train Bran as my infantry mount, knowing what harm could come to him. But if I don’t, and we lose the war, what’s to happen to him, or to me and my family? Nay, we must do all we can to win as quickly as possible, and poor Bran must do his part.”

Miss Bryant sighed. “You needn’t justify it to me, Mr. Shaw. I know the hard choices we must all make in time of war.”

“How did the British replace the mounts they lost in the voyage?” Fergus asked.

“Stole as many as they found on farms and plantations, and then—you’ve heard of Banastre Tarleton’s Legion? They attacked the American cavalry and militiamen who were guarding the upper reaches of the Cooper, north of the city. Fifteen Americans killed, eighteen wounded, sixty-three taken prisoner—and ninety-eight fine American horses driven off. Good cavalry mounts, probably better than those the British had lost on the voyage. And with the American cavalry neutralized, the British were free to plunder the lands east of the Cooper, raping and despoiling. Aye, Mr. Shaw, I said rape. That’s the proper word for it. You needn’t look shocked. I detest polite figures of speech. There’s no sense using a teaspoon to do a spade’s work.”

Fergus didn’t know what to say. He knew the ugly things men did in war, but he couldn’t realize them in his heart. He didn’t like to think how thin was the veneer of civilization, or how easily it could be peeled back.

“’Tis a shame about the lost cavalry mounts,” he said at last.

“Aye, shame is the right word for it. ’Twas the militia’s fault.”

“How so?”

She shrugged. “It is always the militia’s fault. They were present, therefore they failed.”

“But we cannot be sure how the Patriots were disposed, or their attackers.”

“I beg your pardon, we can be perfectly sure. An alarum was raised, the militia fled, confusion ensued, and the British won the day. The militia disappoint whenever they are relied upon. That is the one thing they can be depended upon to do.”

“Ten to one they were wretchedly armed,” Fergus said sharply, “with no powder in their muskets, or no muskets at all. Sometimes all they have is homemade axes and broadswords.”

Miss Bryant made a scoffing sound. “I’m sick of hearing excuses for the militia. The truth is they’ve performed miserably time and again. They simply cannot hold their ground when fired upon.”

“Hold their ground when…” Fergus stood. “Miss Bryant, have you ever been fired upon? Have you stood shoulder to shoulder with other men, facing a wall of soldiers a hundred times better armed and better trained than you’ll ever be? Have you seen the clouds of smoke, and heard the gunfire and the cries of men falling around you, while awaiting your own order to fire? How well do you think you’d hold your ground in such a case?”

“’Tis immaterial how well I could do so. I am not a militiaman. Is it hard, to maintain discipline while firing and being fired upon? I daresay, but that is the militia’s job. And they’ve failed at it, over and over, like your own Wilmington militia last year at Brier Creek. Their failure is what made the British invasion of South Carolina possible. They turned tail and fled—all the way back to North Carolina, by some accounts.”

“Some fled, aye. Others were sliced open by British bayonets, or drowned in the swamps. I wasn’t there, but two friends of mine were killed in the battle. The men were badly led and badly supplied. General Ashe had chosen a death trap of a camp site, with its back to the creek and no escape route—”

“Badly led, badly supplied, badly situated. So say all who fail to deliver what is required of them. The truth of the matter is, militia units are inadequate for major engagements. They do well enough for fatigue details, but they’re worthless under fire.”

Anger rose hot in Fergus’s chest and face, and his voice shook as he said, “One of those fatigue details, Miss Bryant, was the construction of breastworks to defend your city, and one of the worthless men doing it was my father.”

The light suddenly dimmed. Fergus turned and saw his fourteen-year-old sister, Morna, standing in the doorway, blocking the incoming sunshine. Her eyes were round with shock.

“Catalyn says to tell you both to come to dinner,” she said in a small voice, then hurried away, her red ringlets fluttering behind her.

Miss Bryant gave Fergus one last lofty look, then followed Morna out like a schooner carrying full sail.
*
By the time he reached the house, Fergus was his own master again, with his waistcoat neatly buttoned and his face composed. Lachlan met him at the door, crawling on all fours with his legs held straight to keep his knees from catching on his baby frock. He grabbed Fergus’s ankles, pulled himself up, and grinned with all six of his teeth. Fergus swung his nephew high into the air, making him squeal with laughter.

His sister Nessa met him in the passage. She was a tall girl of eighteen with an easy smile and shining masses of red-brown hair.

“There you are,” she said. “I was beginning to think you’d been waylaid by pirates.”

“In a forest?” Fergus replied.

She gave him a mischievous smile. “War is hard on everyone. Pirates are having to go farther inland for new recruits.”

Fergus followed her into the dining hall and handed Lachlan to Tavish, who settled Lachlan into his high chair at the corner beside Catalyn. Tavish was shorter than Fergus, with dark hair that was always springing free from its queue in front. He and Fergus had always been good friends.

By now, the others had taken their seats: Catalyn and Tavish at Father’s right and left; Nessa, as mistress of the table, at its upper end; and Rory and Morna at her right and left. Miss Bryant’s place was next to Catalyn’s, facing the last empty seat—Fergus’s seat.

“But surely we are missing one, Mr. Shaw,” said Miss Bryant. “I know my father said you had three daughters and three sons.”

Fergus froze. So did everyone else.

“He was not mistaken,” Father said with level calm.

Miss Bryant glanced around the table and dropped the subject.

Father said grace, and he and Nessa began serving.

“We often eat dinner and supper together,” Nessa told Miss Bryant. “With food so scarce, ’tis easier to pool our resources than for Catalyn and Tavish to eat alone in their own house.”

Catalyn gave Nessa a pointed look. From years of experience, Fergus was an expert interpreter of Catalyn’s looks. This one meant that it wasn’t polite to speak of food shortages in front of a house guest.

“You must show me your house after dinner, Mrs. MacGregor,” said Miss Bryant. “I wasn’t aware it was nearby.”

“But you must have seen it when you arrived,” said Tavish. “The little cabin just northwest of the big house. You would have passed it on your way to the carriage house.”

He and Catalyn were fiercely proud of their cabin, but on an estate like Trailing Oaks, a dwelling of that size would probably house the slaves.

“Ah, of course,” said Miss Bryant brightly. “How silly of me.”

“Did you see much of Wilmington this morning, Miss Bryant?” asked Nessa.

“Nay. Only a few blocks of bad road, with some scattered houses and gardens.”

Father chuckled. “Then ye saw most of it. Ye’ll see the remainder, such as it is, tomorrow when we go to church.”

“Church?” said Miss Bryant. “But tomorrow isn’t a holiday.”

“’Tis the Sabbath,” said Father. “And on the Sabbath, we go to church.”

“I see,” said Miss Bryant. “Pray, how long are the services?”

“It varies, depending on who’s bringing the sermon, but generally, three hours for morning and four in the afternoon.”

“Morning and afternoon? There must scarcely be time to come home in between!”

“We dinnae come home in between. We stay in town and eat our dinner on the grounds.”

Miss Bryant sat back, visibly stunned.

Rory’s grey eyes peered soberly at her. “Don’t you go to church in Charlestown, Miss Bryant?” he asked.

“Aye, but not every Sunday.”

“I thought your father was a Churchman,” said Morna.

“He is. But that only means he’s on the vestry board, in charge of collecting taxes and such.”

“Taxes?” Rory repeated, looking scandalized.

“Miss Bryant adheres to the Church of England,” said Father, “which collects taxes for the support of its minister and the upkeep of its property.”

“But surely not anymore,” said Nessa. “Not since the war.”

“Aye, same as ever,” said Miss Bryant. “How else could we pay our way?”

“The same way we poor dissenters do,” said Fergus. “With voluntary donations.”

Catalyn gave him a look.

“It must have been dreadful for you, Miss Bryant, living in a city under siege,” she said.

Miss Bryant lifted her chin with a hard smile. “Nay, ’twas fascinating. Papa took me to look at the fortifications. Many of the first families watched, ladies included. The British dug one of their approach trenches in a straight line, not the zigzag that Vauban says to use.”

“That who says to use?” asked Rory.

“Sébastien Le Prestre de Vauban,” said Miss Bryant, the French name pouring effortlessly from her lips. “He was a Marshal of France in the last century, and a brilliant military engineer. His treatise on siegecraft and fortification is considered the authoritative work on the subject.”

“Then why didn’t the British do what he said?”

“Because the British engineers didn’t think the Americans deserved the compliment of the zigzag approach. I’m afraid the British have a low opinion of us and our abilities. In the case of the approach trench we caused them to regret their carelessness.”

The “we” grated on Fergus. It wasn’t as if Miss Bryant herself had been among the artillerists firing solid shot down the straight trenches into the British work parties.

“Did you watch the British fleet sail into the harbor?” Nessa asked.

“Aye, from the sea wall. ’Twas the twentieth of March. The moon was full, and the spring flood tide was in effect.”

“Och, ye maritime people and your tides,” Tavish said. “I cannae understand tides at all. They are an occult mystery, and those who plot tide charts are sorcerers.”

“Nay, tides make perfect sense when you take into account the varying gravitational forces of the moon and sun and the effects of local conditions. The spring flood tide happens in conjunction with the full moon and vernal equinox. The sun and the moon work together, producing the highest tide of all. That’s how the British admiral managed to get the British warships past the Bar, which would have been impossible if the American commodore had done his job. Charlestown, you must understand, has many natural defenses: mud flats and marshes, tidal creeks, and swamps. But its greatest defense is the Bar.”

She pushed her plate toward the middle of the table and used her fork to shape some of her mashed Jerusalem artichokes into a triangle. “The city of Charlestown is on a peninsula—like this. The peninsula is flanked by two rivers, the Ashley and the Cooper, here and here.” She indicated the bare areas on either side of the triangle, then lightly pressed the tines of her fork onto the tip of the triangle at right angles, forming a grid. “These will do for the streets. Then over here—but no, first we must have a compass rose.” She drew a jeweled pin from her hair. A curl came loose. She tossed it back and laid the pin beside her plate, pointing it toward her side of the table. “There. That way is north. Now, east of the Cooper is the mainland, with the parishes of St. Thomas and Christ Church.” She pulled the small platter of scalloped tomatoes alongside her plate, close to the table’s edge on Catalyn’s side. “And all along the coast of South Carolina and Georgia, we have the sea islands, James, Johns, Edisto, and ever so many others, but we need only concern ourselves with James, south and west of the city”—she dragged a large platter of fish cutlets closer to her plate—“and Sullivan’s, off the southern coast of Christ Church parish. Here, this will be Sullivan’s Island.” She laid a biscuit on the tablecloth near the small platter.

She looked around at everyone. “Now, the thing that makes Sullivan’s Island special is Fort Moultrie, though I’m afraid its glory is long past. Let’s see…what shall we use for…”

Rory handed her the salt cellar.

“Aha! Thank you, my good sir,” she said, and pressed the salt cellar onto the biscuit.

“So, back in seventy-six, the British tried for the first time to take Charlestown. General Lee, who’d come from New York to supervise the city’s defense, didn’t like Fort Moultrie. In fact, he had said it ought to be abandoned. But the Charlestonians wouldn’t listen. The fort had been made of palmetto logs, and you know how spongy they are. When the British fleet”—she placed a small dish of pickled peppers close to the biscuit—“fired on the fort, the palmetto didn’t splinter or shatter. The shot just sank in. Some of the balls even bounced off the walls! Meanwhile, the American guns at the fort pounded the British warships. One of their frigates ran aground and had to be destroyed. The British hurried back onto their remaining ships and sailed out of the harbor as fast as they could.” Miss Bryant drew the pickled peppers away in retreat.

“Did you see the battle?” asked Catalyn.

“Aye. I was sixteen years old. ’Twas a glorious day for Charlestown. But I’m afraid the victory made us prideful. This latest siege was different. The British weren’t trying to take Fort Moultrie—they had only to sail past it. And that is what they should never have been able to do, because of the Bar.”

She reached over, snatched Fergus’s biscuit off his plate, tore it into pieces, and arranged the pieces in a row running across the table from Catalyn’s place to Tavish’s. “The Bar is a long sandbank from Sullivan’s Island to Lighthouse Island. In some spots the water is but three feet deep, and ships must sail through the channels to keep from running aground. The best channel is the Ship Channel, here at the south end. The American fleet at Charlestown was much smaller than the British fleet, of course, but the Americans had the defensive position. We had three of the great Continental frigates, a sloop of war, and more. The harbor should have been defensible. But Commodore Whipple was too lily-livered and indecisive to make proper use of his resources. He bungled our naval operations from start to finish. I have no use for Commodore Whipple.”

“What did he do that was so bad?” asked Morna.

“Nothing. He did nothing. General Lincoln told him to station his ships in Five Fathom Hole, where they could fire broadsides into the British warships as the warships tried to cross, but the commodore was afraid his own ships might be damaged in the attempt. Can you imagine? Why were the ships there, if not to protect the city? He hemmed and hawed, and consulted with pilots, and sounded the channels, and conferred with his captains, and wrote letters, and when at last the spring flood tide came, the British fleet sailed through the Ship Channel with no trouble at all.” The pickled peppers passed between the pieces of biscuit.

“Where were the American ships?” asked Tavish.

“Lying under the guns of Fort Moultrie, snug as you please, where they could do no good at all. The British fleet were far out of the fort’s range in Five Fathom Hole, precisely where General Lincoln had hoped the American fleet would make their stand.”

Father shook his head in disgust.

“Then what?” asked Morna.

“Well, once the British fleet passed the Bar, they had to wait for another flood tide to get them past Fort Moultrie. They got it two weeks later, along with as fair a wind as they could ask. They sailed past the fort’s guns, and received some pretty smart fire, and suffered some men and boys killed, but not enough to stop them making the passage. All the British vessels reached Fort Johnson on James Island without much damage.” The pickled peppers sailed to the fish platter.

“Meanwhile, the British army had not been idle. Back in February, General Clinton had landed his troops on the sea islands”—she tapped the fish platter with her fork—“and made their way toward Charlestown by land, stealing cattle and horses, for they’d lost most of their own in the passage from New York. Trailing Oaks was hard hit, as we later learned. The British made free with my father’s stables and herds.”

“Your father was wise to move the two of ye into town when he did,” said Father. “Those who remained in the countryside were ill used by the foraging parties, I’ve heard.”

“So I’ve heard as well,” Miss Bryant said. “And yet it seems craven somehow, leaving Trailing Oaks defenseless, at the mercy of the depredating bands of a foreign army. Well, so the British advanced on the city. It must have been miserable for them, mucking about in brush and marshes all that wretched wet winter. I hope it was. But they made it through, across Johns and James Islands, and then to the mainland. Nine days after the British fleet crossed the Bar, the Hessians and Jaegers crossed the Ashley, and the American riflemen could only watch, because they hadn’t the numbers to oppose them. Our militia had disappointed us again. But we had other reinforcements on the way, Continentals from Virginia. How the church bells did peal, the day they landed at Gadsden’s Wharf! It cheered us all to see such fine figures of soldiers—real veterans, whose regiments had fought in all the major campaigns—taking their places on the lines with the other defenders.”

A smile lit her face, and for a moment Fergus actually wished he could be a splendid Virginian Continental in a fine uniform, and have Melina Bryant look at him that way.

“Well,” Miss Bryant said, “once the enemy crossed the Ashley, it was a matter of building entrenchments, and strengthening fortifications, and adding batteries, and hauling guns and stores, and finally firing on one another. The enemy did not confine their fire to the lines. We had houses burned to the ground, and townspeople killed. Some people stayed home, cowering under furniture, but what was the sense in that? A man and woman were killed in bed together by one stray shot, and two horses in a yard by another. So I determined to go about my business same as always, and if a cannonball finds me, says I, then so be it. Papa approved my spirit, and I never took any harm.”

“I think I would do the same,” said Nessa. “At least I hope I would. But I cannot blame those who feared, especially those with children.”

“Aye, entire families were fleeing the city by now, for the Cooper River was still open then. The Cooper was our last hope, our only opening for supplies, and reinforcements, and escape for the garrison if it came to that—which some had the gall to say was the wisest course, once it became clear that no further aid could reach us in time.”

“It would indeed have been wisdom,” Father said coolly. “The city itself could hold little real value to the enemy. Ports are not so precious, and the British already controlled several. Holding territory is meaningless if the enemy’s army escapes and is free to strike again from somewhere else.”

“Mr. Shaw, you disappoint me. You would have had the garrison slink out and leave the city to the mercy of a conquering army?”

“Och! Come, Miss Bryant. We’re speaking of British regiments, not Alaric and his Visigoths, stripping bare the city of Rome. King George, whatever his faults, wants loyal subjects, not a crushed, demoralized people. His soldiers are not going to be given license to run roughshod over the populace.”

Miss Bryant raised her chin. “Is that so? Perhaps you have not heard of the behavior of Tarleton’s Legion toward the country folk of South Carolina, particularly the wives of Patriot soldiers who were away fighting.”

“Certainly I’ve heard of it. But those were the actions of soldiers in the field, where supervision is more difficult, not in an occupied city.”

Miss Bryant made a derisive sound. “Of course. Men will be men. ’Tis the perennial excuse.”

Father’s hand froze on its way to his mouth with a piece of biscuit. He laid it down. “Excuse? Miss Bryant, I said no word of excuse, nor do I now. Whether the culprits were caught afterwards, court martialed, whipped, shot, hanged, I cannae tell. But can ye tell me what good it did for the garrison to hold out to the end of the siege? The British have your city now, all the same, and those brave, splendid Virginians ye cheered for so heartily not two months past, and the Continentals from North and South Carolina, will all rot in prison. The Patriot army in the South is well-nigh eliminated, all for want of a little prudence and forethought.”

“Nay,” said Tavish. “The Virginians will surely be exchanged for Burgoyne’s prisoners taken at Saratoga.”

Father shook his head. “I hope ye’re right, lad, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“What about the siege?” asked Rory, pointing at the city of Charlestown as represented by Miss Bryant’s Jerusalem artichokes. “What happened next?”

Miss Bryant looked down at her plate. Clearly, the spark had gone out of the tale. For all her spirited beginning, the siege of Charlestown was a foregone conclusion. But she gave a good finish. She told about the loss of the Patriots’ final post on the Cooper River, which ended all hope of help, escape, or supply—sealing the city’s doom. And of the fall of Fort Moultrie—no more than a symbolic defeat by that time, but heartbreaking nonetheless. And of the final surrender—the garrison marching out with colors cased, the dawning amazement in the enemy’s faces as they saw the Patriots’ scant numbers, gaunt figures, tattered clothing, and bare feet.

She drew her plate back and returned the platters to their places.

“When was your father taken prisoner, Miss Bryant?” asked Father.

“Not until the second week. The barracks had been filled by then, so new prisoners were loaded onto ships.”

“I was puzzled to hear he was confined in a ship’s hold. A most harsh and unusual punishment for a private citizen, especially one of his standing, and with no military office.”

“Aye, ’twas mostly Continentals placed on board the ships. Almost all the local men, whether militia leaders or known Patriots who hadn’t fought, simply gave their parole and were allowed their freedom. The few who were confined at all were mostly sent to St. Augustine, where I expect they’ll be treated as gentlemen. But I’m afraid Papa did not behave in a prudent or gentlemanlike manner when Sir Henry Clinton asked for his parole.”

“What did he do?” asked Rory.

“Well, he was still resentful over the plundering of Trailing Oaks by Tarleton’s Legion. He sent the general a handsomely wrapped parcel of horse manure with an enclosed note which read: Please find herein a Token of my Esteem for the honorable General, Sir Henry Clinton, and his officers, and a vouchsafe for my parole. If my horses have not provided a sufficiency of this Delicacy for your Dining Pleasure, I shall be happy to provide more.”

Father cleared his throat. “Ah. That does explain it.”

“Aye, and there’s more. After receiving the package, General Clinton sent some of his officers to bring my father to him in person, and as Papa was being led from the house he called out, What now? The general has already taken my horses and my servants without compensation, and yet he will demand still more! I have naught left to give but my reason and my manhood, and as all the city is aware, the general would not know how to use either.”

This time Father chuckled. “Imprudent indeed, but I admire the spirit he showed.”

“I feel exactly the same, sir. ’Twas galling to see so many Patriot firebrands, like Middleton and Gadsden, pledge allegiance to the Crown, after all their fine words about death and liberty. But I cannot deny that Papa was quite drunk when he sent the parcel of horse manure, and drunker still at the time of his arrest.”

“I’d have done as he did,” said Rory. “Refused to give parole, I mean. They couldn’t make me take their oath.”

“Dinnae be too quick to condemn Mr. Gadsden and the others,” said Father. “With the British in control of the city, a man’s livelihood and the welfare of his family might well depend on his response.”

“I agree with Rory,” said Tavish. “The heart and the profession should be as one.”

“Ye’re not wrong,” said Father. “But every man has his breaking point. Let us hope and pray we’re none of us ever put to the test as Mr. Bryant and Mr. Gadsden were.”

“I wish I could have seen the siege, with all the engines and artillery,” said Rory. “Or gone with Knox to fetch Fort Ticonderoga’s cannon over the Alleghenies. I hope all the best adventures won’t be over before I enlist.”

“’Twill be four years before you’re old enough,” Catalyn said. “The war will be long over by then.”

“You can’t know that,” Rory replied. “People were saying in seventy-five that it would be over in a few months, and five years later there’s no end in sight. I think I’ll join the Continentals and be an artilleryman. They have to understand mathematics and chemistry.”

“Their fine education doesna stop them being blown to bits by their own cannon, or stuffed into prison ships like the Continentals taken at Charlestown,” Father said sharply. “Dinnae be a fool, Rory.”

Rory scowled down at his plate.

Fergus knew why Father was cross—because he was afraid. But Rory could be contrary. Bearing down on him might push him away.

Let it drop, Fergus thought. He couldn’t lose another brother.

Miss Bryant spoke up. “Do you like machines, Master Rory?”

“Aye. I’m terribly clever with them.”

“Rory!” said Nessa and Catalyn together.

“What? I am. Everyone’s always saying so. I’m a naturalist, too.”

“You’re an insufferable little braggart, is what you are,” said Nessa.

“’Tisn’t being a braggart if ’tis true. If Miss Bryant had asked about my penmanship, I’d have owned ’tis very poor.”

“I see you have a bold and agile mind, Master Rory, and a forthright way of expressing yourself,” said Miss Bryant. “One day there will be far better uses than war for the minds of enterprising men—and women, I hope and believe—in this nation of ours. Have you heard of the American Philosophical Society? Many of our leading Patriots are members, including General Washington and Benjamin Franklin. The Society has a plan to make a canal to connect the Chesapeake Bay to the Delaware River. It would reduce the water route between Philadelphia and Baltimore by three hundred miles. Imagine that!”

“What’s so hard about making a canal?” asked Morna. “Why not just dig straight through and be done with it?”

“Nay,” said Rory. “They’d have to make locks, to keep the water from running away to the lowest level.”

“That’s right,” said Miss Bryant. “There’s matter enough in the scheme to require all the talents of a gifted mind. Perhaps you’ll work on it one day, or find the Northwest Passage.”

Rory smiled. “Perhaps I shall.”

By the time dinner ended, the tension was gone. Father smiled at Rory and said, “Come, lad. Back to the orchard.”

Catalyn took Lachlan home, and Tavish went to see to the stock. Fergus knew he must join his brother-in-law soon, but he lingered until Nessa and Morna started washing up, and Miss Bryant headed upstairs for her afternoon rest. He followed her to the central passage.

“Miss Bryant!”

She paused on the stairway, her chin over her shoulder, her gaze high and haughty. She had the advantage of a few steps’ height over him now, and the loftiness of her carriage made more of it than it was. The jeweled pin in her hair gave off a rich golden-brown flash.

“I wish to thank you for your attention to my brother just now,” Fergus said. “It was kindly done.”

“I wasn’t being kind. I attended to him because I like him.”

“Of course. But—well, he does love an audience, and he talks a great deal.”

“So what if he does? He’s a smart, lively boy with a good deal to say, and he says it well. He has high mettle and good action.”

“You needn’t speak of him as if he’s a racehorse, and you needn’t take offense.”

“And you needn’t make apologies for a bright, charming, well-spoken little lad whom you ought to be proud to call your brother. I like him. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t pretend to.”

Nay, she would not. She didn’t hesitate to show her dislike of anything or anyone—not cowardly commodores, or worthless militiamen, or Fergus himself. She was the most insufferable young woman he’d ever met.

And yet…

A strange wild longing bloomed hot in his face and chest. He wanted to close the distance between them, across the passage and up that bit of stairway, and pull that topaz pin out of those tawny curls.

Instead, he walked out the front door and shut it hard behind him.

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