Ghosts of the Siege

by Steven Abernathy

  “The Count looked surprised, but said nothing as he turned and dismounted before leading his horse onto the boat. One other man and horse followed, and the steersman aimed the rickety boat, already leaking in several spots, as directly to the far shore as the current would allow. I watched until they reached the opposite side a half mile or more downstream from their intended landing. The steersman would require more than two hours to re-cross the river and, with the help of draft horses, drag the boat back Lincoln’s camp so more of Pulaski’s cavalry could board and make the hazardous crossing.

  “A few hours later General Lincoln decided to begin the crossing of his main force. General McIntosh’s boats had still not arrived, so the crossing was to be effected with the old flat, the raft, and two large canoes the flat steersman had located downstream. The General had new orders for Count Pulaski and a trunk of his own personal items that he wanted to include in the first crossing, so he entrusted both the trunk and the orders to me. I joined a dozen other men on the raft, which had been thrown together some time in the past by tying several logs together with large ropes. The craft, I exaggerate by calling it that, was unstable at best, buckling in several places where the ropes were not tightly wound. Our feet were completely submerged when the raft was completely loaded, and I stood in the center as two men stood at the edge of each side and paddled us to the shore. We were slightly more than half way across when the ropes tore in several places at once and the raft became nothing more that independent floating logs. I was thrown into the current along with everyone else, each man on his own. The General’s trunk was buoyant, and I grasped one of the handles tightly with one hand, trying to paddle toward shore with the other and keep my head above the water. My boots and clothing weighed me down, and occasionally the undercurrent would grip me and pull me completely under the surface. Luckily, I was able to maintain my grip on the trunk, and whenever the strength of the undercurrent waned, I could pull my face above the water and gasp for a deep breath.

  “To this day I do not know how long I was in grip of the river’s current, but at last I was grasped across my chest and under both arms by a very strong arm and was dragged to shore. Count Pulaski had returned from his reconnoiter and had seen the raft collapse. He had removed his boots and magnificent…and no doubt heavy…tunic and tied a rope around his waist before jumping into the river and swimming to save me. Once I was in his grasp, two of his men who held the opposite end of the rope pulled us against the current until we reached the shore. I lay in the mud at the side of the river, shivering uncontrollably but happy to be alive. The Count stood barefooted beside me, his trousers and white shirt dripping, but otherwise looking as if nothing notable had happened. As my breathing approached a normal rate, I reached into my shirt, where I had placed the orders given me by the General. A quick glance told me whatever had been written on the small piece of paper was illegible, the ink having been dissolved in the river, but I reached up from my reclined position to hand the paper to Pulaski. ‘Orders from General Lincoln, sir,’ I said through chattering teeth.

  “The Count looked at the paper for several seconds before exploding into laughter. ‘You are a brave lad,’ he said in his halting English. He reached down to grasp my hand and pull me up to a standing position. ‘I think we shall be friends,’ he smiled at me and slapped me on the back, nearly knocking me back down into the mud. He was doubly impressed when I was able to recite the orders to him, having memorized them in the moments before I had boarded the illfated raft.

  “Later in the day General Lincoln made the crossing in a canoe. With only the flat on which Count Pulaski had first crossed and two large canoes, it took most of two days to cross the entire force and establish a camp in Ebenezer. As the fates saw fit to mock us, our crossing was completed by midafternoon on September 13. I was not there, having ridden east on a mission with Pulaski’s cavalry, but was told that in the hour just before dusk on the same day General McIntosh arrived in Ebenezer as well, bring with him enough large and sturdy boats to have made our crossing much easier and safer than it had.

  “General Lincoln was elated that I had saved his trunk from being swept down the river. I failed to mention to him that my main interest in the case was for use as a life raft, or that saving his personal possessions was something less than my first priority while in the water. Nonetheless, he showered me with praise, calling me a ‘brave and resourceful lad.’

  “Daybreak of the September thirteenth, Lincoln dispatched Count Pulaski with a contingent of cavalry to ride south to Beaulieu and endeavor to find Count D’Estaing, the French commander, and assess his current state of readiness. Pulaski surprised me by requesting my company on the journey, and General Lincoln agreed. We rode hard southward, skirting Savannah, until we found Count D’Estaing moving troops and scant provisions into Beaulieu. He had come up the Vernon River on September eleventh, over a week after first landing at Tybee Island, which is about twenty miles east of Savannah over ground that is little more than swamp. We encountered many of his troop before finding the commander, and all were in good spirits and laughing about their ‘assault’ on Beaulieu and their first victory over the British. As the story was told us, a contingent of five British soldiers were entrenched at Beaulieu to guard the access from the river. When they saw the many longboats, carrying more than a thousand Frenchmen, approaching, the British guards abandoned their post and ran. Their position, according to the French, was well situated, and had there been a hundred defenders rather than only five, they probably could have repelled the French landing.

  “Count D’Estaing greeted the cavalry troop formally, shaking hands with General Pulaski and nodding a stiff greeting to the troop. My Count made a production of presenting me to the French commander, telling a short tale of my swimming across a swollen Savannah River to deliver important orders, without which the war would probably have been lost. Pulaski spoke relatively good French, but so did I. I hoped neither of the men noticed as my eyes widened in disbelief at the more exaggerated parts of my deeds. Count D’Estaing only sneered when he looked at me in my shabby and worn militia uniform. He did not offer his hand to me, and I am not certain I would have taken it if he had. I did not like the man.

  “After speaking with General Pulaski at length, D’Estaing snapped his fingers and barked an order at one of his aides. The young officer raced away and returned several minutes later accompanied by three men who each carried a different parcel. The first placed a small rectangular desk which appeared to be finely constructed of cherry wood, on a flat area nearby. The desk contained a single drawer which was centered below the desktop. The second carried a comb-backed Windsor chair of the same wood. Both pieces represented very fine furniture to be carried for use on a battlefield, and I glanced at General Pulaski in question. His face remained impassive. The third man unrolled a large piece of canvas, possibly cut from a sail, and the officer and three soldiers each grasped a corner and held the canvas high over their heads, making a roof to cover the furniture. A fine mist had been falling since our arrival, making for a wet and miserable day for all. D’Estaing walked under the makeshift awning, removed his hat, and sat down at the desk. He did not invite my general or myself to stand beneath the awning out of the inclement weather.

  “The ground was soft from the recent rains, and as D’Estaing sat, the legs of the chair sank several inches into the earth, requiring him to raise his forearms to an unnatural height to reach the writing surface of the desk. His posture was so ungainly, making him look as if a child having to reach high to retrieve his plate for dinner, that several Frenchmen were caused to turn away from the sight to hide their mirthful smiles. I, myself, was too shocked even to smile, but Count Pulaski made to clear his throat to muffle his laughter.

  “D’Estaing looked up at us, his displeasure and possibly embarrassment apparent in his glare. ‘You will notice I have placed my derriere upon an English chair. Perhaps that is all they are good for.’ A few Frenchmen laughed, prom
pting their commander to add, ‘I suspect we will soon be observing many of their own derrieres as they run away from us at battle’s end.’ More laughter ensued, and as the soldiers enjoyed the humor, D’Estaing withdrew a single piece of paper, quill, and ink pot from the drawer and scribbled at length before signing the missive with a flourish. The narrow chair legs had sunk several more inches into the wet earth while he worked, and it was only with great difficulty that he was able to rise to face us. While standing, he retrieved a blotter from the drawer and proceeded to dry the ink on the page before folding the paper and stepping out of the shelter to hand it to Count Pulaski. My general immediately handed the paper to me and told me, in Polish, to place it inside my coat to keep it dry. I acknowledged his order in Polish. Pulaski laughed as we spoke, possibly remembering the soaked and useless orders I had recently delivered to him, but D’Estaing looked suspiciously at both of us. The French commander did not speak Polish, and probably thought we were speaking derisively of him. We were not, but I wished it were so.

  “It was the French commander’s plan to reconnoiter the British defenses in person on September 16th. As he had no cavalry, General Pulaski decided to remain at the French camp and assist with the reconnoiter. He ordered me to take D’Estaing’s message to General Lincoln and, depending on the day and time, to assist Lincoln in finding the French camp or Count D’Estaing’s patrol as he surveyed the British positions.”

  Several tour busses were pulling up and a crowd was slowly gathering to purchase tickets and wait for the city tours to begin. Our bench would be needed, and I was ready to move around anyway. “Let’s walk, Billy,” I suggested as a thought rather than spoken word. As I stood and began to move toward the street I continued the thought. “Would you like to see the old downtown? Perhaps you can continue to tell me the story as we walk.”

  Chapter 9

  As we walked north along Martin Luther King Boulevard, Billy watched the traffic intently, as he had before, but thankfully did not make any attempt to run out into the street while wearing my body. He stared at a street sign as we past. “What is MLK?” he asked.

  “MLK are the initials for Dr. Martin Luther King, one of our twentieth century heroes,” I answered.

  I could feel Billy’s interest. “What did he do?” he quickly asked.

  What did he do? I thought for a long moment. What he did was monumental in his own century, but how to explain it within a context an eighteenth century being would understand. “Slavery was abolished in this country about a hundred years before Dr. King became famous.” Before I could continue, Billy interrupted.

  “Abolished? So slavery was ended? All of the Negro people became freemen?” He sounded incredulous in my head, but also I sensed pleasure at the thought. “Good!” he said with emphasis. “Grandfather and Father always taught me that the enslavement of other peoples, regardless of race, was evil.” He thought for a moment before continuing to question, “How were the slaves freed? When I was in Charles Town I learned quickly that slavery was deeply imbedded into the society. Slaves were to be seen all over the city doing various jobs, and we visited one plantation to the west of the city where I saw hundreds of slaves in the fields who seemed to be finishing up the harvest of cotton and tobacco. It doesn’t seem possible that such a labor force could be set free without bringing commerce to a sudden halt. How did it happen?”

  Before I could formulate an answer, Billy caused me to look to my left, westward along Turner Boulevard. “I first materialized just over there,” he said almost absently, on the bridge behind the dor-ma-tor-y.” I indicated to him without speaking that I remembered first meeting him in the dormitory.

  “Closer to us…perhaps a hundred yards from this spot…was the Carolina Redoubt, part of the British defensive perimeter. The American column was supposed to attack there, but…” The thought vanished as the mood of my spiritual occupant suddenly darkened. I felt a single tear form at the corner of my left eye as Billy said in a reserved tone, “I will speak of that later.” His mood brightened quickly as he said, “Now tell me about the end of slavery.”

  I started to explain about the Civil War and the 13th Amendment to the Constitution just as we reached the intersection of MLK and Olglethorpe Ave. The street sign jogged my memory, and I thought to include James Oglethorpe in my explanation. “James Oglethorpe. Now there was another guy from our history who hated slavery. Long before slavery was abolished in the entire nation, Oglethorpe founded Savannah in the early 1700s with a charter that forbade what he called the three greatest evils in the world. In his city, there would be no slavery, no liquor, and no lawyers! None of those prohibitions worked out well for him. Probably the lawyers showed up first and immediately filed suit to block the other two for personal reasons.” I thought to laugh at what might have been the nation’s first lawyer joke, but Billy was not paying attention at all. He was fascinated by the pedestrian stop light which had stopped a large crowd at the corner with a flashing hand and a red light. Cars and trucks whisked by before the crowd, which stood dutifully until the light changed and the traffic on Oglethorpe stopped. As we moved across the street along with many others, I explained to Billy the purpose and method of the street lights to allow both pedestrians and motor traffic to move safely around the busy city. He seemed to catch on quickly, but I could sense that I might overwhelm him by presenting too much information too quickly. I needed to remember that I was communicating with an Eighteenth Century mind.

  “I am not stupid,” my friend snapped tersely, sensing my concern about overloading him with Twenty-first Century information. “I am just uninformed about many changes that have occurred in the more than two hundred years since I have walked the earth. Now,” he said in a tone that reflected his continued anger, “can you continue explaining to me how the slaves were freed.”

  “Yes,” I said, thankful to be changing a subject that I had only considered in my mind. “The abolition of slavery was argued from the very beginnings of this nation. Even within the Continental Congress in your lifetime and among those who ratified our Constitution, there were those who wanted to free the slaves. It created great pressure throughout the government for many years until President Abraham Lincoln was elected in…”

  “President?” Billy questioned. “You say that as if it were a title. Please explain.”

  I was beginning to realize that slavery was such a complex subject I might never move past the side-story explanations to bring my companion up to a point he could fully understand.

  “President is the title we give to the leader of our nation. We elect a new president every four years.” Billy seemed to accept that with no question so I continued, “George Washington was our first president. He…”

  “General George Washington?” my friend interrupted excitedly. “His army was in the north when we fought in Savannah.”

  I realized this was yet another side story from our intended conversation when Billy took another deviation. He was staring intently at another street sign as we reached the next intersection.

  “Zubly Street?” he said with a question in his tone. “It was at Zubly’s Ferry, miles to the north of here, where I almost drowned in the river. That place was named for Reverend John Zubly, a minister who was from this area, and who served in the Continental Congress. Do you think this street is named for the Reverend Zubly?”

  “I’m not certain, but suspect it was named for the man,” I answered. “Savannah has always paid tribute to its historic figures by naming streets, parks, squares, and such in their honor.” Only a few steps beyond Zubly Street was the intersection with Broughton Street, on the other side of MLK. I started to cross there to begin a zigzag route toward City Market and the historic district, but Billy stopped me.

  “Walk a little farther this way,” he said, indicating north toward the river. “I will show you something that might interest you.”

  As we continued up MLK toward the river I said, “You remember, we were discussing sla
very in America and its undoing before deviating in several different directions. Would you like me to continue that story as we walk?”

  “Ah, yes, the Negro slaves,” he responded. “I would like to hear your complete explanation, but not just now.” He was silent and apparently in deep thought as we walked. About a half block before we reached Bay Street he caused me to stop. After looking around in silence for several minutes, as if not quite certain, he finally said, “Yes, it was right here.

  “This was the northern extent of the British right.” He indicated a broad area to the west of where we stood. “All of this area was swamp, including a small rice field that was little better than swamp, itself. I suppose the British assumed no force could mount an attack through such terrain, so left this part of their perimeter lightly guarded. I had a friend, Zebulon Moses by name, who had defected from us to fight with the Loyalists.”

  When I raised my eyebrows in question, he explained. “It was not uncommon. There were many defections on both sides. This war, even the idea of freedom and self-rule, was not understood by the common soldier. My father and grandfather both tried to explain it to me, but from opposing viewpoints. Father, who was a patriot, explained to me that it was wrong for a King in England to rule the American people, who were forging a new life and a new nation in a land far away from the British Isles. We should govern our own destiny, he said, and not be subject to English taxation and laws.