Just Jane

by William Lavender

  Billy shook his head. “You mean just stop the fightin’, with no winner? That don’t make no sense to me, neither. Fact is, lots o’ things you say don’t make sense. Like you plannin’ to go back to Charlestown after we’re done here. Why would you go back there now, knowin’ the British have got it?”

  “For personal reasons, I would.”

  “Hah! Lady reasons, I reckon. She must be mighty special.”

  This brought a chuckle from Simon. “Right you are, Billy. Now there’s something we can agree on.”

  Just then their conversation was interrupted by another member of the camp calling urgently from outside. “Merritt’s got a ship in sight, sir.”

  The two men in the tent were on their feet instantly, Simon taking up the lantern. “This could be it. Let’s go.”

  A sluggish stream emerged from the woods at the river landing to meander across fifty yards of open beach and empty into the ocean. A miniature dock made of logs extended a few feet out into the slow-moving current. A skiff was tied there, and two lanterns hanging on a post created a circular oasis of yellow light. This was the domain of the tall, thin, hawkeyed George Merritt. When Simon and Billy arrived, Merritt and two of his men were staring intently out over the ocean. Beyond the frothy white line of a gentle surf, the dark form of a ship could be dimly seen, riding at anchor two hundred yards offshore.

  “It’s a two-master,” Merritt reported to Simon. “Don’t look like one o’ Roca’s, unless the Spaniards are tryin’ to get tricky. I got a couple o’ men down there keepin’ an eye on it.”

  Simon lifted the cover of his lantern and blew out the flame, then addressed one of Merritt’s men. “Put out your lanterns.”

  “Hey!” Merritt barked. “These men take orders from me, not you.”

  “All right, George,” Simon replied patiently. “Tell them to put out those lanterns immediately.”

  A nod from Merritt was enough, and the lanterns were doused. Merritt then turned to Simon with a scornful smile. “What’s the matter, Mr. Schoolmaster? You gettin’ nervous?”

  “What’s the matter with you, George? You think it’s smart to put up welcoming lights when you have no idea who’s out there?”

  “My guess is, it’s a Dutchman. They put in here now and then.”

  “I see. And you’re willing to risk your men’s lives on a guess?”

  Merritt’s small eyes narrowed. “Listen, I been smugglin’ here since long before you ever knew the meaning of the word. And I’m tellin’ you, no ship ever put in here that didn’t have friendly business with me.”

  “Maybe one has tonight,” Simon snapped, and turned to Billy. “We need to get a closer look. You come with me, Billy. Everyone else, stay here.”

  “Wait a minute.” Merritt grasped Simon roughly by the arm. “This is my land, damn it. I’ll go get a closer look. You stay here.”

  Simon gave in with a weary shrug. “All right, have it your way. But get your men back up here under cover. They’re too exposed out there.”

  Ignoring this, Merritt started for the beach, while the others stayed behind, Simon pacing restlessly as he waited. Soon a heavy cloud that had been obscuring the moon drifted off, and in the sudden rise of pale moonlight, Billy’s sharp eyes caught something.

  “Look there, sir. A longboat from the ship, heading for shore.”

  Simon stopped, squinting into the mist that hung over the ocean. “I don’t like this,” he muttered. “I don’t like it at all.” A few seconds later he exploded in fury. “Good God, the damn fools!”

  One of Merritt’s men on the beach had lit a lantern and was swinging it in an arc, its yellow glare reaching out just far enough to pick up the longboat, which was fast coming onshore.

  Simon cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. “George, tell them to put out that lant—”

  His words were cut off by the percussive report of a musket. The lantern on the beach spun crazily and disappeared into the water. Suddenly, the still night air was alive with gunfire, splashing, running feet, and harsh cries of alarm and rage. The heavy bark of muskets was answered by the sharper crack of rifles.

  George Merritt came racing back. “Redcoats!” he yelled. “Run for it!” Halfway back to the forest cover, he stopped, drew his pistol, and turned to face the threat. At that instant he was struck with a force that shook his tall, gangly frame. He crumpled in the sand without a sound.

  Simon ran for the fallen man. Merritt lay still, facedown, his right arm flung out, the hand still gripping his unused pistol. Kneeling beside him, Simon reached down to turn him over and felt warm, sticky blood.

  From behind him came Billy’s frantic shout, “Sir, look out!”

  Simon glanced up just in time to see a British soldier running straight at him, bayonet raised to strike. One thought came to Simon’s mind: This man shot Merritt, and now he means to finish us both off with his bayonet. No more time for thinking—his survival instinct took over. Wrenching the pistol from Merritt’s hand, Simon fired just as the bayonet flashed in its downward thrust. The Redcoat grunted softly and pitched forward, falling across George Merritt’s lifeless body. Simon dropped the pistol, and with his right hand clawed at what felt like a white-hot iron searing his left arm. Still on his knees, two bodies sprawled in the sand before him, he rocked back and forth in pain.

  Then Billy’s hand was on his shoulder, the young man’s familiar voice close to his ear. “You hurt bad, sir? Can you stand up? If you can get to the landing, we’ll take the skiff and . . .”

  Billy’s voice faded. The world began to spin crazily, and a great roar filled Simon’s ears. Then silence, and everything went black.

  Simon awoke to morning sunlight filtering through dense tree branches overhead. He was lying on his back, the weathered sides of a skiff limiting his vision on both sides. The small craft bumped gently against a bank. Dull pain throbbed in his left arm. Almost afraid to move, he groped carefully with his free hand and felt a thick bandage.

  The skiff rocked slightly, and Billy’s face appeared above him. “Glad to see you awake, sir. How you feelin’?”

  “Terrible,” Simon replied. “Where are we?”

  “A mile or so up the river and into a side creek. I reckon we’ll be safe here for now. And don’t worry about your wound, it didn’t go deep. I got the bleeding stopped and a bandage on it. You’ll be all right.”

  Simon frowned, trying to remember, then winced as memory came rushing back in jagged, nightmarish images. A man lying wounded, perhaps mortally, in the sand before him. Another, his face contorted in desperate determination, looming over him with an upraised bayonet. The metallic glint of murderous steel. The blinding flash of a pistol shot. Then what?

  “We was mighty lucky, sir, that’s for sure,” Billy continued. “The Redcoats all went chasing after Merritt’s men down the beach, giving me a chance to get you over to the skiff. What happened after that, I don’t know, but the camp’s taken, that’s sure, and Merritt’s done for. So’s the Redcoat who came at you with the bayonet.”

  “Oh, God . . . ,” Simon groaned.

  Billy went on in his chatty way. “For a minute there, I thought you were done for, too, sir. That was a real close one. But, Lordy, what a shot you took! For somebody who don’t carry a weapon, you were mighty handy with that one. You’re a soldier right enough, and a dang good one.” Getting no response, Billy glanced over and saw that Simon was staring into space. “Sir? You all right?”

  Simon went on staring. “I shot a man,” he said softly. “Shot a man I’d never even seen, possibly killed him. How can I live with that?”

  “There you go, sir, makin’ no sense again. Remember, he was comin’ right for you, so it was either you or him. And like I said, it was one fine shot you took. My, my, just think how proud your lady friend in Charlestown will be when you tell her about it.”

  “She would not be proud,” Simon replied darkly. “She’d be horrified. I’ll tell her many things, but I will never tell he
r about that. Never.”

  “What d’ya mean, sir? That villain got just what he deserved.”

  “No, Billy, you’re wrong. He was no villain. He was some mother’s son, just like you and me. Sent across the sea to fight in a war he probably liked no more than you or I do.”

  Billy sighed and gave up. “It’s no use arguin’ with you, sir. And I reckon you’ll never be a soldier, after all. But I’ll say this—you’re one fine fellow. It’s a privilege to work for you.”

  Simon managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Billy. And the same to you.”

  They fell silent then, Simon lying motionless in one end of the skiff, Billy lolling in the other end, arm over the side, fingers idly dangling in the placid brown water of the creek. It was a rare moment of peace and restfulness in the harsh life they led. But for Simon it was also a time for grieving—for his own lost ideals, and for two good soldiers, one American, one English, lying dead back there, together in the sand.

  Chapter 21

  General Clinton left Charlestown before Captain Fleming could secure Robert’s desired introduction. His replacement, General Cornwallis, was not interested in Robert’s offer of Rosewall Plantation as a backcountry military base. Robert swallowed his disappointment and told Captain Fleming that the offer still stood, in case the new commander changed his mind. Fleming’s inquiries in another area were more successful, and soon Brandon was a lieutenant in the American Loyalist Cavalry. He was grateful, but gratitude didn’t stop him from being upset over rumors that Jane was keeping company with the English officer. He was waiting for her one day when she returned from the city market, and one glance at his face told her that something was wrong.

  “Jane, I need to talk to you about a very serious matter. I’ve heard you’re being seen in public with Captain Fleming. Is that true?”

  “I’ve walked out with him a few times. Why do you ask?”

  “Why do I ask? I want you to desist at once, that’s why I ask! It’s humiliating for me that the young lady everyone expects to become my wife is going around with another man. Surely you can understand that!”

  In the face of his anger, Jane drew a sad sigh and took his arm. “Walk with me a bit, please.” As they walked slowly down toward the next corner, she spoke as gently and patiently as she could. “Brandon, I’m afraid you’re deluding yourself about me, and it’s partly my fault. I’ve let your mistaken impression go on far too long. But now I’m going to correct it, so listen carefully, please. Contrary to what ‘everyone’ expects, I do not intend to become your wife. What we are—and what I sincerely hope we can always remain, because I’m very fond of you—is good friends.”

  “Good friends!’’ He stopped, recoiling as if the words had struck him like a slap in the face. “After all we’ve meant to each other, all the happy hours we’ve spent together, all the dreams we’ve shared—”

  “Now you’re dreaming, Brandon. None of those things ever happened, except in your imagination. I’m truly sorry, but I think it’s time you—”

  “Enough, Jane. You’ve made yourself abundantly clear. So it’s good friends, eh? Well! Perhaps I should start keeping company with Lucinda Dunning. You remember Lucinda. She’s a lovely girl, she dotes on me, and quite frankly, she has a much more affectionate nature than you do!”

  “Good. In that case, I hope you two are very happy together.”

  Bristling with anger, Brandon stalked away, while Jane, feeling at the same time relieved and a little ashamed, returned to the house.

  Did I do the right thing? she asked herself. Yes—but I should have done it long ago.

  Having decided to be “nice” to Richard Fleming, Jane had found to her pleasant surprise that it was easier than she had expected it to be. He was intelligent, thoughtful, gallantly well mannered, and altogether charming. They attended open-air concerts by the hired German band that traveled with the British army, plays at the Dock Street Theater, and social events in the Georgian mansion that served as the British Officers Club. They took long walks and talked of England, Richard speaking fondly of his family home in Essex, near London. It was quite enjoyable, except when Jane felt guilty thinking of her rebel friends.

  But all hopes for Arthur Ainsley remained unfulfilled. Often Jane asked Richard about it, and each time he noted that Mr. Ainsley still had not signed the Oath of Allegiance. “He says he won’t until his property is returned to him, and that’s out of the question. No one can help him if he refuses to help himself.”

  Finally Richard himself brought up the subject, though in a roundabout way. During a walk one Saturday afternoon, he said, “I leave tonight for a week or two of patrol through the backcountry.”

  “Whatever for, Richard?”

  “There’s a great deal of rebel smuggling in these colonies, you know. Naturally, my work with the Board of Police concerns such things. Speaking of which, I’m afraid Mr. Ainsley’s situation is more complicated than I thought.”

  Jane felt a twinge of uneasiness. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just that for years he managed to keep his store open most of the time in spite of an extremely tight blockade. How was that possible? He says only that he dealt with various suppliers at various times. Who they were and where they got their merchandise, he claims he never knew.”

  “That’s understandable, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid not. One would have to be a fool not to suspect that those goods were illegally obtained. There’s no proof, and I haven’t said anything about this to Mr. and Mrs. Prentice, not wishing to worry them unduly. But the fact is, suspicions about Mr. Ainsley’s activities are growing.”

  “That’s absurd!” Jane declared. “I’m sure he’s done nothing wrong!”

  But that night she lay awake, wondering. Kept his store open despite the blockade . . . How had Uncle Arthur done that? Received goods without knowing where they came from . . . Was that believable? And if his meeting with Simon last fall was really about how to run a store, why was it such a big secret? She tossed and turned, trying to evade the questions. But they would not leave her alone.

  Sunday mornings were normally quiet, with the cries of peddlers and the clattering of traffic largely absent from the street. Robert and Clarissa had gone to church and Jane had just finished dressing to attend a later service, when she was startled by an urgent pounding on the front door. With the maid, Nellie, off on an errand, Jane answered the door herself.

  Standing on the stoop was a slender Negro lad she recognized as Luther, the stable boy at the Dudley place in Goose Creek, where the Ainsleys were living with Harriet’s mother. Drenched in sweat from hard riding, the boy nervously twisted his cap in his hands. Jane steeled herself for bad news.

  “Luther! What’s happened. Why are you here?”

  “Lordy, Miss, I never seen nothin’ like it.” Luther was trembling. “Them Redcoat soldiers come a-gallopin’ into the yard at the crack o’ dawn—I come runnin’ to see what they want wid us—they kept shoutin’ where’s Mahster Ainsley. When I don’t answer fast enough they knock me down—I’s scairt half to death they gon’ to kill me—”

  “Stop it, Luther. You’re babbling!” Jane came out on the stoop and grasped the boy’s arms. “Just calm down and tell me what happened.”

  Luther gulped, trying without much success to calm himself. “’Fore God, ma’am, them Redcoats went bustin’ into the house like they own the place. The missus, she come down an’ say what you want. Then Mahster Ainsley come out, an’ they grab him. They done arrested ’im and tooken im away.

  “Arrested him! Taken him where?”

  “I dunno, miss, but they left poor missus cryin’ and wringin’ her hands. She tol’ me, Luther, ride fast to the Prentice house in Charlestown and tell ’em we need help, Mahster Ainsley be tooken away. I been ridin’ ever since, seem like.”

  Jane tugged at his sleeve. “Come inside, Luther, and sit awhile.”

  “No thankee, ma’am. I got to go quick. Them soldiers guardin’
the road say I got ten minutes to git in here an’ out, or they’s havin’ my hide!”

  Jane could keep him there only long enough to give him a drink of water, a coin for his trouble, and a hastily scribbled note for Harriet, saying they all stood ready to help in any way they possibly could. Then Luther sped off, leaving Jane, all thoughts of church forgotten, dreading the moment when she would have to tell her uncle and aunt the news.

  But when they returned they had already heard, and knew even more than Jane did. They had learned that a number of men suspected of rebel activity had been arrested that morning, and the list of names nailed up on street corners included the name Arthur Ainsley. Clarissa was in tears and beside herself with worry, but Robert was stern in his judgment.

  “Arthur brought this on himself,” he muttered. “He thought he could thumb his nose at our lawful British government and get away with it. Now he’ll learn otherwise, and it will serve him right.”

  Jane was shocked. “Uncle Robert! He’s family! Can’t you at least show a little sympathy?”

  “Not for a man who insists on acting like a fool!” he snapped back.

  “But couldn’t you register a protest, or somehow try to help?”

  “I cannot be expected to intervene now. I offered Arthur my help when I could, and he refused. Anything I tried now would only compromise my own position, and I couldn’t change what has happened anyway.”

  “Your position!” Jane cried. “Is that all you can think about?” With Robert gaping after her, she turned and rushed upstairs to her room. Her mind was filled with a dark vision of Arthur as a prisoner, shackled in irons. And with this distressing thought came another: Richard Fleming. He knew. He knew this would happen, all along. . .

  Chapter 22

  Twenty-nine men, all prominent in the revolutionary movement, were arrested that Sunday morning in August. Accused of having engaged in acts of treason, they were taken aboard a prison ship anchored in the harbor. After three days, they were transferred to another vessel that would soon take them away. They would be banished to Saint Augustine, in the British-held province of East Florida, and would be forbidden, upon pain of death, to set foot in South Carolina again until the present hostilities had ended. And they should thank their lucky stars, their captors added, that their punishment was so light.