by June Venable
Caleb held Victory still for a moment as he watched the despondent group trudge away. Ashamed of himself for the momentary thought of joining them, Caleb squared his shoulders and pressed on toward the besieged city. As he rode, he thought of his reasons for joining the militia. He remembered, when barely eight, the words his father spoke. “Caleb, your mother and I sailed to this country seeking a place away from the troubles in England. We came to love this land and felt overjoyed when we had a son born on this soil. We knew we had made the right choice when Patrick Henry stood in the church in Richmond and spoke those stirring words: Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but give me liberty or give me death.
Caleb pictured the look on his father’s face. “Keep those words in your heart, boy. If ever the time arises when we hear the summons to defend this blessed land, we will do so willingly.”
Pa would have gladly defended his adopted land had he lived.
The sound of hoofbeats intruded on Caleb’s memories. Red Coats or more colonists who fled the city? Caleb urged Victory into the trees that lined the road. On the riders came, and when they drew close, he recognized British voices. He slid from Victory’s back and led the horse deep into the thick woods. Moonlight failed to penetrate the total darkness. Over the fragrance of pine, Caleb caught a faint whiff of stagnant water. At the same time, he stepped onto spongy marshland.
When the sound of hooves faded, Caleb started back to the main road. He found himself completely enclosed by the forest. He searched for an hour, then he gave up and decided to wait until morning. Too tired to unpack his bedroll, he swept a pile of pine needles together for a makeshift bed. With Victory nearby, he settled down for the night. Scarcely had he closed his eyes when he realized he was not alone. His knees turned to jelly. Knowing they wouldn’t support him, he lay still hoping his night visitor might vanish. His wish did no good.
He strained his eyes in an attempt to penetrate the darkness and suddenly knew more than one person stood above him.
Strong arms lifted him and held him upright while a musty damp cloth covered his eyes.
Ropes encircled his arms. Caleb kicked at his captors, but to no avail.
He did not know what direction they took, nor their identity, because they spoke no words. He only heard harsh breathing as they tied and carried him away. A soft whinny said they had found Victory too.
He heard the splash of water and found himself dropped into some sort of skiff. The hard cross seat dug into his back. His captors had walked a distance away; only whispers reached his ears. At last, someone spoke out. “Boles, you stay here. We’ll return soon.” Someone answered. Not British voices, Caleb realized. If not, what did they want? Did they plan to drown him, and why?
The skiff tipped sharply to one side when two of the men jumped aboard. The small craft began to move through the water. We’re in a swamp, Caleb reasoned when they bumped into several objects. Swamps abounded with tree trunks. Straining to see through the blindfold, he barely made out a dim glow ahead. The boy tried to concentrate on each movement, but all sorts of things bounced through his mind as to why this had happened.
Suddenly, another bump and the skiff ran onto land. Once again Caleb felt himself lifted from the bottom of the boat. Hands removed the blindfold, but the bonds remained. A lantern shone on his face. A voice spoke. “Well, Jenkins, do you think the general will approve of our catch? I doubt he’s a loyalist. Are you, boy? Do you pay homage to the king?”
Caleb squinted beyond the glow of the lantern to see who spoke. “No, I do not. I am South Carolina Militia.” Anger rose in his throat.
“Calm down, boy. We take what we can get.” The men laughed and one of them clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to our little home.”
When his eyes adjusted, Caleb saw the group of men looked poorly dressed. One had a scruffy beard and others wore boots with holes. The heavier of the men prodded him with the butt of his gun indicating the direction he wanted Caleb to take. The boy stumbled along the narrow path and wondered how to escape this frightening place. He longed to know what had happened to Victory.
Five minutes of walking brought them to a clearing. Surprised, Caleb found himself in some sort of camp. Men of all descriptions sat around a fire. They seemed as badly dressed as the ones who brought him here.
“Where’s the general?” one of his guards asked.
“Over there,” replied another. He jerked his head toward a lean-to.
Caleb looked in the direction the man indicated. A candle burned within a shelter where a man bent over a piece of paper. He didn’t look much like a general.
“Go ahead, boy. The general will see you. But, hold on. Let’s get those ropes off first.”
Caleb started toward the lean-to, rubbing his arms. Standing in front of the shelter, he waited for the man who didn’t look much like a general to glance up from his writing.
When at last he laid aside his quill and sealed the document with hot wax, he raised his head. The intensity of his eyes startled Caleb. Even in the dull light, they shone a glacial blue. He looked directly into Caleb’s brown ones. “Well, what have we here?”
“Your men kidnapped me,” Caleb cried indignantly.
The general threw back his head and laughed. “You weren’t kidnapped, lad. Let’s just say requisitioned.”
Caleb could only stare. “Requisitioned? Do you steal people like horses or sacks of oats?”
“What’s your name?”
“Private Caleb Fields.” He identified himself yet again on this long day.
“So, you’re a soldier. By the looks of your clothing you’re militia.” When Caleb nodded, the general continued. “And your superior officer? Who is he?”
“Captain Joseph Johnson of the 41st South Carolina Militia. However, I am separated from that unit. Of late, I am assigned to Major Nathaniel Hunt of the 16th Regiment, sir.”
“I see. Then why do you travel alone?”
Caleb briefly related the events and explained how he had escorted a wounded comrade home.
“Seems you’ve had a varied military career already, Private Fields. Well, now you may consider yourself under the command of General Francis Marion. The British have driven out most of our troops.” Eyes grown hard looked directly into Caleb’s again. “But I choose to stay and beat them at their own game.”
Caleb remained silent, waiting to see what came next. No matter what this man said, he certainly did not look or act like a general. Why, even those of his own militia, in their homespun clothing, looked more presentable.
“Go ask the men for something to eat. We’ll talk again in the morning.” Abruptly dismissing Caleb, General Marion again took up his quill.
As he approached the fire, Caleb recognized one of his captors. The man held his saddlebags, which he tossed to him. “Billings took the skiff back and got your things. Your horse is safe and has what he needs. He’s a fine looking animal.”
Still miffed, Caleb took his belongings and moved away from the others. He reached into the bag and brought out the meal Charity had fixed. He sat alone, munching the beef pies and thinking how much he preferred his own company to that of the kidnappers.
When he finished his food, Caleb spread out the bedroll Mr. Larkin had provided. He wrapped the soft blanket around himself. He stretched out, fell asleep and dreamed of the amazing events of this day.
* * * *
Caleb woke to bright sunlight and the sound of orders being issued. He sat up and looked around. The motley looking group marched around as they underwent maneuvers. He saw no sign of the general.
“Over here, boy! You might as well learn now.”
Learn what? Caleb wondered as he stumbled over to the group, still half asleep.
“Fall in line behind the last man there. We’re practicing for when we meet Cornwallis and Tarleton. Believe me, we’ll know how to handle those two.
Don’t run afoul of them, lad.”
Caleb thought it best just to follow orders. Maybe someone would tell him later who the people were he should avoid. “Wish I could have avoided the lot of you,” Caleb muttered as he picked up his rifle.
An hour later, tired and hungry, the group broke up. One of his captors called to him, “I’m Brighton, second in command. What did you think of the general?”
“Not much,” Caleb said honestly, chewing a piece of jerky from his saddlebag.
“Did you not recognize him?” Brighton stared at the boy.
“He said his name is General Marion.” Caleb shrugged. The name meant nothing to him.
“Well, private, the British call him ‘The Swamp Fox.’ He’s proud of the name. Says he can outfox them any day. Do you really mean you’ve never heard of him?”’
Caleb shook his head. “What about him?”
“The general soldiered for a long time. Fought in the French and Indian fracas, he did. Figured to settle down and forget the war. He just wanted to farm his land, but when the British came this way, he lost some of his family. He knew then he’d have to get back into the fight.”
“What did he do?” Despite himself, Caleb wanted to know more.
“He took up the Indian ways. They’re good at surprise attacks, and they can disappear quickly into the forests and swamps. He studied hard and learned well.”
Brighton stopped his tale to fill his pipe, not saying another word until he had taken a few puffs. When it drew to his liking, he returned to his story. “When he felt ready, he rounded up the rest of us. We all had reason to fight the Red Coats. We’ve holed up here to prepare. Soon, the time will present itself. If you stay, you’ll help your country as much as if you fought with your own regiment.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Don’t see as how you do at the moment. The general’s a hard man to argue with.”
Caleb realized that this changed his plans. Would Major Hunt think he had deserted? If I can escape, I can get to Seth’s house. He had another thought. Would the Larkin place even be standing when the British finished their rampage?
The following weeks saw time filled with the most grueling practice Caleb had ever known, but at last the word came they waited to hear. It was time to meet the enemy.
The general with the hard blue eyes stood before the group and spoke. “All right, men, it’s time. Let’s see if the Red Coats can stand up to Marion’s Brigade.”
EIGHT
Under cover of darkness, the skiffs paddled back and forth until all the men had cleared the camp. They landed at the spot that marked Caleb’s kidnapping. He looked around anxiously, seeking Victory.
Brighton gave him a nudge and tipped his head toward a group of horses hobbled beneath the trees. Caleb wondered if they had requisitioned those too. He spotted his steed. “Hello, boy. Did you miss me?” He stroked the animal’s mane and thought Victory must surely recognize him when the horse lowered his head and nuzzled Caleb’s neck.
“We’ll ride out tonight,” General Marion announced. “My spies tell me The Royal George lies in port, ready to load arms and ammunition from their plunder.” He looked around the group. “Brighton, take a few men and go to the harbor. You know what to do when you arrive. The others will ride with me to the Old Dominion Bridge. That’s our target. We’ll meet there at midnight. Good luck.” The general assigned Caleb to the group going to the harbor.
Brighton turned toward those in his charge. “All right, men, let’s get underway. Tom, you drive the wagon. The rest of you, follow me. We’ll use a back road the Red Coats probably don’t know about.”
A short ride brought the men out of the forest and to the main road. Leading the way, Brighton set out for Charleston Harbor. An hour’s trip found the group at the harbor where they stopped in the shadows of the few waterfront buildings the British had left standing.
As they surveyed the ships docked in the harbor, Brighton spoke. “We’ve a bit of luck. Look sharp. The Royal George anchors at this end and the ammunition still sits dockside. No one seems to be about. I’ll wager a party is underway at the Mariner’s Pub. Probably celebrating what they’ve done to the city.”
“What about the watch, sir?” Brighton’s second in command spoke up. “Surely they’ve left someone aboard.”
“Good thought, Mr. Danvers. We’ll take care of that problem. Meantime, I want three of the strongest to load the wagon with the boxes. James, you stay with them and keep the horses quiet.”
Looking around, he asked for a volunteer. “I need someone to climb aboard and check for guards. We don’t want any surprises.”
Two of the men left looked at one another then at Brighton. “Uh, me and William here can’t swim, sir, and they’ve pulled up the boarding planks,” said the shorter of the two.
“Can’t swim, eh? Well, who’s left?” Peering into the darkness, he spotted Caleb. “What about you, boy? You afraid of a little water?”
“No, sir. I can swim.”
“Then how about going aboard and finding out what’s happening topside? Watch yourself. Just have a look around and see if you spot anything we should know about. Seems quiet enough, but they could be up there sleeping. Here, take this kerchief and give it a wave if you spot trouble.”
Caleb stuffed the handkerchief down the front of his jerkin. He took off his boots and slipped over the side of the dock. Although spring had arrived, the water had not yet warmed. He shivered during the short swim to the ship. His thoughts turned to the Edisto River that ran close to his home, and of the many happy hours he and his friends spent as they splashed in its warm waters.
At the ship, Caleb climbed up the carvings on the bow rather than chance the rope ladder. The bow lay in the shadows giving him less chance of being observed, especially by any of the crew returning to the ship.
He fit his hands and feet into the niches of the figurehead and started to climb. When he reached the top, he jumped lightly over the railing, and landed on the deck. Caleb stood still getting his bearings. He peered around but spotted no one. He reached into his jerkin, withdrew the kerchief and squeezed the water out. He spread it over the railing to dry in the night breezes, then started for the stern.
Caleb stopped once to lean over the railing. He let his eyes adjust to the dark. Below, men carried ammunition to the wagon. Brighton had instructed them to remove the ammunition and leave the empty boxes as they found them so as not to alert the British any sooner than necessary.
Toward the east, a lone figure stepped from the darkness shouldering a musket. It was the watch completing his tour before he returned to the end of the dock where Brighton’s men worked. Hurrying to the spot where he left the handkerchief, he grabbed the still damp cloth and waved it frantically, hoping someone would look up. He breathed a sigh of relief when all activity on the dock ceased and the men faded into the shadows. The unsuspecting guard walked toward the area where the group waited.
As the lookout neared, two of the men stepped out and with one on each side of the surprised fellow quickly subdued him, but not before he cried out.
Caleb froze. The alarm must have alerted anyone who might be on board. He backed into the shadows and bumped into a mounted cannon. He crawled beneath it, holding his breath when he heard the sound of pounding feet.
Caleb peeked out. Two men, clad only in breeches, ran down the deck. Probably sleeping below, he thought, waiting for the call to lower the boarding planks for their companions. They ran past his hiding place. Chancing another look, he saw the sailors lean over the railing with their backs to him. He peered over the rail and stared in horror seeing the rest of his group riding off, the loaded wagon in their wake. They’ve left me. What will I do? They’ve even taken Victory.
Before the calls of the sailors attracted those celebrating on shore, Caleb made a decision. He remembered a coil of rope in the space under the cannon. Reaching down, he grabbed it and crawled to the far side of the ship where he lashed it
to the rail and lowered himself into the black waters of the harbor. His teeth chattered with cold and fear. When he felt the water close over him, he swam around the ship. At the dock, he pulled himself up and almost stepped on a figure lying with arms bound and mouth covered. The man thrashed about trying to undo his bonds. This satisfied Caleb that the man was all right and that his comrades would soon release him.
Caleb grabbed his boots and ran for the safety of the woods. As he darted toward the shelter of the trees, he heard the sound of feet headed toward the ship and away from his hiding place. He breathed a sigh of relief and murmured thanks for his escape. Glad that Brighton and his men had gotten away with the ammunition, he still worried how to find them again. He recalled the plans to meet at the bridge, but had depended on Brighton to know the directions.
Making his way to the main road, he saw signs of recent hoof prints. He set out on foot to follow them, and hoped the prints led to General Marion’s group.
As he trudged along, Caleb wondered if fate meant for him to spend the war looking for his regiment. He wanted to do more for his country.
Behind him, he heard shouting and guessed the sailors must have discovered the ammunition theft. Caleb smiled to himself. “I suppose that’s what’s called the spoils of war,” he murmured.
Growing weary, Caleb sat on a stone by the side of the road. The moon slid behind a cloud and he could see nothing, not even the horse tracks that might lead him to the brigade.
At last he rose and continued walking as he peered into the dark for any sign to indicate the direction of the bridge.
Almost out of nowhere he heard the sound of hooves. It’s only one horse, he decided. Would the Red Coats send just one man to look for a group who stole ammunition?
With no trees to protect him now, he stood beside an open field. No hiding place offered itself when the clouds moved away from the moon. He stood alone, a perfect target. Frozen in his tracks, he stood completely at the mercy of the oncoming horseman.
