by Gwen Bristow
Under such a ruler, the town had lost its old decency. The streets were dirty. There were more taverns than ever before. Near the southeastern docks there had been a bad fire two years ago, and because of wartime shortage of materials much of the burnt area had not been rebuilt; now this was a community of shacks where women both white and colored received the soldiers. Even the better parts of town swarmed with trollops.
From her window on the third floor, Celia could look over Charleston and see what was going on. The Lutheran Church on Archdale Street, and the lovely little Unitarian Church next door, were both being used as stables. The White Meeting House, for which Meeting Street had been named, was now a storehouse for army supplies. Horses were trampling on the graves in the churchyards. They kicked at the tombstones, and cracked them or knocked them over, and the stones lay broken among the weeds. Celia heard that the British army chaplains had protested to Balfour about this desecration, but if they had, he paid no attention.
St. Philip’s and St. Michael’s, as representing the established Church of England, had not been disturbed, but services were now conducted by clergymen who favored the king. People who did not want to join in prayer for the king’s army, stayed home.
Celia stayed home. Looking out of her high window on Sunday mornings, she was disgusted at how many people she saw going into the churches. She knew, she just knew, there had not been that many Tories in Charleston before the British marched in.
But this sight was not the only one that disgusted her. Day after day she felt nauseated as she watched people in Charleston, in spite of all that was being done to them, toadying to their conquerors.
Of course there were some who had been on the king’s side all the time. The Kirbys, the Torrances—if they welcomed the British now you could not be surprised. But the Baxters were inviting redcoat officers to dinner, and so were dozens of other families who used to be patriots. Even Godfrey Bernard was meeting the British with smiles, Ida was dancing at their balls—when she thought of it, and remembered Bellwood, Celia could almost feel her heart shrivel.
It seemed to her that nobody had any self-respect any more. Except maybe those men who had been sent to St. Augustine.
There were others who had tried to hold out. But a messenger brought a proclamation from the headquarters of Cornwallis at Camden. Cornwallis said that certain wealthy persons in South Carolina were persisting in their treasonable efforts. He therefore ordered that if you had not sworn allegiance to the king, and still refused to do so, your property would be confiscated and turned over to somebody who deserved it. A loyal subject of the king named John Cruden was put in charge of the confiscation, with the title Commissioner of Sequestrated Estates.
On the twenty-first of September, the Royal Gazette proudly published the names of one hundred and sixty-three men who had held to their principles as long as they could, but now had given in and taken the oath to save their property. The paper came while Celia was at dinner. When she returned to the parlor that afternoon she saw the announcement and the list. She did not read the names. She could not. She threw the paper on her worktable and walked over to a side window, where she stood pretending to adjust the curtain.
There were no customers in the parlor just now. Through the open window Celia could see redcoats walking and driving with well-dressed women whose husbands and fathers had taken the oath so they would not have to be poor. She heard a street-peddler calling that he had fine fresh grapes to sell.
Everybody, she thought, has something to sell. And the British and Tories and bootlickers have money to buy it. So we’ve quit. And I’m no better than anybody else. I’m working in a fashionable shop, smiling at the people who have money to spend, forgetting that I ever believed in anything.
She felt sick with contempt, contempt for herself and for her country.
Americans, she thought, are no good. We don’t deserve to be free.
CHAPTER 22
SHE HEARD THE FRONT door open. As she turned she saw Mrs. Kirby, crisp and pretty in flowered muslin, followed by a nursemaid carrying baby Freddie. Celia put on her pleasant professional smile and went to the balustrade. “How do you do, Mrs. Kirby.”
Mrs. Kirby said how do you do, and didn’t Celia think it was remarkable how Freddie had grown since they came to town, really he was so advanced that most people wouldn’t believe he was only four months old, and today’s Gazette had carried an announcement by Mrs. Thorley that a shipment of striped and printed silks had arrived and she would like to see them only she didn’t have much time because they were going to have supper tonight with Mr. Kirby’s parents and she had to get there early and arrange the flowers because Major Brace and Captain Woodley were going to be there and her mother-in-law wanted everything especially nice and she did hope the silks were ready to be seen because if they weren’t ready she just couldn’t wait.
Smiling graciously, Celia said the silks were ready. Before she had finished her sentence Mrs. Kirby’s words were tumbling out again, this time addressed to the nurse.
“Then you can take Freddie on over to his grandma’s. Mamma’s ’ittle precious wanna go to danma’s? Mamma’s ’ittle precious be good? Mamma’s ’ittle—” The door opened again and she broke off, “Why Emily, darling!”
The lady addressed as Emily was Mrs. Leon Torrance, wife of Sophie’s brother. The Torrances had just come to town from their plantation, and Celia had seen Mrs. Torrance only once before, last week when she came in to order a dress. A pretty brunette, wearing white lawn with red stitching and a hat with a red plume, today Mrs. Torrance was accompanied by two British officers.
She introduced the officers to Mrs. Kirby, who showed off her baby while they murmured polite admiration. At length Mrs. Torrance said she simply must get upstairs for her fitting. The two officers, fanning themselves with their hats, said they would go over to that new tea-shop on Cumberland Street. It was so near the waterfront, maybe they would find a sea-breeze there to cool them off. This weather was murderous. They bowed themselves out, promising to call for Mrs. Torrance in an hour.
As the door closed, Mrs. Kirby looked after them petulantly. “They make me tired, always carrying on about the weather. Everybody knows any weather is better than what they get in England!”
“It’s not the weather,” said Mrs. Torrance, “it’s those heavy woolen uniforms. They say the men at Camden are miserable, with all the outdoor patrolling they—”
“Oh for pity’s sake,” exclaimed Mrs. Kirby. “The supply officers are doing the best they can! They’ve got a shipment of lightweight clothes ready for Camden right now—I know because my husband arranged the purchase—the wagons were held up because they had to wait for some shoes but they’re leaving here for Camden the first of October and that’s definite. Shall we go up, darling? You know I’m in a tearing hurry—”
Celia opened the gate. Mrs. Kirby went through, then Mrs. Torrance, who smiled and said, “Thank you, Miss—why, I don’t believe I know your name.”
Before Celia could say anything Mrs. Kirby was saying it for her. “Why this is Celia Garth, she came to work here after you went to the country last year—”
“Garth?” repeated Mrs. Torrance, and Celia thought her face showed a flicker of displeasure. But Mrs. Torrance said politely, “How do you do, Miss Garth,” and Celia curtsied and said, “How do you do, Mrs. Torrance.” She went to the staircase door and opened it, and they went through, Mrs. Kirby still rattling on.
“—have it made with a skirt of gray and green stripes and a plain green overskirt looped rather high—”
Celia returned to her table and took out the ruffle she was hemming. She was glad the British soldiers were suffering in their woolens. The temperature this afternoon was about eighty, not too hot if you wore summer clothes. But it must be awful in those heavy red coats and tight belts. She hoped the shipment destined for Camden would get lost, so the men there would have to go on suffering.
Oh, how she hated everybody. She
hated Mrs. Kirby and Mrs. Torrance. She hated Mrs. Baxter, who came in and ordered some kerchiefs embroidered with her initial. C for Charlotte, said Mrs. Baxter, and Celia wondered if she thought they had forgotten how she used to dislike being called by the name of the British queen. Or maybe, as long as she was being socially accepted by the winning side, Mrs. Baxter just did not care.
She hated her old schoolmate Rena Fairbanks, who came in with three handsome young Britishers, red coats and high shiny boots and hair glistening white with powder. Rena said she wouldn’t be a minute, so the men sat down in front of the balustrade to wait for her. Celia opened the gate. At the ball New Year’s Eve Rena had been cordial, but today she acknowledged Celia’s service with a cool smile. She did not want to be too friendly with a sewing-girl before these elegant aristocrats. All the British officers were aristocrats. They had to be. Even the most broadminded of them were astonished at the American army, where tailors and ironworkers held commissions and gave orders to the sons of gentlemen.
Celia returned to her sewing. She heard one of the redcoats saying the rebel soldiers on the prison-ship in the harbor were deserting by scores to join the Tory troops. Celia wondered if this was true. She knew the British were offering them all sorts of inducements to do so. Well, if it was true she wouldn’t be surprised. Why expect the prisoners to be any better than their friends on shore?
The door opened again and three persons came in, a middle-aged couple and a young girl. The man and woman were stout and red-faced and elaborately dressed; the girl, about seventeen years old, was rather pretty, or would have been if she too had not been so overdressed in ruffles and silk flowers and gilt-buckled shoes. At sight of the British officers she giggled, her mother inclined her head as though in awe, and her father slapped the counter loudly, like a man in a tavern summoning the barmaid.
Celia set aside her workbasket and came in answer. The man announced that his name was Hendrix and he came from down Beaufort way. He said this was his wife Mrs. Hendrix and this was his daughter Miss Dolly, and the ladyfolks wanted to see some of them imported silks.
Celia said she would go upstairs and report their wants. Mr. Hendrix told her to step lively. And remember, he called after her, they wanted to see only the best. Don’t waste their time showing them nothing but the best.
Celia went upstairs and told Miss Perry. Miss Perry exclaimed, “Dear dear, we do get such astonishing people in here nowadays,” and asked Ruth Elbert to wait on the Hendrixes. Ruth went into the big display room, where the walls were lined with shelves piled with bolts of material. Putting several bolts of silk on the table she said acidly to Celia, “All right, bring them in here.” Celia went down and told Mrs. Hendrix and Miss Dolly that the silks could be seen now.
Pulling out a fat purse Mr. Hendrix gave his wife a handful of money—“these working women always want at least half on account, you know.” He went to the door, saying he had some business on Queen Street and he’d meet them later.
Miss Dolly had been trying to flirt with the British officers, who did not want to flirt with her and were making a desperate show of interest in the Royal Gazette. Celia opened the gate. Out of the corner of her eye she observed the men’s relief as Miss Dolly and her mother went through.
At another time she might have been amused. Today she was not. The Hendrixes were the sort of people she hated worse than redcoats. She had seen these newly rich Tories before, and she knew how they made their money. Mr. Hendrix had said he had business on Queen Street, which meant the British military office on Queen Street. And it made her sick.
It had come about because the more level-headed of the king’s men had been trying to stop the looting of barns and smokehouses. They knew the king’s soldiers could not eat unless the people of the country raised food, and people would not raise food unless they had a fair chance to profit from their efforts. So officers in the country districts had received commands that when their men took supplies, they must pay for what they took.
To encourage food-growing, they paid rebels as well as Tories. But the payment was made by promissory notes, which could be exchanged for money only at the army office on Queen Street in Charleston.
This was all right for Tory planters. But hundreds of these notes were given to people who could not come to town to cash them. There were women whose husbands were dead or prisoners of war, who could not travel alone through a war-riddled country; there were men who had served with the rebel troops and could not get passes to travel at all. So their Tory neighbors, who did have passes, bought the notes for a fraction of their value, came to town, and redeemed them in full. Then they came into Mrs. Thorley’s shop demanding nothing but the best. As Celia led the Hendrix women upstairs she wished she could push them back down the staircase and break their necks.
But she could not. She led them into the display room, curtsied respectfully, and went back to the parlor.
All afternoon she smiled and answered questions and went upstairs on errands. At last it was time for people to go home to supper. Mrs. Hendrix and Miss Dolly came down; Celia opened the gate, and curtsied as they swept grandly past her and away. Gradually the other customers left. Celia began to lock up.
She walked over to the side window and looked out. Oh, what a stately town it used to be, and how ugly it was now. She closed the window and locked it, and as she drew the curtain she heard the front door open.
She turned with annoyance. Nobody had any business coming in so late. But the caller was Darren, saying he had purposely called at the last minute because he had hoped to find her alone.
Still limping, he met her at the balustrade. “How are you?” he asked.
“All right,” said Celia.
Darren looked at her keenly. Except for his limp he seemed like his old self: happy-faced, well dressed in brown linen coat and breeches, his hair brushed smooth and tied behind. As he looked her over he shook his head. “You don’t look all right,” he said.
“I’m tired,” she returned, “and cross.”
“Any special trouble?” he asked in his pleasant sympathetic way.
“No. Just everything.”
“Maybe this will cheer you up,” said Darren. “I’ve come to bring you an invitation. Godfrey and Ida want you to come to dinner Sunday. They’re also having the Penfields, and me, if you’re interested—”
“And Major Brace,” she asked, “and Captain Woodley?” These were the two Britishers billeted in Godfrey’s home. “And a few more redcoats? No I won’t.”
The room was getting dark, but she could see Darren frown with surprise. “Brace and Woodley are good fellows, Celia,” he said. “You’ll like them.”
“No!” Celia said harshly. She had been keeping her feelings inside too long; now she let herself go. “I took their miserable oath. I’ll be polite to the British and Tories who come into this shop because I’ve got to hold my job. But I won’t sit at table with them when I don’t have to, and I won’t walk or ride or dance with them. I know everybody else has given in but I’m sick of everybody else.”
Darren’s face was grave now. As she paused he said in a low voice, “We didn’t want to take that oath either, Celia. We had to.”
Celia rested her elbows on the ledge that topped the balustrade. She dropped her forehead on her hands and pushed her fingers up through her hair. Without looking up she said,
“Oh, I know that. And I know we have to put up with the king’s men. But we don’t have to do what everybody’s doing! Bowing and smirking—you’d think the king did us a favor by sending them over here to put us back in our place. Oh, I hate every man in a red coat or a green coat—but even worse I hate all these people who are groveling in front of them.” She raised her head. “I feel so helpless, Darren! Like a worm being stepped on.”
Darren picked up his cane, which he had leaned against the balustrade. Looking down, he moved the point of the cane on the floor as if drawing imaginary pictures. After a moment he looked up and spoke brisk
ly.
“Look. I don’t really want to go to Godfrey’s Sunday. I’d rather be with you. Suppose I pick up some dinner somewhere, then come by here for you and we take a walk.”
She smiled. It was her first genuine smile of the day. “Oh Darren, you’re so nice! But your leg—won’t that be hard on you?”
“We can rest in the corner park on Broad Street. Will you?”
“I’d love to.”
“Good. And we can drop in for tea at that new place on Cumberland Street. They serve luscious buns with the tea. I’ll call for you about three—right?”
She nodded and thanked him again, and Darren limped away. Celia went around to the front of the counter and locked the door. She felt better. But she was not sure she wanted to go to that new place on Cumberland Street. It would be full of redcoats drinking their everlasting tea, and Americans who had been patriots last year but who were now swilling tea by the quart to prove how much they loved the king. She did not want to drink tea with them. In fact, now that she thought of it, she did not want to drink tea at all.
Sunday was a gleaming day, a day for flowers and pretty clothes. Again Celia did not go to church. She washed her hair, and while it was drying she took out her prayer book and read the Bible lesson for the day.
Darren called for her, and they walked out among the other Sunday strollers. Darren had very little to say. Celia spoke of what nice weather it was, and how delicious the sweet-olive blooms smelt across the garden walls. But though Darren answered, he seemed to be thinking of something else. She was surprised. It was not like him to take a girl out and then not pay attention to her.
