Celia Garth: A Novel

by Gwen Bristow

  Luke was now on his way to Marion’s new camp on the Cooper River. He had a few hours’ leave, only long enough to let Celia know he was all right and to make sure that she was. “And you are all right, Celia?” he begged.

  Celia spoke breathlessly. “I’m going to have a baby.”

  Luke was startled, he was thrilled, he was scared. He asked a hundred questions.

  Now at last Celia could talk. After all these weeks of silence she talked and talked, and lying in Luke’s arms she was not frightened any more.

  “Do you want a boy or a girl?” Luke asked after a while.

  “I don’t really care,” said Celia, “except—oh, I’d have such fun dressing a girl!”

  “What a lucky girl,” Luke said laughing. “To have the best dressmaker within a thousand miles for her mother.”

  Celia laughed too. It was such fun, this sharing of anticipation. This was what she had been missing.

  Luke became serious. “Celia, you can’t stay here.”

  “Oh no, no, I can’t!” she agreed in a desperate whisper. “But what can I do?”

  “My mother will take care of you.”

  “How can I get to her, Luke?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ll manage it.” He spoke with a deep earnestness. “Celia, I’m going to manage it. Wait here. Put up with Roy just a little while longer. I’ll be back. I promise. So help me God.”

  Celia promised to wait. She waited, and waited, and waited.

  She sewed and mended. She went for walks, and shook her head at the half-hearted look of the flowerbeds. Vivian would have been clearing the beds and planting bulbs. You should put in the bulbs now, before the frosts, if you wanted snowdrops and tulips in the spring; but if Sophie did not know this or was too lazy to do it, Celia was not going to remind her.

  The weather was clear, and sailing up the coast would have been easy, but again they had no visitors. Sophie was cheerful enough around Roy, for she stood somewhat in awe of him and knew he would not like her to find fault with his new paradise. But when he was out she complained to Celia all day long. She was so bored! She wished to heaven they were in town, or at least at some plantation on a main river. Even Roy grew irritable at the long isolation and the long wondering about what was happening outside. The remoteness of Sea Garden was protection, but this remoteness also meant that they were the last to hear the news.

  The days went on and still Sophie did no planting. Finally, one morning in November, Celia woke to find that overnight the air had chilled, and the roofs and lawns were white with the first heavy frost. There was nothing anybody could do now to make the flowers bloom next spring as they would have bloomed under Vivian’s care. Celia felt an angry little triumph.

  She dressed and went into the breakfast-room. Unless they had guests she usually had breakfast alone. Roy’s custom was to go out early and give orders in the fields while Sophie yawned and dozed again; then after an hour or so he would come in and join her in the boudoir, where a maid brought trays for them both. Celia liked it this way. The less she saw of Roy and Sophie the easier it was to put up with them.

  After breakfast she went out and walked through the grove, wondering if Roy would leave any of these mighty oaks. The sun mounted and the frost melted, and she thought she had better go in before the damp soaked through her shoes. She did not want to complicate matters by catching cold.

  She went indoors, into the big room where she used to spin and sew for Luke. Her spinning-wheel was still there by the hearth, and on the table lay the bound copies of the Gentleman’s Magazine. Celia put her fingers on the table and saw her fingerprints in the dust. She went to a window and looked out. The panes were dingy. Things had not been like this when Vivian was mistress here.

  As she turned from the window she heard a dull noise from a long way off. With a start, she listened. The sound came nearer and she heard it more plainly, a sound of rippling thuds—the hoofbeats of many horses.

  From somewhere near the front she heard a scream from one of the Negro women. There was a rush of footsteps on the stairs. Celia was out in the hall now. She saw Sophie running down the staircase, wailing in fright and pulling a shawl around her with shaking hands. Behind her came the nurse with the baby, and several maids, all wailing like their mistress, while the baby, catching the fear of his elders, was squalling with all his might. Raiders, Celia thought—maybe I can get out by the passage before they can put their hands on me. The thought brought her a wave of sick dizziness, and she clung to the newel-post till it passed.

  There was a great deal of noise outdoors, in front of the house. Celia could hear shouts of men and stamping of horses, and the cries of the colored women, and the shrill scared voice of Sophie. They had left the front door open as they ran out. She went through the doorway and paused just over the threshold. The fieldhands had rushed up, and were crowded at one side of the lawn. She saw Roy, riding in from the fields, trying to calm them, telling them he would ride to meet these men and find out what they wanted. Celia looked toward the front, at the pack of horsemen. Surprised and puzzled, she moved forward, and stood staring.

  A raiding band? They did not look like it—or what did raiders look like?

  There were about fifty men, making noise enough for a thousand. Moving their horses with splendid skill they were forming a semicircle on the lawn, four or five rows deep. One man near the front had on a green coat, like a Tory. Several others wore coats that had once been British red, and had been re-dyed with some stuff that made each coat a patchwork of brown and rust and purple, with spots of red showing through. Other men had on any sort of coat they could find, often in tatters; some had no coats, but shirts and breeches of homespun, or leather, or the fine doeskin breeches of British officers, once white but no longer.

  As for footgear, they wore British boots, or buckled shoes, or heavy homemade dumpers; some in good condition, some tied on with rags. They carried shotguns and muskets, rifles, pistols, hunting knives, even the sabers their blacksmiths had made out of log-saws. But to Celia it was not their clothes nor their weapons nor the racket they made that was most striking—it was the impression they gave her of being violently, almost frighteningly, alive. She had never been aware of such vitality. Their strength seemed to reach out even to her—a minute ago, clinging to the post at the foot of the staircase, she had been weak and sick; now suddenly she had never felt better in her life.

  A bewhiskered rider leaped off his horse and ran toward her, and Celia cried out in delight as she recognized Luke. He met her on the front steps, and caught her to him and kissed her, and she gave another little cry of joy. This was November, the first time since March that she had seen him by daylight, and his eyes were such a dazzling, joy-giving blue.

  Over his shoulder she saw his companions, bearded and dirty and glorious, and she loved them every one and would have gladly kissed them all. Marion’s men.

  This detachment was commanded by Major Osborn, a sturdy fellow dressed in coonskin cap and thick homespun shirt and breeches, and a pair of knee-high boots captured from some British supply train. Spokesman for the band, Major Osborn advanced his horse a few paces in front of the others and called out that he wanted to speak to Roy Garth.

  Without hesitation Roy rode to meet him. Roy was erect, defiant. The Negroes looked on in silence, but Sophie, somewhere near by, gave a plaintive moan. Luke drew Celia down the steps and to one side. His arm around her waist, they stood on the brown grass. Major Osborn said,

  “Mr. Garth, we are here by authority of General Francis Marion. You are ordered to return this property to Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Lacy. Mrs. Lacy’s son Captain Ansell will receive it.”

  Sophie made a sound like a scared chicken. One of the Negro men, in a deep low voice, said, “Praise the Lord.”

  Roy looked almost too shocked to speak. But he spoke. He spoke with angry contempt.

  “Do you think,” he asked, “that I, a subject of his majesty the king, will obey a traitor like Fran
cis Marion?”

  “You had better, Mr. Garth,” the major retorted. He gestured toward the men with him. “Otherwise, I must remind you that we can force you to do so.”

  “So you can,” Roy answered. He was furious, but Celia had to own that he had dignity. Roy continued, “You can, of course, put me out of my home at gunpoint. How long you can keep me out remains to be seen. Let me remind you,” he said clearly, “that I am owner of this property by British command, under authority of the Earl of Cornwallis—”

  Roy’s voice had a carrying quality, and Marion’s men had not the disciplined calm of the British regulars. At the mention of Cornwallis a rustle of laughter ran through the band. Major Osborn and the men just behind him—who appeared to be officers also—kept their soldierly composure.

  “Apparently, Mr. Garth,” Major Osborn said quietly, “you are not aware that Cornwallis surrendered to General Washington—”

  Celia gasped. Again she felt a dizziness, but this time it was like a swirl of rainbows. If Luke had not been holding her close to him she thought she would have fallen down. She heard Major Osborn as he continued,

  “—Cornwallis surrendered to General Washington on the nineteenth of October, in Virginia, at the port of Yorktown.”

  Celia did not hear what Roy answered to this, or even if he answered. All she heard was her own voice, weak with excitement.

  “Luke—Luke—then we did what we set out to do! We kept Cornwallis back—long enough!”

  Luke’s arm tightened around her. “Yes, Sassyface,” he said. “Long enough.”

  When Sophie understood what the order was, she burst into hysterical sobs, calling upon heaven to protect her and her helpless child as they were thrust out into the world. Roy, however, behaved with a self-possession that both Luke and Celia had to admire. He finally persuaded Sophie to go to her room, and led her up the staircase.

  Major Osborn ordered the men to make camp on the grounds. Luke, who had promised them a banquet of the best that Sea Garden could offer, went to give some directions to the Negroes. Celia sat down on the steps to wait. Major Osborn had placed guards by the steps, and others at various lookout points. The guard nearest Celia, a lanky fellow with red hair and big knobby hands, looked up at her with a companionable grin. She smiled back at him.

  When Luke returned, he sat by her on the steps and told her about Yorktown. How Washington, to honor the Carolina patriots who had made the victory possible by their long delay of Cornwallis, had chosen officers of the defense at Charleston to receive the surrender. And how Tarleton, quaking at what the American militiamen might do if they got their hands on him, had begged for—and received—special protection.

  Major Osborn asked Luke where Roy was. Luke told him Roy had taken his wife to her room, and would be back in a few minutes to ask where he was to go now and how he was supposed to get there.

  Hearing him, the red-haired guard by the steps jerked up his head with a snort. Celia heard him remark that when the British set fire to his farm up Kingstree way, they had not let him ask such a question. If it hadn’t been for some corn in the field, too green to burn, he would have gone to the graveyard.

  Major Osborn spoke over his shoulder. “That will do, MacNair. Leave this to me.”

  Celia sent a glance of curiosity toward the guard. MacNair, Kingstree—the names had a familiar sound. After a moment’s thought she remembered. Agnes Kennedy, soft-voiced Agnes from the shop, had been engaged to a man named Robert MacNair who had had a farm near Kingstree. They both had lived right in the way of that terrible path of fire that the British had laid from Kingstree to Cheraw.

  Celia went down the steps and spoke to the guard. “Is your name Robert MacNair?”

  He smiled, and answered politely. “Yes ma’am. And you’re Mrs. Ansell? Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  “Then you know one of the girls who used to work with me in Charleston,” said Celia. “Agnes—”

  The name caught in her throat. MacNair’s whole appearance had changed. The muscles tensed around his mouth and eyes; his body tensed too, and his big hands tightened on his gun. Celia guessed what he had to say before he said it.

  “She’s dead, ma’am.”

  “Oh,” Celia said softly. It was not a word, more an instinctive sound of shock and pity. Gentle Agnes, who had had her life all planned—the flax, the nice children, the cat with kittens. Celia managed to add, “I’m so sorry.”

  Through his teeth MacNair said, “Would you mind not talking about it, ma’am?”

  Celia answered, “Of course, I understand.” She wondered if MacNair knew how well she understood. She did not know what they had done to Agnes, but she had the scar of Bellwood and no matter how kind to her the future might be she would always have it, the scar and the knowledge of horror that it had brought her. Turning away, she went back to sit on the top step.

  Roy came back out to the piazza. Addressing Major Osborn, he said he had come to ask for orders.

  Major Osborn told Roy he could go to Charleston as so many other Tories had done, or to his own country place, Kensaw Plantation. Captain Ansell would make him a present of one of the Sea Garden vessels—not the big schooner, but a small sailboat that could be operated by Roy and the Negroes he had brought here with him. Roy would leave, the major said, tomorrow morning.

  His lips tight with fury, Roy answered, “Very well.” He turned on his heel. Some guard nearby gave a chuckle.

  Roy stopped. He looked at the guards. He looked at Major Osborn and at Luke. His handsome face was dark with anger.

  “Laugh if you want to,” he said clearly. “The war is not over.” His voice rose, piercing and sure. “Nobody but Cornwallis has surrendered,” said Roy. “Sir Henry Clinton is still here. The rest of the king’s men are still here. They won’t leave.”

  CHAPTER 33

  AND THEY DIDN’T.

  For the first few days Celia was so happy that she did not think of what Roy had said. She knew there were thousands of redcoats who had not surrendered, but she forgot about them.

  Roy and Sophie and their servants left Sea Garden. Luke made them return Celia’s necklace, though he told her he was pretty sure they had tucked into their trunks various other articles that had caught their fancy. But this he could not help. Marion’s men had not time for small details. Get rid of Roy, that was the idea, and several men of the detachment went along on the boat to make sure he kept going till he was beyond the lines guarded by Marion, so he could not come back.

  After a day or two the rest of the men left for other missions. Luke stayed until Herbert and Vivian came home, but then Celia had to face the fact that the war was not over and he had to leave her again.

  Cornwallis and Tarleton had seemed so important that it was hard to realize they commanded only part of the king’s troops. But the northern army under Clinton still held New York; while the troops Cornwallis had left behind him, along with the new troops who had arrived last summer, held Charleston and Savannah and several smaller posts. Luke told Celia that after Yorktown, Washington had begged the Frenchmen to stay and help him capture Charleston, but they refused and went back to the West Indies.

  “This means we’ve got to take care of ourselves,” said Luke. “But the king’s men in South Carolina hold only one place that we can’t force them out of. That’s Charleston. So our plan is, force them all into Charleston. Squeeze ’em there, till they’ll want to leave.”

  Celia ached with disappointment. She dreaded the long lonesomeness ahead, the days and nights when she would want Luke so much and he would still not be there. She was so tired of all that.

  But they had Sea Garden again, and her nausea and dizzy spells had disappeared. She could not make the beautiful baby-clothes she had dreamed of, for they had no fine muslins and no way to get any, but Vivian gave her an armful of old sheets and towels, soft from many launderings. “Baby won’t know the difference,” Vivian said laughing. Celia laughed too. Everybody was making her feel so im
portant. Herbert and Vivian, the colored folk, Luke and the men he brought with him on his visits—they all made much of her. After seven months as Roy’s poor relation, the change was like wine after swamp-water.

  Vivian was very busy this winter. She said she had never seen such a jumble as Sophie had made of her household. Watching how smoothly Vivian got things organized again, Celia looked ahead, and quaked. Vivian was certainly going to expect her to help with the housekeeping, and she dreaded it. Aunt Louisa had taught her about household affairs, but Kensaw had been no such establishment as Sea Garden, and Vivian’s habits of perfection were terrifying.

  However, she did not expect to be given anything to do until after the baby was born. She was astonished one morning when Vivian came to the sewing room and interrupted the cutting of diapers.

  Vivian was about to make her regular morning round of the household. Her keys, a great important-looking bunch of them, hung by a chain from her waist, and she carried one of her record-books. She told Celia to come with her.

  “Oh dear,” said Celia. “Now?” She glanced down at her figure. That was as good an excuse as any for putting it off.

  “You’re perfectly well,” said Vivian. She sat on the arm of a chair. “I’d have taken you with me before this, but I did want to clear up after Sophie.”

  Celia laid down her scissors. Her fingers began to fidget with the ends of her kerchief. Vivian’s dark eyes looked her over.

  “Are you still scared of me, Celia?”

  “Yes!” Celia answered. She knew she would feel better if she told the truth.

  “You’ve learned one trade well,” Vivian said quietly. “You can learn another.”

  She sat on the arm of the chair, one hand on the back, the other lying in her lap. Will I ever, Celia wondered, be so calm, so sure of myself. She said, “If you’ll teach me, I’ll try to do things the way you like them. I do want to help you.”

  Vivian glanced down at the bunch of keys. After a moment she raised her eyes. “I’m not teaching you to help me, Celia,” she said. “I’m teaching you to get along without me.”