The Cane Creek Regulators

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “I hate the sons of bitches,” he said, sounding like James Middleton.

  She didn’t want to believe that, but she couldn’t help thinking of Donnan at the old stockade near Robert Gouedy’s post. Or the way Donnan looked at any Indian, Catawba or Cherokee, who came to the tavern or anywhere near Ninety Six. She remembered the day she had walked down the trail to the Cherokee Path with Donnan and Pinetree, the afternoon after the incident last summer. He had gone to protect her from Pinetree.

  “He saved my life,” she reminded Donnan now.

  He nodded. “And, as you were so apt to remind me, you saved his.”

  Even in the darkness, Donnan’s eyes frightened her. They were filled with hate and distrust. Donnan hated Indians, and did not trust his sister.

  * * * * *

  Having cleaned the hoofs of Ezekiel and Nutmeg, Emily came from the stables to find her mother, as usual, slaving over the winter kitchen. It had turned too cool to cook outside any more.

  “Emily,” Machara Stewart said, her voice hoarse. “Thank the Lord you are home. Quick, do me a kindness, please, and take those …” she pointed to a tray, “to that fine English gentleman … at the table next to the main door.” She continued to dish up more bowls, but not before shooting a glance at her youngest children coming in through the door. “Go wash. Now! Don’t set foot in this kitchen until you have cleaned the mud off your hands and the leaves out of your hair.”

  No mention of Joseph Robinson. Emily had not heard of or seen the arrogant bastard in a week. Emily thought that a good sign. She hurried to the tray, picked it up, and backed out of the door to a cacophony of voices and raucous laughter coming from the tavern. She heard her father’s voice, the clinking of pewter steins and clay mugs. She smelled tobacco and rum.

  When she turned to find “the fine English gentleman,” the tray slipped from her hands, crashing to the floor when she saw Reverend Douglas Monteith.

  Chapter Nine

  “I dare say that the floor was not as famished as am I.” Leaning his head back, the Reverend Monteith laughed heartily.

  The tavern had grown quiet right after the mishap, but now the dozen or more men inside echoed the laughter of the preacher. Emily found the rag her father rarely used to wipe the bar, and busied herself on hands and knees, mopping up the mess. At least the bowls had not broken.

  “Well, Stewart,” someone said, “looks like that girl of yours is a scullery maid, after all.”

  “She shall make someone a fine wife,” another man commented.

  “Not me. That girl scares the bitter hell out of me.”

  “Cease your raillery,” the parson barked, no longer laughing. “We do not make vulgar comments about ladies in a tavern. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

  Emily stopped scrubbing long enough to look at Monteith, who had slid off the stool to challenge those who had spoken so rudely, at least according to the Anglican’s delicate ears and sensibilities. She started to say something, but the door to the kitchen swung open, and Emily’s mother muttered, “Oh, goodness.” Quickly Emily returned to scrubbing the floor, and her mother joined her in a few minutes with a mop.

  More men flocked into Cormorant’s Rock that evening. Word must have spread quickly that the parson had arrived. As Emily busily served her father’s alcoholic concoctions or just straight rum or gin, she wondered what Reverend Monteith, staunch Anglican, would think of Ninety Six.

  Then Joseph Robinson arrived, but, to Emily’s relief, he found a place at the bar, so it was her father who served him. But she noted that he scarcely chanced a glance in her direction as she moved from table to table, bringing stew and bread and libations.

  Mostly the men listened and laughed at Monteith’s stories of his travels and travails across the backcountry of the two Carolina colonies.

  “Reveling and whoring. Drinking and fighting.” The Reverend Monteith shook his head. “Throughout this wilderness, I have been shocked to learn that most of those who reside in this backcountry have abandoned their morals. They are rude and ignorant, and many mocked my sermons and service. They encourage vice and idleness. It is shocking, I say, just shocking. In some of these hamlets, I refused to even hold service for fear that they would embarrass the Lord as so many are void of good manners and Christianity.”

  “Aye,” Donnan Stewart said with a chuckle. “I have heard tell that God fears to even show his face in North Carolina.”

  “Watch your blasphemy, young man,” the preacher said, and Emily grinned. It was high time someone put her big brother in his place. “I do not speak solely of the colony to our north. South Carolina is full of men … white men no less … who act as though they have never heard the Common Prayer, not even an Episcopal prayer. Baptism is foreign to their thinking. I have traveled to settlements totally lacking any genteel person. No good breeding, and many children born out of wedlock.”

  Returning to the kitchen, Emily almost ran into a man just entering through the door.

  Emily started to apologize, but the man, a stranger, swept off his wide-brimmed hat of black wool, and bowed. “My apologies, madam,” he said. “I did not see you.”

  “Nor I you.” But she saw him now. Thin, dark hair—no wig—and even darker eyes. Tall, full lips, a Roman nose. He was not attired in buckskins or homespun, but rather bleached trousers that came down to the ankles of his black boots, with a linen shirt, and a pleated white stock fit snugly around his neck. The shirt was topped by a sleeveless green waistcoat of fine silk, as well as a red silk coat with mother of pearl buttons, which hung to his knees. He carried a black walking stick in his left hand. Emily had not seen a man dressed in such resplendence since Charlestown. He returned the hat to his head, his black eyes beginning to twinkle.

  “I seem to have found the most popular inn in town,” he said above the myriad voices and laughs.

  “It is the only inn in town. Will you be staying overnight, sir?”

  “No. Alas, bound for the Cowpens am I, thus I have time only for ale and supper.” He took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. She almost jerked the hand away, but couldn’t, his eyes were that hypnotic. “Had I known I would find such loveliness here, I would not have made other arrangements.” He glanced around, releasing Emily’s hand, which she held there for the longest time before she realized she was acting like a damned fool. “But I dare say that procuring a seat might be next to impossible.” “We shall find you one, sir,” she said, and spun around, guiding him to a small table with one chair in the distant corner.

  “Is this place always bustling with such activity?” the stranger asked.

  “Hardly.” She pointed over cocked heads and animal-fur hats. “Do you see that gentleman at the bar?”

  “Aye.”

  “He’s a minister of the Word. An Anglican itinerant. Just got to Ninety Six today.”

  “A preacher?” The man chuckled. “Here?”

  “Yes, sir. The Lord has come to Cane Creek.”

  He laughed, and then ordered rum and shepherd’s pie.

  Emily forgot about the other customers. Local people could wait, she figured, but a gentleman like that should get priority. Before she left the kitchen with his supper, however, she found herself wiping the sweat off her forehead and cheeks, combing her hair with her fingers, then running a corner of a napkin over her teeth.

  “Goodness gracious, child!” she heard her mother call out. “Do not keep everyone waiting. Unless … is Joseph Robinson out there?”

  She didn’t answer, but hurried to bring the newcomer his food and drink.

  “Your parson has a singular wit,” the man said as she set down the bowl.

  “He’s not my parson,” she said. “He’s Anglican. We are Presbyterian.”

  “I am a backslider myself,” he said, dropping a napkin to his lap.

  She laughed. “You are one to tal
k about wit, sir.”

  “Not sir,” he said. “My name is Finnian Kilduff.”

  Irish … but little left of a brogue, Emily thought. In fact, he sounds like most of the men of the backcountry. Aloud she said, “Well, sir, welcome to Ninety Six, Mister Kilduff.”

  He took her hand again, but did not kiss it. “I told you no sir … and certainly not mister. Call me Finnian.”

  “I do not think I ought to.”

  “And why not?”

  “We have just met.”

  “But I hope this will not be our last encounter.”

  She blushed. Hated herself for it, but, by Jehovah, this man was certainly better-looking and more refined than Joseph Robison. Or anyone else she had ever seen in Ninety Six. Better-looking than even Go-la-nv Pinetree.

  “If you need anything …” she didn’t quite know how to address him, “you just yell for me. Even over all this ruction, I shall hear you.”

  “Thank you …?” He drew out the question, waiting for her name.

  “My name is Stewart,” she said. “Emily Stewart. You can call me Emily, but I would not do that around my da.”

  He lifted himself up, scanning the crowd in the tavern.

  “And your father is?”

  “That big man.” She pointed behind the bar. “He owns the place. Breck Stewart is his name.”

  “I shall have to pay him my compliments.”

  “That and sterling would be fine,” she said.

  He laughed, which she enjoyed hearing. Then he said, “You have a fine wit yourself … Emily.”

  * * * * *

  The tavern had cleared. Most of the customers had returned to their homes after grog and supper. She did not know where exactly Finnian Kilduff had gone, or even when he had left, though he had left far too much money for the liquor and meal, but the Cowpens was a long way from Ninety Six. Still, her father had always told her that in the backcountry, one did not ask a stranger’s name, where he was from, or where he was going.

  Machara Stewart was preparing the batter for the morrow’s breakfast, and Alan and Elizabeth were upstairs, already asleep. Emily washed the dishes, listening through the open door at the conversation between the parson, her father, and Donnan.

  “The people are not all bad, Reverend,” Breck Stewart said.

  “I hope that is the case. I have been riding the environs feeling that the Word of God has been lost.”

  “We lack two things in this district,” Stewart said. “Law and a preacher. You have seen how lawless this region can be. The King and the governor ignore our requests.”

  When even her mother sighed, Emily could not stop a grin. Monteith was about to learn what a mistake he had made for yielding the floor to Breck Stewart.

  “We have begged and pleaded for courts, for a militia, but to no avail. And as far as the Word of God is concerned, why, sir, it is just that we rarely have a preacher coming through. There are good citizens here, sir. Good, God-fearing men and women. It is not that they shun the Word, shun the Lord’s Commandments. It is not that they desire to live in sin, but there is no one here to marry them, although I know of at least two who journeyed to North Carolina, where they were married by a magistrate.”

  “Which is contrary to the laws of parliament and to the eyes of God,” Monteith slipped in. “Marriage is a religious ceremony.”

  “Be that as it may, we welcome you, Reverend, to Ninety Six. How long shall you stay with us?”

  Emily stiffened. The parson is staying here? Upstairs?

  “If there are enough who would like to hear the Word, then I may stay through the winter. My legs and hindquarters are stiff from riding.”

  Until spring? Emily let out a heavy sigh, thinking she would have to watch her language for a long time.

  “I wonder how many weddings the parson can officiate between now and spring,” her mother said.

  Emily began drying her hands as she looked at her mother. Machara Stewart grinned.

  Beyond watching her language, Emily would have to watch out for her scheming parents—and that poltroon, Joseph Robinson.

  “Are there Anglicans in this settlement?” she heard Monteith ask, and held her breath for his answer.

  “As you know, we are Presbyterians,” her father said. “Most of the people here are likely Scots and Irish. I’d think …”

  When Stewart stopped to consider his answer, Donnan jumped in with, “It is a medley of denominations and sects, Pastor.” He didn’t even sound sarcastic.

  Monteith snickered. “I have grown quite accustomed to preaching to such a diverse lot … when I have located those who would listen.”

  Something slammed against the table, causing both Emily and her mother to jump. “You shall find them here, Parson!” Her father must have slammed his fist on the table. “You shall preach your sermon here.”

  “Here? In …?”

  “Here, Parson. In Cormorant’s Rock. Do not think of this tavern as a den of iniquity, sir. It is the meeting place of the white settlers of Ninety Six. I cannot speak for other settlements, but here in Ninety Six you will find a people who love the Lord and who desire a discourse.”

  And a people who desire grog, Emily thought, their bumbo, and persico. And you will find a number of women who live in a state of concubinage. You will find …

  “And what of the lawless element?” the reverend asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  “They have slackened the raids with the changing of the season,” Donnan answered.

  “For the time being,” Breck Stewart added. “Usually they cease such criminal activity till spring and summer, when there are crops to steal and when the horses are well fed.”

  “Or perhaps they learned their lesson from what Da and the men of the Welsh Neck did this summer,” Donnan said. “Perhaps the law has finally reached out from Charlestown to the backcountry.”

  “Then you have not heard?” Monteith’s tone had changed. Emily ascertained a note of dread in his voice.

  “Heard what?” Stewart asked.

  She followed her mother out of the kitchen, through the door, into the dimly lit tavern. Donnan was lowering his stein of kill-devil, and Stewart had moved away from the rows of jugs he had been refilling. All eyes stared upon the minister, who sat at the bar, a cup of steaming tea in front of his limp hands.

  Monteith’s eyes looked over to Emily and Machara, then turned back to Donnan, and lastly to Breck Stewart.

  “Heard what?” her father repeated.

  Sighing heavily, the preacher drew his hands off the bar and wet his lips.

  “What … did Devonald hang those curs?” Donnan said with a laugh.

  “No.” Monteith could barely be heard. He cleared his throat and said again, “No.” Then, “The prisoners were taken to Charlestown and jailed. But I learned at Black Swamp that this new governor, Lord Charles Montagu, he pardoned five of the scoundrels.”

  “Pardoned?” Stewart’s voice seemed to shake the thick timbered walls.

  “This dealer of chattel had recently returned from Charlestown,” Monteith continued, “and he said that Montagu pardoned five men.”

  “Pardoned?” Stewart repeated the word, his face masked with rage, his fingers tightened into fists, shaking, his knuckles turning white.

  “Six were convicted. Five from the Welsh Neck and another from Lynches Creek.”

  “But the governor turned five loose?” Donnan said, sounding even angrier than his father, and he had not been along when they had gone to the Welsh Neck. He had not seen what those dirty dogs had done to the Jones family.

  “Aye.” The minister’s head shook. “For good order and harmony of the colony. So said the governor.”

  “This trader must have been mistaken,” Donnan said.

  Monteith shook his head again. “No. He had returne
d with a newspaper, which he allowed me to read. The South Carolina Gazette reported the news and what the governor had said.”

  “For good order and harmony of the colony,” Breck Stewart said, and let out a mirthless laugh.

  Chapter Ten

  The leaves turned gold and red, then brown, and it wasn’t long before they left the limbs and blew away. Skies became gray and gloomy, and soon after the pigs were slaughtered and salted, the wind delivered a bitter bite.

  Winter settled over the Ninety Six District. It came like most winters since the Cherokee War, slowly, dully, as monotonously as the sounds of the axes of Breck and Donnan Stewart splitting firewood, only it arrived early. Snow rarely fell in this part of Carolina, although ice storms did come, snapping branches off trees, and leaving many settlers nursing broken bones from slipping on the thick ice that coated the ground. Yet the winter of 1766–67 would not pass as routinely as past winters. An icy grip took hold of the wilderness in the Carolina backcountry as it did across the northern hemisphere.

  When news finally arrived from Charlestown, the Stewarts would learn that the astoundingly high cost of bread had led to many riots across England—that when the River Annan’s ice broke, floods swept away cattle, corn, and even homes in Scotland—that the Rhine River froze so hard that wagons crossed over it between Deutz and Cologne.

  In a letter written on Christmas Day but not reaching Ninety Six until February 13th, Breck Stewart’s father, William, noted that the yellow fever outbreak had passed, that the Stewarts were in fine health and spirits, but that the temperature had dropped to forty-five degrees in Georgetown, and that he and his wife just did not know when it would ever warm up.

  In Charlestown, residents of the colonial capital warmed themselves by laughing to David Douglass’ American Company of Comedians at the new theater on Queen Street.

  In Ninety Six, they froze. Forty-five degrees would have felt like summer. Ice and snow fell. The wind rarely let up.

  Every morning, while Stewart and Donnan split wood, gathered kindling, and kept the fires going, Emily and her mother would venture to the barn to break the ice so that the cow, mules, and horses could drink. Hauling water from the well left them shivering out of control.