Celia Garth: A Novel (39 page)

“Then how does the message get to Colonel Marion?” she asked.

Luke laughed softly. “You don’t need to know that.”

“If I should notice something,” said Celia, “how do I know if it’s important?”

“You don’t. Tell us anyway. It’s better we should get a hundred trivial messages than miss one that we need. And be as quick as you possibly can. Remember: men are going to live or die because of you.”

For a moment they were both silent. Celia was realizing that this was no romantic escapade into which he was leading her. It was an enterprise hard and stern. To do it, she would have to be hard and stern. She asked, “Are there many others in town, spying for Marion’s men?”

“Yes,” said Luke, “but it’s better you don’t know too much about them. The fact is,” he added, laughing a little, “I don’t think anybody knows Marion’s whole spy system except Marion himself.”

She heard this with astonishment, and he went on.

“We don’t know how he got news of Camden. He was with us in the woods, chopping up boats moored at the river landings. But one day he knew. He didn’t tell a single man of us. He was afraid we’d lose our spirit. Instead he led us straight to Nelson’s Ferry in time to attack a British force moving some American prisoners down to Charleston, and we set free the prisoners. Now how did he find out they were going to cross the river just then? We don’t know.”

“Doesn’t he trust
anybody?”
she asked wonderingly.

“It’s not that, Celia. But the less you have to hide, the easier it is to hide it.” Again Luke glanced at the hourglass. “Sand’s out. We’ve got to get you back on time.”

Reluctantly, Celia pushed back the bench and stood up. She wanted to ask more questions. Also it seemed that there was something tickling her memory, but she could not quite get hold of it. Maybe it was about Sea Garden. Maybe it concerned Roy’s mysterious visit. As Luke came around the table and picked up her cloak, she asked,

“I suppose Vivian told you Roy came to Sea Garden—do you know what he came for?”

“No, I wish I did,” said Luke. “We’ve heard nothing about him since that day.”

He held out her cloak. Celia put it on and drew up the hood, still trying to catch whatever it was at the back of her mind. She had just learned so many strange and startling matters that her head felt like an overpacked trunk where it was hard to find anything. “Will I see you again?” she asked.

“Oh yes. Right now it’s my job to organize the information system in Charleston, so I’ll be here a while.”

Celia was glad of that. She had felt so limp and useless, and his energy gave her a feeling of strength renewed. She wished she could find that memory she was looking for.

“I’ll call Darren,” said Luke. He caught both her hands in his, and gave them a squeeze. “So now you’re one of us. Good luck, Sassyface.”

Before she could answer he had turned and was crossing the room. Without looking back he disappeared between the homespun curtains on the wall.

T
HE. COACH WAS WAITING
at the entrance to the alley. Celia had expected that now Darren would let her see where she was, but he hurried her inside. As the horse started Darren leaned closer to her and said in a voice she could barely hear,

“We’re going to Godfrey’s. We want to give the impression that you’ve been there all evening.”

Celia said “Yes, of course,” and Darren added,

“But we may go in or we may not—I’ll explain later.”

Again Celia said “Yes.” That was all she said, and she was glad that Darren too was silent, for she was trying to go over in her mind what she had learned tonight.

The coach stopped sooner than she had expected. When they got out she saw that they were on King Street, near Tradd Street where Godfrey lived. So the meeting-place had not been as far from the shop as she had thought. Evidently on their first ride the driver had taken a long zigzag route. If she had not chosen to join them, or if they had decided that she had better not be trusted with their secrets, he would have brought her back by the same long route and she could never have guessed where she had been.

The coach rattled off. The driver had let them out in a business block, where now in the evening the buildings were closed and dark. There was not much chance of anybody’s being around to observe them. They walked to the residential neighborhood of Tradd Street.

Here the windows were lighted, the gardens were fragrant, and from several of the houses came the sound of dance music. Celia remembered what Sophie had said at Sea Garden last summer, that Charleston had never been so gay. But now she did not feel the helpless disgust she had felt then. Now she knew about the secret war.

At Godfrey’s door, Darren put a key into the lock and drew her inside. Later he told her that Ida had arranged a signal for him by her manner of draping the curtain at a certain window. The two officers billeted in the house had gone out tonight to a party, and the curtain had told him they were still out. If they had returned he would have taken Celia directly back to the shop.

Godfrey and Ida were waiting in a room off the front hall. Godfrey shook her hand with warm welcome, and Ida said, “Sit down, here’s your dessert.” She uncovered a dish on which there was a fruit pudding piled with whipped cream. Celia had always thought of Ida as a colorless person, but tonight Ida was fairly twinkling with mischief. She whispered to Celia, “I’m so glad you’re with us.”

Speaking in careful undertones, they told Celia they talked about their undertaking as little as possible, even among themselves. You never knew when somebody might overhear. Ida remarked that she planned to come into the shop soon to order some kerchiefs, and she was going to ask that Celia make them because Celia had done such beautiful work for Vivian. Her eyes met Celia’s with gay conspiracy, and Celia smiled at her across a spoonful of pudding. The pudding was marvelous.

They all three walked with her to the shop, chatting about the weather. At the door Celia said, “Thank you for a lovely evening.” As she went toward her room she met Miss Perry, about to ring the nine o’clock bell. “Did you have a good time?” Miss Perry asked, and Celia smiled and said “Yes ma’am.”

In the bedroom she took a quick look at the pen and inkhorn on the side table. The pen had a good point and there were several sheets of paper in the table drawer. If she heard anything of use to Marion’s men, she had material at hand for writing a note. She could get more paper next time she went out.

When she woke in the morning the room was gray with dawn. Her eyes felt sandy from lack of sleep, for she had been so excited that she had lain awake long after she went to bed. But for the first time in months she had the delicious feeling that this was a new day full of promises and she was eager to begin it. She sat up and threw back the covers.

It was a bright sunny day and the shop was full of people. Celia smiled prettily at them all, showed them samples, went upstairs on their errands, and between times sat hemming a cap-frill, and listening. She listened till she could almost feel her ears ache. But though they talked, they said nothing. They talked about clothes, and parties, and who was flirting with whom. By noon she was ready to cry with exasperation.

A little past noon Mrs. Torrance came in, escorted by her husband and two redcoats. She said she wouldn’t be a minute, she was just going to run up and see how her dress was coming along, so the gentlemen sat down outside the balustrade to wait for her. Celia opened the gate. Mrs. Torrance went through, carefully not giving her any sign of recognition.

Mr. Torrance, a pleasant round-faced young man who looked like his sister Sophie, asked Celia if she had a copy of the
Royal Gazette.
She handed it to him, and the three men began lazily to discuss the day’s news. Celia resumed her sewing. One of the Britishers said the war could not last much longer. In places where American money still circulated, the American cause was rated so low that Continental bills were worth only two cents on the dollar. The others laughed, and Celia bent her head over her work, trying to look as if she did not care. The redcoat fanned himself with the newspaper, remarking that the day was getting hotter every minute.

Celia started. Her needle made a crooked stitch. For a moment she could not move to take the stitch out, for her hands were trembling and waves of excitement were rippling through her body.

Now she knew what it was she had been trying to remember, last night when she talked to Luke. She had a message for Marion’s men.

She could almost see and hear it. Those other redcoats last week, complaining about the hot weather; Mrs. Torrance saying it was not the heat that bothered them, it was their heavy uniforms; and Mrs. Kirby—“They’ve got a shipment of lightweight clothes ready for Camden right now … leaving here the first of October and that’s
definite
.”

This was real information. And that was exactly how Luke had told her to get it.

Celia thought fast. Today was Wednesday. The first of October would be next Sunday. She still had time to send the message. In a little while one of the other girls would come to take her place for the dinner hour, and she could go to the bedroom and write a note. This afternoon she would send it out. And somewhere on the road to Camden, Marion’s men would pop out of the swamp and attack the supply train.

Celia unthreaded her needle, took out the crooked stitch, threaded the needle again and put the stitch in straight. Her heart was bumping. She glanced up. The three men were asking one another how much longer Mrs. Torrance was going to make them wait.

The time dragged. Mrs. Torrance finally appeared, and her party left. Two elderly ladies came in and asked Celia a hundred questions about materials and prices, and then said they would not decide on anything today. At last Pearl Todd came to mind the parlor for the dinner hour. Pearl had already had her dinner, and she whispered, “It’s shrimp pie today, and it’s good!”

Celia managed to smile. She folded her sewing, put it into her workbasket, and hurried up to her bedroom. Becky was not here yet. Celia drew a chair to the table and opened the inkhorn. Tearing off a slip of paper, she wrote her message in the smallest handwriting she could manage.

“Wagons carrying clothes and shoes leaving Charleston for Camden October 1.”

She wondered if she should add her source of information, and decided no; they would understand she had heard it in the parlor, and Luke had told her to be brief. But Mrs. Kirby had known about this because of her husband. His name had better be there, so they could check the statement. She added, “Purchase arranged by Mr. Robert Kirby.”

There were footsteps on the stairs. The girls were coming up to their rooms to get ready for dinner.

The ink on her note was still wet. As fast as she could, she slipped the paper into the drawer, closed the inkhorn, and laid down the pen. She pushed back her chair and started for the washstand. Behind her the door opened and Becky’s voice said, “I thought Miss Loring would
never
let us go! I’m starving.”

Celia poured water into the basin and began to wash her hands. She had a blot on her finger. Scrubbing at the blot, she said, “Pearl told me we’re having shrimp pie.” The way her temples were throbbing, she was surprised that she could say anything.

She had to get her note out of the table drawer. If Becky would only go downstairs! But Becky washed her hands, took off her cap, smoothed her hair, put her cap on again, said she was going out Sunday with two perfectly charming men. Redcoats, but really it was all wrong what some people said about redcoats, they were just as nice as anybody else once you got used to the funny way they talked. Didn’t Celia think it was all right for a girl to go out with them? Celia, remembering the part she was playing now, said, “Oh yes, of course it’s all right.” The dinner-bell sounded. They both started for the door, but Celia bumped against a bedpost and stumbled.

“Oh dear!” she exclaimed. “I’ve torn my kerchief. I’ll have to change it. Go on down, Becky, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Becky went out. Celia changed her kerchief, hiding the old one so nobody would see that it was not torn at all. She dashed to the table. The ink on her note was dry now. She folded the paper over and over till it made a tiny wad, slipped the wad into her handkerchief, put the handkerchief into her pocket and went downstairs, reaching the dining room door just in time to stand aside and let Mrs. Thorley go in ahead of her.

The shrimp pie was good, but Celia ate so little that Miss Perry asked if she did not feel well. Celia said oh yes, she felt fine, and she hurriedly swallowed a morsel of shrimp. But her throat was tight, and she was glad when it was time to leave the table.

She went back to the parlor. As she opened the door she felt a tremor. Suppose there should be redcoats here? Some of them might be on the lookout for spies.

But the only visitors were a placid plump couple named Duff, examining samples of men’s shirting which Pearl was showing them. Dutiful and bored, Pearl was glad to have Celia take her place at the balustrade.

Mr. and Mrs. Duff were not people who had a great deal to do. Selection of material for half a dozen shirts was an interesting event in their lives. Besides the question of material, there was the decision of how the shirts should be made—with tucks down the front, or the little frills that men were wearing this year? These details were so important, they said to Celia.

Celia said tucks and frills were both fashionable, but the frills were more expensive because they took longer to make. Mr. and Mrs. Duff went into a conference. They compromised by deciding to have three shirts made with frills and three with tucks. And now, said Mrs. Duff, they would like to choose the buttons. Celia produced a box holding a variety of buttons, and set it on the counter. Her hand was shaky and she wanted to scream. For where, oh where in all this was there a chance for her to put her workbasket on the windowsill?

The basket stood on the table as she had left it before dinner, its straw top neatly in place. She had expected that when she came into the parlor she would open the basket and take out the cap-frill she was making, sit by the window and sew, and put the basket on the sill as if by chance. But she could not say, “Excuse me, while you’re looking at the buttons I’ll put my workbasket in the window.” She had to stand here, smiling and answering questions, while this very minute some messenger of Luke’s might be passing the shop, looking at the windows and going on in the belief that she had nothing to report because no basket was there.