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  Phoebe looked at Charlotte with an expression that mingled hope and doubt. “Miss Charlotte, Jammy may be hiding in the swamp. If you meet him, he’ll help you.”

  “I’m sure he will. And if I find him, I’ll tell him you’re safe.”

  “And that I’m waiting for him.”

  “I’ll tell him that, too.”

  Phoebe looked ready to throw her arms around her. To save her wondering whether she should, Charlotte took the initiative and wrapped her in a big hug. She embraced Mrs. Doughty, as well, before she left.

  She was unlikely to meet Jammy, she thought as she started through the quiet streets. It was Elijah whom she hoped to find, since she had some idea where to look for him. If she found him, she would ask him to help her look for Nick. But she would not count on anyone but herself.

  Chapter 17

  THE SUN WAS at her back as she passed through the gap in the hornwork wall that stretched across the peninsula at the town’s boundary. There was a change in the air as the brackish smell of swamp water replaced the stench of garbage. Beyond the earthen dike that lay on her left, she saw snowy egrets wading in black-water pools. From vast tracks of marsh grass came the calls of redwing blackbirds wintering in the Carolinas—a sound that made her think of home. No more than twenty feet away, a male bird clung to a tall stock of grass. His shiny black feathers set off his red and yellow shoulder patch, and his head was thrown back as he raised his voice in song.

  Charlotte paused to listen and to watch. As she watched, a long, slender snout parted the marsh grass like a comb. She saw dark, scaly skin banded with creamy white, and a pair of yellow, bulbous eyes. A leap. A splash. Jaws gaped and snapped shut. In an instant, the bright singer was no more.

  She flinched. Charlotte was not squeamish. Back on the farm, she had dealt death to hundreds of chickens. It was partly the suddenness of the act that shook her, and partly the creature’s appearance. It reminded her of a storybook dragon from some twisted fairy tale.

  Although her search had barely begun, she already felt alone and powerless, cut off from any refuge from the dangers she had resolved to face.

  “I won’t fail,” she said to herself. “Everything will be all right.” She said it again, determined to banish fear. “Everything will be all right.” Quickening her pace, she strode straight ahead.

  Ruts made by wagon wheels scored the muddy road. The ruts as well as the prints of men’s feet and animals’ hooves were half filled with water.

  She passed by the first road that branched off to the left, then the second, and then the third.

  About six miles outside Charleston she came to a road that forked to the right. According to Elijah, this was the one that skirted the swamp. She turned in that direction.

  At midday she topped a small rise and sat down at the side of the track to eat a bit of bread and cheese. No alligators here. A breeze wafted over her with the softness of a feather brushing her cheek. Today was the fourth of February, but in South Carolina it felt like spring. If only Nick were with her, they could make a picnic of the bread and cheese.

  As she sat eating, she saw a big man coming toward her along the track. As he drew nearer, she saw that he was wearing a homespun shirt, leather breeches and thick high boots. Not a soldier. Not a Quaker. His brown hair was cut in a rough fashion, reaching the lobes of his ears. Perhaps he could tell her something. As he drew near, she put away her bread and cheese and stood up, ready for the test. She must speak like a Quaker. She must sound like a young man.

  “I bid thee good day.”

  “Good morning, lad.” The stranger looked friendly.

  “Can thee help me? I’m looking for my brother. Yesterday he left town to hunt turkeys in the swamp. We thought he’d be back before dark, but he hasn’t come home. My mother sent me to look for him. My brother is tall, with fair hair. Twenty-one years old. Has thee seen anyone like that?”

  “I have, but the young fellow was not a Quaker. Yesterday, just before dark, I was walking along this very road when I heard a gang of men coming along behind me. They were cursing in a way you would never want to hear, you being a Quaker. Since I was alone and didn’t like the sound of them, I stepped off the track and waited behind a tree till they went by. There were five of them, and they had a young fellow with them. His hands were tied behind his back. He was tall and blond and about that age. But he wore a plum-coloured coat.”

  “A plum-coloured coat? No. He couldn’t be one of us. I wonder what those men were doing with him, whoever he was.”

  “Planning some mischief, no doubt. Either he was a Whig, and Tories caught him. Or he was a Tory, and Whigs caught him.”

  “That sounds likely.”

  “I’ve no use for either. You being a Quaker, I’ll speak frankly about that. I can tell you that neither lot is on the side of the angels. Both of them plunder and burn. They ought to get over this fuss about whether they want the King or the Congress to rule them.”

  “Thee speaks the truth.” Charlotte was careful to express correct Quaker views.

  “What we need to fear is the enemy without and the enemy within. By which I mean the savages and the slaves. South Carolina won’t be safe for settlement until every Creek, Choctaw and Cherokee has been cleared right out. And the other thing we need to do is keep the blacks under control. Without a fear of the lash, they’ll rise up and murder us in our beds.” He stopped to take a breath. “Being a Quaker, you likely don’t agree.”

  “No. I can’t say that I do.”

  “I don’t take it amiss. For all your daft notions, I think well of Quakers. And I hope you find your brother safe and sound.” He scratched his head vigorously, as if to stir up his brains. “About a mile on, you’ll come to an inn. You might find somebody there who’s seen him.”

  “I thank thee for thy help.”

  “You’re welcome, though I don’t see as I’ve been any help at all.”

  Oh, but you have! Charlotte thought as she watched him continue on his way.

  Mrs. Doughty had told her that this swamp extended for twelve miles. “Twelve miles of useless swamp.” Searching for Nick would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. But at least she now knew she had come to the right place. The description of Nick was accurate, right down to the plum-coloured coat. Had others besides this traveller seen him? Everybody said the swamps were full of men in hiding. She wished a few would emerge for long enough to answer her questions.

  As the day wore on, clouds blew in from the west, great dark, angry billows. If a storm was on the way, that inn would be a good place to stop for the night. She hoped she would reach it before the rain began. Although she had a tarpaulin that could serve as a waterproof cape or as a groundsheet, she would like to have a roof over her head and a dry place to sleep. Distantly there was a rumble of thunder.

  Chapter 18

  THE INN STOOD on high ground above a rippling stream— the only clean-looking water that Charlotte had seen since starting out nine hours earlier.

  A wooden sign above the door announced that this was Hewitt’s Inn. It was a frame building, with a low, wide porch reaching across the front. Two men were lounging on the porch, drinking from tankards. A wagon, its load covered by tarpaulins, was parked beside the building. A pair of mules stood nose-to-tail in a paddock, the twitching of their long ears the only sign that they were awake.

  Before approaching the inn, Charlotte knelt by the stream, cupped her hands, and drank the cool, fresh water. As she drank, she felt the eyes of the men watching her, but their scrutiny did not bother her. Her encounter with the stranger on the wagon track had bolstered her confidence that her disguise and her acting ability would fool anyone.

  When she rose, wiping her hands on her breeches, she greeted them.

  “Good evening.”

  “Evenin’,” they answered, almost in unison.

  As she told the story about her brother hunting turkeys, the men exchanged sideways glances.

  “What’s he
wearin’?” one asked.

  “Why, a black hat, like mine. A dark grey coat. Black knitted stockings.”

  When she had finished speaking, the second man said, “We never seen him.”

  The other agreed. “No sir. We ain’t seen any young fellows come along this way. But y’all can ask inside.”

  From the covert way they looked at each other, she wasn’t sure whether they had seen Nick, or not. If they had, they weren’t talking. In these dangerous times, there might be any number of reasons to lie. Neither looked as if he were ready to divulge any further information.

  Charlotte had never been in an inn before. Nick spoke well of the experience, but from the outside this small, backwater inn did not strike her as the kind of hostelry likely to provide the weary traveller with a feather bed.

  Her heart was thumping as she pressed the latch.

  The room she entered had a low ceiling, bare-board walls, and a brick fireplace. She looked around. There was a little light from the fire, and more came through the two windows in the front wall. A door in the back opened onto a kitchen, where a white woman wearing an apron and a mobcap sat at a table peeling shrimp. Against the right wall, a steep staircase ascended to the upper floor. On the opposite side of the room were three long trestle tables, each with one end butting against the left wall.

  There were three men in the inn’s main room. One of them, a portly fellow who wore a homespun smock over his clothes, stood next to a sturdy frame on which rested three beer kegs. He must be the innkeeper, Charlotte thought.

  The other two men were seated side by side, close together at one of the tables. One had a coonskin cap on his head, and the other a wide-brimmed hat with a flat top. When they looked up, her blood ran cold. These were the men who had been watching Nick at the slave auction. There was no mistaking either the beaky nose and receding chin of the one wearing the coonskin, or the bushy brows and squinty eyes of the other.

  For a moment, she thought that Bushy Eyebrows recognized her. He squinted at her, but then, with a shrug, broke off his gaze.

  She relaxed, reminding herself that in her Quaker garb she looked nothing like the young lady who had been with Nick at the slave auction. If Bushy Eyebrows showed any interest in her, it was probably because a Quaker entering an inn was a rare sight.

  Speaking loudly enough for all three to hear, she described her fictitious brother in his Quaker garb and enquired whether they had seen him.

  “Sorry,” said the innkeeper, “I can’t help you.”

  “Not many turkeys in this part of the swamp,” said Beaky Nose. He had a shrill voice to match his sharp features. “Y’all better go a ways back along the trail and straight ahead. The ground’s higher that way. Round here, muskrats and alligators are all anybody’s like to find.”

  A bolt of lightning lit up the room, followed by a deafening crack of thunder. Charlotte flinched. “I’ll take thy advice, yet I fear my search must wait until tomorrow.” She turned to the innkeeper. “Can thee provide me with a bed for the night?”

  “Sixpence. That includes supper and breakfast.”

  After Charlotte had dug the coins from her satchel, he pointed to the staircase. “Take any bed you like. We’re not full tonight. My wife will have supper ready in half an hour.”

  Charlotte went up the stairs directly into a large room that held six beds. Each bed had a thin mattress on which lay a folded quilt. Off to one side stood an open keg. She quailed. Oh, no! Not a honey bucket! She wrinkled her nose. There had been a honey bucket in the barracks at Fort Haldimand, an uncovered half-barrel for men to relieve themselves if they didn’t want to go outside to the latrines in the middle of the night.

  I’ll pull my quilt over my head, she thought, and not see a thing.

  At the top of the stairs, a door stood open, letting her look into a smaller room. This room was furnished with a double bed, a wardrobe, a small table and two chairs. Was this room for wealthy guests? It was certainly more comfortable looking than the other.

  But a second glance told her that the smaller room belonged to the innkeeper and his wife, for she saw a woman’s bonnet on a hook, a framed sampler on the wall, and a covered chamber pot under the bed.

  Turning back to the larger room, Charlotte chose the bed furthest from the honey bucket, took off her boots, and lay down. After her long walk, she needed a rest. Maybe she could nap for half an hour, taking advantage of having the room to herself.

  Almost at once she heard raindrops on the roof, followed by a peal of thunder so loud it shook the windowpanes. She pulled the quilt up to her chin, listening to the rain hammer harder and harder.

  Her heart was hammering nearly as hard as the rain when she thought of the night to come. Here she was, under the same roof as the two men who had been watching Nick at the slave market. Tonight she would try to eavesdrop on their conversation. With luck, she might discover whether there was a connection between their presence here and Nick’s abduction.

  Turning her head, she saw through the windowpanes rain sweeping in sheets across the swamp. The sky looked leaden and bruised. Where was Nick? Not outside, she hoped, while the storm raged.

  She rested but did not sleep. When she judged that half an hour had passed, she went downstairs. The men who had been lounging on the porch were now indoors. Wood had been added to the fire, so that it blazed more brightly. On the walls, candles burned in tin sconces. The woman who had been peeling shrimp was dishing up the fruits of her labour: grits, shrimp and biscuits.

  The innkeeper handed Charlotte a tankard. “You Quakers don’t object to a draught of small beer, I hope. It comes with the meal.”

  “Oh, no. Of course not.”

  Charlotte had never tasted beer. She had enjoyed wine on special occasions. But decent young women never drank beer. What about Quaker men? She had no idea.

  Charlotte supposed that she could ask for water. But since she didn’t want to draw extra attention to herself, she lifted the tankard to her lips.

  It tasted bitter, but good in its own way. She would drink slowly, she resolved, and not too much. The Quaker principle of moderation would be her guide.

  Beaky Nose and Bushy Eyebrows were still sitting side by side at one of the trestle tables, now with food and drink placed in front of them. Carrying her tankard of beer and her plate of food, she sat down at the next table, with her back to them. They were so close that her chair bumped against Beaky Nose’s chair until she pulled hers in.

  If she acted as if she were minding her own business, they might be careless about what they said. A quiet young Quaker, absorbed in studying his Bible, would not be suspected of eavesdropping on their conversation.

  After finishing her meal, Charlotte took from her satchel the Bible that Mrs. Doughty had given her. It troubled her conscience to use a Bible in such an underhanded way.

  “Lord, forgive me,” she murmured as she opened it at the place where a bookmark had been inserted between the pages. Psalm 46, she read:

  God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.

  Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though

  the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea:

  Though the water thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake

  with the swelling thereof.

  She could hear waters roaring outside the inn. On a night like this, it would be hard to pick a Psalm more in tune with the weather. This part of South Carolina lacked mountains, but the raging creeks were doing their best to carry any bit of land still above water into the midst of the sea.

  She read no further. Beaky Nose and Bushy Eyebrows were starting to talk.

  “. . . he was no more a planter’s son than a flying pig.” That was the shrill voice of the former. “But he sure ’nough had us fooled.”

  “I never thought to see him again,” drawled Bushy Eyebrows, “the way he slipped away in the middle of the night. But there he was a week later, right in the h
eart of Charleston, bidding on that girl like he really was a planter’s son.”

  “Sure has an eye for pretty women. Did y’all notice the young lady with him?”

  “I did indeed.” Bushy Eyebrows gave a chuckle. “If my old woman looked like that, I wouldn’t need a black girl on the side.”

  Oh, really! Charlotte thought, her ears burning. Not her Nick! If they think that Nick would ever . . .

  Hunched over the Bible, she endured more remarks of a similar nature until the snickering stopped and Beaky Nose and Bushy Eyebrows returned to the subject of the supposed planter’s son.

  “Now that our friend’s had another night chained in the cave, he should be ready to talk,” said Beaky Nose.

  “He’s pretty tough.”

  “There’s nothing like sitting in swamp water to soften a man. If he won’t talk tomorrow, we can try fire ants.”

  “He must know a hundred backcountry names we can add to the list,” said Bushy Eyebrows. “Tories. Families supplying food to British soldiers. There’ll be mighty good farms for the taking, after the Assembly banishes those traitors and seizes their property.”

  “Here’s to Liberty!” Beaky Nose raised his voice in a toast. “And to Prosperity!”

  While their tankards clinked, she kept her eyes on the page. So they had Nick sitting in swamp water, chained in a cave. But where?

  Her first idea had been to find Elijah and ask for his help. But it turned out she didn’t need Elijah’s help. If she could follow these men, they would lead her straight to the cave.

  Beaky Nose and Bushy Eyebrows went on to praise a man named Francis Marion, leader of a band of rebels they called swamp dodgers. These fighters, she learned, were busy picking off British outposts and ambushing Loyalist troops on the march to defend Fort Ninety-Six. She also heard a prediction that Charleston would be surrounded by the end of summer. None of this surprised her. It was what Nick expected, too. He had told her, on the night he returned from the backcountry, that the rebels were taking over South Carolina bit by bit.