Chapter One
The SummonsOne night in early November 1779, he dreamed a terrifying dream.
He saw a skiff dancing across Charleston Harbor, running before anoffshore breeze that raised what mariners called white horses on thewater. Lydia sat in the skiff's bow, laughing and enjoying herself; herhair flew in the wind like a yellow banner.
He couldn't see the face of the man at the tiller, only his back. But hewas not the man, of that he was sure. Though he was athletic, a superbhorseman, he'd never learned to swim or sail. His mother called it passingstrange, since his father, a wharf owner, made his living from thecommerce of the creeks and rivers and oceans.
Unseen bells began to peal-the eight church bells of St. Michael'sparish, cast by Messrs. Lester and Pack, London, where he lay dreaming.The bells didn't ring the sequence of notes that called the faithful toSunday worship. They rang another familiar call, the call to calamity: afire, an impending hurricane. Great danger.
When he woke in his room on the third floor above Fountain Court,the meaning of the dream came clear. He'd been absent from America ayear and a half. The desirable young woman he wanted to marry couldbe slipping away from him.
Edward Bell, twenty-one, was at that time studying at the MiddleTemple. He had resisted his father's wish to send him there, saying, "Ihave no ambition to practice law in South Carolina."
"Nor do most of the young men from Charleston who enroll at theInns of Court, but it will be useful. It broadens you, like a grand tour. Itmakes you a keener student of business contracts. It prepares you to bea leader of society-to hold office if you wish."
"Why not send Adrian? He's firstborn."
"I don't mean to speak unkindly of your brother, but to be truthful,he hasn't the head for it. Adrian's a shrewd young man. Shrewd is notthe same as smart."
"But we're in the middle of a war with England."
"Where do you think we learned that we have a right to rebel againstthe injustices of the king's ministers? From English constitutional law,taught at the Middle Temple. Who stood up to the king in Parliamentand defended our right to rebel? Edmund Burke, of the Middle Temple."
"Is this a scheme to keep me out of the militia?"
"Do you want to join the militia, Edward?"
"Not particularly. I'm not an ardent patriot like you."
"You're more of one than your brother. Worry about the militia atsuch time as the British return to Carolina. It may never happen.They've left us alone three years now." In '76, Col. William Moultrieand his brave men had repulsed an invasion attempt at the palmetto logfort on nearby Sullivan's Island, the fort now bearing Moultrie's name.After that humiliation Gen. Henry Clinton and Adm. Sir Peter Parkersailed away and Great Britain concentrated on fighting in the North.
Edward ran out of objections. Soon thereafter he departed for Londonand the Inns of Court.
* * *
On a cold but windless evening in early December, he left his apartmentin Essex Court, crossed Fountain Court, and entered Middle TempleHall. Edward was a tall and lanky young man, not handsome, butpossessed of strong features and an engaging smile. There was no fat onhim. He'd inherited his height and build from his father, Tom Bell. Hewas dressed like a sober colonial in a double-breasted kersey greatcoat,a white stock and lace cravat, black leather top boots, and a black felthat with a flat crown and broad brim. He owned a wig but preferred tokeep his brown hair tied back with a black ribbon. He carried a stoutwalking stick for self-defense at night.
In the corridor he passed a broad open doorway on his right. Studentsand masters still sat at table in the great hall, a high cathedral ofa room walled with plaques bearing the arms of the Templars fromwhom the Middle Temple took its name. Student friends of Edward'swere deep into port and private argument, even as an old lawyerdroned on from the dais. Something about torts, in which Edward hadno interest. Since coming to London he'd spent most of his time atgambling clubs, cockfights, bearbaitings, and his favorite table at theCarolina Coffeehouse in Birchin Lane, where he hobnobbed withrowdy clerks from the London branch of Crokatt's, a Charleston tradingfirm.
No one in the Temple's great hall noticed him as he slipped by. Adoor at the end of the corridor brought him to the water gate. As usual,a boatman stood by, waiting to bear a young gentleman off to thenight's adventures. Edward stepped down on a thwart.
"South Bank. I'll show you where."
Half an hour later he elbowed his way to the edge of an oval cockfightingpit raised twenty inches above the floor in the center of a large,bare room. Noisy and smoky, the room opened off a narrow passage fittinglycalled Cocker's Alley. It was packed with roughly dressed lowlifesand young men in fancy silks and powdered wigs. The pit's carpetedfloor was strewn with feathers. Dark stains showed where birds hadbled. Cocks ready for their matches crowed periodically, adding to theracket.
Edward spoke to a stout man. "Anyone special here tonight?"
"Corday's here, with his black-breasted red. Won the three-day mainat Clerkenwell last week."
"Corday." Edward frowned. He'd had run-ins with that gentleman,chiefly over the American rebellion. Mr. Clive Corday had come downfrom Oxford to study at Gray's Inn. He was notorious for spendingeven less time at it than Edward did. He was well placed; a relative satin the House of Lords. Edward always bet against Corday's birds becausehe detested the man.
A shout went up as Corday appeared, his feeder right behind himcarrying the bird. The black-breasted red weighed almost five pounds,Edward guessed. He was a fierce bird with cropped tail feathers, a combcut into a half moon, and steel fighting spurs. Corday greeted his admirersboisterously. He was a fleshy young dandy with a round face perpetuallyred and sweaty. He always dressed with fashionableflamboyance, in this case a coat of Italian silk with vertical red andwhite stripes, a solid red waistcoat, and striped knee stockings thatmatched his coat.
Corday was contemptuous of the American colonies and all wholived there. It showed when he spied Edward and favored him with aslow nod, a scornful smile. Edward returned the nod, pulled his pursefrom his pocket, and pointed at the contender. Corday's face reddenedall the more.
"Save my spot, if you please." Edward tipped the stout man tuppenceand went off to bet.
Corday's first opponent, a loutish fellow wearing farmer's boots,stepped up to the pit looking hangdog, as though his smaller four-poundbird had already lost. At a signal from the master of the matches, Cordayand his opponent pitted their birds close to one another, thenquickly retreated to the floor outside the oval. Corday's red crowed defiantly.The birds circled one another, darting their heads forward. Suddenlythe red flew at the opponent and began to slash with its beak andspurs. The patrons applauded and yelled profane encouragements.
The birds fought fiercely, leaping off the carpet, slashing and pecking.The red disposed of the smaller cock in ten minutes. It lay dying, itshead flopping on its neck, its side torn open and bleeding. Edward hadwagered two shillings and lost. Corday glanced at him with a smugsmile, then turned to accept congratulations from a crowd of sycophants.
A second challenger carried his bird into the pit. This one lasted almosthalf an hour before the red disposed of it. The third opponent diedin twenty minutes, and the red finished off the fourth and fifth in halfthat time. Corday's feeder picked up the red while, in the back of thehall, the next contenders crowed raucously. Corday's prize was tenguineas. Having steadfastly bet against him, Edward had lost tenshillings of his father's money.
Corday found Edward in the crowd. "Another bad evening, Mr.Bell?" Corday stuck his thumbs in the pockets of his fine waistcoat.Trickles of sweat had washed powder from his wig onto his temples.
Edward stared him down. "I'll get my money back one day."
"Wagering against my big red? I doubt it. You Americans neverknow when you're whipped. Well, you soon will be, now that Clinton'sat sea." "What are you talking about?"
"Letter from a cousin in New York. Serves aboard the flagship ofAdmiral Arbuthnot. Big armada's forming up, to sail within the month.Sir Henry Clinton, nine thousand men-a major campaign in the South.I don't doubt they'll wall up your city and starve you unwashed rabbleinto submission."
This was stunning news, though perhaps Edward should have seen itcoming. A month ago a letter from his father had reported that theBritish were disquieted because they'd been unable to win a significantvictory in the North. Further, the French now stood with the Americansin the war. No doubt Clinton had smarted ever since the defeat at FortMoultrie. It made a new attack on Charleston seem inevitable.
Tom Bell's letter had sounded a further note of melancholy.Charleston's revolutionary zeal, so hot five years earlier, was waning asthe economically hurtful war dragged on.
Corday took advantage of Edward's stunned silence. "It wouldsurely suit me if you were one of those beaten down by General Clinton,Mr. Bell. You're nothing but an ill-bred parvenu. What's more, youdress atrociously."
"And you're an arrogant ass, Mr. Corday. You dress like a whoremonger."
Corday's hand flew up to deliver a stinging slap. Edward staggeredback. Corday grinned and stepped in, ready to land another blow.Edward rammed his stick into Corday's middle, throwing him off-stride.
The crowd gave them room. Patrons applauded and encouragedCorday. Edward dropped the stick, swung up his right fist, and blastedCorday's chin from underneath. With his left fist he hammered Corday'ssoft belly. Corday slipped to his knees, gagging. Edward seized Corday'scollar at the nape, pushed hard, and slammed his forehead on the floortwice.
Corday flopped on his side. His wig fell off, baring his shaved skull.Edward snatched up his stick and bashed Corday with the knobby end.Clawing at the floor, Corday struggled to rise. Edward hit him againand Corday stretched out with a sigh.
All around him Edward heard ominous grumblings from Corday'spartisans. He waved his stick at those nearest-"One side, damnyou"-and they fell back. He left the building at a fast walk, not eagerto become a victim of a mob.
Once into the darkened ways of the South Bank, he sprinted for thewater stairs. He lost his hat and didn't go back for it.
Crossing the river, he made a decision. It was time to abandon hisstudies. The new British campaign could mean great danger for his family, but more persuasive, perhaps, was the dream: the bells ringing thealarm, an unseen rival stealing Lydia. He wanted Lydia Glass with allhis young man's blood and fire. He hadn't heard from her since arrivingin London; she said she never wrote letters. It was time to go home, beforehe lost her.
