The Keeping Room Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Anna Myers

  For my sisters, Linnie Hoover Howell and Shirley Hoover Biggers, who were once my protectors and guides and who became my friends, infinitely precious.

  On a hill above the Mountain Fork

  you are three,

  your ancestors holding strong between you

  in a row as straight as a mountain pine.

  You are three,

  you and your sisters, a patchwork

  quilt stitched together by pine needles

  and memories your mother gathered

  beneath the trees.

  —PAUL MYERS

  Chapter One

  My father’s troops wait on their horses just outside our front door. I can hear the murmuring voices of the men and the snorts and pawings of their mounts, anxious to be down the road to meet the enemy.

  “You can’t go, Joseph,” my mother says, and she makes a wide movement with her arm to indicate the stairway in the front hall of our new home. “There is no railing to hold to.” She takes my father’s hand and leads him to the stairs. “Will you not stay long enough to see to a railing?”

  “My dear,” he begins, but my mother pulls away, drops to the second stair, and begins to cry. “Let the house girls walk up and down with the small ones,” my father says, but my mother’s tears do not stop. “I must go.” He bends and kisses her on the top of the head. She does not look up.

  My mother cries, I know, not because of the stairs, but because she is afraid. I want to comfort her, but there is no time.

  My father’s boots sound loud on the polished planks of our fine oak floors. He is going away. I trot behind him as he crosses the wide hall and catch him just at the door. We step together into the sunlight.

  I think perhaps he has not noticed me beside him. I put out my hand to touch his coat sleeve, but I do not. Instead I bite at my lip to hold back the questions I long to hurl his way, questions about his return, about what might lie ahead if he meets the enemy, and most of all about how a frightened boy might borrow of his father’s courage.

  He is, to my relief, aware of my presence. Just before he begins the long stride down the porch steps, he stops, puts his hand on my shoulder, and speaks. “Stand tall, my boy,” he says to me. I shield my eyes because looking up at him means staring into the sun. “Remember all I have taught you. Be brave and strong. There will be ways you can help the men of the town fight should it fall out that my men and I do not stop the bloody British.”

  For one long moment, he looks only at me. He turns, then, to face his men. “Gentlemen,” he calls, “meet my son.”

  I take one step forward and make a sweeping bow. “He is left to guard the family and our home,” my father says. They clap. There are whoops of approval. I am embarrassed, red of face, but I am also proud.

  My father glances once more, briefly, into my eyes. I have no wish to say good-bye, but he seems to expect something from me, so I whisper, “I swear, Father, to do just as you have told me.” He nods. Then he is gone. Only the pounding of the horses’ hooves is left to me. I stand on the great porch, watching the dust settle behind the troops and feeling very small. I rub at my eyes, which have been strained by the brightness of the sun and of my father.

  I would like to slip away to the creek, maybe even tramp along through the swamp until I reach the river. Mother would complain that I ruin shoes on such treks, but for a while I could forget about my father having gone to war. I move to the veranda rail and stare toward the water. A great white bird glides above the pine trees. I want to lose myself in the soft dampness of that green world, but my teacher is waiting for me. I turn back into the house and down the stairs to the keeping room.

  It is a well-filled larder now, but only days ago, when we were just moving into our new home, the keeping room was empty. Cato supervised the stocking, calling directions to the other slaves. “Rice go here, there go flour, next shelf cornmeal.”

  George and Sarah, my small brother and sister, dashed about that day sniffing at stores of tea and coffee. “A taste of sugar, please.” Sarah pulled at the leg of my trousers. I did not hear at first because I was lost in thought, wondering if the provisions would be for us or the British.

  My father has told me the army will be stopped before they reach our town of Camden. I tell myself that my father is always right.

  I am, after all, my father’s son, named for him, though the third son to be born. My older brothers, James and John, are at school now in England. My mother is glad. “Were they here,” she says, “they too would be off to war.” I pity my older brothers, forced to live among people who willingly bow to King George.

  Both of my older brothers and my younger sisters are like Mother’s family, light of skin and hair. Only my little brother and I are not fair, and I am told that Father was pleased at my birth to observe that I appeared more like him. I am like him still with thick dark hair and skin so brown in summer that I might be mistaken for one of the Catawbas, the native tribe that lives in this part of South Carolina.

  My brothers early chose professions, James law and John medicine. My father does not seem to mind that they are not interested in his businesses. Since I will take my father’s place, I am often at his side as he runs those enterprises. Such activity pleases me. It pleases me too that I am educated at home.

  Because my mother’s people are Quakers, she has chosen Euven Wylie, also of that faith, as my teacher. Once I thought Euven quite wise, though he is still a young man. I no longer feel so. Euven says there should be no war with England. He says if we Americans would but be patient, we would, in the years to come, outgrow the mother country and become a nation without a fight. My father scoffs at Euven’s ideas.

  “The soldiers are gone, are they?” Euven is at the great keeping room table. He does not look up at me. His eyes are fixed upon the piece of wood that he is carving. “’Tis foolish for men to kill one another.” He stops whittling at the pine he is transforming into Jesus and the little children called unto Him. Euven touches the head of the wooden figure. “Death comes soon enough to us all.”

  I am disgusted with Euven because his religion has made him weak. “Why do you imagine our Lord looked so?” I question, and I point to his carving. “You have never seen Him, I’ll wager.”

  I would like a good argument, but Euven only smiles. I flop into a chair and open a book, but the lessons do not penetrate my brain. I imagine that I am composing a letter. Dear Father, I am afraid. Have you ever been afraid? Tell me how to make my heart stop pounding.

  Suddenly I am aware of Euven’s voice. “Thee might find solace in the writing down of thy thoughts, perhaps in a letter to thy father.”

  I stare at him. This has happened before, this seeming reading of my mind, and I find it irritating. “There would be no way to send a letter to my father,” I say, and I flip the pages of my book.

  “Thee could be most honest in a letter never meant to be sent, could thee not?” Euven smiles. “It must not be an easy thing for thee, being the son of a great man.”

  Father has been gone six days now. A hush hangs over our home as we go quietly about our daily duties. My mother struggles to be brave. She is often at prayer or in conversation with Biddy, the slave who is also her friend.

  “We must honor your father with our bravery,” she says, and there have been no more vi
sible tears since the day of his departure. Yet I’ve heard her crying at night.

  My sister Mary no longer plays the pianoforte, which Father gave to her upon her last birthday. Even George and Sarah, who are but five and three years of age, seem to have some understanding of what is happening. They do not run and laugh as usual. Only baby Rebecca is completely spared and goes waddling about the nursery with the thick rolls of soft cotton we call her pudding around her waist and head so that she is protected from falls.

  If only we could all have a pudding.

  Chapter Two

  Dear Father,

  I went to town this morning. Everywhere there was talk of what the British did to Enoch Groves. Do you remember him, the nephew of Mr. James Groves? He came into our store a few times when he visited his uncle. For a time I listened to the talk in town, but then I had to run away. I ran until no one could see me. At Mr. Giles’s garden I stopped. There among the cornstalks I threw up. I am not brave. I am not strong.

  Battle news filters back to us slowly, but our hopes grow weaker each day. There can be little doubt that despite the efforts of my father and his militia the redcoats will come to our home here in Camden, South Carolina. Our town was named for Lord Camden, who Father says tried to befriend us colonists by arguing in Parliament against their right: to tax us without representation. The arguments did not work, and now we are colonists no more. We have declared ourselves free, but we must fight the British to prove our point.

  I join Mary in the third-floor ballroom. Like the stairs, it is unfinished and the smell of raw pine fills the room. Before Father left, Mary would glide across the floor unmindful of the roughness of the boards beneath her feet and prattle about future balls and the dresses she would wear to them. Now she sits woefully in the middle of the floor.

  “Will we ever have dances here, Joey?” she asks when I enter the room.

  Mary is but ten, and I am nearer thirteen than twelve. It is my place to ease her mind, but no words come.

  I am glad I have not told Mary about poor Enoch Groves. The ballroom has big windows that make it possible to see for a great distance. I am drawn there often to watch for the enemy. I stand there now, once more grateful because I see only the green of pine and poplar, no sign of the horrible red uniforms worn by the British. Still, I can imagine that I hear the notes of their fifes and the pounding of their drums. I shake my head, trying not to think of Enoch Groves.

  The English soldiers know no mercy; the king’s henchmen, my father calls them. Even without closing my eyes I can see Enoch, just sixteen, barely old enough to go with the patriots in their unsuccessful attempt to defend the city of Charleston. Enoch was captured by the British, but they paroled him.

  Just last week a group of redcoats rode by the Groves place over toward Charleston. Enoch was accused of having escaped from the British. He pleaded for his life and showed the soldiers his papers of parole, but neither begging nor papers made a difference.

  They killed him in full view of his mother and took him back to their camp. His body was drawn and quartered and stuck up on pikes by the roadside, a British warning to other patriots.

  As I stand at the window, it is as if Enoch is there before my eyes. I see the blond hair streaked with blood, and I shudder. A hand touches my arm, and startled, I jump. But it is only my sister. “Joey,” she says, “I was talking to you.” She pauses and looks closely at my face. “Are you ill?”

  I think that if I open my mouth, I may throw up again, or perhaps I will scream. With my lips pressed together, I shake my head.

  Mary is still looking at me. “Don’t worry, Joey, Father will stop the British. Father will never allow harm to come our way.”

  I swallow hard and am finally able to speak. “We’ll have dancing on the day Father comes home.” I wave my arm to include the entire third floor. “Finished or no, there will be a ball here with fiddle music and laughing.”

  Mary twirls away from me, but I remain by the window. My ears do not hear the laughter or the music of the future ball I have promised Mary. In my mind ring the sobs of Enoch Groves’s mother and the chilling sound of British feet keeping time to the drum as they march toward us.

  From the third floor hallway come the chimes of the grandfather clock, and I realize it is the appointed hour for lessons. Perhaps studying will make me forget Enoch for a time, yet it does seem foolhardy to continue with Latin and numbers when the enemy is all but at our door.

  Euven does not share my opinion. He waits for me in my bedroom with a book already open on my desk.

  “I can’t settle my mind on studies today,” I announce as soon as I have stepped inside. “My father …” My words trail off because Euven is shaking his head.

  “Thy father,” he says, “has issued me wages in advance and told me thy lessons were to continue. What chores I have been paid for I will perform.” Euven’s legs are long and his arms are strong. True, he deplores violence, but still, I know he would chase me down and carry me back to my books were I to flee.

  I stare into his eyes and notice that they are a cloudy blue. I can not see through them into his soul. I wonder about this man who clings to the belief that men must live peacefully together. My mother’s family came to this land as Quakers, just as Euven’s family did, yet my Uncle Samuel Mathis took up arms against the British.

  “Would you refuse to fight, Euven, even if the British came here to kill us all?”

  Euven is never in a hurry to speak. He looks at me for a moment, and he smiles. “Only boys say for sure what it is they will do in advance of a crisis. A man knows how hard it is to predict anyone’s actions, especially his own.”

  He motions for me to come take a seat, but I keep my hand on the door. “Might we study again in the keeping room?” I ask.

  “And why there?” Euven wants to know, but he begins to gather the books.

  “It is my favorite room.” I turn and head toward the stairs. I like the keeping room partly because of the smell. In the air the spices, teas, and coffee mix with the rum, which my father uses only for special occasions, such as the drink with his officers before their departure.

  Thoughts of the rum cause me pain, because it will be opened no more until my father’s return. How long will the great wooden barrel stand waiting on the corner table?

  Walking down the stairs with Euven behind me, I find myself again thinking about Enoch Groves. I try to block the thought from my mind, but I cannot keep from wondering how long before Enoch’s head has become only bone? Will the British then take it down, or will they leave him there staring with empty eyesockets?

  We settle ourselves at the table where Cato and the other house slaves have their meals. Biddy is busy at the worktable kneading bread. Her new helper is with her. They are both small in stature and step lightly. They will not disturb our lessons. Euven, however, is careful to greet them each, using even the helper’s name, Tilda, which I had not known.

  Euven, because of his Quaker ways, does not believe in the holding of slaves, and he treats them always as equals. My father says religion can do strange things to a man, but he does see that each baby born into our family is baptized. Then, too, it was he who gave land to the Presbyterians to build their church here, and he says he will gladly give to any faith that desires to establish a church in Camden. I hope God remembers my father’s generosity when the battle comes.

  “Today,” says Euven, “we will read a Greek play called Antigone.” I am glad for a break from Latin and numbers, which took all of yesterday’s lesson time. At first I enjoy the story of the girl who determines to bury the body of her brother even though she faces grave danger by doing so. “It is the dead, not the living, who make the longest demands,” she says.

  Suddenly I find the words hard to follow. Even though I am able to read when it is my turn, my mind turns again to Enoch Groves. Might his sister, or perhaps a brother, sneak out to remove his body from the horrible display arranged by the British? Would I have the cou
rage to do such a thing? I am glad Enoch is not my brother, but rather just a boy I’ve seen a few times.

  Enoch’s body can make no claim on me, and I shake my head to clear it of all such thoughts. When we have finished with our studies, Tilda brings us a plate of hot scones, dripping with butter, and a pot of tea. I am surprised when Euven forgets the lesson and begins to talk to me as if I am his friend.

  “I am musing on the subject of marriage, young Joseph,” he says, and he studies his cup of tea closely as he stirs it with his spoon.

  I am pleased to be taken so into his confidence. “You think to be married soon?” When he nods, I lean across the table with another question. “What lady?” I ask, and my mind races through the young Quaker ladies of my acquaintance.

  “Hannah Goodnight, her father was the tanner who died last year.” Euven’s voice has music in it when he says her name.

  I have seen Miss Hannah Goodnight, have often watched her move about my father’s store filling the wicker basket on her arm. I am not too young to have found her comely. Once a comb slipped from the back of her golden hair and fell into a pile of potatoes at my feet. So powerful is the beauty of Miss Hannah Goodnight that it caused my very insides to tremble as I held the comb out to her.

  For a moment, I intend to comment to Euven on the pleasure his intended bride brings to the eye, but then I take a piece of Euven’s own way and think before I speak. Likely, such a comment would not be seemly coming from me. “I wish you well,” I say, and I hold out my hand to shake Euven’s just as my father would have done.

  “Thy father has paid me well in advance,” says Euven. “I’ll teach thee for yet another year, and then if God wills it so, I’ll take my wife and head west. It’s new country I long to see, as new as this country was when the first white man saw it.”

  The last portion of Euven’s speech holds no interest for me. I hear only the part about how my father has paid him one year in advance. Why has my father done this? Is there a possibility that Father will be so long as a year away from home? It is May and the keeping room is warm because of the coals Biddy keeps always burning here on the great stone hearth, but still I shiver.