Patriot of the Lowcountry

He gestured for me to sit and flipped out the tails of his coat as he took the seat next to me, but he did not seem to know how to begin a conversation. He cleared his throat and stroked down his ruffles as the silence between us stretched on. Under more favorable circumstances and with better company I would have had no trouble keeping the discourse going, but I decided to let him stew.

Soon some of his lieutenants came in, took seats, and stretched their legs toward the fire, heedless of their spurs digging into the carpet. When one of them smiled in my direction, Sandford made bold to speak.

“This is a very pleasant situation, madam.”

“Yes, sir, it is agreeable.”

“I admire it much, though it is rather sequestered. Do you spend all the year here?”

“We usually spend the sickly months in town, but this year we have resided wholly in the country.”

“But why so? Are there not concerts, assemblies, and other polite amusements which ladies admire?”

“I would rather be where I am than in Charles Town just now.” Could he not look around and understand that, in our current circumstances, taking part in polite amusements was the last thing on my mind?

This chit-chat might have continued forever, but Flora hurried in and interrupted. “Miz Eliza, some of the soldiers cut your homespun out the loom!”

I rounded on the captain and his smile faded in the face of my fury. “Do you command a gang of thieves, sir? Your countrymen won’t let us buy yard goods in town for fear we’ll supply our troops, so we are obliged to weave our own to clothe the family. You said you would not steal our possessions. Pray make them give me back the cloth.”

My entreaty drove him to his feet and out the door. As Flora and I followed him to the lawn, a pig squealed in terror. In the sea of red I spotted Papa’s largest sow, bleeding as she hobbled across the lawn on three legs. A group of soldiers had cut off the other and were laughing as they pursued the poor creature. Driven by rage, I picked up my skirts and ran toward them. The tortured pig limped past me, still squealing at the top of her voice, and I blocked the soldiers’ path.

“Stop! I demand you stop at once!” I stepped up to the soldier in the lead, heedless of the bloody knife in his hand, and slapped him across the face. “Shame on you!”

A red mark in the shape of my palm blossomed on his cheek, and he raised the knife.

Captain Sandford, diverted from his original mission, panted as he arrived at my side. “Private! Stand down!” 

He obeyed, but the manner in which he sheathed his knife was both an insult and a threat. 

Sandford put a hand on my shoulder but I shrugged it off, never taking my eyes off the offending men. He waved them away and spoke to me as though to a child. “Madam, a lady of your station should not confront common soldiers. Neither should you have to wear clothing made from such rough, ugly cloth.”

“What right have you to comment on my situation, sir? Your army has plundered us repeatedly. What we have left is supposed to be under your protection, yet you allow your men to create all manner of mischief!”

The pig’s squeals ceased, and I whirled around to find the soldiers had slit her throat.