Charleston follows the lives, loves and shifting fortunes of the unforgettable Bell family from the American Revolution through the turbulent antebellum years to the savage defeat of the Confederacy-and represents America's premier storyteller at his very best.
Charleston follows the lives, loves and shifting fortunes of the unforgettable Bell family from the American Revolution through the turbulent antebellum years to the savage defeat of the Confederacy-and represents America's premier storyteller at his very best.
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Overview
Charleston follows the lives, loves and shifting fortunes of the unforgettable Bell family from the American Revolution through the turbulent antebellum years to the savage defeat of the Confederacy-and represents America's premier storyteller at his very best.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781101209646 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 07/01/2003 |
| Sold by: | Penguin Group |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 560 |
| Sales rank: | 231,409 |
| File size: | 750 KB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
1
The Summons
One night in early November 1779, he dreamed a terrifying dream.
He saw a skiff dancing across Charleston Harbor, running before an offshore breeze that raised what mariners called white horses on the water. Lydia sat in the skiff's bow, laughing and enjoying herself; her hair flew in the wind like a yellow banner.
He couldn't see the face of the man at the tiller, only his back. But he was not the man, of that he was sure. Though he was athletic, a superb horseman, he'd never learned to swim or sail. His mother called it passing strange, since his father, a wharf owner, made his living from the commerce of the creeks and rivers and oceans.
Unseen bells began to peal-the eight church bells of St. Michael's parish, cast by Messrs. Lester and Pack, London, where he lay dreaming. The bells didn't ring the sequence of notes that called the faithful to Sunday worship. They rang another familiar call, the call to calamity: a fire, 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 a year and a half. The desirable young woman he wanted to marry could be slipping away from him.
Edward Bell, twenty-one, was at that time studying at the Middle Temple. He had resisted his father's wish to send him there, saying, "I have no ambition to practice law in South Carolina."
"Nor do most of the young men from Charleston who enroll at the Inns of Court, but it will be useful. It broadens you, like a grand tour. It makes you a keener student of business contracts. It prepares you to be a 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 not the 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 against the injustices of the king's ministers? From English constitutional law, taught at the Middle Temple. Who stood up to the king in Parliament and 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 at such time as the British return to Carolina. It may never happen. They've left us alone three years now." In '76, Col. William Moultrie and his brave men had repulsed an invasion attempt at the palmetto log fort on nearby Sullivan's Island, the fort now bearing Moultrie's name. After that humiliation Gen. Henry Clinton and Adm. Sir Peter Parker sailed away and Great Britain concentrated on fighting in the North.
Edward ran out of objections. Soon thereafter he departed for London and the Inns of Court.
* * *
On a cold but windless evening in early December, he left his apartment in Essex Court, crossed Fountain Court, and entered Middle Temple Hall. Edward was a tall and lanky young man, not handsome, but possessed of strong features and an engaging smile. There was no fat on him. He'd inherited his height and build from his father, Tom Bell. He was dressed like a sober colonial in a double-breasted kersey greatcoat, a white stock and lace cravat, black leather top boots, and a black felt hat with a flat crown and broad brim. He owned a wig but preferred to keep his brown hair tied back with a black ribbon. He carried a stout walking stick for self-defense at night.
In the corridor he passed a broad open doorway on his right. Students and masters still sat at table in the great hall, a high cathedral of a room walled with plaques bearing the arms of the Templars from whom the Middle Temple took its name. Student friends of Edward's were deep into port and private argument, even as an old lawyer droned on from the dais. Something about torts, in which Edward had no interest. Since coming to London he'd spent most of his time at gambling clubs, cockfights, bearbaitings, and his favorite table at the Carolina Coffeehouse in Birchin Lane, where he hobnobbed with rowdy clerks from the London branch of Crokatt's, a Charleston trading firm.
No one in the Temple's great hall noticed him as he slipped by. A door 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 the night'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 cockfighting pit raised twenty inches above the floor in the center of a large, bare room. Noisy and smoky, the room opened off a narrow passage fittingly called Cocker's Alley. It was packed with roughly dressed lowlifes and young men in fancy silks and powdered wigs. The pit's carpeted floor was strewn with feathers. Dark stains showed where birds had bled. Cocks ready for their matches crowed periodically, adding to the racket.
Edward spoke to a stout man. "Anyone special here tonight?"
"Corday's here, with his black-breasted red. Won the three-day main at Clerkenwell last week."
"Corday." Edward frowned. He'd had run-ins with that gentleman, chiefly over the American rebellion. Mr. Clive Corday had come down from Oxford to study at Gray's Inn. He was notorious for spending even less time at it than Edward did. He was well placed; a relative sat in the House of Lords. Edward always bet against Corday's birds because he detested the man.
A shout went up as Corday appeared, his feeder right behind him carrying the bird. The black-breasted red weighed almost five pounds, Edward guessed. He was a fierce bird with cropped tail feathers, a comb cut into a half moon, and steel fighting spurs. Corday greeted his admirers boisterously. He was a fleshy young dandy with a round face perpetually red and sweaty. He always dressed with fashionable flamboyance, in this case a coat of Italian silk with vertical red and white stripes, a solid red waistcoat, and striped knee stockings that matched his coat.
Corday was contemptuous of the American colonies and all who lived there. It showed when he spied Edward and favored him with a slow nod, a scornful smile. Edward returned the nod, pulled his purse from his pocket, and pointed at the contender. Corday's face reddened all the more.
"Save my spot, if you please." Edward tipped the stout man tuppence and 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-pound bird had already lost. At a signal from the master of the matches, Corday and his opponent pitted their birds close to one another, then quickly retreated to the floor outside the oval. Corday's red crowed defiantly. The birds circled one another, darting their heads forward. Suddenly the red flew at the opponent and began to slash with its beak and spurs. 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, its head flopping on its neck, its side torn open and bleeding. Edward had wagered two shillings and lost. Corday glanced at him with a smug smile, then turned to accept congratulations from a crowd of sycophants.
A second challenger carried his bird into the pit. This one lasted almost half an hour before the red disposed of it. The third opponent died in twenty minutes, and the red finished off the fourth and fifth in half that time. Corday's feeder picked up the red while, in the back of the hall, the next contenders crowed raucously. Corday's prize was ten guineas. Having steadfastly bet against him, Edward had lost ten shillings 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 never know when you're whipped. Well, you soon will be, now that Clinton's at sea."
"What are you talking about?"
"Letter from a cousin in New York. Serves aboard the flagship of Admiral 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 rabble into submission."
This was stunning news, though perhaps Edward should have seen it coming. A month ago a letter from his father had reported that the British were disquieted because they'd been unable to win a significant victory in the North. Further, the French now stood with the Americans in the war. No doubt Clinton had smarted ever since the defeat at Fort Moultrie. 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 as the economically hurtful war dragged on.
Corday took advantage of Edward's stunned silence. "It would surely 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, you dress 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 staggered back. 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 encouraged Corday. Edward dropped the stick, swung up his right fist, and blasted Corday's chin from underneath. With his left fist he hammered Corday's soft belly. Corday slipped to his knees, gagging. Edward seized Corday's collar at the nape, pushed hard, and slammed his forehead on the floor twice.
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 again and Corday stretched out with a sigh.
All around him Edward heard ominous grumblings from Corday's partisans. He waved his stick at those nearest-"One side, damn you"-and they fell back. He left the building at a fast walk, not eager to become a victim of a mob.
Once into the darkened ways of the South Bank, he sprinted for the water stairs. He lost his hat and didn't go back for it.
Crossing the river, he made a decision. It was time to abandon his studies. The new British campaign could mean great danger for his family, but more persuasive, perhaps, was the dream: the bells ringing the alarm, an unseen rival stealing Lydia. He wanted Lydia Glass with all his young man's blood and fire. He hadn't heard from her since arriving in London; she said she never wrote letters. It was time to go home, before he lost her.
-Reprinted from Charleston by John Jakes by permission of Dutton, a member of Penguin Putnam, Inc. Copyright © John Jakes, 2002. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced without permission.
What People are Saying About This
"A great read...a family intrigue that stretches across sweeping historical events." -Charleston Post and Courier
Interviews
Charleston: All the Things You Are
A few hundred words (my assignment) can't begin to cover all that this great city was, and is, but I'll take a stab at it. Charleston is:
HISTORY. I'm not talking Southern history, honey, I'm talking American history. For most of the years I wrote about in my novel (1780–1866), Charleston ran South Carolina -- that is, the Low Country plantation nabobs did -- and Carolinians repeatedly impacted the nation, sometimes like a benevolent guiding hand (John C. Calhoun went to Washington and helped build the new country), sometimes like a wrecking ball (John C. Calhoun stayed in Washington, thumped the tub for nullification of unpopular federal laws -- a prelude to secession -- and promoted slavery as a positive good). In other words, from the Revolution to the so-called War of Separation, Charleston influenced what we are as a nation at this moment. That includes the dark legacy of slavery still haunting us.
Charleston's savvy mayor, Joseph Riley, miraculously elected and reelected as a Democrat in what is increasingly a Republican state, proposes to bring this tragedy into the full, cleansing light of day by establishing a museum of slavery. Charleston was, as he rightly points out, American slavery's Ellis Island.
But Charleston today is also:
FOOD. Charlestonians have a great tradition of eating, and eating, and eating. Dandy restaurants abound. I like McCrady's, and the Peninsula Grill, and star chef Bob Waggoner's Charleston Grill, located in Charleston Place, for my money one of the classiest hotels on the continent. (No, I don't have any financial interest in, or relatives working for, any of those places.)
BEAUTIFUL SIGHTS TO SEE. The springtime splendor of Middleton Gardens up on the Ashley. Doughty Fort Sumter, just a breezy boat ride away from the downtown. All the gorgeous old houses in the Historic District. You can easily spot the ones with reinforcing rods to defend against earthquakes; round black ends of the rods show on the front wall. Some of these grand old places had sand dumped in front of them to film the two North and South miniseries in the 1980s, much to the irritation of a few spoilsport residents who parked luxury sedans within camera range every morning. (The movie greensmen hid them with fake plants.) It was a media sensation while it lasted.
GENTEEL AND FRIENDLY PEOPLE. Many, if not most, you will meet in the downtown area are admittedly part of that mighty American money machine, tourism. All the same, they'll treat you right. I particularly love the soft, warm greeting of complete strangers who may be descended from slaves; they smile and murmur, "How y'all doin'?"
CARRIAGE RIDES. I lived in the Low Country a long time before I deigned to board one of the horse-drawn wagons that show you scenic downtown Charleston. I thought it was touristy. Well, it is; but after my wife and I tried it on our anniversary a few years ago, I became an enthusiast, maybe because our young driver-guide really knew his Charleston history. Trips depart from North Market Street; a starter assigns one of four routes. You want route 1 or 2; they take you to the Historic District.
PECULIARITY. A recent Joe Klein piece in The New Yorker, dealing with the upcoming senatorial election, characterized Charleston as a city of eccentrics. This would include dusty dowagers fervently practicing South Carolina's state religion, ancestor worship, and pale old gentlemen with powdered cheeks and obscure sexuality (Uncle Ned never married, honey, he just never seemed interested). Very probably this curious layer can be sought out and examined closely, though not by me, since I go to bed early.
LITERARY TRADITION. E. A. Poe commendably served in the army on Sullivan's Island before becoming famous and crazy. Hervey Allen wrote poetry and taught school before publishing his blockbuster historical, Anthony Adverse. Josephine Humphreys has lived in the city a long time; likewise a very successful fantasy writer who lurks behind the pseudonym Robert Jordan. William Gilmore Simms hung out in the mid-19th century, for a time nearly as celebrated for tales of frontier derring-do as Fenimore Cooper. Simms' popularity, and his New York publishers, vanished when he rode the proslavery hobbyhorse too hard. DuBose Heyward knew Charleston intimately, and from this experience drew the materials that became Porgy and Bess. The quintessential southern writer Pat Conroy attended the Citadel, the state's military college, then kissed it off in The Lords of Discipline. More recently, he and the institution kissed and made up.
And lest we forget: the rascally and outspoken Rhett Butler came from -- where else?
I can only claim to know some of these things in a tentative way. Although I've lived in the state more than 25 years, I will never share the deepest confidences, the oldest secrets, of native Charlestonians; I remain a damn Yankee. The difference between a Yankee and a damn Yankee is simple. The Yankees go home.
Never mind; for any sane, humane person, modern Charleston is magical and very special. Should you have occasion to visit, or revisit, you will discover that truth more vividly than I can hope to say it. John Jakes, 19 June 2002
Copyright 2002 by John Jakes. All rights reserved.
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