Nathan felt his heart racing. “I am honored, sir.”
Hannibal Watson and his band had garnered a number of weapons. Along with knives, axes, and something called a machete, they had a couple of muskets and ammunition, which they'd taken from the Farnums'.
What they didn't have was the knowledge to use them. Two things were forbidden to slaves more than any other. One was literacy, since knowledge is power, and the second was how to kill using a rifle.
Hannibal had seen white people load and fire guns, and he thought he understood the basics. Prudently, he decided to experiment with very small charges of powder. Even so, he was shocked by the thunder and power of the resulting explosion. But mainly it was the power that enthralled him.
By trial and error, and with no serious accidents, they figured out how to fire their guns with killing effect. But now their numbers had grown to a dozen, and they needed more weapons to defend their newfound freedom. It was then that Hannibal came up with the idea of attacking their stalkers.
They had no idea whether the armed men in and around the woods in which they hid were after them in particular or runaway slaves in general. Hannibal thought it likely that there were many bands like his made up of other Negroes seeking freedom up north. As a result, slave catching had become a lucrative business. Any Negro man or woman who could not account for himself or herself in a proper or polite manner was considered a runaway.
For the slave catcher, times were good.
Three white men squatted by the campfire in the woodland clearing. Although dressed in rags, they were armed with rifles and pistols and had large knives in their belts. Slung by their saddles were chains to shackle captured runaways, and whips to beat them into submission. The three had been drinking heavily when Hannibal signalled for Bessie to make her entrance.
Nervously, almost shyly, Bessie shed herself of her clothing. Then she rolled in the dirt and mussed her hair to make herself disheveled and filthy. She smiled tentatively at Hannibal and staggered in the direction of the campfire, moaning loudly.
The three men heard the sounds and lurched to their feet just as Bessie emerged naked into the firelight. Even though she had lost weight during their flight, she was still a large woman and her pendulous breasts swayed as she lurched forward. She looked in sudden alarm at the three men, screamed, and ran back into the dark and the surrounding woods. Hannibal chuckled grimly. She hadn't had to pretend to be terrified. That scream was real.
“Goddamn!” yelled one of the slave catchers. “A free one.” They grabbed their rifles and stumbled after her. Within a few yards, they had stretched out and were no longer a group of three. Bessie could still be seen, stumbling and crying out, a few yards ahead. They made no move to shoot her. As Hannibal'd figured, they wanted her alive. Even if she wasn't worth much money, their shouts made it obvious that Bessie was going to be raped.
Finally, she disappeared into a stand of bushes. The first two slave catchers paused, wondering where she'd emerge. When they stopped, both concealed muskets fired and bullets struck them, knocking them to the ground. With a howl, others in Hannibal's band hurled themselves on the two men. The third slave catcher ran up just in time to be inundated by a sea of angry black humanity waving knives and axes.
Hannibal watched with grim satisfaction as the three slave catchers were chopped to bloody pieces while Bessie regained her clothing. He was not happy with the fact that neither Negro rifleman had killed his target. One catcher had been shot in the leg and the other in the shoulder. No matter, he decided, the catchers were just meat now. and marksmanship would surely improve with practice and experience. Until now, only he had actually killed anyone, but now all of his band had participated in it. Better, they now had three more rifles, and three pistols. They were becoming a force to be reckoned with. They were free. They would stay free.
Or they would kill and die trying.
Rebecca offered tea, which Nathan accepted politely. Tea was not his favorite hot drink. Given a choice, he would have preferred coffee or even hot chocolate.
They were in Rebecca's cousin's overly ornate sitting room. It was the first time he'd been to her Washington home and he was curious as to how she lived, even though it wasn't her house. There was a sense of prosperity in the dwelling, but not great wealth. It was obvious that Rebecca was very comfortable in it.
They were alone in the sitting room but, to maintain propriety, they sat on chairs facing each other. The door to the hallway was also open. The others in the house respected their privacy while giving them no room for mischief.
Nathan thought it amusing that there was so much concern on her cousins' part for other people's virtue. When he hinted of the incongruity to Rebecca, she'd laughed heartily. After all, they were both formerly married and, presumably, far from being innocent children.
Rebecca wore a blue floral print dress that was very summery. The neckline exposed a hint of shoulder, and the sleeves were short and showed her slender arms. The overall effect was to make her look more vibrant than he'd seen before. She had virtually ceased wearing mourning clothes: and this dress was an announcement that she was done with them. That dismal time of her life was over, she'd told him. and she didn't care what convention said. Her marriage to the unlamented Thomas Devon was to be put aside.
The mildly daring cut of the gown also showed the scar on her neck. He took this as a further sign of her growing independence and freedom from the past. “So: Nathan: once again you are leaving me,” she said reprovingly.
Nathan put down his half-empty cup and reached for a cookie. They were sugar cookies and much better in his opinion than the tea. “Believe me: I'd rather stay here. The cookies are delicious. Did you make them?”
“I know that duty calls you. I also accept that you'd rather not tell me what you're up to and I respect that. And no, I didn't make the cookies. Everything I bake burns.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
“However,” she said with a widening smile, “let me see what I can surmise without compromising your precious oath of secrecy. First, you were seen yesterday with General Scott and President Lincoln. Then you suddenly decide you must leave Washington. I will surmise that it had something to do with that meeting.”
Nathan gulped. “How did you know about the meeting?”
Again she laughed. “Nathan, it was in the paper. I saw it in today'sNational Intelligencer. The next time you hold what you hope to be a clandestine meeting, don't hold it out of doors and where many hundreds of people are employed and probably watching through windows.”
“Point well taken,” Nathan admitted with a grin. “You're right, it does have to do with that meeting, but don't push me to admit more.”
“Again, you don't have to. I can't imagine anything that would concern Mr. Lincoln or General Scott in either New York, Boston, Philadelphia, or Pittsburgh. Therefore, that means you will be heading farther west and will consult with some of your old army friends, or even new army friends.”
“An interesting thought,” Nathan said. Her prescience was surprising and intriguing.
“Grant.” she said, feigning surprise. “You're going to see General Grant, and it has to do with a future campaign. And see, I didn't ask you a question, so you don't have to lie to me.”
“You're amazing.”
“Nathan, sometimes I have a habit of talking and thinking too much and that sometimes intimidates people. There are many who don't like inquisitive and intelligent women, and I like to think of myself as both. I sincerely hope you're not one of those men.”