Thus, although the British did see the barge being pulled by the tug, they made no note of it. As one wag on a warship put it, it was hardly a barge of war. It was also not the first barge to pass by, although it was one of the larger ones. It was piled high with what looked like debris from the burning of the city. Where the barge and its load of trash were being taken was of no concern or importance to the British watchers. They let it continue on down the coast as they had so many others, watching it only until it disappeared.
A day or so later, another large and similarly loaded barge made the trip and was likewise unimpeded. So, too, was a third, and then a fourth, but, by this time, the British weren't even bothering to count. Then there were no more oversized barges heading south, and no one in the British squadron gave a damn one way or the other.
And no one had noticed that not a single one of the barges had made the return trip to New York.
Hannibal Watson heard the dogs closing in on him. There was nothing more frightening to him than the baying of the hounds. In his mind he could see their wild eyes and the wicked teeth that wanted to rip his flesh from his bones.
He was alone now and the end was near. His attempt to hide in the woods had been a failure. A cunning Confederate commander had divined the ruse and split his forces, sending some against Hannibal and the others against the horses being led by one boy whom Hannibal hoped had escaped.
The rebel commander had greatly outnumbered the remnants of Hannibal's group, which had made such a split feasible. As a result, trackers had soon picked up the faint trail left by Hannibal's followers as they fled on foot into the thickets. As the fleeing slaves grew more and more fatigued from the chase, they made more and more mistakes and left an easier trail to follow.
A little more than an hour before, a swarm of cavalry had overwhelmed them where they'd lain on the ground, panting and heaving like exhausted animals.
Hannibal'd seen Buck go down under a sabre and watched as the others fell under pistols and rifles. He'd had the good fortune to be in the woods relieving himself when the attack had occurred. Selfish as it seemed, he'd hoped no one had noticed he was missing. That, however, was not to be.
Perhaps a couple of his people had been taken alive and been forced to talk, telling their captors that Hannibal Watson, their leader, had escaped. Maybe they'd been promised freedom for their information. If so, it was a promise Hannibal was certain the white men would never keep. It was possible that whoever had informed on him had been tortured for the information. He knew no one who wouldn't condemn his own mother if someone was holding a branding iron to his testicles.
Just as likely, though, they had his description from one of the people who'd escaped and hadn't recognized him among the dead or taken.
There was some satisfaction in knowing that they'd brought a mighty host against him. He'd personally counted at last two hundred cavalry, with many more making noise in the distance, while a large number of infantry tramped through the woods.
Now he could hear human voices above the baying of the hounds. He wished he had a gun so he could kill one or two of them and force them to kill him. He wished he could put the gun to his head and blow his own brains out, depriving the white bastards of the opportunity to hang him. But no, he had lost it in the chase and was unarmed. He didn't even have a knife to use on an enemy or to slash his own wrists. If there had been a cliff nearby he thought he would hurl himself off it to prevent capture and what he knew was going to be a miserable death. But there was nothing. He couldn't get away and he couldn't get himself killed.
Now he could distinguish the words and commands. He was surrounded, trapped like a rat or a mad dog. He began to shake with fear and rage. He prayed to a God whose existence he'd doubted for a long time. He prayed for a fast death.
Chapter Eighteen
Olaf Swenson was garrulous and aggravating, which was why Billy Harwell tolerated him when Billy went to practice shooting. Olaf was a Swedish immigrant who'd arrived a couple of years earlier and who spoke surprisingly good English. As a result, he generally worked as Captain Melcher's clerk, a very privileged position that made him privy to everything that was going on in the company and elsewhere.
Olaf was a big gossip and a genial pain in the ass, and Billy sometimes wondered why foreigners seemed to attach themselves to him. He fervently wished Olaf a better fate than poor Otto.
But big, raw-boned, and yellow-haired Olaf did serve a purpose. His constant chattering forced Billy to concentrate on his shooting and block out distractions. Billy had long ago figured out that you couldn't practice in silence and expect to be as good a shooter when the guns started booming. Olaf s talking did not emulate a battlefield, but the thought was the same. Olaf s continuous commentary would throw him off balance if he let it. He had to work to stay focused.
Billy squeezed off another shot from the Whitworth. A puff of white popped up from the target that had been set up well downrange. He^’ d fired ten shots. Now it was time to clean the temperamental weapon. Billy grinned. The Whitworth was indeed a work of art. At least he'd been told that. He'd never met any artists. However, he'd heard that some artists liked to paint pictures of naked women and he thought that was a great idea. He'd never seen a naked woman.
The Whitworth had an innovation that was starting to appear on other rifles-a stepladder rear sight that he liked even more than the telescopic sight that came with it. A lot of soldiers didn't like that type of rear sight, but they did their shooting at close range where it didn't matter, while at long range it could be critical. Set at two-hundred-yard increments, it made long-range shooting that much more accurate, as a bullet could drop enough in three hundred yards or so to turn a clean shot into a near miss: and near misses only counted in horseshoes.
Olaf ran downrange to retrieve the target. He came back waving it and grinning. “Damned good, Billy. Ten out often and all in the center.”
Billy accepted the compliment. It had been damned fine shooting and better than most any sharpshooter he'd ever seen. Instead of targeting at two hundred yards, he'd fired the Whitworth at targets three hundred yards away. Soon, he'd try four hundred. At that range, he knew he could hit a man, but just where on the man was important. When sniping, his job was to shoot officers. He had to make sure they didn't get up and shake off a flesh wound. He would continue to practice.
“Know what the captain said?” asked Olaf.
“No, I don't, and you're a damned old lady with all your gossip,” Billy replied with a grin.
Olaf pretended to sulk. It was a ritual. Billy wanted to know everything. “Then I won't tell you.”
“Okay, tell me.”
Olaf was puzzled. “What's 'okay' mean?”
Billy laughed. For all his good English, Olaf wasn't all that knowledgeable about modern slang. “Okay means all right. All correct. Now go ahead and tell me.”
Olaf made the mental note. “Okay then. The rebels are coming north.”
“Who told you. Robert Lee?”
“No, I heard Colonel Hodges tell the captain. He'd heard it from someone important, maybe General Meade. The rebels are going to attack north.”
“Makes sense. They can't very well attack south. Too much water down Cuba way.”