“You don’t fit in here, Trent. You’ll be leaving. The only question is whether you leave as a deserter or as master of a vessel that can give you a freedom, and a wealth, few men ever taste. And the night riders focus on the edge of the woods, not the water. I can see to it the dogs are not a problem.”
Trent stood and stepped to the door, but then paused, staring at the circle of sunlight cast through the knothole. “My first cruise with a blue band on my sleeve was up the coast toward New England. Kincaid spied a swift little sloop moving south and had us come about to give chase, shouting for more sails. When the master complained that Kincaid would split his canvas, Kincaid hit him and sent him below, and declared there was a piece of silver for the man who could bring the sloop alongside. I told him I would do it, though mostly I just wanted to feel a ship’s wheel in my hands again. It took nigh four hours but finally she lost a jib and we overtook her.”
Trent still spoke towards the door. “Kincaid spoke to the sloop, asking who she was. She replied she was the Nightingale, out of Newport with rum for Philadelphia. Kincaid just turned to a gun crew and had them blast her out of the water. He tossed me a coin and said I was meant for glorious things, then he pulled a pistol and said he would shoot any man who lifted a hand to help those in the water. T’is a forlorn thing watching good men going down at sea, begging for mercy. All they ever were, gone in an instant into the deep.”
He turned back to Duncan. “I would need papers to pass her off as mine.”
“We’re going to a man who makes papers as good as the king’s own. Shall we say you bought her in Boston?”
A new gleam lit Trent’s eyes. “Bermuda.”
Duncan began explaining his plan.
An hour later he was on the floor, studying an image of the Ardent he had drawn in the dirt, when urgent whispers rose from near the door. He peered through the knothole to see a mass of bright dresses. Alice Dawson was scolding the cook. “Polly! Look what you have done, you clumsy creature! My basket of best buttons all over the grass!”
Polly and four kitchen maids were dropping to their knees, searching through the grass as Alice, standing so as to block the line of sight from the kitchen door to the cellar, made a show of pointing to the scattered buttons on the lawn.
“Duncan, I swear I never knew he was connected to Galilee.” It was Sarah, kneeling by the knothole, obscured from the house by Polly.
“Of course not. But I would have come anyway.”
“It’s because of him and men like him that I said yes when Patrick asked if we would help the runners. I didn’t want you to know. I thought I could shield you, in case there was trouble.”
“Sarah, you must look to yourself. Leave now, while you still can. I beg you. You don’t know the depths of your father’s treachery.”
She ignored him. “But I was a fool not to understand the dangers. Jessica warned me to be more wary of strangers. You warned me to send out patrols.”
“What strangers?”
She turned away for a moment, and Duncan realized his question had distressed her. “That horrid Lieutenant Kincaid. He came to Edentown a few days before, as that circuit rider. I invited him to our evening meal. He even offered prayers, and said he would be traveling south soon if anyone had messages for loved ones in Pennsylvania. He led us in hymns before he left.” Sarah scrubbed at her eyes as Polly urged her to hurry. “Jess gave him a note to carry to her mother and father, and explained to him how to find their house. The letter would have spoken about Edentown station and would have made it clear she and her father were helping the committee runners. It was her death sentence. I know that now.”
“Surely, Sarah, you mustn’t blame yourself for-”
“I have to go. That horrid pharaoh man follows us everywhere. You must hold on. Take no risks. I have made an offer to my father that he will never refuse. He can have it all. He can have Edentown and all its lands. I keep only one thing.”
“No! Never in life!”
“Just one piece of paper. Your indenture. We can go into the wilderness, live with the Iroquois.”
“Away from those doors, damn ye!” came an angry shout from the porch. The pharaoh had seen her through the confusion.
“Just two or three days, Duncan.” Sarah pushed a finger through the hole. With a trembling hand Duncan touched it. Then she was gone.
The sound in the late afternoon started as a pattering of light feet but soon rose to a louder trampling, accompanied by frantic shouts in English and African tongues. Duncan leapt to look out the door in time to see two large pigs trot by, snorting derisively as African field hands chased them.
Suddenly Titus was in front of the cellar, his waistcoated back to Duncan. As the melee of pigs and hooting slaves ran by again he backed into the door and, with hands hidden behind him, lifted the bar. In an instant the butler was inside, smearing something onto Duncan’s face as someone else lifted his arms and pulled over his shoulders one of the long homespun slave tunics worn by many of the Africans. A tattered slouch hat was shoved over his ears, then Titus opened a pouch and poured a small pile of coal dust onto Duncan’s palm. Duncan began rubbing the dust over his exposed forearms and hands.
Kuwali, Ursa’s son, grinned and pushed Duncan up the steps and outside as Titus closed and barred the door, leaving the boy inside. “You staying alive in there, Mr. McCallum?” the butler asked through the knothole.
Kuwali’s reply was a low moan, and a quickly muttered curse. Titus flashed a smile at Duncan. “Good enough for one who’s been beaten and bruised. If the marines discover him he will say you tricked him when he brought you water.” The Ashanti produced a piece of charcoal and made one of the African hex signs on the door. “And that will discourage the overseers from touching the door.”
The slaves closed around him, and as the pigs were herded back into their pen, Duncan found himself being herded with them back to the tobacco fields, the impatient shouts of overseers behind them. Their ploy had been timed perfectly-as they joined Ursa and the other Africans the end-of-day bell sounded. With no more than the usual curses and impatient commands the overseers pushed the Africans back into their quarters. Ursa led Duncan inside as the others washed and prepared for their meager evening meal. The big African grinned as he gestured toward the burlap curtain at the end of the building.
Conawago was waiting for him. The Nipmuc elder sat on the floor before a bowl of smoldering sticks, beside the aged African woman Duncan had knelt before on his first visit. As Duncan sat down, the old African cupped her hands and pushed the smoke toward Duncan. It wasn’t the usual cedar, he realized, but something sweeter, probably sassafras. Conawago grinned. The Africans too used fragrant smoke for summoning spirits.
“Conawago, you have to leave, up the trail back to Pennsylvania,” Duncan pleaded as Ursa settled beside him. “Find Sarah and flee. There is too much death here.”
“You will find death everywhere if that is what you look for.” To Duncan’s surprise, the gravelly voice was not that of Conawago but of the old woman at his side. He had not known she spoke English.
“Not like at Galilee, grandmother,” Duncan said. “Here lives are bought and sold as cheap as grains of barley. Men die for speaking ill of those in London they have never met, who do not even know they exist.”
“In our own land,” she said, “our gods would impale such evildoers on thorn bushes and vultures would pick at their flesh for all time.”
“Here,” Duncan replied, “we are less patient for justice to be served. We will fight with sticks against their guns before we let them hang us. But I will not have you sacrificed in my fight.”
Ursa, prince of the Ibo, smiled patiently, then gripped and turned Duncan’s arm to expose the ugly brand. He pressed his own arm, with an identical scar, beside it. He spoke, and had the old woman translate. “There is not your fight or my fight,” she relayed. “This is our fight. Afterwards, when the moon has set, Ursa says he will climb with nails and a hammer.” Ursa stared at Duncan with cool determination, as if he had made a warrior’s vow.