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Beneath the Blackberry Moon Part 3: the Ebony Cloak (Creek Country Saga) (Volume 3)

By April W Gardner

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Fort Gaines, Georgia
April 1816

Phillip knew it was a dream. He told himself again, though it did little good. The children’s shrieks grew louder. The flaming pickets roared with new life, as though fueled by his denial of their existence.
His legs churned, but he couldn’t free his mind of the constant nightmare. At least this time, he reasoned, he wasn’t awake.
And then, he saw her.
Adela.
Arms dangling at her sides, a mountain of red flames behind her, skirt undulating in the waves of heat, she stood across the compound, small and vulnerable. Her lips were motionless, but her voice, speaking his name, echoed through his head.
He rushed toward the vision, and she raised an arm, reached for him. “Phillip, love, you must wake up.”
With a cry, he bolted upright, eyes wide open.
The gray silhouette of a woman stood beside him. He stared at her, unblinking, afraid to move and frighten her away.
Sweat trickled down his chest—sweat as real as the shadow seemed.
“That’s better,” she whispered in his mind. “You’ll be all right.”
He disagreed, but if he spoke, he might shatter her. He’d done it before. Many times.
Her loose hair swayed as she moved so near, he imagined he felt her heat.
Taking in the comfort of her presence, he held his breath until his lungs burned. Refusing to be contained any longer, air exploded from his mouth. The sound ripped through the black cabin, and in one blink, Adela vanished.
A moan built in Phillip’s throat, and he buried his head in his trembling palms. When his fingers collided with the jagged flesh on his face, he recalled again why Adela was no more to him than a shadow, a figment of his deluded, half-crazed mind.
That, and the memory of a dead Red Stick she refused to let go.
Familiar nausea haunted his gut. With a growl, he threw his damp pillow across the room. The sound of splintering glass sent him scrambling for the musket by his bed. He had the unsteady barrel aimed toward the source before he realized he’d been the cause of the commotion.
The weapon clattered to the floor. He backed away from it as though it were a copperhead. Blood pounded in his throat. He swallowed hard, terrified of his own mind.
It had been nearly two years since the massacre. One more night of this and he would prove the rumors were correct. He would go mad.
There had to be a better way.
“Help me.” His voice shivered, and for once, he was thankful there was no one left to see him this way. “Sweet Jesus, show me a better way.”
~ ~ ~
Georgia’s Southern Frontier
May 1816

Sitting as poised as possible in the bouncing buckboard, Milly rearranged her skirt then tugged her bonnet over her ears. Another rut in the road sent her stomach flying.
“You look fine, Miss Milly.” Isum transferred the reins to one hand then wiped a palm against his dingy, knee-length trousers. A sideways glance topped his crooked smile. “As fine as any white lady in stole clothes.”
Milly squirmed inside her stuffy petticoats. “Borrowed clothes, and don’t call me that. Milly will do.”
“No, Miss. It won’t. Best make a habit of it now, before we’re needin’ it.”
“I hate admitting when you’re right.”
Isum chuckled, but Milly pressed her lips and snatched a peek over her shoulder.
“We’ll hear somebody comin’ before we see ’em.” Isum’s voice remained steady, his demeanor casual, his shoulders relaxed. His death-grip on the reigns told another story.
Four years ago, he had been as short and wiry as a plucked cotton bush. Now, his muscular, mahogany frame left little room to spare on the wagon seat. According to plantation gossip, the field girls took to nervous giggles whenever he came around. The master had perked up as well and taken to accepting bids.
There was only one thing Master Landcastle needed more than strong field workers. Cash.
The moment whispers in the big house revealed that Isum had been sold and would leave by dawn, Milly set to work. There was no way she would let them take the only true friend she had, so scorning the consequences, she’d loaded the buggy with vegetables. And one lady’s day gown.
As was their weekly custom, she and Isum set off toward town. Only this time, instead of stopping at the market, they went straight through.
Six miles of red, Georgia clay stretched behind them. Seventeen more and they would hit Spanish Florida. Sixty beyond that, Negro Fort, and safety.
It had been done many times before. It could be done again. But in broad daylight?
Escape stories ran through Milly’s twenty-four years of memory. Had there been a single incident where a slave had taken to the road while the sun was at its highest? She shook her head.
But she had an advantage . . . so long as she wasn’t recognized.
The May sun beat down on her with brutal strength. She pressed a palm across the back of her stinging neck.
Isum picked up the parasol, also borrowed, from the floorboard. “You’ll be burnin’ if you don’t.”
Since he first came to the plantation as a skinny tyke five years her younger, Isum had been her responsibility. She’d cared for him as meticulously as she had her own flesh. About the time his gaze tilted downward in order to look at her, they’d swapped roles, and his protectiveness had grown in proportion to his towering height.
She frowned, opened the frilly contraption, and settled it against her shoulder. Immediately, her neck cooled. It did nothing for the scorch of bile rising in her throat.
Gripping the side of the bench, she failed to tamp down the unease that swelled within her.
The timing was wrong. They would be caught, and he would be sold. She dare not consider her own fate.
They should turn back. It wasn’t too late.
Mr. Grayson’s features, twisting with his customary, terrifying rage, flashed before her.
No, they should be moving faster.
Isum pulled on the reins.
“Why are you slowing?” Milly sat forward, resisting the urge to yank the whip from its holder and spur the animal into a gallop.
He swiped the floppy hat from his head and mopped his brow with his sleeve. “We ain’t alone. Best we not seem in too much of a hurry.” He indicated with his hat then settled it back in place before taking up a deliberate, relaxed posture.
A horseman topped the next slope.
“Oh God, help us,” Milly breathed.
“What you worried about, Miss Milly? You’s armed with the most beautiful smile this side of the Chattahoochee. Ain’t no gentleman gonna see past it to doubt your word.”
But what if he wasn’t a gentleman? Milly forced a wobbly smile then swept her hand under her bonnet, securing any strays.
Within minutes, Isum pulled the buggy to a halt as the man came alongside them. The creaking brake nearly sent Milly scrambling for the trees lining the road. Instead, she set the parasol to shield her face, presumably, from the sun.
“Good afternoon, Miss.” The white man’s unfamiliar voice released her pent-up breath.
Easing back the shade, she peered through the lace edging. Long seconds passed before Isum shifted beside her and nudged her back.
Milly closed the parasol and forced her gaze to the stranger’s eyes. She found them friendly and unsuspecting. “Good afternoon to you, sir.” Tucking her trembling hands into the folds of the parasol, she tried for that beautiful smile but feared she fell short of Isum’s expectations.
The man studied her, never once glancing at Isum.
A cold sweat broke out on her upper lip. Like venom, fear coursed through her, poisoning her confidence. Her gaze slipped to the dirt where it belonged.
“You’re a might far from civilization. It’s not exactly safe out here, even with a strapping young buck such as yours.”
Milly’s gaze skittered to the man’s chest, then, weighted by years of training, fell back to the ground. “I plan to trade with the Creeks in the next village. I hear they’ll give anything for a little food.”
“So they will, poor devils.” The man laughed, making Milly’s skin crawl. He sidled his horse close to the buggy, and the smell of his cologne wafted down. “I appreciate a woman with a tender heart.”
“If you don’t mind, we best be moving along. I wouldn’t want to be caught out after dark.”
The man’s silence lured Milly’s hesitant gaze. A smile crept up his face. “There they are, those pretty brown eyes.” He tipped his hat, bowing slightly at the waist. “It would be my pleasure to escort you, Miss.”
“No.” The discourteous refusal popped out of its own volition. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. We’re accustomed to the road.”
Eyes darkening, the gentleman reined his horse around, pointing its muzzle toward the road behind them. “Then I’ll not keep you. Good day.”
Milly nodded but doubted he noticed. “Let’s move, Isum,” she whispered, anxious to leave the man’s dust behind.
A brisk half-mile later, Milly’s gloved hand still clutched the parasol in her lap. Tears burned her eyes at the thought of what might have happened. She blinked them away to find Isum grinning from ear to ear.
“We done it. We fooled that dandy.”
A strangled chuckle escaped her. “Yes. I supposed we did. He never suspected a thing.” Milly laughed, full and long. It unwound the knotted cord in her gut, and suddenly, the road opened before them and filled with possibilities.
Possibilities of a future. With Isum? He had offered as much, and she hadn’t exactly rejected him. Neither had she accepted. She found it difficult to move past the years of near mothering to feel something more toward him. And yet, she couldn’t imagine another man on earth who would willingly wed her. And from all indications, he was more than willing.
Taking in a deep, cleansing breath, she turned and found his steady eyes on her, all joviality gone. “Isum? What is it?”
“For half a minute, I thought I was gonna have to kill me a white man, the way he was lookin’ at you. Like you’s a Sunday pastry.”
It was always the same with men. Many women longed for beauty, but for Milly, it was the latch on her shackles. She tucked her chin against nagging shame.
Isum grunted and slapped the reins across the mare’s rump. “Ain’t nothin’ you can help.”
At the sound of thundering hooves, she felt the blood drain from her face. Behind them, four riders closed in fast.
She gripped Isum’s arm, words lodging in her throat.
Jaw clenched, he focused on the horse and pulled them to a stop. Running was useless. With quivering resignation, she removed her gloves and folded them neatly, just as the mistress had taught her. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Isum, to see hope shattered across his face.
“It ain’t ova,” he mumbled, as Master Landcastle’s men surrounded them.
Milly coughed on the horses’ dust and probed her mind for a reasonable excuse.
“I thought you were smarter than this, Milly.” Grayson, the overseer, laid one hand across his legs, loosely aiming a pistol in their direction. “A shame what’ll become of you now.” His false sympathy grated.
Two of the others dismounted and dragged Isum from his seat. He struggled against their attempt to shackle him and was rewarded with a swift kick to the gut.
“Please, don’t hurt him! It was my fault.” Milly jumped from the buggy and scrambled to the side of Grayson’s horse. Her nails dug into his leather riding boot. “I didn’t tell him I planned to run.”
He guffawed and kicked her hand away. “He doesn’t answer to you, girl. And he’ll pay for his own foolishness. Just as you will.” He jerked the pistol. “You’re riding with me.”
The thought of being pressed against the man for seven miles of rough roads sent Milly back a step. He lunged forward, grappling for the fabric at the front of her gown, but he missed and scratched her neck instead.
She barely registered the burn.
His nostrils flared. “Get over here.”
Milly shied away from his curses then risked a glance over her shoulder.
The other three struggled against a willful, roaring Isum. “Hold him down,” one bellowed.
“I’m tryin’!” Metal clinked and rattled as Isum kicked, sending the shackles skidding across the road.
One of the men swore and went after them.
Too late, Milly noticed Grayson’s hand as he swiped for her again. She swayed back, but he compensated, stretching farther away from his horse. Fisting her blouse, he yanked her toward himself.
With a cry, Milly locked her knees, sending her lower half sliding under the horse’s barrel. She clung to Grayson’s arm, her weight tugging him down with her.
“Let me loose!” His breath puffed hot in her ear.
The horse skittered, its hooves striking so close she felt the vibration through the ground. It bolted away from them, sending Grayson tumbling from his perch.
Milly flipped to the side, avoiding his crashing bulk.
He landed beside her with a grunt, his pistol coming to rest inches from her hand.
“Merciful, Lord,” she whispered through dusty lips.
“Grab it!” Isum shouted. Two men held him belly-down, while the third locked a cuff on his ankle. His eyes bored into her, begging her to take action.
Grayson’s gaze darted to the pistol the instant her fingers wrapped around the handle. Before he could pull himself to a sitting position, she had the muzzle pointed at his head. “Make them stop.” Her voice trembled in time with her hands.
He snorted. “You wouldn’t kill me.”
“No, I can cripple you. In a way you’ll never hurt another woman again.” She redirected her aim.
Steady. Keep it steady. She scooted back, farther from his reach. “You heard me.”
Grayson glared at her, his jaw working hard, little circles.
From the corner of her eye, she noted the stillness that had settled on the opposite side of the road. Isum flailed once more and managed to dislodge himself from under his captors.
“Unshackle him,” Milly called, her eyes never leaving Grayson’s.
“I’ll find you, and you know it.” His voice was gritty with hate.
“Maybe. But not today.”
“Grayson, what do you want us to do?”
“Let him go.”
The manacles clinked to the ground.
Isum pushed up and trotted to her side, lip bleeding and jaw swollen, but looking better than such a struggle should afford. “I got this here.” He took the weapon from her. “Think you can get the buggy into them trees?”
She nodded. “If need be, I can sprout wings and fly.”
The sun had barely moved by the time Isum had all four men bound, gagged, and lashed to the wagon, which Milly had taken as far into the undergrowth as she could.
While he secured the men’s bonds, Milly changed back into her comfortable, plain brown frock then scattered all the horses but two. Leading one to Isum, she smiled. On horseback, they could cut through the forest and make better time. At least until the ground grew too swampy.
He gave her a boost then adjusted the stirrups with a swiftness that spoke of a lifetime in the master’s stables. Giving her foot a pat, he winked. “Now who’s the mastah of himself?”
She fingered the bonnet’s ribbon tied beneath her chin and shook her head. “It’s a bit soon to be so confident. We have a long trail ahead of us.”
Mounted, Isum directed his horse alongside hers. With a quick yank, he loosened her bonnet’s ribbons. “We’re getting’ off the road. Headin’ into the brush. You don’t need that no more. From here on, we’ll be exactly like the Almighty created us to be.”
One hand pressed to the top of her bonnet, Milly leaned out of his reach.
He clucked his tongue. “Your feet can run, but your heart, it gotta stop chasin’ after lies. It’s time you be who you’s meant to be.”
Who I’m meant to be? “And what exactly am I?”
“A child of the King. And my girl. Nothin’ else mattuh.”
Milly snorted, as he took her horse by the bridle. “We ain’t leavin’ until you know it.”
“I know it.”
“Then take it off.”
She fingered the edge of her bonnet, while Grayson’s gaze gouged her back. She was more terrified to remove it than to turn the horse toward the Apalachicola River. Heart running wild, she lifted the bonnet until a breeze tickled the hair on her forehead.
With a smile born of unending patience, Isum released her horse.
She set the cap in her lap and ran a hand over the braid worked in a circle around her head, its coarse, frizzy texture accusing her of her tainted heritage.
Then Grayson caught her attention. From where he sat tied to the wagon wheel, the hatred emanating from his eyes scorched Milly’s weak resolve.
“I can’t.” With a jerk to the reins, she twisted the horse’s bit out of Isum’s reach. Gripping the saddle with her thighs, she settled the bonnet back in place. A swift kick of her heel set the horse on the backwoods trail to Spanish Florida.
Isum might be doomed every day to face their reality, but Milly had been blessed with the option to hide.
What slave in her right mind would choose otherwise?
~ ~ ~
The Floridas

For the third time in an hour, Captain Phillip Bailey checked that his musket was properly primed and loaded. The Apalachicola wound along on his right; his company from the 4th Regiment marched behind. Creek warriors fanned out into the swampy woodland on the left.
He was trapped.
It had only been two summers since many of these same warriors had surrendered to General Jackson at the conclusion of the Red Stick War. The sight of them now—wild in their feathers, piercings, and tattoos—set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. For every one of the hundred and sixteen American regulars on the march to Prospect Bluff, there were two—supposedly ally—Creek warriors who slogged across the boggy ground next to him.
The odds were far from comforting.
Heat pasted his silk neck-stock to his throat. He tugged at it and scanned the surrounding pines for any sign of danger, whether from runaway slaves or friendly Creeks turned hostile. Downriver a ways and set back into the forest, the outline of a shack took shape—probably erected by a runaway. Like the many other dwellings they’d come across, the place appeared abandoned, but that didn’t mean the owners weren’t lurking in the shadows, waiting in ambush.
Quiet as a whisper, a group of warriors split off and swarmed the farmstead. Within minutes, they rejoined Phillip’s column empty-handed.
If what was said about Chief Garcon, the runaways’ leader, proved true, the man wouldn’t allow Phillip and his men to waltz into the area without a dandy of a fight. It was no secret the Americans intended to neutralize the fort on Prospect Bluff, the stronghold they called Negro Fort. Its name alone struck fear in the hearts of southern Georgians.
After the most recent assault from the blacks, General Jackson had jumped at Spain’s reluctant approval of his soldiers crossing the Spanish-American border to defuse the tension and reclaim American property—the slaves. With its swamps, alligators, and prowling Seminoles, the Floridas were savage country. Toss in three hundred armed and desperate runaways, and the place became hell on earth.
Phillip had been the first to volunteer to invade that hell. Alligators and runaways, he could handle. Creek warriors were a different matter altogether. Running into them on the southerly trail had been a surprise to both parties. It just so happened that, this time, Creek and American objectives ran parallel. Or so the Indians said . . .
Without warning, a regular stepped out from behind a tree, blocking Phillip’s path and causing his musket arm to jerk. “A clod of mud has more sense than you, Corporal Higgins.” Phillip spoke from between clenched teeth. “Get back in line.”
“Yes, sir. Just taking care of business, sir.”
Phillip noted a smirk on the nearest warrior. He scowled back.
The natives might see him and his men as a bunch of untrained idiots, but Phillip knew better. When not attacked on the sly and when properly prepared, there was no equal to Phillip’s army anywhere in the Americas. Hadn’t they proved it by crippling the Creek Confederacy not two years before?
He passed Higgins’ scrawny frame as he busily fastened his broadfalls. “Didn’t mean to scare you, sir.” A poorly contained leer plucked at the man’s freckled cheeks.
Phillip opened his mouth to refute the charge and put the private in his place, but the gravelly voice of Sergeant Garrigus beat him to it. “Idiot. You can’t rattle the captain. He’s got nerves of iron.”
“Is that right?”
“After what he’s seen? You bet.”
Garrigus’ praise sounded sincere enough, but Phillip knew the truth and prayed every day no one else would discover it. “Enough chatter back there. Keep your mouths shut and your eyes peeled.” He cast a sideways glance at longtime friend and surgeon, Captain Marcus Buck.
Buck possessed a lean form, and he moved it with the grace of a fencer. The sword at his thigh, though snug in its scabbard, could be in his hand in a blink, and in the next, carving out an enemy’s heart. The good doctor had no qualms taking lives when necessity demanded; though, unerringly, he preferred to save them.
He returned Phillip’s long look with a sprightly smile that raised his flawless cheeks. Eyes, nose, mouth—each feature lined up perfectly. He would be a favorite with the ladies, if he took his nose out of medical books long enough to notice their attention.
Involuntarily, Phillip’s jaw twitched, tugging the taut skin around his scar.
“Where’s Enoch, sir?” Buck’s’s gaze skimmed the trail leading through endless five-foot-high saw palmettos.
“Are you enjoying the quiet too?” Phillip subdued a grin and jerked his head toward the end of the loosely formed column. “I put him to work keeping Cook company.”
“Indians giving him the jitters?”
Phillip nodded. It wasn’t the only thing he and his young slave had in common.
He stepped into another pocket of muck. Swamp water engulfed him up to the ankle of his knee-high boot and spattered his blue wool trousers clear up to the tassel of the red sash tied about his waist. He shook his foot, longing for a pair of clean, dry stockings. An arduous, two-day trek behind them, Camp Crawford might have been nothing more than tents and pickets, but right then, it seemed pretty near to heaven.
Erratic movement ahead brought Phillip to a halt and his musket to his shoulder.
An Indian loped toward him. His roached, black hair was collected at the base of his neck into a long tail and fluttered in the air behind him. His face was a solemn, purposeful mask, and he clutched a tomahawk in a battle-ready grip.
A drumbeat sounded from nearby. Or was that blood pounding Phillip’s eardrum?
He strengthened his stance and gripped the musket barrel. Sweat dripped into his eye, but he refused to blink and miss even one of this warrior’s breaths.
The Indians had caught him unawares before. Never again.
As the man neared, the path cleared before him. Ahead, an unidentified commotion scattered the column.
This was it. The moment Phillip had been anticipating. One swing of this warrior’s blade would be the signal for the rest to attack. By sundown, every last American scalp would dangle from a pole.
The drum increased its tempo. He was back at Fort Mims now, its fire lapping at his heels. The world narrowed to the warrior streaking toward him. Phillip had known better than to trust these savages, but Colonel Clinch hadn’t listened.
Phillip should give some sort of call to battle, but his brain went numb. Breath ragged, he pointed the muzzle at the warrior’s chest. When he aligned the sights, his stiff collar dug into the base of his ear. His sweaty finger trembled against the trigger as he waited for the red man to raise his tomahawk.
Instead, ten paces away, the man came to a halt, his brown eyes boring into Phillip. Studiously, the warrior lowered his weapon and slipped it into his belt. He was taller than Phillip by a good hand’s length and could no doubt whip the tar out of him if given the chance. Even so, he let his arms go limp, then stared at Phillip, long and probing, until his eyes took on subtle turbulence.
Except for the drum in Phillip’s ear, silence surrounded them.
Why didn’t the man attack? Indians never surrendered.
“Captain?” A voice broke through the pounding beat. “Captain Bailey.” This time more insistent.
Phillip blinked, then flicked his gaze to the side.
Buck. He laid a hand on Phillip’s arm, making him flinch.
“Easy.” Buck sounded as though he were calming a terrified child instead of addressing a superior officer. His voice barely rose above a whisper. “The men are watching. There’s no call for this. Not this time.”
A massive vulture soared above, pulling Phillip’s focus away, then back to the man before him who continued his bold, unnerving scrutiny.
Did Phillip know him? That swirl of ink along the man’s neck was familiar. He’d seen it . . . somewhere, sometime during his year running to ground fugitive Red Sticks. Whatever had caused their paths to cross had been unpleasant. That much Phillip recalled.
The tip of his musket sank, and two dozen warriors lowered their bows in response.
As realization of the extent of his error took hold, heat crawled up his neck, burning his scar. He honed in on the black ostrich plume trembling in the air above Buck’s bicorne hat as he turned to the warrior.
“It’s nothing personal, my good fellow,” Buck stated with a half-grin. “Captain Bailey fought at Fort Mims. Next time you’re careless enough to run up on him that way, I’ll let him have you.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Phillip said, wishing a bullet hole would open between the Indian’s eyes, “do let me.”
One brow hitching, the native lifted his arms to the side, slowly, evenly. A brazen invitation.
Buck’s laughter, which lacked none of its usual cheer, failed to dispel the coiling tension. “On second thought, it would just make more work for me. And I do so loathe extracting iron at this hour. Spoils my supper.” He grinned and turned to the Indian. “You wouldn’t relish having a testy surgeon digging through your gut, would you?”
At the warrior’s scowl, Buck laughed again, all charm. “No, didn’t imagine you would. So tell us, what news?”
“A white man.” Addressing Buck, the Indian gestured toward a sandbar in the middle of the river. “Found there.”
Phillip swallowed and willed his voice not to tremble. “One of ours?”
“A seaman. Wounded here.” He tapped his shoulder.
“One of Sailing Master Loomis’ men?” Buck’s voice hiked with disbelief.
At a snappy pace, Phillip took off toward the sandbar. “My thoughts exactly. Although, it was my understanding no vessel from the naval convoy was to enter the river until we’d arrived.”
“They weren’t,” Buck confirmed.
The warrior took up an offbeat step beside them. “There is more,” he said, halting Phillip in his tracks. “Two dead. This side the river.” A line of sweat bisected the tattooed moon on his shaved scalp.
“Sailors, as well?” With any luck, the dead were runaways.
The Indian shrugged. “Their white bodies lie naked.”
Buck hissed an expletive, while Corporal Higgins’ face lit with anticipation. “We gonna see action?”
“Never mind that,” Phillip said. “Did you hear the Indian’s report?”
“Yes, sir. I heard.”
Phillip pointed two fingers upriver. “Take it to Colonel Clinch. On the double.” At the sound of Higgins’ scurrying footfalls, Phillip turned to Buck. “Surgeon, you’re with me.”
A silent crowd gathered ahead—around the wounded sailor, Phillip surmised. “Clear out,” he called as he shouldered his way through the throng. “Give the man space to breathe.”
Buck followed, bumping into Phillip’s back when he stopped short, breath catching in his lungs. Scalped and brutally stabbed, two stripped men lay in a puddle of blood, their features frozen in twists of agony.
Soldiers shifted, allowing the doctor room to press his fingers to each neck. He stood, retrieved a kerchief from his pocket, and wiped his hands, staining the cloth red. “Give me someone I can help, for heaven’s sake.”
As Buck stepped over the bodies, a tremble began deep inside Phillip. It grew, moving into his stomach with a painful shudder. “We camp here. Private Davidson, inform Captain Collins. Sergeant Garrigus, set up a perimeter.” He tore his eyes from the grisly scene, stepped back, and then turned to Buck. “Captain Buck, see to the wounded sailor, wherever he is. I’ll find you shortly. I’m going to look for tracks before we lose daylight.”
“We got Indians for that, sir,” Private Davidson called after him.
Buck spoke. “Why are you still standing there, Private? You heard the captain.”
Night was falling fast and with it, Phillip’s composure. The skirts of his coatee slapped the backs of his thighs as he quick-stepped toward the shelter of the woods.
He mashed his lips together and willed his stomach to cease its rebellion. Eyes riveted to a massive cypress twenty yards in, he forced certain images from his mind. Images of Fort Mims, of the dead and dying, of the corpses he had trampled in his fight for life.
Satisfied the cypress hid him, he rested his hands on his knees. His head swam, and the world tipped. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on keeping his breath even and his army rations where they belonged.
At last, he regained a measure of control—enough to be presentable to his men.
These memories shouldn’t hold such power over him. And yet, they did. More ferociously each month.
Disgusted at himself, he ripped the bicorne from his head and hurled it into the shadows.
A soft cry followed, emanating from the darkness beyond.
Every muscle in Phillip’s body seized as his eyes strained to pierce the obscurity of dusk. He saw nothing, heard nothing—besides voices carrying from the riverbed. Had he imagined the sound? If he had, the fact wouldn’t astound him. Not anymore.
His mind replayed it. The cry had possessed a human quality. Would he go so far as to say feminine? Yes, he would.
A runaway. Had to be.
Unwilling to believe he was hearing voices in his head, he set out in the direction his bicorne had landed. Musket going before him, he proceeded with carefully placed steps and peered into the ever-darkening forest beyond. This could be a trap, but it was worth the risk if it squelched the notion he was indeed mentally disordered.
Ears finely tuned, he crept toward his bicorne which lay before a stand of Spanish bayonett.
The palm’s flowers, which were bunched on stalks rising high above the plant, suddenly shook like ringing bells. Phillip jerked his musket up then back down as a woman sprang from concealment.
Her skirt snagged on the needle-sharp leaves, arresting her flight. As she battled to extricate the fabric, she lifted her bonneted head, exposing large, fearful eyes and a face which glowed pale in the waning daylight.
Unless the encroaching night was playing tricks on him, this woman was white. Not the midnight skin of a runaway, nor the tawny red of an Indian. Not even the creamy olive of a Spaniard, but white. A near perfect match to Phillip’s sun-browned skin.
He dropped the butt of his musket at his feet. “Ma’am? What are you doing out here?” Had there been a female with the sailors? Phillip knew of no situation where that might be permitted.
Her struggle grew more desperate until the sound of ripping preceded her backward tumble. Mostly hidden by the squat palms, she scooted away on her haunches.
Still many yards distant, Phillip reached a hand to her, unable to imagine why she might be afraid of him. “I won’t hurt ”
A black man, large as a bear, darted from behind a thick pine to Phillip’s right. His sprint carried him across Phillip’s path and directly toward the woman.
“No! Get away.” Her words came out a garbled croak.
“Halt!” Phillip flipped the weapon back into position.
Unfazed, the man kept moving and would have intercepted the woman except for the stone she hurled. It thudded off his shoulder and stopped him dead in his tracks.
He swiveled to face Phillip, who’d shortened the distance between them, his eye never leaving the musket’s sights. “One more step, and before the night's out, I’ll bury you where you stand.”
The man’s shoulders rose and fell with each rapid breath, but his stony face showed no fear. “Then you bettah do it. Otherwise, it’ll be you what's buried. See, I plan to make it to that fort, and losin’ my life to do it is no matter to me.”
Phillip’s brother, Dixon, had often said that a man who didn’t value his own life made the most dangerous of enemies. This one wouldn’t live long enough to become that. Phillip leveled his barrel on the big man’s heart.
In response, the runaway took a step.
“Don’t shoot!” The woman stumbled forward, placing herself between the black man and the iron muzzle.
Reflexively, Phillip skipped to the side to maintain his aim on the man. “Step away, ma’am. Don’t want you hurt.”
She mirrored his movements, keeping herself between them. “No one needs to get hurt.”
“Move away from him, and let me handle this.”
She faced Phillip, her large eyes pleading. “Let him go. Please.”
“Woman, are you crazy?” The black man voiced Phillip’s own thoughts.
She was either insane or suffering from over-exposure.
Weapon rammed into his shoulder and still trained on the runaway, Phillip launched forward and flailed at her to grab her by the arm.
She skittered to the side, and he swiped air.
“Get out of the way,” he snapped. Not one of his men would have dared defy his command, yet this woman stood her ground.
She backed farther away from him and dangerously close to the black man. “He didn’t run a hundred miles just to be shot down defenseless in the woods a day away from the only chance at freedom he’ll ever have.” Her voice shook, but her rigid back told Phillip she wouldn’t give in any time soon.
Busy concocting a way to move the woman and save both their necks, Phillip was only half-listening. “What are you talking about?”
Although shadows fell across her face, Phillip didn’t miss the softening of her eyes or the quiver of her lips. Her passion for this slave’s freedom furrowed Phillip’s brow.
“If you were fighting for your life, wouldn’t you want a fair shot at it?”
Like a Red Stick’s arrow, her soft-spoken question pierced him, immobilizing his thoughts to a trio of images—his brother’s doom-stricken features and the blood-thirsty warriors that swarmed him; Adela flung by her hair to the ground and the savage’s painted arm clamping around her ribs; arrows protruding from his own body and the earth rising up to hammer them in.
Would he have wanted a fair shot while fighting for his life, for Adela’s? “Yes,” he rasped.
Surprise widened her eyes and parted her lips—a lovely image to return to after his disturbing trip to the past.
For one instant, Phillip would have done anything she asked. He lowered his musket and stretched a hand toward her, but before he could even shift his stance, the slave shot forward.
He encased the woman in his arms, lifting her and covering the lower half of her face with a broad hand. Her muffled cry preceded the man’s swift reversing steps. He hurled a steely glare at Phillip. “I got me a little insurance now. So lemme see that musket on the ground.” The ferocity in his voice chilled Phillip’s blood. One yank of the man’s hand was all it would take to crack the woman’s neck.
“You listenin’, soldier?”
Berating himself, Phillip released the barrel of his weapon and let it fall to the ground with a soft thud, then splayed his hands in front of him. “No need for violence. Let her go, and I’ll never breathe a word I saw you. You can go right ”
The slave flipped the woman’s legs into the air and caught them under his arm in the same instant that he took flight.
Ten seconds into Phillip's pursuit, common sense skidded his boots in the muck. If he was going into the wilds after an unpredictable giant, he’d better have a squad backing him.
Within moments, the only evidence left of the woman’s presence was the dread constricting Phillip’s chest that no one would believe she’d even been there.

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