A Free Man of Color - Barbara Hambly [144]
January struck.
He was within a few feet of the Kaintuck, though the smell of the rain-wet earth drowned all the feral sweat-and-tobacco stench of him. It was easy to reach out and grab the man’s legs, jerk them back, drop the man down with a cry into the soft earth. January was ready. The Kaintuck was not. The man flailed with his knife as January rammed his knee below the breastbone, grabbed verminous handfuls of hair and beard, and slammed the head around and sideways. There was a quick crack like an oak stick breaking underfoot, and the smell of voided waste.
“Lordy, Lordy,” murmured January under his breath. “My massa gwine wear me out for sure.”
He supposed he’d have to confess this next Friday—not, of course, in any church in the old town, nor would he mention the color of the man he had killed—but he had to admit that he felt not the smallest twinge of remorse.
He knew enough to stay low as he searched the body, appropriating knife, powder horn, and long rifle. He checked the load with the ramrod, felt the rod’s end jar on patch and ball.
He’d expected it, but had to be sure.
More shots, echoing in the night. January turned back, saw figures moving among the trees, around the house. He thought, They’ll have locked up the slaves somewhere, only to realize in the next instant they’d have chained them as well. Probably in the sugar mill, the only brick building large enough to hold even so small a contingent as Les Saules’s. He wondered if Claud Trepagier and McGinty would sell them later or blame the whole business on a slave uprising.
Not if the bodies were shot, he thought.
And then, But to cover that, all they’d have to do is … The smell of woodsmoke reached him, sluggish on the warm spring night.
All they’d have to do is fire the house.
Flames were licking up over the gallery already, bright on the wooden railings and the heavy strapwork shutters. Wood from the kitchen and the smokehouse had been piled against all the shutters on the bayou side of the house, the flame leaping from it huge and orange and new, the smoke white and fresh, billowing into the black of the sky. Against the brightness of the fire January could see the shapes of men, outlined in red, coarse shirts of plaid or trade goods or rough linsey-woolsey, homespun pants slick with grease, the glitter of cold animal eyes. They stood in a rough semicircle, facing inward toward the house, their guns pointed at the door.
If he stepped from the shelter of the willows, January thought quite calmly, the firelight would show him up, but a Kentucky long rifle would take the distance easily.
There were six men on this side. The rest would be around the front. They all had their backs to him, but nevertheless he recognized the Irishman McGinty’s copper-colored hair. The beard had seemed darker in the shadows of the house, the day January had seen him. Recognized also the way he stood, legs apart, hands thrust in the pockets of his sage-green long-tailed coat. The man beside him, dark-haired and medium-size with a look of a panther to his big body, wore a long-tailed coat also, natty but threadbare, and the fire glistened off the pomade in his hair.
He was the same build as the Turk in green, and like the Turk wore a gold signet on one hand that caught the light of the fire.
It was to him one of the rivermen spoke. “C’n we have the woman ’fore we kills her?”
“No,” said the dark-haired man, and held up his rifle to firing position, looking down the barrel at the door. His voice was the voice of the orange-and-green Turk. “I want to be sure this time.”
By the glaring leap of the fire January recognized Nahum Shagrue.
“Damn better be sure this time,” growled McGinty. “Damn uppity bitch, I damn near swallowed my tongue when I come out here next mornin’ and saw her.”
“I told you I hadn’t seen her in years.”
“What you bet the woman comes out first?” said someone else softly.
“Which woman? White dress or gold?”
“White.”
“Nah. Gonna be the blond jasper with the scar. Twenty-five cents on it.”
“You got it.”
“There—the door moved.