The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [18]
“There,” he breathed.
“I hear,” whispered Unoka, the little African, captain of the Maroons under Oglethorpe's command. “I see.”
“Come along, then,” Oglethorpe said, “but quiet as mice, all of you.”
“Listen to ‘em,” said Tully MacKay, his head in silhouette nodding toward the faint laughter. “They wouldna’ hear Gabriel comin’ wi’ his trumpet blawin'.”
“They have devils with them,” Oglethorpe reminded him, “black-souled warlocks who can see like an owl and hear like a cat.”
That sobered them all. They started off again slowly, wading through water that came up to their waists. The water was the temperature of blood, and Oglethorpe knew for a fact it teemed with leeches and snakes. But it quieted their progress, and he doubted that their foe would imagine anyone wading through half a league of flooded rice fields at night.
But he wasn't anyone. He was James Oglethorpe, and he had already taught his red-coated former countrymen some bitter lessons about warfare in the New World. And this wasn't just any rice field—it was his own property, and he knew it like he knew the lines of his hands.
He meant to have it back, and his country with it. The lightless memory of trees and Spanish moss swallowed up the firelight again, but he had them placed now, at the bend where Megger's Creek came around the little spit he had used to call Italia, for its shape.
He wondered how many foemen waited. In his band were only six—the rest of his forces were back with Captain Parmenter, across the Altamaha. Six, but six good men for night work: Unoka, with his pitchy skin and years in wilderness both African and American; three Indians—two Yamacraw and one Yuchi, ghosts in these their native lands day or night; MacKay, a margravate regular, born in the hollow of a tree during Queen Anne's war, as surefooted as a fox; and finally himself, who, though born to privilege in England, had been well educated these past twelve years.
They proceeded with less noise than the alligators they doubtless shared the waters with, came around the bend, and saw their enemy.
Ten men caroused on a sandy bank: six English, by their knee breeches and pale skin, and four Indians Oglethorpe figured to be Westo, judging by their hair. The men were reeling about a small bonfire, drinking rum or brandy from a clay bottle. With them were three women, all Indian or half Indian in look. These three bore expressions ranging from terror to fury. All were young and passing attractive, and it was clear what the men's intentions toward them were.
“Here, darlin',” one of the English grunted, thrusting the bottle toward one of the women, a pretty thing in a worn checked dress. “‘l make you more sociable.” Oglethorpe recognized her suddenly—Jenny Musgrove, the daughter of an Indian trader. She had been working for Oglethorpe at his own trading station when last he saw her, and taking tutoring from his valet. His brows bent further. The Musgroves had trusted him with their daughter, and this was what had become of her: a plaything for the occupying army.
Another man was not drunk and he was not drinking, and Oglethorpe did not even think him a true man. He wore a dark green coat, black waistcoat, black riding boots, and a narrow tricorn. A basket-hilted broadsword sat propped against a tree, within his easy reach.
And his eyes glinted red in the firelight, like the eyes of a wolf.
He looked bored.
“That one,” Oglethorpe said, with barest breath. “A Moscovado by his dress. But see his eyes? He'll be hellish.”
“Got t'at one.” Unoka grunted. The bow he had been carrying above the water creaked as he slipped an arrow in place. The three Indians bent their staves as well.
“A little closer.”
The water was lower, here, only to their knees,