Chapter 30: Another Redhead

I awoke to the sound of many hooves on the nearby road. I rolled out of my blanket, found my rifle, stayed low and crawled to the roadside. Here came a redcoated officer, a captain, followed by a bunch of horses and a couple of well-mounted dragoons. I watched them pass, trying to count the horse flesh, at least a dozen, roped in pairs and threesomes. Then there was a mule-drawn farm wagon filled with barrels, kegs and a small blonde, bound and gagged, that I assumed was a girl from the length of her hair and then, after a hundred yards or so, some white-faced cattle, perhaps a score, with two more mounted dragoons chivvying them along.

I went back and gobbled the rest of my bread and sausage, rolled up my blanket and was about to mount and get going when I heard a different sound coming from the worn road. This time it was people shuffling along behind a mounted officer and trailed by a dragoon sergeant with a carbine in his lap and a short sword on his hip. They were tied together from neck to neck into what was sometimes called a coffle, a string of slaves, only the first one in the line was white, reasonably well-dressed and female, another redhead. My cock tingled out of habit. Four big, healthy black men in open shirts followed her, fieldhands obviously, then three male youngsters who would have been called "likely" at a slave auction and two young, full-grown women, both carrying babies. They would have been labeled breeders and the width of their hips praised by the auctioneer. Almost all of them showed whip marks on their shoulders, backs or faces, recent bruises and cuts that still bled.

I counted them up, two officers, five or six armed soldiers, two white women prisoners, and nine or eleven slaves depending on how you counted infants. I wondered what was going on, and I could not get the image of the bound redhead out of my mind. She walked as if pulling a plow, hair hanging in her face, hands tied behind her like the others in her group, full skirts brushing the dirt, neckline gaping open to show her white shift. I checked my rifle's priming, thinking hard. Then I hurried through the woods, tied my horse loosely and stepped out in the road, almost holding my breath.

The slight officer, an ensign I noticed and probably not even eighteen, reining his fractious horse and raised his hand with a short, many-tailed whip in it. I smiled at him. He was actually fuzzy-faced and trying to look very serious under his peaked hat. "Where you headed?" I asked, holding my long rifle loosely at my side, muzzle pointed down, no threat in sight. I managed a smile.

"None a'your damn'd business, y'filthy colonial. Step aside." He stuck his whip in his belt and drew and flourished his sword, turned his head and yelled, "Sar'nt Howser."

The slaves stopped, bunching up behind the white woman. I glanced at her, and she glared at me, filled with anger, breasts nearly exposed by a torn bodice that hung down one arm. I noticed she was barefoot. The big sergeant came galloping up, snapped off a salute, and I stepped beside his horse, reached up and grabbed his belt and yanked. He came out of his stirrups with a yelp and landed on his shoulder in the dirt, scrambling up in time to get my bayonet through the throat. His hands went to his neck as he sank to his knees. I pulled out my blade and let him fall on his face, gushing blood.

The young officer seemed to have been frozen in place, his sword pointed down beside his horse's flank. His eyes got big and his lips quivered.

"Get down," I said, sheathing my gory blade.

He gathered in his reins and kicked his horse, but I was faster and knocked him off his saddle with a swing of my rifle butt. He fell, sprawling in the dirt, his mouth a bloody mess. I kicked his sword away as his horse galloped, riderless, a few dozen yards before stopping.

I pulled the breathless ensign to the side of the road and tied him to a small tree with his fancy belts, throwing his whip into the weeds but noting that it did have blood stains on it. I stuck his fancy pistol in my belt. He had wet himself in the excitement. Then I got to work cutting the captives free. The young redhead stood rubbing her wrists while I sawed the first man in line loose and handed him my big blade.

"What's going on?" I asked her.

She snorted, breathing fire it seemed. "These animals," she gestured at the bloody body near her feet, "came to our home at dawn, killed my father and brother, burned our house, took our horses and cattle and are carrying us off, God knows where, to serve their pleasure I suppose or sell us. Who are you?" She looked up at me, and I admired both her fierce anger and her ripe beauty. I reached out and pulled her shift strap back up on her bare shoulder. I do not think she even noticed.

"Just a soldier," I said.

"A rebel, you mean," she said. "Well, I want you to know that we are loyal, despite this vile outrage, we are loyal, king loyal." She fell into my arms, sobbing, and I held her until she took a deep breath and pushed herself free. Her body felt very good, strong and firm. The slaves behind her looked away.

The big black man returned my bayonet, hilt first and wiped clean, nodded to me, and he and his cohort sat in the shade beside the road. The young ensign struggled in his bonds behind them, looking frightened, his mouth still bleeding. He had good cause.

"We've got to go rescue my poor sister," the woman said. "Did you see her? She's in that wagon up ahead."

I nodded. "Blonde, right? What about these people?"

"Ned," she cried, "come here." A large, very black man came to his feet and stepped before her. "Take the people back home, please, and clean up the place as much as you can. Oh, and dig a couple of graves. Ben's going with us."

The big man nodded, and she called out, "Ben." This time she introduced me after demanding my name, and told the chocolate-colored young man to go fetch the horse wandering about and grazing. "Now," she said to me, completely in control as far as she was concerned, "the three of us can go get my sister, and Ben will help us get the horses and cattle home after we do. He's a fine herder." She sounded like it was a foregone conclusion. I looked at her with wonder, and then heard thumping and a squeal from behind me.

The slaves, even the women with babies at their breast, had surrounded the ensign and were kicking and beating him. When they were finished, there was not much left of the boy. He coughed up blood and hung limply in his bonds, one eyeball resting on his cheek, his face clawed raw. I went back and cut his throat, took his purse and then stripped off his soft boots and gave them to the woman. She made an odd face at me, put them on and stepped up on the dead officer's horse which the big slave held for her. She yanked her skirt up between her legs and fit her feet into the stirrups. "Come on, no time to waste," she said, tossing back her firey hair.

I looked at Ben, smiled, and walked to my horse, shaking my head at the nerve of redheads. The slave got on the sergeant's horse, and we walked on north. Crows were landing behind us before we rounded the first bend. We soon galloped to keep up with the posting redhead. She rode well, firmly in the saddle, using her long legs to stay in motion with the big horse. I got pleasure out of seeing her hair flying out behind her like a ruby wave. She was a fine figure of a woman, and I felt sorry for any man that got in her way.

We found the cattle stopped at a small stream, drinking, with the two dragoons nearby, off their horses, taking a break and filling their canteens, oblivious to danger. I got us out in the woods and rode ahead of them, splashing through the creek. We now had three weapons; the sergeant's carbine, the officer's pistol and my rifle. I rummaged in the officer's saddlebags, loaded the pistol and gave it to the woman.

"You know how to fire one of these?" I asked.

"Of course," she said, thumbing back the vise head and giving me a smirk.

"Use two hands," I said.

She glared at me.

I gave Ben the musket and the dead sergeant's belt and cartridge pouch and watched him load competently. I looked at the woman and raised a questioning eyebrow. She ignored me. Armed slaves were one of the area's great fears.

"We'll go get them" I told the redheaded woman, "and you guard the road. Don't let anyone get by. Aim for the horse, not the man, if somebody comes your way."

She nodded, and the slave and I walked down the verge toward the stream. The cattle were still drinking, but the dragoons had mounted up and were getting ready to move them on.

"I'll take the trailer, you get the leader," I told the big slave. He nodded and we waited in the woods until the first dragoon was twenty yards away and looking steadily behind him. I glanced at Ben, and he smiled and nodded. I drew down on the rider behind the cattle, perhaps fifty yards off, held the rifle steady against a tree limb, and said, "Now."

Our weapons roared out together, and the two riders fell almost simultaneously. "Good shot," I said to the slave who was hard at reloading. He nodded silently. "How'd you learn that skill?" He shook his head as if he did not understand the question.

The cattle were milling, some standing in the creek, as we walked to the bodies, hauled them to the stream bank, stripped them of valuables and slid them into the water.

"These animals'll stay here, I think," Ben said as the girl arrived, still holding the cocked pistol, and watched the dead men float away.

"They must have heard the shots," she said.

"Likely," I said. "How old's your sister?"

"Thirteen," she said, taking a quick breath. "I know she's frightened. She means a lot to me, to our family, what's left of it."

"There's three more armed men up there, plus the man driving the wagon. I think he's a soldier, too."

We heard a horse coming, galloping hard, and crouched in the underbrush on both sides of the road. The dragoon reined up, looked at the cattle, may have noticed the two horses now among them, but did not hear Ben creeping in behind him until it was too late. The big slave plucked the man from his saddle as if he were weightless, threw him to the ground head first and stomped on his throat with his hard, bare foot. Now we had another weapon. Ben was a very efficient killer.

We paused to plan and then rode forward until we spotted the horses. We dismounted, tied our mounts, and as agreed, Ben walked down the middle of the track, unarmed, while the girl and I hurried through the woods, each of us carrying a musket. She also had the pistol in her waist, and I had my rifle on my back. I did not expect her to fire her carbine, just hand it to me when the time came.

The wagon and the group of horses had stopped. The officer was talking to the mounted dragoon, and then we saw him point to Ben.

We got closer, keeping our heads down.

"I can see her," the woman said in a hoarse whisper, "She's seems all right, poor thing."

We could not hear what the two men on horseback were saying to Ben, but we saw him pointing. The officer sent his man back the way we had come and it was time for action. I leveled my rifle and shot the driver, set that weapon down as he slumped from the seat and got the musket ready. We stepped out into the road, and the redhead, despite our plans, dropped her carbine and ran to her sister, crying her name. I faced down the officer, demanded he dismount and surrender. Both of us could hear the other rider coming back, attracted by my rifle shot.

The officer bent low and spurred his horse right at me, I ducked and fell to the ground, rolled over, came up on one knee, made a quick choice and shot the dragoon galloping at me. He plunged off his horse, somersaulting into the roadside ditch. Then I heard a bang from behind me, dropped my musket and drew my bayonet, rolling over again in the dirt and coming up ready for anything.

The redhead stood in the wagon bed, holding the smoking pistol with both hands as a riderless horse galloped out of sight into the trees. The redcoated officer lay in the ditch, arms spread wide, very still. I quickly checked my dragoon and the sprawling wagon driver, found I had done for them both, and then went to the back of the wagon. "Where's your musket?" I asked the woman who was holding a blonde girl in her arms, patting her on the back. She was a slim, very pretty youngster with corn silk hair and dark lashed eyes.

She shook her head. "I don't know. I dropped it," she said.

I looked around the wagon.

"Look out," she yelled, and I ducked. The musket boomed behind me and the ball smashed into the wagon's tailgate. Despite being wounded, the officer had crawled from the ditch where his horse had thrown him, found a loaded musket, gotten to his knees and fired from about twenty feet away. It was not my day to die.