Chapter 39: Lisa

It was also slaves that attracted me to the next farm, one that lay right along the road south. Three men stood out in the sun, their hands tied behind them and their black skin glistening with sweat. They were being half-heartedly guarded by a Redcoat who leaned against a tree in the shade. I decided to investigate, picketed my horse, grabbed my weapons and walked quietly behind the resting soldier. The slaves saw me coming, but he did not, and I grabbed him easily by the cross belts, pulled him back in the bushes and sliced across his throat with very little effort or noise. He bled like a fountain.

As I cut the men loose, they told me an officer was ransacking the house and two other soldiers were out in the woods somewhere.

"They's after the missus," the oldest of the group said. "Help her, please."

"She a good woman," one of the younger slaves said, pointing toward a thicket of second growth scrub.

It was dark and cooler among the tangled trees, and I soon heard a man yell, "I got her, the bitch, ow." There was some thrashing off to my right, past a large deadfall, and the same man yelled, a bit louder, "Greg, damn you, come help me here." A woman screamed, and I heard a loud slap.

And here came Gregory, a big Redcoat, crashing through the underbrush, red-faced, bare-headed and looking eager for something female, musket held high above the brambles. I stood behind a tree, let him pass, and clubbed him down with the stock of my musket. As the loud 'whack' echoed through the trees, he tumbled head over heels and lay still. I ran on toward the noise of a fight.

"Hurry up, Gregory, you can 'ave 'er after I gets a piece," the soldier yelled. He had a writhing, young woman up against a tree with his hand on her throat and was ripping off her clothes as she struggled, kicked and clawed at him, eyes wild. He heard me approaching and turned toward me, saying, "Bout time," just as I bayoneted him in the gut and drove him to the ground, his left hand filled with printed cloth and his other hand trying to fend me off. I put my foot on his chest, pulled out the big blade and stuck him again, and since he was still kicking, gave him a third, bringing out a gush of blood and a gurgle.

The woman, almost bare to the waist, with shred of her dress and shift hanging from her arm, turned her head and wept, her lean back heaving. I set my musket down and started shucking off my coat to cover her nakedness when here came Gregory on the dead run, spike bayonet aimed right at my belt buckle and looking very unhappy. He must have had a very hard head.

With my coat dangling from my arm, I stepped out to meet him, swung my heavy jacket up into his face and jumped aside. His bayonet tore through my coat and sliced under my right arm and shoulder. I tripped him, and he dropped his weapon and rolled over. I jumped on him, kneed him in the groin and got my hands on his throat while he swung at me wildly, cursing a bright streak.

My right hand did not seem to be working very well but I crushed his throat with my left and banged his head on a tree root until he lost consciousness. I stood and stomped on his throat a couple of times before I retrieved my weapon and used the bayonet on him. Then I put my coat over the woman's shoulders, and we walked back toward her house. She was still weeping, holding my arm and saying, over and over, "Oh, God. Oh, God."

Just before we reached her small, frame home, a British ensign emerged carrying an obviously heavy sack. "I found the silver," he said loudly, seemingly to the air, and then he saw us. He dropped the bag with a clattering clang, and drew his sword. I raised my musket and shot him squarely in the chest, blowing him back into the house, his sword flying from his hand. The woman beside me gasped and turned away as the legs in the doorway stopped quivering.

I pulled the young man's body down the steps and out into the front path, yanked off his boots and pocketed his purse. The woman and the older slave went into the house while the other two black men dragged the ensign's body off into the woods and soon returned with two muskets and cartridge cases.

"You're bleeding," was the first thing the woman said to me. She made me sit and take off my torn and bloody shirt and then she washed the long cut on the underside of my upper arm and shoulder. I put my hand atop my head and she sewed up the wound, concentrating hard on her task and making large crossing stitches. I enjoyed watching her work. She smiled at me at one point and said, "I was never very good with a needle."

It turned out that the slaves were her father's and only came over on a weekly basis to do chores while her husband was away.

"He's up north, Philadelphia I think," she said as she ladled stew into bowls after the three black men had left, taking the boots and muskets with them. By then the sun was going down.

"It isn't safe," I said. "I'm surprised you've survived this long, right here by the road."

"Well," she said, "you see, this is part of my father's plantation, and he's one of the best-known loyalists around. He was a judge, the King's bench, the royal governor's friend, Dunmore. This bunch was the first to raid our place."

"How long's he been gone, your husband?" I asked, enjoying the food and her beauty.

"Two, no most three years," she said, raising an eyebrow. She had a growing bruise on her chin. "I do miss him."

A big man with an old-fashioned wig stomped through the front door, gave me an odd look, and demanded, "Are you hurt, Lisa? I saw the bodies. Can't believe they'd attack you here." He turned to me. "You kill 'em, all four a'them?"

I nodded.

"You best be goin'. I sent one a'my boys. They'll be along soon to collect them bodies. You have to kill that youngster?"

"The ensign?" I asked.

He nodded.

"He was standing about where you are with all this lady's silver in a bag, and he drew his sword on us. I shot him."

The man looked down at the blood-stained place on the floor. "He was jus' a boy," he said.

"Likely one a'Arnold's," I said. "We don't take many prisoners, neither side."

The man nodded again. "You best be going. She cain't stay here no more."

"You're right," I said. "I was just telling her."

"Damn you both," said the woman. "This is my house."

Her father turned on his heel. "I'll send a wagon for your things, tomorrow," he said over his shoulder. I thought the woman was going to spit, she was so mad.

"You stay right there," she said to me, running after her father. I sat and listened to them argue out in the yard, feeling my arm starting to really ache. She came back, still angry, and we finished our supper without many more words.

At the meal's end she splashed clear whisky into two glasses, downed hers and pushed the other to me. I tasted and then poured it down. It was good stuff, smooth and powerful, corn. She poured us both another, and then we sat a while and talked about the war and tobacco and the weather and such until I said, "I ought to take your father's advice and get on the road."