again. This here is the Liberating Army. From now on, we’re our own people, not anybody else’s, not ever again.”
The copperskin looked at him as if he’d just declared himself God Almighty. “You’re gonna get us all killed, is what you’re gonna do.” Several of Benjamin Barker’s other slaves nodded somber agreement.
Frederick also knew that was possible—and feared it was probable. Even so, he said, “Best thing we can do is whip all the planters around us and make our army bigger. The more people we’ve got fighting, the better our chances.”
“Maybe we can lick some of the planters,” a Negro field hand here said. “We ain’t never gonna lick the Atlantean army.”
Frederick brandished his rifle musket. The long sword bayonet glittered in the sun. “We got these from Atlantean soldiers,” he said proudly. He didn’t mention that most of them were down with the yellow jack. He also didn’t mention that the Liberating Army might have brought the sickness with it. Instead, he added, “Now—who wants to see Master Benjamin dead?”
No matter what Barker’s field hands thought about the ultimate fate of the uprising, they did want to see their master dead. “And Mistress Veronique, too!” one of the women said—the one who’d been so horrified when they shot the overseer. Yes, Benjamin Barker’s wife had found a way to make herself remembered, all right.
“Well, let’s go get ’em,” Frederick said, and then, “Scouts forward!” He wasn’t going to run into any nasty surprises, not if he could help it.
He could see the big house in the distance. It was larger and fancier than Henry Barford’s place. Veronique Barker had always thought herself above Mistress Clotilde. Now Frederick saw why. The Barkers had more money, and with money came status. It was that simple.
No—it had been that simple. Now there was a new game, complete with new rules. One of the new rules was, a white man couldn’t get rich off the labor of Negroes and copperskins. Benjamin Barker was about to be taken to school by the Liberating Army. He would remember his lessons for the rest of his life, however long that was.
Here he came toward the fields: a big, sturdy man with streaks of gray in his black hair. He cradled a rifle or shotgun in his arms. Behind him strode his son, who was thinner and not yet graying but otherwise a good copy of the planter. The younger man was also armed.
Seeing strange copperskins and blacks heading his way, Benjamin Barker shouted in a great voice: “What kind of riffraff is this?” He sounded more disbelieving that such people could invade his land than angry.
His son reached out to pluck at his shirtsleeve. Frederick couldn’t hear what the younger Barker said. It wasn’t meant for him anyhow. But Benjamin’s response to it left Frederick in no doubt about what it was.
“Drop those guns this minute, or it’ll go even harder for you than it would otherwise!” the planter bellowed.
Frederick almost started to lay down his rifle musket. The habit of obedience to whites—especially to whites who gave orders in a loud voice—was deeply ingrained in him, as it was in all Atlantean slaves. One of Barker’s men send back an answer: “We don’t got to listen to you no more! You’re gonna git what you deserve!”
“That’s what you think, Ivanhoe!” Barker yelled. He raised the longarm he carried to his shoulder. The gun roared. Ivanhoe screeched and fell over, clutching his side.
“Give it to him!” Frederick said urgently. All the slaves turned their rifle muskets on Barker and his son. The guns stuttered out a ragged volley. The younger Barker clapped both hands to his breast, as if he were in a stage melodrama. But the blood on the front of his shirt was real. As the overseer had before him, he fell facedown in the dirt.
Somehow, all the bullets in the volley missed Benjamin Barker, the man at whom they were aimed. He reloaded with almost superhuman speed
The copperskin looked at him as if he’d just declared himself God Almighty. “You’re gonna get us all killed, is what you’re gonna do.” Several of Benjamin Barker’s other slaves nodded somber agreement.
Frederick also knew that was possible—and feared it was probable. Even so, he said, “Best thing we can do is whip all the planters around us and make our army bigger. The more people we’ve got fighting, the better our chances.”
“Maybe we can lick some of the planters,” a Negro field hand here said. “We ain’t never gonna lick the Atlantean army.”
Frederick brandished his rifle musket. The long sword bayonet glittered in the sun. “We got these from Atlantean soldiers,” he said proudly. He didn’t mention that most of them were down with the yellow jack. He also didn’t mention that the Liberating Army might have brought the sickness with it. Instead, he added, “Now—who wants to see Master Benjamin dead?”
No matter what Barker’s field hands thought about the ultimate fate of the uprising, they did want to see their master dead. “And Mistress Veronique, too!” one of the women said—the one who’d been so horrified when they shot the overseer. Yes, Benjamin Barker’s wife had found a way to make herself remembered, all right.
“Well, let’s go get ’em,” Frederick said, and then, “Scouts forward!” He wasn’t going to run into any nasty surprises, not if he could help it.
He could see the big house in the distance. It was larger and fancier than Henry Barford’s place. Veronique Barker had always thought herself above Mistress Clotilde. Now Frederick saw why. The Barkers had more money, and with money came status. It was that simple.
No—it had been that simple. Now there was a new game, complete with new rules. One of the new rules was, a white man couldn’t get rich off the labor of Negroes and copperskins. Benjamin Barker was about to be taken to school by the Liberating Army. He would remember his lessons for the rest of his life, however long that was.
Here he came toward the fields: a big, sturdy man with streaks of gray in his black hair. He cradled a rifle or shotgun in his arms. Behind him strode his son, who was thinner and not yet graying but otherwise a good copy of the planter. The younger man was also armed.
Seeing strange copperskins and blacks heading his way, Benjamin Barker shouted in a great voice: “What kind of riffraff is this?” He sounded more disbelieving that such people could invade his land than angry.
His son reached out to pluck at his shirtsleeve. Frederick couldn’t hear what the younger Barker said. It wasn’t meant for him anyhow. But Benjamin’s response to it left Frederick in no doubt about what it was.
“Drop those guns this minute, or it’ll go even harder for you than it would otherwise!” the planter bellowed.
Frederick almost started to lay down his rifle musket. The habit of obedience to whites—especially to whites who gave orders in a loud voice—was deeply ingrained in him, as it was in all Atlantean slaves. One of Barker’s men send back an answer: “We don’t got to listen to you no more! You’re gonna git what you deserve!”
“That’s what you think, Ivanhoe!” Barker yelled. He raised the longarm he carried to his shoulder. The gun roared. Ivanhoe screeched and fell over, clutching his side.
“Give it to him!” Frederick said urgently. All the slaves turned their rifle muskets on Barker and his son. The guns stuttered out a ragged volley. The younger Barker clapped both hands to his breast, as if he were in a stage melodrama. But the blood on the front of his shirt was real. As the overseer had before him, he fell facedown in the dirt.
Somehow, all the bullets in the volley missed Benjamin Barker, the man at whom they were aimed. He reloaded with almost superhuman speed
Similar Books
