Джон Джейкс: North and South

That terrible sight broke the revolt, though the fight didn't stop immediately. Charles was forced to shoot a second Indian, and King Sebastian killed another with his musket before the other four dragged the girl and the corpses away. The hair of one of the dead men scraped through the embers, smoked, and caught fire.

Charles was trembling. He was sooty with dirt and powder, and spattered with the blood and brain from the first Indian's head. For supper he had chewed pieces of heavily salted deer meat, which now refused to stay in his stomach.

When he returned from the brush, he found an obviously shaken King Sebastian quirting the braves who were still alive. The half-breed had removed the three dead men from the chain, but he hadn't bothered with the keys to the cuffs. He had used his knife. Somewhere out in the dark, huge black buzzards were already pecking at the corpses.

The half-breed jerked the girl's head up by the hair. "I think the bitch needs punishment, too."

For a moment, gazing down at the sagging bodice of her hide dress, Charles had a clear look at her brown breasts. The sight touched him. Her breasts looked ripe and full of life. Watching King Sebastian warily, she shifted position. The dress fell in place and hid her body.

Charles caught the half-breed's wrist in midair. In the firelight his blood-streaked face resembled a Cherokee brave's painted for war.

"You're the one who needs punishment," Charles said. "You're the one who dozed on watch."

King Sebastian looked as if he might turn on his employer. Charles continued to stare at him. Although the girl didn't understand the tall man's French, she understood his meaning. She didn't dare smile. But there was a flicker of gratitude in her eyes.

A minute passed. Another. The half-breed slapped at a gnat on his neck and looked away. And that settled it.

Except that it didn't. The incident had profoundly shaken Charles. Even after his watch, when King Sebastian again took over, he couldn't fall asleep. The brush with death kept reminding him of his lack of sons. Three brothers had died in infancy. One sister had disappeared over the Pyrenees at the start of the time of trouble. He was the last of his line.

When he finally fell asleep, he had strange dreams in which images of the fertile fields of the Cherokees were mixed with visions of the Indian girl's breasts.

Early the next afternoon they reached the trading station on the Cooper, one of two rivers named for Anthony Ashley Cooper, Earl of Shaftesbury, who was one of the original Proprietors.

Jeanne was safe and well. She and Charles walked for half an hour on the riverbank. He kept his arm around her. She babbled childish things while they watched a white heron perch on one leg in the shallows. She deserved better than this. She deserved a fine house, the protection of servants.

In the morning he made preparations to depart for the coast. He intended to leave around noon, with the Indians and some bundles of pelts he had accumulated to trade. On the trip to the secret vendue table he would, as always, avoid the main trails where he and his human contraband might be seen.

A half hour before his depature, Jeanne came rushing into the post with excited cries. He could make no sense of her warnings, but King Sebastian soon appeared, looking frightened. The half-breed struggled to find the right words in French.

"Who's coming?" Charles interrupted. "Gentlemen? Nabobs? Is that what you're trying to say?"

The frightened Indian nodded and held up one hand with all the fingers extended. "Lot of them." Charles's bowels turned watery.

They rushed the slaves to the outbuilding, which was constructed of palmetto logs and cypress planks. Frantically, Charles chained the four men and the girl in one of the pony stalls while King Sebastian tied rags around their mouths. If the prisoners made any outcry, the slaving operation would be discovered and he'd be lost.

The glaring eyes of his captives told him they hoped it would happen. On Charles's instruction, the half-breed checked all the gags a second time.

To make matters worse, the leader of the party of visitors was a member of the colony's governing council, an elegant Englishman named Moore. He was traveling into what he termed the "demmed pestilential back country" with four Negro servants, one of whom had some skill in surveying. Moore was looking for land for a summer residence away from the fever-ridden coast.

Moore stayed three hours. Charles was in a state of barely concealed nerves the whole time. Once he heard a thump and a rattle of chain from the outbuilding, but Moore, talking at the time, did not.

When one of the servants spied chains and cuffs under his serving counter, Charles had to do some fast talking. "Took them in trade for a gun," he lied. "From a suspicious fellow who claimed he was bound for Virginia. Last autumn, it was —"

Moore didn't give the chains and manacles a second look. With typical arrogance the Englishman occupied himself with a stream of criticism of the weather, the primitive countryside, and the New World in general. By four, when it was slightly cooler, he and his party rode on. Charles poured a heavy drink of warm gin, swallowed it in two gulps, hugged Jeanne, and hurried to the outbuilding.

King Sebastian stood guard at the door. Inside, Charles found the four men directing furious looks at the girl. Her gag had slipped down around her neck. She could have cried out.

She stared at Charles with the same intense gaze, and he at last understood. Perhaps he had understood all along but had been prevented from admitting it by guilt and thoughts of Jeanne. He turned abruptly and hurried out into the steamy sunshine.

Things were growing too dangerous in the Indian slave trade. The conviction stayed with him when he made a belated start next morning. It accompanied him along the swampy trails of the low country, and it was still with him, a hobgoblin riding his shoulder, when he reached the coast.

The clearing was located outside the palisade surrounding Charles Town. The site had been carefully chosen. It was not so close as to be easily detected, not so far as to represent an unduly dangerous trip after dark. It could be reached by riding up the shore of the Cooper River for about ten minutes. In the clearing there gathered half a dozen men Charles silently characterized as Anglican snobs. They were planters from the district, all struggling to find a cash crop whose profits would fulfill their original dreams of Carolina. So far the search had been a failure. The colony was a losing enterprise.

Nevertheless, they persisted in pretending their life was ideal in most respects. They chatted over the latest gossip of the town. They complimented Charles on his offering, though they didn't stand too close to him while doing so. His smell, as well as his lineage, offended them.

Torches driven into the sandy ground shed a smoky light on the vendue table of split palmetto logs. An auctioneer, another eminently-respectable gentleman, handled the bidding in return for a small percentage of the total sale. In town Charles had heard the man prate about the evils of Indian slavery. Such talk was common. Most of those present had owned at least one Indian in the past. What they really objected to was not the immorality of enslaving other human beings but possible impairment of trade with the Indians should the tribes ever unite to protest the practice. The white men also feared an Indian uprising.

But that didn't prevent them from showing up tonight. Stinking hypocrites, Charles thought.

One by one the four males were sold. Each brought a successively higher price. Charles stood to one side, his resentment easing as he puffed a clay pipe and contemplated his profit.

He listened to conversations. One man spoke of sending his new purchase to the West Indies for what he termed "seasoning." Breaking the slave's spirit was what he meant. A second gentleman discussed new land grants being made along nearby rivers and creeks.