dogs, but Saquam can.”
“That right,” Wallace said. “We go, try to lead them off, but you get ready to move. Get ready to move fast.”
The scouts turned and headed back for the woods and the group surrounding them broke like a flock of birds taking flight. People ran to their tents and began knocking them down, began gathering up supplies, loading up the few horses they had. Amazing, to see the speed and coordination with which the camp was broken. Elizabeth had never felt so useless.
“Queenie, Queenie.” She stopped the former cook. “Where are we going?”
“No wheres, I hope. Maybe them men can lead that Dunmore away again, and we can set back up. But if we gots to move fast, well, we ready, and we have another place, higher up in the hills, about six miles. We can keep going, right back into Indian country.”
Elizabeth watched the former slave as she lashed her tent into a tight bundle. They were being pushed further and further back. Was this the answer, to keep retreating? Could they just live like this forever? She certainly could not. And if these people went to the woods for good, then for all practical purposes Dunmore would have achieved his goal of eradicating them.
Something had to be done, some new route explored. But what?
And then, a muffled shout, a swirl of activity at the far end of the meadow. George, racing across the tall grass, waving his arms, pointing toward the far woods.
“They coming, a mile away, or less. We ain’t gonna fool them, Saquam know we here, he’s leading them right along! We gots to go, go!”
Then Tom was standing on a pile of tents, calling, “Them with muskets, come here! We set up for them, drop them when they come into the clear, slow them down some!”
“No!” Elizabeth pushed through the people until she was standing next to Tom. “No! No killing! Listen to me, you have done nothing wrong, and when Mr. Marlowe gets back you will be able to go back to your homes. But if you shoot white people, you will never be able to return!”
Murmuring voices, glances exchanged back and forth. Would they think that this was the limit of her dedication, that when it came to killing those of her own race she would no longer side with them?
If some did think that, they were not the majority. Someone yelled, “Let’s go! No ambush!” and heads nodded and the people dispersed.
Tom met her eye, gave her an angry, distrustful look.
“It is better this way, Tom. I gave you the guns to hunt and defend yourselves. An ambush is not a defense.”
He held her eye a moment longer, then turned and walked off.
Plato came running up, a sack over one shoulder, a canvas roll balanced on the other. It took Elizabeth a moment to recognize her own tent and clothing. She was not even aware that someone had packed it. “Mrs. Marlowe, we gots to go.”
The field was nearly deserted, more than half the people had already melted into the woods, heading in-country to some new, prearranged destination. Those who remained were gathering up the last of their possessions: cookware, food, scraps of clothing.
From the woods, not so far away, the pounding of hooves on the soft pine needles of the trail. A charge at the camp, an attempt to catch them before they disappeared again.
Elizabeth and Plato turned, ran toward the woods, toward the barely distinguishable trail carved through the undergrowth by animals or Indians or both.
Into the dark woods, the cool woods, nearly blind in the shadows after the brilliant light in the field. Plato just ahead of her, running with confidence, moving as if he were bred to woodcraft, Elizabeth with skirts hiked up, running, trying to watch Plato, the trail ahead, the hazards underfoot.
Behind them they could hear the horses. They had reached the meadow. She could hear voices, loud with outrage. “They are getting away, they are goddamned getting away!” A gunshot, at what she could not imagine, perhaps fired into the air in impudent anger.
Further into the thick wood. She could hear the stream to her right, quite a wide stream, could see the gap in the trees that its passing made. They were moving up a gentle hill, not too steep, but Elizabeth ’s breath was coming fast. She wondered how long she could maintain that pace.
And then her foot came down on some imperfection in the trail, a hole left by an animal, perhaps, or an overturned rock. She felt her ankle wrench to one side, twisting beyond where it was meant to twist, and the pine needles and the young ferns coming up at her as she fell.
“Uuff!” The breath was knocked from her as she hit the ground, her ankle, still caught in the hole, twisting harder. “Ahhhhhh!” She clenched her teeth, muffled the building shriek of agony.
Plato was ten paces ahead when he realized she was no longer behind him. He whirled around, ran back down the trail. “Mrs. Marlowe, Mrs. Marlowe, you all right?”
“Yes, yes, I am fine. Help me up.” She could run on the ankle, she was sure. It would hurt, but she could do it.
Plato wrapped a strong hand around her arm, lifted her. Not so far behind they could hear orders shouted across the field, instructions for the hunters to fan out, to head into the woods. Elizabeth stood on her good ankle, the twisted one held just off the ground. Not so bad. The pain was going away already.
“All right, all right,” she said, more to herself than to Plato. She put her wounded foot down, slowly, eased her weight onto it. Lightning shot through the bone. The pain rushed up her leg, wrapped itself around her brain, made her head spin, drained the strength from her body like pouring water from a bucket. She felt herself twisting as she fell, the muscles in her arms and her legs no longer responding to her wishes.
Plato eased her down and she leaned back on her elbows, gulping air. Her ankle was throbbing, thumping like a drum, but as the weight came off, her mind cleared and she could think again.
Plato looked back toward the field, his eyes wide, afraid, his face filled with indecision.
“Go, Plato. Go,” Elizabeth gasped.
“No, I can’t leave you…”
“I’ll be fine. They don’t want me…”
She didn’t know if that was true, actually doubted that it was. They would have her in jail for something- harboring runaway slaves, giving guns to Negroes, something-but at least they would not drag her from jail and hang her, she did not think.
Plato looked down at her, clearly unconvinced. He lifted the canvas tent from his shoulder, tossed it into the woods, flung Elizabeth ’s dunnage after it. He reached down and grabbed her under the arms and, in one deft, powerful move, hefted her up and draped her over his shoulder and headed up the trail.
Her ankle hurt unbearably, and for a moment the pain masked Elizabeth ’s pure outrage, but not for long.
“Son of a bitch! Put me down! Put me down right now, you bastard!” she hissed, but Plato wrapped his arms tighter around her thighs.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Marlowe, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Plato kept repeating, his genuine contrition quite at odds with the manner in which he was carrying her.
She could not recall a more humiliating moment, and she had had some fine ones in her short life. Her ankle screamed in pain with each jar from Plato’s long gait, her blond hair dragged on the trail and was kicked up by Plato’s heels as he ran. It was like the Rape of the Sabines. She could just picture her arse sticking up in the air right next to Plato’s face.
She thought about Thomas, how he would react if he saw this. Wondered whether he would laugh or beat Plato to death.
He would laugh, the son of a bitch, damn his eyes.
Plato moved off the trail, slowing as he threaded through the trees. The low branches and undergrowth tugged at Elizabeth ’s hair. And then the stream came into sight from Elizabeth ’s odd perspective. She craned her neck up, looked back in the direction from which they had come, but thankfully none of their pursuers were there.
Plato forged into the stream, his feet kicking water up into Elizabeth ’s face. She sputtered, spit, wiped her face. Across the deeper part, the water up to Plato’s knees, and then up against the stream. Plato was moving slowly now, fighting the current. It was cool and quiet, but for the sound of the water, and in the far distance Elizabeth could hear the hunters once again.
