LITMIR.BIZ

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his blood up, cursing.

      “Your kind is why we need to spill some blood in these parts, by damn. No ‘nobles’ in Amerikay!”

      Washington watched him with calm ferocity.

      “You’re a coward and a pimp.”

      Nothing spurs hatred in a man like the memory of admiration, and Bludner had once sought Washington’s approval through a whole summer as a soldier. He took his time making his move, talking a great deal, so that when he finally shifted his weight he almost caught Washington off guard. But Washington had wrestled Indians and Virginians all his life. He sidestepped and sent a blow from his fist into Bludner’s head that staggered him. Then he struck him again, stepping inside his long-armed blows and pounding a fist up under the man’s arm, knocking the wind out of him, then hammering the man’s face and chest until he fell. Then he kicked the man twice without compunction. Jacka watched with a smile, while the little man just kept loading the group’s goods on two ponies. Washington could see the butt of an unexpectedly fine rifle standing up from one pony.

      He nodded at Bludner on the ground, and at their camp.

      “Take any crabs you already have ashore—I won’t have them go to waste. Then get you gone. If I see you in the country, I’ll have you taken up on a charge.”

      The little man merely nodded.

      Jacka was watching the pretty girl. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen—prettier than Queeny—with her almond eyes and pouty lips. She met his eye boldly.

      “What’s you’ name?” he asked.

      “I’m Sally,” she said, tossing her head despite a new and spreading bruise on her cheek. Clearly mere beatings couldn’t break her spirit.

      Washington mounted again and rode a little apart, watching them, his easy mood of the road broken. He handed Jacka a pistol.

      “See they get clear of my land.”

      Jacka nodded.

      

      Mr. Bailey wanted a great reception for Colonel Washington, and he intended to line the drive with the servants and slaves, some old retainers, and a few friends at the top, nearest the house, standing well back to be discrete and different from the lower orders on the drive. In the meantime, fires were lit throughout the house, everything was cleaned to a fare-thee-well, and the beds were turned down in the master bedroom. They posted a boy well up the road to give them the signal.

      When the boy came dashing back, Mr. Bailey gave the signal, ringing his hand bell, and men and women came running from the nearest farms and outbuildings. Mr. Bailey was appalled to see his master riding up without a coat, with one hand swollen and bleeding and his breeches all muddy. He stood at the great horse’s head and welcomed the colonel, and all the servants and slaves stood silently as Washington reviewed them and nodded. He rarely praised, and in his current mood, although he was aware that a special effort had been made and that something was called for, he merely grunted to Bailey as he completed his review.

      He saw new slaves, and he didn’t know them. The tallest of them, a well-built lad, had tiny ridges of scars over his eyes. He’d never seen the like, and it did nothing to improve his mood, as it was a disfigurement on a noble-looking man, and meant he was fresh from Africa. He didn’t like Africans. He’d said so often enough.

      “Let me see to your poor hand,” said Mrs. Bailey, and he let himself be dragged inside.

      

      Two chimes of his French watch later, he was dressed in proper clothes, the dust of the road and the dirt of the fight washed clean, and the knuckles of his hands well bandaged. He had taken a glass of rum and mint, cool from the back house, and followed Bailey out on to the lawn to inspect the front walk.

      “What’s the bricklayer’s name?”

      “Jemmy, sir.”

      “He’s done some good work here, Bailey. But the men don’t think much of him. They’ve spoiled the mortar in a few places.”

      “Yes, sir. I tried to watch them, Colonel. I made two men replace the gravel. They left holes in the work.”

      “I see.”

      “He hit them, did this Jemmy.”

      “I won’t have it. See that he understands, Mr. Bailey, and get the walk finished. I expect to turn a nice profit on this fellow and his crew when they can pull in harness. Mrs. Carter would pay handsomely this minute to have her outbuildings touched up. I want a new kennel.”

      “I understand, Colonel.”

      “But it will be a wasted investment if he tries to come it the lord over them.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Good. Now there is a smith?”

      “I haven’t seen much of him, sir. Perhaps I was remiss. I put him to helping at housework, as I didn’t want to test him on your forge. He came with a character for being capable with firearms, but I didn’t see fit to test him on yours.”

      “I’ll see to it. I thank you for it. I fairly dread the notion of a wild man loose with my fowlers. And the dogs boy?”

      “A likely lad, sir. Young and cheerful, runs like the wind. Beat Tam in a fair race and downed Pompey with his fists. And the dogs like him.”

      “Well, I look forward to seeing this paragon. He’s African?”

      “He is. Queeny says Yoruba, perhaps…perhaps Ashanti.”

      “I don’t take to Africans, Bailey, but we’ll see. I’ve always heard said Ashanti made the worst slaves.”

      “Perhaps this one will change your mind, sir.”

      “I’ll expect to see him with the dogs this afternoon. Send the smith to me in a few minutes.” He cast a last glance over the new brick walk and the lawn running down to the Potomac.

      “You did well in my absence, Bailey. My thanks.”

      He was gone in a few long strides, leaving Bailey to enjoy the rare praise alone.

      

      The new boy was working grease into his boots in a cool corner of the shed, a small wooden tub of the stuff under one hand and the boots laid out before him, their laces stripped off to the sides. He also had several of the dog collars laid out in the straw and a leash, as well. The hounds were gathered round him, and he was speaking to them, slowly and clearly, enunciating English words, “This, these, that, those.”

      Washington stopped in the doorway and watched him for a moment. “He has something of the air of a soldier.”

      Bailey stood behind him, concerned that the floor of the kennel would spoil the boy’s new breeches.

      “I remember the regulars with Braddock,” Washington went on. “They cleaned their gear the very same way, everything laid out neat before them.”

      Cese was aware of the Master when the first words were spoken, and he betrayed no alarm at being caught sitting barefoot in the kennel, but put his boots off to one side and rose gracefully to his feet without his hands touching the floor. His height was just shy of Washington’s, and he looked him in the eye for a moment before bowing from the waist. He saw a tall man, in a scarlet coat and buff cloth smallclothes, top boots. He had an impression of power, cloaked, a little hidden—like a chief. A more athletic man than any master he had had—more imposing. Mr. Bailey seemed a slight thing by comparison.

      “What are you putting on that leather, boy?”

      Cese worked it out in his head, to be sure.

      “Hog’s fat, suh. Little linseed oil.”

      Washington nodded briskly. He examined the dogs; they looked clean and fit.

      “I hear you are fast, boy.”

      Cese

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