South Carolina
October 1784
"John! Come in here! Hurry!"
John looked up sharply from his desk, where he was in the process of painfully decoding his own scrawled notes into legible script. "Cassie!?" He grabbed his sword, never far away in the weeks since breaking away from the other states, and bolted down the stairs. "What's the matter?" He hit the landing at a run and swerved into the sitting room.
Christina Preston paused in mid-crawl and looked up. "Da!" Then she lowered her head and advanced, wavering but steadily. "Da da da da!"
Cassie looked up from where she knelt with shining eyes. "She's crawling!"
"I can see that." He dropped his sword and scooped his daughter up, tossing her to the ceiling. She squealed and giggled as he caught her. "Well done!"
Christina bat his face. "Da da!"
"Yes, I'm sure." He beamed, then looked down at his wife. "Next week she'll be walking and there'll be the devil to pay!"
Cassie's face clouded. Her mother died when she was still a child, and she had no idea how long it took babies to develop. Women in Charleston came up with different figures; those that would still talk to her. Many feared her husband's power. And his temper. "Perhaps."
"Come, Chris. You can help me write my notes."
The child gurgled, then in her excitement forgot herself on his arm.
John flinched and held her out by both arms. "Cassie?"
She sighed and came over. "Martha! Chris needs to be changed." Cassie wrinkled her nose. "And John needs a shirt."
The huge black woman's voice echoed from the kitchen. "Right away, missus!" Seconds later she bustled in, handed Cassie a shirt then retrieved the sniffling child. "Now, now, darlin'. Martha will take good care of you."
John began unbuttoning his shirt. "Is she treating you and Chris alright?"
"Martha? Your father trained her well." Cassie's face clouded again. Her own family never owned slaves and she found the whole idea unsettling.
"That's not what I asked." He shrugged out of his shirt, frowned at moisture on his arm and wiped at it.
"She's always kind, Johnny. Chris adores her. Why?"
"I'm thinking of selling her. Selling all of them."
Her jaw slackened. "Why!?"
He took his shirt and walked to a mirror.
"Johnny, you know she's too old...and big...to start over in a field. Even if someone took her for their house, she's been here so long that...why? None of them have given you trouble, have they?"
"No," he replied. "However, we could use the money."
"Is something wrong with the harvest?"
"No, Cassie." He shook his head. "Cassie...maybe it's time for us to go."
"Go? Go where!?"
"I don't know. North. Maybe west."
"What the devil is to the north!?"
He stared at her reflection in the mirror. "It's what isn't there. This whole place... Charleston." He sighed and buttoned his shirt. "It just might be better if we left."
Cassie turned him to face her. "What happened?"
"Nothing yet. This whole breaking away from America thing. I think it's only going to make things worse."
"Do you think they'll fight us?"
"I don't know if it matters. We always seem to run from one crisis to another. Between that and my bandit who likes to jump roofs."
"What about her?"
John's head shot up. "What makes you think it's a woman!?"
Cassie flushed and thought quickly, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. "No...No, I meant... I meant Martha. We can't just leave her."
He relaxed. "She'll be fine. If something goes wrong here I don't think she'll get in the way."
"But Johnny, this is home. I don't think..."
"I thought you'd want to go."
A thundering knock interrupted them. John quickly tied his neckcloth as Jacob, his houseboy, stepped in. "Beg pardon, Master, but there's a messenger here. He says he comes from Governor Moultrie."
----------
Moultrie stood on the balcony of the State House looking down at the busy street below. Men and women hurried to get home before sunset, not knowing just what the proud black, red and white banner flying next to the broken Liberty Tree across the street meant. He contemplated its black and corrupted limbs and smiled.
He didn't turn as Preston came in. "John. I was starting to think my messenger was waylaid."
"Apologies," John replied curtly. "I needed to dress."
"Undressed in the afternoon?" Moultrie turned and arched a brow. "Are you ill?"
"I'm fine," he snapped. "You wanted to see me?"
"Yes, John." He turned and regarded the street again. "I received word today of Indian raids near Greenville."
"Did you?"
"You sound skeptical, John."
Preston shrugged. "Let's say it's the first I've heard of it."
"Not surprising. As I said, word arrived today." Moultrie regarded him coldly. "I want you to deal with it."
John looked away. "Perhaps you should send somebody else."
"Why?"
"I...I don't have that much experience with Indians."
Moultrie smiled. "Come, John. You are commander of the Carolina Guard. This is your responsibility. You do understand duty?"
Preston glared at him. "Where is Greenville anyway?"
"It's new, only a few ranches and farms along the road northwest of Columbia. It was only founded after war's end in former Cherokee country. They hoped to at least stake their claims and clear land before snow hit, but, as I say, the reds won't leave us be."
"So I'm to provide security?"
"In a sense. You're also to find any Indians on our side of the border and encourage them to leave. Bring trackers. And guns of course."
"Any idea how many Indians we're dealing with?"
Moultrie shook his head. "No. I would assume a fair body to terrorize their village so. You
are capable of dealing with a few impure redskins?"
"I can!" John sighed. "All right. I'll go."
"Good. Perhaps this will make up for your failure to deal with your masked villian."
"I have preparations to make," Preston growled. He turned for the door.
"John?"
"What!?"
"Happy hunting."
-----
Black watched him stomp out and smiled. Still easy to manipulate. Greenville really did exist, and it really did report an attack. He recognized at once the description of an Indian 'more dog than man.' Chesmu.
Either he would kill Preston, or John would kill the Indian. One way or the other he won.
Plus, with John gone, he could turn his undivided attention on the bandit people began to call 'Spider.'
