Liberating Atlantis

That got everybody moving toward the Atlantean cavalrymen. Frederick might not especially dislike Henry Barford, but some of the field hands did.

"Your poor lieutenant die?" Frederick called as he and the slaves with him neared the sweating troopers.

They seemed willing enough to rest on their shovels for a while. "That's right," one of them said, mopping at his red face with a big cotton handkerchief-cotton that, for all Frederick knew, might have come from this plantation. "Once the fever got a grip on him, he went downhill quick. He was pissing blood and puking up black stuff…" His face twisted in disgust. Maybe in fear as well, for he had to know that could happen to him, too.

"It's a shame," Frederick said. "He was a good fellow."

"That he was," the soldier agreed. "Won't catch me saying it real often, not about officers, but it's the truth with Lieutenant Torrance. Was the truth, I mean."

"Hey," the other trooper said suddenly. "What're you, uh, people doing here, anyway? How come you ain't out there workin' like you have been?"

Frederick told the story about the snakebite again. This time, he didn't stumble even a little. Had he heard the tale from his own lips, without question he would have believed it. Some lies-inspired lies-sounded better than truth.

He thought so, anyhow. To his surprise and disappointment, the troopers didn't seem to. "How come you didn't send one fellow back while the rest of you stayed out there?" asked the one who'd wondered why they'd returned. He was the man Frederick was closer to, leaving the other soldier for Lorenzo.

Frederick answered the question as if replying to an idiot: "On account of the snake's still there."

"Huh," the trooper said scornfully. He looked around in alarm. "Why are you people crowdin' around us like this? Watch yourself, Stu! Somethin' fu

Things happened very quickly after that. Lorenzo knifed Stu as neatly as Frederick had killed the sentry by the wagons of guns. Frederick stabbed the other trooper less than a heartbeat later. But the man screamed like a hurt shoat and went for his revolver. One of the slaves tried to stop him, but he shook off the Negro. The pistol cleared the holster. Another slave grabbed his arm and dragged it down, so he fired a shot into the dirt at his feet.

The noise was horribly loud. And, if one shot had already rung out, two wouldn't make any difference. Frederick held the muzzle of his own pistol against the side of the struggling trooper's head and pulled the trigger.

He'd seen bullet wounds on animals. Henry Barford was proud of his skill as a hunter-and well he might have been, because he helped feed the plantation with it. But Frederick had never seen anything like this. If he was very lucky, he never would again, either. The trooper's head might have been a rotten melon dropped off a roof. It blew apart. Brains and blood and bits of bone splat tered Frederick and all the other slaves close by. The Atlantean cavalryman had fought despite a nasty knife wound, but now he dropped like a felled redwood.

Lorenzo already had the other man's pistol. Another copperskin had got his knife. Now a Negro took this trooper's eight-shooter. And Helen pulled the knife off his belt. Frederick smiled at that. It was good that his wife should have a proper weapon. They'd all have them as soon as they unloaded the wagons, but why shouldn't Helen take the lead?

The gunshots brought house slaves ru

"What… What happened?" a housemaid quavered, as if she couldn't see for herself.

In case she really couldn't, Frederick answered, "We're free now. We're really free now, and we're go

"The hell you say!" That furious roar came from Henry Barford. His wife might be dying of yellow fever. For all Frederick knew, Mistress Clotilde might be as dead as Lieutenant Torrance. But the idea of a slave uprising brought the master out onto the back porch, a shotgun cradled in his arms, his over-and-under pistol stuck in his belt. "And hell is where I'll blast the lot of you, too!"

He started to raise the shotgun to his shoulder. Housemaids scattered, squealing. Frederick aimed his pistol, too. He knew he would have to be lucky to hit Master Henry at this range, while the master, with that shotgun, wouldn't have to be lucky at all to hit him.

Thunk! Speaking of slaughterhouses, that noise came straight out of one. Davey stood behind the master. The chief cook had buried a cleaver in the back of Henry Barford's head. Barford stood there a long moment, looking absurdly surprised. The shotgun slipped out of his hands. Then his knees buckled and he fell over. His feet drummed on the planking. That wouldn't last long. No one could hope to live with such a terrible wound.

Slowly, Frederick lowered his eight-shooter. "Obliged," he said, wishing his voice weren't so shaky.

Davey sketched a salute. "Any time." He stooped and picked up the shotgun. "Now I got me a piece, too. I know some folks who could use two barrels' worth of double-aught buck, I expect."

"Take Master Henry's pistol if you want, but don't worry about the shotgun," Frederick said. Davey frowned, not following. Frederick pointed to the wagons. "Those're full of guns that'll hit from four or five times as far away as any shotgun ever born, remember? Fancy government muskets, bound for New Marseille."

"That's right." The cook's heavy-featured face cleared. "Reckon we'll need 'em, too."

"Reckon we will," Frederick agreed. "But for now, this here plantation is ours."

What did generals call it when victory had been won but the fighting wasn't quite over? Mopping up-that was what they said. The slaves still had to mop up. Knocking the cavalrymen down with yellow fever over the head was quick and easy. A couple of them were near death anyway. Frederick told himself his people were doing the whites a favor by ending their suffering. He didn't have much trouble making himself believe it.

Clotilde Barford also still clung to life in the upstairs bedroom. Three housemaids got into a catfight about who would have the privilege of holding a pillow over her face till she quit breathing for good. It was a real brawl-their nails drew blood.

"Lord Jesus!" Frederick exclaimed after some of the men separated them-and got clawed in the process. "Let's settle this fair and square."

"How you go

Frederick dug out Henry Barford's deck of cards. "Here's how," he said. "You all draw one. High card does the job."

The housemaid who'd asked him won the draw. The other two swore at her as she proudly climbed the stairs to finish the last white person on the plantation. When she came down, she was gri

Everyone cheered. Frederick held up his hands. "Listen to me!" he said. "You got to listen to me!" He wasn't sure they would. Some of them had already got into the master's-the dead master's-barrel-tree rum and whiskey.

"Listen to him, damn it!" That was Lorenzo. He seemed to be the one the copperskins on the plantation heeded most. And he had a fierce bass voice that made people pay attention to him.

Eventually, most of the field hands and house slaves looked in Frederick's direction. "We're free now," he said. Then he couldn't go on, because everybody started cheering again. He held up his hands once more, this time hoping for quiet. After a while, he got something close to it. He continued: "We're free-till the first white man-drummer or preacher or neighbor: doesn't matter which one-decides to pay a call on Master Henry. Then they'll find out what happened here, and they'll try and kill us all."