they owned into battle. Even the horse Jake rode wasnât his. Beyond the occasional ripe melon from a neighboring plantationâs patch, Jake had never stolen anything. Now things were differentâtotally different.
Sinclair switched hobbles on the mare, the new setgiving her a few more inches between the restraints, making walking easier, but still precluding any gait beyond a walk. He threaded his belt though the loops of his pants and the cut in the sheath of his bowie knife. The blade had been at his side so constantly that he felt less than dressed without it.
The saddle fit the mare well. Her withers were wide and accepted the saddle well. She flinched as Jake drew the unfamiliar back cinch, swung her head back to see what the strange-feeling thing was, and then, satisfied, forgot about it. The blanket that had been under the military saddle on the mareâs back, Jake realized, was a bit small. Itâd do for now, but heâd replace it as soon as he could.
The release the whiskey provided was welcome. Jake tipped the bottle again and again, but was quite surprised when he noticed that it was empty. He hurled it across the stream onto the far shore, where it struck sand, rolled a few feet, and came to rest, reflecting the bright sun in spikes of light that hurt Sinclairâs eyes. He drew the .44, considered blasting away at the bottle with it, and decided against doing so. Heâd already attracted one crazyâwhy draw another with gunfire? He aimed down the barrel of the pistol, enjoying the weight of it in his hand, acutely aware of the potential power it possessed. He spun the cylinder to hear the oiled whir, which reminded him for some reason of the workings of the silver-cased watch his father had carried in his vest pocket.
He eased down onto his back, put his right hand, still holding the pistol, on his chest, and slept soundly, dreamlessly.
C HAPTER T HREE
It seemed to Sinclair that the damned heat would never break. The sun had a good start on the day when he awakened from his drunken sleep, the pistol still resting on his chest. A shaft of white-hot light through the canopy of leaves and foliage above him pinpointed his left eye as soon as he opened it, skewering his brain, setting off spasms of headache pain he suspected would be with him for several hours, if not for most of the day. He shifted his head to avoid the spear of sunlight but couldnât avoid the heat. A greasy sweat had already broken on his face and neck, and his body felt like it was wrapped in a thick, damp blanket.
His mind took him back to when heâd first experienced the effects of sapping, unremitting heat. Jake and his pal Todd St. David had, for a couple of nights, snuck out of their beds well after midnight, met halfway between their respective plantations, and visited the slave quarters beyond the main barn at Toddâs place first, and then the quarters on Jakeâs fatherâsland. Theyâd rained handfuls of pebbles on the shanty roofs and raced between the shacks, moaning eerily. The highly superstitious field hands and their families had been paralyzed with fear. After the second night of haunting, many of the slaves had nailed dead chickens to their doors to scare off the evil spirits. After huddling in corners shivering with fear all night, the field workers were lethargic in the hundreds of acres of cotton the next day. Overseers reported the problem to the fathers of the boys, and night guards were posted at both plantations. Jake and Todd were identified as the spooks. Their punishment: two full days each picking cotton with the field laborers. No special treatment of any kind was to be given to themâtheyâd work sunup to sundown with the slaves theyâd frightened. Both boys discovered what the field hands already knew: Hell existed on earth. It was August in the endless expanse of cotton in Georgia.
Jake had dropped before noon the first day. A white
Sinclair switched hobbles on the mare, the new setgiving her a few more inches between the restraints, making walking easier, but still precluding any gait beyond a walk. He threaded his belt though the loops of his pants and the cut in the sheath of his bowie knife. The blade had been at his side so constantly that he felt less than dressed without it.
The saddle fit the mare well. Her withers were wide and accepted the saddle well. She flinched as Jake drew the unfamiliar back cinch, swung her head back to see what the strange-feeling thing was, and then, satisfied, forgot about it. The blanket that had been under the military saddle on the mareâs back, Jake realized, was a bit small. Itâd do for now, but heâd replace it as soon as he could.
The release the whiskey provided was welcome. Jake tipped the bottle again and again, but was quite surprised when he noticed that it was empty. He hurled it across the stream onto the far shore, where it struck sand, rolled a few feet, and came to rest, reflecting the bright sun in spikes of light that hurt Sinclairâs eyes. He drew the .44, considered blasting away at the bottle with it, and decided against doing so. Heâd already attracted one crazyâwhy draw another with gunfire? He aimed down the barrel of the pistol, enjoying the weight of it in his hand, acutely aware of the potential power it possessed. He spun the cylinder to hear the oiled whir, which reminded him for some reason of the workings of the silver-cased watch his father had carried in his vest pocket.
He eased down onto his back, put his right hand, still holding the pistol, on his chest, and slept soundly, dreamlessly.
C HAPTER T HREE
It seemed to Sinclair that the damned heat would never break. The sun had a good start on the day when he awakened from his drunken sleep, the pistol still resting on his chest. A shaft of white-hot light through the canopy of leaves and foliage above him pinpointed his left eye as soon as he opened it, skewering his brain, setting off spasms of headache pain he suspected would be with him for several hours, if not for most of the day. He shifted his head to avoid the spear of sunlight but couldnât avoid the heat. A greasy sweat had already broken on his face and neck, and his body felt like it was wrapped in a thick, damp blanket.
His mind took him back to when heâd first experienced the effects of sapping, unremitting heat. Jake and his pal Todd St. David had, for a couple of nights, snuck out of their beds well after midnight, met halfway between their respective plantations, and visited the slave quarters beyond the main barn at Toddâs place first, and then the quarters on Jakeâs fatherâsland. Theyâd rained handfuls of pebbles on the shanty roofs and raced between the shacks, moaning eerily. The highly superstitious field hands and their families had been paralyzed with fear. After the second night of haunting, many of the slaves had nailed dead chickens to their doors to scare off the evil spirits. After huddling in corners shivering with fear all night, the field workers were lethargic in the hundreds of acres of cotton the next day. Overseers reported the problem to the fathers of the boys, and night guards were posted at both plantations. Jake and Todd were identified as the spooks. Their punishment: two full days each picking cotton with the field laborers. No special treatment of any kind was to be given to themâtheyâd work sunup to sundown with the slaves theyâd frightened. Both boys discovered what the field hands already knew: Hell existed on earth. It was August in the endless expanse of cotton in Georgia.
Jake had dropped before noon the first day. A white
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