Page 132 of The Summer Country

“Mistress,” said Jenny, trying to muster the correct degree of wonder and gratitude. Mary Anne looked so pleased with herself, so delighted with her own generosity. Jenny would have laughed if her nerves hadn’t been so tightly wound. “Thank you.”

“You’ve been with me a long time.” Mary Anne checked her hair in the mirror. “It’s time we saw you settled.”

Settled and breeding. Jenny knew the way her mistress’s mind worked. More babies for Beckles, a price tag attached to each one.

Only two days more. Two days more and she would be free.

Or dead.

As she hurried toward the River along the road, joining scattered groups from other plantations heading in the same direction, she allowed herself to imagine Charles’s reaction. Shock, of course. But, she thought, in the end, relief. He’d wanted this too. It was just that their methods were, of necessity, different. He’d failed with the pen; now it was her turn to try the sword.

The dance was well under way in the slave yard at the River by the time Jenny arrived.

“You’re late. In here.” Jackey hurried her back to one of the huts at the very edge of the yard, well removed from the festivities.

“What kept you?” demanded Nanny, from the shadows.

Jenny blinked as her eyes adjusted from the brilliant light of the bonfires to the dimness of the hut. She could just make out Nanny Grigg, Cain Davis, Washington Franklin, and King Wiltshire and Bussa from Bayleys sitting around a square of fabric.

“I thought my mistress wasn’t going to let me go. She’s worried I’m forming an attachment.”

Nanny snorted. “That’ll be the least of her worries in another two days. We’ve just done the flags,” she added, gesturing to the cloth.

“Every army needs a flag,” said Bussa, grinning at her in the darkness. General Bussa, the others had begun to call him; of them all, he was the most involved in the military aspect of their plans.

Jenny looked down at the flag on top. The king and queen, conspicuously dark skinned, sat on either side of a black man wearing a tricorne and holding a musket as a royal warship sailed to his aid. Below them, a well-dressed black man and woman held hands, looking imploringly to the king and queen for their liberation.

Scrolled across the bottom of the flag, the legend read: Happiness ever remains the endeavour. Britannier are always happy to help all such sons as endeavour.

Jenny recognized the elegantly curved hand as Washington Franklin’s.

“We’ll get what they wanted for us,” said Jackey, touching his fingers to the figure of the queen. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll send to our aid when they hear.”

“I heard there might be troops coming from ’Mingo,” said King Wiltshire. “Frenchmen come to help us.”

“God saves those who endeavor for themselves,” said Nanny firmly. She bundled the flags out of the way. “We can’t rely on anyone but our own selves. They’ll bring the militia out on us, so we’ll have to act fast and make sure we act together. There’ll be fires to signal the time. Bussa’s to start at Bayleys.”

Bussa nodded. “Sunday at sunset.” He drew a map in the dust, using buttons for landmarks. “First Bayleys . . . then Rivers . . . Mapps . . . the Thicket . . . Three Houses . . . Golden Grove. As soon as I light the cane trash, the others will follow.”

“I’ve a great pile of corn in my garden ready to light,” said Cain Davis. “I’ve spread the word as far as I can; I’ve gone from house to house. We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

“We’ll have half the island in flames before they realize an ember’s been sparked,” said Jackey, with satisfaction.

“They’ll wake in the night to the smell of their cane burning,” said Nanny, with grim satisfaction. “That’ll wake them up all right.”

“And then to arms,” said Bussa quietly. “On the first night, they’ll cry water, and on the second night, they’ll cry blood.”

“Not Peverills.” The words were out before Jenny realized she’d spoken them. “Whatever you may think, Charles Davenant’s a good man. He means us well.”

Jackey folded his arms across his chest, leaning back against the rough wood wall. “He didn’t mean us well enough to give us our freedom.”

“He’s one man among many in the council. What was he to do?” Jenny looked around the circle, from one to the next. “Peverills is one plantation among many.”

“It’s one of the oldest,” said Franklin thoughtfully. “It will mean something to see it burn.”

“But not one of the richest,” Jenny argued. “There are better targets. If you want to make them quake, you’ll fire St. Nicholas Abbey or Sunbury.”

Jackey looked at Franklin, then at Bussa, who nodded slightly, and then back to Jenny. “All right. Peverills for your loyalty.”