Charleston by John Jakes

heart thumping. “Walter?”
    â€œYes, sir. I hear ’em too. They comin’.”
    Sooner than expected. Edward pulled on his trousers and shirt and rushed past his mother’s bedroom, pistols in hand. He prayed she’d stay asleep, safe behind her closed door.

6
The Partisans
    A breeze from the river carried sweet, yeasty smells of earth and wet vegetation. A huge full moon revealed the file of horsemen. Edward stepped off the front piazza and walked barefoot to stand beside Big Walter, a bald black man round as a tub. Big Walter’s thick fingers held an old smoothbore musket slanted across his chest. His thumb rested on the S-shaped hammer. Edward whispered, “My father said at least seven raided Pertwee’s. I count five. I wonder where the other two—”
    The roar of a gun, then another, answered his unfinished question. The echoes went rolling through the night. Behind the outbuildings two men began to shout. Edward guessed the pair had circled wide and fired their weapons to rouse and cow the slaves.
    Sweat on Edward’s forehead cooled in the breeze. The first horseman crossed a patch of coarse grass and reined up in front of him. His four cohorts hung back within a grove of tall water oaks. Edward couldn’t see their faces because of their bicorne hats, but he saw the flash of silver and brass pistol mountings.
    â€œGood evening, sir. You don’t know me but I know you. Young Mr. Bell, I believe?”
    â€œYou have the advantage of me, sir.”
    Poorly came dashing around the corner of the house. Edward warned him back with a slashing gesture. The leader of the partisans was hatless but wrapped in a cloak despite the warm night. Edward aimed both pistols at him.
    â€œTurn around and get off this property.”
    â€œI think not, sir.” The muzzle of a horse pistol peeped from beneath the man’s cloak. Two pistols against one; for the moment, a standoff. Edward’s stomach hurt.
    The leader was a large man of about forty, with a pronounced paunch showing under his cloak. His nose and chin were sharp, his forehead high, his gray-streaked hair tied off behind his head. As he surveyed the situation, moonlight showed one eye wandering toward his nose, then back, a bizarre effect.
    He spoke to Edward with the confidence and condescension of a hanging judge. “Malvern Plantation is owned by Mr. Thomas Bell, a man known to be an obnoxious traitor. The property is hereby confiscated.”
    â€œOn whose authority?”
    â€œMine, sir. William Lark, Esquire, loyal servant of His Majesty King George. Your niggers are being restrained. No harm will come to them so long as you don’t offer resistance. My men and I will explore the house, take what goods we want. Some of your wenches, too, perhaps. Then the property will be burned.”
    â€œI’ll blow you out of the saddle first,” Edward promised.
    From the corner of his eye Edward detected Big Walter’s sudden turn to look behind them. Poorly was staring as well. Edward felt a hard cold ring of iron, a gun muzzle, touch his neck.
    â€œI got him, Captain. ’F he twitches, he’s gone.”
    â€œOne of you disarm him,” Lark called over his shoulder. A man jogged out of the shadows of the water oaks. He was passing on Lark’s left when the front door opened noisily. Eliza’s voice caught them by surprise.
    â€œI heard gunfire.”
    The man behind Edward jerked his musket from Edward’s neck. He spun toward the house. Just as he shouted, “Mother, go back,” the partisan shot her.
    The ball struck Eliza’s chest. A blood flower bloomed on the short bed coat she wore over an ivory chemise. She spilled sideways onto the piazza, her mobcap tumbling off. Edward let out a cry and fired one pistol at Lark.
    The ball hit Lark’s thigh and left a smoking hole in his trousers. Lark’s horse whinnied, rose on hind legs, and pawed the air.