Apalachee

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

called out to him in Spanish, speaking quickly, fighting against Cobb, motioning back across the yard toward the other woman. ‘‘She says that woman there is her aunt,’’ said the sailor. ‘‘She don’t want to be taken without her.’’ ‘‘There’s always something,’’ said John Hawkins. ‘‘You can’t listen to them. Move her on, Cobb.’’ ‘‘I’m trying, sir,’’ said Cobb, attempting to catch both her arms to keep her from fighting. ‘‘She’s a strong one. You’d do well to bind her.’’ ‘‘She’ll be all right once she’s out,’’ said John Hawkins. ‘‘You,’’ he said to the sailor. ‘‘Come lend a hand. Help Cobb get her out of here.’’ The sailor stood motionless, watching Lucia as she struggled and pleaded in words that only he could understand. He shook his head. ‘‘It’s none of my affair, and I’ll have no part in it.’’ He turned his back to them, waiting for the gate to be unlocked. Isaac stepped forward reluctantly to give Cobb a hand. This was the most unpleasant moment he had yet encountered in his new profession, worse than the fracas with Ramsay, and he wished he could do as the sailor was doing and stay out of it. But she was his slave, he had sold her, and he went now and took hold of her free arm. Together with Cobb they moved her on toward the gate, almost carrying her while she still struggled and made her pleas to the sailor. The sailor would not look at her now, and as soon as the gate was open, he slipped out and was gone. Isaac and Cobb brought Lucia out into the alley, John Hawkins and Abraham following, the gate pushed to and locked. She turned and looked back at the high board fence, tears in her eyes. But she ceased her struggle. Her shoulders slumped, and when Cobb released her, Isaac led her with little trouble down the alley and out into the bustle of Bay Street. 213 chapter twenty-five Lucia made herself pay attention to her surroundings as they walked along. She noted the buildings they passed and the turns they made away from the street that fronted the bay. She noted alleys and places where there were people who appeared to be poor, some of them white-skinned, others swarthy , a mixture of bloods. Such people might hide a runaway, just as in San Augustı́n such people would trade with Carlos for his stolen goods. But they might just as likely turn in a runaway to claim the reward. She would have to be careful, wait, take time to learn the place. This town where she had been bought as a slave was not so very far from Creek country. Her hope of escape was strong. But she was in pain over Ana. Her heart dragged the ground because of that, and her mind was so distracted by it that she had to force herself to pay attention to where they were taking her, past wooden houses that were handsome and substantial compared to the poverty of San Augustı́n. And now they had come to a house made of brick, and they were turning her from the street and taking her through the yard of this place, around to the back where there was a kitchen separate from the house, and peach trees in bloom, and a garden green with spring vegetables, and a stable and sheds and chickens scratching in the yard. They led her to the kitchen. The Englishman who had brought her from Creek country and the tall Englishman with the big nose stood back while the stout Englishman with the cane took her just inside the door. They blocked the light as they stood there, and for a moment she could see nothing but the silhouette of someone across the room in front of the fire, a woman, who turned toward them, wiping her arm over her face. As Lucia’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, she could see that the woman was an Indian, Ana’s age or a little younger. The man spoke to the woman in English, Lucia understanding nothing of what was being said. The woman looked at Lucia and nodded and again rubbed her arm across her face, wiping perspiration away. Now the Englishman spoke at length, the woman nodding, glancing now and then at Lucia. The woman said something, and the Englishman...