This is a far more delicate beast than simply running away. It involves winning the trust and confidence of more than just one or two men. No, if this is to work they'll need nearly all of them - or enough to make up for the fact that they will be armed with coach pins and shovels, with hammers and garden spades. And while he doubts any man among them would take up arms against them when the time comes for fighting, he knows there's something intoxicating in safety while there's the illusion of peace to be had. Separating the wheat from the chaff of who is trustworthy and who is unreliable takes time - days of sweating in the fields - and patience - listening to the things people say in the dark - and spending time not glued to Thomas's side. The last one is the hardest and most necessary. There are particular kinds of men here who bend more willingly when they aren't being actively reminded of the softest parts of James, just as there are men who knew Thomas best as he was before James had materialized here out of the sea.
"How old is your sister, George?" he asks as he sets a walnut between his shoe heel and a flat stone.
George McNair goes still. It's Sunday and because the man who owns them is civilized about white men's place in the eyes of God, it means they have an hour of time in the afternoon after the reading of scripture to watch the African slaves do their their work.
(They will need them too, James thinks. But how to do it when they should barely speak to one another?)
"Thirty," McNair says. He doesn't flinch when James cracks the nut's shell with a pop. If he's surprised that James knows, it doesn't show anywhere except in how quiet he's become. "Why?"
"Forgive me, I just was told by one of the girls how pretty she is and the Bible makes me sentimental." It's a harmless statement from someone like him, isn't it? Maybe from a man who didn't spend every night in Thomas's bed McNair might mistake it for some kind of threat or joke. James splits the shell in half and shakes the debris out into his palm. "It's a shame. No one should be robbed of so much opportunity. --Walnut?"
McNair shakes his head. "All right," says James and makes his way back to where Thomas is sitting in the dappled sunlight.
There can be no midnight addresses. There can be no rallying the men. It must all be quiet conversation and the slow leveraging of personalities. If no one can be trusted with every part of this scheme, they must be confident that they will do the things asked of them when the moment comes anyway. He has no idea if it's working, then the scent of something acrid and heavy in the night air wakes him up from a dead sleep all at once. In the dark of the bunkhouse, he lifts himself up on his elbow beside Thomas and listens. Then James touches his shoulder-- "Thomas," -- and slips from the cot, crossing the space in the dark and pushing open the door. The barn is on fire, every stone between here and there illuminated.
For a split second, the possibility of New France occurs to him. Then he turns quickly, hauls the mean nearest the door from his cot, and adopts his best quarterdeck bellow: "Up and dressed and follow me!"
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"How old is your sister, George?" he asks as he sets a walnut between his shoe heel and a flat stone.
George McNair goes still. It's Sunday and because the man who owns them is civilized about white men's place in the eyes of God, it means they have an hour of time in the afternoon after the reading of scripture to watch the African slaves do their their work.
(They will need them too, James thinks. But how to do it when they should barely speak to one another?)
"Thirty," McNair says. He doesn't flinch when James cracks the nut's shell with a pop. If he's surprised that James knows, it doesn't show anywhere except in how quiet he's become. "Why?"
"Forgive me, I just was told by one of the girls how pretty she is and the Bible makes me sentimental." It's a harmless statement from someone like him, isn't it? Maybe from a man who didn't spend every night in Thomas's bed McNair might mistake it for some kind of threat or joke. James splits the shell in half and shakes the debris out into his palm. "It's a shame. No one should be robbed of so much opportunity. --Walnut?"
McNair shakes his head. "All right," says James and makes his way back to where Thomas is sitting in the dappled sunlight.
There can be no midnight addresses. There can be no rallying the men. It must all be quiet conversation and the slow leveraging of personalities. If no one can be trusted with every part of this scheme, they must be confident that they will do the things asked of them when the moment comes anyway. He has no idea if it's working, then the scent of something acrid and heavy in the night air wakes him up from a dead sleep all at once. In the dark of the bunkhouse, he lifts himself up on his elbow beside Thomas and listens. Then James touches his shoulder-- "Thomas," -- and slips from the cot, crossing the space in the dark and pushing open the door. The barn is on fire, every stone between here and there illuminated.
For a split second, the possibility of New France occurs to him. Then he turns quickly, hauls the mean nearest the door from his cot, and adopts his best quarterdeck bellow: "Up and dressed and follow me!"
Let them discover exactly who can follow orders.