“Dumb fucking nigger,” Farnum said, his voice slurred from drink, “that's goddamn vegetables you're pulling up.”

Hannibal knew the difference between vegetables and weeds, and knew full well he was pulling the right items. He normally wouldn't mind damaging Farnum's property, but vegetables also meant food for himself and the other slaves once the Farnums had their fill.

Hannibal bowed his head, waiting for the inevitable blow. “Fucking nigger,” snarled Farnum. He kicked Hannibal hard in the ribs, causing him to topple and roll over in the dirt.

As he rolled, Hannibal's hand found a good-sized rock and grasped it. With it solidly in his possession, he rolled to a crouching position, a black panther ready to pounce. Later he thought his mind might have snapped.

Hannibal screamed and pounded the rock into Farnum's face. Blood gushed from Farnum's smashed nose and mouth as he lurched backwards. Hannibal struck him again and Farnum sat down on the ground. Hannibal screamed in rage and smashed the rock down onto Farnum's skull, hearing the sound of bone cracking. Farnum fell backwards and lay still while blood spread and soaked into the dry ground.

Hannibal's rage departed. He stood for a moment and contemplated the awful thing he had done. He had killed a white man. Buck, the slave he considered closest to a friend and ally, stood a few yards away, his face frozen in shock. None of the other slaves were around.

Think, Hannibal ordered himself. “Get Mrs. Farnum. Say her man's hurt.”

Buck paused and then laughed harshly. He spit onto Farnum's lifeless and ruined face. “Well, that's true enough, ain't it.”

While Buck ran off, Hannibal dragged Farnum's body into the brush, where his old lady wouldn't see it until it was too late. Sure enough, in a few minutes, Farnum's skinny bitch of a wife came running up, her mouth open in concern. For the briefest of moments, he felt sorry for her.

Hannibal gestured to her and she ran past him. As she did, he struck her on the back of the neck with the same rock that had killed her husband. She fell and lay limp. “Goddamn,” said Buck, “that was good. You done broke her ugly neck.” Then he looked puzzled. “What we gonna do now?”

Think, Hannibal ordered himself. Think. It had only taken a little while for his absence to be noticed the last time he'd run off. This time it had to be different, or he stood no chance at all of staying alive and reaching freedom.

He and Buck grabbed the Farnums by the ankles and dragged them farther into the brush, where they dug a shallow grave and buried them. Few people ever came to visit the disagreeable couple, but he couldn't take the chance that the bodies would be discovered, at least not for a while.

For Hannibal it was important that he buy time. Thus, it had to appear that the Farnums had simply packed up and left. It wouldn't be at all unreasonable. Their “plantation” was failing and, war or no war, other people had run off west to escape their failures.

He and Buck, joined by the woman, Bessie, scoured the Farnums’ house and took away from it things they thought white people would carry if they were running away. These they either kept for themselves or hid in the woods.

It hurt to take most of the livestock and poultry into the woods and slaughter them, but Hannibal knew he couldn't take them. They would be travelling as far from the roads as possible in order to avoid army patrols, and animals would only slow them down. The same thing with the wagon. It struck him as reasonable that the Farnums would be expected to take it if they ran off west, so it. too. was driven into the woods and torn apart.

By nightfall. Hannibal was satisfied that he had done what he could to confuse anyone who stumbled onto what appeared to be an abandoned homestead. That only left the question of the remaining slaves. If they were captured, there would be nothing as simple as a flogging and sale to a new, harsher master. No, this time capture meant death. They had killed not only a white man, but a white woman. That Mrs. Farnum had been a slattern wasn't important. She had been killed by a nigger and that meant she was a saint. The nigger who killed her would be whipped, castrated, and maybe skinned alive before being permitted to die.

“Buck, what about the others?” Hannibal asked. He had his own opinions but wanted to hear the other man's.

Buck shrugged. Like Hannibal his few possessions were on his back and he was anxious to leave. This place was dangerous.

“Bessie's with us_:” Buck said_: “but I don't know about the other two. They so scared they can't even shit. But they do understand that they'll be considered as guilty as we are. Hell they saw two dead white people that were killed by nigger slaves. They know they'll die just like us if they're caught.”

Hannibal thought it over. They could come with them and live, he decided, but he would watch them like a hawk. If they faltered for any reason, he would kill them. He had never killed anyone before, and was astonished at just how easy it was.

The thought of freedom was exhilarating. It didn't matter that he could be a hunted animal at any time. What mattered was that he was free. He was willing to kill and kill again in order to keep that freedom. If his freedom was born in blood and bathed in blood, then so be it. He would find his wife and son.

They would go north to Mr. Lincoln's land.

The invitation to join General George McClellan for lunch in the field during maneuvers came as a pleasant surprise to Nathan Hunter. He accepted, of course. He was more than a little curious as to why the Union's commanding general wanted to talk and about what. Nathan also looked forward to seeing the new army in operation.

On the way to his destination a few miles north of Washington, Nathan managed to spend some time watching regimental-sized units maneuver, and was impressed by the alacrity with which they carried out their orders. That this was from an army that didn't exist a year before was what made it truly impressive.

At midday, Nathan was passed through a number of well-turned-out sentries and directed to a large tent where Major General George Brinton McClellan was surrounded by several of his brother generals. Nathan easily recognized John Pope, Joe Hooker, Ambrose Burnside, and several others. Men he'd known from prior service nodded greetings that were friendly but reserved. After all, he wasn't in uniform, but he was visiting the general. He could see them wondering just what he was doing there.

Alan Pinkerton, McClellan's intelligence expert, was departing as he arrived. Pinkerton glanced furtively around and saw Nathan. He averted his face and walked away. A truly strange duck, thought Nathan.

McClellan greeted Nathan with great cordiality, which surprised Nathan. He'd known McClellan, but not well enough to warrant such a degree of friendliness. As befitting a commanding general, McClellan was dressed in an impeccably fitted uniform. He may have been a short man, but Nathan thought he looked every inch a general.

Like so many of his peers, McClellan had served with distinction in the Mexican War, had fought Indians on the frontier, and had been an American observer of the British in the Crimea. He had resigned his commission in 1857, but had come back as a general of Ohio volunteers. McClellan had won two small battles over thoroughly outnumbered Confederates in western Virginia. As a result, West Virginia was now separate from Virginia, and George Brinton McClellan had become commander of the Army of the Potomac and, later, commanding general of all Union armies. It was a heady climb for someone whose highest rank in the regulars had been captain, and Nathan now wondered if the man was up to the awesome task.

McClellan finished with his fellow officers and gestured for Nathan to have a seat in the tent. It was heated, which kept out the winter chill, and a cook had prepared a lunch of pork chops and potatoes, and a bottle of port sat in the middle of the table. Nathan didn't begrudge McClellan, or any general for that matter, the ability to eat better than the ordinary soldiers. That simply came with the rank. The food was excellent.