“Certainly, but only after a trial,” Lyons replied. “I spoke with several Confederate cabinet members when I could not meet with Davis, and was informed that Negroes do not get trials because they are considered property, not humanity. I was asked with much laughter if I would insist on a trial for a rabid dog or a mad bull. When I reminded them that even a slave was counted partially in censuses, I was again laughed at and told that the parts that were counted were the slave's broad back and the size of his cock.”

Lyons refilled his glass from a carafe. Others did as well. “Gentlemen, the issue that is causing such an uproar in England is the lack of due process in conjunction with the abomination of slavery. Hang the man, damn it, but first try him. But the Confederates won't. They feel that any perception of leniency shown this Watson person would inspire other slaves to rebel. As it is, thanks to the Emancipation Proclamation and this poor fool Watson's efforts, many thousands of Confederate soldiers and militia are on slave patrol. I've been informed that several states have declined to send militia or reinforcements to help out the regular army because they need them at home to protect them against their own slaves.”

“Absurd,” muttered General Napier. “We need every man we can get for the coming campaign. The presence of the Royal Navy should have caused the Confederacy to eliminate the numerous coastal garrisons they'd established to prevent invasion, and bring their armies together to battle the Union. Instead, they husband them and others to put down slave rebellions. Defeat the North, then worry about the slaves. By God, defeat the North and there won't be a slave issue.”

“Therefore,” Lyons continued, “I implore you gentlemen not to go to the hanging. I am afraid it will be a Roman circus that will only be detrimental to us. Just about everyone in England is against slavery, and we do not need to have our noses rubbed in it by this tactless act by the Confederacy. It simply isn't necessary.”

“Then all is not well between we two allies?” inquired Napier with a sly smile.

Lyons smiled in return and made him a mock bow. “We are associates, not allies, my dear General. And yes, the quality of this association is indeed strained. I, for one, cannot wait for the day when this war is over and I can be posted to a civilized country.” He rolled his eyes in mock dismay. “Zululand, for instance.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE HANGING WAS set for the grounds of Libby Prison in Richmond. Libby was the infamous warehouse and adjacent area where Union officers were kept without adequate food or shelter. It had counterparts throughout both the North and the South, since neither side treated its prisoners with humanity. In all cases_: they were more death camps than prison camps.

The overcrowded prison stood on a large piece of otherwise starkly vacant property. The three-story building had originally been a ship's chandlery owned by Libby & Sons, hence its name. Within its bowels_: Hannibal Watson had been isolated.

Contrary to Lord Lyons^’s fears, the Confederate government had no intention of letting Hannibal's execution become a circus. A tall temporary wooden fence had been built around the gallows to the intense dismay and disgust of the several thousands of spectators who had gathered to see the infamous slave leader, Hannibal Watson, swing at the end of a rope.

The small, slender African woman had no intention of getting too close to the prison. The well-liquored crowd was on the verge of becoming a mob, and no one with a dark skin was safe should it turn violent. She'd seen several fellow Negroes knocked down and kicked just for having the same color skin as Hannibal Watson. She had no hope that her femininity would save her should someone take a dislike with her presence at this solemn occasion.

Prudently, she walked away and up a slight hill. From there she could see a little ways over the fence, which was more than those who pressed up to it could. Several hundred of Provost Marshall John Winder's soldiers fought to push the crowd away from the fence, which was in danger of collapse, and were liberal with clubs and rifle butts before they succeeded. She enjoyed the sight of white soldiers cracking white skulls.

There was a clamor as a door opened and people emerged into the sunlight. The Negro woman more sensed this than saw it until she saw the top of a man's head standing on the gallows. Unlike others, he was hatless and had dark, curly hair. She held her breath and watched as a sack was placed over his head and the noose tightened around his neck. There was no chaplain, no prayers were said, and, a second later, the trap was sprung. Hannibal Watson disappeared from her sight as the crowd roared its pleasure even though all they could see was part of a rope that once had been slack and now jerked taut.

The Negro woman walked away and headed back to the hotel where she worked as a cleaning woman. She was liked and respected there, but she was still a slave. She had a son, but he was safe, perhaps free. He was up north in Boston, where she should have gone when she'd had the chance.

As she walked towards the hotel, a tear ran down her cheek. So long parted, she thought, only to see him again like that. What a shame, what a waste. Silently, eloquently. Abigail Watson vowed revenge on the people who had destroyed her husband and her family.

Rosemarie DeLisle had gotten her money the old-fashioned way-she'd married it. At seventeen and as Rosemarie Willows, she had accepted the proposal of a sixty-seven-year-old planter. Jedidiah DeLisle. Mr. DeLisle owned several plantations and had numerous other investments that made him an extremely wealthy man. He was also infatuated with Rosemarie, who had an excellent name and pedigree but no money.

Gossips had scoffed at the marriage, but Rosemarie had surprised them. She'd felt a genuine affection for the old man who was in constant ill health. When he worsened, she nursed him and earned the grudging admiration of her social peers, even though some of them whimsically thought she had worn him out sexually. When he died three years later, she inherited all his fortune and no one resented it.

Now, at age thirty, Rosemarie DeLisle was accepted as a member of Richmond's society, and a still young and eligible widow. She was also a good friend of Varina Davis, the wife of Jefferson Davis.

Rosemarie DeLisle also liked both sex and John Knollys, who was the latest and most interesting in a short line of discreet lovers. Both she and John were naked, exhausted, and sweat-sheened from their exertions. She rested half seated on her large bed, while he lay with his head on her lap and gazed at a full breast whose nipple seemed to be staring back at him.

She tweaked at his thinning hair. “What say you, Lord John, once more into the breach?”

Knollys smiled. She knew he wasn't a lord. Minor nobility yes, but not a lord. “Aye wench, but not for a while. The lordly battering ram needs repair. Christ, you've damn near destroyed me.”

She sighed in mock sadness. “So much for the British Empire and every man doing his duty by laying alongside his lady.”

Knollys laughed. He was really quite fond of Rosemarie DeLisle. She was far more educated and interesting than anyone else he'd met, and that included Valerie D'Estaing, who was probably screwing her way across Europe. He'd heard through Lord Lyons's sources that the D'Estaings had been sent back to France in what might have been disgrace.

“Can't we just talk for a moment?” he asked.

“If we must. But not overlong,” she sighed dramatically. Rosemarie did like the fact that he appreciated her mind as well as her full, ripe body. Most men did not think she had a brain, which made Knollys quite unique. Of course, most men didn't think any woman was capable of intellectual discourse, or for that matter, of actually enjoying sexual intercourse. “What are your thoughts on the execution of the slave?”