She pulled the distinctive blanket from underneath the horse’s saddle strap and bunched it up to hide it from the riders, some of whom had matching cloths. She started trotting the animal like a trainer in a corral, with her head close to its and their legs moving in unison. Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven…In moments they would be relatively safe. Then she heard a sound she half recognized and could not ignore. A laugh. A sudden donkey laugh, but from a man. She looked toward it. No tricks of hope. This time she truly found the laughter’s shape familiar. It seemed to buckle his whole body. His hands were shaking and his head was down. Franklin’s signature.

Margaret knew at once that she’d been blessed. It was a wonder that their paths had crossed again in such a vast and wayward land. It was as well a miracle that Franklin should have laughed at all, for what was there for anyone to laugh at on such a day of slaughter? Without his laugh she would have hurried on with Jackie to Tidewater and been none the wiser. She stepped out of the shadow of her horse and raised her hand to show herself to Franklin.

What next? Margaret hadn’t time to think. She’d not remember what happened after that, not exactly, not in all its detail or its order. But there were images that stuck, amid the commotion: one of the horsemen had dug his heels into his mount and was moving toward Franklin with his stick raised, meaning to put an end to any laughter; Margaret was calling out with a reckless abandon, too desperate and elated to be limited by any fear or caution, “Fran Klin! Fran Klin!”; Franklin was raising his arms, either to wave at her or to shield himself against a beating; a second horseman had already turned and started riding up the slight incline toward her, calling out for her to show herself and put her hands on her shoulders; she was stepping clear of the horse and holding up Jackie, just to show that she was nobody more dangerous than a young mother with a child.

By the time Margaret had looked again across the corpses and the open trenches, Franklin had already taken three blows to his shoulder and a fourth to his head. The next never made contact. Franklin, too stunned to be cowardly, caught hold of the horseman’s leg and flipped him from his saddle. Such an easy thing to do. The rider fell heavily on his shoulder and was slow to rise, too slow at least to defend himself against the flat back of a spade, wielded by one of Franklin’s comrades in the gang. Now Franklin somehow had a heavy mallet in his hand and was swinging it wildly. The third rider, already off his horse — because he had been dragged out of his saddle or had dismounted — was running for his life toward the Ark.

The second rider, now halfway between Margaret and his dismounted colleagues, was quick to realize that he could not manage on his own with such a large gang armed with heavy tools and waste metal and so clearly ready to be mutinous. He turned his horse and started to ride for assistance. In moments he’d come back with his fiercest friends, and there’d be punishments.

Margaret, too, was moving quickly. This much was clear to her. She had to be valiant. She had to be a horsewoman. Thank goodness that she’d taken such a modest, willing animal. She pulled herself onto its back, tucked Jackie between her thighs, and held her tight with her left arm. She surprised herself by riding efficiently with just one hand on the reins, though more rapidly than she’d intended. The group of men from the labor gang were beginning to look more frightened and confused than exhilarated. These unpracticed heroes were alarmed. What might be the consequences of their hotheadedness? Some, seeing Margaret bearing down on them, were already running toward the cover of the trees. Others headed toward Tidewater, putting their hopes in the distant streets where they might disappear among the crowds. A few had stopped to help themselves to jewelry and valuables. Others seemed too scared to run. They stood and watched the woman on the horse, not knowing what to expect from her.

Franklin had not moved off either, but not because he was rooted to the spot by fear. He was standing with his hands above his head, clapping and still laughing, despite the pain in his shoulder and the bruising across his forehead. Again Margaret called his name. But he’d already seen her. He’d recognized her voice and the redness of her now almost thumb-length curly hair as soon as she had shouted his name the first time. He might have taken that second blow to his head if he had not known that Margaret was watching and would be ashamed if she observed what sort of slave he had become.

The slave master whom Franklin had thrown so easily from his mount was sitting up among the bodies of the slaughtered devotees and was holding his head between blood-red hands. But his horse was loose and for the taking. Franklin had it now. He’d been used to horses on his farm. They trusted him. Before Margaret had reached the trenches on her horse, he was mounted, too. He turned its head and dug his heels into its sides. He was its master now.

Margaret found her way between the open trenches and the spoils heaps, winded and elated. “Let’s go,” she said, and loved herself a little for her poise. He shook his head with disbelief. There were so many questions to be asked. Where had she come from? Whose little child was this? He rode with Margaret at his shoulder — at his aching shoulder — toward the north side of the Ark, scarlet with pleasure, too breathless even to say a word to her. He had overexerted himself that day, but joy was fizzing in his lungs. His mouth, and hers, were stretched too wide with smiles for them to form a single sound.

Fourteen

Time now for Margaret and Franklin to take stock of themselves and each other. They’d spent the afternoon riding eastward into the salty scrubland beyond the Ark. Franklin led on the larger horse, with Jackie (as yet unexplained) tied round his bruised shoulders in the loops of the saddle blanket. Margaret, less used to riding, allowed her mount to chase its companion’s tail, half expecting at any moment to hear the beats of a pursuit. The slave masters would try to hunt them down, that was certain. It would be a matter of pride, for a day or two at least, Franklin said. So, hardly minding where it led so long as it was away from any building and therefore any immediate danger, they chose to follow a wet and shingled creekbed, where their horses would not leave any trackable hoofprints. When Margaret’s horse, a mare, lifted its tail to drop its dung, Franklin dismounted and kicked the still steaming muck away into the undergrowth, out of sight. And when any branch or twig was snapped, he took the time to disguise its clean, pale end with mud.

The couple kept to low ground when they could, but as the afternoon dimmed and quieted, so did their anxiety. Conversation was not easy. Now that they were back together, they were awkward and tongue-tied. This was an encounter rescued far too suddenly from their dreams. So many times that winter they had imagined this meeting, what they might say, how they would hug and weep, but they had never truly believed in it. The world was not as generous as that. This dream-free moment was too great a gift. They felt too ill at ease to embrace each other and exchange kisses of relief. They were not kin, after all. They had not been lovers. It did not seem possible that last fall (though only for a few days) she had been his Mags and he had been her Pigeon. Whatever feelings there had been between them then (and it was difficult to know which memories were genuine and which were fantasies) could not be acknowledged openly yet. It was too soon to express out loud any joy at being free, united, heading east. Instead they concentrated on the practicalities — moving onward as quickly and as quietly as they could, hoping to find shelter and a meal, keeping Jackie amused with softly sung rhymes until, exhausted by the motion of riding and the warmth of Franklin’s back, she slept.