Ashes Read Free

counted to one hundred, as was our custom in unsure circumstances such as this. By the end of the count the woods had fallen silent. The gritty fog of gunpowder smoke drifted away. We crawled until we could peek around the opposite ends of the log. In the distance the militiamen were chasing the British patrol south down on the road. The guard’s body lay still by the fire. I did not have enough of a view to see if there were any more wounded lying about, or worse, any militia waiting to shoot at stragglers.
    Curzon’s view must have been blocked too, for he gave his end of the log a small push.
    The rattlesnake did not take kindly to having its hidey-hole disturbed.
    It coiled in tight loops and raised its head, hissing fiercely, its stiff tail shaking a dire warning. The head bobbed side to side, fangs displayed, its eyes level with Curzon’s. He became still as a statue carved from rock.
    The tang of gunpowder, the buzz of bullets, the threat of a deadly snake; these awaken all of the senses at once with a powerful ferocity. I could hear the retreating boot steps of the men, smell the blood stench of the dead soldier, see the pattern the snake wove in the air as it prepared to kill. I tasted fear.
    My left hand, out of the snake’s sight, felt for the hatchet in my belt. I fumbled with the leather tie that kept it secured, then slowly pulled it free. I shifted closer to Curzon. The snake noticed. It turned its head to me and shook its rattles faster.
    I gripped the hatchet.
    Curzon scratched at the fallen pine needles with his fingers, diverting the snake’s attention and giving me the advantage.
    The snake opened its jaws.
    With all the fury I could muster, I brought the hatchet down onto the serpent, cleaving its head from its body with one blow. I pulled the blade free from the dirt and chopped again and again until at last Curzon grabbed my arm, and I stopped, panting.
    â€œYou’ve killed it three times over,” he said.
    I spat on the remains. “Snakes vex me.”

CHAPTER III

Monday, June 25, 1781
    I WAS BORN IN THE P ROVINCE OF S OUTH C AROLINA, 28 MILES FROM C HARLES -T OWN. M Y FATHER WAS STOLEN AWAY FROM A FRICA WHEN HE WAS YOUNG.
    â€“M EMOIRS OF B OSTON K ING, WHO FLED SLAVERY TO JOIN THE B RITISH ARMY
    I WAS GOING TO KILL it, you know.” Curzon prodded a bit of chopped snake belly with the toe of his boot. “I was going to smash it with a rock.”
    I shrugged. I should have been giddy with delight about my victory over the creature and the fact that our enemies had chased each other away from this place. We had again cheated death and soldiers. But instead of being joyful, I felt weary and strangely out of sorts.
    â€œYou seemed determined to do the killing,” Curzon continued, crouching to admire the sharp fangs of the snake. “So I let you.”
    â€œYou let me?” I absently reached to pick up a bit of the snake’s body.
    Curzon stayed my hand. “What are you doing?”
    â€œIt’s dead.” I stared at him. “We should cook it later, once we find a safe spot.”
    â€œIt will rot in this heat before we can cook it, Isabel. We’d both be sickened.”
    He was right, of course. It was a commonsensical notion, the kind of thing a child would know. Why had I not thought of it?
    He studied me close. “Are you feeling addled?”
    I gave my head a small shake, trying to clear the clouds from my brainpan. “Nay, just hungry.”
    â€œI’ll see if the fire spared us any rabbit,” he said. “You investigate that stone and figger our course. Sooner we’re gone from here, the better.”
    We crossed the road, keeping eyes and ears open for the approach of any man or beast. Curzon approached the smoldering cook fire and the body of the dead soldier. I made for the milestone that had been our reason for coming to this place.
    We’d spied on any number of Carolina plantations in the weeks