_I_ll
now. So, for that matter, was the expression on the face of the black gunner's mate.
Suddenly, Sam understood the problem. A white man entering Foxall's Foundry and hauling away materials would be presumed to be going about official and legitimate business. That would be true even if he wasn't wearing a uniform, since many civilians had been providing assistance to the army.
A black man would be presumed a thief—or, worse yet, a runaway slave providing supplies to the enemy. He'd likely be shot, or hanged on the spot.
"What's your name?" he asked the teamster.
"Henry Crowell, Captain."
Sam nodded. "Here's how it'll be, Henry." He glanced around and spotted Driscol's young companion, standing not far from the lieutenant.
"Private McParland!"
McParland trotted over.
"You already know Henry, I believe."
"Yes, sir." McParland gave the black teamster a cordial smile.
"I want you to provide him with an escort. He'll be going to Foxall's Foundry to bring us some supplies. I'll need you to verify his credentials, in the event someone might question his purpose. I'll write you out some official orders, which you can show anyone who asks. If they won't accept that—"
"I'll shoot 'em, sir. Not a problem." The private's bland assurance gave way to uncertainty. He glanced toward Driscol. "But—"
"I'll inform the lieutenant," Sam said firmly. He started to add something else, but saw that Driscol already was coming over.
Once Driscol was apprised of the situation, he immediately agreed with Sam. "But we can do better than that. We can round up some more wagons along the way, with enough men. Most of them are just standing around doing nothing now, anyway."
He turned to McParland. "Find Corporal Pendleton. Tell him and his unit of Baltimore dragoons to go with you. That'll give you enough men—in fancy uniforms, to make things perfect— that you'll be able to sequester some more wagons. Bring back as much as you can." He nodded toward Crowell. "For the rest, just do whatever Henry tells you to do."
McParland left, with Henry Crowell in tow. The teamster was still looking a bit dubious, but Sam spotted a little gleam in his eyes, as well. It wasn't often that a black man had a unit of white soldiers not only providing him with an escort
Suddenly, Sam understood the problem. A white man entering Foxall's Foundry and hauling away materials would be presumed to be going about official and legitimate business. That would be true even if he wasn't wearing a uniform, since many civilians had been providing assistance to the army.
A black man would be presumed a thief—or, worse yet, a runaway slave providing supplies to the enemy. He'd likely be shot, or hanged on the spot.
"What's your name?" he asked the teamster.
"Henry Crowell, Captain."
Sam nodded. "Here's how it'll be, Henry." He glanced around and spotted Driscol's young companion, standing not far from the lieutenant.
"Private McParland!"
McParland trotted over.
"You already know Henry, I believe."
"Yes, sir." McParland gave the black teamster a cordial smile.
"I want you to provide him with an escort. He'll be going to Foxall's Foundry to bring us some supplies. I'll need you to verify his credentials, in the event someone might question his purpose. I'll write you out some official orders, which you can show anyone who asks. If they won't accept that—"
"I'll shoot 'em, sir. Not a problem." The private's bland assurance gave way to uncertainty. He glanced toward Driscol. "But—"
"I'll inform the lieutenant," Sam said firmly. He started to add something else, but saw that Driscol already was coming over.
Once Driscol was apprised of the situation, he immediately agreed with Sam. "But we can do better than that. We can round up some more wagons along the way, with enough men. Most of them are just standing around doing nothing now, anyway."
He turned to McParland. "Find Corporal Pendleton. Tell him and his unit of Baltimore dragoons to go with you. That'll give you enough men—in fancy uniforms, to make things perfect— that you'll be able to sequester some more wagons. Bring back as much as you can." He nodded toward Crowell. "For the rest, just do whatever Henry tells you to do."
McParland left, with Henry Crowell in tow. The teamster was still looking a bit dubious, but Sam spotted a little gleam in his eyes, as well. It wasn't often that a black man had a unit of white soldiers not only providing him with an escort