Chapter 638: The Wails of North America
A Black officer in a white uniform hesitated before addressing Booker in a loud voice:
"Great Houngan, we should avoid engaging the white army. They outnumber us greatly. Retreating west or into the South Carolina mountains would be our best option."
He referred to Booker by his title as a Houngan, a high priest of Voodoo—a role that Booker now occupied in both a religious and leadership capacity.
Booker shot the officer a cold glare, thrusting his spyglass into the man's hands and pointing forcefully toward the American camp. His voice was filled with bitterness as he growled:
"I can't abandon them."
The officer didn't need to look. He already knew what Booker was referring to. Hanging from trees outside the white soldiers' plantation camp were the bodies of over 200 Black men and women—he had seen them up close during a scouting mission the previous day.
These captives had likely tried to escape South Carolina to join Booker's rebellion but were recaptured before crossing the border. Now, their wrists were bound, and they had been left dangling from tree branches for three days. At least a third of them had already died, but many still writhed in agony, visible even from this distance.
The Americans had deliberately displayed the tortured bodies in full view of Booker's forces, a psychological weapon aimed at breaking their resolve.
Booker paced furiously, his eyes ablaze with rage. Suddenly, he grabbed the officer by the collar and shouted:
"I've been hung like that before! I know how excruciating it is!
"I swore to the spirits of nature that I would ensure no Black man or woman suffers like that again. I swore to kill every white who tortured us!
"The spirits saved me—I didn't die. Now, I must save them!"
Around him, his soldiers roared in fury:
"Kill the whites!"
"Save the captives!"
Booker scanned his men, now fueled with righteous anger, and declared:
"Our ancestors will protect us! The spirits of nature will guide us!"
His soldiers fell to their knees, chanting prayers after him.
Satisfied, Booker released the officer, addressing him with a grim determination:
"Anson, I'll lead an assault from the south to create chaos. You'll sneak into the plantation to free the captives. After that, we'll retreat to the northern mountains."
Anson hesitated, glancing toward the American camp, but eventually nodded solemnly:
"Yes, Great Houngan."
The Assault
At 2:00 PM, Booker led 2,600 men around to the Americans' right flank.
Among his soldiers were many still wielding machetes—not because there weren't enough muskets, but because they didn't know how to use them. Only two weeks earlier, these men and women had been slaves working under the lash in cotton fields. Now, they fought for freedom with fierce determination.
Major General Anthony Wayne, commanding the U.S. Legion, quickly received reports of the approaching rebels from his cavalry scouts. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he turned to his officers, issuing a flurry of orders.
Booker's assault had barely begun when they met the First Infantry of the U.S. Legion, supported by three militia regiments.
Booker, invoking Voodoo prayers, led his men into close combat with the Americans, fighting like wild animals. But the U.S. cavalry soon appeared behind him, cutting off his retreat.
Anson, hearing the gunfire to the north, wasted no time. He led 1,500 soldiers in a charge toward the plantation near the border.
As they neared, the anguished faces of the hanging captives came into view. But just as they prepared to liberate them, gunfire erupted from all directions.
The dangling captives were cut down by musket balls, their suffering finally ended in a hail of blood and violence.
Simultaneously, 6,000–7,000 American troops marched in unison to the beat of war drums, closing in on Anson's force from every side.
A Fierce Resistance
The battle raged until dusk. Anson's men fought to the last, refusing to surrender. Even outnumbered and outgunned, they managed to take over 300 American lives before being wiped out.
On Booker's front, the fighting was just as brutal.
The hardened veterans from Saint-Domingue in his ranks held off the American cavalry, even managing to capture several horses.
Thanks to their bravery, Booker and 500 survivors broke through the encirclement and fled.
Upon reuniting with an additional 800 soldiers assigned for support, Booker learned of Anson's death. Swallowing his grief, he ordered his forces to retreat westward.
Pursued relentlessly by the Americans, Booker followed the instructions given to him earlier by the "Duke of Leeds' men," crossing the southwestern Savannah River into the territory of the Altamaha Tribe.
A Fragile Alliance
The following morning, Booker met with envoys sent by Altamaha Chief Opiemic Hopoisser.
Upon hearing that Booker was fighting against the Americans, the Altamaha welcomed his forces warmly, providing food, tents, and warriors to patrol the riverbanks against possible attacks.
Two days later, at the rebel camp, Booker walked through rows of wounded soldiers, pausing to kick one writhing in pain.
"Quiet down, useless scum!" he snarled.
The groans of the injured quickly diminished.
Booker inspected the soldier's abdominal wound, his expression hardening. He gestured sharply to a nearby guard, making a slicing motion across his throat.
Without hesitation, the guard drew a knife and ended the soldier's suffering.
Booker continued down the line, executing another three or four grievously wounded men. He knew they wouldn't survive more than a few days and refused to let them drag the army down.
Just then, a Black officer arrived with two Native Americans. One of them, wearing a red-feathered headdress, bowed politely and spoke in English:
"Commander, Chief Hopoisser has prepared a feast in your honor. He invites you to attend."
Booker, by now fluent in basic English, returned the gesture:
"Thank Chief Hopoisser for his kindness. I will join him."
A Grim Discovery
A little over an hour later, Booker and a dozen officers rode toward the chief's village, escorted by a small band of Native warriors.
As they crossed a hill, Booker spotted a herd of large, horned creatures grazing lazily below.
"What are those?" he asked.
"Buffalo, Commander," replied one of the Native escorts casually.
Intrigued by their majestic, carefree demeanor, Booker spurred his horse, galloping closer for a better look.
Alarmed by his approach, the buffalo bolted, thundering across the landscape. Booker chased them to the hill's crest, where he suddenly froze.
On the other side of the hill lay an endless expanse of cotton fields.
Grabbing his spyglass, Booker scanned the fields and saw countless Black workers hunched over, planting seeds under the watchful eyes of Native overseers armed with whips.
A Calculated Betrayal
Near the Savannah River, a group of American officers rode together.
One of them, a middle-aged colonel, frowned as he surveyed the opposite bank.
"General Wayne, I still can't believe we're cooperating with those lowly Indians."
Wayne smiled wryly.
"If it helps crush the Black rebellion, why not?"
"Honestly, I hate those savages. They've killed many of our people."
"True," Wayne agreed. "But once this alliance is over, you're free to… settle old scores as you see fit."
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