The Lament of the North American Continent (Monthly Ticket Request at Month's End)

A Black officer in a white uniform looked at Booker, hesitated, then finally called out, "Great Hougen, we should avoid these white forces. Their numbers are too great. Entering the mountains of South Carolina or retreating west would be the best choice."

The "Hougen" he referred to was Voodoo's high priest—the religious office Booker now held.

Booker shot him a cold glance, shoved the Telescope in his hands, and pointed fiercely at the American forces' Camp. Gritting his teeth, he said, "I can't abandon them."

The officer did not look through it. He knew that more than two hundred Blacks were hanging in the plantations occupied by those whites—he had seen them from much closer while leading a reconnaissance party yesterday.

Those Blacks had likely been preparing to join the Boukman Movement, but before they could leave South Carolina, they had been captured and dragged back. The American forces had then tied their wrists and hung them from tree branches.

They had been hanging there for three days. At least one-third had already died, but more than a hundred were still struggling in agony.

The whites had deliberately hung them in front of the Camp, where Booker's side could see them clearly.

Booker paced back and forth anxiously. Suddenly, he turned and seized the officer by the collar. "I was hung like that before. I know how painful it is! I swore to the Spirit of Nature that I would ensure no Black ever suffered such torment again, that I would kill every white man who tortured us.

"The Spirit of Nature saved me. I did not die. Now, I must save them too!"

The Black soldiers around him immediately roared, "Kill all whites!"

"Save the suffering!"

Booker swept his gaze over the soldiers with satisfaction and shouted, "Our ancestors