Hathaway,” Tom Pitts said. “You kin go on down t' the house. Jist follow the cobblestone path.” “I know the way!” Hathaway snapped. Tom Pitts and Henry Taylor stood guard at the front gate in the wall around the Winslow compound. Each man held a musket, loaded, tamped, and ready to shoot. And just for good measure, each man also had a razor-sharp knife tucked into a sheath at his waist. Tom and Henry knew exactly who was to be allowed inside, and they knew what they were to do if anyone else tried to get past them. When Jasper Hathaway arrived at the house, Muco opened the front door, admitted him, and then showed him to the library, which was set up to accommodate twenty-two men. Never before had so many people been inside the London house at one time. “’Ere now, Jasper, set yersef down,” Joseph said with exaggerated hospitality. The wound Lingongo's whip had slashed across his face was red and swollen and still looked quite nasty. When he tried to smile, his eye watered and his lip drooped. Most of the chairs were already occupied by grim-faced white men who grumbled impatiently to each other.
