At the sound of the soft drawl, Frederick froze. He crouched low, hiding his face. But no alarm was sounded. There was welcome in Garrison’s low greeting: “Gamaliel Bailey!”
The first voice answered, “I heard only enough to agree fully. We do need a spokesman in Washington. I would not flatter myself, gentlemen—but I am ready.”
Garrison spoke with unaccustomed vehemence.
“No! We need you here.”
Frederick slowly lifted his head. The man was a stranger to him. His speech proclaimed him a Southerner. Now Frederick saw an attractive, dark-haired gentleman in black broadcloth and loosely fitted gray trousers. He looked down at Garrison, his black eyes bright.
“This is the job that I alone can do,” he said.
Wendell Phillips’ golden voice was warm as he nodded his head.
“He’s right. Garrison. Gamaliel Bailey can go to Washington. He belongs.”
“Captain John Smith, himself,” Pillsbury teased, but with affection.
“At your service, sir.” The Southerner swept him a low bow.