He silently cursed his love of conversation. If not for that, he would have parted from MacDonald as usual, at Coopersville. But they had been talking of poetry—poetry, for God’s sake!—and amusing each other in declamation. Now here he stood in the empty road, holding two horses, while MacDonald, whose guts were in disagreement with him, busied himself deep in the wood.
Amos Green tipped him a nod, and would have passed, but Kitman Wherry reined up; the strangers did likewise, staring curiously.
“Where are Thou bound, friend James?” Wherry, a Quaker, asked pleasantly. “Does Thee come to the meeting at Halifax? For Thee are welcome to ride with us, and that be so.”
Halifax. He felt a trickle of sweat run down the crease of his back. The meeting of the Committee of Correspondence to elect delegates to the Continental Congress.
“I am seeing a friend upon his road,” he replied courteously, with a nod toward MacDonald’s horse. “I will follow, though; perhaps I shall catch ye up along the way.” Fat chance of that, he thought, carefully not looking at Brown.
“I’d not be so sure of your welcome, Mr. Fraser.” Green spoke civilly enough, but with a certain coldness in his manner that made Wherry glance at him in surprise. “Not after what happened in Cross Creek.”
“Oh? And would ye see an innocent man burnt alive, or tarred and feathered?” The last thing he wished was an argument, but something must be said.
One of the strangers spat in the road.
“Not so innocent, if that’s Fogarty Simms you’re speakin’ of. Little Tory pissant,” he added as an afterthought.
“That’s the fellow,” Green said, and spat in agreement. “The committee in Cross Creek set out to teach him a lesson; seems Mr. Fraser here was in disagreement. Quite a scene it was, from what I hear,” he drawled, leaning back a little in his saddle to survey Jamie from his superior height. “Like I said, Mr. Fraser—you ain’t all that popular, right this minute.”
Wherry was frowning, glancing to and fro between Jamie and Green. “To save a man from tar and feathers, no matter what his politics, seems no more than common humanity,” he said sharply.
Brown laughed unpleasantly.
“Might seem so to you, I reckon. Not to other folk. You know a man by the company he keeps. And beyond that, there’s your auntie, eh?” he said, redirecting his speech to Jamie. “And the famous Mrs. MacDonald. I read that speech she gave—in the final edition of Simms’s newspaper,” he added, repeating the unpleasant laugh.
“My aunt’s guests have naught to do wi’ me,” Jamie said, striving for simple matter-of-factness.
“No? How ’bout your aunt’s husband—your uncle, would he be?”
“Duncan?” His incredulity plainly showed in his voice, for the strangers exchanged glances, and their manner relaxed a little. “No, he’s my aunt’s fourth husband—and a friend. Why d’ye speak of him?”
“Why, Duncan Innes is cheek-by-jowl with Farquard Campbell, and a good many other Loyalists. The two of ’em have been putting money enough to float a ship into pamphlets preachin’ reconciliation with Mother England. Surprised you didn’t know that, Mr. Fraser.”
Jamie was not merely surprised but thunderstruck at this revelation, but hid it.
“A man’s opinions are his own,” he said with a shrug. “Duncan must do as he likes, and I shall do the same.”
Wherry was nodding agreement with this, but the others were regarding him with expressions ranging from skepticism to hostility.
Wherry was not unaware of his companions’ responses.
“What is thy opinion, then, friend?” he asked politely.
Well, he’d known it was coming. Had now and then tried to imagine the circumstances of his declaration, in situations ranging from the vaingloriously heroic to the openly dangerous, but as usual in such matters, God’s sense of humor trumped all imagination. And so he found himself taking that final step into irrevocable and public commitment to the rebel cause—just incidentally being required to ally himself with a deadly enemy in the process—standing alone in a dusty road, with a uniformed officer of the Crown squatting in the bushes directly behind him, breeches round his ankles.
“I am for liberty,” he said, in a tone indicating mild astonishment that there could be any question regarding his position.
“Are you so?” Green looked hard at him, then lifted his chin in the direction of MacDonald’s horse, where MacDonald’s regimental sword hung from the saddle, gilt and tassels gleaming in the sun. “How come you to be in company with a redcoat, then?”
“He is a friend,” Jamie replied evenly.
“A redcoat?” One of the strangers reared back in his saddle as though stung by a bee. “How come redcoats here?” The man sounded flabbergasted, and looked hastily to and fro, as though expecting a company of the creatures to burst from the wood, muskets firing.
“Only the one, so far as I know,” Brown assured him. “Name’s MacDonald. He’s not a real soldier; retired on half-pay, works for the Governor.”
His companion didn’t seem noticeably reassured.
“What are you doing with this MacDonald?” he demanded of Jamie.
“As I said—he is a friend.” The attitude of the men had changed in an instant, from skepticism and mild hostility to open offense.
“He’s the Governor’s spy, is what he is,” Green declared flatly.
This was no more than the truth, and Jamie was reasonably sure that half the backcountry knew it; MacDonald made no effort to hide either his appearance nor his errands. To deny the fact was to ask them to believe Jamie a dunce, duplicitous, or both.
There was a stirring among the men now, glances exchanged, and the smallest of motions, hands touching knife hilts and pistol grips.
Very fine, Jamie thought. Not satisfied with the irony of the situation, God had now decided that he should fight to the death against the allies he had declared himself to moments earlier, in defense of an officer of the Crown he had just declared himself against.
As his son-in-law was fond of remarking—great.
“Bring him out,” Brown ordered, nudging his horse to the forefront. “We’ll see what he has to say for himself, this friend of yours.”
“And then might be we’ll learn him a lesson he can carry back to the Governor, eh?” One of the strangers took off his hat and tucked it carefully beneath the edge of his saddle, preparing.
“Wait!” Wherry drew himself up, trying to quell them with a hand, though Jamie could have told him he was several minutes past the point where such an attempt might have had any effect. “You cannot lay violent hands upon—”
“Can’t we, though?” Brown grinned like a death’s head, eyes fixed on Jamie, and began to undo the leather quirt coiled and fastened to his saddle. “No tar to hand, alas. But a good beating, say, and send ’em both squealing home to the Governor stark naked—that’d answer.”
The second stranger laughed, and spat again, so the gob landed juicily at Jamie’s feet.
“Aye, that’ll do. Hear you held off a mob by yourself in Cross Creek, Fraser—only five to two now, how you like them odds?”
Jamie liked them fine. Dropping the reins he held, he turned and flung himself between the two horses, screeching and slapping hard at their flanks, then dived headlong into the brush at the roadside, scrabbling through roots and stones on hands and knees as fast as he could.
Behind him, the horses were rearing and wheeling, whinnying loudly and spreading confusion and fright through the other men’s mounts; he could hear cries of anger and alarm, as they tried to gain control of the plunging horses.
He slid down a short slope, dirt and uprooted plants spraying up around his feet, lost his balance and fell at the bottom, bounded up and dashed into an oak copse, where he plastered himself behind a screen of saplings, breathing hard.
Someone had had wit—or fury—enough to jump off his horse and follow on foot; he could hear crashing and cursing near at hand, over the fainter cri
es of the commotion on the road. Glancing cautiously through the leaves, he saw Richard Brown, disheveled and hatless, looking wildly round, pistol in hand.
Any thought he might have had of confrontation vanished; he was unarmed, save a small knife in his stocking, and it was clear to him that Brown would shoot him instantly, claiming self-defense when the others eventually caught up.
Up the slope, toward the road, he caught a glimpse of red. Brown, turning in the same direction, saw it, too, and fired. Whereupon Donald MacDonald, having thoughtfully hung up his coat in a tree, stepped out of cover behind Richard Brown in his shirtsleeves, and hit Brown over the head with a solid length of tree branch.
Brown fell on his knees, momentarily stunned, and Jamie slipped out of the copse, beckoning to MacDonald, who ran heavily to meet him. Together they made their way deeper into the forest, waiting by a stream until prolonged silence from the road indicated that it might be safe to go back for a look.
The men were gone. So was MacDonald’s horse. Gideon, the whites of his eyes showing and ears laid flat, rolled back his upper lip and squealed fiercely at them, big yellow teeth bared and slobber flying. Brown and company had wisely thought twice about stealing a rabid horse, but had tied him up to a tree and managed to spoil his harness, which hung in bits around his neck. MacDonald’s sword lay in the dust, torn from its scabbard, blade broken in two.
MacDonald picked up the pieces, viewed them for a moment, then, shaking his head, tucked them through his belt.
“D’ye think Jones could mend it?” he asked. “Or better to go down to Salisbury?”
“Wilmington or New Bern,” Jamie said, wiping a hand across his mouth. “Dai Jones hasna the skill to mend a sword, but ye’ll find few friends in Salisbury, from what I hear.” Salisbury had been at the heart of the Regulation, and antigovernment sentiment still ran high there. His own heart had gone back to its usual way of beating, but he still felt weak-kneed in the aftermath of flight and anger.
MacDonald nodded bleakly, then glanced at Gideon.
“Is yon thing safe to ride?”
“No.”
In Gideon’s present state of agitation, Jamie wouldn’t risk riding him alone, let alone double-mounted and with no bridle. They’d left the rope on his saddle, at least. He got a loop over the stallion’s head without being bitten, and they set off without comment, returning to the Ridge on foot.
“Verra unfortunate,” MacDonald observed thoughtfully at one point. “That they should have met us together. D’ye think it’s dished your chances of worming your way into their councils? I should give my left ball to have an eye and an ear in that meeting they spoke of, I’ll tell ye that for nothing!”
With a dim sense of wonder, Jamie realized that having made his momentous declaration, overheard by the man whose cause he sought to betray, and then nearly killed by the new allies whose side he sought to uphold—neither side had believed him.
“D’ye ever wonder what it sounds like when God laughs, Donald?” he asked thoughtfully.
MacDonald pursed his lips and glanced at the horizon, where dark clouds swelled just beyond the shoulder of the mountain.
“Like thunder, I imagine,” he said. “D’ye not think so?”
Jamie shook his head.
“No. I think it’s a verra small, wee sound indeed.”
66
THE DARK RISES
I heard all the sounds of the household below, and the rumble of Jamie’s voice outside, and felt entirely peaceful. I was watching the sun shift and glow on the yellowing chestnut trees outside, when the sound of feet came marching up the stairs, steady and determined.
The door flung open and Brianna came in, wind-tousled and bright-faced, wearing a steely expression. She halted at the foot of my bed, leveled a long forefinger at me, and said, “You are not allowed to die.”
“Oh?” I said, blinking. “I didn’t think I was going to.”
“You tried!” she said, accusing. “You know you did!”
“Well, not to say tried, exactly …” I began weakly. If I hadn’t exactly tried to die, though, it was true that I hadn’t quite tried not to, and I must have looked guilty, for her eyes narrowed into blue slits.
“Don’t you dare do that again!” she said, and wheeling in a sweep of blue cloak, stomped out, pausing at the door to say, “BecauseIloveyouandIcan’tdowithoutyou,” in a strangled voice, before running down the stairs.
“I love you too, darling!” I called, the always-ready tears coming to my eyes, but there was no reply, save the sound of the front door closing.
Adso, drowsing in a puddle of sun on the counterpane at my feet, opened his eyes a fraction of an inch at the noise, then sank his head back into his shoulders, purring louder.
I lay back on the pillow, feeling a good deal less peaceful, but somewhat more alive. A moment later, I sat up, put back the quilts, and swung my legs out of bed. Adso abruptly quit purring. “Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’m not going to keel over; your supply of milk and scraps is perfectly safe. Keep the bed warm for me.”
I had been up, of course, and even allowed on short, intensely supervised excursions outside. But no one had let me try to go anywhere alone since before I fell ill, and I was reasonably sure they wouldn’t let me do it now.
I therefore stole downstairs in stockinged feet, shoes in hand, and instead of going through the front door, whose hinges squeaked, or through the kitchen, where Mrs. Bug was working, I slipped into my surgery, opened the window, and—having checked to be sure the white sow was not hanging about below—climbed carefully out.
I felt quite giddy at my escape, a rush of spirits that sustained me for a little way down the path. Thereafter, I was obliged to stop every few hundred feet, sit down, and gasp a bit while my legs recovered their strength. I persevered, though, and at last came to the Christie cabin.
No one was in sight, nor was there any response to my tentative “Hallo!”, but when I knocked at the door, I heard Tom Christie’s voice, gruff and dispirited, bid me enter.
He was at the table, writing, but from the looks of him, ought still to have been in bed. His eyes widened in surprise at sight of me, and he hastily tried to straighten the grubby shawl round his shoulders.
“Mrs. Fraser! Are you—that is—what in the name of God …” Deprived of speech, he pointed at me, eyes round as saucers. I had taken off my broad-brimmed hat when I entered, forgetting momentarily that I looked like nothing so much as an excited bottle brush.
“Oh,” I said, passing a self-conscious hand over my head. “That. You ought to be pleased; I’m not going about outraging the public by a wanton display of my flowing locks.”
“You look like a convict,” he said bluntly. “Sit down.”
I did, being rather in need of the stool he offered me, owing to the exertions of the walk.
“How are you?” I inquired, peering at him. The light in the cabin was very bad; he had been writing with a candle, and had put it out upon my appearance.
“How am I?” He seemed both astonished and rather put out at the inquiry. “You have walked all the way here, in a dangerously enfeebled condition, to ask after my health?”
“If you care to put it that way,” I replied, rather nettled by that “dangerously enfeebled.” “I don’t suppose you would care to step out into the light, so that I can get a decent look at you, would you?”
He drew the ends of the shawl protectively across his chest.
“Why?” He frowned at me, peaked brows drawing together so that he looked like an irritable owl.
“Because I want to know a few things regarding your state of health,” I replied patiently, “and examining you is likely the best way of finding them out, since you don’t seem able to tell me anything.”
“You are most unaccountable, madam!”
“No, I am a doctor,” I countered. “And I want to know—” A brief wave of giddiness came over me, and I leaned on the table, holding on ’til it passed.
&nb
sp; “You are insane,” he stated, having scrutinized me for a moment. “You are also still ill, I believe. Stay there; I shall call my son to go and fetch your husband.”
I flapped a hand at him and took a deep breath. My heart was racing, and I was a trifle pale and sweaty, but essentially all right.
“The fact of the matter, Mr. Christie, is that while I’ve certainly been ill, I wasn’t ill with the same sickness that’s been afflicting people on the Ridge—and from what Malva was able to tell me, I don’t think you were, either.”
He had risen to go and call Allan; at this, he froze, staring at me with his mouth open. Then he slowly lowered himself back into his chair.
“What do you mean?”
Having finally got his attention, I was pleased to lay out the facts before him; I had them neatly to hand, having given them considerable thought over the last few days.
While several families on the Ridge had suffered the depredations of amoebic dysentery, I hadn’t. I had had a dangerously high fever, accompanied by dreadful headache and—so far as I could tell from Malva’s excited account—convulsions. But it certainly wasn’t dysentery.
“Are you certain of this?” He was twiddling his discarded quill, frowning.
“It’s rather hard to mistake bloody flux for headache and fever,” I said tartly. “Now—did you have flux?”
He hesitated a moment, but curiosity got the better of him.
“No,” he said. “It was as you say—a headache fit to split the skull, and fever. A terrible weakness, and … and extraordinarily unpleasant dreams. I had no notion that it was not the same illness afflicting the others.”
“No reason you should, I suppose. You didn’t see any of them. Unless—did Malva describe the illness to you?” I asked only from curiosity, but he shook his head.
“I do not wish to hear of such things; she does not tell me. Still, why have you come?” He tilted his head to one side, narrowing his eyes. “What difference does it make whether you and I suffered an ague, rather than a flux? Or anyone else, for that matter?” He seemed rather agitated, and got up, moving about the cabin in an unfocused, bumbling sort of way, quite unlike his usual decisive movements.
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