The Fiery Cross

by Diana Gabaldon

  "Hup! " he said sharply, and we were off, the glow of a rising half-moon just visible above the trees.

  It was perhaps a quarter mile to the head of the trail, the ground rising from the hollow in which the Beardsleys' farmhouse stood. We were moving slowly, because of the goats, and I watched the grass and shrubs as we brushed through them, wondering whether they seemed more visible only because my eyes were adapting to the dark--or because the moon had risen.

  I felt quite safe, with the powerful bulk of the horse under me, the sociable natter of the goats around us, and Jamie's equally reassuring presence behind me, one arm clasped about my waist. I wasn't sure that I felt quite safe enough to turn and look back again, though. At the same time, the urge to look was SO compelling as almost to counter the sense of dread I felt about the place. Almost.

  "It's no really a rowan tree, is it?" Jamie's voice came softly from behind me. "No," I said, taking heart from the solid arm around me. "It's a mountain

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  ash. Very like, though." I'd seen mountain ash many times before; the Highlanders often planted them near cabins or houses because the clusters of deep orange berries and the pinnate leaves did indeed look like the rowan tree of Scotland-a close botanical relative. I gathered that Jamie's comment stemmed not from taxonomic hairsplitting, though, but rather from doubt as to whether the ash possessed the same repellent qualities, in terms of protection from evil and enchantment. He hadn't chosen to bury Beardsley under that tree from a sense either of aesthetics or convenience.

  I squeezed his blistered hand, and he kissed me gently on top of the head. At the head of the trail, I did glance back, but I could see nothing but a faint gleam from the weathered shingles of the farmhouse. The mountain ash and whatever might-or might not-be under it were hidden in darkness.

  Gideon was unusually well-behaved, having made no more than a token protest at being double-mounted. I rather thought he was happy to leave the farm behind, too. I said as much, but Jamie sneezed and expressed the opinion that the wicked sod was merely biding his time while planning some future outrage.

  The goats seemed inclined to view this nocturnal excursion as a lark, and ambled along with the liveliest interest, snatching mouthfuls of dry grass, bumping into one another and the horses, and generally sounding like a herd of elephants in the crackling underbrush.

  I felt great relief at leaving the Beardsley place at last. As the pines blotted out the last sight of the hollow, I resolutely turned my mind from the disturbing events of the day, and began to think what might await us in Brownsville.

  "I hope Roger's managed all right," I said, leaning back against Jamie's chest with a small sigh.

  "Mmphrn." From long experience, I diagnosed this particular catarrhal noise as indicating a polite general agreement with my sentiment, this overlaying complete personal indifference to the actuality. Either he saw no reason for concern, or he thought Roger could sink or swim.

  "I hope he's found an inn of sorts," I offered, thinking this prospect might meet with a trifle more enthusiasm. "Hot food and a clean bed would be lovely."

  "Mmphm." That one held a touch of humor, mingled with an inborn skepticism-fostered by long experience-regarding the possible existence of such items as hot food and clean beds in the Carolina backcountry.

  "The goats seem to be going along very well," I offered, and waited in anticipation.

  "Mmphm." Grudging agreement, mingled with a deep suspicion as to the continuance of good behavior on the part of the goats.

  I was carefully formulating another observation, in hopes of getting him to do it again-three times was the record so far-when Gideon suddenly bore out Jamie's original mistrust by flinging up his head with a loud snort and rearing. '

  I crashed back into Jamie's chest, hitting my head on his collarbone with a thump that made me see stars. His arm crushed the air out of me as he dragged at the reins one-handed, shouting.

  I had no idea what he was saying, or even whether he was shouting in

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  English or Gaelic. The horse was screaming, rearing and pawing with his hooves, and I was scrabbling for a grip on anything at all, mane, saddle, reins. . . . A branch whipped my face and blinded me. Pandemonium reigned; there was screeching and bleating and a noise like tearing fabric and then something hit me hard and sent me flying into the darkness.

  I wasn't knocked out, but it didn't make much difference. I was sprawled in a tangle of brush, struggling for breath, unable to move, and unable to see anything whatever beyond a few scattered stars in the sky overhead.

  There was an ungodly racket going on some little distance away, in which a chorus of panicked goats figured largely, punctuated by what I took to be a woman's screams. Two women's screams.

  I shook my head, confused. Then I flung myself over and started crawling, having belatedly recognized what was making that noise. I had heard panthers scream often enough-but always safely far in the distance. This one wasn't far away at all. The tearing-fabric noise I'd heard had been the cough of a big cat, very close at hand.

  I bumped into a large fallen log and promptly rolled under it, wedging myself as far into the small crevice there as possible. It wasn't the best hiding place I'd ever seen, but might at least prevent anything leaping out of a tree onto me.

  I could still hear Jamie shouting, though the tenor of his remarks had changed to a sort of hoarse fury. The goats had mostly quit yammering-surely the cat couldn't have killed all of them? I couldn't hear anything of Mrs. Beardsley, either, but the horses were making a dreadful fuss, squealing and stamping.

  My heart was hammering against the leafy ground, and a cold sweat tingled along my jaw. There isn't much for invoking raw terror like the rimitive fear of p

  being eaten, and my sympathies were entirely with the animals. There was a crashing in the brush near at hand, and Jamie shouting my name.

  "Here," I croaked, unwilling to move out of my refuge until I knew for certain where the panther was-or at least knew for certain that it wasn't anywhere near me. The horses had stopped squealing, though they were still snorting and stamping, making enough noise to indicate that neither of them had either fallen prey to our visitor or run away.

  "Here!" I called, a little louder.

  More crashing, close at hand. Jamie stumbled through the darkness, crouched, and felt under the log until his hand encountered my arm, which he seized.

  "Are ye all right, Sassenach?"

  "I hadn't thought to notice, but I think so," I replied. I slid cautiously out from under my log, taking stock. Bruises here and there, abraded elbows, and a stinging sensation where the branch had slapped my cheek. Basically all right, then.

  "Good. Come quick, he's hurt." He hauled me to my feet and started propelling me through the dark with a hand in the small of my back.

  "Who?" "The goat, of course."

  My eyes were well-adapted to the dark by now, and I made out the large shapes of Gideon and the mare, standing under a leafless poplar, manes and

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  tails swishing with agitation. A smaller shape that I took to be Mrs. Beardsley was crouched nearby, over something on the ground.

  I could smell blood, and a powerful reek of goat. I squatted and reached out, touching rough, warm hair. The goat jerked at my touch, with a loud "MEHeheh!" that reassured me somewhat. He might be hurt, but he wasn't dying-at least not yet; the body under my hands was solid and vital, muscles tense.

  "Where's the cat?" I asked, locating the ridged hardness of the horns and feeling my way hastily backward along the spine, then down the ribs and flanks. The goat had objections, and heaved wildly under my hands.

  "Gone," Jamie said. He crouched down, too, and put a hand on the goat's head. "There, now, a bbalaicb. It's all right, then. Seas, mo cbaraid."

  I could feel no open wound on the goat's body, but I could certainly smell blood; a hot, metallic scent that disturbed the cl
ean night air of the wood. The horses did, too; they whickered and moved uneasily in the dark.

  "Are we fairly sure it's gone?" I asked, trying to ignore the sensation of eyes fastened on the back of my neck. "I smell blood."

  "Aye. The cat took one of the nannies," Jamie informed me. He knelt next to me, laying a big hand on the goat's neck.

  "Mrs. Beardsley loosed this brave laddie, and he went for the cat, baldheided. I couldna. see it all, but I think the creature maybe slapped at him; I heard it screech and spit, and the billy gave a skelloch just then, too. I think his leg is maybe broken."

  It was. With that guidance, I found the break easily, low on the humerus of the right front leg. The skin wasn't broken, but the bone was cracked through; I could feel the slight displacement of the raw ends. The goat heaved and thrust his horns at my arm when I touched the leg. His eyes were wild and rolling, the odd square pupils visible but colorless in the faint moonlight.

  "Can ye mend him, Sassenach?" Jamie asked.

  "I don't know." The goat was still struggling, but the flurries of movement were growing perceptibly weaker, as shock set in. I bit my lip, groping for a pulse in the fold between leg and body. The injury itself was likely repairable, but shock was a great danger; I had seen plenty of animals-and a few people, for that matter--die quickly following a traumatic incident, of injuries that were not fatal in themselves.

  "I don't know," I said again. My fingers had found a pulse at last; it was triphammer fast, and thready. I was trying to envision the possibilities for treatment, all of them crude. "He may well die, Jamie, even if I can set the leg. Do you think perhaps we ought to slaughter him? He'd be a lot easier to carry, as meat."

  Jamie stroked the goat's neck, gently.

  "It would be a great shame, and him such a gallant creature."

  Mrs. Beardsley laughed at that, a nervous small giggle, like a girl's, coming out of the dark beyond Jamie's bulk.

  "Hith name ith Hiram," she said. "He'th a good boy."

  "Hiram," Jamie repeated, still stroking. "Well, then, Hiram. Courage, mon brave. You'll do. You've balls as big as melons."

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  "Well, persimmons, maybe," I said, having inadvertently encountered the testicles in question while making my examination. "Perfectly respectable, though, I'm sure," I added, taking shallow breaths. Hiram's musk glands were working overtime. Even the harsh iron smell of blood took second place.

  "I was speaking figuratively," Jamie informed me, rather dryly. "What will ye be needing, Sassenach?"

  Evidently, the decision had been made- he was already rising to his feet. "Right, then," I said, brushing back my hair with the back of a wrist. "Find me a couple of straight branches, about a foot long, no twigs, and a bit of rope from the saddlebags. Then you can help here," I added, trying to achieve a good grip on my struggling patient. "Hiram seems to like you. Recognizes a kindred spirit, no doubt."

  Jamie laughed at that, a low, comforting sound at my elbow. He stood up with a final scratch of Hiram's ears, and rustled off, coming back within moments with the requested items.

  "Right," I said, loosing one hand from Hiram's neck in order to locate the sticks. "I'm going to splint it. We'll have to carry him, but the splint will keep the leg from flexing and doing any more damage. Help me get him onto his side." Hiram, whether from male pride or goat stubborriness-always assuming these to be different things-kept trying to stand up, broken leg notwithstanding. His head was bobbing alarmingly, though, as the muscles in his neck weakened, and his body lurched from side to side. He scrabbled feebly at the ground, then stopped, panting heavily.

  Mrs. Beardsley hovered over my shoulder, the kid still clutched in her arms. It gave a faint bleat, as though it had awakened suddenly from a nightmare, and Hiram gave a loud, echoing "Mehh" in reply.

  "There's a thought," Jamie murmured. He stood up suddenly, and took the kid from Mrs. Beardsley. Then he knelt down again, pushing the little creature up close to Hiram's side. The goat at once ceased struggling, bending his head around to sniff at his offspring. The kid cried, pushing its nose against the big goat's side, and a long, slimy tongue snaked out, slobbering over my hand as it sought the kid's head.

  "Work fast, Sassenach," Jamie suggested.

  I needed no prompting, and within minutes, had the leg stabilized, the splinting padded with one of the multiple shawls Mrs. Beardsley appeared to be wearing. Hiram had settled, making only occasional grunts and exclamations, but the kid was still bleating loudly.

  "Where is its mother?" I asked, though I didn't need to hear the answer. I didn't know a great deal about goats, but I knew enough about mothers and babies to realize that nothing but death would keep a mother from a child making that sort of racket. The other goats had come back, drawn by curiosity, fear of the dark, or a simple desire for company, but the mother didn't push forward.

  "Poor Beckie," said Mrs. Beardsley sadly. "Thuch a thweet goat."

  Dark forms bumped and jostled; there was a whuff of hot air in my ear as one nibbled at my hair, and another stepped on my calf, making me yelp as the sharp little hooves scraped the skin. I made no effort to shoo them away,

  though; the presence of his harem seemed to be doing Hiram the world of good.

  I had the leg bones back in place and the splint bandaged firmly round them. I had found a good pulse point at the base of his car, and was monitoring it, Hiram's head resting in my lap. As the other goats pressed in, nuzzling at him and making plaintive noises, he suddenly lifted his head and rolled up onto his chest, the broken leg awkwardly stuck out before him in its bindings.

  He swayed to and fro like a drunken man for a moment, then uttered a loud, belligerent "MEEEEEHHH" and lurched onto three feet. He promptly fell down again, but the action cheered everyone. Even Mrs. Beardsley emitted a faint trill of pleasure at the sight.

  "All right." Jamie stood up, and ran his fingers through his hair with a deep sigh. "Now, then."

  "Now, then what?" I asked.

  "Now I shall decide what to do," he said, with a certain ed 9e to his voice. "Aren't we going on to Brownsville?"

  "We might," he said. "If Mrs. Beardsley happens to ken the way well enough to find the trail again by starlight?" He turned expectantly toward her, but I could see the negative motion of her head, even in the shadows.

  It dawned on me that we were, in fact, no longer on the trail-which was in any case no more than a narrow deer track, winding through the forest.

  "We can't be terribly far off it, surely?" I looked round, peering vainly into the dark, as though some lighted sign might indicate the position of the trail. In fact, I had no idea even in which direction it might lie.

  "No," Jamie agreed. "And by myself, I daresay I could pick it up sooner or later. But I dinna mean to go floundering through the forest in the dark with this lot." He glanced round, evidently counting noses. Two very skittish horses, two women-one distinctly odd and possibly homicidal-and six goats, two of them incapable of walking. I rather saw his point.

  He drew his shoulders back, shrugging a little, as though to ease a tight shirt.

  "I'll go and have a keek round. If I find the way at once, well and good. If I don't, we'll camp for the night," he said. "It will be a deal easier to look for the trail by daylight. Be careful, Sassenach."

  And with a final sneeze, he vanished into the woods, leaving me in charge of the camp followers and wounded.

  The orphaned goat was becoming louder and more anguished in its cries; it hurt my ears, as well as my heart. Mrs. Beardsley, though, had become somewhat more animated in Jamie's absence; I thought she was rather afraid of him. Now she brought up one of the other nannies, persuading her to stand still for the orphan to suckle. The kid was reluctant for a moment, but hunger and the need for warmth and reassurance were overwhelming, and within a few minutes, it was feeding busily, its small tail wagging in a dark flicker of movement.

  I was happy to see it, but
conscious of a small feeling of envy; I was all at once aware that I had eaten nothing all day, that I was very cold, desperately tired, sore in a nurn 'ber of places-and that without the complications of Mrs. Beardsley and her companions, I would long since have been safely in

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  Brownsville, fed, warm, and tucked up by some friendly fireside. I put a hand on the kid's stomach, growing round and firm with milk, and thought rather wistfully that I should like someone simply to take care of me. Still, for the moment, I seemed to be the Good Shepherd, and no help for it.

  "Do you think it might come back?" Mrs. Beardsley crouched next to me, shawl pulled tight around her broad shoulders. She spoke in a low tone, as though afraid someone might overhear.

  "What, the panther? No, I don't think so. Why should it?" Nonetheless, a small shiver ran over me, as I thought of Jamie, alone somewhere in the dark. Hiram, his shoulder firmly jammed against my thigh, snorted, then laid his head on my knee with a long sigh.

  "Thome folk thay the catth hunt in pairth."

  "Really?" I stifled a yawn-not of boredom, simply fatigue. I blinked into the darkness, a chilled lethargy stealing over me., "Oh. Well, I should think a good-sized goat would do for two. Besides"-I yawned again, a jaw-cracking stretch-"besides, the horses would let us know."

  Gideon and Mrs. Piggy were companionably nose-and-tailing it under the poplar tree, showing no signs now of agitation. This seemed to comfort Mrs. Beardsley, who sat down on the ground quite suddenly, her shoulders sagging as though the air had gone out of her.

  "And how are you feeling?" I inquired, more from an urge to maintain conversation than from any real desire to know.

  "I am glad to be gone from that place," she said simply.

  I definitely shared that sentiment; our present situation was at least an improvement on the Beardsley homestead, even with the odd panther thrown in. Still, that didn't mean I was anxious to spend very long here.

  "Do you know anyone in Brownsville?" I asked. I wasn't sure how large a settlement it was, though from the conversation of some of the men we had picked up, it sounded like a fair-sized village.

  "No." She was silent for a moment, and I felt rather than saw her tilt back her head, looking up at the stars and the peaceful moon.

  "I ... have never been to Brownsville," she added, almost shyly.

  Or anywhere else, it seemed. She told the story hesitantly, but almost eagerly, with no more than slight prodding on my part.

  Beardsley had-in essence-bought her from her father, and brought her, with other goods acquired in Baltimore, down to his house, where he had essentially kept her prisoner, forbidding her to leave the homestead, or to show herself to anyone who might come to the house. Left to do the work of the homestead while Beardsley traveled into the Cherokee lands with his trade goods, she had had no society but a bond lad-who was little company, being deaf and speechless.

  "Really," I said. In the events of the day, I had quite forgotten Josiah and his twin. I wondered whether she had known both of them, or only Keziah.

  "How long is it since you came to North Carolina?" I asked.

  "Two yearth," she said softly. "Two yearth, three month, and five dayth." I remembered the marks on the cloorpost, and wondered when she had begun to keep count. From the very beginning? I stretched my back, disturbing Hiram, who grumbled.

  "I see. By the way, what is your Christian name?" I asked, belatedly aware that I had no idea.

  "Frantheth," she said, then tried again, not liking the mumbled sound of it. "Fran-cess," the end of it a hiss through her broken teeth. She gave a shrug, then, and laughed-a small, shy sound. "Fanny," she said. "My mother called me Fanny."

  "Fanny," I said, encouragingly. "That's a very nice name. May I call you so?" "I ... would be pleathed," she said. She drew breath again, but stopped without speaking, evidently too shy to say whatever she'd had in mind. With her husband dead, she seemed entirely passive, quite deprived of the force that had animated her earlier.

  "Oh," I said, belatedly realizing. "Claire. Do call me Claire, please." "Claire-how pretty."

  "Well, it hasn't any esses, at least," I said, not thinking. "Oh-I do beg your pardon!"

  She made a small pff sound of dismissal. Encouraged by the dark, the faint sense of intimacy engendered by the exchange of names--or simply from a need to talk, after so long-she told me about her mother, who had died when she was twelve, her father, a crabber, and her life in Baltimore, wading out along the shore at low tide to rake oysters and gather mussels, watching the fishing craft and the warships come in past Fort Howard to sail up the Patapsco.

  "It wath ... peatheful," she said, rather wistfully. "It wath tho open-nothing but the thky and the water." She tilted back her head again, as though yearning for the small bit of night sky visible through the interlacing branches overhead. I supposed that while the forested mountains of North Carolina were reffige and embrace to a Highlander like Jamie, they might well seem claustrophobic and alien to someone accustomed to the watery Chesapeake shore.

  "Will you go back there, do you think?" I asked.

  "Back?" She sounded slightly startled. "Oh. I ... I hadn't thought. . "No?" I had found a tree trunk to lean against, and stretched slightly, to ease my back. "You must have seen that your-that Mr. Beardsley was dying. Didn't you have some plan?" Beyond the fun of torturing him slowly to death, that is. It occurred to me that I had been getting altogether too comfortable with this woman, alone in the dark with the goats. She might truly have been Beardsley's victim-or she might only be saying so now, to enlist our aid. It would behoove me to remember the burned toes on Beardsley's foot, and the appalling state of that loft. I