The Fiery Cross

by Diana Gabaldon

  scan the buildings. "No slaves?"

  "No," Duff said, grunting as he pulled. "Wylie doesna use the landing sae often these days, for he's built a new road from his house-goes inland and joins )Nri' the main road toward Edenton."

  Jamie gave Duff a cynical glance.

  "And if Wylie doesna use it, there are others who do, aye?"

  Roger could see that the landing was well situated for casual smuggling; out of sight from the landward side, but easily accessible from the Sound, What he had at first taken for an island to their right was in fact a maze of sandbars, separating the channel that led to Wylie's Landing from the main sound. He could see at least four smaller channels leading into the sandbanks, two of them wide enough to accommodate a good-sized ketch-

  Duff chuckled under his breath.

  "There's a wee shell-road as leads to the house, man," he said. "If anyone should come that way, ye'll have fair warnin5-"

  Peter stirred restively7 jerking his head toward the sandbars. "Tide," he muttered.

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  "Oh, aye. Ye'll no have long to wait--or ye will, depending." Duff grinned, evidently thinking this ftinny.

  "Why?" Jamie said gruffly, not sharing the amusement. He was looking somewhat better, now that escape was at hand, but was obviously in no m0 d o yet for jocularity.

  "The tide's comin' in." Duff stopped rowing and leaned on his oars long He waved enough to remove his disreputable cap and wipe his balding brow.

  the cap at the sandbars, where a crowd of small shorebirds were running up and down in evident dementia.

  "When the tide's out, the channel's too shallow to float a ketch. In vo hours"-he squinted at the glow in the east that marked the sun's rising,

  and nodded to himself-"or a bit more, they can come in. If they're waitin' out there now, they'll come in at once, so as to finish the job and get off again before the tide turns. But if they've not come yet, they'll maybe need to wait for the evening surge. It's a chancy job, to risk the channels by night-but Bonnet's no the lad to be put off by a bit o' darkness. Still, if he's in nay rush, he might well delay 'til next morning. Aye, ye might have a bit of a wait."

  Roger realized he had been holding his breath. He let it out and drew a deep, slow breath, smelling of salt and pines, with a faint stink of dead shellfish. So it would be soon--or perhaps not until after nightfall, or not until the next day's dawn. He hoped it would be soon-and hoped at the same time that it wouldn't.

  The piretta slid in close to the wharf, and Duff thrust out an oar against one of the barnacle -crusted pilings, sNivinging the tiny boat deftly alongside. Jamie hoisted himself up onto the dock with alacrity, eager to reach dry land. Roger handed up the swords and the small bundle that contained their canteens and spare powder, then followed. He knelt on the dock, all his senses alert for the slightest sound of human movement, but heard nothing but the liquid singing of blackbirds in the marsh and the cry of gulls on the Sound.

  Jamie rummaged in his pouch and pulled out a small purse, which he tossed down to Duff, with a nod. No more need be said; this was a token payment. The rest would be paid when Duff returned for them, in two days.

  Jamie had waited to the last possible moment to make the arrangements, ensuring that Bonnet at least would be unreachable until after the meeting-the ambush-had taken place. If it was successful, Jamie would pay the rest of the money agreed; if it was not-Claire would pay.

  He had a vision of Claire's face, pale and drawn, nodding in stiff-lipped agreement as Jamie explained the arrangements to Duff Her eyes had flicked to Duff, then, with the fierce yellow ruthlessness of a hawk about to eviscerate a rat, and he had seen Duff flinch at the implicit threat. He hid a smile at the memory. If ftiendship and money were insufficient to keep Duff's mouth shut, perhaps fear of the White Lady would suffice.

  They stood silently together on the dock, watching the piretta pull slowly away. The knot in Roger's stomach tightened. He would have prayed, but could not. He couldn't ask help for such a thing as he meant now to do-not from God or Michael the archangel; not from the Reverend or his parents. Only from Jamie Fraser.

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  He wondered now and then how many men Fraser had killed-if he counted, If he knew. It was a different thing, of course, to kill a man in battle or I than to lie in ambush for him, planning murder in cold blood. ,in self-defense

  r, what they meant to do. Still, surely it would be easier for Frase

  He glanced at Fraser, and saw him watching the boat pull away. He stood still as stone, and Roger saw that his eyes were fixed somewhere far beyond the evil thing, not blinking. boat, beyond the sky and water-looking on some

  Fraser took a deep breath and swallowed hard. No, it wouldn't be easier for him.

  Somehow, that seemed a comfort.

  the sheds briefly, finding nothing but scattered rubTHEY EXPLORED ALL

  bish: broken packing crates, heaps of moldy straw, a few gnawed bones left by dogs or slaves. One or two of the sheds had evidently once been used as living quarters, but not recently. Some animal had built a large, untidy nest against the wall of one shed; when Jamie prodded it with a stick, a plump gray rodentlike thing shot out, ran between Roger's feet, and sailed off the dock into the water with an unnerving splash. shed, which was built on the wharf itThey took up quarters in the largest

  self, and settled down to wait. More or less.

  it rained, in washiscihmpclaicietyititsweolfu; Ishoboet necenssarythe instant he appeared. Unless The plan w to e

  mploy swords or knives. Stated like that, the procedure sounded altogether straightforward. Roger's imagination) though, was unable to leave it at that.

  "Walk about if ye like," Jamie said, after a quarter-hour of watching Roger fidget. "We'll hear him come." He himself sat tranquil as a frog on a lily pad, methodically checking the assortment of weapons laid out before him.

  "Mmphm. What if he doesna come alone?" his hand. He wiggled Jamie shrugged, eyes fixed on the flint of the pistol in

  it to be sure it was firmly seated, then set the gun down.

  es not. if there are men with him, we must separate him from "Then he do all sheds, on pretext of private converthem. I shall take him into one of the sm llowing; I shallna resation, and dispatch him there. You keep anyone from fo

  quire more than a minute." come strolling out and inform his men ye've just "Oh, aye? And then ye

  done for their captain, and then what?" Roger demanded.

  d shrugged again. Jamie rubbed a hand down the bridge of his nose, an s would "He'll be dead. D'ye think he's the man to inspire such loyalty a

  make his men seek vengeance for him?" nnet was the type to in"Well ... no," Roger said slowly. "Perhaps not." Bo

  spire hard work from his men, but it was labor based on fear and the hope of profit, not love. garding Mr. Bonnet," Jamie observed, "I have discovered a good deal re sociates, aye, but he doesna have par-

  laying down the pistol. "He has regular as ich ticular ftiends. He doesna sail always with the same mate, the same crewwh

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  sea captains often do when they find a few men who suit them well. Bonnet picks his crews as chance provides, and he chooses them for strength or skillnot for liking. That being so, I wouldna expect to find any great liking for him among them."

  Roger nodded, acknowledging the truth of this observation. Bonnet had run a tight ship on the Gloriana, but there had been no sense of camaraderie, even with his mates and bosun. And it was true, what Jamie said; everything they had learned suggested that Bonnet picked up assistants as he required them; if he brought men with him to this rendezvous, they were unlikely to be a devoted lieutenant and crew-more likely sailors picked at random off the docks.

  "All right. But if-when-we kill him, any men with him-"

  "Will be in need of new employment," Jamie interrupted. "Nay, so long as we take care not to fire upon them, or give them reason to think we threaten them, I dinna thi
nk they'll trouble owermuch about Bonnet's fate. Still-" He picked up his sword, frowning slightly, and slid it in and out of the scabbard, to be sure it moved easily.

  "I think if that should be the situation, then I will take Bonnet aside, as I said. Give me a minute to deal with him, then make some excuse and come as though to fetch me. Dinna stop, though; go straight through the sheds, and head for the trees. I'll come and meet ye there."

  Roger eyed Jamie skeptically. Christ, the man made it sound like a Sunday outing--a turn by the river, and we'll meet in the park, I'll bring ham sandwiches and you fetch the tea.

  He cleared his throat, cleared it again, and picked up one of his own pistols. The feet of it was cool and solid in his hand, a reassuring weight.

  "Aye, then. Just the one thing. I'll take Bonnet."

  Fraser glanced sharply at him. He kept his own eyes steady, listening to the pulse that had begun to hammer hard inside his ears.

  He saw Fraser start to speak, then stop. The man stared thoughtfully at him, and he could hear the arguments, hammering on his inner ear with his pulse, as plainly as if they'd been spoken aloud.

  You have never killed a man, nor even fought in battle. You are no marksman, and only balf-decent with a sword. Worse, you are afraid of the man. And ifyou try andfail ...

  "I know," he said aloud, to Fraser's deep blue stare. "He's mine. I'll take him. Brianna's your daughter, aye-but she's my wife."

  Fraser blinked and looked away. He drummed his fingers on his knee for a moment, then stopped, drawing breath in a deep sigh. He drew himself slowly upright and turned toward Roger once again, eyes straight.

  "It is your right," he said, formally. "So, then. Dinna hesitate; dinna chatlenge him. Fill him the instant ye have the chance." He paused for a moment, then spoke again, eyes steady on Roger's. "If ye fall, though-know I will avenge you."

  The nail-studded mass in his belly seemed to have moved upward, sticking in his throat. He coughed to shift it, and swallowed.

  "Great," he said. "And if you fall, I'll avenge you. A bargain, is it?"

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  Fraser didn't laugh, and in that moment, Roger understood why men would Ilow him anywhere, to do anything. He only looked at Roger for a long moent, and then nodded.

  "A rare bargain," he said softly. "Thank you." Taking the dirk from his belt, e began to polish it.

  HEY HAD NO TIMEPIECE, but they didn't need one. Even with the sky shrouded in low-lying clouds and the sun invisible, it was possible to feel the s'

  reep, of minutes, the gradual shift of the earth as the rhythms of the day anged. Birds that had sung at dawn ceased singing, and the ones who hunted in morning began. The sound of water lapping against the pilings changed in ne, as the rising tide echoed in the space beneath the wharf

  The time of high tide came and passed; the echo beneath the wharf began to grow hollow, as the water started to drop. The pulse in Roger's cars began to "slacken, along with the knots in his gut.

  Then something struck the dock, and the vibration juddered through the floor of the shed.

  Jamie was up in an instant, two pistols through his belt, another in his hand. He cocked his head at Roger, then disappeared through the door.

  Roger jammed his own pistols securely in his belt, touched the hilt of his dirk for reassurance, and followed. He caught a quick glimpse of the boat, the dark wood of its rail just showing above the edge of the wharf, and then was inside the smaller shed to the right. Jamie was nowhere in sight; he'd got to his own post, then, to the left.

  He pressed himself against the wall, peering out through the slit afforded between hinge and door. The boat was drifting slowly along the edge of the dock, not yet secured. He could see just a bit of the stern; the rest was out of sight. No matter; he couldn't fire until Bonnet appeared on the wharf.

  He wiped his palm on his breeks and drew the better of his two pistols, checking for the thousandth time that priming and flint were in order. The metal of the gun smelled sharp and oily, in his hand.

  The air was damp; his clothes stuck to him. Would the powder fire? He touched the dirk, for the ten-thousandth time, running through Fraser's instructions on killing with a knife. Hand on his shoulder, drive it up beneath the breastbone, hard. From behind, the kidney, up from under. God, could he do it face to face? Yes. He hoped it would be face to face. He wanted to see-

  A coil of rope hit the dock; he heard the heavy thump, and then the scramble and thud of someone springing over the rail to tie up. A rustle and a grunt of effort, a pause ... He closed his eyes, trying to hear through the thunder of his heart. Steps. Slow, but not furtive. Coming toward him.

  The door stood half-ajar. He stepped silently to the edge of it, listening. Waiting. A shadow, dim in the cloudy light, fell through the door. The man stepped in.

  He lunged out from behind the door and flung himself bodily at the man, knocking him back into the wall with a hollow thud. The man whooped in

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  surprise at the impact, and the sound of the cry stopped him just as he got his hands round a distinctly unmasculine throat.

  "Shit!" he said. "I mean, 1-1-1 beg your pardon, ma'am."

  She was pressed against the wall, all his weight on her, and he was well aware that the rest of her was unmasculine, too. Blood, hot in his cheeks, he released her and stepped back, breathing heavily.

  She shook herself like a dog, straightening her garments, and tenderly touching the back of her head where it had struck the wall.

  "I'm sorry," he said, feeling both shocked and a complete prat. "I didn't mean-Are you hurt?"

  The girl was as tall as Brianna, but more solidly built, with dark brown hair and a handsome face, broad-boned and deep-eyed. She grinned at Roger and said something incomprehensible, strongly scented with onions. She looked him up and down in a bold sort of way, then, evidently approving, put her hands under her breasts in a gesture of unmistakable invitation, jerking her head toward a corner of the shed, where mounds of damp straw gave off a fecund scent of not-unpleasant decay.

  "Ahhh. . ." Roger said. "No. I'm afraid you're mistaken-no, don't touch that. No. Non! Nein!" He fumbled with her hands, which seemed determined to unfasten his belt. She said something else in the unfamiliar tongue. He didn't understand a word, but he got the sense of it well enough.

  "No, I'm a married man. Would ye stop!"

  She laughed, gave him a flashing glance from under long black lashes, and renewed her assault on his person.

  He would have been convinced he was hallucinating, were it not for the smell. Engaged at close quarters, he realized that onions were the least of it. She wasn't filthy to look at, but had the deep-seated reek of someone just off a long sea voyage; he recognized that smell at once. Beyond that, though, the unmistakable scent of pigs wafted from her skirts.

  'Excusez-moi, mademoiselle.' Jamie's voice came from somewhere behind him, sounding rather startled. The girl was startled, too, though not frightened. She let go of his balls, though, allowing him to step back.

  Jamie had a pistol drawn, though he held it by his side. He raised one eyebrow at Roger.

  "Who's this, then?"

  "How in hell should I know?" Struggling for composure, Roger shook himself back into some kind of order. "I thought she was Bonnet or one of his men, but evidently not."

  "Evidently." Fraser seemed disposed to find something humorous in the situation; a muscle near his mouth was twitching fiercely. 'Qui ites-vous mademoiselle?" he asked the girl,

  She frowned at him, clearly not understanding, and said something in the odd language again. Both Jamie's brows rose at that.

  "What's she speaking?" Roger asked.

  "I've no idea." His look of amusement tinged with wariness, Jamie turned toward the door, raising his pistol. "Watch her, aye? She'll no be alone."

  This was clear; there were voices on the wharf. A man's voice, and another woman. Roger exchanged baffled glances with Jamie. No, the voice was neithe
r

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  Bonnet's nor Lyon's-and what in God's name were all these women doing here?

  The voices were coming closer, though, and the girl suddenly called out something in her own language, It didn't sound like a warning, but Jamie quickly flattened himself beside the door, pistol at the ready and his other hand on his dirk.

  The narrow door darkened almost completely, and a dark, shaggy head thrust into the shed. Jamie stepped forward and shoved his pistol up under the chin of a very large, very surprised-looking man. Seizing the man by the collar, Jamie stepped backward, drawing him into the shed.

  The man was followed almost at once by a woman whose tall, solid build and handsome face identified her at once as the girl's mother. The woman was blond, though, while the man-the girl's father?-was as dark as the bear he strongly resembled. He was nearly as tall as Jamie, but almost twice as broad, massive through the chest and shoulders, and heavily bearded.

  None of them appeared to be at all alarmed. The man looked surprised, the woman affronted. The girl laughed heartily, pointing at Jamie, then at Roger. "I begin to feel rather foolish," Jamie said to Roger. Removing the pistol, he stepped back warily. "Wer seid Ibr?" he said.

  "I don't think they're German," Roger said. "She"-he jerked a thumb at the girl, who was now eyeing Jamie in an appraising sort of way, as though sizing up his potential for sport in the straw-"didna seem to understand either French or German, though perhaps she was pretending."

  The man had been frowning, glancing from Jamie to Roger in an attempt to make out what they were saying. At the word "French," though, he seemed to brighten.

  "Comment fa va?" he said, in the most execrable accent Roger had ever heard.

  "Parlez-vous Trancais?" Jamie said, still eyeing the man cautiously.

  The giant smiled and put a callused thumb and forefinger an inch apart. 'Un Peu. "

  A very little peu, as they shortly discovered. The man had roughly a dozen words of French, just about enough to introduce himself as one Mikhail Chemodurow, his wife Iva, and his daughter, Karina.

  CcRooshki," Chemodurow said, slapping a hand across his beefy chest. "Russians?" Roger stared at them, flabbergasted, though Jamie seemed fascinated.

  "I've never met a Russian before," he said. "What in Christ's name are they doing here, though?"

  With some difficulty, this question was conveyed to Mr. Chemodurow, who beamed and flung a massive arm out, pointing toward the wharf

  11es cocbons," he said. "Pour le Monsieur Wylie." He looked expectantly at Jamie. "Monsieur Wylie?"

  Given the eye-watering aroma rising off all three of the Russians, the mention of pigs came as no great surprise. The connection between Russian swineherds and Phillip Wylie was somewhat less obvious. Before the question could be gone into, though, there was a loud thump outside, and a grinding noise, as though some large wooden object had struck the dock. This was succeeded

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  immediately by a piercing chorus of bellows and squeals-mostly porcine, but some of them human-and female.

  Chemodurow moved with amazing speed for his size, though Jamie and Roger were on his heels as he shot through the door of the shed.

  Roger had barely time to see that there were two boats now tied up at the wharf; the Russian's small bark, and a smaller open boat. Several men, bristling with knives and pistols, were swarming out of the smaller boat onto the dock.

  Seeing this, Jamie dived to one side, disappearing out of sight round the edge of a smaller shed. Roger grabbed his pistol, but hesitated, not sure whether to fire or run. Hesitated a Moment too long. A musket jammed up under his ribs, knocking out his breath, and hands snatched at his belt, taking pistols and dirk.

  "Don't move, mate," the man holding the musket said. "Twitch, and 111 blow your liver out through your backbone,"

  He spoke with no particular animus, but sufficient sincerity that Roger wasn't inclined to test it. He stood still, hands half-raised, watching. Chemodurow had waded into the invaders without hesitation, laying about

  him with hands like hams. One man was in the water, evidently having been knocked off the wharf, and the Russian had another in his grip, throttling him with brutal efficiency. He ignored all shouts, threats, and blows, his concentration fixed on the man he was killing.

  Screams rent the air; Iva and Karina had rushed toward their boat, where two of the invaders had appeared on deck, each clutching a slightly smaller version of Karina. One of the men pointed a pistol at the Russian women. He appeared to pull the trigger; Roger saw a spark, and a small Puff of smoke, but the gun failed to fire. The women didn't hesitate, but charged him, shrieking. Panicking, he dropped the gun and the girl he was holding, and jumped into the water.

  A sickening thud wrenched Roger's attention from this byplay. One of the men,