“Has he told ye much about her?” Marsali asked, having explained the letter. “The Indian lass he wed?”
Jenny shook her head and began taking things out of her basket.
“Nay a word, save for his telling Jamie to say he wouldna forget us.” A shadow crossed her face at the memory, and I wondered for a moment how it must have been for her and Ian, receiving Jamie’s account of the circumstances in which Ian had become a Mohawk. I knew the agony with which he’d written that letter, and doubted that the reading of it had been done with less.
She laid down an apple and beckoned to me for the letter. Having read it through in silence, she looked at me. “D’ye think he’s got feelings for her still?”
“I think he does,” I answered reluctantly. “But nothing like his feelings for Rachel, surely.” I did recall him, though, standing with me in the twilight on the demilune battery at Fort Ticonderoga, when he’d told me about his children—and Emily, his wife.
“He feels guilty about her, does he?” Jenny asked, shrewdly watching my face. I gave her a look, but nodded. She compressed her lips, but then handed the letter back to Marsali.
“Well, we dinna ken whether his wife has anything to do wi’ this Brant or his doings, and it’s no her that’s been massacred. I’d say let Fergus print it, but”—and she glanced at me—“show the letter to Jamie and have him talk to wee Ian about it. He’ll listen.” Her expression lightened a little then, and a slight smile emerged. “He’s got a good wife now, and I think Rachel will keep him to home.”
IAN AND RACHEL are indeed happy in their marriage. Though saddened by the death of Ian’s dog, Rollo, the news that Rachel is pregnant fills Ian with both joy and terror; his children with his first wife were stillborn or miscarried—will it be the same this time?
LORD JOHN WRITES to Claire, offering his house again—but this time for use as a surgery, he knowing full well that she’ll be attending the sick and injured, no matter where she is, and wanting the house to be occupied and used. Given the state of crowding in the printshop, Jamie reluctantly agrees to this use—feeling that in any case, the situation will be temporary. For now that Jamie is out of the army—for good—he and Claire are free to do what they’ve longed to do since being reunited: go home to Fraser’s Ridge.
Given the unsettled state of things in the north, Jamie urges Fergus and Marsali to come with them, moving the press south, perhaps to Wilmington or Savannah. Marsali and Fergus are still considering the idea when tragedy makes their minds up for them.
Fire breaks out in the printshop one night. Perhaps an accident; perhaps not. All is chaos, and as the adults hastily count noses, they discover that the boys are missing. Germain and Henri-Christian had gone out through a loft door to sleep on the roof, because of the heat. Roused belatedly by the shouts and noise, they’ve made their way back through the lofts, to the loading door used to raise bales of paper and barrels of ink. A rope hangs down to the alley, where the family and all the neighbors have gathered.
Henri-Christian, dizzy from the smoke, had fallen against the doorframe and was clinging to it. He was too frightened to move; I could see him shaking his head as Germain pulled at him.
“Throw him, Germain! Throw your brother!” Fergus was shouting as loudly as he could, his voice cracking with the strain, and several other voices joined in. “Throw him!”
I saw Germain’s jaw set hard, and he yanked Henri-Christian loose, picked him up, and clutched him with one arm, wrapping the rope around the other.
“No!” Jamie bellowed, seeing it. “Germain, don’t!” But Germain bent his head over his brother’s, and I thought I saw his lips move, saying, “Hold on tight!” And then he stepped out into the air, both hands clinging to the rope, Henri-Christian’s stocky legs wrapped round his ribs.
It happened instantly and yet so slowly. Henri-Christian’s short legs lost their grip. Germain’s grab failed, for the little boy was already falling, arms outstretched, in a half somersault through the smoky air.
He fell straight through the sea of upraised hands, and the sound as his head struck the cobbles was the sound of the end of the world.
Shocked and gutted by Henri-Christian’s death, the small family makes ready to depart.
There were two large cairns there, knee-high. And a smaller one, at the edge of the clearing, under the branches of a red cedar. A flat stone lay against it, the word ROLLO scratched into it.
Fergus and Jamie set down the little coffin, gently. Joanie and Félicité had stopped crying during the long walk, but seeing it there, so small and forlorn, facing the thought of walking away…they began to weep silently, clinging hard to each other, and at the sight of them, grief rose in me like a fountain.
Germain was holding hard to his mother’s hand, mute and jaw-set, tearless. Not seeking support, giving it, though the agony showed clear in his eyes as they rested on his brother’s coffin.
Ian touched Marsali’s arm gently.
“This place is hallowed by my sweat and my tears, cousin,” he said softly. “Let us hallow it also by our blood and let our wee lad rest here safe in his family. If he canna go with us, we will abide with him.”
He took the sgian dubh from his stocking and drew it across his wrist, lightly, then held his arm above Henri-Christian’s coffin, letting a few drops fall on the wood. I could hear the sound of it, like the beginning of rain.
Marsali drew a shattered breath, stood straight, and took the knife from his hand.
PART 8: SEARCH AND RESCUE
The story reopens with the move of the family—Jamie and Claire, Marsali, Fergus, and their children, Jenny, and Ian and Rachel—to Savannah, in search of Jamie’s printing press. This was saved from a fire in Edinburgh and dispatched to America in the care of one Richard Bell, a Loyalist merchant from Wilmington who had been forcibly deported by the local Sons of Liberty. Jamie pays the cost of his passage back to his family, in return for Bell’s seeing to the safe transport and keeping of his press.
Richard Bell is reunited with his family, but as the political climate in Wilmington is unfriendly to Loyalists, the Bells have removed south to Savannah, and Jamie and Fergus decide to see whether the city is a decent place to resume the printing business.
MEANWHILE, HAL RECEIVES a letter from his nephew, William:
Dear Uncle Hal,
You will be gratified to know that your paternal Instinct was correct. I am very pleased to tell you that Ben probably isn’t dead.
On the other hand, I haven’t the slightest Idea where the devil he is or why he’s there.
I was shown a Grave at Middlebrook Encampment in New Jersey, purported to be Ben’s, but the Body therein is not Ben. (It’s probably better if you don’t know how that bit of information was ascertained.)
Clearly someone in the Continental army must know something of his whereabouts, but most of Washington’s troops who were at the Encampment when he was captured have gone. There is one Man who might possibly yield some Information, but beyond that, the only possible Connection would seem to be the Captain with whom we are acquainted.
I propose therefore to hunt the Gentleman in question and extract what Information he may possess when I find him.
Your most obedient nephew,
William
William has, in fact, visited the prisoner-of-war camp—now occupied only by the residents of Middlebrook and a few token soldiers—found the grave of Benjamin Grey, and, upon a midnight investigation of same, discovered that the body buried there is missing both ears—a thief, and by no means his cousin.
Another letter apprises Hal that John and Dottie have reached Charleston—the last known residence of Amaranthus Grey née Cowden, Benjamin’s presumed wife and mother of his presumed child.
Some progress is made with their inquiries, but Dottie proves to be pregnant, and Lord John, totally unwilling to be midwife at an unexpected birth, insists on taking her back to New York, where Denzell is working as a surgeon with the Continenta
l army, and where Hal can see that she’s taken care of.
THE FRASERS BEGIN to settle in Savannah, the men working at whatever occupation they find, while finding quarters to re-establish the printing business, and Claire running a small surgery in one of the city’s famous squares.
She encounters a wide variety of patients, from the city’s prostitutes to a young girl suffering from a ghastly condition.
“You are a female physician?” she asked, in a tone just short of accusation.
“I am Dr. Fraser, yes,” I replied equably. “And you are…?”
She flushed at that and looked disconcerted. Also very dubious. But after an awkward pause, she made up her mind and gave a sharp nod. “I am Sarah Bradshaw. Mrs. Phillip Bradshaw.”
“I’m pleased to meet you. And your…companion?” I nodded at the young woman, who stood with her shoulders hunched and her head bent, staring at the ground. I could hear a soft dripping noise, and she shifted as though trying to press her legs together, wincing as she did so.
“This is Sophronia. One of my husband’s slaves.” Mrs. Bradshaw’s lips compressed and drew in tight; from the lines surrounding her mouth, she did it routinely. “She—that is—I thought perhaps—” Her rather plain face flamed crimson; she couldn’t bring herself to describe the trouble.
“I know what it is,” I said, saving her the difficulty. I came round the table and took Sophronia by the hand; hers was small and very callused, but her fingernails were clean. A house slave, then. “What happened to the baby?” I asked her gently.
A small, frightened intake of breath, and she glanced sideways at Mrs. Bradshaw, who gave her another sharp nod, lips still pursed.
“It died in me,” the girl said, so softly I could scarcely hear her, even though she was no more than an arm’s length from me. “Dey cut it out in pieces.” That had likely saved the girl’s life, but it surely hadn’t helped her condition.
Despite the smell, I took a deep breath, trying to keep my emotions under control.
“I’ll need to examine Sophronia, Mrs. Bradshaw. If you have any errands, perhaps you’d like to go and take care of them…?”
She unzipped her lips sufficiently as to make a small, frustrated noise. Quite obviously, she would like nothing better than to leave the girl and never come back. But just as obviously, she was afraid of what the slave might tell me if left alone with me.
“Was the child your husband’s?” I asked baldly. I didn’t have time to beat around the bush; the poor girl was dripping urine and fecal matter on the floor and appeared ready to die of shame.
I doubted that Mrs. Bradshaw meant to die of that condition, but she plainly felt it almost as acutely as did Sophronia. She went white with shock, then her face flamed anew. She turned on her heel and stamped out, slamming the door behind her.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ then,” I said to the door, and turned to the girl, smiling in reassurance. “Here, sweetheart. Let’s have a look at the trouble, shall we?”
Vesicovaginal fistula and rectovaginal fistula. I’d known that from the first moment; I just didn’t know how bad they might be or how far up the vaginal canal they’d occurred. A fistula is a passage between two things that ought never to be joined and is, generally speaking, a bad thing.
Claire can repair the damage, but lacking twentieth-century instruments and given the girl’s age, she needs to perform the surgery abdominally—which means making ether again. This is terribly dangerous—but necessary.
As she walks the streets of Savannah, considering the prospect, she runs into William Ransom, who is surprised but grudgingly glad to see her, nonetheless. He explains his business—and that he is tracking Captain Ezekiel Richardson, whom he strongly suspects of having something to do with his cousin’s disappearance.
“I’ve been searching for him for the last three months,” he said, putting down his cup and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “He’s an elusive scoundrel. And I don’t know that he’s in Savannah at all, for that matter. But the last hint I had of him was in Charleston, and he left there three weeks ago, heading south.
“Now, for all I know, the fellow’s bound for Florida or has already taken ship for England. On the other hand…Amaranthus is here, or at least I believe so. Richardson seems to take an inordinate interest in the Grey family and its connections, so perhaps…Do you know Denys Randall yourself, by the way?”
He was looking at me intently over his cup, and I realized, with a faint sense of amusement mingled with outrage, that he had thrown the name at me suddenly in hopes of surprising any guilty knowledge I might have.
Why, you little scallywag, I thought, amusement getting the upper hand. You need a bit more practice before you can pull off that sort of thing, my lad.
Claire knows a few things about Denys Randall—including a few things that Denys himself doesn’t know—but none of these is likely to be helpful to William’s inquiries, and they part with an exchange of addresses, just in case.
The males of the family supplement their meager income by fishing and hunting in the nearby swamps—where one night they witness a sinister arrival:
“I got it, I got it!” [Germain] shouted, and splashed into the water, heedless of the alligator. He bent to see that his prey was firmly transfixed, let out another small whoop, and pulled up his spear, displaying a catfish of no mean size, belly showing white in its frantic flapping, blood running in trickles from the holes made by the tines.
“More meat on that than on yon wee lizard there, aye?” Ian took the spear, pulled the fish off, and bashed its head with the hilt of his knife to kill it.
Everyone looked, but the alligator had departed, alarmed by the kerfuffle.
“Aye, that’s us fettled, I think.” Jamie picked up both bags—one half full of bullfrogs, and the other still squirming slightly from the inclusion of a number of shrimp and crayfish netted from the shallows. He held open the one with the frogs for Ian to toss the fish inside, saying a verse from the Hunting Blessing, for Germain: “Thou shalt not eat fallen fish nor fallen flesh / Nor one bird that thy hand shall not bring down / Be thou thankful for the one / Though nine should be swimming.”
Germain was not paying attention, though; he was standing quite still, fair hair lifting in the breeze, his head turned.
“Look, Grand-père,” he said, voice urgent. “Look!”
They all looked and saw the ships, far out beyond the marsh but coming in, heading for the small headland to the south. Seven, eight, nine…a dozen at least, with red lanterns at their masts, blue ones at the stern. Jamie felt the hair rise on his body and his blood go cold.
“British men-of-war,” Fergus said, his voice empty with shock.
“They are,” Jamie said. “We’d best get home.”
With battle impending and a British occupation of the city imminent, Fergus and Jamie hide the printing press at a distant farm. Military matters make little difference to medical urgencies, though, and Claire has fortunately discovered a source of ether. She is preparing for the operation on Sophronia when she receives an unexpected visitor—Captain, now Colonel, Richardson, late of the British army and now in the employ of the Americans.
“Your most humble servant, ma’am. Have no alarm; I merely wished to make sure we weren’t interrupted.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m alarmed about,” I said, taking a firm grip on the saw. “Unbolt that bloody door this minute.”
He looked at me for a moment, one eye narrowed in calculation, but then uttered a short laugh and, turning, pulled the bolt. Folding his arms, he leaned against the door.
“Better?”
“Much.” I let go the saw but didn’t move my hand far from it. “I repeat—what do you want?”
“Well, I thought perhaps the time had come to lay my cards upon your table, Mrs. Fraser—and see whether you might want to play a hand or two.”
“The only thing I might be inclined to play with you, Colonel, is mumblety-peg,” I said
, tapping my fingers on the handle of the saw. “But if you want to show me your cards, go right ahead. You want to be quick about it, though—I have an operation to conduct in less than an hour.”
***
“For the third—and last—time,” I said. “What do you bloody want?”
“Your help,” he said promptly. “I’d originally had it in mind to use you as an agent in place. You could have been very valuable to me, moving in the same social circles as the British high command. But you seemed too unstable—forgive me, ma’am—to approach immediately. I hoped that as your grief over your first husband faded, you would come to a state of resignation in which I might seek your acquaintance and by degrees achieve a state of intimacy in which you could be persuaded to discover small—and, at first, seemingly innocent—bits of information, which you would pass on to me.”
“Just what do you mean by ‘intimacy’?” I said, folding my arms. Because while the word in current parlance often meant merely friendship, he hadn’t used it with that intonation at all.
“You’re a very desirable woman, Mrs. Fraser,” he said, looking me over in an objectionably appraising way. “And one who knows her desirability. His lordship obviously wasn’t obliging you in that regard, so…” He lifted a shoulder, smiling in a deprecating fashion. “But as General Fraser has returned from the dead, I imagine you’re no longer susceptible to lures of that kind.”
I laughed and dropped my arms.
“You flatter yourself, Colonel,” I said dryly. “If not me. Look: why not stop trying to fluster me and tell me what you want me to do and why on earth you think I’d do it.”
Richardson reveals that he is well aware of Lord John’s homosexuality and that he is seeking to control Hal’s influence in the House of Lords by controlling as many members of Hal’s family as possible—either by blackmail or more directly.
The Companion to the Fiery Cross, a Breath of Snow and Ashes, an Echo in the Bone, and Written in My Own Heart's Blood Page 35
