“Ho ho,” said his wife tolerantly, moving the jar out of his reach. “You think you’re being funny. It’s white phosphorus—a present from Lord John.”
He glanced at her; she was excited, the tip of her nose gone pink and bits of red hair pulled loose and waving in the breeze; like her father, she was inclined to run her hands through her hair when thinking.
“And you intend to do … what with it?” he asked, trying to keep any note of foreboding from his voice. He had the vaguest memories of hearing about the properties of phosphorus in his distant school days; he thought either it made you glow in the dark or it blew up. Neither prospect was reassuring.
“Wellll … make matches. Maybe.” Her upper teeth fastened momentarily in the flesh of her lower lip as she considered the jar. “I know how—in theory. But it might be a little tricky in practice.”
“Why is that?” he asked warily.
“Well, it bursts into flame if you expose it to air,” she explained. “That’s why it’s packed in water. Don’t touch, Jem! It’s poisonous.” Grabbing Jemmy round the middle, she pulled him down from the table, where he had been eyeing the jar with greedy curiosity.
“Oh, well, why worry about that? It will explode in his face before he has a chance to get it in his mouth.” Roger picked up the jar for safekeeping, holding it as though it might go off in his hands. He wanted to ask whether she were insane, but had been married long enough to know the price of injudicious rhetorical questions.
“Where d’ye mean to keep it?” He cast an eloquent glance round the confines of the cabin, which in terms of storage boasted a blanket chest, a small shelf for books and papers, another for comb, toothbrushes, and Brianna’s small cache of personal belongings, and a pie hutch. Jemmy had been able to open the pie hutch since the age of seven months or so.
“I’m thinking I’d better put it in Mama’s surgery,” she replied, keeping an absentminded grip on Jem, who was struggling with single-minded energy to get at the pretty thing. “Nobody touches anything in there.”
That was true enough; the people who were not afraid of Claire Fraser personally were generally terrified of the contents of her surgery, these featuring fearsomely painful-looking implements, mysterious murky brews, and vile-smelling medicines. In addition, the surgery had cupboards too high for even a determined climber like Jem to reach.
“Good idea,” Roger said, anxious to get the jar out of Jem’s vicinity. “I’ll take it up now, shall I?”
Before Brianna could answer, a knock came at the door, followed immediately by Jamie Fraser. Jem instantly ceased trying to get at the jar and instead flung himself on his grandfather with shrieks of joy.
“How is it, then, a bhailach?” Jamie inquired amiably, neatly turning Jem upside down and holding him by the ankles. “A word, Roger Mac?”
“Sure. Ye’ll sit, maybe?” He’d told Jamie earlier what he knew—lamentably little—regarding the role of the Cherokee in the upcoming Revolution. Had he come to inquire further? Reluctantly setting down the jar, Roger pulled out a stool and pushed it in his father-in-law’s direction. Jamie accepted it with a nod, dexterously transferring Jemmy to a position over one shoulder and sitting down.
Jemmy giggled madly, squirming until his grandfather slapped him lightly on the seat of his breeches, whereupon he subsided, hanging contentedly upside-down like a sloth, his bright hair spilling down the back of Jamie’s shirt.
“It’s this way, a charaid,” Jamie said. “I must be going in the morning to the Cherokee villages, and there is a thing I’d ask ye to do in my place.”
“Oh, aye. D’ye want me to see to the barley harvest, then?” The early grain was still ripening. Everyone had his fingers crossed that the weather would keep fair for another few weeks, but the prospects were good.
“No, Brianna can do that—if ye will, lass?” He smiled at his daughter, who raised thick ruddy eyebrows, the twins of his.
“I can,” she agreed. “What are you planning to do with Ian, Roger, and Arch Bug, though?” Arch Bug was Jamie’s factor, and the logical person to be overseeing the harvest in Jamie’s absence.
“Well, I shall take Young Ian with me. The Cherokee ken him well, and he’s comfortable wi’ their speech. I’ll take the Beardsley lads, too, so they can fetch back the berries and bits o’ things your mother wants for Lizzie, straightaway.”
“I go, too?” Jemmy inquired hopefully.
“Not this time, a bhailach. In the autumn, maybe.” He patted Jemmy on the bottom, then returned his attention to Roger.
“That being so,” he said, “I need ye to go to Cross Creek, if ye will, and collect the new tenants.” Roger felt a small surge of excitement—and alarm—at the prospect, but merely cleared his throat and nodded.
“Aye. Of course. Will they—”
“Ye’ll take Arch Bug along, and Tom Christie.”
A moment of incredulous silence greeted this statement.
“Tom Christie?” Bree said, exchanging a glance of bafflement with Roger. “What on earth for?” The schoolmaster was a notably dour sort, and no one’s idea of a congenial traveling companion.
Her father’s mouth twisted wryly.
“Aye, well. There’s the one small thing MacDonald neglected to tell me, when he asked if I’d take them. They’re Protestants, the lot.”
“Ah,” said Roger. “I see.” Jamie met his eye and nodded, relieved to be so immediately understood.
“I don’t see.” Brianna patted her hair, frowning, then pulled off the ribbon and began to comb her fingers slowly through it, undoing the tangles as a preliminary to brushing it. “What difference does it make?”
Roger and Jamie exchanged a brief but eloquent glance. Jamie shrugged, and pulled Jem down into his lap.
“Well.” Roger rubbed his chin, trying to think how to explain two centuries of Scottish religious intolerance in any way that would make sense to an American of the twentieth century. “Ahh … ye recall the civil-rights thing in the States, integration in the South, all that?”
“Of course I do.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Okay. So, which side are the Negroes?”
“The what?” Jamie looked entirely baffled. “Where do Negroes come into the matter?”
“Not quite that simple,” Roger assured her. “Just an indication of the depth of feeling involved. Let us say that the notion of having a Catholic landlord is likely to cause our new tenants severe qualms—and vice versa?” he asked, glancing at Jamie.
“What’s Negroes?” Jemmy asked with interest.
“Er .…dark-skinned people,” Roger replied, suddenly aware of the potential quagmire opened up by this question. It was true that the term “Negro” didn’t invariably mean also “slave”—but near enough that there was little difference. “D’ye not remember them, from your great-auntie Jocasta’s place?”
Jemmy frowned, adopting for an unsettling instant the precise expression his grandfather was wearing.
“No.”
“Well, anyway,” Bree said, calling the meeting to order with a sharp rap of her hairbrush on the table, “the point is that Mr. Christie is enough of a Protestant to make the new people feel comfortable?”
“Something of the sort,” her father agreed, one side of his mouth curling up. “Between your man here and Tom Christie, at least they’ll not think they’re entering the Devil’s realm entirely.”
“I see,” Roger said again, in a slightly different tone. So it wasn’t only his position as son of the house and general right-hand man, was it—but the fact that he was a Presbyterian, at least in name. He raised a brow at Jamie, who shrugged in acknowledgment.
“Mmphm,” Roger said, resigned.
“Mmphm,” said Jamie, satisfied.
“Stop doing that,” Brianna said crossly. “Fine. So you and Tom Christie are going to Cross Creek. Why is Arch Bug going?”
Roger became aware, in a subliminally marital way, that his wife was disgruntled at the thought of being left behind t
o organize the harvest—a filthy, exhausting job at the best of times—whilst he frolicked with a squad of his co-religionists in the romantically exciting metropolis of Cross Creek, population two hundred.
“It will be Arch, mostly, helping them to settle and build themselves shelter before the cold,” Jamie said logically. “Ye dinna mean to suggest, I hope, that I send him alone to talk to them?”
Brianna smiled involuntarily at that; Arch Bug, married for decades to the voluble Mrs. Bug, was famous for his lack of speech. He could talk, but seldom did so, limiting his conversational contributions to the occasional genial “Mmp.”
“Well, they’ll likely never realize that Arch is Catholic,” Roger said, rubbing his upper lip with a forefinger. “Or is he, come to that? I’ve never asked him.”
“He is,” Jamie said, very dryly. “But he’s lived long enough to ken when to be silent.”
“Well, I can see this is going to be a jolly expedition,” Brianna said, raising one brow. “When do you think you’ll be back?”
“Christ, I don’t know,” Roger said, feeling a stab of guilt at the casual blasphemy. He’d have to revise his habits, and quickly. “A month? Six weeks?”
“At least,” his father-in-law said cheerfully. “They’ll be on foot, mind.”
Roger took a deep breath, contemplating a slow march, en masse, from Cross Creek to the mountains, with Arch Bug on one side of him and Tom Christie on the other, twin pillars of taciturnity. His eyes lingered wistfully on his wife, envisioning six weeks of sleeping by the roadside, alone.
“Yeah, fine,” he said. “I’ll … um … go speak to Tom and Arch tonight, then.”
“Daddy go?” Catching the gist of the conversation, Jem scrambled off his grandfather’s knee and scampered over to Roger, grabbing him round the leg. “Go with you, Daddy!”
“Oh. Well, I don’t think—” He caught sight of Bree’s face, resigned, and then the green and red jar on the table behind her. “Why not?” he said suddenly, and smiled at Jem. “Great-Auntie Jocasta would love to see you. And Mummy can blow things up to her heart’s content without worrying where you are, aye?”
“She can do what?” Jamie looked startled.
“It doesn’t explode,” Brianna said, picking up the jar of phosphorus and cradling it possessively. “It just burns. Are you sure?” This last was addressed to Roger, and accompanied by a searching look.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, affecting confidence. He glanced at Jemmy, who was chanting “Go! Go! Go!”, meanwhile hopping up and down like a demented popcorn kernel. “At least I’ll have someone to talk to on the way.”
13
SAFE HANDS
It was nearly dark when Jamie came in to find me sitting at the kitchen table, head on my arms. I jerked upright at the sound of his footstep, blinking.
“Are ye all right, Sassenach?” He sat down on the opposite bench, eyeing me. “Ye look as though ye’ve been dragged through a hedge backward.”
“Oh.” I patted vaguely at my hair, which did seem to be sticking out a bit. “Um. Fine. Are you hungry?”
“Of course I am. Have ye eaten, yourself?”
I squinted and rubbed my face, trying to think.
“No,” I decided at last. “I was waiting for you, but I seem to have fallen asleep. There’s stew. Mrs. Bug left it.”
He got up and peered into the small cauldron, then pushed the swinging hook back to bring it over the fire to warm.
“What have ye been doing, Sassenach?” he asked, coming back. “And how’s the wee lass?”
“The wee lass is what I’ve been doing,” I said, suppressing a yawn. “Mostly.” I rose, slowly, feeling my joints protest, and staggered over to the sideboard to cut some bread.
“She couldn’t keep it down,” I said. “The gallberry medicine. Not that I blame her,” I added, cautiously licking my lower lip. After she’d thrown it up the first time, I’d tasted it myself. My tastebuds were still in a state of revolt; I’d never met a more aptly named plant, and being boiled into syrup had merely concentrated the flavor.
Jamie sniffed deeply as I turned.
“Did she vomit on ye?”
“No, that was Bobby Higgins,” I said. “He’s got hookworms.”
He raised his brows.
“Do I want to hear about them whilst I’m eating?”
“Definitely not,” I said, sitting down with the loaf, a knife, and a crock of soft butter. I tore off a piece, buttered it thickly, and gave it to him, then took one for myself. My tastebuds hesitated, but wavered on the edge of forgiving me for the gallberry syrup.
“What have you been doing?” I asked, beginning to wake up enough to take notice. He seemed tired, but more cheerful than he had been when he’d left the house.
“Talking to Roger Mac about Indians and Protestants.” He frowned at the half-eaten chunk of bread in his hand. “Is there something amiss wi’ the bread, Sassenach? It tastes odd.”
I waved a hand apologetically.
“Sorry, that’s me. I washed several times, but I couldn’t get it off completely. Perhaps you’d better do the buttering.” I pushed the loaf toward him with my elbow, gesturing at the crock.
“Couldna get what off?”
“Well, we tried and tried with the syrup, but no good; Lizzie simply couldn’t hold it down, poor thing. But I remembered that quinine can be absorbed through the skin. So I mixed the syrup into some goose grease, and rubbed it all over her. Oh, yes, thanks.” I leaned forward and took a delicate bite of the buttered bit of bread he held out for me. My tastebuds gave in gracefully, and I realized that I hadn’t eaten all day.
“And it worked?” He glanced up at the ceiling. Mr. Wemyss and Lizzie shared the smaller room upstairs, but all was quiet above.
“I think so,” I said, swallowing. “The fever finally broke, at least, and she’s asleep. We’ll keep using it; if the fever doesn’t come back in two days, we’ll know it works.”
“That’s good, then.”
“Well, and then there was Bobby and his hookworms. Fortunately, I have some ipecacuanha and turpentine.”
“Fortunately for the worms, or for Bobby?”
“Well, neither, really,” I said, and yawned. “It will probably work, though.”
He smiled faintly, and uncorked a bottle of beer, passing it automatically under his nose. Finding it all right, he poured some for me.
“Aye, well, it’s a comfort to know I’m leaving things in your capable hands, Sassenach. Ill-smelling,” he added, wrinkling his long nose in my direction, “but capable.”
“Thanks so much.” The beer was better than good; must be one of Mrs. Bug’s batches. We sipped companionably for a bit, both too tired to get up and serve the stew. I watched him beneath my lashes; I always did, when he was about to leave on a journey, storing up small memories of him against his return.
He looked tired, and there were small twin lines between his heavy brows, betokening slight worry. The candlelight glowed on the broad bones of his face, though, and cast his shadow clear on the plastered wall behind him, strong and bold. I watched the shadow raise its spectral beer glass, the light making an amber glow in the shadow glass.
“Sassenach,” he said suddenly, putting down the glass, “how many times, would ye say, have I come close to dying?”
I stared at him for a moment, but then shrugged and began to reckon, mustering my synapses into reluctant activity.
“Well … I don’t know what horrible things happened to you before I met you, but after … well, you were dreadfully ill at the abbey.” I glanced covertly at him, but he seemed not to be bothered at the thought of Wentworth prison, and what had been done to him there that had caused the illness. “Hmm. And after Culloden—you said you had a terrible fever then, from your wounds, and thought you might die, only Jenny forced you—I mean, nursed you through it.”
“And then Laoghaire shot me,” he said wryly. “And you forced me through it. Likewise, when the snake bit me.” He
considered for a moment.
“I had the smallpox when I was a wean, but I think I wasna in danger of dying then; they said it was a light case. So only four times, then.”
“What about the day I first met you?” I objected. “You nearly bled to death.”
“Oh, I did not,” he protested. “That was no but a wee scratch.”
I lifted one brow at him, and leaning over to the hearth, scooped a ladle of aromatic stew into a bowl. It was rich with the juices of rabbit and venison, swimming in a thick gravy spiced with rosemary, garlic, and onion. So far as my tastebuds were concerned, all was forgiven.
“Have it your way,” I said. “But wait—what about your head? When Dougal tried to kill you with an ax. Surely that’s five?”
He frowned, accepting the bowl.
“Aye, I suppose you’re right,” he said, seeming displeased. “Five, then.”
I regarded him gently over my own bowl of stew. He was very large, solid, and beautifully formed. And if he was a bit battered by circumstance, that merely added to his charm.
“You’re a very hard person to kill, I think,” I said. “That’s a great comfort to me.”
He smiled, reluctant, but then reached out and lifted his glass in salute, touching it first to his own lips, then to mine.
“We’ll drink to that, Sassenach, shall we?”
14
PEOPLE OF THE
SNOWBIRD
“Guns,” Bird-who-sings-in-the-morning said. “Tell your King we want guns.”
Jamie suppressed the urge to reply, “Who doesn’t?” for a moment, but then gave in to it, surprising the war chief into a blink of startlement, followed by a grin.
“Who, indeed?” Bird was a short man, shaped like a barrel, and young for his office—but shrewd, his affability no disguise to his intelligence. “They all tell you this, all the village war chiefs, eh? Of course they do. What do you tell them?”
“What I can.” Jamie lifted one shoulder, let it fall. “Trade goods are certain, knives are likely—guns are possible, but I cannot yet promise them.”
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