The Outlandish Companion

by Diana Gabaldon

  “Whereas I have received information that a great Number of outrageous and disorderly Persons did tumultuously assemble themselves together in the Town of Hillsborough, on the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth of last Month, during the sitting of the Superior Court of Justice of that District to oppose the Just Measures of Government and in open Violation of the Laws of their Country, audaciously attacking his Majesty’s Associate Justice in the Execution of his Office, and barbarously beating and wounding several persons in and during the sitting of said court, and offering other enormous Indignities and Insults to his Majesty’s Government, committing the most violent Outrages on the Persons and properties of the Inhabitants of the said Town, drinking Damnation to their lawful Sovereign King George and Success to the Pretender: To the End therefore, that the Persons concerned in the said outrageous Acts may be brought to Justice, I do, by the Advice and consent of his Majesty’s Council, issue this my Proclamation, hereby requiring and strictly enjoining all his Majesty’s Justices of the Peace in this Government to make diligent Inquiry into the above recited Crimes, and to receive the Deposition of such person or persons as shall appear before them to make Information of and concerning the same; which depositions are to be transmitted to me, in Order to be laid before the General Assembly, at New Bern, on the thirtieth day of November next, to which time it stands Prorogued for the immediate Dispatch of Public Business.

  Given under my Hand, and the Great Seal of the Province, at New Bern, the Eighteenth Day of October, in the Tenth Year of his Majesty’s Reign, Anno Domini 1770.”

  “Signed, William Tryon,” Hayes concluded, with a puff of steamy breath.

  There was a subdued rumble from the crowd behind me, of interest and consternation—touched with a certain amount of amusement at the phrases regarding treasonous toasts.

  This was a Gathering of Highlanders, many of them exiled to the Colonies in the wake of the Stuart Rising, and had Archie Hayes chosen to take official notice of what was said over the cups of whisky passed round the fires the night before… but then, he had but forty soldiers with him, and whatever his own opinions of King George and that monarch’s possible damnation, he kept them wisely to himself.

  Some four hundred Highlanders surrounded Hayes’s small beachhead on the creek bank. Men and women sheltered among the trees above the clearing, plaids and shawls pulled tight against the rising wind. They, too, were keeping their own counsel, judging from the array of stony faces visible under the flutter of scarves and bonnets. Of course, I thought, their expressions might derive from cold as much as from natural caution; my own cheeks were stiff, the end of my nose had gone numb, and I hadn’t felt my feet anytime since daybreak.

  “Any pairson wishing to make a deposition concairning these most serious matters may entrust it safely to my care,” Hayes announced, his round face an official blank. “I will remain in my tent with my clairk for the rest of the day. God save the King!”

  He handed the proclamation to his corporal, bowed to the crowd in dismissal, and turned smartly toward a large canvas tent that had been erected near the trees, regimental banners flapping wildly from a standard next to it.

  Shivering, I slid a hand into the slit of Jamie’s cloak and over the crook of his arm, my cold fingers comforted by the warmth of his body. Jamie pressed his elbow briefly to his side in acknowledgment of my frozen grasp, but didn’t look down at me; he was studying Archie Hayes’s retreating back, eyes narrowed against the sting of the wind.

  A compact and solid man, of inconsequent height but considerable presence, the Leftenant moved with great deliberation, as though oblivious of the crowd on the hillside above. Hayes was a Highlander himself, as were his men; that was why he was here.

  The Leftenant vanished into his tent, leaving the flap invitingly pinned up. Not for the first time, I reluctantly admired Governor Tryon’s political instincts. This Proclamation was clearly being read in towns and villages throughout the Colony; he could have relied on a local magistrate or sheriff to carry his message of official fury to this Gathering. Instead, he had taken the trouble to send Hayes.

  Archibald Hayes had taken the field at Culloden by his father’s side at the age of twelve. Wounded in the fight, he had been taken prisoner and sent south. Presented with a choice of transportation or joining the Army, he had taken the King’s shilling and made the best of it. Quite a lot the best of it; the fact that he had risen to be an officer in his midthirties, in a time when almost all commissions were bought rather than earned, was sufficient testimony to his abilities, I thought.

  He was as personable as he was professional; invited to share our food and fire, he had spent half the night talking with Jamie—and the other half moving from fire to fire under the aegis of Jamie’s presence, being introduced to the heads of all the important families present.

  And whose notion had that been? I wondered, looking up at Jamie. His long, straight nose was reddened by the cold, his eyes hooded from the wind, but his face gave no inkling of what he was thinking. And that, I thought, was a bloody good indication that he was thinking something rather dangerous. Had he known about this Proclamation?

  No English officer, with an English troop, could have brought such news into a Gathering like this with any hope of cooperation. But Hayes and his Highlanders, stalwart in their tartan and bearskins… I didn’t miss the fact that Hayes had had his tent erected with its back to a thick grove of pines; anyone who wished to speak to the Leftenant in secret could approach through the woods, unseen.

  “Does Hayes expect someone to pop out of the crowd, rush into his tent, and surrender on the spot?” I murmured to Jamie. I personally knew of at least a dozen men among those present who had taken part in the Hillsborough riots; three of them were standing within arm’s length of us.

  Jamie saw the direction of my glance and put his hand over mine, squeezing it in a silent adjuration of discretion. I lowered my brows at him; surely he didn’t think I would give anyone away by inadvertence? He gave me a faint smile and one of those annoying marital looks that said, more plainly than words, You know how ye are, Sassenach. Anyone who sees your face kens just what ye think.

  I sidled in a little closer, and kicked him discreetly in the ankle. I might have a glass face, but it certainly wouldn’t arouse comment in a crowd like this! He didn’t wince, but the smile spread a little wider. He slid one arm inside my cloak, and drew me closer, his hand on my back.

  Hobson, MacLennan, and Fowles stood together just in front of us, talking quietly among themselves. All three came from a tiny settlement called Drunkard’s Creek, some fifteen miles from our own place on Fraser’s Ridge. Hugh Fowles was Joe Hobson’s son-in-law, and very young, no more than twenty. He was doing his best to keep his composure, but his face had gone white and clammy as the Proclamation was read; the Governor was very annoyed about what had happened in Hillsborough six weeks ago, that was clear.

  I didn’t know what Tryon intended to do to anyone who could be proved to have had a part in the doings—several buildings had been destroyed, more than one public official dragged out and assaulted in the street—gossip had it that one ironically named justice of the peace had lost an eye to a vicious blow aimed with a horsewhip—and Chief Justice Henderson had escaped out of a window and fled the town, thus effectively preventing the Court from sitting—but I could feel the currents of unrest created by the Governor’s Proclamation passing through the crowd like the eddies of water rushing over rocks in the nearby creek.

  Joe Hobson glanced back at Jamie, then away. Leftenant Hayes’s presence at our fire the previous evening had not gone unremarked.

  If Jamie saw the glance, he didn’t return it. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, tilting his head down to speak to me.

  “I shouldna think Hayes expects anyone to give themselves up, no. It’s his duty to ask for information, though. I thank God it isna mine to answer.” He hadn’t spoken loudly, but loudly enough to reach the ears of Joe Hobson.

  H
obson turned his head and gave Jamie a small nod of wry acknowledgment. He touched his son-in-law’s arm, and they turned away, scrambling up the slope toward the scattered campsites above, where their womenfolk were tending the fires and the younger children.

  This was the last day of the Gathering; this afternoon there would be marryings and christenings, the formal blessing of love and its riotous fruits sprung from the loins of the unchurched multitude during the year before. In the evening, the last songs would be sung, the last stories told, and dancing done amid the leaping flames of many fires—rain or no. Come morning, the Scots and their households would all disperse back to their homes, scattered from the settled banks of the Cape Fear River to the wild mountains of the West—carrying news of the Governor’s Proclamation and the doings at Hillsborough.

  I wiggled my toes inside my damp shoes and wondered uneasily who among the crowd might think it their duty to answer Hayes’s invitation to confession or incrimination. Not Jamie, no. But others might. There had been a good deal of boasting about the riots in Hillsborough during the week of the Gathering, but not all the listeners were disposed to view the rioters as heroes, by any means.

  I could feel as well as hear the mutter of conversation breaking out in the wake of the proclamation; heads turning, families drawing close together, men moving from group to group, as the content of Hayes’s speech was relayed up the hill, repeated to those who stood too far away for hearing.

  “Shall we go? There’s a lot to do yet before the weddings.”

  “Aye?” Jamie glanced down at me. “I thought Jocasta’s slaves were managing the food and drink and such. I gave Ulysses the barrels of whisky—he’ll be Sogan Buidhe.”

  “Ulysses? Did he bring his wig?” I laughed at the thought. The Sogan Buidhe was the man who managed the dispensing of drink and refreshment at a Highland wedding; the term actually meant something like “hearty, jovial fellow.” Ulysses, Jocasta’s black butler, was possibly the most dignified person I had ever seen—even without his livery and powdered horsehair wig.

  “If he did, it’s like to be stuck to his head before morning.” Jamie glanced up at the lowering sky and shook his head.

  “Happy the bride the sun shines on,” he quoted. “Happy the corpse the rain falls on.

  “That’s what I like about Scots,” I said dryly. “An appropriate proverb for all occasions. Don’t you dare say that in front of Bree.”

  “What d’ye take me for, Sassenach?” he demanded, with a half-smile down at me. “I’m her father, no?”

  “Definitely yes.” I glanced over my shoulder, to be sure Bree wasn’t in hearing, but there was no sign of her blazing head among those nearby. Certainly her father’s daughter, she stood six feet tall in her stocking feet; nearly as easy as Jamie himself to pick out of a crowd.

  “It’s not the wedding feast I need to deal with, anyway; I’ve got to manage breakfast, then find Murray MacLeod and ask him to come help with the morning clinic.”

  “Oh, aye? I thought ye said wee Murray was a charlatan.”

  “I said he was ignorant, stubborn, and a menace to the public health; that’s not the same thing—quite.”

  “Quite,” said Jamie, grinning. “Ye mean to convert him, then—or poison him?”

  “Whichever seems most effective. If nothing else, I might accidentally step on his fleam and break it; that’s probably the only way I’ll stop him bleeding people. Let’s go, though, I’m freezing!”

  “Aye, we’ll awa,” Jamie agreed, with a glance at the soldiers, still drawn up along the creek bank at parade rest. “No doubt wee Archie means to keep his lads there till the crowd’s gone; they’re a bit blue round the edges, too.”

  Though fully armed and uniformed, the row of Highlanders was relaxed; imposing, to be sure, but not threatening. Small boys—and not a few wee girls—scampered to and fro among them, impudently flicking the hems of the soldiers’ kilts or dashing in, greatly daring, to touch the gleaming muskets, dangling powder horns, and the hilts of dirks and swords.

  “Abel, a charaid!” Jamie had paused to greet the last of the men from Drunkard’s Creek. “Will ye ha’ eaten yet the day?”

  MacLennan had not brought his wife to the Gathering, and thus ate where luck took him. The crowd was dispersing around us, but he stood stolidly in place, holding the ends of a red flannel handkerchief pulled over his balding head against the spatter of rain. Probably hoping to cadge an invitation to breakfast, I thought.

  I eyed his stocky form, mentally estimating his possible consumption of eggs, parritch, and toasted bread against the dwindling supplies in our hampers. Not that simple shortage of food would stop any Highlander from offering hospitality—certainly not Jamie, who was inviting MacLennan to join us, even as I mentally divided eighteen eggs by nine people instead of eight. Not fried, then; made into fritters with grated potatoes, and I’d best borrow more coffee from Jocasta’s campsite on the way up the mountain.

  We turned to go, and Jamie’s hand slid suddenly downward over my backside. I made an undignified sound, and Abel MacLennan turned round to gawk at me. I smiled brightly at him, resisting the urge to kick Jamie again, less discreetly.

  MacLennan scrambled up the slope in front of us with alacrity, coattails bouncing in anticipation over worn breeks. Jamie put a hand under my elbow to help me over the rocks, bending down as he did so to mutter in my ear.

  “Why the devil are ye not wearing a petticoat, Sassenach?” he hissed. “Ye’ve nothing at all on under your skirt—you’ll catch your death of cold!”

  “You’re not wrong there,” I said, shivering in spite of my cloak. I did in fact have on a chemise under my gown, but it was a thin, ragged thing, suitable for rough camping out in summertime, but quite insufficient to stem the wintry blasts that blew through my linen skirt as though it were cheesecloth.

  “Ye had a fine woolen petticoat last night. What’s become of it?”

  “You don’t want to know,” I assured him.

  His eyebrows went up at this, but before he could ask further questions, a scream rang out behind us.

  “Germain!”

  I turned to see a small blond head, hair flying as the owner streaked down the slope below the rocks. Two-year-old Germain had taken advantage of his mother’s preoccupation with his newborn sister to escape custody and make a dash for the row of soldiers. Eluding capture by lookers-on, he charged headlong down the slope, picking up speed like a rolling stone.

  “Fergus!” Marsali screamed. Germain’s father, hearing his name, turned round from his conversation, just in time to see his son trip over a rock and fly headlong. Oddly, the boy made no move to save himself, but collapsed gracefully, rolling into a ball like a hedgehog as he struck the grassy slope on one shoulder. He rolled like a cannonball through the ranks of soldiers, shot off the edge of a rocky shelf, and plopped with a splash into the creek.

  There was a general gasp of consternation, and a number of people ran down the hill to help, but one of the soldiers had already hurried to the bank. Kneeling, he thrust the tip of his bayonet through the child’s floating clothes and towed the soggy bundle to the shore.

  Fergus charged into the icy shallows, reaching out to clasp his waterlogged son.

  “Merci, mon ami, mille merci beaucoup,” he said to the young soldier. “Et tu, toto,” he said, addressing his spluttering offspring with a small shake, “Comment ça va, ye wee chowderheid?”

  The soldier looked startled, but I couldn’t tell whether the cause was Fergus’s unique patois, or the sight of the gleaming hook he wore in place of his missing left hand.

  “That’s all right then, sir,” he said, with a shy smile. “He’ll no be damaged, I think.”

  Brianna appeared from behind a pine tree, six-month-old Jemmy on one shoulder. She bent down and scooped baby Joan neatly out of Marsali’s arms. Jamie swung the heavy cloak from his shoulders and laid it in Marsali’s arms in place of the baby.

  “Tell the soldier laddie to come s
hare our fire,” he told her. “We can feed another, Sassenach?”

  “Of course,” I said, readjusting my mental calculations. Eighteen eggs, four loaves of stale bread for toast—no, I should keep back one for the trip home tomorrow—three dozen oatcakes if Jamie and Roger hadn’t eaten them, half a jar of honey…

  Marsali’s thin face lighted with a rueful smile, shared among the three of us, then she was gone, hastening to the aid of her drenched and shivering menfolk.

  Jamie looked after her with a sigh of resignation, as the wind caught the full sleeves of his shirt and belled them out with a muffled whoomp. He crossed his arms across his chest, hunching his shoulders against the wind, and smiled down at me, sidelong.

  “Ah, well. I suppose we shall both freeze together, Sassenach. That’s all right, though. I wouldna want to live without ye, anyway.”

  “Ha,” I said amiably. “You could live naked on an ice floe, Jamie Fraser, and melt it. What have you done with your coat and plaid?” He wore nothing besides his kilt and sark save shoes and stockings, and his high cheekbones were reddened with cold, like the tips of his ears. When I slipped a hand back inside his arm, though, he was warm as ever.

  “Ye dinna want to know,” he said, grinning. He covered my hand with one large, callused palm. “Let’s go; I’m fair starved for my breakfast.”

  “Wait,” I said, detaching myself. Jemmy was indisposed to share his mother’s embrace with the newcomer, and howled and squirmed in protest, his small round face going red with annoyance. I reached out and took him from Brianna, as he wriggled and fussed in his wrappings.

  “Musical babies.” Brianna smiled briefly, boosting tiny Joan into a more secure position against her shoulder. “Sure you want that one? This one’s quieter—and weighs half as much.”