A Trail of Fire

by Diana Gabaldon

  ‘I collect you are acquainted with the governor, Miss Twelvetrees?’ he asked, to which she gave a short laugh.

  ‘Better than I might wish, sir.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, in as inviting a tone as possible.

  ‘Really,’ she said, and smiled unpleasantly. ‘But let us not waste time in discussing a . . . a person of such low character.’ The smile altered, and she leaned toward him, touching his hand, which surprised him. ‘Tell me, colonel, does your wife accompany you? Or does she remain in London, from fear of fevers and slave uprisings?’

  ‘Alas, I am unmarried, ma’am,’ he said, thinking that she likely knew a good deal more than her brother wished her to.

  ‘Really,’ she said again, in an altogether different tone.

  Her touch lingered on his hand, a fraction of a moment too long. Not long enough to be blatant, but long enough for a normal man to perceive it – and Grey’s reflexes in such matters were much better developed than a normal man’s, from necessity.

  He barely thought consciously, but smiled at her, then glanced at her brother, then back, with the tiniest of regretful shrugs. He forbore to add the lingering smile that would have said, ‘Later.’

  She sucked her lower lip in for a moment, then released it, wet and reddened, and gave him a look under lowered lids that said ‘Later,’ and a good deal more. He coughed, and out of the sheer need to say something completely free of suggestion, asked abruptly, ‘Do you by chance know what an Obeah-man is, Miss Twelvetrees?’

  Her eyes sprang wide, and she lifted her hand from his arm. He managed to move out of her easy reach without actually appearing to shove his chair backward, and thought she didn’t notice; she was still looking at him with great attention, but the nature of that attention had changed. The sharp vertical lines between her brows deepened into a harsh eleven.

  ‘Where did you encounter that term, colonel, may I ask?’ Her voice was quite normal, her tone light – but she also glanced at her brother’s turned back, and she spoke quietly.

  ‘One of the governor’s servants mentioned it. I see you are familiar with the term – I collect it is to do with Africans?’

  ‘Yes.’ Now she was biting her upper lip, but the intent was not sexual. ‘The Koromantyn slaves – you know what those are?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Negroes from the Gold Coast,’ she said, and putting her hand once more on his sleeve, pulled him up and drew him a little away, toward the far end of the room. ‘Most planters want them, because they’re big and strong, and usually very well-formed.’ Was it— no, he decided, it was not his imagination; the tip of her tongue had darted out and touched her lip in the fraction of an instant before she’d said ‘well-formed.’ He thought Philip Twelvetrees had best find his sister a husband, and quickly.

  ‘Do you have Koromantyn slaves here?’

  ‘A few. The thing is, Koromantyns tend to be intractable. Very aggressive, and hard to control.’

  ‘Not a desirable trait in a slave, I collect,’ he said, making an effort to keep any edge out of his tone.

  ‘Well, it can be,’ she said, surprising him. She smiled briefly. ‘If your slaves are loyal – and ours are, I’d swear it – then you don’t mind them being a bit bloody-minded toward . . . anyone who might want to come and cause trouble.’

  He was sufficiently shocked at her language that it took him a moment to absorb her meaning. The tongue-tip flickered out again, and had she had dimples, she would certainly have employed them.

  ‘I see,’ he said carefully. ‘But you were about to tell me what an Obeah-man is. Some figure of authority, I take it, among the Koromantyns?’

  The flirtatiousness vanished abruptly, and she frowned again.

  ‘Yes. Obi is what they call their . . . religion, I suppose one must call it. Though from what little I know of it, no minister or priest would allow it that name.’

  Loud screams came from the garden below, and he glanced out, to see a flock of small, brightly coloured parrots swooping in and out of a big, lacy tree with yellowish fruit. Like clockwork, two small black children, naked as eggs, shot out of the shrubbery and aimed slingshots at the birds. Rocks spattered harmless among the branches, but the birds rose in a feathery vortex of agitation and flapped off, shrieking their complaints.

  Miss Twelvetrees ignored the interruption, resuming her explanation directly the noise subsided.

  ‘An Obeah-man talks to the spirits. He, or she – there are Obeah-women, too – is the person that one goes to, to . . . arrange things.’

  ‘What sorts of things?’

  A faint hint of her former flirtatiousness reappeared.

  ‘Oh . . . to make someone fall in love with you. To get with child. To get without child . . .’ and here she looked to see whether she had shocked him again, but he merely nodded, ‘—or to curse someone. To cause them ill-luck, or ill-health. Or death.’

  This was promising.

  ‘And how is this done, may I ask? Causing illness or death?’

  Here, however, she shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s really not safe to ask,’ she added, lowering her voice still further, and now her eyes were serious. ‘Tell me – the servant who spoke to you; what did he say?’

  Aware of just how quickly gossip spreads in rural places, Grey wasn’t about to reveal that threats had been made against Governor Warren. Instead he asked, ‘Have you ever heard of zombies?’

  She went quite white.

  ‘No,’ she said abruptly. It was a risk, but he took her hand to keep her from turning away.

  ‘I cannot tell you why I need to know,’ he said, very low-voiced, ‘but please believe me, Miss Twelvetrees – Nancy – ’ callously, he pressed her hand, ‘it’s extremely important. Any help that you can give me would be— well, I should appreciate it extremely.’ Her hand was warm; the fingers moved a little in his, and not in an effort to pull away. Her colour was coming back.

  ‘I truly don’t know much,’ she said, equally low-voiced. ‘Only that zombies are dead people, who have been raised by magic, to do the bidding of the person who made them.’

  ‘The person who made them – this would be an Obeah-man?’

  ‘Oh! No,’ she said, surprised. ‘The Koromantyns don’t make zombies. In fact, they think it quite an unclean practice.’

  ‘I’m entirely of one mind with them,’ he assured her. ‘Who does make zombies?’

  ‘Nancy!’ Philip had concluded his conversation with the overseer, and was coming toward them, a hospitable smile on his broad, perspiring face. ‘I say, can we not have something to eat? I’m sure the colonel must be famished, and I’m most extraordinarily clemmed myself.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Miss Twelvetrees said, with a quick warning glance at Grey. ‘I’ll tell Cook.’ Grey tightened his grip momentarily on her fingers, and she smiled at him.

  ‘As I was saying, colonel, you must call on Mrs Abernathy at Rose Hall. She would be the person best equipped to inform you.’

  ‘Inform you?’ Twelvetrees, curse him, chose this moment to become inquisitive. ‘About what?’

  ‘Customs and beliefs among the Ashanti, my dear,’ his sister said blandly. ‘Colonel Grey has a particular interest in such things.’

  Twelvetrees snorted briefly.

  ‘Ashanti, my left foot! Ibo, Fulani, Koromantyn . . . baptise ’em all proper Christians and let’s hear no more about what heathen beliefs they may have brought with ’em. From the little I know, you don’t want to hear about that sort of thing, colonel. Though if you do, of course,’ he added hastily, recalling that it was not his place to tell the lieutenant-colonel who would be protecting Twelvetrees’s life and property his business, ‘then my sister’s quite right – Mrs Abernathy would be best placed to advise you. Almost all her slaves are Ashanti. She . . . er . . . she’s said to . . . um . . . take an interest.’

  To Grey’s own interest, Twelvetrees’s face went a deep red, and he hastily changed the subject, ask
ing Grey fussy questions about the exact disposition of his troops. Grey evaded direct answers beyond assuring Twelvetrees that two companies of infantry would be dispatched to his plantation as soon as word could be sent to Spanish Town.

  He wished to leave at once, for various reasons, but was obliged to remain for tea, an uncomfortable meal of heavy, stodgy food, eaten under the heated gaze of Miss Twelvetrees. For the most part, he thought he had handled her with tact and delicacy – but toward the end of the meal she began to give him little pursed-mouth jabs. Nothing one could – or should – overtly notice, but he saw Philip blink at her once or twice in frowning bewilderment.

  ‘Of course, I could not pose as an authority regarding any aspect of life on Jamaica,’ she said, fixing him with an unreadable look. ‘We have lived here barely six months.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he said politely, a wodge of undigested Savoy cake settling heavily in his stomach. ‘You seem very much at home – and a very lovely home it is, Miss Twelvetrees. I perceive your most harmonious touch throughout.’

  This belated attempt at flattery was met with the scorn it deserved; the eleven was back, hardening her brow.

  ‘My brother inherited the plantation from his cousin, Edward Twelvetrees. Edward lived in London, himself.’ She levelled a look like the barrel of a musket at him. ‘Did you know him, colonel?’

  And just what would the bloody woman do if he told her the truth? he wondered. Clearly, she thought she knew something, but . . . no, he thought, watching her closely. She couldn’t know the truth, but had heard some rumour. So this poking at him was an attempt – and a clumsy one – to get him to say more.

  ‘I know several Twelvetrees casually,’ he said, very amiably. ‘But if I met your cousin, I do not think I had the pleasure of speaking with him at any great length.’ You bloody murderer! and Fucking sodomite! not really constituting conversation, if you asked Grey.

  Miss Twelvetrees blinked at him, surprised, and he realised what he should have seen much earlier. She was drunk. He had found the sangria light, refreshing – but had drunk only one glass himself. He had not noticed her refill her own, and yet the pitcher stood nearly empty.

  ‘My dear,’ said Philip, very kindly. ‘It is warm, is it not? You look a trifle pale and indisposed.’ In fact, she was flushed, her hair beginning to come down behind her rather large ears – but she did indeed look indisposed. Philip rang the bell, rising to his feet, and nodded to the black maid who came in.

  ‘I am not indisposed,’ Nancy Twelvetrees said, with some dignity. ‘I’m— I simply— that is—’ But the black maid, evidently used to this office, was already hauling Miss Twelvetrees toward the door, though with sufficient skill as to make it look as though she merely assisted her mistress.

  Grey rose himself, perforce, and took Miss Nancy’s hand, bowing over it.

  ‘Your servant, Miss Twelvetrees,’ he said. ‘I hope—’

  ‘We know,’ she said, staring at him from large, suddenly tear-filled eyes. ‘Do you hear me? We know.’ Then she was gone, the sound of her unsteady steps a ragged drumbeat on the parquet floor.

  There was a brief, awkward silence between the two men. Grey cleared his throat just as Philip Twelvetrees coughed.

  ‘Didn’t really like cousin Edward,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Grey.

  They walked together to the yard where Grey’s horse browsed under a tree, its sides streaked with parrot-droppings.

  ‘Don’t mind Nancy, will you?’ Twelvetrees said quietly, not looking at him. ‘She had . . . a disappointment, in London. I thought she might get over it more easily here, but— well, I made a mistake, and it’s not easy to unmake.’ He sighed, and Grey had a sudden strong urge to pat him sympathetically on the back.

  Instead, he made an indeterminate noise in his throat, nodded, and mounted.

  ‘The troops will be here the day after tomorrow, sir,’ he said. ‘You have my word upon it.’

  Grey had intended to return to Spanish Town, but instead paused on the road, pulled out the chart Dawes had given him, and calculated the distance to Rose Hall. It would mean camping on the mountain overnight, but they were prepared for that – and beyond the desirability of hearing at first-hand the details of a maroon attack, he was now more than curious to speak with Mrs Abernathy regarding zombies.

  He called his aide, wrote out instructions for the dispatch of troops to Twelvetrees, then sent two men back to Spanish Town with the message, and sent two more on before, to discover a good campsite. They reached this as the sun was beginning to sink, glowing like a flaming pearl in a soft pink sky.

  ‘What is that?’ he asked, looking up abruptly from the cup of gunpowder tea Corporal Sansom had handed him. Sansom looked startled, too, and looked up the slope where the sound had come from.

  ‘Don’t know, sir,’ he said. ‘It sounds like a horn of some kind.’

  It did. Not a trumpet, or anything of a standard military nature. Definitely a sound of human origin, though. The men stood quiet, waiting. A moment or two, and the sound came again.

  ‘That’s a different one,’ Sansom said, sounding alarmed. ‘It came from over there—’ pointing up the slope, ‘—didn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it did,’ Grey said absently. ‘Hush!’

  The first horn sounded again, a plaintive bleat almost lost in the noises of the birds settling for the night, and then fell silent.

  Grey’s skin tingled, his senses alert. They were not alone in the jungle. Someone – someones – were out there in the oncoming night, signalling to each other. Quietly, he gave orders for the building of a hasty fortification, and the camp fell at once into the work of organising defence. The men with him were mostly veterans, and while wary, not at all panicked. Within a very short time, a redoubt of stone and brush had been thrown up, sentries posted in pairs around camp, and every man’s weapon was loaded and primed, ready for an attack.

  Nothing came, though, and while the men lay on their arms all night, there was no further sign of human presence. Such presence was there, though; Grey could feel it. Them. Watching.

  He ate his supper and sat with his back against an outcrop of rock, dagger in his belt and loaded musket to hand. Waiting.

  But nothing happened, and the sun rose. They broke camp in an orderly fashion, and if horns sounded in the jungle, the sound was lost in the shriek and chatter of the birds.

  He had never been in the presence of anyone who repelled him so acutely. He wondered why that was; there was nothing overtly ill-favoured or ugly about her. If anything, she was a handsome Scotchwoman of middle age, fair-haired and buxom. And yet, the widow Abernathy chilled him, despite the warmth of the air on the terrace where she had chosen to receive him at Rose Hall.

  She was not dressed in mourning, he saw, nor did she make any obvious acknowledgement of the recent death of her husband. She wore white muslin, embroidered in blue about the hems and cuffs.

  ‘I understand that I must congratulate you upon your survival, madam,’ he said, taking the seat she gestured him to. It was a somewhat callous thing to say, but she looked hard as nails; he didn’t think it would upset her, and he was right.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning back in her own wicker chair and looking him frankly up and down in a way that he found unsettling. ‘It was bloody cold in that spring, I’ll tell ye that for nothing. Like to died myself, frozen right through.’

  He inclined his head courteously.

  ‘I trust you suffered no lingering ill-effects from the experience? Beyond, of course, the lamentable death of your husband,’ he hurried to add.

  She laughed coarsely.

  ‘Glad to get shot o’ the wicked sod.’

  At a loss how to reply to this, Grey coughed and changed the subject.

  ‘I am told, madam, that you have an interest in some of the rituals practised by slaves.’

  Her somewhat bleared green glance sharpened at that.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Miss
Nancy Twelvetrees.’ There was no reason to keep the identity of his informant secret, after all.

  ‘Oh, wee Nancy, was it?’ She seemed amused by that, and shot him a sideways look. ‘I expect she liked you, no?’

  He couldn’t see what Miss Twelvetrees’s opinion of him might have to do with the matter, and said so, politely. Mrs Abernathy merely smirked at that, waving a hand.

  ‘Aye, well. What is it ye want to know, then?’

  ‘I want to know how zombies are made.’

  Shock wiped the smirk off her face, and she blinked at him stupidly for a moment, before picking up her glass and draining it.

  ‘Zombies,’ she said, and looked at him with a certain wary interest. ‘Why?’

  He told her. From careless amusement, her attitude changed, interest sharpening. She made him repeat the story of his encounter with the thing in his room, asking sharp questions regarding its smell, particularly.

  ‘Decayed flesh,’ she said. ‘Ye’d ken what that smells like, would ye?’

  It must have been her accent that brought back the battlefield at Culloden, and the stench of burning corpses. He shuddered, unable to stop himself.

  ‘Yes,’ he said abruptly. ‘Why?’

  She pursed her lips in thought.

  ‘There are different ways to go about it, aye? One way is to give the afile powder to the person, wait until they drop, and then bury them atop a recent corpse. Ye just spread the earth lightly over them,’ she explained, catching his look. ‘And make sure to put leaves and sticks over the face afore sprinkling the earth, so as the person can still breathe. When the poison dissipates enough for them to move again, and sense things, they see they’re buried, they smell the reek, and so they ken they must be dead.’ She spoke as matter-of-factly as though she had been telling him her private receipt for apple pan-dowdy or treacle-cake. Weirdly enough, that steadied him, and he was able to speak past his revulsion, calmly.

  ‘Poison. That would be the afile powder? What sort of poison is it, do you know?’

  Seeing the spark in her eye, he thanked the impulse that had led him to add ‘Do you know?’ to that question – for if not for pride, he thought she might not have told him. As it was, she shrugged and answered off-hand.