“And Jesus, walking by the sea of Galilee, saw two brethren, Simon called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea: for they were fishers.
And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.
And they straightway left their nets, and followed him.
And going on from thence, he saw other two brethren, James the son of Zebedee, and John his brother, in a ship with Zebedee their father, mending their nets; and he called them.
And they immediately left the ship and their father, and followed him.”
After which, he set down his worn leather Bible and told them, with great simplicity, what had brought him here.
“Two years ago, I captained one of His Majesty’s ships, HMS Lenox, on the North American Station. It was our charge to blockade the colonial ports and carry out occasional raids against rebellious communities.”
Roger felt the instant wariness that spread through the room like low-lying fog. Some of those present were bound to be secret Loyalists, though most of those who had declared themselves openly had done so as rebels, whether from conviction or from a pragmatic desire to ally themselves with their landlord—the landlord sitting in the third row—he didn’t know.
“My son Simon had recently joined the ship as second lieutenant. I was very pleased, as we had not seen each other for at least two years, he having seen duty in the Channel.”
The captain paused for a moment, as though looking into the past.
“I was proud of him,” he said quietly. “Proud that he chose to follow me into the navy, and proud of his conduct. He was a very young lieutenant—only just eighteen—but enterprising and courageous, and with a great care of his men.”
He pressed his lips together for a moment, then took an audible breath.
“While patrolling the coast of Rhode Island, we encountered and pursued a rebel cutter, and brought her to action. My son was killed in that action.”
There was a muffled sound of shock and sympathy from the congregation, but Cunningham gave no evidence of having heard it, and went steadily on.
“I was no more than a few feet away from him when the shot struck him, and I caught him in my arms. I felt him die.
“I felt him die,” he repeated, softly, and now his eyes searched the congregation. “Some of you will know that feeling.”
Many of them did.
“There is no time to mourn, of course, in the midst of an action, and it was nearly an hour later that we took possession of the cutter and made her crew prisoners. I sent the cutter into port under the command of my master’s mate—normally, that duty would have fallen to my son, as lieutenant. But at that point, all activity, all motion, all the need to lead and command—all of that dropped away. And I went to bid my son farewell.”
Roger glanced involuntarily down at Jemmy, at the soft swirl of hair on the crown of his head, the backs of his clean, pink ears.
“He was below, laid on a cot in the sick bay, and I sat down beside him. I cannot say what I felt, or what I thought; the space within me was void. Of course I knew what had happened to me, the loss of a part of myself, a loss greater than any loss of limb or physical injury—and yet I felt nothing. I think”—he broke off and cleared his throat—“I think I was afraid to feel anything. But while I sat, I watched his face—that face that I knew so well—and I saw the light enter it again.
“It changed,” he said, looking from face to face, urgent that they should understand. “His face became … transcendent. And beautiful, suddenly, the face of an angel. And then he opened his eyes.”
The shock brought every soul in the room upright. Mrs. Cunningham, Roger saw, already was as upright as it was possible for someone with a backbone to be. She sat rigid and immobile, her face turned away.
“He spoke to me,” the captain said, and his voice was husky. “He said, ‘Don’t worry, Father. I’ll see you again. In seven years.’” He cleared his throat again, harder. “And—then he closed his eyes and … was dead.”
It took several moments for the murmurs and gasps to die away, and Cunningham stood patiently until the silence returned.
“As I rose from my son’s side,” he said, “I realized that the Lord had given me both a blessing and a sign. The knowledge—the sure knowledge,” he emphasized, “that the soul is not destroyed by death, and the conviction that the Lord had called me to go forth and give this message to His people.
“So I have come among you in answer to God’s call. To bring you the word of God’s goodness, to humbly offer guidance where I may do so—and to honor the memory of my son, First Lieutenant Simon Elmore Cunningham, who served his King, his country, and his God always with honor and fidelity.”
Roger rose for the final hymn in a flurry of feeling. He’d been with Cunningham through every word, totally absorbed, filled with sorrow, pride, warmth, uplifted—and even putting aside the purely emotional aspects of the captain’s sermon, he had to admit that it was a really good bit of work in terms of religion.
Roger turned to Brianna, and under the rising song, said, “Jesus Christ,” meaning no blasphemy whatever.
“You can say that again,” she replied.
I DID WONDER just how Roger proposed to follow Captain Cunningham’s act. The congregation had scattered under the trees to take refreshment, but every group I passed was discussing what the captain had said, with great excitement and absorption—as well they might. The spell of his story remained with me—a sense of wonder and hope.
Bree seemed to be wondering, too; I saw her with Roger, in the shade of a big chinkapin oak, in close discussion. He shook his head, though, smiled, and tugged her cap straight. She’d dressed her part, as a modest minister’s wife, and smoothed her skirt and bodice.
“Two months, and she’ll be comin’ to kirk in buckskins,” Jamie said, following the direction of my gaze.
“What odds?” I inquired.
“Three to one. Ye want to wager, Sassenach?”
“Gambling on Sunday? You’re going straight to hell, Jamie Fraser.”
“I dinna mind. Ye’ll be there afore me. Askin’ me the odds, forbye … Besides, going to church three times in one day must at least get ye a few days off purgatory.”
I nodded.
“Ready for Round Two?”
Roger kissed Brianna and strode out of the shade into the sunlit day, tall, dark, and handsome in his best black—well, his only—suit. He came toward us, Bree on his heels, and I saw several people in the nearby groups notice this and begin to put away their bits of bread and cheese and beer, to retire behind bushes for a private moment, and to tidy up children who’d come undone.
I sketched a salute as Roger came up to us.
“Over the top?”
“Geronimo,” he replied briefly. With a visible squaring of the shoulders, he turned to greet his flock and usher them inside.
Back inside, it was noticeably warm, though not yet hot, thank God. The smell of new pine was softer now, cushioned by the rustle of homespun and the faint scents of cooking and farming and the messy business of raising children that rose in a pleasantly domestic fog.
Roger let them resettle for a moment, but not long enough for conversations to break out. He walked in with Bree on his arm, left her on the front bench, and turned to smile at the congregation.