“I liked your meeting, a leannan,” Jamie said, smiling at Rachel as he ground a generous amount of pepper over his soup. “And I think ye’ll be surprised, come next week. Folk talk, ken.”
“I do,” she assured him. “And the Lord knows what they will say. But thank thee, Jamie, for coming—and all of you, too,” she added, smiling round to include me, Bree and Roger, and the assorted children, all of whom had been compelled to attend all three services. Unlike at the earlier services, though, they had been allowed and even encouraged to talk.
Rachel had explained the basic working of a Friends meeting to the attendees—that you sat in silence, listening to your inner light, unless or until the spirit moved you to say something—whether that was a worry you wished to share, a prayer you wanted to make, a song to sing, or a thought you might want to discuss.
She’d added that while many meetings both began and ended in silence, she felt moved of the spirit to begin today’s meeting by singing, and while she did not pretend to do so with the skill of Friend Cunningham or Friend Roger (the MacKenzies had come, of course, but the Cunninghams had not, which didn’t surprise me), if anyone wished to join her, she would be grateful for their company.
A good deal of warmth having been enkindled by the song—and Bluebell’s contribution—everyone had sat quietly for a few minutes. I’d felt Jamie, beside me, draw himself up a little, as though having made a decision, and he’d then told the congregation about Silvia Hardman, a Quaker woman he’d met by chance at her house near Philadelphia, and who had cared for him for several days, his back having chosen to incapacitate him.
“Besides her great kindness,” he said, “I was taken by her wee daughters. They were as kind as their mother—but it was their names I liked most. Patience, Prudence, and Chastity, they were called. So I’d meant to ask ye, Rachel—do Friends often call their children after virtues?”
“They do,” she said, and smiling at Jemmy, who had started to twitch a little, added, “Jeremiah—if thee wasn’t called Jeremiah, what name would thee choose? If thee were to be named for a virtue, I mean.”
“Whassa virtue?” Mandy had asked, frowning at her brother as though expecting him to sprout one momentarily.
“Something good,” Germain had told her. “Like …” He glanced dubiously at Rachel for confirmation. “… Peace? Or maybe Goodness?”
“Exactly,” she’d said, nodding gravely. “What name would thee choose, Germain, while Jemmy is thinking? Piety? Or perhaps Obedience?”
“No!” he’d said, horrified, and amid the general laughter, people had begun proposing noms-de-vertu, both for themselves and for various family members, with ensuing outbursts of laughter or—once or twice—heated discussions regarding the appropriateness of a suggestion.
“You started it, Da,” Brianna said now, amused. “But I noticed you didn’t pick a virtuous name at the meeting.”
“He’s already got the names of three Scottish kings,” Roger protested. “He’ll be gettin’ above himself if ye give him any more to play with.”
“You didn’t pick one, either, did you, Mama?” I could see the wheels turning in Bree’s mind, and moved to forestall her.
“Er … how about Gentleness?” I said, causing many of those at the table to burst into laughter.
“Is Ruthlessness a virtue?” Jamie asked, grinning at me.
“Probably not,” I said, rather coldly. “Though I suppose it depends on the circumstances.”
“True,” he said, and, taking my hand, kissed it. “Resolve, then—or maybe Resolution?”
“Well, Resolution Fraser does have a certain ring to it,” I said. “I have one for you, too.”
“Oh, aye?”
“Endurance.”
He didn’t stop smiling, but a certain look of ruefulness came into his eyes.
“Aye,” he said. “That’ll do.”
35
Ambsace
To General James Fraser, of Fraser’s Ridge, Colony of North Carolina
From Captain Judah M. Bixby
Dear General Fraser,
I hope as this Letter finds you well and Mrs. Fraser too. I am Captain now of an Infantry Company under General Wayne, whom you know and who said to send his kind Regards, so I do so here. General Wayne told me that he had heard you have returned to your Home in North Carolina. I hope this is true and that you will receive this.
In case you don’t, I will be brief, and write another Letter later which you may receive, with such further News as I may have then.
For the Moment, I wished to tell you first, that we had a skirmish last week with the British, near a British fort called Stony Point, on the banks of the Hudson. We did not attack the fort but we made them run back into it right smart!
Second, I am very sorry to tell you that Doctor Hunter was captured in the course of the fight and he is held Prisoner in the Fort. He was not hurt, so far as I know, and I am sure that with him being a Doctor and also a Quaker who hasn’t fought against them, the British will likely treat him kindly and not hang him.
I know the Doctor is a good Friend to you and to Mrs. Fraser and you would wish to know what has befallen him. I keep you both in my Prayers at Night, and will so keep the Doctor and his Wife as well.
Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant (and Aide),
Judah Mordecai Bixby, Captain in the Continental Army
JAMIE TOOK THE LETTER back from me and read it over again, frowning. We were sitting on a log just outside my garden, and now I moved closer to him in order to look over his shoulder. My stomach had clenched into a knot at the word “captured” and rose into my throat at the word “hang.”
“Stony Point,” I said, striving for calmness. “Do you know where that is?” Jamie shook his head, eyes still fixed on the paper.
“Somewhere in New York, I think.” He handed me the letter. “His wife,” he said. “D’ye think Dottie kens where Denny is? Or d’ye think she’s maybe with him?”
“In prison?” I asked, incredulous. It had been nearly a year since we’d last seen Denzell and Dottie, and at sight of the words “Doctor Hunter” my hand had gone involuntarily to my side. The small scar where Denny had removed a musket ball from my liver after the Battle of Monmouth had healed well, but I still felt a deep twinge in my side when I turned to reach for something—and I still woke suddenly now and then in the middle of the night with a sense of deep confusion, my body vibrating with the memory of impact. The body forms internal scars as well as surface scars when a wound heals—and so does the mind.
“Perhaps.” The frown had faded, but he still looked troubled. “In the town, at least. She could help him,” he added, in answer to my puzzled expression. “Food, medicine, blankets. He got a message out, aye?” He waved the paper.
Dottie could be in the prison, at that, I realized, though probably not as a prisoner herself. It wasn’t unknown for wives—and sometimes children—to go to live with an imprisoned husband, going out by day to beg for food or perhaps to find a little work. Prisoners were normally fed poorly and sometimes not fed at all, being forced to rely on help from families or friends, or from charitably inclined souls in the community, if they were imprisoned far from home. Likely wives wouldn’t be allowed in a military prison, though …