“I—I’m sure I don’t know,” the captain said. “But this has nothing to do—”
“I was an Indian agent for some time, ken,” Jamie went on, in the same mild tone. “Under Superintendent Johnson. I spent considerable time wi’ the Cherokee, and they ken me for an honest man.”
“I was not impugning your honesty, Colonel Fraser.” Cunningham sounded rather testy, though it was obvious that this was news to him. “I do take issue with your—”
“Ye’ll ken, I suppose, that the British government has been in cahoots wi’ various Indians in the conduct of this war, encouraging them to attack settlements suspected of rebellious persuasions. Providing them wi’ guns and powder on occasion.”
“No, sir.” The captain’s tone had changed, his belligerence slightly tinged now with wariness. “I was not aware of that.”
Jamie and Ian both made polite Scottish noises indicating skepticism.
“Ye’ll admit that ye do ken I am a rebel, Captain?”
“You are fairly open about it, sir!” Cunningham snapped. He sat upright, fists clenched on his knees.
“I am,” Jamie agreed. “Ye make no secret of your own loyalties—”
“Loyalty to King and country requires neither secrecy nor defense, Colonel!”
“Aye? Well, I suppose that depends on whether that loyalty results in actions that might be considered injurious to me and mine, Captain. My cause or my family.”
“We didn’t mean—” Lieutenant Summers was beginning to be alarmed. Stirred from his lethargy by the rising tone of the conversation, he made an attempt to sit up straight, his round face earnest. “We wasn’t meaning to bring Indians down upon you, sir, so help me God!”
“Mr. Summers.” The captain lifted a hand, and the lieutenant went red and subsided.
“Colonel. I repeat that I make no secret of my loyalties. I preach them in public each Sunday, before God and man.”
“I’ve heard ye,” Jamie said dryly. “And ye’ll notice, I suppose, that I’ve made nay move to hinder ye doing so. I take no issue with your opinions; speak as ye find and let the devil listen.”
I blinked. He was angry, and was beginning to let it show.
“Talk all ye like, Captain. But I’ll not countenance any action that threatens the Ridge.”
Lieutenant Summers made a small, involuntary movement, and Captain Cunningham made a short, sharp movement that silenced him.
“You have my word, Colonel,” he said between his teeth.
There was a long moment of silence, and then I heard Jamie take a deep breath, this succeeded by the pouring of whisky.
“Then let us drink to the understanding between us, Captain,” he said calmly, and I heard the brief shifting and scrape of glass on wood as they all picked up their drams.
“To peace,” Jamie said. He emptied his glass and slammed it on the table with a bang that startled Mr. Voules out of his stupor.
“What the hell was that?” He sat up, staring blearily to and fro. “They shootin’ at us with our own guns?”
The brief silence was broken by Jamie.
“Guns?” he said mildly. “Did ye notice any guns, Ian, when ye packed up the captain’s gear?”
“No, Uncle,” Ian said, in exactly the same tone. “No guns.”
DESPITE ITS FARCICAL aspects, the incident with the captain’s guns was truly alarming. Preaching loyalty to the King in church of a Sunday was one thing; preparing—evidently—for an armed conflict under Jamie’s nose was another.
“Can you evict him?” I asked tentatively. The children had all gone to bed after supper, and Jamie, I, Brianna, and Roger were holding a minor council of war over dishes of corn pudding.
“I could,” Jamie said, frowning at the cream jug. “But I’ve been turnin’ it over in my mind, and I think it’s maybe better to let him stay, where he’ll be under my eye, than have him up to mischief where he’s not.”
“What do ye think he was—or is—planning to do?” Roger asked. “I mean—it’s at least possible that he wanted arms for protection; his place is very near the Cherokee Line.”
“Twenty muskets is maybe that wee bit excessive for keepin’ stray Indians out of his house,” Jamie replied. “If he’s bought guns, he had a plan to use them. For what, though? Does he have it in mind to try to assassinate me and burn out my tenants? What would be the point of that?”
“Maybe he’s doing the same thing you are, Da.” Bree poured cream on her own pudding, and then on Jamie’s. “Raising a personal militia to guard his property.”
I glanced at Jamie. He returned the look, but shook his head almost imperceptibly and took up his spoon. While preventing attacks on the Ridge was certainly one of Jamie’s motives in arming some of his men, I was sure he had others. He clearly didn’t feel this was the time to be telling Roger and Bree about them, though.
“Ian said one of the men who’d brought the guns was a naval lieutenant—one of the captain’s men from his career at sea, I suppose?” Bree asked.
“I’d suppose that, too,” Jamie said, with a certain terseness.
“Implying,” she said, “that he still has connections with the navy. Which is probably where the guns came from—do they use muskets on ships?”
“Aye, they do.” Jamie shifted slightly, as though his shirt was too tight—which it wasn’t. “When ships come close together, fightin’, the sailors take muskets up into the rigging and fire down into the other ship. The navy has a great many guns.”
“How do you know that?” Bree asked, curious.
“I read, lass,” her father said, raising one eyebrow at her. “There was an account of a sea battle in the Salisbury newspaper, and a drawing showin’ the wee sailors up among the masts, blastin’ away.”
“Aye, well,” said Roger, spooning ripe, sliced strawberries over his pudding, “I doubt Cunningham will try to bring guns up that way again. And if he does …”
“Then he’s arming us, instead of himself.” Despite the seriousness of the discussion, Bree was amused. The look of amusement faded, though, and she leaned toward us.
“But you’ll need more guns than what you took from the captain, won’t you?”
“I will,” Jamie admitted. “But it may take some time to find them. And buy the powder and shot to fire them.”
Roger and Bree exchanged a look, and he nodded.
“Let us help with that, Da,” she said, and reaching into her pocket drew out three small, flat strips of what could only be gold, glowing dully in the candlelight.
“Where on earth did you get those?” I picked one up, fingering it gingerly. It was surprisingly heavy for its size; definitely gold.
“A jeweler on Newbury Street in 1980,” she said. “I had fifty of these made; I sewed some into the hems of our clothes, and hid others in the heels of our shoes. It only took ten to provision us for the trip and buy passage on the ship from Scotland. There’s plenty left, I mean, if you need to buy powder or anything.”