Rachel’s Meeting attracted fewer people and many fewer arguments, but those who came to sit in silence and in company to listen to their inner light came every week, and little by little, more came.
It wasn’t always completely silent—as Ian noted, the spirit had its own opinions, and some meetings were very lively—but I thought that for a number of the women, at least, the opportunity to just sit down for an hour in a quiet place was worth more than even the most inspired preaching or singing.
Jamie and I always attended all three services, both because the landlord couldn’t be seen to show partiality, even if the Presbyterian minister was his own son-in-law and the Quaker—presider? instigator? I wasn’t sure what one might call Rachel, other than perhaps the speck of sand inside a pearl—his niece by marriage. And because it allowed him to keep his thumb firmly on the pulse of the Ridge.
After each of the morning services, I would take up my station under a particular huge chestnut tree and run a casual clinic for an hour or so, dressing minor injuries, looking down throats, and offering advice along with a surreptitious (because it was Sunday, after all) bottle of “tonic”—this being a concoction of raw but well-watered whisky and sugar, with assorted herbal substances added for the treatment of vitamin deficiency, alleviation of toothache or indigestion, or (in cases where I suspected its need) a slug of turpentine to kill hookworms.
Meanwhile, Jamie—often with Ian at his elbow—would wander from one group of men to another, greeting everyone, chatting, and listening. Always listening.
“Ye canna keep politics secret, Sassenach,” he’d told me. “Even if they wanted to—and they mostly don’t want to—they canna hold their tongues or disguise what they think.”
“What they think in terms of political principle, or what they think of their neighbors’ political principles?” I asked, having caught the echoes of these discussions from the women who formed the major part of my pastoral Sunday surgery.
He laughed, but not with a lot of humor in it.
“If they tell ye what their neighbor thinks, Sassenach, it doesna take much mind reading to ken what they think.”
“Do you think they know what you’re thinking?” I asked, curious. He shrugged.
“If they don’t, they soon will.”
TWO WEEKS LATER, when Captain Cunningham had finished the final prayer, but before he could dismiss his congregation, Jamie rose to his feet and asked the captain’s permission to address the people.
I saw Elspeth Cunningham’s back—always straight as a pine sapling—go rigid, the black feathers on her churchgoing hat quivering in warning. Still, the captain didn’t have much choice, and with a fair assumption of graciousness, he stepped back and gestured Jamie to take the floor.
“Good morn to ye all,” he said, with a bow to the congregation. “And I ask your pardon—and Captain Cunningham’s”—another bow—“for needing to disturb your peace of mind on a Sunday. But I’ve had a wee note this week that’s disturbed my own peace of mind considerably, and I hope ye’ll give me the opportunity to share it with ye.”
A murmur of agreement, puzzlement, and interest passed through the room. Along with a subterranean rumble, barely felt, of apprehension.
Jamie reached into his coat and removed a folded note, with a broken candle-wax seal that had seeped grease into the paper, so that the shadows of words showed through as he unfolded it. He put on his spectacles and read it aloud.
“Mr. Fraser—
I take the Liberty of telling you I have had Word that General Gates attacked the Forces of Lord Cornwallis near Camden and suffered a Great Defeat, including the lamentable Death of Major General De Kalb. With the retreat of Gates’s Forces, South Carolina is abandoned to the Enemy. Meanwhile, I hear that additional Troops are being sent North from Florida to support the Occupation of Savannah. Such News is alarming, but I am alarmed further to hear from some Friends that General Clinton plans to attack the Backcountry by other, more insidious Means. He proposes to send Agents among us, to solicit, enlist, and arm Loyalists and by so doing, to raise a large Militia, supported by the regular Army, to attack and subdue any Hint of Rebellion in the Mountains of Tennessee and the Carolinas.
It is my firm Belief that this is no idle Rumor, and I will send you various Proofs as they come into my hands. Therefore …”
As he read, I had the oddest feeling of déjà vu. A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and the ripple of gooseflesh up my arms. The room was hot and moist as a Turkish bath, but I felt as though I stood in a cold, empty room, with an icy Scottish rain beating at the window, hearing words of inescapable doom.
“And herewith acknowledged the Support of these Divine Rights by the Chieftains of the Highland Clans, the Jacobite Lords, and various other such loyal Subjects of His Majesty, King James, as have subscribed their Names upon this Bill of Association in token thereof.”
“No. Oh, God, no …” I hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but it escaped my lips, though only in a whisper that made the people to each side of me glance sideways, then hastily away, as though I had suddenly sprouted leprosy. Jamie finished:
“I urge you therefore to make such Preparations as lie in your Power, and stand ready to join us in case of urgent Need, to defend our Lives and Liberty.”
There was a moment of ringing silence, and then Jamie folded the note and spoke before the reaction of the crowd could erupt.
“I shallna tell ye the name of the gentleman who sent me this letter, for he is a gentleman known to me by name and reputation and I will not endanger him. I believe that what he says is true.”
People were stirring all around me, but I sat frozen, staring at him.
No. Not again. Please, not again …
But you knew, the reasonable part of my mind was saying. You knew it was coming back. You knew he couldn’t get out of the way—and he wouldn’t, even if he could …
“I ken very well that some here profess loyalty to the King. Ye’ll all ken that I do not. Ye’ll do as your conscience bids ye—and so will I.” He met the eyes of men here and there in the audience, but avoided looking at Captain Cunningham, who stood, quite expressionless, to one side.
“I willna drive any man from his land for what he believes.” Jamie stopped for a moment, took his glasses off, and looked directly from face to face to face before continuing. I knew he was looking at the men he knew to be professed Loyalists, and repressed the urge to look round.
“But this land and its tenants are mine to protect, and I will do that. I’ll need help in this endeavor, and to that end, I will be raising a militia. Should ye choose to join me, I will arm ye, feed ye on the march, and provide mounts for those men who may not have one.”
I could feel Samuel Chisholm—aged eighteen or so—sitting next to me, stiffen and move his feet slightly under him, plainly deciding whether to leap to his feet and volunteer on the spot. Jamie saw him move and lifted his hand slightly, with a brief smile.
“Those who wish to join me today—come and speak wi’ me outside. Those who wish to think on the matter may come to my house at any time. Day or night,” he added, with a wry twist of the mouth that made a few people titter nervously.