“Your servant, sir,” he said, turning to a stone-faced Captain Cunningham, “and I thank ye for your courtesy.”
He walked steadily down the aisle between the benches, put down a hand to me and pulled me up, gave me his arm, and we walked briskly out, leaving a dropped-pin silence behind us.
HE DID THE same thing at the Presbyterian service, Roger standing gravely behind him, eyes cast down. Here, though, the audience was prepared—everyone had heard what had happened at the Methodist service.
No sooner had he finished speaking than Bill Amos was on his feet.
“We’ll ride with ye, Mac Dubh,” he said firmly. “Me and my lads.”
Bill Amos was a handsome, black-haired, solid man, both physically and in terms of character, and there were murmurs of agreement among the people. Three or four more men rose on the spot to pledge themselves, and I could feel the hum of excitement stirring the humid air.
I could feel the sense of cold dread among the women, too. Several of them had spoken to me during my surgery between the services.
“Can ye no persuade your man otherwise?” Mairi Gordon had asked me, low-voiced and looking round to be sure she wasn’t overheard. “I’ve only my great-grandson, and I’ll be left alone to starve if he’s kilt.” Mairi was near my own age and had lived through the days after Culloden. I could see the fear at the back of her eyes, and felt it, too.
“I’ll … talk to him,” I said awkwardly. I could—and I would—try to persuade Jamie not to take Hugh Gordon, but I knew quite well what his answer would be.
“We won’t let you starve,” I said, with as much confidence as I could muster. “No matter what.”
“Aye, well,” she’d muttered, and let me dress the burn on her arm in silence.
The sense of excitement followed us out of the church. Men were clustering around Jamie; other men were in their own clusters, under the trees, in the shadow of the pines. I looked, but didn’t see Captain Cunningham among them; perhaps he knew better than to declare himself openly.
Yet.
The coldness I had felt in church was a shifting weight in my belly, like a pool of mercury. I went on talking pleasantly with the women and children—and the occasional man with a crushed toe or a splinter in his eye—but I could feel what was happening, all too clearly.
Jamie had split the Ridge, and the fracture lines were spreading.
He’d done it on purpose and from necessity, but that didn’t make the fact of it easier to bear. In the space of three hours, we had gone from a community—however contentious—to openly opposing camps. The earthquake had struck and the aftershocks would continue. Neighbors would be no longer neighbors, but stated enemies.
War had been declared.
USUALLY, PEOPLE WOULD mill slowly after church, groups forming and splitting and re-forming as friends were greeted, news exchanged, cloths spread, food unpacked, conversation rising under the trees like the comforting buzz of a working hive.
Not today.
Families drew in upon themselves, friends who found themselves still on the same side sought each other out for reassurance—but the Ridge had split, and its shattered pieces drifted slowly away along the forest paths, leaving the hot, thick air to settle on the vacant church, empty of peace.
My last patient, Auld Mam, who had (she said) a rheum in her back, was led away by one of her daughters, clutching a bottle of extra-strong tonic, and I heaved a deep, unrefreshing breath and started putting away my instruments and supplies. Bree had taken the children home—plainly there was to be no picnic lunch under the trees on this Sunday—but Roger was still standing outside the church with Jamie and Ian, the three of them talking quietly.
The sight gave me some comfort. At least Jamie wasn’t alone in this.
Ian nodded to Roger and Jamie and went off toward his own house, waving briefly to me in farewell. Jamie came down to me, still talking to Roger.
“I’m sorry, a mhinistear,” he was saying, as they came within earshot. “I wouldna have done it in kirk, but I had to reach the Loyalists at the same time as the rebels, ken? And most of them dinna come to Lodge anymore.”
“Nay bother, man.” Roger patted him briefly on the back and smiled. It was a slightly forced smile, but genuine for all that. “I understand.” He nodded to me, then turned back to Jamie.
“Do you plan to go to Rachel’s Meeting, too?” He was careful to keep any sort of edge out of his voice, but Jamie heard it anyway.
“Aye,” he said, straightening himself with a sigh. Then, seeing Roger’s face, he made a small, wry grimace. “Not to recruit, a bhalaich. To sit in the silence and ask forgiveness.”
44
Beetles with Tiny Red Eyes
Savannah
Late August
WILLIAM HAD, OUT OF what even he would admit to himself in the depths of his heart was simple obstinacy (though he passed it off to his conscience as honesty and pride—of a shockingly republican nature, but still pride), taken up residence in a small shedlike house on the edge of the marshes with John Cinnamon. Lord John had—without comment—given him a room at Number 12 Oglethorpe Street, though, and he often slept there when he had come for supper. He had also continued wearing the clothes in which he had arrived in Savannah, though Lord John’s manservant took them away every night and brushed, laundered, or mended them before returning them in the morning.
On this particular morning, though, William woke to the sight of a suit of dark-gray velvet, with a waistcoat in ochre silk, tastefully embroidered with small beetles of varying colors, each with tiny red eyes. Fresh linen and silk stockings were laid out alongside—but his ex-army kit had disappeared, save for the disreputable boots, which stood like a reproach beside his washstand, their scuffs and scars blushing through fresh blacking.
He paused for a moment, then put on the banyan Papa had lent him—fine-woven blue wool, comforting on a chilly morning as it had rained in the night—washed his face, and went down to breakfast.
Papa and Amaranthus were at the table, both looking as though they’d been dug up, rather than roused, from bed.
“Good morning,” William said, rather loudly, and sat down. “Where’s Trevor?”
“Somewhere with your friend Mr. Cinnamon,” Amaranthus said, blinking sleepily. “God bless him. He came by looking for you, and as you were still sunk in hoggish slumber, he said he would take Trevor for a walk.”
“The little fiend yowled all night long,” Lord John said, shoving a pot of mustard in William’s direction. “Kippers coming,” he added, evidently in explanation of the mustard. “Didn’t you hear him?”
“Unlike some people, I slept the sleep of the just,” William said, buttering a piece of toast. “Didn’t hear a sound.”
Both relatives eyed him beadily over the toast rack.
“I’m putting him in your bed tonight,” Amaranthus said, attempting to smooth her frowsy locks. “See how justified you feel around dawn.”
A smell of smoky-sweet bacon wafted from the back of the house, and all three diners sat up involuntarily as the cook brought in a generous silver platter bearing not only bacon, but also sausages, black pudding, and grilled mushrooms.