“Queer is a good word for it.” I couldn’t read Hebrew myself—Jamie had learned it in Paris, studying at the université, but there was one English word at the bottom of the note. “What does ‘ambidextrous’ have to do with anything, do you suppose?”
He shrugged and shook his head.
“The Hebrew bit is a sort of blessing for a house. I’ve seen it before, in Jewish houses in Paris; they put it in a wee thing called a mezuzah by the door. But ‘ambidextrous’ …” He hesitated, looking at me sideways. “The only thing I can think of, Sassenach, is that it’s a long word wi’ no repeating letters.”
The mention of Paris had at once reminded me of his cousin Jared’s house, where we had lived in the year before the Rising—and where he had spent his days selling wine and his nights—all too often—in intrigue and—
“Spying?” I said, incredulous. I knew almost nothing about codes, ciphers, and secret writing—but he did. He looked mildly embarrassed.
“Aye, maybe. I’m sorry, Sassenach; I shouldna have brought such a thing home. I was only curious.”
It was no more than a scrap of paper, and whatever message it might hold was certainly not meant for us—but it brought back those anxious days and nights in Paris, full of glamour, fear, and uncertainty—and then of sorrow, grief, and anger. I swallowed, hard.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, very softly, his eyes fixed on my face. Still looking at me, he opened his hand and held it out. The wind snatched the little note at once and whirled it away like a leaf, flying off the roof and into the deep woods beyond. Gone.
His hand was still open, and I took it. His fingers were as cold as mine.
“Forgiven,” I said, just as softly.
The slam was so sudden that I jerked my hand out of Jamie’s and whirled round.
“What did that?” I demanded, looking wildly to and fro.
“Likely a tree,” he said mildly. “Over there, I reckon—” He gestured toward the distant trees. “I’ve only heard it when the wind’s out of the east.”
“I’ve never heard a tree make a noise like a slamming door,” I said, unconvinced.
“If ye spent much time sleeping in the forest, Sassenach, ye’d hear them make as many sounds as there are animals on the ground near ye—and it’s often hard to tell the difference, if the wind’s blowing. They groan and scream and clatter and drop their limbs and hiss and squeal when they catch fire from lightning, and now and then they fall over with an almighty crash that shakes the ground. If ye paid attention to the racket, ye’d never sleep.”
“For one thing, I wouldn’t be sleeping much if I were in a forest, regardless. And for another, it’s broad daylight now.”
“I dinna think that matters to a tree.” He was openly laughing at me, and it absurdly made me feel better. He bent, picked up the bottle, and handed it to me. “Here, Sassenach. It will settle your nerves.”
I took a solid gulp, and it did. Somewhat.
“Better now?” he asked, watching.
“Yes.”
“Good. I said I had something to tell ye, aye?”
“Yes,” I said, eyeing him. “Why do I think it’s bad news?”
“Well, it’s no exactly bad,” he said, tilting his head. “But I didna want to be talking about it wi’ the sailors in earshot.”
“Oh, just dangerous, then. That’s a relief.”
“Well, only a wee bit dangerous.” He took back the bottle, had a quick swig, and told me about his meetings with Colonel Locke and his conclusions regarding the Rowan County militia.
“So,” he finished, “I said I’d got everything on my list, save the one thing—gunpowder.”
“Ah,” I said. “So you have guns—some, at least—courtesy of Captain Cunningham—”
“And with any luck, Roger Mac will get me more in Charles Town,” he interrupted. “But I’ve barely enough powder to keep us in meat for the winter. I couldna buy any in Salisbury, for Colonel Locke has requisitioned all of it for military use.”
“And if you joined the Rowan County super-militia, Colonel Locke would supply you. But you don’t want to do that, because then you’d need to answer his call and take orders from him.”
“I dinna mind taking orders, Sassenach,” he said, giving me a faintly reproachful look. “But it does depend who from. And if it were to be Locke … he’ll be taking the companies under his command toward battle, God knows where—but not anywhere near the Ridge. And I will not leave my home—or you—unprotected while I mind Locke’s business a hundred miles away.”
His mind was plainly made up, and for once I was in complete agreement with him.
“I’ll drink to that,” I said, lifting the bottle in salute to him. He smiled, took it, and drained it.
“Elspeth Cunningham and I shared a bottle of your second-best whisky,” I said, taking the empty bottle and setting it down under the stool. “We talked about her son. I told her that you wouldn’t let the captain raise a Loyalist militia under your nose, so to speak.”
“Nor will I.”
“Naturally not. But what she said in reply—and mind you, she was exhausted, in pain, and fairly well intoxicated by that time, so I don’t think she was lying—she said that it wouldn’t be up to you, in the end. Because General Cornwallis is sending an officer—a very effective officer, she said, and one supported by the power of the Crown—to raise Loyalist regiments of militia throughout the Carolinas. To suppress local rebellions.”
He stood quite still for a long moment, eyes creased against the wind, which had risen again.
“Aye,” he said at last. “Then it will have to be the Overmountain men—Cleveland and Shelby and their friends.”
“It will have to be them for what?”
He picked up the stool and empty bottle and shook his head, as though thinking to himself.
“I’ll have to make alliance wi’ them. They have an understanding wi’ Mrs. Patton to provide powder for them from her mill, and if I agree to stand with them in need, they’ll let her know to supply me. And they’ll presumably come to my aid, should I call.” I heard that “presumably” and moved close to him, feeling suddenly colder than before. He was essentially alone, without Roger or Young Ian at hand, and he knew that all too well.
“Do you trust Benjamin Cleveland and the rest?”
“Sassenach, there are maybe eight people in the world I trust, and Benjamin Cleveland isna one o’ them. Luckily, you are.”
He put an arm around me and kissed my forehead. “How’s your foot?”
“I can’t feel either of my feet.”
“Good. Let’s go down and warm ourselves wi’ a bit of the sailors’ burgoo.”
“That sounds di—” The word died on my lips as I saw a movement on the far side of the clearing below, at the head of the wagon road that led down behind Bobby Higgins’s cabin. “Who’s that?”
I groped automatically for my spectacles, but I’d left them in the surgery. Jamie looked over my shoulder, squinting against the wind, and made an interested noise.