“What do you think Ulysses will do now?” I asked, setting down the plates. My voice was steady, but my hands weren’t; the spoon twitched in my fingers as I shook salt onto the eggs and sent a spray of white crystals over the table.
Jamie’s eyes were focused on the table, but I thought he hadn’t even seen the scattered salt. He’d heard me, though, and after a moment he sat up straight and nodded, as though to himself.
“Kill me,” he said, with a sigh. “Or try to,” he added, seeing my face. The corner of his mouth curled up. “Dinna fash, Sassenach. I dinna mean to let him.”
“Oh, good,” I said, and he smiled, though it was a wry one. The bench creaked with his weight as he leaned forward and brushed the spilled salt neatly into the palm of his hand. He tossed a pinch of it over his left shoulder and carefully poured the rest back into the saltcellar.
I began to relax enough to feel hungry and picked up my fork.
“If he can somehow make away wi’ me, though,” he went on dispassionately, taking up the pepper, “he can ride up with his men and turn you and the lassies out and take possession o’ the place, wavin’ his letter under the noses of the tenants. They wouldna like it, but Cunningham and his men would support him, and while the Lindsays and MacMillans and Bobby are all good fighting men, none o’ them are what ye’d call leaders. They’d not stand long, against trained soldiers and Cunningham’s lot—and Ulysses wouldna hesitate to burn them out, should he feel the need. He wouldna mind a small war, at all.”
“Ian and Roger wouldn’t stand for that,” I said.
Jamie cocked a brow at me.
“Ian’s a Mohawk and he’d fight to the death, but he’s never commanded men,” he pointed out. “Mohawk dinna really fight that way. And while a good many of the men on the Ridge like him, just as many are that wee bit afraid of him—and liking’s not enough to get a man to risk his life and family. As for Roger Mac …” He smiled a little, ruefully.
“I won’t say I’ve never seen a priest be a bonnie fighter, because I have. And Roger Mac can draw folk together and make them listen. But it’s no his business to make war and he hasna got any experience in doin’ it. Besides—” He straightened his back and stretched, with a muffled popping of vertebrae. “Oh, God. Besides,” he repeated, and gave me a very direct look, “there’s nay telling when Roger Mac and Bree will be home from Salem. And I dinna ken when ‘Captain Stevens’ may come back—but come back he will, Sassenach.”
I glanced at the window. It was raining again, a speckle of fine droplets.
“I don’t suppose,” I said diffidently, “that Frank mentioned His Majesty’s Company of Black Pioneers in that book?”
“He did not. Yon bastard was only concerned wi’ the Scots,” he said, frowning. “I dinna recall one word in that book about black soldiers.” Then his face went blank for a moment and he made a Scottish noise between disgust and amusement. “Nay, he did say there were black men at the battle of Savannah. They were from Saint-Domingue, though—wi’ the French navy.”
He made an impatient gesture, dismissing all this complication.
“What I do ken is that Stevens will try to kill me if he can, and the sooner the better. And I also ken he’ll send someone to fetch his corporal sooner than that.”
The kitchen was warm and cozy but the breakfast congealed in my stomach.
“I don’t think so. Corporal Jackson said that Cunningham would make provision to send him to Charlotte,” I blurted.
Jamie stared at me for a moment, and I could see the counters falling into place behind his eyes.
“Ah,” he said, plainly thinking what I was: Charlotte must be the place where Ulysses planned to rendezvous with the rest of the Company of Black Pioneers. “That will be where Ian’s gone, then. He should be back soon, and then …”
“No!” I said. “You can’t take your militia after him!”
“I dinna mean to,” he said mildly, and picked up his fork. “It would be good exercise, but the weather’s chancy, and the game’s beginning to gather and move. The men need to be hunting deer, not British soldiers. Besides, ken what would happen if I caught him but some of his men got away to tell the tale?”
I did, but I let go the breath I’d been holding; he wasn’t going to do it. Then a second thought struck me in the solar plexus. I froze for a moment.
“No,” I said, and stood up suddenly, looming over him. “No! If you go hunting that man alone, Jamie Fraser, you—you—can’t.”
He blinked. Bluebell jerked out of sleep with a small, startled wuff! but, not seeing anything unusual, she sidled up to Jamie and nosed his leg. He put a hand down to scratch her ears but kept his gaze on me, considering.
“Jamie,” I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “If you love me … don’t. Please don’t. I can’t bear it.” I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear the thought of his being killed, but nor could I bear the thought of his hunting, performing execution. The sound of a rifle shot echoed in my head whenever I thought of the man he had killed, rousing other echoes—of that night, a heavy body in the dark, pain and terror and helpless suffocation.
“And I don’t even bloody know if you shot him,” I said abruptly, and sat down. “The man … whose name I don’t know.”
He looked at me for a moment, head on one side, then reached out delicately and scooped up a bit of yellow with a fingertip. He touched this to my lower lip and I licked it off by reflex: warm, savory, delicious.
“I love you,” he said softly, and his hand cupped my cheek, big and warm. “As an egg loves salt. Dinna fash, mo chridhe. I’ll think o’ something else.”
133
Such an Odd Feeling
Fraser’s Ridge
July 8, A.D. 1780
From: Captain William C.H.G. Ransom
To: Mrs. Roger MacKenzie of Fraser’s Ridge
Dear Sister—
Such an odd Feeling to write that; my first Time of doing it.
I haven’t much—Time, I mean—but I have recently been involved in a number of strange Circumstances, one of which invoked your Name—or rather, not your Name; the Fellow only said, “I know your Sister.”
Possibly he does. However, I have known this Man—his Name is Ezekiel Richardson—over the Course of several Years, during which he has arguably attempted on one or more Occasions to kill or abduct me, or otherwise to interfere with my Actions. I first knew him as a Captain in His Majesty’s Army, and much more recently, as a Major in the Continental Army.
Upon our most recent Meeting (near Charles Town), he looked at me oddly and remarked that he knew you. His Manner—and indeed, his saying such a Thing at all—was Peculiar in the Extreme and aroused a profound Feeling of Unease in me.
I will not presume to instruct you, as I haven’t the vaguest Notion as to what Advice I should give. But I felt that I must warn you— though against What, I have no Idea.
With my Deepest Respect and Affection,
Your Brother (damn, I’ve never written that before, either),