“I see all is well with thee, sister,” she said softly to Bree, and set down the tray. “And the little one, praise God.”
“Here, Roger,” Bree said, struggling to sit upright with the baby in her arms. “Take him.”
Roger did, and stepped back a little, so we could finish tidying Bree and propping her up to eat. I glanced over to see Roger, his face soft, look up from the freshly wrapped baby and see Jamie, who was shyly looking over his shoulder at his new grandson.
“Here, Grandda,” Roger said, and carefully laid wee David William Ian Fraser MacKenzie in his grandfather’s arms, the little boy’s head cupped in Jamie’s big hand, held gently as a soap bubble.
Fanny, straightening up beside me with an armful of soiled and reeking linens, turned from this beatific scene and looked at me seriously.
“I am never getting married,” she said.
141
A Bee-loud Glade
Colonel Francis Locke, Rowan County Regiment of Militias, Commander
August 26, A.D. 1780
Colonel Fraser:
I write to inform you that I have received a dispatch from Isaac Shelby, informing me that upon the 19th ultimo, at Musgrove Mill, near the Enoree River, a Force of some Two Hundred Patriot militia from the County Militias of North Carolina and Georgia, under Cols. Shelby, James Williams, and Elijah Clarke, attacked and defeated a Loyalist Force guarding the Mill, which controls the local Grain Supply and the River, this reinforced by a Hundred Loyalist Militia and some Two Hundred Provincial Regulars, on their way to join Forces with Major Patrick Ferguson.
I am informed it was a hot Fight, in which some Loyalist militia attacked with Bayonets, but were overcome by Patriot Soldiers who ran boldly upon them, yelling, shooting and slashing upon every Hand and thus broke the Charge.
Captain Shadrach Inman of Clarke’s Georgia Militia was killed in the first Attack, but succeeded in discomposing the Defenders, who then found themselves in some Disarray and were thus overcome and scattered, some 70 Men being captured, and nearly that Number killed, whilst the Patriot Forces lost but four Men, with a Dozen captured.
While I know you will join with me in rejoicing at this News, you must also share my Concern. If so many Provincials and other Loyalists are heading to join Ferguson from such a place as Musgrove Mill, the Countryside is roused throughout the Carolinas, and we must expect great Trouble if Ferguson succeeds in amassing a large Force, which looks very likely. We must prevent him while there is yet Time.
I renew my Invitation for you and your Men to join the Rowan County Regiment of Militias and reiterate my Promise that should you do so, you will remain in Direct Command of your own Men, you being solely subject to my Command and upon an Equal Footing with the other Militia Commanders, with a Right to draw upon the Supplies and Powder available to the Regiment. I will keep you apprised of what News comes to me, and hope for your Company in this great Endeavor.
Francis Locke, Colonel
Rowan County Regiment of Militias, Commander
JAMIE FOLDED THE LETTER carefully, noting dimly that his fingers had slightly smeared the ink of Locke’s signature, by reason of his sweating hands.
The temptation was great. He could take his men and join Locke, rather than fight with the Overmountain men at Kings Mountain. Locke and his regiment had routed a substantial group of Loyalists at Ramseur’s Mill in June and made a creditable job of it, from what he heard. Randall’s book had mentioned the incident briefly, but what it said matched the accounts he had heard—down to mention of an unlikely group of Palatine Germans who had joined Locke’s troops.
Beyond that, though … nothing more was said in the Book (for he couldn’t help thinking of it as that) regarding Locke until a skirmish at a place called Colson’s Mill in the following year. Kings Mountain lay between now and then, casting its long shadow in his direction. And Jamie couldn’t leave the Ridge undefended for any great span of time, regardless. He knew there were still Tories amongst his tenants, and he thought of Nicodemus Partland. He’d heard of no further attempts, but was well aware that almost anything—or anyone—could come over the Cherokee Line without his knowing.
He sighed, tucked the letter into his pocket, and, unable to sit still with his thoughts, walked up the hill to Claire’s garden, not meaning to tell her about Locke’s letter and his thoughts—just wanting the momentary comfort of her presence.
She wasn’t there, and he hesitated inside the gate, but then closed it after him and walked slowly toward the row of hives. He’d built a long bench for her, and there were nine hives now on it, humming peacefully in the autumn sun. Some of them were the coiled-straw skeps, but Brianna had built three boxes, too, with wooden frames inside and a sort of drain to make harvesting the honey easier.
Something was in the back of his mind, a poem Claire had told him once, about nines and bees. Only a bit of it had stuck: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, and live alone in the bee-loud glade. The number nine always made him wary, owing to his meeting with an old Parisian fortune-teller.
“You’ll die nine times before your death,” she’d told him. Claire had tried, now and then, to reckon the times he should have died but hadn’t. He seldom did, having a superstitious fear about attracting misfortune by dwelling on it.
The bees were about their business. The air was full of them, the late sun catching their wings and making them glisk like sparks among the green of the garden. There were some tattered sunflowers along one wall, their seeds like gray pebbles, along with sedum and cosmos. Purple gentians—he recognized those, because Claire made an ointment out of them that she’d used on him more than once, and had brought some back from Wilmington and coddled it here in a sandy spot she’d made for it. He’d dug the sand for her and smiled at the pale splotch of soil among the darker loam. The bees seemed to be liking the goldenrod—but Claire said they were hunting mostly in the woods and meadows now.
He came slowly to the bench and put out a hand toward the hives, but didn’t touch one until one or two bees had landed lightly on his hand, their feet tickling his skin. “So they won’t think you’re a bear,” Claire had said, laughing. He smiled at the memory and put his hand on the sun-warmed straw and just stood there for a bit, letting go of his troublesome thoughts, little by little.
“Ye’ll take care of her, aye?” he said at last, speaking soft to the bees. “If she comes to you and says I’m gone, ye’ll feed her and take heed for her?” He stood a moment longer, listening to the ceaseless hum.
“I trust ye with her,” he said at last, and turned to go, his heart easier in his chest. It wasn’t until he’d shut the gate behind him and started down toward the house that another bit of the poem came to him. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow …
142
Don’t You …?
September 20, 1780
From Col. John Sevier
To Col. James Fraser
We have word that Ferguson’s Loyalist Militia is on the move from Camden, whence he departed with Cornwallis, but has now gone South into North Carolina.
Word is that he proposes to attack and burn such Patriot Settlements as he comes to on his Way. We propose to meet him at some convenient Point in his Progress. Should you and your Troops be of a Mind to join us, we will meet and muster at Sycamore Shoals on the 25th of September.