Bring such Arms and Powder as you may have.
John Sevier, Colonel of Militia
September 21, 1780
To The Inhabitants of North Carolina
Gentlemen: Unless you wish to be eat up by an Inundation of Barbarians, who have begun by murdering an unarmed Son before his Father, and afterward lopped off his Arms, and who by their shocking Cruelties and Irregularities, give the best Proof of their Cowardice and want of Discipline, I say if you wish to be pinioned, robbed, and murdered, and see your Wives and Daughters, in four days, abused by the Dregs of Mankind—in short, if you wish or deserve to live or bear the Name of Men, grasp your Arms in a Moment and run to Camp.
The Backwater Men have crossed the Mountains; McDowell, Hampton, Shelby, and Cleveland are at their head, so that you know what you have to depend upon. If you choose to be pissed upon forever and ever by a set of Mongrels, say so at once, and let your Women turn their Backs upon you, and look out for real Men to protect them.
Pat. Ferguson, Major 71st Regiment
Fraser’s Ridge
September 22, Anno Domini 1780
I, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, being of sound Mind
JAMIE WONDERED HOW MANY men paused at this point to debate the state of their minds with themselves. If ye’d been talking with a dead man for the last year, ye might reasonably have some doubts, he thought. On the other hand, who’d admit in writing that he kent for sure he was away with the faeries?
Or if not actually mad, what about men who’d not been sober a day in twenty years, or those who’d come back from war with something missing—or something riding their backs. That thought made the hairs ripple from nape to arsehole, and he clutched his quill so hard that it split with a tiny crack.
Aye, well, if he wanted his Last Will and Testament to be paid attention to, he supposed he’d have to say he was of sound mind, no matter what he really thought.
He sighed and looked over the quills he had left in the jar. Mostly goose or turkey—but two were barred wing feathers from an owl. Well, he meant to keep this quiet …
He cut the owl quill into a good point, composing his mind. The ink was fresh, smelling sharply of iron and the woody scent of oak galls. It calmed him. A wee bit.
… do hereby declare that this is my Last Will and Testament, and so swear before God.
I leave to my wife, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp (damned if I’ll put his name in this) Fraser, all Property and Goods of which I die possessed, absolutely, with the Exception of certain individual Bequests as listed here beneath:
To my Daughter, Brianna Ellen Fraser MacKenzie, I leave two hundred Acres of Land from the Land granted me by the Cr … (well, two years more and the bloody Crown won’t have anything to say about it, if Claire and the others are right about what’s happening, and so far, they seem to be) … He muttered “Ifrinn” under his breath and scratched out granted me by the Crown, replacing it with from the land Grant known as Fraser’s Ridge.
He continued with similar bequests to Roger, Jeremiah, Amanda, and—after a moment’s thought—Frances. Whether she might be his blood or not, he couldn’t leave her without resources, and if she had land here, perhaps she’d stay nearby, where Brianna and her family could take care of her, help her to find her way in life, make a good match for her …
Oh, a moment—Brianna’s new bairn; David, he added, smiling.
Fifty acres to Bobby Higgins; he’d been a good henchman, Bobby, and deserved it.
To my Son Fergus Claudel Fraser and his Wife, Marsali Jane MacKimmie Fraser, I leave the Sum of five hundred Pounds in Gold.
Was that too much? Wealth like that would attract scoundrels like flies to shit, if it was known. Both Fergus and Marsali were canny creatures, though; he could trust them to take care.
There were small things to be given—his ruby stickpin, his books (he’d leave the Hobbit ones to Jem, perhaps), his tools (those were for Brianna, of course) and weapons (if they come back without me) … but there was one more important person to be considered. He hesitated, but wrote it, slowly. Just to see how it looked, put down on paper …
To my Son … He set the quill down carefully, so as not to make blots on the paper—though he’d have to redo it in any case, because of the scratchings-out.
It wasn’t as though William needed anything of a material nature from him.
Or might he? Bree says the lad wishes to shed his title—if he does, will he lose all the property belonging to it? But the duke thinks he can’t … And even if he could, or refused it, John Grey will see to him; who does he have to leave his money to, if not William?
That was logical. Unfortunately, he wasn’t; not at the moment. And whether it was love, sinful pride, or something even worse, he couldn’t die without leaving something of himself to William. And I’m no dying without claiming William in public, whether I’m there to see his face when he hears it or not. His mouth twitched at that thought, and he pressed his lips together to stop it. More scratching out …
To my Natural Son, William James Fraser, known also as William Clarence Henry George Ransom, known also as the Ninth Earl of Ellesmere …
He bit the end of his quill, tasting bitter ink, then wrote:
… one hundred Pounds in Gold, the three Casks of Whisky marked with JFS, and my green Bible. May he find Succor and Wisdom in its Pages.
“He might find more in the whisky,” Jamie murmured to himself, but his soul felt lighter.
Ten pounds each to all of the grandchildren, by name. It made him happy, seeing the whole list. Jem, Mandy, Davy, Germain, Joanie, Félicité—he made a small cross on the paper for Henri-Christian, and felt his throat grow tight—and the new wee boys, Alexandre and Charles-Claire. And any further issue of … any of my children. That was an odd feeling, to think not only that Brianna might bear more bairns but also Marsali—her sister Joan, if she married (damn, he’d forgot to put Joanie with his other children; more scratching out …)—or William’s wife, whoever she might be.
He was beginning to be sorry that he wouldn’t be alive to meet William’s wife or see his children, but pushed that thought firmly away. If he made it to Heaven, he was sure there would be some accommodation made for knowing how your family was getting along without you, maybe letting you have a wee look-in or lend a hand in some way. He thought being a ghost might well be interesting … There were a number of folk he wouldn’t mind calling on in such a state, just to see the looks on their faces …
Lo, children are an heritage of the LORD: and the fruit of the womb is His reward. As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man; so are children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.
He smiled at the thought, but thinking of children brought yet one more to mind.
Damn, he’d forgotten Jenny, Ian, and Rachel, and wee Hunter James Little Wolf—and Rachel’s new unknown, who wasn’t due until the spring.
He rubbed two fingers between his eyes. Perhaps he should think more, finish this later.
The trouble was that he didn’t dare go to Kings Mountain without making disposition of his property, in case he was right about what he thought Frank Randall was telling him.
Would he lie? A historian, sworn—to himself, at least—to tell the truth as far as he could?