“And who’s Mary Patton, when she’s at home?”
“A gunpowder maker—I don’t know if there’s a name for that profession. But she and her husband have a powder mill on the Powder Branch of the Wautauga River—that’s why it’s called the Powder Branch. It’s about forty miles from here,” she said casually, squatting to pick up a blackened chunk of charcoal. “I thought I might ride out there next week. There’s a trail—even a road, part of the way.”
“Why?” he asked warily. “And what are you planning to do with that charcoal?”
“Draw,” she said, and tucked it into her bag. “As for Mrs. Patton … we’re going to need gunpowder, you know.”
Now she was serious.
“You mean a lot of gunpowder,” he said slowly. “Not just for hunting.” He didn’t know how much powder the household had; he was no kind of a shot, so didn’t hunt with a gun.
“I do.” She turned her head, and he saw her long, pale throat move as she swallowed. “I read some of Daddy’s book. The Soul of a Rebel.”
“Oh, Jesus,” he said, and the qualm he’d suppressed at sight of his ex-church came back with a vengeance. “And?”
“Have you heard of a British soldier called Patrick Ferguson?”
“No. Am I about to?”
“Probably. He invented the first effective breech-loading musket. And he’s going to start a fight here”—she waved a hand, indicating their surroundings—“pretty soon. And it’s going to end up at a place called Kings Mountain, next year.”
He searched his memory for any mention of such a place, but came up empty. “Where’s that?”
“Eventually, it’ll be on the border between North and South Carolina. Right now, it’s about a hundred miles or so …” She turned, squinting up at the sun for direction, then stabbed a long charcoal-blackened finger toward a copse of white oak saplings. “… That way.”
“You know the one about how, to an American, a hundred years is a long time, and to an Englishman, a hundred miles is a long way?” he asked. “If the folk hereabout aren’t all Englishmen, they’re definitely not Americans yet. I mean, it is a long way. You’re not telling me ye think we’re going to have to go to Kings Mountain for some reason?”
She shook her head, much to his relief.
“No. I just meant that when I said Patrick Ferguson was going to start a fight here … I meant … here. The backcountry.” She’d pulled a grubby handkerchief from her pocket and was absently rubbing the charcoal smudges from her fingers.
“He’s going to raise a Loyalist militia,” she added quietly. “From the neighbors. We won’t be able to stay out of it. Even here.”
He’d known that. They’d known it. Talked about it, before finally deciding to try to reach her parents. Sanctuary. But even reaching for that sanctuary, they’d known that war touches everyone and everything in its path.
“I know,” he said, and put an arm around her waist. They stood still for a little, listening to the wood around them. Two male mockingbirds were having their own personal war in the nearby trees, singing their little brass lungs out. Despite the charred ruin, there was a deep sense of peace in the little clearing. Green shoots and small shrubs had come up through the ashes, vivid against the black. Unresisted, the forest would patiently heal the scar—take back its ground and go on as though nothing had happened, as though the little church had never been here.
“Do you remember the first sermon you preached here?” she asked softly. Her eyes were fixed on the open ground.
“Aye,” he said, and smiled a little. “One of the lads set a snake loose in the congregation and Jamie snatched it up before it could cause a riot. One of the nicest things he’s ever done for me.”
Brianna laughed, and he felt the warm vibration of it through her clothes.
“The look on his face. Poor Da, he’s so afraid of snakes.”
“And no wonder,” Roger said with a shrug. “One almost killed him.” He felt a lingering shudder himself at the memory of an endless night in a dark forest, listening to Jamie telling him—with what both of them thought would be Jamie’s last few breaths—what to do and how to do it, if and when he, Roger, found himself suddenly in charge of the whole Ridge.
“A lot of things have almost killed him,” she said, the laughter gone. “One of these days …” Her voice was husky.
He put a hand round her shoulder and massaged it gently.
“It’ll be one of these days for everyone, mo ghràidh. If it weren’t, people wouldn’t think they need a minister. As for your da … as long as your mother’s here, I think he’ll be all right, no matter what.”
She gave a deep sigh, and the tension in her body eased.
“I think everybody feels like that about them both. If they’re here, everything will be all right.”
You feel that way about them, he thought. And in fairness, so did he. I hope the kids will feel that way about us.
“Aye. The essential social services of Fraser’s Ridge,” he said dryly. “Your mother’s the ambulance and your da’s the police.”
That made her laugh, and she turned to him, arms about him, smiling.
“And you’re the church,” she said. “I’m proud of you.” Letting go then, she turned back and waved a hand toward the ghostly door.
“Well, if Mama and Da can rebuild from ashes, so can we. Will we rebuild here, or do you want to choose another place? I mean, I don’t know whether people would be superstitious about it being destroyed by lightning.”
He shrugged, feeling warm from her words.
“It’s not supposed to strike twice in the same place, is it? What could be safer? Come on, then; Lizzie and her ménage will be waiting.”
“Surely you mean her menagerie,” Bree said, kilting up her skirts for the hike to the Beardsley cabin. “Lizzie, Jo and Kezzie, and … I’ve forgotten how many children Mama said they have now.”
“So have I,” Roger admitted. “But we can count them when we get there.”
It wasn’t until the forest closed behind them and the path rose before them that he thought to ask. She hadn’t wanted to look beyond day-to-day survival during the worst of their journey, but he was sure that her vision of the present wasn’t limited to washing clothes and shooting turkeys.
“What do you think your own job might be? Here.”
He was following her; she turned her head briefly toward him and the sun touched her hair with flames.
“Oh, me?” she said. “I think maybe I’m the armorer.” She smiled, but the look in her eyes was serious. “We’re going to need one.”
12
Erstwhile Companions
Mount Josiah Plantation, Royal Colony of Virginia
WILLIAM SMELLED SMOKE. NOT hearth fire or wildfire; just an ashy tang on the wind, tinged with charcoal, grease—and fish. It wasn’t coming from the dilapidated house; the chimney had collapsed, taking part of the roof with it, and a big red-tinged creeper shrouded the scatter of stones and shingles.