I’d seen a good many militia companies during the Monmouth campaign, and this made me laugh.
“I see. What does a partisan band do, then?”
He poured a cup of his own and lifted it to me in brief toast.
“Apparently they roam about, troubling Loyalists, killing freed slaves, and in general bein’ a burr under the saddle of the British army.”
I blinked. Walt Disney had apparently decided to omit a few things from the 1950s version of the Swamp Fox, and no wonder.
“Killing freed slaves? Whatever for?”
“The British are in the habit o’ freeing slaves who undertake to join the army. So Roger Mac says. Apparently Mr. Marion took—will take?—exception to this.” He frowned. “I think he’s maybe no doing it yet. I’ve not heard of any such thing, at least.”
I took a mouthful of the wine. It was muscat wine, cool and sweet, and it went down well on a night full of shadows.
“And where is Mr. Swamp Fox doing this?”
“Somewhere in South Carolina; I didna take notice of the details—I was taken up by the notion, ken?”
“Of a partisan band, you mean?” I’d been uneasy since I pulled my stockings on and had the absurd thought that perhaps I should take them off again. No running away from this particular conversation, though.
The fingers of his right hand moved slowly against his thigh, the soundless drumbeat of his thinking.
“Aye,” he said at last, and closed his fingers into a fist. “It’s what Benjamin Cleveland—ken, the great fat Overmountain bugger who tried to threaten me?—was proposing to me—in a roundabout way, but he was clear enough.” He looked down at me, eyes dark and serious in the dim flicker of the night.
“I shallna fight again wi’ the Continental army,” he said. “I’ve had enough of armies. And I dinna think General Washington would have me back, for that matter.” He smiled at that, a little ruefully.
“From what Judah Bixby told me, you resigned your commission pretty thoroughly. I’m sorry I missed it.” I smiled, too, with no less rue. I’d missed it because at the moment Jamie had resigned his commission, writing his resignation on the back of the messenger who’d come to summon him to duty, I was lying on the ground at his feet, in the process of bleeding to death. In fact, Judah—one of his young lieutenants, who had been present—told me that Jamie had actually written his brief refusal with mud soaked through with my blood.
“Aye,” he said dryly. “I didna hear what Washington thought about it, but at least he didna send to have me arrested and hanged for desertion.”
“I imagine he’s had a few other things on his mind since then.” I hadn’t been in any condition to hear—or care about—the progress of the war for some time after becoming one of the final casualties of the Battle of Monmouth. But it wasn’t possible to avoid for long. We’d lived in Savannah when the British invaded and occupied the city—they were still there, so far as I knew. But news, like water, runs downhill and was inclined to puddle in the coastal cities with newspapers, shipping, and the brand-new postal service. Hauling it up into the mountains was a slow, difficult process.
“Am I to deduce that you’re actually planning to start a partisan band of your very own?” I asked, trying to keep it light.
“Oh,” he said, in a similar tone, “I thought I might. Nay so much for the raiding and killing, mind—it’s been a long time since I rode in a raid,” he added, with a distinct note of nostalgia. “For protection on the Ridge, though. And then … as the war goes on, well … it might happen that a wee gang might be of use here or there.” This last was added in such a casual manner that I sat up straight and gave him a narrow look.
“A gang? You want to start a gang?”
He looked surprised at that.
“Aye. Had ye not heard that word before, Sassenach?”
“I have,” I said, and sipped from the cup of wine, in hopes of inducing calm. “But I didn’t think you would have.”
“Well, of course I have,” he said, lifting a brow at me. “It’s a Scottish word, no?”
“It is?”
“Aye. It’s just the men ye gang oot with, Sassenach. Slàinte.” He took the cup from me, lifted it in brief salute, and drained it.
15
Which Old Witch?
MANDY AND I STOOD on either side of the table—she standing on the bench—looking down into the small yellow bowl between us with intense concentration.
“How long, Grannie?”
“Ten minutes,” I replied, and glanced at the silver filigree chiming watch that Jenny had lent me. “It’s only been two. You can sit down; it won’t happen any faster just because we’re watching.”
“Jes it will.” She made this pronouncement with a calm confidence that made me smile. Seeing that, she tossed her head and said, “Jemmy says you gots to watch hard or it gets away.” Realizing that she’d taken her eyes off the bowl, she thrust her head forward and glowered sternly into it, forbidding the yeast to slither over the side and crawl away.
“I don’t think he meant yeast, sweetheart. Probably rabbits.” Still, I couldn’t bring myself to turn away. I sniffed the air over the bowl, and Mandy did the same, with great vigor.
“I’m sure the yeast is good,” I said. “It smells … yeasty.”
“YEEeeestee,” she said, nodding agreement and snorting.
“If it wasn’t still active—still good—” I explained, “it would smell bad.”
I’d wait the full ten minutes, so I could show her the foam that active yeast makes when you mix it with warm sugar-water, but I was sure in my own mind that the yeast was all right—and felt relieved on that account. One could make raised biscuits with soda ash, but it was a good deal more complicated.
“We’ll put some of the yeast in milk,” I said, spooning a large dollop from the small crock in which I kept the starter into a clean one. “To make more for next time.”
Jamie’s head appeared in the doorway.
“Will ye lend me the wee lass for a minute, Sassenach?”
“Yes,” I replied promptly, grabbing Mandy’s hand an inch away from the full—and open—sack of flour on the table. “Grandpa needs you to help him, sweetheart.”
“Okay,” she said affably, and stuffed one of the raisin cookies we’d made earlier into her mouth before I could stop her. “Whaffoont, Gmp?”
“I need ye to sit on something for a moment.” Jamie’s long, straight nose twitched at the scent of butter and raisins, and his hand snaked out toward the tray.
“All right,” I said, resigned. “One. But eat it in here, for God’s sake; if the boys see you with that, they’ll be in here like a swarm of locusts.”
“Wasslocst?”
“Mandy! Have you got another cookie in your mouth?”
Mandy’s eyes bulged as she made a heroic effort and swallowed most of what was in her mouth.
“No,” she said, spraying crumbs. Jamie finished his own cookie and swallowed, somewhat more neatly.