A gust of wind whirred across the path in a swirl of brown and yellow leaves, and they turned uphill, toward the cabin. They walked in near silence, affected by the growing quiet of the woods; the birds were still singing twilight songs, but the shadows were lengthening under the trees. The northern slope of the mountain across the valley had already gone dark and silent, as the sun edged behind it.
The cabin’s clearing was still filled with sunlight, though, filtered through a yellow blaze of chestnut trees. Claire was in the palisaded garden, a basin on one hip, snapping beans from poled vines. Her slender figure was silhouetted dark against the sun, her hair a great aureole of curly gold.
“Innisfree,” Brianna said involuntarily, stopping dead at the sight.
“Innisfree?” Jamie glanced at her, bewildered.
She hesitated, but there was no way out of explaining.
“It’s a poem, or part of one. Daddy always used to say it, when he’d come home and find Mama puttering in her garden—he said she’d live out there if she could. He used to joke that she—that she’d leave us someday, and go find a place where she could live by herself, with nothing but her plants.”
“Ah.” Jamie’s face was calm, its broad planes ruddy in the dying light. “How does the poem go, then?”
She was conscious of a small tightness round her heart as she said it.
“I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee.
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.”
The thick red brows drew together slightly, sparking in the sun.
“A poem, is it? And where is Innisfree?”
“Ireland, maybe. He was Irish,” Brianna said in explanation. “The poet.” The row of bee gums stood squat on their stones at the edge of the wood.
“Oh.”
Tiny motes of gold and black drifted past them through honeyed air—bees homing from the fields. Her father made no move to go forward, but stood silent by her side, watching her mother pick beans, black and gold among the leaves.
Not alone, after all, she thought. But the small tightness stayed in her chest, not quite an ache.
* * *
Kenny Lindsey took a sip of whisky, closed his eyes, and rolled the liquor round his tongue like a professional wine taster. He paused, frowning in concentration, then swallowed with a convulsive gulp.
“Hoo!” He drew breath, shuddering all over.
“Christ,” he said hoarsely. “That’ll strip your tripes!”
Jamie grinned at the compliment, and poured another small measure, shoving it toward Duncan.
“Aye, it’s better than the last,” he agreed, with a cautious sniff before essaying his own drink. “This one doesna take the hide off your tongue—quite.”
Lindsay wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, nodding in agreement.
“Weel, it’ll find a good home. Woolam wants a cask—that’ll last him a year, the way yon Quakers dole it out.”
“Ye’ve agreed a price?”
Lindsay nodded, sniffing appreciatively at the platter of bannocks and savories that Lizzie set in front of him.
“A hundredweight of barley for the cask; another, if ye’ll go halves wi’ him in the whisky from it.”
“That’s fair.” Jamie took a bannock and chewed absently for a moment. Then he raised one brow at Duncan, seated across the table.
“Will ye ask MacLeod on Naylor’s Creek will he make us the same bargain? You’ll pass that way going home, aye?”
Duncan nodded, chewing, and Jamie lifted his cup to me in a silent toast of celebration—Woolam’s offer made a total of eight hundred pounds of barley, scraped together by barter and promise. More than the surplus output of every field on the Ridge; the raw material for next year’s whisky.
“A cask each to the houses on the Ridge, two to Fergus—” Jamie pulled absently at his earlobe, calculating. “Two, maybe, to Nacognaweto, one kept back to age—aye, we can spare maybe a dozen casks for the Gathering, Duncan.”
Duncan’s coming was opportune. While Jamie had managed to barter the first year’s crop of raw whisky to the Moravians in Salem for the tools, cloth, and other things we so urgently needed, there was no doubt that the wealthy Scottish planters of the Cape Fear would make a better market.
We couldn’t possibly spare time away from the homestead for long enough to make the week-long journey to Mount Helicon, but if Duncan could take the whisky down and sell it…I was already making lists in my head. Everyone brought things to sell, at a Gathering. Wool, cloth, tools, food, animals…I urgently needed a small copper kettle, and six lengths of fresh muslin for shifts, and…
“Do you think you should give alcohol to the Indians?” Brianna’s question pulled me from my greedy reverie.
“Why not?” Lindsey asked, a little disapproving of her intrusion. “After all, we’re no going to give it to them, lass. They’ve little silver, but they pay in hides—and they pay well.”
Brianna glanced at me for support, then at Jamie.
“But Indians don’t—I mean I’ve heard that they can’t handle alcohol.”
All three men looked at her uncomprehendingly, and Duncan looked at his cup, turning it round in his hand.
“Handle it?”
The corner of her mouth quirked inward.
“They get drunk easily, I mean.”
Lindsey peered into his cup, then looked at her, rubbing a hand over the balding crown of his head.
“Ye’ve a point, lass?” he said, more or less politely.
Brianna’s full mouth compressed itself, then relaxed.
“I mean,” she said, “it seems wrong to encourage people to drink, who can’t stop drinking if they start.” She looked at me, a little helplessly. I shook my head.
“ ‘Alcoholic’ isn’t a noun yet,” I said. “It’s not a disease now—just weak character.”
Jamie glanced up at her quizzically.
“Well, I’ll tell ye, lass,” he said, “I’ve seen many a drunkard in my day, but I’ve yet to see a bottle leap off a table and pour itself down anyone’s throat.”
There were general grunts of agreement with this, and another small round to accompany the change of subject.
“Hodgepile? No, I’ve not seen the man, though I do believe I’ve heard the name.” Duncan swilled the rest of his drink and set down his cup, wheezing gently. “You’ll want me to ask at the Gathering?”
Jamie nodded, and took another bannock. “Aye, if ye will, Duncan.”
Lizzie was bent over the fire, stirring the stew for supper. I saw her shoulders tighten, but she was too shy to speak before so many men. Brianna suffered no such inhibitions.
“I have someone to ask after, too, Mr. Innes.” She leaned over the table toward him, eyes fixed on him in earnest entreaty. “Will you ask for a man named Roger Wakefield? Please?”
“Och, indeed. Indeed I will.” Duncan went pink at the proximity of Brianna’s bosom, and in confusion drank down the rest of Kenny’s whisky. “Is there aught else I can do?”