ON THE NIGHT THAT OUR WEDDING IS ON US 6 страница
“Yeah,” she said, disgruntled at being taken unawares. “But you don’t shoot them with a musket, unless all you want is feathers for a pillow. You use a fowling piece, with bird shot. It’s like a shotgun.”
“I know,” he said, shortly.
She felt disinclined to talk, jarred out of their peaceful mood. Her breasts were beginning to swell again; it was time to go home, to find Jemmy.
Her step quickened a little at the thought, even as her mind reluctantly surrendered the memory of the pungent smell of crushed dry fern, the glow of sunlight on Roger’s bare brown shoulders above her, the hiss of her milk, gilding his chest in a spray of fine droplets, slick and warm and cool by turns between their writhing bodies.
She sighed deeply, and heard him laugh, low in his throat.
“Mmm?” She turned her head, and he motioned to the ground before them. They had begun to move together as they walked, neither noticing the unconscious pull of the gravitational force that bound them. Now their shadows had merged at the top, so an odd, four-legged beast paced spiderlike before them, its two heads tilted toward each other.
He put an arm around her waist, and one shadow-head dipped, joining the other in a single bulbous shape.
“It’s been a good day, aye?” he said softly.
“Aye, it has,” she said, and smiled. She might have spoken further, but a sound came to her above the rattle of tree branches, and she pulled suddenly away.
“What—” he began, but she put a finger to her lips to shush him, beckoning as she crept toward a growth of red oak.
It was a flock of turkeys, scratching companionably in the earth beneath a large oak tree, turning up winter grubs from the mat of fallen leaves and acorns. The late sun shone low, lighting the iridescence in their breast feathers, so the birds’ drab black glimmered with tiny rainbows as they moved.
She had the gun already loaded, but not primed. She groped for the powder flask at her belt and filled the pan, scarcely looking away from the birds. Roger crouched beside her, intent as a hound dog on the scent. She nudged him, and held the gun toward him in invitation, one eyebrow up. The turkeys were no more than twenty yards away, and even the smaller ones were the size of footballs.
He hesitated, but she could see the desire to try it in his eyes. She thrust the gun firmly into his hands and nodded toward a gap in the brush.
He shifted carefully, trying for a clear line of sight. She hadn’t taught him to fire from a crouch as yet, and he wisely didn’t try, instead standing, though it meant firing downward. He hesitated, the long barrel wavering as he shifted his aim from one bird to another, trying to choose the best shot. Her fingers curled and clenched, aching to correct his aim, to pull the trigger.
She felt him draw breath and hold it. Then three things happened, so quickly as to seem simultaneous. The gun went off with a huge phwoom!, a spray of dried oak leaves fountained up from the earth under the tree, and fifteen turkeys lost their minds, running like a demented football squad straight at them, gobbling hysterically.
The turkeys reached the brush, saw Roger, and took to the air like flying soccer balls, wings frantically clapping the air. Roger ducked to avoid one that soared an inch above his head, only to be struck in the chest by another. He reeled backward, and the turkey, clinging to his shirt, seized the opportunity to run nimbly up his shoulder and push off, raking the side of his neck with its claws.
The gun flew through the air. Brianna caught it, flipped a cartridge from the box on her belt, and was grimly reloading and ramming as the last turkey ran toward Roger, zigged away, saw her, zagged in the other direction, and finally zoomed between them, gobbling alarms and imprecations.
She swung around, sighted on it as it left the ground, caught the black blob outlined for a split second against the brilliant sky, and blasted it in the tail feathers. It dropped like a sack of coal, and hit the ground forty yards away with an audible thud.
She stood still for a moment, then slowly lowered the gun. Roger was staring at her, openmouthed, pressing the cloth of his shirt against the bloody scratches on his neck. She smiled at him, a little weakly, feeling her hands sweaty on the wooden stock and her heart pounding with delayed reaction.
“Holy God,” Roger said, deeply impressed. “That wasn’t just luck, was it?”
“Well . . . some,” she said, trying for modesty. She failed, and felt a grin blossom across her face. “Maybe half.”
Roger went to retrieve her prize while she cleaned the gun again, coming back with a ten-pound bird, limp-necked and leaking blood like a punctured waterskin.
“What a thing,” he said. He held it at arm’s length to drain, admiring the vivid reds and blues of the bare, warty head and dangling wattle. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one, save roasted on a platter, with chestnut dressing and roast potatoes.”
He looked from the turkey to her with great respect, and nodded at the gun.
“That’s great shooting, Bree.”
She felt her cheeks flush with pleasure, and restrained the urge to say, “Aw, shucks, it warn’t nothin’,” settling instead for a simple, “Thanks.”
They turned again toward home, Roger still carrying the dripping carcass, held slightly out from his body.
“You haven’t been shooting all that long, either,” Roger was saying, still impressed. “What’s it been, six months?”
She didn’t want to lower his estimation of her prowess, but laughed, shrugged, and told the truth anyway.
“More like six years. Really more like ten.”
“Eh?”
“Daddy—Frank—taught me to shoot when I was eleven or twelve. He gave me a twenty-two when I was thirteen, and by the time I was fifteen, he was taking me to shoot clay pigeons at ranges, or to hunt doves and quail on weekends in the fall.”
Roger glanced at her in interest.
“I thought Jamie’d taught you; I’d no idea Frank Randall was such a sportsman.”
“Well,” she said slowly. “I don’t know that he was.”
One black brow went up in inquiry.
“Oh, he knew how to shoot,” she assured him. “He’d been in the Army during World War Two. But he never shot much himself; he’d just show me, and then watch. In fact, he never even owned a gun.”
“That’s odd.”
“Isn’t it?” She moved deliberately closer to him, nudging his shoulder so that their shadows merged again; now it looked like a two-headed ogre, carrying a gun over one shoulder, and a third head held bloodily in its hand. “I wondered about that,” she said, with attempted casualness. “After you told me—about his letter and all that, at the Gathering.”
He shot her a sharp look.
“Wondered what?”
She took a deep breath, feeling the linen strips bite into her breasts.
“I wondered why a man who didn’t ride or shoot should take such pains to see that his daughter could do both those things. I mean, it wasn’t like it was common for girls to do that.” She tried to laugh. “Not in Boston, anyway.”
There was no sound for a moment but the shuffling of their feet through dry leaves.
“Christ,” Roger said softly, at last. “He looked for Jamie Fraser. He said so, in his letter.”
“And he found a Jamie Fraser. He said that, too. We just don’t know whether it was the right one or not.” She kept her eyes on her boots, wary of snakes. There were copperheads in the wood, and timber rattlers; she saw them now and then, basking on rocks or sunny logs.
Roger took a deep breath, lifting his head.
“Aye. And so you’re wondering now—what else might he have found?”
She nodded, not looking up.
“Maybe he found me,” she said softly. Her throat felt tight. “Maybe he knew I’d go back, through the stones. But if he did—he didn’t tell me.”
He stopped walking, and put a hand on her arm to turn her toward him.
“And perhaps he didn’t know that at all,” he said firmly. “He may only have thought ye might try it, if you ever found out about Fraser. And if you did find out, and did go . . . then he wanted you to be safe. I’d say no matter what he knew, that’s what he wanted; you to be safe.” He smiled, a little crookedly. “Like you want me to be safe. Aye?”
She heaved a deep sigh, feeling comfort descend on her with his words. She’d never doubted that Frank Randall had loved her, all the years of her growing up. She didn’t want to doubt it now.
“Aye,” she said, and tilted up an inch on her toes to kiss him.
“Fine, then,” he said, and gently touched her breast, where the buckskin of her shirt showed a small wet patch. “Jem’ll be hungry. Come on; it’s time we were home.”
They turned again and went down the mountain, into the golden sea of chestnut leaves, watching their shadows go before them as they walked, embracing.
“Do you think—” she began, and hesitated. One shadow head dipped toward the other, listening.
“Do you think Ian’s happy?”
“I hope so,” he replied, and his arm tightened round her. “If he has a wife like mine—then I’m sure he is.”
TWENTY-TWENTY
NOW, HOLD THIS over your left eye, and read the smallest line you can see clearly.”
With a long-suffering air, Roger held the wooden spoon over his right eye and narrowed his left, concentrating on the sheet of paper I had pinned to the kitchen door. He was standing in the front hall, just inside the door, as the length of the corridor was the only stretch of floor within the house approaching twenty feet.
“Et tu Brute?” he read. He lowered the spoon and looked at me, one dark eyebrow raised. “I’ve never seen a literate eye chart before.”
“Well, I always did think the ‘f, e, 5, z, t, d’ things on the regular charts rather boring,” I said, unpinning the paper and flipping it over. “Other eye, please. What’s the smallest line you can read easily?”
He reversed the spoon, squinted at the five lines of hand-printing—done in such even decrements of size as I could manage—and read the third one, slowly.
“Eat no onions. What’s that from?”
“Shakespeare, of course,” I said, making a note. “Eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath. That’s the smallest you can read, is it?”
I saw Jamie’s expression alter subtly. He and Brianna were standing just behind Roger, out on the porch, watching the proceedings with great interest. Brianna was leaning slightly toward Roger, a faintly anxious expression on her face, as though willing him to see the letters.
Jamie’s expression, though, showed slight surprise, faint pity—and an undeniable glint of satisfaction. He, evidently, could read the fifth line without trouble. I honor him. One from Julius Caesar: As he was valiant, I honor him; as he was ambitious, I slew him.
He felt my gaze on him, and the expression vanished, his face instantly resuming its usual look of good-humored inscrutability. I narrowed my eyes at him, with a “You’re not fooling me” sort of look, and he looked away, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.
“You can’t make out any of the next line?” Bree had moved close to Roger, as though drawn by osmosis. She stared intently at the paper, then at him, with an encouraging look. Obviously she could see the last two lines without difficulty, too.
“No,” Roger said, rather shortly. He’d agreed to let me check his eyes at her request, but he obviously wasn’t happy about it. He slapped the palm of his hand lightly with the spoon, impatient to be done with this. “Anything else?”
“Just a few small exercises,” I said, as soothingly as possible. “Come in here, where the light is better.” I put a hand on his arm and drew him toward my surgery, giving Jamie and Bree a hard look as I did so. “Brianna, why don’t you go and lay the table for supper? We won’t be long.”
She hesitated for a moment, but Jamie touched her arm and said something to her in a low voice. She nodded, glanced once more at Roger with a small, anxious frown, and went. Jamie gave me an apologetic shrug, and followed her.
Roger was standing among the litter in my surgery, looking like a bear that hears barking hounds in the distance—simultaneously annoyed and wary.
“There’s no need for this,” he said, as I closed the door. “I see fine. I just don’t shoot very well yet. There’s nothing the matter with my eyes.” Still, he made no move to escape, and I picked up the hint of doubt in his voice.
“Shouldn’t think there is,” I said lightly. “Let me have just a quick look, though . . . just curiosity on my part, really. . . .” I got him sat down, however reluctantly, and for lack of the standard small flashlight, lit a candle.
I brought it close to check the dilation of his pupils. His eyes were the most lovely color, I thought; not hazel at all, but a very clear dark green. Dark enough to look almost black in shadow, but a startling color—almost emerald—when seen directly in bright light. A disconcerting sight, to one who had known Geilie Duncan and seen her mad humor laugh out of those clear green depths. I did hope Roger hadn’t inherited anything but the eyes from her.
He blinked once, involuntarily, long black lashes sweeping down over them, and the memory disappeared. These eyes were beautiful—but calm, and above all, sane. I smiled at him, and he smiled back in reflex, not understanding.
I passed the candle before his face, up, down, right, left, asking him to keep looking at the flame, watching the changes as his eyes moved to and fro. Since no answers were required in this exercise, he began to relax a bit, his fists gradually uncurling on his thighs.
“Very nice,” I said, keeping my voice low and soothing. “Yes, that’s good . . . can you look up, please? Yes, now look down, toward the corner by the window. Mm-hm, yes . . . Now, look at me again. You see my finger? Good, now close your left eye and tell me if the finger moves. Mm-hmmm . . .”
Finally, I blew out the candle, and straightened up, stretching my back with a small groan.
“So,” Roger said lightly, “what’s the verdict, Doctor? Shall I go and be making myself a white cane?” He waved away the drifting wisps of smoke from the blown-out candle, making a good attempt at casualness—belied only by the slight tension in his shoulders.
I laughed.
“No, you won’t need a Seeing Eye dog for some time yet, nor even spectacles. Though speaking of that—you said you’d never seen a literate eye chart before. But you have seen eye charts, I take it. Did you ever wear glasses as a child?”
He frowned, casting his mind back.
“Aye, I did,” he said slowly. “Or rather”—a faint grin showed on his face—“I had a pair of specs. Or two or three. When I was seven or eight, I think. They were a nuisance, and gave me a headache. So I was inclined to leave them on the public bus, or at school, or on the rocks by the river . . . I can’t recall actually wearing them for more than an hour at a time, and after I’d lost the third pair, my father gave up.” He shrugged.
“I’ve never felt as though I needed spectacles, to be honest.”
“Well, you don’t—now.”
He caught the tone of my voice and looked down at me, puzzled.
“What?”
“You’re a bit shortsighted in the left eye, but not by enough to cause you any real difficulty.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose, as though feeling the pinch of spectacles myself. “Let me guess—you were good at hockey and football when you were at school, but not at tennis.”
He laughed at that, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Tennis? At an Inverness grammar school? Soft Southron sport, we’d have called it; game for poofters. But I take your point—no, you’re right, I was fine at the football, but not much at rounders. Why?”
“You don’t have any binocular vision,” I said. “Chances are that someone noticed it when you were a child, and made an effort to correct it with prismatic lenses—but it’s likely that it would have been too late by the time you were seven or eight,” I added hastily, seeing his face go blank. “If that’s going to work, it needs to be done very young—before the age of five.”
“I don’t . . . binocular vision? But doesn’t everyone? . . . I mean, both my eyes do work, don’t they?” He looked mildly bewildered. He looked down into the palm of his hand, closing one eye, then the other, as though some answer might be found among the lines there.
“Your eyes are fine,” I assured him. “It’s just that they don’t work together. It’s really a fairly common condition—and many people who have it don’t realize it. It’s just that in some people, for one reason or another, the brain never learns to merge the images coming in from both eyes in order to make a three-dimensional image.”
“I don’t see in three dimensions?” He looked at me, now, squinting hard, as though expecting me suddenly to flatten out against the wall.
“Well, I haven’t quite got a trained oculist’s kit”—I waved a hand at the burned-out candle, the wooden spoon, the drawn figures, and a couple of sticks I had been using—“nor yet an oculist’s training. But I’m reasonably sure, yes.”
He listened quietly as I explained what I could. His vision seemed fairly normal, in terms of acuity. But since his brain was not fusing the information from his eyes, he must be estimating the distance and relative location of objects simply by unconscious comparison of their sizes, rather than by forming a real 3-D image. Which meant . . .
“You can see perfectly well for almost anything you want to do,” I assured him. “And you very likely can learn to shoot all right; most of the men I see shooting close one eye when they fire, anyway. But you might have trouble hitting moving targets. You can see what you’re aiming at, all right—but without binocular vision, you may not be able to tell precisely where it is in order to hit it.”
“I see,” he said. “So, if it comes to a fight, I’d best rely on straightforward bashing, is that it?”
“In my humble experience of Scottish conflicts,” I said, “most fights amount to no more than bashing, anyway. You only use a gun or arrow if your goal is murder—and in that case, a blade is usually the weapon of preference. So much surer, Jamie tells me.”
He gave a small grunt of amusement at that, but said nothing else. He sat quietly, considering what I’d told him, while I tidied up the disorder left by the day’s surgery. I could hear thumping and clanging from the kitchen, and the pop and sizzle of fat that went with the tantalizing aroma of frying onions and bacon that floated down the corridor.
It was going to be a hasty meal; Mrs. Bug had been busy all day with the preparations for the militia expedition. Still, even Mrs. Bug’s least elaborate spreads were well worth the eating.
Muffled voices came through the wall—Jemmy’s sudden wail, a brief exclamation from Brianna, another from Lizzie, then Jamie’s deep voice, evidently comforting the baby while Bree and Lizzie dealt with dinner.
Roger heard them, too; I saw his head turn toward the sound.
“Quite a woman,” he said, with a slow smile. “She can kill it and cook it. Which looks like being a good thing, under the circumstances,” he added ruefully. “Evidently I won’t be putting much meat on the table.”
“Pah,” I said briskly, wishing to forestall any attempt on his part to feel sorry for himself. “I’ve never shot a thing in my life, and I put food on this table every day. If you really feel you must kill things, you know, there are plenty of chickens and geese and pigs. And if you can catch that damnable white sow before she undermines the foundation entirely, you’ll be a local hero.”
That made him smile, though with a wry twist to it nonetheless.
“I expect my self-respect will recover, with or without the pigs,” he said. “The worst of it will be telling the sharpshooters”—he jerked his head toward the wall, where Brianna’s voice mingled with Jamie’s in muffled conversation—“what the problem is. They’ll be very kind—like one is to somebody who’s missing a foot.”
I laughed, finished swabbing out my mortar, and reached up to put it away in the cupboard.
“Bree’s only worrying about you, because of this Regulation trouble. But Jamie thinks it won’t amount to anything; the chances of you needing to shoot someone are very small. Besides, birds of prey haven’t got binocular vision, either,” I added, as an afterthought. “Except for owls. Hawks and eagles can’t have; their eyes are on either side of their heads. Just tell Bree and Jamie I said you have eyes like a hawk.”
He laughed outright at that, and stood up, dusting off the skirts of his coat.
“Right, I will.” He waited for me, opening the door to the hall for me. As I reached it, though, he put a hand on my arm, stopping me.
“This binocular thing,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward his eyes. “I was born with it, I suppose?”
I nodded.
“Yes, almost certainly.”
He hesitated, clearly not knowing quite how to put what he wanted to say.
“Is it . . . inherited, then? My father was in the RAF; he can’t have had it, surely—but my mother wore spectacles. She kept them on a chain round her neck; I remember playing with it. I might have gotten the eye thing from her, I mean.”
I pursed my lips, trying to recall what—if anything—I had ever read on the subject of inherited eye disorders, but nothing concrete came to mind.
“I don’t know,” I said at last. “It might be. But it might not, too. I really don’t know. Are you worried about Jemmy?”
“Oh.” A faint look of disappointment crossed his features, though he blotted it out almost at once. He gave me an awkward smile, and opened the door, holding it for me to pass through.
“No, not worried. I was just thinking—if it was inherited, and if the little fella should have it, too . . . then I’d know.”
The corridor was full of the savory scents of squirrel stew and fresh bread, and I was starving, but I stood still, staring up at him.
“I wouldn’t wish it on him,” Roger said hastily, seeing my expression. “Not at all! Just, if it should be that way—” He broke off and looked away, swallowing. “Look, don’t tell Bree I thought of it, please.”
I touched his arm lightly.
“I think she’d understand. Your wanting to know—for sure.”
He glanced at the kitchen door, from which Bree’s voice rose, singing “Clementine,” to Jemmy’s raucous pleasure.
“She might understand,” he said. “That doesn’t mean she wants to hear it.”
THE FIERY CROSS
THE MEN WERE GONE. Jamie, Roger, Mr. Chisholm and his sons, the MacLeod brothers . . . they had all disappeared before daybreak, leaving no trace behind save the jumbled remains of a hasty breakfast, and a collection of muddy bootprints on the doorsill.
Jamie moved so quietly that he seldom woke me when he left our bed to dress in the dark predawn. He did usually bend to kiss me goodbye, though, murmuring a quick endearment in my ear and leaving me to carry the touch and scent of him back into dreams.
He hadn’t wakened me this morning.
That job had been left to the tender offices of the junior Chisholms and MacLeods, several of whom had held a pitched battle directly under my window, just after dawn.
I had sprung into wakefulness, momentarily confused by the shouts and screams, my hands reaching automatically for sponge and oxygen, syringe and alcohol, visions of a hospital emergency room vivid around me. Then I drew breath, and smelled woodsmoke, not ethanol. I shook my head, blinking at the sight of a rumpled blue and yellow quilt, the peaceful row of clothes on their pegs, and the wash of pure, pale light streaming through half-opened shutters. Home. I was home, on the Ridge.
A door banged open below, and the racket died abruptly, succeeded by a scuffle of flight, accompanied by muffled giggling.
“Mmmphm!” said Mrs. Bug’s voice, grimly satisfied at having routed the rioters. The door closed, and the clank of wood and clang of metal from below announced the commencement of the day’s activities.
When I went down a few moments later, I found that good lady engaged simultaneously in toasting bread, boiling coffee, making parritch, and complaining as she tidied up the men’s leavings. Not about the untidiness—what else could be expected of men?—but rather that Jamie had not waked her to provide a proper breakfast for them.
“And how’s Himself to manage, then?” she demanded, brandishing the toasting-fork at me in reproach. “A fine, big man like that, and him out and doing wi’ no more to line his wame than a wee sup of milk and a stale bannock?”
Casting a bleary eye over the assorted crumbs and dirty crockery, it appeared to me that Himself and his companions had probably accounted for at least two dozen corn muffins and an entire loaf of salt-rising bread, accompanied by a pound or so of fresh butter, a jar of honey, a bowl of raisins, and all of the first milking.
“I don’t think he’ll starve,” I murmured, dabbing up a crumb with a moistened forefinger. “Is the coffee ready?”
The older Chisholm and MacLeod children had mostly been sleeping by the kitchen hearth at night, rolled in rags or blankets. They were up and out now, their coverings heaped behind the settle. As the smell of food began to permeate the house, murmurous sounds of rising began to come through the walls and down the stairs, as the women dressed and tended the babies and toddlers. Small faces began to reappear from outside, peeking hungrily round the edge of the door.
“Have ye washed your filthy paws, wee heathens?” Mrs. Bug demanded, seeing them. She waved a porridge spoon at the benches along the table. “If ye have, come in and set yourselves doon. Mind ye wipe your muddy feet!”
Within moments, the benches and stools were filled, Mrs. Chisholm, Mrs. MacLeod, and Mrs. Aberfeldy yawning and blinking among their offspring, nodding and murmuring “Good morn” to me and each other, straightening a kerchief here and a shirttail there, using a thumb wet with spittle to plaster down the spiked hair on a little boy’s head or wipe a smudge from a little girl’s cheek.
Faced with a dozen gaping mouths to feed, Mrs. Bug was in her element, hopping back and forth between hearth and table. Watching her bustle to and fro, I thought she must have been a chickadee in a former life.
“Did you see Jamie when he left?” I asked, as she paused momentarily to refill all the coffee cups, a large uncooked sausage in her other hand.
“No, indeed.” She shook her head, neat white in its kerch. “I didna ken a thing about it. I heard my auld lad up and stirring before dawn, but I thought it was only him out to the privy, he not liking to trouble me with the noise
o’ the pot. He didna come back, though, and by the time I waked myself, they’d all gone off. Ah! None of that, now!”
Catching a movement from the corner of her eye, she dotted a six-year-old MacLeod smartly on the head with her sausage, causing him to snatch his fingers back from the jam jar.
“Perhaps they’ve gone hunting,” Mrs. Aberfeldy suggested timidly, spooning porridge into the little girl she held on her knee. Barely nineteen, she seldom said much, shy of the older women.
“Better they be hunting homesteads, and timber for houses,” Mrs. MacLeod said, hoisting a baby onto her shoulder and patting its back. She pushed a strand of graying hair out of her face and gave me a wry smile. “It’s nay reflection upon your hospitality, Mrs. Fraser, but I’d as soon not spend the winter under your feet. Geordie! Leave your sister’s plaits alone, or ye’ll wish ye had!”
Not at my best so early in the day, I smiled and murmured something politely incomprehensible. I would as soon not have five or ten extra people in my house for the winter, either, but I wasn’t sure it could be avoided.
The Governor’s letter had been quite specific; all able-bodied men in the backcountry were to be mustered as militia troops and to report to Salisbury by mid-December. That left very little time for house-building. Still, I hoped Jamie had some plan for relieving the congestion; Adso the kitten had taken up semipermanent residence in a cupboard in my surgery, and the scene in the kitchen was quickly assuming its usual daily resemblance to one of the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch.
At least the kitchen had lost its early morning chill with so many bodies crowded into it, and was now comfortably warm and noisy. What with the mob scene, though, it was several moments before I noticed that there were four young mothers present, rather than three.
“Where did you come from?” I asked, startled at sight of my daughter, huddled frowsily under a rug in a corner of the settle.
Bree blinked sleepily and shifted Jemmy, who was nursing with single-minded concentration, oblivious of the crowd.
“The Muellers showed up in the middle of the night and pounded on our door,” she said, yawning. “Eight of them. They didn’t speak much English, but I think they said Da sent for them.”