May 1, 1771 May Union Camp 3 страница
“No, no, forward, we must go forward, or all is lost!”
“Lost? We have lost everything so far! We must—”
“The Governor’s taken choice from us, we must—”
“We must—”
“We must—!”
All single words were lost in a general roar of anger and frustration. Seeing that there was nothing to be gained by waiting for an audience, Roger shoved his way ruthlessly between two farmers and seized Husband by the sleeve of his shirt.
“Mr. Husband—I must speak with you!” he shouted in the Quaker’s ear.
Husband gave him a glazed sort of look, and made to shake him off, but then stopped, blinking as he recognized him. The square face was flushed with color above the sprouting beard, and Husband’s coarse gray hair, unbound, bristled out from his head like the quills of a porcupine. He shook his head and shut his eyes, then opened them again, staring at Roger like a man seeking to dispel some impossible vision, and failing.
He grabbed Roger’s arm, and with a fierce gesture at the crowd, leaped down from his rock and made off toward the shelter of a ramshackle cabin that leaned drunkenly in the shade of a maple grove. Roger followed, glaring round at those nearest to discourage pursuit.
A few followed, nonetheless, waving arms and expostulating hotly, but Roger slammed the door in their faces, and dropped the bolt, placing his back against the door for good measure. It was cooler inside, though the air was stale and smelt of wood-ash and burnt food.
Husband stood panting in the middle of the floor, then picked up a dipper and drank deeply from a bucket that stood upon the hearth—the only object left in the cabin, Roger saw. Husband’s coat and hat hung neatly on a hook by the door, but bits of rubbish were scattered across the packed-earth floor. Whoever owned the cabin had evidently decamped in haste, carrying their portable belongings.
Calmed by the moment’s respite, Husband straightened his rumpled shirt and made shift to tidy his hair.
“What does thee here, friend MacKenzie?” he asked, with characteristic mildness. “Thee does not come to join the cause of Regulation, surely?”
“Indeed I do not,” Roger assured him. He cast a wary eye at the window, lest the crowd try to gain access that way, but while the rumble of voices outside continued their argument, there was no immediate sound of assault upon the building. “I have come to ask if you will go across the creek with me—under a flag of truce, your safety is assured—to speak with Jamie Fraser.”
Husband glanced at the window, too.
“I fear the time for speaking has long passed,” he said, with a wry twist of the lips. Roger was inclined to think so, too, but pressed on, determined to fulfill his commission.
“Not so far as the Governor is concerned. He has no wish to slaughter his own citizenry; if the mob could be convinced to disperse peaceably—”
“Does it seem to thee a likely prospect?” Husband waved at the window, giving him a cynical glance.
“No,” Roger was forced to admit. “Still, if you would come—if they could see that there was still some possibility of—”
“If there were possibility of reconciliation and redress, it should have been offered long since,” Husband said sharply. “Is this a token of the Governor’s sincerity, to come with troops and cannon, to send a letter that—”
“Not redress,” Roger said bluntly. “I meant the possibility of saving all your lives.”
Husband stood quite still. The ruddy color faded from his cheeks, though he looked still composed.
“Has it come to that?” he asked quietly, his eyes on Roger’s face. Roger took a deep breath and nodded.
“There is not much time. Mr. Fraser bid me tell you—if you could not come to speak with him yourself—there are two companies of artillery arrayed against you, and eight of militia, all well-armed. All lies in readiness—and the Governor will not wait past dawn of tomorrow, at the latest.”
He was aware that it was treason to give such information to the enemy—but it was what Jamie Fraser would have said, could he have come himself.
“There are near two thousand men of the Regulation here,” Husband said, as though to himself. “Two thousand! Would thee not think the sight of it would sway him? That so many would leave home and hearth and come in protest—”
“It is the Governor’s opinion that they come in rebellion, therefore in a state of war,” Roger interrupted. He glanced at the window, where the oiled parchment covering hung in tatters. “And having seen them, I must say that I think he has reasonable grounds for that opinion.”
“It is no rebellion,” Husband said stubbornly. He drew himself up, and pulled a worn black silk ribbon from his pocket, with which to tie back his hair. “But our legitimate complaints have been ignored, disregarded! We have no choice but to come as a physical body, to lay our grievances before Mr. Tryon and thus impress him with the rightness of our objection.”
“I thought I heard you speak of choice a few moments past,” Roger said dryly. “And if now is the time to choose, as you say, it would seem to me that most of the Regulators have chosen violence—judging from such remarks as I heard on my way here.”
“Perhaps,” Husband said reluctantly. “Yet we—they—are not an avenging army, not a mob . . .” And yet his unwilling glance toward the window suggested his awareness that a mob was indeed what was forming on the banks of the Alamance.
“Do they have a chosen leader, anyone who can speak officially for them?” Roger interrupted again, impatient to deliver his message and be gone. “Yourself, or perhaps Mr. Hunter?”
Husband paused for a long moment, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as though to expunge some lingering rancid taste. He shook his head.
“They have no real leader,” he said softly. “Jim Hunter is bold enough, but he has no gift of commanding men. I asked him—he said that each man must act for himself.”
“You have the gift. You can lead them.”
Husband looked scandalized, as though Roger had accused him of a talent for card-sharping.
“Not I.”
“You have led them here—”
“They have come here! I asked none to—”
“You are here. They followed you.”
Husband flinched slightly at this, his lips compressed. Seeing that his words had some effect, Roger pressed his case.
“You spoke for them before, and they listened. They came with you, after you. They’ll still listen, surely!”
He could hear the noise outside the cabin growing; the crowd was impatient. If it wasn’t yet a mob, it was damn close. And what would they do if they knew who he was, and what he had come to do? His palms were sweating; he pressed them down across the fabric of his coat, feeling the small lump of his militia badge in the pocket, and wished he had paused to bury it somewhere when he crossed the creek.
Husband looked at him a moment, then reached out and seized him by both hands.
“Pray with me, friend,” he said quietly.
“I—”
“Thee need say nothing,” Husband said. “I know thee is Papist, but it is not our way to pray aloud. If thee would but remain still with me, and ask in your heart that wisdom be granted—not only to me, but to all here . . .”
Roger bit his tongue to keep from correcting Husband; his own religious affiliation was scarcely important at the moment, though evidently Husband’s was. Instead he nodded, suppressing his impatience, and squeezed the older man’s hands, offering what support he might.
Husband stood quite still, his head slightly lowered. A fist hammered on the flimsy door of the cabin, voices calling out.
“Hermon! You all right in there?”
“Come on, Hermon! There’s no time for this! Caldwell’s come back from the Governor—”
“An hour, Hermon! He’s given us an hour, no more!”
A trickle of sweat ran down Roger’s back between his shoulder blades, but he ignored the tickle, unable to reach it.
He glanced from Husband’s weathered fingers to his face, and found the other man’s eyes seemingly fixed on his own—and yet distant, as though he listened to some far-off voice, disregarding the urgent shouts that came through the walls. Even Husband’s eyes were Quaker gray, Roger thought—like pools of rainwater, shivering into stillness after a storm.
Surely they would break down the door. But no; the blows diminished to an impatient knocking, and then to random thumps. He could feel the beating of his own heart, slowing gradually to a quiet, even throb in his chest, anxiety fading in his blood.
He closed his own eyes, trying to fix his thoughts, to do as Husband asked. He groped in his mind for some suitable prayer, but nothing save confused fragments of the Book of Common Worship came to hand.
Help us, O Lord . . .
Hear us . . .
Help us, O Lord, his father’s voice whispered. His other father, the Reverend, speaking somewhere in the back of his mind. Help us, O Lord, to remember how often men do wrong through want of thought, rather than from lack of love; and how cunning are the snares that trip our feet.
Each word flickered briefly in his mind like a burning leaf, rising from a bonfire’s wind, and then disappeared away into ash before he could grasp it. He gave it up then and simply stood, clasping Husband’s hands in his own, listening to the man’s breathing, a low rasping note.
Please, he thought silently, though with no idea what he was asking for. That word too evaporated, leaving nothing in its place.
Nothing happened. The voices still called outside, but they seemed of no more importance now than the calling of birds. The air in the room was still, but cool and lively, as though a draft played somewhere in the corners, not touching them where they stood in the center of the floor. Roger felt his own breath ease, his heart slow its beat still more.
He didn’t remember opening his eyes, and yet they were open. Husband’s soft gray eyes had flecks of blue in them, and tiny splinters of black. His lashes were thick, and there was a small swelling at the base of one, a healing sty. The tiny dome was smooth and red, fading from a ruby dot at the center through such successions of crimson, pink, and rose red as might have graced the dawn sky on the day of Creation.
The face before him was sculpted with lines that drew rough arcs from nose to mouth, that curved above the heavy, grizzled brows whose every hair was long and arched with the grace of a bird’s wing. The lips were broad and smooth, a dusky rose; the white edge of a tooth glistened, strangely hard by contrast with the pliable flesh that sheltered it.
Roger stood without moving, wondering at the beauty of what he saw. The notion of Husband as a stocky man of middle age and indeterminate feature had no meaning; what he saw now was a heartbreaking singularity, a thing unique and wonderful; irreplaceable.
It struck him that this was same feeling with which he had studied his infant son, marveling at the perfection of each small toe, the curve of cheek and ear that squeezed his heart, the radiance of the newborn skin that let the innocence within shine through. And here was the same creation, no longer new, perhaps less innocent, but no less marvelous.
He looked down and saw his own hands then, still gripping Husband’s smaller ones. A sense of awe came on him, with the realization of the beauty of his own fingers, the curving bones of wrist and knuckle, the ravishing loveliness of a thin red scar that ran across the joint of his thumb.
Husband’s breath left him in a deep sigh, and he pulled his hands away. Roger felt momentarily bereft, but then felt the peace of the room settle upon him once more, the astonishment of beauty succeeded by a sense of deep calm.
“I thank thee, Friend Roger,” Husband said softly. “I had not hoped to receive such grace—but it is welcome.”
Roger nodded, wordless. He watched as Husband took down his coat and put it on, his face settled now in lines of calm determination. Without hesitation, the Quaker lifted the bolt from the door and pushed it open.
The crowd of men outside fell back, the surprise on their faces giving way at once to eagerness and irritation. Husband ignored the storm of questions and exhortations, and walked directly to a horse that stood tethered to a sapling behind the cabin. He untied it and swung up into the saddle, and only then looked down into the faces of his fellow Regulators.
“Go home!” he said, in a loud voice. “We must leave this place; each man must return to his own home!”
This announcement was met with a moment of stunned silence, and then by cries of puzzlement and outrage.
“What home?” called a young man with a scraggly ginger beard. “Maybe you got a home to go to—I ain’t!”
Husband sat solid in his saddle, unmoved by the outcry.
“Go home!” he shouted again. “I exhort you—nothing but violence remains to be done here!”
“Aye, and we’ll bloody do it!” bellowed one thickset man, thrusting his musket overhead, to a ragged chorus of cheers.
Roger had followed Husband, and was largely ignored by the Regulators. He stood at a little distance, watching as the Quaker began slowly to ride away, bending down from his saddle as he did so, to shout and gesture to the men who ran and shoved beside him. One man grabbed Husband by the sleeve, and the Quaker drew up his rein, leaning down to listen to what was obviously an impassioned speech.
At the end of it, though, he straightened up, shaking his head, and clapped his hat on.
“I cannot stay and let blood be shed by my staying. If thee remain here, friends, there will be murder done. Leave! Thee can still go—I pray thee do so!”
He was no longer shouting, but the noise around him had ceased long enough for his words to carry. He raised a face creased with worry, and saw Roger standing in the shadow of a dogwood. The stillness of peace had left him, but Roger saw that the look of determination was still there in his eyes.
“I am going!” he called. “I beg thee all—go home!” He reined his horse round with sudden decision, and kicked it into a trot. A few men ran after him, but soon stopped. They turned back, looking puzzled and resentful, muttering in small groups and shaking their heads in confusion.
The noise was rising again, as everyone talked at once, arguing, insisting, denying. Roger turned away, walking quietly toward the cover of the maple grove. It seemed wiser to be gone as soon as possible, now that Husband had departed.
A hand seized him by the shoulder, and spun him round.
“Who the hell are you? What did you say to Hermon to make him go?” A grimy fellow in a ragged leather vest confronted him, fists clenched. The man looked angry, ready to take out his frustration on the nearest available object.
“I told him that the Governor doesn’t want anyone to be harmed, if it can be avoided,” Roger said, in what he hoped was a calming tone.
“Do you come from the Governor?” a black-bearded man asked skeptically, eyeing Roger’s grubby homespun. “D’ye come to offer different terms than Caldwell has?”
“No.” Roger had been still under the effects of the meeting with Husband, feeling sheltered from the currents of anger and incipient hysteria that swirled about the cabin, but the peace of it was fading fast. Others were coming to join his interrogators, attracted by the sound of confrontation.
“No,” he said again, louder. “I came to warn Husband—to warn all of you. The Governor wants—”
He was interrupted by a chorus of rude shouts, indicating that what Tryon wanted was a matter of no concern to those present. He glanced around the circle of faces, but saw none that offered any expression of forbearance, let alone friendliness. He shrugged then, and stepped back.
“You’ll suit yourselves, then,” he said, as coolly as possible. “Mr. Husband gave you his best advice—I second it.” He turned to leave, but was gripped by a pair of hands that descended on his shoulders, pulling him forcibly around to face the ring of questioners once more.
“Not so fast, chuck,” said the man in the leather vest. He was still flushed with angry excitement, but his fists were no longer clenched. “You’ve spoke with Tryon, have you?”
“No,” Roger admitted. “I was sent—” He hesitated; ought he to use Jamie Fraser’s name? No, better not; it was as likely to cause trouble as to save it. “I came to ask Hermon Husband to come across the creek and discover for himself how matters stand. He chose instead to accept my account of the situation. You saw what his response was.”
“So you say!” A burly man with ginger sidewhiskers raised his chin pugnaciously. “And why should anyone accept your account of the situation?” He mimicked Roger’s clipped Scots in a burlesque that brought laughter from his comrades.
The calm he had carried from the cabin had not altogether left him; Roger gathered its remnants about him and spoke quietly.
“I cannot compel you to listen, sir. But for those who have ears—hear this.” He looked from one face to another, and reluctantly, one by one, they left off making noise, until he stood as the center of a ring of unwilling attention.
“The Governor’s troops stand ready and well-armed.” His voice sounded odd to his own ears, calm but somehow muffled, as though someone else were speaking, some distance away. “I have not seen the Governor myself, but I have heard his stated purpose: he does not wish to see blood shed, but he is determined to take such actions as he perceives necessary to disperse this assembly. Yet if you will return peaceably to your homes, he is disposed to leniency.”
A moment of silence greeted this, to be broken by a hawking noise. A glob of mucus, streaked brown with tobacco juice, landed with a splat in the mud near Roger’s boot.
“That,” observed the spitter concisely, “for the Governor’s leniency.”
“And that for you, fuckwit!” said one of his companions, swinging an open palm toward Roger’s face.
He ducked the blow, and lowering his shoulder, charged the man, who staggered off-balance and gave way. There were more beyond him, though; Roger stopped, fists balled, ready to defend himself if need be.
“Don’t hurt him, boys,” called the man in the leather vest. “Not yet, anyways.” He sidled round Roger, keeping well out of range of his fists, and eyed him warily.
“Whether you’ve seen Tryon’s face or not, reckon you’ve seen his troops, haven’t you?”
“I have.” Roger’s heart was beating fast, and the blood sang in his temples, but oddly enough, he wasn’t afraid. The crowd was hostile, but not bloodthirsty—not yet.
“So how many men does Tryon have?” The man was watching him closely, with a glint in his eye. Best to answer honestly; the odds were good that the answer was already known; there was nothing whatever to hinder men of the Regulation from crossing the Alamance and assessing the situation for themselves.
“A few more than a thousand,” Roger said, watching the man’s face carefully. No surprise; he had known. “But they are trained militia,” Roger added pointedly, with a glance at a number of the Regulators, who, having lost interest in Roger, had resumed a wrestling match nearby. “And they have artillery. I think you have none, sir?”
The man’s face closed like a fist.
“Think what you like,” he said shortly. “But you can tell Tryon that we boast twice his number. And be we trained or not—” his mouth twisted ironically, “we are all armed, each man with his musket.” He tilted back his head, squinting against the light.
“An hour, is it?” he asked, more softly. “Sooner than that, I think.” He lowered his gaze, looking Roger in the eye.
“Go you back across the creek, then, sir. Tell Governor Tryon that we mean to have our say, and have our way of it. If he will listen and do as we demand, well and good. If not . . .” He touched the hilt of the pistol in his belt, and nodded once, his face settling into grim lines.
Roger glanced around at the circle of silent faces. Some bore looks of uncertainty, but most were sullen or openly defiant. He turned without a word and walked away, the Reverend’s words whispering among the spring leaves as he passed beneath the trees.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
He hoped one got credit for trying.
THE SURGEON’S BOOK I
Item #28 - The Surgeons to keep a Book and enter each Man that comes under his care, Vixt. the Mans Name, the Company he belongs to, the Day he comes under his Hands, and the day he discharges him.
—“Camp Duties and Regulations”
I FELT A cool breeze touch my cheek, and shivered, though the day was very warm. I had the sudden absurd thought that it was the glancing touch of a wing-feather, as though the Angel of Death had silently passed by me, intent on his dark business.
“Nonsense,” I said aloud. Evan Lindsay heard me; I saw his head turn momentarily, but then turn back. Like all the others, he kept glancing toward the east.
People who don’t believe in telepathy have never set foot on a battlefield, nor served with an army. Something passes unseen from man to man when an army is about to move; the air itself is live with feeling. Half dread, half eagerness, it dances over the skin and bores the length of the spine with an urgency like sudden lust.
No messenger had come yet, but one would, I knew it. Something had happened, somewhere.
Everyone stood rooted, waiting. I felt an overwhelming urge to move, to break that spell, and turned abruptly, my hands flexing with the need to stir, to do something. The kettle had boiled, the water sat ready, covered with a piece of clean linen. I had set up my medicine chest on a stump; I put back the lid and began to go mindlessly through its contents yet again, though I knew all was in order.
I touched the gleaming bottles one by one, their names a soothing litany.
Atropine, Belladonna, Laudanum, Paregoric, Oil of Lavender, Oil of Juniper, Pennyroyal, Lady’s-vetch, . . . and the squat brown-glass bottle of alcohol. Always alcohol. I had a keg of it, still on the wagon.
Movement caught my eye; it was Jamie, the sun sparking on his hair through the leaves as he moved quietly under the trees, bending here to speak a word in someone’s ear, touching there a shoulder, like a magician bringing statues to life.
I stood still, hands twisted in the folds of my apron, not wanting to distract him, yet wanting very much to attract his attention. He moved easily, joking, touching casually—and yet I could see the tension in him. When had he last stood with an army, waiting the order to charge?
At Culloden, I thought, and the hairs rippled erect on my forearms, pale in the spring sun.
Hoofsteps sounded nearby, and the crashing sound of horses moving through brush. Everyone swung round in expectation, muskets held loose in their hands. There was a general gasp and murmur as the first rider came into view, ducking her bright red head beneath the maple boughs.
“Holy Christ,” Jamie said, loudly enough to be heard across the clearing. “What in hell is she doing here?” There was a ripple of laughter from the men who knew her, fracturing the tension like cracks in ice. Jamie’s shoulders relaxed, very slightly, but his face was rather grim as he strode to meet her.
By the time Brianna had pulled up her horse and swung down from her saddle next to him, I had reached them, too.
“What—” I began, but Jamie was already nose to nose with his daughter, his hand on her arm, eyes narrowed and speaking in a rapid torrent of low-voiced Gaelic.
“I’m that sorry, Mum, but she would come.” A second horse ambled out of the trees, an apologetic-looking young black man on top. It was Joshua, Jocasta’s groom. “I couldna prevent her, nor could Missus Sherston. We did try.”
“So I see,” I said.
Brianna’s color had risen in response to whatever Jamie was saying to her, but she showed no sign of getting back on her horse and leaving. She said something to him, also in Gaelic, that I didn’t catch, and he reared back as though stung on the nose by a wasp. She nodded sharply once, as though satisfied with the impact of her statement, and turned on her heel. Then she saw me, and a wide smile transformed her face.
“Mama!” She embraced me, her gown smelling faintly of fresh soap, beeswax, and turpentine. There was a small streak of cobalt-blue paint on her jaw.
“Hallo, darling. Wherever did you come from?” I kissed her cheek and stood back, cheered by the sight of her, in spite of everything. She was dressed very plainly, in the rough brown homespun she wore on the Ridge, but the clothes were fresh and clean. Her long red hair was tied back in a plait, and a broad straw hat hung from its strings down her back.
“Hillsborough,” she said. “Someone who came to dinner at the Sherstons’ last night told us that the militia was camped here—so I came. I brought some food”— she waved at the bulging saddlebags on her horse—“and some herbs from the Sherstons’ garden I thought you might use.”
“Oh? Oh, yes. Lovely.” I was uneasily aware of Jamie’s glowering presence somewhere behind me, but didn’t look around. “Ah . . . I don’t mean to sound as though I’m not pleased to see you, darling, but there is just possibly going to be a fight here before too long, and . . . .”
“I know that.” Her color was still high, and it deepened somewhat at this. She raised her voice slightly.
“That’s all right; I didn’t come to fight. If I had, I would have worn my breeches.” She darted a glance over my shoulder, and I heard a loud snort from that direction, followed by guffaws from the Lindsay brothers. She lowered her head to hide a grin, and I couldn’t help smiling, too.
“I’ll stay with you,” she said, lowering her voice as well, and touching my arm. “If there’s nursing to be done . . . afterward—I can help.”
I hesitated, but there was no question that if things did come to a fight, there would be wounded to treat, and an extra pair of hands would be useful. Brianna wasn’t skilled at nursing, but she did understand about germs and antisepsis, knowledge of much more value in its way than a grasp of anatomy or physiology.
Bree had straightened. Her glance flickered over the men who waited in the maples’ shade, searching.
“Where’s Roger?” she asked, her voice low but level.
“He’s all right,” I assured her, hoping it was true. “Jamie sent him across the creek this morning, with a flag of truce, to bring back Hermon Husband to talk with the Governor.”
“He’s over there?” Her voice rose involuntarily, and she lowered it, self-conscious. “With the enemy? If that’s the right word for them.”
“He’ll be back.” Jamie stood by my elbow, viewing his daughter with no great favor, but obviously resigned to her presence. “Dinna fash, lassie. No one will trouble him, under a flag of truce.”
Bree raised her head, looking as far as she could into the distance toward the creek. Her face had drawn in upon itself, a pale knot of apprehension.
“Will a flag of truce help him if he’s still over there when the shooting starts?”
The answer to that—which she obviously knew—was “Probably not.” So did Jamie, who didn’t bother saying it. He also didn’t bother saying that perhaps it wouldn’t come to shooting; the air was thick with anticipation, acrid with the scent of spilled black powder and nervous sweat.
“He’ll be back,” Jamie repeated, though in a gentler tone. He touched her face, smoothing back a random lock of hair. “I promise, lass. He’ll be all right.”
The look of apprehension faded a bit as she searched his face. She seemed to find some reassurance there, for a little of the tension left her, and she nodded, in mute acceptance. Jamie leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead, then turned away to speak to Rob Byrnes.
Bree stood looking after him for a moment, then untied the strings of her bonnet and came to sit down beside me on a rock. Her hands were trembling slightly; she took a deep breath, and clasped her knees to still them.
“Is there anything I can do to help now?” she asked, with a nod toward my open medicine box. “Do you need me to fetch anything?”
I shook my head.
“No, I have everything I need. There isn’t anything to do but wait.” I grimaced slightly. “That’s the hardest part.”
She made a small sound of reluctant agreement, and relaxed, with a visible effort. She assessed the waiting equipment, a slight frown between her brows: the fire, the boiling water, the folding table, the large instrument box, and the smaller pack that held my emergency kit.
“What’s in there?” she asked, poking a boot-shod toe at the canvas sack.
“Alcohol and bandages, a scalpel, forceps, amputation saw, tourniquets. They’ll bring the wounded here, if they can, or to one of the other surgeons. But if I have to go to a man wounded on the field—someone too bad to walk or be carried—I can snatch that up and go at once.”