Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (139 page)

I shook and patted myself back into some sort of order, looked at my reflection in the glass, then shook my head, and wound my hair up into a makeshift bun, precariously fastened by a couple of quills stolen from Jamie’s desk as I passed the study. I could hear voices in the kitchen, and one of them was Ian’s, which lifted my heart.

He and Tòtis were sitting at the table, eating bread and honey, conversing with Fanny and Agnes in a mélange of languages: I recognized English, Gaelic, and what I assumed to be Mohawk, plus a few words of French and a certain amount of sign language regarding food.

“So
there
you are!” I said, not quite accusingly.

“Here we are,” Ian agreed, amiably. “I hear ye’ve a visitor, Auntie.”

“We’ve had more than one,” I replied, and sat down, suddenly aware that it had been many hours since I’d eaten anything. “Did the girls tell you?”

“They’ve told me about the black soldiers,” he said, smiling at the girls. “And the man whose leg ye’ve sawed off? But I daresay ye ken a bit more about what’s happened, Auntie?”

“I do.” I reached for a slice of bread and the honey pot and filled him in. His eyes went round when I told him about the reappearance of Ulysses, whom he knew but hadn’t seen since that worthy’s departure from River Run years before. The same eyes narrowed when I told him just what Ulysses had said.

“Aye,” he said, when I’d finished my tale. “What does Uncle Jamie mean to do about it?”

“He hasn’t told me yet,” I said uneasily. “But he didn’t take out after the man. I mean, he could have followed Ulysses after the fight and left someone else to bring Corporal Jackson back here, but he didn’t.”

Ian lifted a shoulder, dismissing this.

“Well, he doesna really need to chase him, does he? Ye say Ulysses has a good-sized band of men—anyone could track a group like that, especially wi’ the ground like it is.” He bent and lifted Tòtis’s foot up high, to display the coating of mud that covered the boy’s moccasin and fringed the edge of his leggings. “And Uncle Jamie’s got a prisoner,” he added, putting down the foot and ruffling Tòtis’s hair, which made the boy giggle. “No point in chasing Ulysses without the militia—and it would take half a day to gather Uncle Jamie’s men.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t do that,” I said, pouring a cup of milk. “The last thing he’d want is a pitched battle that might get men killed—on either side. Let alone kill soldiers and bring down the wrath—well, more wrath—of the British army.”

“Aye, that would cause talk,” Ian said thoughtfully. “And the fewer folk who ken about that letter, the better.”

“Jesus, I hadn’t even thought about that,” I said. The bread and honey was restoring my depleted blood glucose and I was beginning to be able to think coherently. For the contents of that letter to become widely known—and thus known to Loyalists, not only on the Ridge but from the nearby backcountry—would be disastrous. They’d like nothing better than to rally a so-called Committee of Safety—cover for anything from blackmail to brigandage—and come arrest the Fraser of Fraser’s Ridge. Or burn his new—illicit—house over his head, as Ulysses had threatened.

“King beaver, forsooth,” I muttered under my breath.

“Uncle Jamie’s not damaged?” Ian said, an expression that couldn’t
quite
be called a smirk on his face as he looked me over.

“He’s asleep,” I said, ignoring the undertones. “Would you like some apple-and-raisin pie, Tòtis?”

Tòtis was normally a rather solemn little boy, but at this suggestion, he grinned hugely, displaying the gap where a late baby tooth had recently fallen out.

“Yes, please, Great-auntie Witch,” he said.

Fanny giggled.

“Great-auntie Witch?” I said, giving Ian an eye as I got up to fetch the pie.

He shrugged. “Well, the Sachem calls ye…”

The Sachem lived by himself, in a small dwelling he’d built that looked like part of the forest, but I gathered that he spent a great deal of time with the Murrays.

The Sachem was one thing; the inhabitants of the Ridge were something else. I couldn’t stop the more suspicious-minded tenants thinking—or saying—that I was a witch, but it was another thing to have my own great-nephew saying so in public.

“Hmm,” I said to Tòtis. “Perhaps you could call me by the Mohawk name for witch?”

He frowned at me, puzzled. Ian, with a slightly odd look on his face, bent down and whispered something in the boy’s ear. Both of them then looked at me, Tòtis in awe and Ian with circumspection.

“I dinna think so, Auntie,” he said. “There
is
a Mohawk word for it, but it’s a word that means ye have powers, without sayin’ quite what
kind
of powers.”

“Oh. Well, just Great-auntie, then, please.” I smiled at Tòtis, who returned the smile, but with an expression of caution.

“Aye, that’ll do fine.” Ian got up and brushed crumbs off his buckskins. “Tell Uncle Jamie I’ve gone to have a wee keek at Ulysses. I want to make sure he’s really got off the mountain and isna lurkin’ about. And I want to ken which way he’s going. So as we can find him when we want him.”

THE HOUSE BEGAN TO
breathe again, as things eased gradually through the evening. Ian hadn't returned, but I'd sent Jem and Tòtis up to tell Rachel where he'd gone, and both boys returned for supper. The weather cleared and warmed, and a wonderful sunset spread a blazing curtain of bright-gold cloud in the western sky. Everyone went to sit on the porch and enjoy it, and I told Jamie—who had come down to eat—where Ian was. He'd paused for a moment, brow furrowed, but then nodded and relaxed, taking my hand. The vibrations of Ulysses's visitation were still with us but beginning to fade, though the presence of Corporal Sipio Jackson in my surgery was an uneasy reminder.

I organized the four older girls into shifts to sit with Corporal Jackson and administer food, if wanted, honey-water, whether wanted or not, and laudanum, if needed. Then I fumbled my way upstairs, my eyes already closing, and fell asleep with no memory of undressing.

When I woke, somewhere past midnight, I discovered that this was because I hadn't undressed at all but merely collapsed onto the bed. Jamie was sleeping deeply and didn't stir when I got up and went down to relieve the watch and check on my patient.

Agnes was dozing in my rocking chair, but stirred and rose groggily when I came into the surgery. I put a finger to my lips and waved her back. Her knees folded at once; she was asleep again almost before her bottom hit the cushion. The chair rocked gently back under her weight—she was visibly pregnant by now—then came to rest. The only light came from the smothered embers in the tiny brazier on the counter, but the diffuse glow made the surgery seem soft and dreamlike, glimmering among the bottles, hazy among the hanging herbs drying overhead.

Corporal Jackson was asleep now, too; I'd looked in twice before going to bed, and finding him the last time wakeful, feverish, and in what hospital personnel tactfully call “discomfort,” had given him a tea of willow bark and valerian, with a few drops of laudanum. His face was slack and calm, mouth a little open, breathing with a slight congestive sound. I put both hands gently on his leg; one below the plaster dressing, a thumb on the pulse in his ankle, and the other on his thigh. His flesh was still noticeably warm, but not alarmingly so. I could feel the pulse of his femoral artery, slow and strong, and felt my own pulse in the fingertips of the hand on his ankle. I stood still, breathing slowly, and felt the pulses equalize between my hands.

The slow beat of the mingled pulses made me think suddenly of Roger's throat—and of Brianna's heart. And then of William.
So she'd met her brother, at last.

That thought made me smile and at the same time experience a deep pang of regret. I'd have given a great deal to see that meeting.

From John's carefully composed letter, it had been clear that that meeting was what he really wanted. Not that he wouldn't want to help Bree to a fat commission, or have her there for the sake of her own company—but I recognized the commission as being merely the shimmering fly on the surface of his pond. Jamie, who probably knew John a lot better than I did, quite clearly saw that, too—and yet he'd simply picked up the baited hook, examined it, and then deliberately swallowed it.

Yes, he'd needed guns, urgently. Yes, he wanted to restore Germain to his parents. To some extent, he probably also wanted Roger to be ordained. But I knew what he wanted most, and knew that John wanted it just as badly. They wanted William to be happy.

Clearly, neither one was in a position to help William come to terms with the fact that they'd both lied to him. Let alone help him pick up the pieces of his identity. Nobody could do that but William. But Brianna
was
a part of his identity and possibly something for him to hang on to while he fitted the rest of his life together.

Even more than I would have wanted to see the meeting between William and Bree—each knowing who the other was—I longed to see Jamie's face watching such a meeting.

I shook my head and let the vision fade, listening to Corporal Jackson's body and the whisper of sand through the hourglass (Agnes and Fanny were meant to change places every two hours, but neither one could stay awake that long), letting the peace of the night surgery flow into me. And from me, with luck, into the young man under my hands. I'd thought him older when I first saw him, but with the lines of tension, fear, and pain smoothed out of his face, it was clear that he wasn't more than twenty-five.

Moved by an impulse, I let go of his leg and fetched my medicine-bag amulet from the cupboard.

Nobody was watching, but I still felt self-conscious when I reached into the bag and withdrew the John-the-conqueror root. There must be some ritual connected with its use, but as I had no idea what that might be, I'd have to roll my own. I paused for a moment, holding the root in the palm of my hand, and thought of the woman who'd given it to him. His great-grandmother, he'd said. So she'd held this root herself, just as I did now.

“Bless your great-grandson,” I said softly, laying the root on his chest, “and help him to heal.”

I didn't know why, but I felt I must stay—and I'd been at this business long enough to know when not to argue with myself. I roused Agnes and sent her upstairs to her bed, then sat down myself in the rocking chair and rocked gently, pressing down with the tips of my stockinged toes. After a time, I stopped and sat listening to the quiet of the room and the breathing of the man and the slow even beating of my own heart.

DAWN'S EARLY LIGHT
roused me from my dozing trance. I got up, stiffly, and checked my patient. Still sleeping, though I could see dreams moving behind his closed eyelids; he was coming gradually to the surface. His skin was cool, though, and the flesh above and below the plaster was firm, no sense of puffiness or crepitation. The fire in the brazier had died to ash, and the air held a moving freshness.

“Thank you,” I murmured, plucking the conqueror root off Mr. Jackson's chest and restoring it to my amulet. Man's magic could be a useful thing, I thought, given recent events and the prospect of lots more like them.

I went out to the privy, then upstairs, where I washed my face, brushed my teeth, changed to a fresh shift, and put my work gown back on. The smell of bacon and fried potatoes was creeping enticingly into the room, and my stomach gurgled in anticipation. Perhaps there was time to grab a quick bite before Mr. Jackson rejoined the living…

Fanny and Agnes were giggling together over a slightly scorched pan of corn bread, but looked up guiltily when I came in.

“I forgot,” Fanny said, apologetic, “but then I remembered.”

“It will be fine,” I said, sniffing it. “Put out butter and a little honey with it and no one will notice. Have you seen Himself this morning?”

“Oh, yes'm,” Agnes said. “We went to the surgery a minute ago, to see if you were there or if the soldier wanted breakfast, and Mr. Fraser was there, with a, um, utensil in his hand. He told us to go and make up a plate whilst he talked to Corporal Jackson.” She nodded at a pewter plate on the end of the table, this holding two bannocks with jam, a heap of fried potatoes, and six rashers of bacon.

“I'll take it,” I said, scooping up the plate and taking a fork from the yellow jar on the table. The metal was warm and the smell divine. “Thank you, girls. Keep the food warm until Mr. Fraser or I come back, will you?”

It was very thoughtful of Jamie to call on the corporal with a chamber pot, I thought, amused. That should go some way toward easing his mind. I paused outside the quilt that covered the surgery door, listening to be sure I wouldn't interrupt Mr. Jackson at a delicate moment.

The quilt was red-side out. I couldn't recall whether I'd pinned it up that way yesterday or not. It was a double-sided quilt that Jamie had bought me in Salem: two heavy woven wool pieces of cloth, elaborately fastened together with a beautiful quilting stitch that curled into leafy circles and zigzagged down the edges. The red cloth was the color of old brandy—or blood, as Jamie had observed more than once—and the other side was a deep golden brown, dyed with onion skins and saffron. It was my habit to put the quilt up red-side out when I was conferring privately with a patient or doing something embarrassingly intimate to them, as an indication to the household that they ought not to burst in without knocking.

I heard a last trickle, a deep sigh from Corporal Jackson, and the metallic scrape of a tin chamber pot sliding across wood, then the noise of Jamie—presumably—sliding it under the counter.

“I thank you, sir,” Jackson said, courteous but wary.

“Well, ye're no my prisoner,” Jamie said, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “But ye do seem to be my guest. As such, of course ye're more than welcome to stay for as long as ye like—or need to. But I canna help but think ye might have other places ye'd rather be, once my wife is pleased wi' your leg.”

Mr. Jackson made a brief sound in which surprise and amusement were mingled in equal proportion, and there was a rustling noise and the creak of my rocking chair as Jamie evidently made himself comfortable.

“I'm mos' grateful for your hospitality, sir,” Jackson said. “And your wife's care of me.”

“She's a good healer,” Jamie said. “Ye'll do fine. But your leg's broken, so ye're no walking out on your own. I'll take ye in my wagon where ye want to go, so soon as Claire says ye're fettled.”

Jackson seemed a bit taken aback by this, for he didn't answer at once, but made a sort of low humming noise.

“I'm not your prisoner, you say,” he said, carefully.

“No. I've nay quarrel wi' you, nor reason to do ye harm.”

“You and your men seem to think otherwise yesterday,” the corporal pointed out, a cautious tone in his voice.

“Ach, that.” Jamie was silent for a moment, then asked, with no apparent emotion other than mild curiosity, “Do ye ken Captain Stevens's intent in calling upon me?”

“No, sir. And I don' wish to know,” Jackson said firmly.

Jamie laughed. “Likely a wise choice. I willna tell ye, then, save to say it was a personal matter between him and me.”

“It looked that way.” Was that a hint of humor in Jackson's voice? I was listening so intently that I'd paid no attention to the food I was holding, but the scent of bacon at close range was insistently seductive.

“Aye.” The hint of humor was stronger in Jamie's voice. “I'm figuring that he didna drag the lot of you up here just to make a show of force for me. But there's nothing else within fifty miles of this place—it's nearly a hundred miles to the nearest town of any size, save Salem, and neither the Crown nor Captain Stevens would have business wi' the Moravian brothers and sisters. Ye ken them?”

It was a casual question—ostensibly, I thought, and nibbled the crispy end of a rasher—and Jackson answered it likewise.

“I've been to Salem, once. You right, soldiers have no business there.”

“But they have business in the backcountry, apparently.”

Dead silence. Then I heard the faint squeak of my rocking chair, going back and forth, back and forth. Slowly. I swallowed the bacon, feeling a tightness in my throat.

For a roving company of British soldiers to have “business” in a general way, they must have intended one of two things—or possibly both. To rouse Loyalists, or to hunt, harass, and discomfit rebels. And a company of Black soldiers wouldn't be sent to inspire Loyalists to form militias and turn against their neighbors. I glanced involuntarily at the ceiling above me, hearing in memory the crackle of wood and remembering the look of burning timbers, about to collapse.

But they wouldn't burn this place—yet. Ulysses wanted it.

“If I
was
your prisoner,” Jackson said at last, slowly, “I wouldn' have to answer your questions, is that right? I don' know,” he added shyly. “I haven' been a prisoner before.”