Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (147 page)

Colonel Francis Locke, Rowan County Regiment of Militias, Commander

August 26, A.D. 1780

Colonel Fraser:

I write to inform you that I have received a dispatch from Isaac Shelby, informing me that upon the 19th ultimo, at Musgrove Mill, near the Enoree River, a Force of some Two Hundred Patriot militia from the County Militias of North Carolina and Georgia, under Cols. Shelby, James Williams, and Elijah Clarke, attacked and defeated a Loyalist Force guarding the Mill, which controls the local Grain Supply and the River, this reinforced by a Hundred Loyalist Militia and some Two Hundred Provincial Regulars, on their way to join Forces with Major Patrick Ferguson.

I am informed it was a hot Fight, in which some Loyalist militia attacked with Bayonets, but were overcome by Patriot Soldiers who ran boldly upon them, yelling, shooting and slashing upon every Hand and thus broke the Charge.

Captain Shadrach Inman of Clarke’s Georgia Militia was killed in the first Attack, but succeeded in discomposing the Defenders, who then found themselves in some Disarray and were thus overcome and scattered, some 70 Men being captured, and nearly that Number killed, whilst the Patriot Forces lost but four Men, with a Dozen captured.

While I know you will join with me in rejoicing at this News, you must also share my Concern. If so many Provincials and other Loyalists are heading to join Ferguson from such a place as Musgrove Mill, the Countryside is roused throughout the Carolinas, and we must expect great Trouble if Ferguson succeeds in amassing a large Force, which looks very likely. We must prevent him while there is yet Time.

I renew my Invitation for you and your Men to join the Rowan County Regiment of Militias and reiterate my Promise that should you do so, you will remain in Direct Command of your own Men, you being solely subject to my Command and upon an Equal Footing with the other Militia Commanders, with a Right to draw upon the Supplies and Powder available to the Regiment. I will keep you apprised of what News comes to me, and hope for your Company in this great Endeavor.

Francis Locke, Colonel

Rowan County Regiment of Militias, Commander

JAMIE FOLDED THE LETTER
carefully, noting dimly that his fingers had slightly smeared the ink of Locke’s signature, by reason of his sweating hands.

The temptation was great. He
could
take his men and join Locke, rather than fight with the Overmountain men at Kings Mountain. Locke and his regiment had routed a substantial group of Loyalists at Ramseur’s Mill in June and made a creditable job of it, from what he heard. Randall’s book had mentioned the incident briefly, but what it said matched the accounts he had heard—down to mention of an unlikely group of Palatine Germans who had joined Locke’s troops.

Beyond that, though…nothing more was said in the Book (for he couldn’t help thinking of it as that) regarding Locke until a skirmish at a place called Colson’s Mill in the following year. Kings Mountain lay between now and then, casting its long shadow in his direction. And Jamie couldn’t leave the Ridge undefended for any great span of time, regardless. He knew there were still Tories amongst his tenants, and he thought of Nicodemus Partland. He’d heard of no further attempts, but was well aware that almost anything—or anyone—could come over the Cherokee Line without his knowing.

He sighed, tucked the letter into his pocket, and, unable to sit still with his thoughts, walked up the hill to Claire’s garden, not meaning to tell her about Locke’s letter and his thoughts—just wanting the momentary comfort of her presence.

She wasn’t there, and he hesitated inside the gate, but then closed it after him and walked slowly toward the row of hives. He’d built a long bench for her, and there were nine hives now on it, humming peacefully in the autumn sun. Some of them were the coiled-straw skeps, but Brianna had built three boxes, too, with wooden frames inside and a sort of drain to make harvesting the honey easier.

Something was in the back of his mind, a poem Claire had told him once, about nines and bees. Only a bit of it had stuck:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, and live alone in the bee-loud glade.
The number nine always made him wary, owing to his meeting with an old Parisian fortune-teller.

“You’ll die nine times before your death,” she’d told him. Claire had tried, now and then, to reckon the times he should have died but hadn’t. He seldom did, having a superstitious fear about attracting misfortune by dwelling on it.

The bees were about their business. The air was full of them, the late sun catching their wings and making them glisk like sparks among the green of the garden. There were some tattered sunflowers along one wall, their seeds like gray pebbles, along with sedum and cosmos. Purple gentians—he recognized those, because Claire made an ointment out of them that she’d used on him more than once, and had brought some back from Wilmington and coddled it here in a sandy spot she’d made for it. He’d dug the sand for her and smiled at the pale splotch of soil among the darker loam. The bees seemed to be liking the goldenrod—but Claire said they were hunting mostly in the woods and meadows now.

He came slowly to the bench and put out a hand toward the hives, but didn’t touch one until one or two bees had landed lightly on his hand, their feet tickling his skin. “So they won’t think you’re a bear,” Claire had said, laughing. He smiled at the memory and put his hand on the sun-warmed straw and just stood there for a bit, letting go of his troublesome thoughts, little by little.

“Ye’ll take care of her, aye?” he said at last, speaking soft to the bees. “If she comes to you and says I’m gone, ye’ll feed her and take heed for her?” He stood a moment longer, listening to the ceaseless hum.

“I trust ye with her,” he said at last, and turned to go, his heart easier in his chest. It wasn’t until he’d shut the gate behind him and started down toward the house that another bit of the poem came to him.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow…

September 20, 1780

From Col. John Sevier

To Col. James Fraser

We have word that Ferguson's Loyalist Militia is on the move from Camden, whence he departed with Cornwallis, but has now gone South into North Carolina.

Word is that he proposes to attack and burn such Patriot Settlements as he comes to on his Way. We propose to meet him at some convenient Point in his Progress. Should you and your Troops be of a Mind to join us, we will meet and muster at Sycamore Shoals on the 25th of September.

Bring such Arms and Powder as you may have.

John Sevier, Colonel of Militia

September 21, 1780

To The Inhabitants of North Carolina

Gentlemen: Unless you wish to be eat up by an Inundation of Barbarians, who have begun by murdering an unarmed Son before his Father, and afterward lopped off his Arms, and who by their shocking Cruelties and Irregularities, give the best Proof of their Cowardice and want of Discipline, I say if you wish to be pinioned, robbed, and murdered, and see your Wives and Daughters, in four days, abused by the Dregs of Mankind—in short, if you wish or deserve to live or bear the Name of Men, grasp your Arms in a Moment and run to Camp.

The Backwater Men have crossed the Mountains; McDowell, Hampton, Shelby, and Cleveland are at their head, so that you know what you have to depend upon. If you choose to be pissed upon forever and ever by a set of Mongrels, say so at once, and let your Women turn their Backs upon you, and look out for real Men to protect them.

Pat. Ferguson, Major 71st Regiment

Fraser's Ridge

September 22, Anno Domini 1780

I, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, being of sound Mind

J
AMIE WONDERED HOW MANY
men paused at this point to debate the state of their minds with themselves. If ye'd been talking with a dead man for the last year, ye might reasonably have some doubts, he thought. On the other hand, who'd admit in writing that he kent for sure he was away with the faeries?

Or if not actually mad, what about men who'd not been sober a day in twenty years, or those who'd come back from war with something missing—or something riding their backs. That thought made the hairs ripple from nape to arsehole, and he clutched his quill so hard that it split with a tiny
crack.

Aye, well, if he wanted his Last Will and Testament to be paid attention to, he supposed he'd have to
say
he was of sound mind, no matter what he really thought.

He sighed and looked over the quills he had left in the jar. Mostly goose or turkey—but two were barred wing feathers from an owl. Well, he meant to keep
this
quiet…

He cut the owl quill into a good point, composing his mind. The ink was fresh, smelling sharply of iron and the woody scent of oak galls. It calmed him. A wee bit.

…do hereby declare that this is my Last Will and Testament, and so swear before God.

I leave to my wife, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp
(damned if I'll put
his
name in this)
Fraser, all Property and Goods of which I die possessed, absolutely, with the Exception of certain individual Bequests as listed here beneath:

To my Daughter, Brianna Ellen Fraser MacKenzie, I leave two hundred Acres of Land from the Land granted me by the Cr…
(well, two years more and the bloody Crown won't have anything to say about it, if Claire and the others are right about what's happening, and so far, they seem to be)…He muttered
“Ifrinn”
under his breath and scratched out
granted me by the Crown,
replacing it with
from the land Grant known as Fraser's Ridge.

He continued with similar bequests to Roger, Jeremiah, Amanda, and—after a moment's thought—Frances. Whether she might be his blood or not, he couldn't leave her without resources, and if she had land here, perhaps she'd stay nearby, where Brianna and her family could take care of her, help her to find her way in life, make a good match for her…

Oh, a moment—Brianna's new bairn;
David,
he added, smiling.

Fifty acres to Bobby Higgins; he'd been a good henchman, Bobby, and deserved it.

To my Son Fergus Claudel Fraser and his Wife, Marsali Jane MacKimmie Fraser, I leave the Sum of five hundred Pounds in Gold.

Was that too much? Wealth like that would attract scoundrels like flies to shit, if it was known. Both Fergus and Marsali were canny creatures, though; he could trust them to take care.

There were small things to be given—his ruby stickpin, his books (he'd leave the Hobbit ones to Jem, perhaps), his tools (those were for Brianna, of course) and weapons (if they come back without me)…but there was one more important person to be considered. He hesitated, but wrote it, slowly. Just to see how it looked, put down on paper…

To my Son…
He set the quill down carefully, so as not to make blots on the paper—though he'd have to redo it in any case, because of the scratchings-out.

It wasn't as though William needed anything of a material nature from him.

Or might he? Bree says the lad wishes to shed his title—if he does, will he lose all the property belonging to it? But the duke thinks he can't…And even if he could, or refused it, John Grey will see to him; who does
he
have to leave his money to, if not William?

That was logical. Unfortunately,
he
wasn't; not at the moment. And whether it was love, sinful pride, or something even worse, he couldn't die without leaving something of himself to William.
And I'm no dying without claiming William in public, whether I'm there to see his face when he hears it or not.
His mouth twitched at that thought, and he pressed his lips together to stop it. More scratching out…

To my Natural Son, William James Fraser, known also as William Clarence Henry George Ransom, known also as the Ninth Earl of Ellesmere…

He bit the end of his quill, tasting bitter ink, then wrote:

…one hundred Pounds in Gold, the three Casks of Whisky marked with
JFS,
and my green Bible. May he find Succor and Wisdom in its Pages.

“He might find more in the whisky,” Jamie murmured to himself, but his soul felt lighter.

Ten pounds each to all of the grandchildren, by name. It made him happy, seeing the whole list. Jem, Mandy, Davy, Germain, Joanie, Félicité—he made a small cross on the paper for Henri-Christian, and felt his throat grow tight—and the new wee boys, Alexandre and Charles-Claire.
And any further issue of…any of my children.
That was an odd feeling, to think not only that Brianna might bear more bairns but also Marsali—her sister Joan, if she married (damn, he'd forgot to put Joanie with his other children; more scratching out…)—or William's wife, whoever she might be.

He was beginning to be sorry that he wouldn't be alive to meet William's wife or see his children, but pushed that thought firmly away. If he made it to Heaven, he was sure there would be some accommodation made for knowing how your family was getting along without you, maybe letting you have a wee look-in or lend a hand in some way. He thought being a ghost might well be interesting…There were a number of folk he wouldn't mind calling on in such a state, just to see the looks on their faces…

Lo, children are an heritage of the
Lord
: and the fruit of the womb is His reward. As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man; so are children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.

He smiled at the thought, but thinking of children brought yet one more to mind.

Damn, he'd forgotten Jenny, Ian, and Rachel, and wee Hunter James Little Wolf—and Rachel's new unknown, who wasn't due until the spring.

He rubbed two fingers between his eyes. Perhaps he should think more, finish this later.

The trouble was that he didn't dare go to Kings Mountain without making disposition of his property, in case he was right about what he thought Frank Randall was telling him.

Would he lie? A historian, sworn—to himself, at least—to tell the truth as far as he could?

Any man would lie, under the right circumstances—and given what Frank Randall had certainly known of Jamie Fraser…

He couldn't risk it. He picked up the quill again, and wrote.

To my Sister, Janet Flora Arabella Fraser Murray, I leave my Rosary…