Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (57 page)

“I imagine my nephew told ye the circumstances in which we encountered your—acquaintances this afternoon?” Jamie was saying, in a pleasant tone of voice. There was a splashing sound and the clink of glasses.

“Circumstances,” Cunningham repeated sharply. “Lieutenant Summers is—was—a close friend of my late son. We have remained in correspondence since Simon’s death, and I hold Felix in the same regard as I would were he my son as well. I take considerable exception to your treatment of him and his servant, sir!”

“A dram wi’ ye, sir?
Slàinte mhath!
”

From my vantage spot, flattened against the wall, I couldn’t see Jamie, but I could see the captain, who looked startled at this reply to his statement.

“What?” he said sharply, and looked down into his whisky glass as though it might be poisoned. “What did you say, sir?”

“Slàinte mhath,”
Jamie repeated mildly. “It means, ‘to your health.’ ”

“Oh.” The captain looked at Summers, who by this point resembled a pig who has just been struck on the head with a maul. “Er…yes. To—your health, Mr. Fraser.”

“Colonel Fraser,” Ian put in helpfully.
“Slàinte mhath!”

The captain threw back his dram, swallowed, and turned purple.

“Perhaps a bit o’ water, Captain.” I saw Jamie’s arm stretch out, pitcher in hand. “It’s said to open the flavor of the whisky. Ian?”

Ian took the pitcher and deftly mixed a fresh drink—half water, this time—for the captain, who took it, eyes watering.

“I repeat…sir…” he said hoarsely. “I take exception…”

“Well, so do I, sir,” Jamie said, in the same amiable tone. “And I think any self-respecting man would do the same, at discovering a martial enterprise taking place under his nose, upon his land, without warning or notice. D’ye not agree?”

“I do not pretend to understand what you mean by ‘a martial enterprise,’ Colonel.” Cunningham had got hold of himself and sat up straight as a poker. “Lieutenant Summers has had the kindness to bring me some supplies I had requested from friends in the navy. They—”

“I did wonder, ken, why a Lowlander, and especially one who’s a naval captain, should choose Fraser’s Ridge to settle,” Jamie said, interrupting him. “And why ye should have wanted land so far up the Ridge, for that matter. But of course, your place is nay more than ten miles from the Cherokee villages, isn’t it?”

“I—I’m sure I don’t know,” the captain said. “But this has nothing to do—”

“I was an Indian agent for some time, ken,” Jamie went on, in the same mild tone. “Under Superintendent Johnson. I spent considerable time wi’ the Cherokee, and they ken me for an honest man.”

“I was not impugning your honesty,
Colonel
Fraser.” Cunningham sounded rather testy, though it was obvious that this was news to him. “I do take issue with your—”

“Ye’ll ken, I suppose, that the British government has been in cahoots wi’ various Indians in the conduct of this war, encouraging them to attack settlements suspected of rebellious persuasions. Providing them wi’ guns and powder on occasion.”

“No, sir.” The captain’s tone had changed, his belligerence slightly tinged now with wariness. “I was not aware of that.”

Jamie and Ian both made polite Scottish noises indicating skepticism.

“Ye’ll admit that ye do ken I am a rebel, Captain?”

“You are fairly open about it, sir!” Cunningham snapped. He sat upright, fists clenched on his knees.

“I am,” Jamie agreed. “Ye make no secret of your own loyalties—”

“Loyalty to King and country requires neither secrecy nor defense, Colonel!”

“Aye? Well, I suppose that depends on whether that loyalty results in actions that might be considered injurious to me and mine, Captain. My cause
or
my family.”

“We didn’t mean—” Lieutenant Summers was beginning to be alarmed. Stirred from his lethargy by the rising tone of the conversation, he made an attempt to sit up straight, his round face earnest. “We wasn’t meaning to bring Indians down upon you, sir, so help me God!”

“Mr. Summers.” The captain lifted a hand, and the lieutenant went red and subsided.

“Colonel. I repeat that I make no secret of my loyalties. I preach them in public each Sunday, before God and man.”

“I’ve heard ye,” Jamie said dryly. “And ye’ll notice, I suppose, that I’ve made nay move to hinder ye doing so. I take no issue with your opinions; speak as ye find and let the devil listen.”

I blinked. He
was
angry, and was beginning to let it show.

“Talk all ye like, Captain. But I’ll not countenance any action that threatens the Ridge.”

Lieutenant Summers made a small, involuntary movement, and Captain Cunningham made a short, sharp movement that silenced him.

“You have my word, Colonel,” he said between his teeth.

There was a long moment of silence, and then I heard Jamie take a deep breath, this succeeded by the pouring of whisky.

“Then let us drink to the understanding between us, Captain,” he said calmly, and I heard the brief shifting and scrape of glass on wood as they all picked up their drams.

“To peace,” Jamie said. He emptied his glass and slammed it on the table with a bang that startled Mr. Voules out of his stupor.

“What the hell was
that
?” He sat up, staring blearily to and fro. “They shootin’ at us with our own guns?”

The brief silence was broken by Jamie.

“Guns?” he said mildly. “Did ye notice any guns, Ian, when ye packed up the captain’s gear?”

“No, Uncle,” Ian said, in exactly the same tone. “No guns.”

DESPITE ITS FARCICAL
aspects, the incident with the captain’s guns was truly alarming. Preaching loyalty to the King in church of a Sunday was one thing; preparing—evidently—for an armed conflict under Jamie’s nose was another.

“Can you evict him?” I asked tentatively. The children had all gone to bed after supper, and Jamie, I, Brianna, and Roger were holding a minor council of war over dishes of corn pudding.

“I could,” Jamie said, frowning at the cream jug. “But I’ve been turnin’ it over in my mind, and I think it’s maybe better to let him stay, where he’ll be under my eye, than have him up to mischief where he’s not.”

“What do ye think he was—or is—planning to do?” Roger asked. “I mean—it’s at least possible that he wanted arms for protection; his place
is
very near the Cherokee Line.”

“Twenty muskets is maybe that wee bit excessive for keepin’ stray Indians out of his house,” Jamie replied. “If he’s bought guns, he had a plan to use them. For what, though? Does he have it in mind to try to assassinate me and burn out my tenants? What would be the point of that?”

“Maybe he’s doing the same thing you are, Da.” Bree poured cream on her own pudding, and then on Jamie’s. “Raising a personal militia to guard his property.”

I glanced at Jamie. He returned the look, but shook his head almost imperceptibly and took up his spoon. While preventing attacks on the Ridge was certainly
one
of Jamie’s motives in arming some of his men, I was sure he had others. He clearly didn’t feel this was the time to be telling Roger and Bree about them, though.

“Ian said one of the men who’d brought the guns was a naval lieutenant—one of the captain’s men from his career at sea, I suppose?” Bree asked.

“I’d suppose that, too,” Jamie said, with a certain terseness.

“Implying,” she said, “that he still has connections with the navy. Which is probably where the guns came from—do they use muskets on ships?”

“Aye, they do.” Jamie shifted slightly, as though his shirt was too tight—which it wasn’t. “When ships come close together, fightin’, the sailors take muskets up into the rigging and fire down into the other ship. The navy has a great many guns.”

“How do you know that?” Bree asked, curious.

“I read, lass,” her father said, raising one eyebrow at her. “There was an account of a sea battle in the Salisbury newspaper, and a drawing showin’ the wee sailors up among the masts, blastin’ away.”

“Aye, well,” said Roger, spooning ripe, sliced strawberries over his pudding, “I doubt Cunningham will try to bring guns up that way again. And if he does…”

“Then he’s arming us, instead of himself.” Despite the seriousness of the discussion, Bree was amused. The look of amusement faded, though, and she leaned toward us.

“But you’ll need more guns than what you took from the captain, won’t you?”

“I will,” Jamie admitted. “But it may take some time to find them.
And
buy the powder and shot to fire them.”

Roger and Bree exchanged a look, and he nodded.

“Let us help with that, Da,” she said, and reaching into her pocket drew out three small, flat strips of what could only be gold, glowing dully in the candlelight.

“Where on earth did you get those?” I picked one up, fingering it gingerly. It was surprisingly heavy for its size; definitely gold.

“A jeweler on Newbury Street in 1980,” she said. “I had fifty of these made; I sewed some into the hems of our clothes, and hid others in the heels of our shoes. It only took ten to provision us for the trip and buy passage on the ship from Scotland. There’s plenty left, I mean, if you need to buy powder or anything.”

“You’re sure, lass?” Jamie touched one of the slips with a forefinger. “I’ve gold enough. It’s just—”

“Just that wee bit more difficult to use,” Roger said, smiling. “Don’t fash yourself; we’re honored to help finance the Revolution.”

To Lord John Grey, in care of the commander of His Majesty’s Forces in Savannah, Royal Colony of Georgia

Dear Lord John—

I’m back. Though I suppose I should say “I have returned!”—more dramatic, you know? I’m smiling as I write this, imagining you saying something about how lack of drama is not one of my failings. Yours either, my friend.

We—my husband, Roger, and our two children, Jeremiah (Jem) and Amanda (Mandy)—have taken up residence on Fraser’s Ridge. (Though it’s more like the residence is taking up existence around us; my father is building his own fortress.) We’ll be here for the foreseeable future, though I know better than most people just how little one can foresee of the future. We’ll leave the details until I see you again.

I would have written to you in any case, but am doing it today because my father received a letter three days ago from a young man named Judah Bixby, who was his aide-de-camp during the Battle of Monmouth (were you involved with that one? If so, I hope you weren’t hurt). Mr. Bixby wrote to tell Da that a friend of his, Dr. Denzell Hunter, had been captured in New York and is presently being held in the military prison at Stony Point.

Mama says you will know perfectly well why I’m writing to you about Denzell Hunter, rather than she doing it. Da says no one needs to write to you, as Dr. Hunter’s wife will surely have written to her father (your brother, if I have things straight?) already, but I agree with Mama that it’s better to write, just in case Mrs. Hunter doesn’t know where her husband is, or can’t write to you for some other reason.

All my best to you and your family—and do please give my best to your son William. I look forward to meeting him—and you, of course!—again.

(Does one sign a letter “Your most obedient, humble, etc.” if one is a woman? Surely not…)

Yours truly,

Brianna Randall Fraser MacKenzie (Mrs.)

P.S. Enclosed are a few sketches that I made of New House (as my father calls it) in its present state of construction, as well as a brief look at the members of my family, in their present states. (How long has it been since you’ve seen either of my parents?) I’m pretty sure you can tell who is who (should that be “who is whom”? If so, please make the grammatical adjustment for me).

Savannah

M, THE DUKE OF
Pardloe wrote, and then stopped. Dipping his quill again, he carefully inserted the word “Dear,” though he was obliged to angle it upward in order to squeeze it onto the page, having begun his writing too far to the left. He stared at the blank page for a moment, then looked up to find his younger brother staring at him, one eyebrow raised.

“What the devil do you want?” he snapped.

“Brandy,” John answered mildly. “And so do you, from the look of it. What the devil are you doing?” Crossing the room, he went down on one knee to rummage in his campaign chest, emerging with a round-bellied black bottle that sloshed in a reassuringly weighty fashion.

“That’s brandy? Are you sure?” Hal nevertheless reached round the small table on which he’d perched his writing desk, and dipped into his own chest for a pair of dented pewter cups.

“Stephan von Namtzen said it was.” John shrugged and, coming to the table, picked up Hal’s penknife and started removing the wax seal from the bottle. “You recall our friend the Graf von Erdberg? He says it’s black brandy, to be exact.”

“Is it really black?” Hal asked, interested.

“Well, the bottle is, though I gather from his letter that it’s called that colloquially because it’s made by a small group of monks who live on the edge of the Black Forest. Its real name is something German…” Discarding the last shreds of wax, he held the bottle up close to his eyes and squinted at the handwritten label. “
Blut der Märtyrer.
Blood of Martyrs.”

“How jolly.” Hal held out his cup, and the rich aroma of what was plainly good brandy, if perhaps a little more red than usual—he squinted into his cup—filled his nose. “You’ve kept up your German, then?”

John glanced up from his own cup, raising the other eyebrow.

“I’ve scarcely had time to forget it,” he said. “It’s barely a year since Monmouth and bloody Hessians coming out of every crack in the earth. Though I suppose,” he added casually, glancing away, “that you mean have I seen our friend the
graf
lately. I haven’t. This came with a brief note saying that Stephan was in Trier, God knows why.”

“Ah.” Hal took a sip of the brandy and closed his eyes, both to enhance the taste and to avoid looking at John.

The brandy began to settle in John’s limbs, the warmth of it softening his thoughts. And, just possibly, his judgment.

“Have you decided to write to Minnie, then?” John’s voice was casual, but the question wasn’t.

“I haven’t.”

“But you—oh. I see, you mean you haven’t quite decided, which is why you were hovering over that sheet of paper like a vulture waiting for something to die.”

Hal opened his eyes and sat up straight, fixing John with the sort of look meant to shut him up like a portmanteau. John, though, picked up the bottle and refilled Hal’s cup.

“I know,” he said simply. “I wouldn’t want to, either. But you think Ben’s really dead, then? Or are you writing to her about Dottie and her husband?”

“No, I bloody don’t.” The cup tilted in Hal’s hand. He saved it with no more than a splash of brandy landing on his waistcoat, which he ignored. “I don’t believe it, and I think Mrs. MacKenzie is likely right about Dottie writing to me. I want to wait until we hear from her before I alarm Minnie.”

John watched this, his own expression deliberately blank.

“It’s only that I’ve never seen you begin
any
letter, to anyone, with the salutation ‘Dear.’ ”

“I don’t need to,” Hal said irritably. “Beasley does all that nonsense when it’s official, and if it’s not, whoever I’m writing to already knows who they are and what I think of them, for God’s sake. Pointless affectation. I do sign them,” he added, after a brief pause.

John made a noncommittal
hm
noise and took a swig of brandy, holding it meditatively in his mouth. The quill had made an inky spot on the table where his brother had dropped it. Seeing it, Hal stuffed the quill back into its jar and rubbed at the mark with the side of his hand.

“It was just—I couldn’t think how to begin, dammit.”

“Don’t blame you.”

Hal glanced at the sheet of paper, with its accusatory salutation.

“So I…wrote…‘M.’ Just to get started, you know, and then I had to decide whether to go on and write out her name, or leave it at ‘M.’…So while I was thinking…” His voice died away, and he took a quick, convulsive swallow of the Blood of Martyrs.

John took a somewhat more reserved mouthful, thinking of Stephan von Namtzen, who wrote now and then, always addressing him with German formality as “My Esteemed and Noble Friend,” though the letters themselves tended to be much less formal….Jamie Fraser’s salutations ranged from the casual “Dear John” to the slightly warmer “My dear friend,” and depending upon the state of their relations, “Dear Sir” or a coldly abrupt “My Lord,” in the other direction.

Possibly Hal was right. People he wrote to never
were
in any doubt about what he thought of them, and the same was true of Jamie. Perhaps it was good of Jamie to give fair warning, so you could open a bottle before reading on….

The brandy was good, dark and very strong. He ought to have watered it, but—but given the rigidity of Hal’s body, thought that it was just as well that he hadn’t.

Dear M.
It was true that Hal had always addressed letters to
him
merely as “J.” Just as well that Mr. Beasley, Hal’s clerk,
did
tidy up Hal’s correspondence, or the King might well have found himself addressed curtly as “G.” Or would it be “R,” for “Rex”?

Absurd as it was, the thought jarred loose the memory that had been niggling at him since he’d seen the vestigial letter, and he glanced at it, and then at his brother’s face.

Hal had called Esmé that—“Em.” His first wife, dead in childbirth—and Hal’s first child dead with her. He’d been accustomed to write notes to her beginning that way—just an “M,” with no other salutation; John had seen a few. Perhaps seeing the single letter, black and bold against the white paper, had brought it all back with the unexpected suddenness of a bullet in the heart.

Hal cleared his throat explosively and gulped brandy, which made him cough, sputtering amber-red droplets all over the paper. He grabbed it and crumpled it up, then tossed it into the fire, where it caught and blazed up with a blue-tinged flame.

“I can’t,” he said definitely. “I won’t! I mean—I don’t
know
that Ben’s dead. Not for sure.”

John rubbed a hand over his face, then nodded. He himself had a very cold feeling round the heart when he thought of his eldest nephew.

“All right. Is anyone else likely to tell Minnie? Adam or Henry? Or, you know—Dottie?” he added diffidently.

The blood drained from Hal’s face. To the best of John’s knowledge, neither of Ben’s brothers was a very good correspondent. But his sister, Dottie, was accustomed to write regularly to her mother—had, in fact, even written to inform her parents that she was eloping with a Quaker doctor.
And
becoming a rebel, in the bargain. She wouldn’t scruple to tell Minnie anything she thought her mother ought to know.

“Dottie doesn’t know, either,” Hal said, trying to convince himself. “All I told her was that he was missing.”

“Missing, presumed dead,” John pointed out. “And William said—”

“And where’s William, speaking of writing?” Hal demanded, seeking refuge in hostility. “Unless you know something I don’t know, he’s just run off without a word.”

John exhaled strongly, but kept his temper.

“William found good evidence that Ben
didn’t
die at that prison camp in New Jersey,” he pointed out. “
And
he discovered Ben’s wife and child for us.”

“He found a body in a grave with Ben’s name on it, and it wasn’t Ben—but for all we know, Ben is in a grave with that fellow’s name on it, and whoever buried them simply muddled the bodies.” Hal wanted urgently to believe that someone had buried a stranger under Ben’s name—but why should anyone have done that?

John picked up the thought as neatly as if Hal had stenciled it on his forehead.

“They might have. But they might also have done it deliberately—buried a stranger under Ben’s name. And there are any number of reasons why someone might have done that. Ben managing it to cover his escape is the best one.”

“I know,” Hal said shortly. “No. You’re right, I don’t know for sure that he’s dead. I wasn’t going to tell Minnie that I thought he was—though I
do
think there’s a good chance of it.” He firmed his jaw as he said it. “But I have to tell her something. If I don’t write fairly soon, she’ll know something’s wrong—she’s bloody good at knowing things one doesn’t want her to know.”

That made John laugh, and Hal huffed a little, the tension in his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Well,” John suggested, “you told her that Ben had married and had a son, didn’t you? Why not write and tell her you’ve met the girl—Amaranthus, I mean—and your presumed grandson and invited her to take up residence here while Ben is…absent? That’s surely news enough for one letter.”

And if Ben
is
dead, the knowledge that he’s left a son will be some consolation.
John didn’t say that out loud, but the words hovered in the air between them.

Hal nodded, exhaling.

“I’ll do that.” His mind, released from immediate dread, took flight. “Do you think that fellow Penobscot or whatever he’s called—you know, Campbell’s mapmaker—do you think he might be able to draw a passing likeness of young Trevor? I should like Minnie to see him.”

And if anything should happen to the boy, at least we’d have that….

“Alexander Penfold, you mean,” John said. “I’ve never seen him draw anything more complex than a compass rose, but let me ask round a bit. I might just know of a decent portrait painter.” He smiled then, and lifted his newly filled cup. “To your grandson, then.
Prosit!
”

“Prosit,”
Hal echoed, and drank the rest of the brandy without stopping to breathe.