A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [266]
A few days past, they had been set upon by a party of Cherokee warriors, who had taken them by surprise, killed most of them, and taken some women.
“They took my wife,” Light said, his voice unsteady. “We came to—to take her back.”
“They will kill us, of course,” said Goose weakly, but with a fair amount of cheerfulness. “But that doesn’t signify.”
“Of course not,” Jamie said, smiling despite himself. “Do you know where they took her?”
The brothers knew the direction taken by the raiders, and had been following, to track them to their village. That way, they said, pointing toward a notch. Ian glanced at Jamie, and nodded.
“Bird,” he said. “Or Fox, I should say,” for Running Fox was war chief of the village; a good warrior, though somewhat lacking in imagination—a trait Bird possessed in quantity.
“Shall we help them, then?” Ian said in English. His feathery brows arched in question, but Jamie could see that it was a question in form only.
“Oh, aye, I expect we will.” He rubbed gingerly at his forehead; the skin over the lump was already stretched and tender. “Let’s eat first, though.”
IT WAS NOT a question of whether the thing might be done; only how. Jamie and Ian both dismissed out of hand any suggestion that the brothers might steal back Light’s wife.
“They will kill ye,” Ian assured them.
“We don’t mind,” Light said stoutly.
“Of course ye don’t,” said Jamie. “But what of your wife? She’d be left alone, then, and in no better case.”
Goose nodded judiciously.
“He’s right, you know,” he said to his glowering brother.
“We could ask for her,” Jamie suggested. “A wife for you, Ian. Bird thinks well of ye; he’d likely give her to you.”
He was only half-joking. If no one had yet taken the young woman to wife, the person who had her as slave might be persuaded to give her to Ian, who was deeply respected.
Ian gave a perfunctory smile, but shook his head.
“Nay, we’d best ransom her. Or—” He looked consideringly at the two Indians, industriously eating their way through the remainder of the food in the saddlebags. “Might we ask Bird to adopt them?”
That was a thought, to be sure. For once they had got the young woman back, by whatever means, she and the brothers would be in the same dire case—wandering and hungry.
The brothers frowned, though, and shook their heads.
“Food is a good thing,” Goose said, licking his fingers. “But we saw them kill our family, our friends. If we hadn’t seen it ourselves, it would be possible. But—”
“Aye, I see,” Jamie said, and was struck for an instant by mild astonishment that he did see; evidently, he had spent longer among the Indians than he supposed.
The brothers exchanged glances, obviously communicating something. Decision made, Light made a gesture of respect to Jamie.
“We are your slaves,” he pointed out with some diffidence. “It is yours to decide what to do with us.” He paused delicately, waiting.
Jamie rubbed a hand over his face, considering that perhaps he hadn’t spent quite enough time with Indians after all. Ian didn’t smile, but seemed to emit a low vibration of amusement.
MacDonald had told him stories of campaigns during the French and Indian War; soldiers who took Indian prisoners commonly either killed them for scalp money or sold them as slaves. Those campaigns lay a scant ten years in the past; the peace since had been frequently uneasy, and God knew the various Indians made slaves of their prisoners, unless they chose—for whatever inscrutable Indian motive—to adopt or kill them, instead.
Jamie had captured the two Tuscarora; ergo, by custom, they were now his slaves.
He understood quite well what Light was suggesting—that he adopt the brothers, and doubtless the young woman, too, once he’d rescued her—and how in God’s name had he suddenly become responsible for doing that?
“Well, there’s nay market for their scalps just now,” Ian pointed out. “Though I suppose ye could sell the