A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [402]
“I am for liberty,” he said, in a tone indicating mild astonishment that there could be any question regarding his position.
“Are you so?” Green looked hard at him, then lifted his chin in the direction of MacDonald’s horse, where MacDonald’s regimental sword hung from the saddle, gilt and tassels gleaming in the sun. “How come you to be in company with a redcoat, then?”
“He is a friend,” Jamie replied evenly.
“A redcoat?” One of the strangers reared back in his saddle as though stung by a bee. “How come redcoats here?” The man sounded flabbergasted, and looked hastily to and fro, as though expecting a company of the creatures to burst from the wood, muskets firing.
“Only the one, so far as I know,” Brown assured him. “Name’s MacDonald. He’s not a real soldier; retired on half-pay, works for the Governor.”
His companion didn’t seem noticeably reassured.
“What are you doing with this MacDonald?” he demanded of Jamie.
“As I said—he is a friend.” The attitude of the men had changed in an instant, from skepticism and mild hostility to open offense.
“He’s the Governor’s spy, is what he is,” Green declared flatly.
This was no more than the truth, and Jamie was reasonably sure that half the backcountry knew it; MacDonald made no effort to hide either his appearance nor his errands. To deny the fact was to ask them to believe Jamie a dunce, duplicitous, or both.
There was a stirring among the men now, glances exchanged, and the smallest of motions, hands touching knife hilts and pistol grips.
Very fine, Jamie thought. Not satisfied with the irony of the situation, God had now decided that he should fight to the death against the allies he had declared himself to moments earlier, in defense of an officer of the Crown he had just declared himself against.
As his son-in-law was fond of remarking—great.
“Bring him out,” Brown ordered, nudging his horse to the forefront. “We’ll see what he has to say for himself, this friend of yours.”
“And then might be we’ll learn him a lesson he can carry back to the Governor, eh?” One of the strangers took off his hat and tucked it carefully beneath the edge of his saddle, preparing.
“Wait!” Wherry drew himself up, trying to quell them with a hand, though Jamie could have told him he was several minutes past the point where such an attempt might have had any effect. “You cannot lay violent hands upon—”
“Can’t we, though?” Brown grinned like a death’s head, eyes fixed on Jamie, and began to undo the leather quirt coiled and fastened to his saddle. “No tar to hand, alas. But a good beating, say, and send ’em both squealing home to the Governor stark naked—that’d answer.”
The second stranger laughed, and spat again, so the gob landed juicily at Jamie’s feet.
“Aye, that’ll do. Hear you held off a mob by yourself in Cross Creek, Fraser—only five to two now, how you like them odds?”
Jamie liked them fine. Dropping the reins he held, he turned and flung himself between the two horses, screeching and slapping hard at their flanks, then dived headlong into the brush at the roadside, scrabbling through roots and stones on hands and knees as fast as he could.
Behind him, the horses were rearing and wheeling, whinnying loudly and spreading confusion and fright through the other men’s mounts; he could hear cries of anger and alarm, as they tried to gain control of the plunging horses.
He slid down a short slope, dirt and uprooted plants spraying up around his feet, lost his balance and fell at the bottom, bounded up and dashed into an oak copse, where he plastered himself behind a screen of saplings, breathing hard.
Someone had had wit—or fury—enough to jump off his horse and follow on foot; he could hear crashing and cursing near at hand, over the fainter cries of the commotion on the road. Glancing cautiously through the leaves, he saw Richard Brown, disheveled and hatless, looking wildly round, pistol in hand.
Any thought he might have had of confrontation vanished; he