A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [477]
Georgia had formed a Provincial Congress, but as the Loyalist letter-writer—plainly assuming Jamie to be like-minded—triumphantly noted, There is no Sense of Grievance toward Great Britain here, as elsewhere; Loyalist Sentiment is so strong that only five Parishes of twelve have sent anyone to this upstart and illegal Congress.
A much-bedraggled copy of the Massachusetts Gazette, dated February 6, containing a letter, circled in ink and titled The Rule of Law and the Rule of Men. It was signed Novanglus—which I took to be a sort of hog-Latin for “new Englishman”—and to be a response to previous letters by a Tory who signed himself Massachusettensis, of all things.
I had no idea who Massachusettensis might be, but I recognized a few phrases from Novanglus’s letter, from long-ago bits of Bree’s schoolwork—John Adams, in good form.
“A government of laws, not of men,” I murmured. “What sort of pen name would you use, if you were going to write this sort of thing?” Glancing up, I caught sight of him, looking sheepish to a degree.
“You’ve been doing it already?”
“Well, just the odd bittie letter here or there,” he said defensively. “No pamphlets.”
“Who are you?”
He shrugged, deprecating.
“Scotus Americanus, but only ’til I think of something better. There are a few others using that name, that I ken.”
“Well, that’s something. The King will have a harder time picking you out of the crowd.” Muttering “Massachusettensis” to myself, I picked up the next document.
A note from John Stuart, much affronted by Jamie’s abrupt resignation, noting that the most illegal and prodigal Congress, as they call it of Massachusetts had formally invited the Stockbridge Indians to enlist in the service of the colony, and informing Jamie that should any of the Cherokee follow suit, he, John Stuart, would take the greatest pleasure in personally ensuring that he, Jamie Fraser, was hanged for treason.
“And I don’t suppose John Stuart even knows you have red hair,” I observed, laying it aside. I felt a trifle shaky, in spite of my attempts to joke about it. Seeing it all laid out in black and white solidified the clouds that had been gathering round us, and I felt the first chilling drop of icy rain on my skin, despite the woolen shawl around my shoulders.
There was no hearth in the study; only a small brazier that we used for heat. It was burning now in the corner, and Jamie rose, picked up a stack of letters, and began to feed them to the fire, one by one.
I had a sudden rush of déjà vu, and saw him standing by the hearth in the drawing room of his cousin Jared’s house in Paris, feeding letters to the fire. The stolen letters of Jacobite conspirators, rising in white puffs of smoke, the gathering clouds of a storm long past.
I remembered what Fergus had said, in answer to Jamie’s instructions: “I remember how this game is played.” So did I, and spicules of ice began to form in my blood.
Jamie dropped the last flaming fragment into the brazier, then sanded the page he had been writing, shook the sand off, and handed it to me. He had used one of the sheets of the special paper Bree had made by pressing a digested pulp of rags and plant matter between silk screens. It was thicker than the usual, with a soft, glossy texture, and she had mixed berries and tiny leaves into the pulp, so that here and there a small red stain spread like blood beneath the shadow of a leaf’s silhouette.
From Fraser’s Ridge, in the Colony of North Carolina,
this 16th day of March, Anno Domini 1775,
James Fraser to Lord John Grey, of Mount Josiah Plantation,
in the Colony of Virginia
My dear John—
It is too late.
Our continued Correspondence cannot but prove a Danger to you, but it is with the greatest Regret that I sever this Link between us.
Believe me ever
Your most humble and affectionate Friend,
Jamie
I read it in silence, and handed it back. As he poked about in search of the sealing wax, I noticed a small wrapped parcel on the corner of his desk that had been hidden by the drifts of paper.