A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [597]
The Anemone had left quite openly, with a homely cargo of rice and fifty barrels of smoked fish. Roger had found one man who recalled seeing the young woman go aboard with one of Bonnet’s hands: “Great huge doxy, with flaming hair a-loose, flowing down to her arse,” the man had said, smacking his lips. “Mr. Bonnet’s a good-size man himself, though; expect he can handle her.”
Only Ian’s hand on his arm had stopped him hitting the man.
What they had not yet found was anyone who knew for sure where Anemone was headed.
“London, I think,” said the harbormaster, dubious. “But not directly; he’s not yet got a full cargo. Likely he’ll be going down the coast, trading here and there—perhaps sail for Europe from Charlestown. But then again,” the man added, rubbing his chin, “could be he’s bound for New England. Terrible risky business, getting anything into Boston these days—but well worth it if you do. Rice and smoked fish like to be worth their weight in gold up there, if you can get it ashore without the navy’s warships blowing you out of the water.”
Jamie, looking a little pale, thanked the man. Roger, unable to speak for the knot in his throat, merely nodded, and followed his father-in-law out of the harbormaster’s office, back into the sun of the docks.
“Now what?” Ian asked, stifling a belch. He had been trawling through the dockside taverns, buying beer for casual laborers who might have helped load Anemone, or who might have spoken with her hands regarding her destination.
“The best I can think of is maybe for you and Roger Mac to take ship down the coast,” Jamie said, frowning at the masts of the sloops and packet boats rocking at anchor. “Claire and I could go up, toward Boston.”
Roger nodded, still unable to speak. It was far from being a good plan, particularly in light of the disruption the undeclared war was having on shipping—but the need of doing something was acute. He felt as though the marrow of his bones was burning; only movement would quench it.
To hire a small ship—even a fishing smack—or take passage on a packet boat, though, was expensive business.
“Aye, well.” Jamie curled his hand in his pocket, where the black diamond still lay. “I’ll go and see Judge Iredell; he can maybe put me in touch with an honest banker who’ll advance me money against the sale of the stone. Let’s go and tell Claire what’s to do, first.”
As they turned off the docks, though, a voice hailed Roger.
“Mr. MacKenzie!”
He turned, to find the Reverend Doctor McCorkle, his secretary, and the Reverend McMillan, carrying bags, all staring at him.
There was a brief scuffle of introduction—they had of course met Jamie when he came to fetch Roger, but not Ian—and then a slightly awkward pause.
“You—” Roger cleared his throat, addressing the elder. “You are leaving, then, sir? For the Indies?”
McCorkle nodded, his large, kindly face set in concern.
“I am, sir. I regret so much that I must go—and that you were not able to—well.” Both McCorkle and the Reverend McMillan had tried to persuade him to return to them the day before, to take his place at the service of ordination. But he could not. Could not spare hours to such a thing, could not possibly engage himself to undertake the commitment with anything less than a single mind—and while his mind was in fact single just now, it was not toward God. There was room in his heart just now for only one thing—Brianna.
“Well, doubtless it is God’s will,” McCorkle said with a sigh. “Your wife, Mr. MacKenzie? There is no word of her?”
He shook his head, and muttered acknowledgment of their concern, their promises to pray for him and for the safe return of his wife.He was too much worried to find this much solace, yet still, he was touched by their kindness, and parted from them with many good wishes in both directions.
Roger, Jamie, and Ian walked silently back toward the inn where they had left Claire.
“Just by way of curiosity, Ian, what did ye do with Forbes’s ear?” Jamie asked, breaking