A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [630]
“Perhaps we’ll just be . . . very careful,” I suggested. Everyone exhaled slightly, and we resumed our occupations, though without our former sense of snug safety.
Dinner passed without incident, but in midafternoon, a knock came on the door. Amy screamed, and Brianna dropped the shirt she was mending into the fire. Ian leaped to his feet and jerked the door open, and Rollo, jerked out of a doze, charged past him, roaring.
Jamie and Roger struck the doorway—and each other—simultaneously, stuck for an instant, and fell through. All the little boys shrieked and ran to their respective mothers, who were frantically beating at the smoldering shirt as though it were a live snake.
I had leaped to my feet, but was pressed against the wall, unable to get past Bree and Amy. Adso, startled by the racket and by my popping up beside him, hissed and took a swipe at me, narrowly missing my eye.
A number of oaths in a mixture of languages were coming from the dooryard, accompanied by a series of sharp barks from Rollo. Everyone sounded thoroughly annoyed, but there were no sounds of conflict. I edged my way delicately past the knot of mothers and sons, and peered out.
Major MacDonald, wet to the eyebrows and covered in clumps of snow and dirty slush, was gesticulating with some energy at Jamie, while Ian rebuked Rollo, and Roger—from the look on his face—was trying very hard not to burst out laughing.
Jamie, compelled by his own sense of propriety, but eyeing the Major with deep suspicion, invited him in. The inside of the cabin smelled of burned fabric, but at least the riot had calmed down, and the Major greeted us all with a fair assumption of cordiality. There was a lot of fuss, getting him stripped of his soaking-wet clothes, dried off, and—for lack of any better alternative—temporarily swathed in Roger’s spare shirt and breeches, in which he appeared to be drowning, as he was a good six inches shorter than Roger.
Food and whisky having been ceremonially offered and accepted, the household fixed the Major with a collective eye and waited to hear what had brought him to the mountains in the dead of winter.
Jamie exchanged a brief glance with me, indicating that he could hazard a guess. So could I.
“I have come, sir,” MacDonald said formally, hitching up the shirt to keep it from sliding off his shoulder, “to offer ye command of a company of militia, under the orders of General Hugh MacDonald. The General’s troops are gathering, even as we speak, and will undertake their march to Wilmington at the end of the month.”
I felt a deep qualm of apprehension at that. I was accustomed to MacDonald’s chronic optimism and tendency to overstatement, but there was nothing of exaggeration in this statement. Did that mean that the help Governor Martin had requested, the troops from Ireland, would be landing soon, to meet General MacDonald’s troops at the coast?
“The General’s troops,” Jamie said, poking up the fire. He and MacDonald had taken over the fireside, with Roger and Ian ranged on either side of them, like firedogs. Bree, Amy, and I repaired to the bed, where we perched like a row of roosting hens, watching the conversation with a mingling of interest and alarm, while the little boys retired under the table.
“How many men does he have, would ye say, Donald?”
I saw MacDonald hesitate, torn between truth and desire. He coughed, though, and said matter-of-factly, “He had a few more than a thousand when I left him. Ye ken weel, though—once we begin to move, others will come to join us. Many others. The more particularly,” he added pointedly, “if such gentlemen as yourself are in command.”
Jamie didn’t reply to that at once. Meditatively, he shoved a burning wood fragment back into the fire with his foot.
“Powder and shot?” he asked. “Arms?”
“Aye, well; we’d a bit of a disappointment there.” MacDonald took a sip of his whisky. “Duncan Innes had promised us a great deal in that way—but in the end, he was obliged to renege