Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [106]
“And you’re a judge!” she burst out. “For God’s sake, can you not do something?” Her head moved jerkily, blind eyes trying to fix him, bend him to her will.
“No!” he said sharply, and then, more gently, repeated, “No.” He lifted her hand from his sleeve and held it tightly.
“You know I cannot,” he said. “If I could …”
“If you could, you would not,” she said bitterly. She pulled her hand out of his grasp and stood back, fists clenched at her sides. “Go on, then. They’ve called ye to be judge; go and give them their judgment.” She whirled on her heel and left the room, her skirts rustling with angry futility.
He stared after her, then, as the sound of a slammed door came from down the passage, blew out his breath with a wry grimace and turned to Jamie.
“I hesitate to request such a favor of you, Mr. Fraser, upon such short acquaintance as we have had. But I would greatly appreciate your accompanying me upon my errand. Since Mrs. Cameron herself cannot be present, to have you there as her representative in the matter—”
“What is this matter, Mr. Campbell?” Jamie interrupted.
Campbell glanced at me, plainly wishing me to leave. Since I made no move to do so, he shrugged, and pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face.
“It is the law of this colony, sir, that if a Negro shall assault a white person and in so doing, cause blood to be shed, then he shall die for his crime.” He paused, reluctant. “Such occurrences are most thankfully rare. But when they occur—”
He stopped, lips pressed together. Then he sighed, and with a final pat of his flushed cheeks, put the handkerchief away.
“I must go. Will you come, Mr. Fraser?”
Jamie stood for a moment longer, his eyes searching Campbell’s face.
“I will,” he said abruptly. He went to the sideboard and pulled open the upper drawer, where the late Hector Cameron’s dueling pistols were kept.
Seeing this, I turned to Campbell.
“Is there some danger?”
“I cannot say, Mrs. Fraser.” Campbell hunched his shoulders, “Donald MacNeill told me only that there had been an altercation of some kind at the sawmill, and that it was a matter of the law of bloodshed. He asked me to come at once to render judgment and oversee the execution, and then left to summon the other estate owners before I could obtain any particulars.”
He looked unhappy, but resigned.
“Execution? Do you mean to say you intend to execute a man without even knowing what he’s done?” In my agitation, I had knocked Jocasta’s basket of yarn over. Little balls of colored wool ran everywhere, bouncing on the carpet.
“I do know what he’s done, Mrs. Fraser!” Campbell lifted his chin, his color high, but with an obvious effort, swallowed his impatience.
“Your pardon, ma’am. I know you are newly come here; you will find some of our ways difficult and even barbarous, but—”
“Too right I find them barbarous! What kind of law is it that condemns a man—”
“A slave—”
“A man! Condemns him without a trial, without even an investigation? What sort of law is that?”
“A bad one, madame!” he snapped. “But it is still the law, and I am charged with its fulfillment. Mr. Fraser, are you ready?” He clapped the hat on his head, and turned to Jamie.
“I am.” Jamie finished stowing the pistols and ammunition in the deep pockets of his coat, and straightened, smoothing the skirts down across his thighs. “Sassenach, will ye go and—”
I had crossed to him and grabbed him by the arm before he could finish.
“Jamie, please! Don’t go; you can’t be part of this!”
“Hush.” He laid his hand on mine and squeezed hard. His eyes held mine, and kept me from speaking.
“I am already part of it,” he said quietly. “It is my aunt’s property, her men involved. Mr. Campbell is right; I am her kinsman. It will be my duty to go—to see, at least. To be there.” He hesitated then, as though he might say more, but instead merely squeezed my hand again and let me go.
“Then I’m going with you.” I spoke quite calmly, with that eerie