Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [16]
The singer’s voice cracked painfully on “voice, fiddle, and flute,” but he sang stoutly on, despite the laughter from his audience. I smiled wryly to myself as he hit the final couplet,
“ ‘And, besides, I’ll instruct you like me to entwine,
The Myrtle of Venus with Bacchus’s vine!’ ”
I lifted my cup in salute to the wheeled coffin, softly echoing the melody of the singer’s last lines.
“Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?”
I drained my cup and sat still, waiting for the men to come out.
2
IN WHICH WE MEET A GHOST
“Ten, eleven, twelve … and two, and six … one pound, eight shillings, sixpence, two farthings!” Fergus dropped the last coin ceremoniously into the cloth pocket, pulled tight the drawstrings, and handed it to Jamie. “And three buttons,” he added, “but I have kept those,” and patted the side of his coat.
“Ye’ve settled with the landlord for our meal?” Jamie asked me, weighing the little bag.
“Yes,” I assured him. “I have four shillings and sixpence left, plus what Fergus collected.”
Fergus smiled modestly, square white teeth gleaming in the faint light from the tavern’s window.
“We have the necessary money for the burial, then,” he said. “Will we take Monsieur Hayes to the priest now, or wait till morning?”
Jamie frowned at the wagon, standing silent at the edge of the inn yard.
“I shouldna think the priest will be awake at this hour,” he said, with a glance at the rising moon. “Still—”
“I’d just as soon not take him with us,” I said. “Not to be rude,” I added apologetically to the wagon. “But if we’re going to sleep out in the woods, the … er … scent …” It wasn’t overpowering, but once away from the smoky reek of the tavern, a distinct odor was noticeable in the vicinity of the wagon. It hadn’t been a gentle death, and it had been a hot day.
“Auntie Claire is right,” Ian said, brushing his knuckles inconspicuously under his nose. “We dinna want to be attracting wild animals.”
“We canna be leaving Gavin here, surely!” Duncan protested, scandalized at the thought. “What, leave him lying on the step o’ the inn in his shroud, like a foundling wrapped in swaddling clothes?” He swayed alarmingly, his alcoholic intake affecting his always precarious balance.
I saw Jamie’s wide mouth twitch with amusement, the moon shining white on the knife-edged bridge of his nose.
“No,” he said. “We willna be leaving him here.” He tossed the little bag from hand to hand with a faint chinking sound, then, making his decision, thrust it into his coat.
“We’ll bury him ourselves,” he said. “Fergus, will ye be stepping into the stable yonder and see can ye buy a spade verra cheap?”
The short journey to the church through the quiet streets of Charleston was somewhat less dignified than the usual funeral cortege, marked as it was by Duncan’s insistence on repeating the more interesting portions of his lament as a processional.
Jamie drove slowly, shouting occasional encouragement to the horses; Duncan staggered beside the team, chanting hoarsely and clutching one animal by its headstall, while Ian held the other to prevent bolting. Fergus and I brought up the rear in staid respectability, Fergus holding his newly purchased shovel at port-arms, and muttering dire predictions as to the likelihood of us all spending the night in gaol for disturbing the peace of Charleston.
As it was, the church stood by itself in a quiet street, some distance from the nearest house. This was all to the good, in terms of avoiding notice, but it did mean that the churchyard was dauntingly dark, with no glow of torch or candle to pierce the blackness.
Great magnolia trees overhung the gate, leathery leaves drooping in the heat, and a border of pines, meant to provide shade and respite in the day, served at night to block all traces of moon and starlight, leaving the churchyard itself black as a … well, as a crypt.
Walking through the air felt like pushing aside curtains of black velvet, perfumed with an incense of turpentine from the