Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [23]
“Have you seen anyone along the road as you passed, sir?” The “sir” came a little reluctantly; the dilapidation of Jamie’s coat and my gown were obvious in the pool of yellow lantern light.
“A carriage that passed us from the town; I suppose you will have seen that yourselves,” Jamie answered. The sergeant replied with a grunt, checking the passes carefully, then squinting into the dark to count and see that the attendant bodies matched.
“What goods do you carry?” He handed back the passes, motioning to one of his subordinates to search the wagon. I twitched the reins inadvertently, and the horses snorted and shook their heads. Jamie’s foot nudged mine, but he didn’t look at me.
“Small household goods,” he answered, still calm. “A half of venison and a bag of salt, for provision. And a body.”
The soldier who had been reaching for the wagon covering stopped abruptly. The sergeant looked up sharply.
“A what?”
Jamie took the reins from me and wrapped them casually about his wrist. From the corner of my eye, I saw Duncan edge toward the darkness of the wood; Fergus, with his pickpocket’s skill, had already faded from view.
“The corpse of the man who was hanged this afternoon. He was known to me; I asked permission of Colonel Franklin to take him to his kinsmen in the north. That is why we travel by night,” he added delicately.
“I see.” The sergeant motioned a lantern bearer closer. He gave Jamie a long thoughtful look, eyes narrowed, and nodded. “I remember you,” he said. “You called out to him at the last. A friend, was he?”
“I knew him once. Some years ago,” he added. The sergeant nodded to his subordinate, not taking his eyes off Jamie.
“Have a look, Griswold.”
Griswold, who was perhaps fourteen, betrayed a notable lack of enthusiasm for the order, but dutifully lifted the canvas cover and raised his lantern to peer into the wagon bed. With an effort, I kept myself from turning to look.
The near horse snorted and tossed its head. If we did have to bolt, it would take several seconds for the horses to get the wagon moving. I heard Ian shift behind me, getting his hand on the club of hickory wood stowed behind the seat.
“Yes, sir, it’s a body,” Griswold reported. “In a shroud.” He dropped the canvas with an air of relief, and exhaled strongly through his nostrils.
“Fix your bayonet and give it a jab,” the sergeant said, eyes still on Jamie. I must have made a small noise, for the sergeant’s glance shifted to me.
“You’ll soil my wagon,” Jamie objected. “The man’s fair ripe, after a day in the sun, aye?”
The sergeant snorted impatiently. “Jab it in the leg, then. Get on, Griswold!”
With a marked air of reluctance, Griswold affixed his bayonet, and standing on tiptoe, began to poke gingerly about in the wagon bed. Behind me, Ian had begun to whistle softly. A Gaelic tune whose title translated to “In the Morn We Die,” which I thought very tasteless of him.
“No, sir, he’s dead all right.” Griswold dropped back on his heels, sounding relieved. “I poked right hard, but not a twitch.”
“All right, then.” Dismissing the young soldier with a jerk of his hand, the sergeant nodded to Jamie. “Drive on then, Mr. Fraser. But I’d advise you to choose your friends more carefully in future.”
I saw Jamie’s knuckles whiten on the reins, but he only drew himself up straight and settled his hat more firmly on his head. He clicked his tongue and the horses set off sharply, leaving puffs of pale dust floating in the lantern light.
The darkness seemed engulfing after the light; despite the moon, I could see almost nothing. The night enfolded us. I felt the relief of a hunted animal that finds safe refuge, and in spite of the oppressive heat, I breathed more freely.
We covered a distance of nearly a quarter mile before anyone spoke.
“Are ye wounded, Mr. Bonnet?” Ian spoke in a loud whisper, just