Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [232]
“Have ye thought, then?” The bench creaked as Duncan abruptly changed the subject. “Will it be Sinclair, or Geordie Chisholm?”
Without giving Jamie time to reply, he went on, but in a way that made it clear that he had said all this before. I wondered whether he was trying to convince Jamie, or himself—or only assist them both in coming to a decision by repeating the facts of the matter.
“It’s true Sinclair’s a cooper, but Geordie’s a good fellow; a thrifty worker, and he’s the two wee sons, besides. Sinclair isna marrit, so he wouldna need so much in the way of setting up, but—”
“He’d need lathes and tools, and iron and seasoned wood,” Jamie broke in. “He could sleep in his shop, aye, but he’ll need the shop to sleep in. And it will cost verra dear, I think, to buy all that’s needed for a cooperage. Geordie would need a bit of food for his family, but we can provide that from the place here; beyond that, he’ll need no more to begin than a few wee tools—he’ll have an ax, aye?”
“Aye, he’ll have that from his indenture, but it’s the planting season now, Mac Dubh. With the clearing—”
“I ken that weel enough,” Jamie said, a bit testily. “It’s me that put five acres in corn a month ago. And cleared them, first.” While Duncan had been taking his ease at River Run, chatting in taverns and breaking in his new horse. I heard it, and so did Duncan; there was a distinct silence that spoke as loud as words.
A creak from the bench, and then Duncan spoke again, mildly.
“Your auntie Jo’s sent a wee gift for ye.”
“Oh, has she?” The edge in his voice was even more perceptible. I hoped Duncan had sense enough to heed it.
“A bottle of whisky.” There was a smile in Duncan’s voice, answered by a reluctant laugh from Jamie.
“Oh, has she?” he said again, in quite a different tone. “That’s verra kind.”
“She means to be.” There was a substantial creak and shuffle as Duncan got to his feet. “Come wi’ me and fetch it, then, Mac Dubh. A wee drink wouldna do your temper any harm.”
“No, it wouldn’t.” Jamie sounded rueful. “I’ve not slept the night, and I’m cranky as a rutting boar. Ye’ll forgive my manners, Duncan.”
“Och, dinna speak of it.” There was a soft sound, as of a hand clapping a shoulder, and I heard them walk off across the yard together. I moved to the window and watched them, Jamie’s hair gleaming dark bronze in the setting sun, as he tilted his head to listen to something Duncan was telling him, the shorter man gesturing in explanation. The movements of Duncan’s single arm threw off the rhythm of his stride, so he walked with jerky movements, like a large puppet.
What would have become of him, I wondered, had Jamie not found him—and found a place for him? There was no place in Scotland for a one-armed fisherman. There would have been nothing for him but beggary, surely. Starvation, perhaps. Or theft to live, and death at the end of a rope, like Gavin Hayes.
But this was the New World, and if life was chancy here, well, it meant a chance at life, at least. No wonder that Jamie should worry over who should have the best chance. Sinclair the cooper, or Chisholm the farmer?
A cooper would be valuable to have at hand; it would save the men on the ridge the long trip into Cross Creek or Averasboro to fetch the barrels needed for pitch and turpentine, for salted meat and cider. But it would be expensive to set up a cooper’s shop, even with the bare rudiments the trade required. And then there was the unknown Chisholm’s wife and small children to be considered—how were they living now, and what might become of them without help?
Duncan had so far located thirty of the men of Ardsmuir; Gavin Hayes was the first, and we had done for him all that could be done; seen him safe into heaven’s keeping. Two more were known dead, one of fever, one of drowning. Three had completed their terms of indenture, and—armed only with the ax and suit of clothes that were a bondsman’s final pay—had managed to find a foothold for themselves, claiming backcountry land and carving out