Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [239]
“Eeugh!” said Ian.
“You don’t know they don’t jump,” I put in helpfully.
“Aye, I do.” Jamie eyed me cynically. “Still, I grant ye, the thought’s enough to make one a bit costive. How d’ye mean to get him out, though?”
“I could shoot him wi’ your pistol,” Ian offered, brightening at the thought of getting his hands on Jamie’s treasured pistols. “We needn’t get him out if we can kill him.”
“Is he … ah … visible?” I put in delicately.
Jamie rubbed his chin dubiously. He hadn’t shaved yet, and the dark red bristles rasped under his thumb.
“Not very. There’s no more than a few inches o’ filth in the pit, but I shouldna think ye could see him well enough to aim, and I hate to waste the shot.”
“We could invite all of the Hansens for dinner, serve beer, and drown him,” I suggested facetiously, naming a nearby—and very numerous—Quaker family.
Ian erupted in giggles. Jamie gave me an austere sort of look, and turned toward the woods.
“I’ll think of something,” he said. “After my breakfast.”
Breakfast was luckily no great problem, as the hens had helpfully provided me with nine eggs and the bread had risen satisfactorily. The butter was still immured in the back of the pantry, under the baleful guard of the newly-farrowed sow, but Ian had managed to lean in and snatch a pot of jam from the shelf as I stood by with the broom, jabbing it into the sow’s gnashing jaws as she made little darting charges at Ian’s legs.
“I’ll have to have a new broom,” I remarked, eyeing the tattered remains as I dished up the eggs. “Perhaps I’ll go up to the willow grove by the stream this morning.”
“Mmphm.” Jamie reached out a hand and patted absently around on the table, searching for the bread plate. His attention was wholly focused on the book he was reading, Bricknell’s Natural History of North Carolina.
“Here it is,” he said. “I knew I’d seen a bit about rattlesnakes.” Locating the bread by feel, he took a piece and used it to scoop a healthy portion of egg into his mouth. Having engulfed this, he read aloud, holding the book in one hand while groping over the tabletop with the other.
“ ‘The Indians frequently pull out the snakes’ Teeth, so that they never afterwards can do any Mischief by biting; this may be easily done, by tying a bit of red Wollen Cloth to the upper end of a long hollow Cane, and so provoking the Rattle-Snake to bite, and suddenly pulling it away from him, by which means the Teeth stick fast in the Cloath, which are plainly to be seen by those present.’ ”
“Have we any red cloth, Auntie?” Ian asked, washing down his own share of the eggs with chicory coffee.
I shook my head, and speared the last of the sausages before Jamie’s groping hand reached it.
“Blue, green, yellow, drab, white, and brown. No red.”
“That’s a fine wee book, Uncle Jamie,” Ian said, with approval. “Does it say more about the snakes?” He looked hungrily over the expanse of table, in search of more food. Without comment, I reached into the hutch and brought out a plate of spoonbread, which I set before him. He sighed happily and waded in, as Jamie turned the page.
“Well, here’s a bit about how the rattlesnakes charm squirrels and rabbits.” Jamie touched his plate, but encountered nothing save bare surface. I pushed the muffins toward him.
“ ‘It is surprizing to observe how these Snakes will allure and charm Squirrels, Hedge-Conneys, Partridges and many other small Beasts and Birds to them, which they quickly devour. The Sympathy is so strong between these, that you shall see the Squirrel or Partridge (as they have espied this Snake) leap or fly from Bough to Bough, until at last they run or leap directly into its Mouth, not having power to avoid their Enemy, who never stirs out of the Posture or Quoil until he obtains his Prey.’ ”
His hand, blindly groping after sustenance, encountered the muffins. He picked one up and glanced up at me. “Damned if I’ve ever seen that, myself. D’ye think it likely?”
“No,” I said, pushing the curls back off my forehead. “Does that