Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [95]
“It’s verra pleased I am that you’re here, Mr. Fraser,” he said, extending his hand. “Verra pleased, indeed. I’ve heard a deal about ye, ever since your aunt learned of your intentions to visit River Run.”
He appeared sincerely delighted to meet Jamie, which struck me as odd. Not that most people weren’t happy to meet Jamie—he was quite a prepossessing man, if I did say so—but there was an air almost of relief in Campbell’s effusive greeting, which seemed unusual for someone whose outward appearance was entirely one of reserve and taciturnity.
If Jamie noticed anything odd, he hid his puzzlement behind a facade of courtesy.
“I’m flattered that ye should have spared a moment’s thought to me, Mr. Campbell.” Jamie smiled pleasantly, and bowed toward the naval officers. “Gentlemen? I am pleased to make your acquaintance, as well.”
Thus given an opening, a chubby, frowning little person named Lieutenant Wolff and his two ensigns made their introductions, and after perfunctory bows, dismissed me and Jocasta from mind and conversation, turning their attention at once to a discussion of board feet and gallons.
Jamie lifted one eyebrow at me, with a slight nod toward Jocasta, suggesting in marital shorthand that I take his aunt and bugger off while business was conducted.
Jocasta, however, showed not the slightest inclination to remove herself.
“Do go on, my dear,” she urged me. “Josh will show ye everything. I’ll just wait in the shade whilst the gentlemen conduct their business; the heat’s a bit much for me, I’m afraid.”
The men had sat down to discuss business inside an open-fronted shed that boasted a crude table with a number of stools; presumably this was where the slaves took their meals, suffering the blackflies for the sake of air. Another shed served for storage; the third, which was enclosed, I deduced must be the sleeping quarters.
Beyond the sheds, toward the center of the clearing, were two or three large fires, over which huge kettles steamed in the sunshine, suspended from tripods.
“They’ll be cookin’ doon the turpentine, a-boilin’ it intae pitch,” Josh explained, taking me within eyeshot of one of the kettles. “Some is put intae the barrels as is”—he nodded toward the sheds, where a wagon was parked, piled high with barrels—“but the rest is made intae pitch. The naval gentlemen will be sayin’ how much they’ll be needin’, so as we’ll know.”
A small boy of seven or eight was perched on a high, rickety stool, stirring the pot with a long stick; a taller youth stood by with an enormous ladle, with which he removed the lighter layer of purified turpentine at the top of the kettle, depositing this in a barrel to one side.
As I watched them, a slave came out of the forest, leading a mule, and headed for the kettle. Another man came to help, and together they unloaded the barrels—plainly heavy—from the mule, and upended them into the kettle, one at a time, with a great whoosh of pungent yellowish pinesap.
“Och, ye’ll want to stand back a bit, mum,” Josh said, taking my arm to draw me away from the fire. “The stuff does splash a bit, and happen it should take fire, ye wouldna want to be burnt.”
Having seen the man in the forest, I most certainly didn’t want to be burned. I drew away, and glanced back at the sheds. Jamie, Mr. Campbell, and the naval men were sitting on stools around a table inside one hut, sharing something from a bottle and poking at a sheaf of papers on the table.
Standing pressed against the shed wall, out of sight of the men within, was Jocasta Cameron. Having abandoned her pretense of exhaustion, she was plainly listening for all she was worth.
Josh caught the expression of surprise on my face, and turned to see what I was looking at.
“Miss Jo does hate not to have the charge o’ things,” he murmured regretfully. “I havena haird her myself, but yon lass Phaedre did say as how Mistress takes on when she canna manage something—a’rantin’ dreadful, she says, and stampin’ something fierce.”
“That must be quite a remarkable spectacle,” I murmured.