The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [169]
“So would I,” Jamie said, smiling slightly. “Though I do hope it willna come to that.”
“I don’t think either army was—will be—inclined to behead people,” I said. That did, of course, leave a number of other unpleasant options available—but Jamie knew that as well as I did.
I had a sudden, passionate wish to urge him to throw it all up, turn away from it. Tell Tryon to stuff his land, tell the tenants they must make their own way—abandon the Ridge and flee. War was coming, but it need not engulf us; not this time. We could go south, to Florida, or to the Indies. To the west, to take refuge with the Cherokee. Or even back to Scotland. The Colonies would rise, but there were places one could run to.
He was watching my face.
“This,” he said, a gesture dismissing Tryon, the militia, the Regulators, “this is a verra little thing, Sassenach, perhaps nothing in itself. But it is the beginning, I think.”
The light was beginning to fail now; the shadow covered his feet and legs, but the last of the sun threw his own face into strong relief. There was a smudge of blood on his forehead, where he had touched it, crossing himself. I should have wiped it away, I thought, but made no move to do so.
“If I will save these men—if they will walk wi’ me between the fires—then they must follow me without question, Sassenach. Best it begins now, while not so much is at stake.”
“I know,” I said, and shivered.
“Are ye cold, Sassenach? Here, take the wean and go home. I’ll come in a bit, so soon as I’m dressed.”
He handed me Jemmy and the dirk, since the two seemed momentarily inseparable, and rose. He picked up his kilt and shook out the tartan folds, but I didn’t move. The blade of the knife was warm where I gripped it, warm from his hand.
He looked at me in question, but I shook my head.
“We’ll wait for you.”
He dressed quickly, but carefully. Despite my apprehensions, I had to admire the delicacy of his instincts. Not his dress kilt, the one in crimson and black, but the hunting kilt. No effort to impress the mountain men with richness; but an oddity of dress, enough to make the point to the other Highlanders that he was one of them, to draw the eye and interest of the Germans. Plaid pinned up with the running-stag brooch, his belt and scabbard, clean wool stockings. He was quiet, absorbed in what he was doing, dressing with a calm precision that was unnervingly reminiscent of the robing of a priest.
It would be tonight, then. Roger and the rest had clearly gone to summon the men who lived within a day’s ride; tonight he would light his cross and call the first of his men—and seal the bargain with whisky.
“So Bree was right,” I said, to break the silence in the clearing. “She said perhaps you were starting your own religion. When she saw the cross, I mean.”
He glanced at me, startled. He looked in the direction where the house lay, then his mouth curled wryly.
“I suppose I am,” he said. “God help me.”
He took the knife gently away from Jemmy, wiped it on a fold of his plaid, and slid it away into its scabbard. He was finished.
I stood to follow him. The words I couldn’t speak—wouldn’t speak—were a ball of eels in my throat. Afraid one would slither free and slip out of my mouth, I said instead, “Was it God you were calling on to help you? When I saw you earlier?”
“Och, no,” he said. He looked away for a second, then met my eyes with a sudden queer glance. “I was calling Dougal MacKenzie.”
I felt a deep and sudden qualm go through me. Dougal was long dead; he had died in Jamie’s arms on the eve of Culloden—died with Jamie’s dirk in his throat. I swallowed, and my eyes flicked involuntarily to the knife at his belt.
“I made my peace wi’ Dougal long ago,” he said softly, seeing the direction of my glance. He touched the hilt of the knife, with its knurl of gold, that had once been Hector Cameron’s. “He was a chieftain, Dougal. He will know that I did then as I must—for my men, for