The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [179]
“Oh, I like that. Especially ‘the angeling of my rest.’ When Bree was small, we’d put her to bed with an angel prayer—‘May Michael be at my right, Gabriel at my left, Uriel behind me, Rafael before me—and above my head, the Presence of the Lord.’ ”
He didn’t answer, but squeezed my fingers in reply. An ember in the hearth fell apart with a soft whuff, and sparks floated for an instant in the dimness of the room.
Sometime later, I returned briefly to consciousness, feeling him slide out of bed.
“Wha—?” I said sleepily.
“Nothing,” he whispered. “Just a wee note I’d meant to write. Sleep, a nighean donn. I’ll wake beside ye.”
Fraser’s Ridge, 1 December, 1770
James Fraser, Esq., to Lord John Grey,
Mount Josiah Plantation
My Lord,
I write in hopes that all continues well with your Establishment and its Inhabitants; my particular Regard to your Son.
All are well in my House and—so far as I am aware—at River Run, as well. The Nuptials planned for my Daughter and my Aunt, of which I wrote you, were unexpectedly interfered with by Circumstance (principally a Circumstance by the name of Mr. Randall Lillywhite, whose Name I mention in case it may one Day pass your Cognizance), but my Grandchildren were fortunately christened, and while my Aunt’s Wedding has been postponed to a later Season, my Daughter’s Union with Mr. MacKenzie was solemnized by the Courtesy of the Reverend Mr. Caldwell, a worthy Gentleman, though Presbyterian.
Young Jeremiah Alexander Ian Fraser MacKenzie (the name “Ian” is of course the Scottish variant of “John”—my Daughter’s Compliment to a Friend, as well as her Cousin) survived both the Occasion of his Baptism and the Journey home in good Spirit. His Mother bids me tell you that your Namesake now possesses no fewer than four Teeth, a fearsome Accomplishment which renders him exceeding dangerous to those unwary Souls charmed by his apparent Innocence, who surrender their Digits all unknowing to his pernicious Grasp. The Child bites like a Crocodile.
Our Population here exhibits a gratifying Growth of late, with the addition of some twenty Families since last I wrote. God has prospered our Efforts during the Summer, blessing us with an Abundance of Corn and wild Hay, and an Abundance of Beasts to consume them. I estimate the Hogs running at large in my Wood to number no fewer than forty at present, two Cows have borne Calves, and I have bought a new Horse. This Animal’s Character lies in grave Doubt, but his Wind does not.
Thus, my good News.
And so to the bad. I am made Colonel of Militia, ordered to muster and deliver so many Men as I can to the Service of the Governor, by mid-month, this Service to be of Aid in the Suppression of local Hostilities.
You may have heard, during your visit to North Carolina, of a Group of Men who style themselves “Regulators”—or you may not, as other Matters compelled your Attention on that Occasion (my Wife is pleased to hear good Report of your own Health, and sends with this a Parcel of Medicines, with Instructions for their Administration should you still be plagued with Headache).
These Regulators are no more than Rabble, less disciplined in their Actions even than the Rioters whom we hear have hanged Gov. Richardson in Effigy in Boston. I do not say there is no Substance to their Complaint, but the Means of its Expression seems unlikely to result in Redress by the Crown—rather, to provoke both Sides to further Excess, which cannot fail to end in Injury.
There was a serious outbreak of Violence in Hillsborough on 24 September, in which much Property was wantonly destroyed and Violence done—some justly, some not—to officials of the Crown. One Man, a Justice, was grievously Wounded; many of the Regulation were arrested. Since then, we have heard little more than Murmurs; Winter damps down Discontent, which smolders by the Hearths of Cottages and Pothouses, but once let out with the Spring Airing, it will flee abroad like the foul Odors from a sealed House, staining the Air.
Tryon