The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [189]
He was small for fourteen, and thin to the point of emaciation; I could have counted his ribs when I opened his shirt to listen to his heart. No beauty otherwise; his black hair had been chopped short, and stood on his head in matted spikes, thick with dirt, grease, and sweat, and his general aspect was that of a flea-ridden monkey, eyes large and black in a face pinched with worry and suspicion.
At last having done all I could, I was satisfied with the look of him. At my nod, Jamie lowered himself to the ground beside the boy.
“So, Mr. Beardsley,” he said pleasantly. “Have ye come to join our troop of militia, then?”
“Ah . . . no.” Josiah rolled the wooden cup between his hands, not looking up. “I . . . uh . . . my business chanced to take me this way, that’s all.” He spoke so hoarsely that I winced in sympathy, imagining the soreness of his inflamed throat.
“I see.” Jamie’s voice was low and friendly. “So ye saw our fire by chance, and thought to come and seek shelter and a meal?”
“I did, aye.” He swallowed, with evident difficulty.
“Mmphm. But ye came earlier, no? You were in the wood just after sundown. Why wait ’til past moonrise to make yourself known?”
“I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . .”
“Oh, indeed ye were.” Jamie’s voice was still friendly, but firm. He put out a hand and grasped Josiah’s shirtfront, forcing the boy to look at him.
“Look ye, man. There’s a bargain between us. You’re my tenant; it’s agreed. That means you’ve a right to my protection. It means also that I’ve a right to hear the truth.”
Josiah looked back, and while there was fear and wariness in the look, there was also a sense of self-possession that seemed far older than fourteen. He made no effort to look away, and there was a look of deep calculation in the clever black eyes.
This child—if one could regard him as a child; plainly Jamie didn’t—was used to relying on himself alone.
“I said to you, sir, that I would come to your place by the New Year, and so I mean to. What I do in the meantime is my own affair.”
Jamie’s brows shot up, but he nodded slowly, and released his grip.
“True enough. You’ll admit, though, that one might be curious.”
The boy opened his mouth as though to speak, but changed his mind and buried his nose instead in his cup of coffee.
Jamie tried again.
“May we offer you help in your business? Will ye travel a ways with us, at least?”
Josiah shook his head.
“No. I am obliged to you, sir, but the business is best managed by myself alone.”
Roger had not gone to sleep, but sat a little behind Jamie, watching silently. He leaned forward now, green eyes intent on the boy.
“This business of yours,” he said. “It’s not by any means connected with that mark on your thumb?”
The cup hit the ground and coffee splashed up, spattering my face and bodice. The boy was out of his blankets and halfway across the clearing before I could blink my eyes to see what was happening—and by then, Jamie was up and after him. The boy had circled the fire; Jamie leaped over it. They disappeared into the wood like fox and hound, leaving Roger and myself gaping after them.
For the second time that night, men erupted from their bedrolls, grabbing for their guns. I began to think the Governor would be pleased with his militia; they were certainly ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.
“What in hell . . .?” I said to Roger, wiping coffee from my eyebrows.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it so suddenly,” he said.
“Wha? Wha? What’s amiss, then?” bellowed Murdo Lindsay, glaring round as he swept his musket barrel past the shadowed trees.
“Are we attacked? Where’s the bastards?” Kenny popped up on hands and knees beside me, peering out from under the band of his knitted cap like a toad beneath a watering pot.
“Nobody. Nothing’s happened. I mean—it’s really quite all right!”
My efforts to calm and explain went largely unnoticed in the racket. Roger, however, being much larger and much louder, succeeded at last in quelling the disturbance and explaining matters—so far as they could be explained. What did a lad more or less