The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [291]
“. . . an heinous miscarriage of justice! Sheriffs, or so they call themselves, who have not been appointed by any legal writ, but rather appoint themselves for the purposes of corruptly enriching themselves and scorn all legitimate . . .”
Barlow dropped his arms, and began to edge backward, in an effort to escape the barrage. When Husband paused momentarily to draw breath, though, Barlow seized the opportunity to lean forward and jab a threatening finger into Husband’s chest.
“You speak of justice, sir? What have riot and destruction to do with justice? If you advocate the ruin of property as means to redress your grievances—”
“I do not! But is the poor man to fall a spoil to the unscrupulous, and his plight pass unregarded? I say to you, sir, God will unmercifully requite those who oppress the poor, and—”
“What are they arguing about?” MacDonald asked, viewing the exchange with interest. “Religion?”
Seeing Husband involved, and realizing that no further punch-ups were to be expected, most of the crowd had lost interest, wandering away toward the buffet tables and the braziers on the terrace. Hunter and a few other Regulators hung about to give Husband moral support, but most of the guests were planters and merchants. While they might side with Barlow in theory, in practice most were disinclined to waste a rare festive occasion in controversy with Hermon Husband over the rights of the tax-paying poor.
I wasn’t all that eager to examine the rhetoric of the Regulation in detail, either, but did my best to give Major MacDonald a crude overview of the situation.
“. . . and so Governor Tryon felt obliged to raise the militia to deal with it, but the Regulators backed down,” I concluded. “But they haven’t abandoned their demands, by any means.”
Husband hadn’t abandoned his argument, either—he never did—but Barlow had at last succeeded in extricating himself, and was restoring his tissues at the refreshment tables under the elm trees in company with some sympathetic friends, who all cast periodic glances of disapproval in Husband’s direction.
“I see,” MacDonald said, interested. “Farquard Campbell did tell me something of this disruptive movement. And the Governor has raised a militia on occasion to deal with it, you say, and may again. Who commands his troops, do you know?”
“Um . . . I believe General Waddell—that’s Hugh Waddell—has command of several companies. But the Governor himself was in command of the main body; he’s been a soldier himself.”
“Has he indeed?” MacDonald seemed to find this very interesting; he hadn’t put away his pistol, but was fondling it in an absentminded sort of way. “Campbell tells me that your husband is the holder of a large grant of land in the backcountry. He is by way of being an intimate of the Governor?”
“I wouldn’t put it that strongly,” I said dryly. “But he does know the Governor, yes.”
I felt a trifle uneasy at this line of conversation. It was—strictly speaking—illegal for Catholics to hold Royal land grants in the Colonies. I didn’t know whether Major MacDonald was aware of that fact, but he did plainly realize that Jamie was likely a Catholic, given his family background.
“Do you suppose your husband might be prevailed upon for an introduction, dear lady?” The pale blue eyes were bright with speculation, and I realized suddenly what he was after.
A career soldier with no war was at a distinct disadvantage in terms of occupation and income. The Regulation might be a tempest in a teapot, but on the other hand, if there was any prospect of military action . . . After all, Tryon had no regular troops; he might well be inclined to welcome—and to pay—an experienced officer, if the militia were called out again.
I cast a wary eye toward the lawn. Husband and his friends had withdrawn a bit, and were in close conversation in a little knot near one of Jocasta’s new statues. If the recent near-brawl was any indication, the Regulation was still