The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [398]
He spoke without irony, glancing round at the encampment that sprawled around us. As the light failed, the fires began to glow through the dimness of twilight, like hundreds of fireflies along the banks of Great Alamance.
“Hermon Husband is here,” he said.
I looked up from the fresh bowl of stew I was dishing out.
“Did you speak to him?”
He shook his head.
“I couldna go near. He’s with the Regulators, aye? I was on a wee hill, lookin’ down across the stream, and saw him in the distance; he was in a great mass of men, but I couldna mistake his dress.”
“What will he do?” I handed him the full bowl. “Surely he won’t fight—or allow them to fight.” I was inclined to view Husband’s presence as a hopeful sign. Hermon Husband was the closest thing the Regulators had to a real leader; they would listen to him, I was sure.
Jamie shook his head, looking troubled.
“I dinna ken, Sassenach. He willna take up arms himself, no—but as for the rest . . .” He trailed off, thinking. Then his face set in sudden decision. He handed me back the bowl, and turning on his heel, made his way across the camp.
I saw him touch Roger on the shoulder, and draw him aside a little. They spoke together for a few moments, then Jamie reached into his coat, drew out something white, and handed it to Roger. Roger looked at whatever it was for a moment, then nodded, and tucked it away in his own coat.
Jamie clapped him on the shoulder, left him, and came back across the camp, pausing to laugh and exchange rude remarks with the Lindsay brothers.
He came back smiling, and took the bowl from me, seeming relieved.
“I’ve told Roger Mac to go first thing in the morning, to find Husband,” he said, setting about the stew with renewed appetite. “If he can, I’ve told him to bring Husband here—to speak face to face wi’ Tryon. If he canna convince Tryon—which he can’t—perhaps Tryon will convince Husband that he’s in earnest. If Hermon sees that it will mean bloodshed, then perhaps he will prevail upon his men to stand down.”
“Do you really think so?” It had rained lightly in the afternoon, and banks of cloud still covered the eastern sky. The edges of those clouds glowed faintly red—not from the slanting rays of sunset, but from the fires of the Regulators, camped invisibly on the opposite bank of the Alamance.
Jamie wiped his bowl and took a last bite of bread, shaking his head.
“I dinna ken,” he said simply. “But there’s nothing else to try, is there?”
I nodded, and stooped to put more wood on the fire. No one would sleep early tonight.
The campfires had burned all day, smoking and sputtering in a light rain. Now, though, the drizzle had ceased and the clouds had parted, shredding into long, wispy mare’s-tails that glowed like fire across the whole arc of the western sky, eclipsing the puny efforts of the earthbound flames. Seeing it, I put a hand on Jamie’s arm.
“Look,” I said. He turned, wary lest someone had appeared at his heels with a fresh problem, but his face relaxed as I gestured upward.
Frank, urged to look at some wonder of nature whilst preoccupied with a problem, would have paused just long enough not to seem discourteous, said, “Oh, yes, lovely, isn’t it?” and returned at once to the maze of his thoughts. Jamie lifted his face to the glowing glory of the heavens and stood still.
What is the matter with you? I thought to myself. Can’t you let Frank Randall rest in peace?
Jamie put an arm about my shoulders, and sighed.
“In Scotland,” he said, “the sky would be like lead all day, and even at the twilight, ye’d see no more than the sun sinking into the sea like a red-hot cannonball. Never a sky like this one is.”
“What makes you think of Scotland?” I asked, intrigued that his mind should run as mine did, on things of the past.
“Dawn and twilight, and the season of the year,” he said, and his wide mouth curled slightly upward in reminiscence. “Whenever there is a change in the air around me, it makes me think of what has been, and what is now. I dinna always do it in a house, but when