The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [400]
When I came back into camp, I found it wide awake, every man alert, if red-eyed. The atmosphere was one of watchfulness, though, rather than immediate battle-readiness, and there was no more than a general stir of interest when Jamie returned, Gideon threading his way past the campfires with surprising delicacy.
“How is it, Mac Dubh?” Kenny asked, standing to greet him as Jamie reined up. “Anything ado?”
Jamie shook his head. He was dressed with a neatness approaching severity, hair clubbed back, dirk and pistols fixed on his belt, sword at his side. A yellow cockade fixed to his coat was the only touch of decoration. Battle-ready, and a small frisson crept up my spine at the thought.
“The Governor’s sent across his wee letter to the Regulators. Four sheriffs each took a copy; they’re to read it out to every group they come across. We must just wait, and see what happens.”
I followed his glance toward the third campfire. Roger had likely left as soon as it was light, before the camp woke.
I had emptied the buckets into the kettle for boiling. I picked them up for another trip to the stream, when Gideon’s ears pricked and he lifted his head suddenly, with a sharp whicker of greeting. Jamie instantly nudged the horse in front of me, and his hand dropped to his sword. My view was blocked by Gideon’s enormous chest and withers; I couldn’t see who was coming, but I did see Jamie’s hand relax its grip on the sword-hilt as whoever it was came in sight. A friend, then.
Or if not precisely a friend, at least someone he didn’t mean to run through or hack out of the saddle. I heard a familiar voice, raised in greeting, and peered out from under Gideon’s chin to see Governor Tryon riding across the small meadow, accompanied by two aides.
Tryon sat his horse decently, if without great style, and was dressed as usual for campaigning, in a serviceable blue uniform coat and doeskin breeches, a yellow officer’s cockade in his hat, and with one of the cavalry cutlasses called a hanger at his side—not for show; the hilt showed nicks and the scabbard was worn.
Tryon pulled up his horse and nodded, touching his hat to Jamie, who did likewise. Seeing me lurking in Gideon’s shadow, the Governor politely removed his cocked hat altogether, bowing from the saddle.
“Mrs. Fraser, your servant.” He glanced at the pails I held, then turned in his saddle, beckoning to one of the aides. “Mr. Vickers. Kindly help Mrs. Fraser, if you will.”
I surrendered the pails gratefully to Mr. Vickers, a pink-cheeked young man of eighteen or so, but instead of going with him, I simply directed him where to take them. Tryon raised one eyebrow at me, but I returned his expression of mild displeasure with a bland smile, and stood my ground. I wasn’t going anywhere.
He was wise enough to recognize that, and make no issue of my presence. Dismissing me instead from his cognizance, he nodded again to Jamie.
“Your troops are in order, Colonel Fraser?” He glanced pointedly around. The only troops visible at the moment were Kenny, who had his nose buried in his cup, and Murdo Lindsay and Geordie Chisholm, who were engaged in a vicious game of mumblety-peg in the shadows of the copse.
“Aye, sir.”
The Governor raised both brows in patent skepticism.
“Call them, sir. I will inspect their readiness.”
Jamie paused for a moment, gathering up his reins. He squinted against the rising sun, evaluating the Governor’s mount. “A nice gelding ye have there, sir. Is he steady?”
“Of course.” The Governor frowned. “Why?”
Jamie threw back his head and gave a ululating Highland cry, of the sort meant to be heard over several acres of mountainside. The Governor’s horse jerked at the reins, eyes rolling back. Militiamen poured out of the thicket, shrieking like banshees, and a black cloud of crows exploded from the trees above them like a puff of cannon smoke, raucous in flight. The horse reared, decanting Tryon in an undignified heap on the grass, and bolted for the trees on the far side of the meadow.