The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [404]
“Can’t see how it won’t be.” The third man pulled a yellow kerchief from his sleeve and wiped his face; the weather was warm and the air muggy. “Tryon’s had his guns in place since dawn; he’s not the man to let anybody get a jump on him. He might wait for Waddell’s men—but he may think he’s no need of them.”
Abram snorted with mild contempt.
“To crush those rabble? Seen them, have you? A poorer set of soldiers you’d not see in a month of Sundays.”
The man with the kerchief smiled cynically.
“Well, that’s as may be, Abie. Seen some of the backcountry militia, have you? Speakin’ of rabble. And speakin’ of the Regulators, there’s a lot of ’em, rabble or not. Two to one, Cap’n Neale says.”
Abram grunted, casting a last reluctant glance toward the wood and the creek beyond.
“Rabble,” he repeated, more confidently, and turned away. “Come along, then, let’s have a look upslope.”
The foragers were on the same side as himself; they wore no cockades, but he saw the militia badges on breast and hat, glinting silver in the morning sun. Still, Roger remained in the shadows until the men had vanished, talking casually amongst themselves. He was reasonably sure that Jamie had sent him on this mission with no authority beyond his own; best if he were not asked to explain himself.
The attitude amongst most of the militia toward the Regulation was at best scornful. At worst—at the upper levels of command—it was coldly vindictive.
“Crush them once and for all,” Caswell had said, over a cup of coffee by the fire the night before. A plantation owner from the eastern part of the colony, Richard Caswell had no sympathy with the Regulators’ grievances.
Roger patted his pocket again, considering. No, best leave it. He could produce the badge if he were challenged, and he didn’t think anyone would shoot him in the back without at least a shout of warning. Still, he felt oddly exposed as he walked through the lush grass of the river-meadow, and sighed with involuntary relief, as the languishing branches of the creek-side willows enfolded him in cool shadow.
He had, with Jamie’s approval, left his musket behind, and come unarmed, save for the knife at his belt that was a normal accoutrement for any man. His only other item of equipment was a large white kerchief, presently folded up inside his coat.
“If ye should be threatened—anywhere—wave it and cry ‘Truce,’” Jamie had instructed him. “Then tell them to fetch me, and dinna say more until I come. If no one prevents you, bring me Husband under its protection.”
The vision of himself leading Hermon Husband back across the creek, holding the flapping kerchief on a stick above his head like a guide leading tourists through an airport, made him want to hoot with laughter. Jamie hadn’t laughed, though, or even smiled, and so he had accepted the cloth solemnly, tucking it away with care. He peered through the screen of drooping leaves, but the creek ran past sparkling in the new day’s sun, silent save for the rush of water past stones and clay. No one was in sight, and the noise of the water drowned any sound that might have come from beyond the trees on the other side. While the militia might not shoot him in the back, he wasn’t so sanguine about the possibilities of Regulators shooting him from the front, if they saw him crossing from the Government side.
Still, he couldn’t skulk in the trees all day. He emerged onto the bank, and made his way downstream toward the point the foragers had indicated, watching the trees carefully for any signs of life. The crossing near the point was better, shallow water and a rocky bottom. Still, if the Regulators were “drawn up” anywhere nearby, they were being damned quiet about it.
A more peaceful scene could scarcely be imagined, and yet his heart was hammering suddenly in his ears. He had again the odd feeling of someone standing near him. He glanced around in all directions, but nothing moved save the rushing water and the trailing willow fronds.
“That you, Dad?” he said softly, under his breath, and at once