The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [408]
Husband paused for a long moment, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as though to expunge some lingering rancid taste. He shook his head.
“They have no real leader,” he said softly. “Jim Hunter is bold enough, but he has no gift of commanding men. I asked him—he said that each man must act for himself.”
“You have the gift. You can lead them.”
Husband looked scandalized, as though Roger had accused him of a talent for card-sharping.
“Not I.”
“You have led them here—”
“They have come here! I asked none to—”
“You are here. They followed you.”
Husband flinched slightly at this, his lips compressed. Seeing that his words had some effect, Roger pressed his case.
“You spoke for them before, and they listened. They came with you, after you. They’ll still listen, surely!”
He could hear the noise outside the cabin growing; the crowd was impatient. If it wasn’t yet a mob, it was damn close. And what would they do if they knew who he was, and what he had come to do? His palms were sweating; he pressed them down across the fabric of his coat, feeling the small lump of his militia badge in the pocket, and wished he had paused to bury it somewhere when he crossed the creek.
Husband looked at him a moment, then reached out and seized him by both hands.
“Pray with me, friend,” he said quietly.
“I—”
“Thee need say nothing,” Husband said. “I know thee is Papist, but it is not our way to pray aloud. If thee would but remain still with me, and ask in your heart that wisdom be granted—not only to me, but to all here . . .”
Roger bit his tongue to keep from correcting Husband; his own religious affiliation was scarcely important at the moment, though evidently Husband’s was. Instead he nodded, suppressing his impatience, and squeezed the older man’s hands, offering what support he might.
Husband stood quite still, his head slightly lowered. A fist hammered on the flimsy door of the cabin, voices calling out.
“Hermon! You all right in there?”
“Come on, Hermon! There’s no time for this! Caldwell’s come back from the Governor—”
“An hour, Hermon! He’s given us an hour, no more!”
A trickle of sweat ran down Roger’s back between his shoulder blades, but he ignored the tickle, unable to reach it.
He glanced from Husband’s weathered fingers to his face, and found the other man’s eyes seemingly fixed on his own—and yet distant, as though he listened to some far-off voice, disregarding the urgent shouts that came through the walls. Even Husband’s eyes were Quaker gray, Roger thought—like pools of rainwater, shivering into stillness after a storm.
Surely they would break down the door. But no; the blows diminished to an impatient knocking, and then to random thumps. He could feel the beating of his own heart, slowing gradually to a quiet, even throb in his chest, anxiety fading in his blood.
He closed his own eyes, trying to fix his thoughts, to do as Husband asked. He groped in his mind for some suitable prayer, but nothing save confused fragments of the Book of Common Worship came to hand.
Help us, O Lord . . .
Hear us . . .
Help us, O Lord, his father’s voice whispered. His other father, the Reverend, speaking somewhere in the back of his mind. Help us, O Lord, to remember how often men do wrong through want of thought, rather than from lack of love; and how cunning are the snares that trip our feet.
Each word flickered briefly in his mind like a burning leaf, rising from a bonfire’s wind, and then disappeared away into ash before he could grasp it. He gave it up then and simply stood, clasping Husband’s hands in his own, listening to the man’s breathing, a low rasping note.
Please, he thought silently, though with no idea what he was asking for. That word too evaporated, leaving nothing in its place.
Nothing happened. The voices still called outside, but they seemed of no more importance now than the calling of birds. The air in the room was still, but cool