The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [432]
“Better than Cousin Millard doin’ the same service by you,” said the first voice, with an audible grin, and the third man laughed.
“True enough,” he said. “But we didn’t wait to see if it might come to that. The Governor, he went red as a turkey-cock when the men there with him hesitated. He stood up in his stirrups with his sword held on high, glared round at us all, and he hollered out, ‘Fire, Goddamn you! Fire on them, or on me!’ ”
The narrator put a good deal of enthusiasm into this re-enactment, and there was a murmur of admiration from his hearers.
“Now there’s a soldier for ye!” said one voice, followed by a general rumble of agreement.
“So we fired,” said the narrator, a faint shrug in his voice. “Didn’t take so long, once it started. Cousin Millard is right fast, it seems, once he’s started running. Bastard got clean away.”
More laughter at this, and I smiled, patting David’s shoulder. He was listening, too, the conversation a welcome distraction.
“No sir,” another agreed. “I reckon Tryon means to make sure of his victory this time. Heard he’s gone to hang the leaders of the Regulation on the field.”
“He what?” I whirled round at this, bandage still in hand.
The small group of men blinked up at me, surprised.
“Yes, ma’am,” said one man, with an awkward tug at the brim of his hat. “A fellow from Lillington’s brigade told me so; he was off to see the fun.”
“Fun,” muttered another of the men, and crossed himself.
“Shame if he hangs the Quaker,” another opined, face shadowed. “Old Husband’s a right terror in print, but he ain’t a ruffian. Nor are James Hunter or Ninian Hamilton.”
“Perhaps he’ll hang Cousin Millard,” another suggested, nudging his neighbor with a grin. “Then you’ll be rid of him and your wife can blame the Governor!”
There was a chorus of laughter at this, but the tone was subdued. I turned back to my work, concentrating fiercely to blot out the picture of what was now happening on the field of war.
War was bad enough, even when it was necessary. Cold-blooded revenge by the victor was one degree beyond. And yet from Tryon’s point of view, that might be necessary, too. As battles went, this one had been both quick, and relatively minor in terms of casualty. I had only twenty or so wounded in my keeping, and had seen only one fatality. There would be more elsewhere, of course, yet from the comments of those nearby, it had been a rout, but not a slaughter, the militiamen being largely unenthusiastic about butchering their fellow citizens, cousins or not.
That meant that most of the men of the Regulation survived unharmed. I supposed that the Governor might feel that a drastic gesture was required, to seal his victory, intimidate the survivors, and stamp once and for all on the long-smoldering wick of that dangerous movement.
There was a stir, and the sound of a horse’s hooves. I looked up—next to me, Bree’s head jerked up, her body tense—to see Jamie returning, riding double with Murdo Lindsay. Both men slid off, and he sent Murdo away with a word to care for Gideon, then came at once to me.
I could see from the anxious look of his face that he had no word of Roger; he glanced at my face and saw the answer to his own question there. His shoulders dropped slightly in discouragement, then straightened, stiffening.
“I will go to search the field,” he said to me, low-voiced. “I have sent word already, through the companies. If he is brought in anywhere, someone will bring us word.”
“I’m going with you.” Brianna was already taking off her grubby apron, wadding it into a ball.
Jamie glanced at her, then nodded.
“Aye, lass, of course. Just a moment, then—I’ll fetch wee Josh to help your mother.”
“I’ll get—get the horses ready.” Her movements were quick and jerky, without her usual athletic grace, and she dropped the water bottle she was holding, fumbling several times before she succeeded in retrieving it. I took