The Outlandish Companion - Diana Gabaldon [235]
I sidled in a little closer, and kicked him discreetly in the ankle. I might have a glass face, but it certainly wouldn’t arouse comment in a crowd like this! He didn’t wince, but the smile spread a little wider. He slid one arm inside my cloak, and drew me closer, his hand on my back.
Hobson, MacLennan, and Fowles stood together just in front of us, talking quietly among themselves. All three came from a tiny settlement called Drunkard’s Creek, some fifteen miles from our own place on Fraser’s Ridge. Hugh Fowles was Joe Hobson’s son-in-law, and very young, no more than twenty. He was doing his best to keep his composure, but his face had gone white and clammy as the Proclamation was read; the Governor was very annoyed about what had happened in Hillsborough six weeks ago, that was clear.
I didn’t know what Tryon intended to do to anyone who could be proved to have had a part in the doings—several buildings had been destroyed, more than one public official dragged out and assaulted in the street—gossip had it that one ironically named justice of the peace had lost an eye to a vicious blow aimed with a horsewhip—and Chief Justice Henderson had escaped out of a window and fled the town, thus effectively preventing the Court from sitting—but I could feel the currents of unrest created by the Governor’s Proclamation passing through the crowd like the eddies of water rushing over rocks in the nearby creek.
Joe Hobson glanced back at Jamie, then away. Leftenant Hayes’s presence at our fire the previous evening had not gone unremarked.
If Jamie saw the glance, he didn’t return it. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, tilting his head down to speak to me.
“I shouldna think Hayes expects anyone to give themselves up, no. It’s his duty to ask for information, though. I thank God it isna mine to answer.” He hadn’t spoken loudly, but loudly enough to reach the ears of Joe Hobson.
Hobson turned his head and gave Jamie a small nod of wry acknowledgment. He touched his son-in-law’s arm, and they turned away, scrambling up the slope toward the scattered campsites above, where their womenfolk were tending the fires and the younger children.
This was the last day of the Gathering; this afternoon there would be marryings and christenings, the formal blessing of love and its riotous fruits sprung from the loins of the unchurched multitude during the year before. In the evening, the last songs would be sung, the last stories told, and dancing done amid the leaping flames of many fires—rain or no. Come morning, the Scots and their households would all disperse back to their homes, scattered from the settled banks of the Cape Fear River to the wild mountains of the West—carrying news of the Governor’s Proclamation and the doings at Hillsborough.
I wiggled my toes inside my damp shoes and wondered uneasily who among the crowd might think it their duty to answer Hayes’s invitation to confession or incrimination. Not Jamie, no. But others might. There had been a good deal of boasting about the riots in Hillsborough during the week of the Gathering, but not all the listeners were disposed to view the rioters as heroes, by any means.
I could feel as well as hear the mutter of conversation breaking out in the wake of the proclamation; heads turning, families drawing close together, men moving from group to group, as the content of Hayes’s speech was relayed up the hill, repeated to those who stood too far away for hearing.
“Shall we go? There’s a lot to do yet before the weddings.”
“Aye?” Jamie glanced down at me. “I thought Jocasta’s slaves were managing the food and drink and such. I gave Ulysses the barrels of whisky—he’ll be Sogan Buidhe.”
“Ulysses? Did he bring his wig?” I laughed at the thought. The Sogan Buidhe was the man who managed the dispensing of drink and refreshment at a Highland wedding; the term actually meant something like “hearty, jovial