The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [120]
“Aye?” He must have sounded as baffled as he felt, for Quinn gave a brief sigh of exasperation.
“Ye’ll have heard of the Irish Brigade, at least?”
“I have, aye.” He glanced at Tom, regretting that he hadn’t let the lad take first watch; Quinn wouldn’t be telling him this sort of thing. The Irishman’s next words drove vain regrets from his mind, though.
“There are three regiments of the Irish Brigade in London,” Quinn whispered, eyes alight with suppressed glee. “The officers of two of them are with us. When the word comes that all is in hand here in Ireland, they’ll seize the king and hold Buckingham Palace!”
Jamie was struck dumb, and a good thing, too, for Quinn went on:
“We’ve loyal men in brigade regiments posted in Italy and France, too. Not all the officers—but once the thing is in motion, the rest will fall in. Or if they don’t—” He lifted one shoulder, a fatalist’s shrug.
“If they don’t … what?” Jamie knew what that shrug meant, but he wanted it spelled out, if only to give himself a moment’s time to think. His scalp was prickling, and his wame had curled itself up into a quivering ball beneath his ribs.
Quinn pursed his lips. “Why, then … those loyal to the Cause will take command, of course.”
“Ye mean they’ll kill those who don’t go along with it.”
“Now, then. Ye know as well as I do, ye can’t make wine without squeezin’—”
“Don’t bloody say it!” Jamie had the obscure feeling that cliché on top of treasonous insanity was more than anyone should be obliged to put up with. He rubbed a wet hand over his wet face, the bristles of his beard harsh under his palm.
“Each regiment has at least two volunteers among the officers. When the signal comes …” But Quinn hadn’t said “volunteers” in English, though he was speaking English. He’d used the Irish term, “Deonaigh.”
In Jamie’s experience, excluding clergy and peasants, Irishmen seemed to consist of two sorts: rabid fighters and maniac poets. These traits weren’t often combined in the same man, though.
That word, “Deonach.” It was in the Wild Hunt poem; he wouldn’t have taken notice, save that there was a popular soldier’s song, a sentimental, maudlin thing in Irish, called “The Volunteer.” There’d been several Irishmen in the group of mercenaries with whom he’d fought in France, much given to singing it when in liquor. That was almost the last song he recalled, before the blow of an ax had severed him forever from music.
“Sé an fuil á lorgadh, is é a teas á lorgadh,” he said abruptly, his heart beating quicker, and Quinn’s face turned sharply toward him. They search out blood, they seek its heat.
A moment’s silence, save for the rain. The fire was drowned now, even the black mark it left on the earth quite drowned in darkness. The cabbage was making its presence felt and Jamie clenched his buttocks, silently easing himself.
“Where did ye hear that, now?” Quinn said, his voice mild, and Jamie realized with a small shock that his life might depend upon his answer.
“Thomas Lally said it to me,” he replied, his voice as mild as Quinn’s. “When I met him in London.” Quinn might know that he’d met Lally—and it was true that Lally had said those words to him, reading them from the written sheet, a puzzled expression on his face.
“He did?” Quinn sounded blank, perhaps a little frightened, and Jamie expelled his breath, only then realizing that he’d been holding it. So. Lally maybe wasn’t part of the plot. But Quinn was fearful lest he knew about it?
“Tell me more about this, will ye?” Jamie said quickly. “Is there a date set for it?”
Quinn hesitated, still suspicious, but eagerness to talk and desire to win Jamie over got the better of him.
“Well, there is, then. All I can say is, it’ll be a day when the streets will be crowded, the beer flowing from the taverns, the squares all hoaching like weevils in a sack of grain.