The Fiery Cross

  interrupted these dark musings. She pulled on his sleeve, making clicking noises of disapproval as she viewed the leaves and twigs in his hair.

  "Look at ye, all gluthered and blashed about! Fightin', was it? Och, weel, I hope the other fellow looks worse, that's all I can say."

  Before he could protest, she had him seated on a rock, had whipped a wooden comb from her pocket and the thong from his hair, and was dealing with his disordered locks in a brisk manner that felt calculated to rip several strands from his scalp.

  "Thrush, is it, they call ye?" Mrs. Bug paused in her tonsorial activity, holding up a strand of glossy black and squinting suspiciously at it, as though in search of vermin.

  "Oh, aye, but it's no for the color of his bonnie black locks," Duncan put in, grinning at Roger's obvious discomfiture. "It's for the singin'. Honey-throated as a wee nightingale, is Roger Mac."

  "Singing?" cried Mrs. Bug. She dropped the lock of hair, enchanted. "Was it you we heard last night, then? Singin' 'Ceann-rra,' and 'Loch Ruadhainn'? And playin' on the bodhran with it?

  "Well, it might have been," Roger murmured modestly. The lady's un-

  86 Diana Gabaldon

  bounded admiration--expressed at great length-flattered him, and made him ashamed of his momentary resentment of her husband. After an, he thought, seeing the shabbiness of her much-mended a ron, and the lines in her f

  p ace, the old people had clearly had a hard time of it. Perhaps Jamie had hired them as much from charity as from his own need of help.

  That made him feel somewhat better, and he thanked Mrs. Bug very graciously for her assistance.

  "Will ye come along to our fire now?" he asked, with an inquiring glance at Mr. Bug. "Ye'll not have met Mrs. Fraser yet, I suppose, or-"

  He was interrupted by a noise like a fire engine's siren, distant but obviously coming closer. Quite familiar,,xith this particular racket, he was not surprised to see his father-in-law emerge from one of the trails that crisscrossed the mountain, Jem squirming and squalling like a scalded cat in his arms.

  Jamie, looking mildly harried, handed the child across to Roger. Roger took him and-for lack of any other inspiration-stuck his thumb in the wide-open mouth. The noise ceased abruptly, and everyone relaxed.

  "What a sweet laddie!" Mrs. Bug stood a-tiptoe to coo over Jem, while Jamie, looking highly relieved, turned to greet Mr. Bug and Duncan.

  "Sweet" was not the adjective Roger himself would have chosen. "Berserk" seemed more like it. The baby was bright red in the face, the tracks of tears staining his cheeks, and he sucked furiously on the sustaining thumb, eyes squashed shut in an effort to escape a patently unsatisfactory world. What hair he had was sticking up in sweaty spikes and whorls, and he had come out of his wrappings, which hung in disreputable folds and draggles. He also smelled like a neglected privy, for reasons which were all too obvious.

  An experienced father, Roger at once instituted emergency measures. "Where's Bree?"

  "God knows, and He's no telling," Jamie said briefly. "I've been searchin' the Mountainside for her since the wean woke in my arms and decided he wasna. satisfied Ari' my company." He sniffed suspiciously at the hand which had been holding his grandson, then wiped it on the skirts of his coat.

  "He's not so very pleased with mine, either, seems like." Jern was champing on the thumb, drool running down his chin and over Roger's wrist, uttering squeals of frustration. "Have ye seen Marsali, then?" He knew Brianna didn't like anyone to feed Jemmy but herself, but this was plainly an emergency. He cast an eye about, hoping to spot a nursing mother somewhere nearby who might take pity on the child, if not on him.

  "Let me have the poor wee bairnie," said Mrs. Bug, reaching for the baby and immediately altering her status from chattering busybody to angel of light, so far as Roger was concerned.

  "There, now, a leannan, there, there." Recognizing a higher authority when he saw it, Jemmy promptly shut up, his eyes rounded with awe as he regarded Mrs. Bug. She sat down with the little boy on her lap and began to deal with him in the same firm and efficient manner with which she had just dealt with his father. Roger thought that perhaps Jamie had hired the wrong Bug to be factor.

  Arch, though, was exhibiting both intelligence and competence, asking sensible questions of Jamie regarding stock, crops, tenants, and so forth. But I

  The Fiery Cross 87

  could do that, Roger thought, following the conversation closely. Some of it, he amended honestly, as the talk suddenly veered into a discussion of bag-rot. Perore knowledgeable ... but Roger haps Jamie was right to seek someone rn

  could learn, after all....

  . 44And who's the bormie laddie5 nook" Mrs. Bug had risen to her feet, cooing over Jernmy, now respectably transformed into a tightly swaddled cocoon. She traced the line of a round cheek with one stubby finger, then glanced at Roger. Aye, aye, he's eyes just like his father, then, hasn't he?"

  Roger flushed, forgetting about bag-rot.

  "Oh? I should say he favors his mother, mostly." Roger, then shook her head Mrs. Bug pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes at

  decidedly, and patted Jern on the top of his head.

  ; "Not the hair, maybe, but the shape of him, aye, that's yours, lad. Those fine broad shoulders!" She gave Roger a brief nod of approval, and kissed Jern on the brow. "Why, I shouldna be surprised but what his een will turn green as he ages, either. Mark me, lad, he'll be the spit of you by the time he's grown! Won't ye, wee mannie?" She nuzzled Jernmy. "Ye'll be a big, braw lad like your Da, won't ye, then?"

  Its the usual thingfolk say, he reminded himself, trying to quell the absurd rush of pleasure he felt at her words. The old wifies, they always say how a bairn resembles this one or that one. He discovered suddenly that he was afraid even to admit the possibility that Jernmy could really be his-he wanted it so badly. He told himself firmly that it didn't matter; whether the boy was his by blood or not, he would love and care for him as his son. He would, of course. But it did matter, he found-oh, it did. I though, Mr. Bug turned Before he could say anything further to Mrs. Bug

  toward him, to include him courteously in the men's conversation "MacKenzie, is it?" he asked. "And will ye be one of the MacKenzies of Torridon, then, or maybe from Kilmarnock?"

  Poger had been fielding similar questions all through the Gathering; exploring a person's antecedents was the normal beginning of any Scottish conversation-something that wouldn't change a bit in the next two hundred years, he thought, wariness tempered by the comfortable familiarity of the process. Before he could answer, though, Jamie's hand squeezed his shoulder.

  "Roger Mac's kin to me on my mother's side," he said casually. "it will be MacKenzie of Leoch, aye?"

  I, Arch Bug looked impressed. "You're far afield, then, lad!" "Oh, aye yourself, sit, surely--or anyone here, for that matter. "Och, no more than from which the sounds of

  Roger waved briefly at the Mountainside above,

  Gaelic shouts and the music of bagpipes drifted on the damp air. , rejoined the "No, no, lad!" Mrs. Bug, JemmY propped against her shoulder conversation. "That's no what Arch is meanin'," she explained. "It's that you're a good long way from the others."

  "Others?" Rger exchanged a look with Jamie, who shrugged, equally puzzled.

  "From Leoch," Arch, got in, before his wife seized the thread of talk between her teeth. aye? There were a gaggle of them, all ,We did hear it on the ship,

  88 Diana Gabaldon

  MacKenzies, all from the lands south of the auld castle. They'd stayed on after the laird left, him and the first lot, but now they meant to go and join what was left o' the clan, and see could they mend their fortunes, because-"

  "The laird?" Jamie interrupted her sharply. "That would be Hamish mac Callum?" Hamish, son of Colum, Roger translated to himself, and paused. Or rather, Hamish mac Dougal-but there were only five people in the world who knew that. Perhaps only four, now.

  Mrs. Bug was nodding emphatically. "Aye, aye, it is himself they were calling so.
Hamish mac Callum MacKenzie, laird of Leoch. The third laird. They said it, just so. And-"

  Jamie had evidently caught the knack of dealing with Mrs. Bug; by dint of ruthless interruption, he succeeded in extracting the story in less time than Roger would have thought possible. Castle Leoch had been destroyed by the

  ollowing Culloden. So much Jamie had English, in the purge of the Highlands f

  known, but, imprisoned himself, had had no word of the fate of those who lived there.

  "And no great heart to ask," he added, with a rueful tilt of the head. The Bugs glanced at each other and sighed in unison, the same hint of melancholy shadowing their eyes that shaded Jamie's voice. It was a look Roger was well ac custorned to by now.

  "But if Hamish mac Callum still lives "Jamie had not taken his hand from Roger's shoulder, and at this it squeezed tight. -That's news to gladden the heart, no?" He smiled at Roger,

  with such obvious joy that Roger felt an unexpected grin break out on his Own face in answer.

  "Aye," he said, the weight on his heart lightening. "Aye, it isp, The fact that he would not know Hamish mac Callum MacKenzie from a hole in the ground was unimportant; the man was indeed kin to him-blood kin-and that WaS a glad thought.

  "Where have they gone, then?" Jamie demanded, dropping his hand. "Hamish and his followersp,

  To Acadia-to Canada, the Bugs agreed. To Nova Scotia? To Maine? Noto an island, they decided, after a convoluted conf

  erence. Or was it perhapsJemmy interrupted the proceedings with a yowl indicating imminent starvation, and Mrs. Bug started as though poked with a stick.

  "We mun be takin' this puir lad to his Mam," she said rebukingly, dividing a our men, as though accusing them collectively of glare impartially among the f

  conspiracy to murder the child. "Where does your camp lie, Mr. Fraser?" "1111

  guide ye, ma'am," Duncan said hastily. "Come wi' me.

  Roger started after the Bugs, but Jamie kept him with a hand on his arm. "Nay, let Duncan take them," he said, dismissing the Bugs with a nod. 691,11 speak wil Arch later. I've a thing I must say to you, a cbliambuinn."

  elt himself tense a bit at the formal term of address. So, was this Roger f

  where Jamie told him just what defects of character and background made him unsuitable to take responsibility for things at Fraser's Ridge?

  rom his sporran. He But no, Jamie was bringing out a crumpled paper f

  handed it to Roger with a slight grimace, as though the paper burned his hand. Roger scanned it quickly, then glanced up from the Governor's brief message. "Militia. How soon?"

  The Fiery Cross 89

  Jamie lifted one shoulder- of us should like, I think." He gave "No one can say, but sooner than any k round the fires?" Roger a faint, unhappy smile. "Ye'll have heard the tal

  Roger nodded soberly. He had heard the talk in the intervals of the singing, around the edges of the stone-throwing contests, among the men drinking in small groups under the trees the day before. There had been a fistfight at the caber-tossing-quickly stopped, and with no damage done-but anger hung in the air of the Gathering, like a bad smell.

  Jamie rubbed a hand over his face and through his hair, and shrugged, sighing.

  " 'Twas luck I should have come across auld Arch Bug and his wife today. If it comes to the fighting-and it will, I suppose, later, if not now-then Claire will ride with us. I shouldna like to leave Brianna to manage on her own, and it can be helped."

  Roger felt the small nagging weight of doubt drop away, as all became suddenly clear.

  "On her own. You mean-ye want me to comeP To help raise men for the militia?"

  Jamie gave him a puzzled look. "Aye, who else?"

  He pulled the edges of his plaid higher about his shoulders, hunched against the rising wind. "Come along, then, Captain MacKenzie," he said, a wry note in his voice. "We've work to do before you're wed."

  GERM OF DISSENT

  PEERED UP THE NOSE of one of Farquard Campbell's slaves, half my mind on the nasal polyp obstructing the nostril, the other half on Gov-

  1 ernor Tryon. Of the two, I felt more charitably toward the polyp, and I intended to cauterize that out of existence with a hot iron.

  It seemed so bloody unfair, I thought, frowning as I sterilized my scalpel and set the smallest cauterizing iron in a dish of hot coals.

  Was this the beginning? Or one of them? It was the end of 1770; in five years more, all of the thirteen Colonies would be at war. But each colony would come to that point by a different process. Having lived in Boston for so long, I knew from Brre's school lessons what the process had been-or would be-for Massachusetts. Tax, Boston Massacre, Harbor, Hancock, Adams, Tea Party, all that. But North Carolina? How had it happened-how would it happen-here?

  It could be happening now. Dissension had been simmenng for several years between the planters of the eastern seaboard and the hardscrabble

  90 Diana Gabaldon

  homesteaders of the western backcountry, The Regulators were mostly drawn from the latter class; the former were wholeheartedly in Tryon's camp-on the side of the Crown, that was to say.

  "All right now?" I had given the slave a good slug of medicinal whisky, by way of fortification. I smiled encouragingly, and he nodded, looking uncertain but resigned.

  I had never heard of Regulators, but here they were, nonetheless-and I had seen enough by now to know just how much the history books left out. Were the seeds of revolution being sown directly under my own nose?

  Murmuring soothingly, I wrapped a linen napkin round my left hand, took firm hold of the slave's chin with it, poked the scalpel up his nostril and severed the polyp with a deft flick of the blade. It bled profusely, of course, the blood gushing warmly through the cloth round my hand, but evidently was not very painful. The slave looked surprised, but not distressed.

  The cautery iron was shaped like a tiny spade, a bit of square, flattened metal on the end of a slender rod with a wooden handle. The flat bit was smoking in the fire, the edges glowing red. I pressed the cloth hard against the man's nose to blot the blood, took it away, and in the split second before the blood spurted out again, pressed the hot iron up his nose against the septum, hoping against hope that I'd got the proper spot.

  The slave made a strangled noise in his throat, but didn't move, though tears poured down his cheeks, wet and warm on my fingers. The smell of searing blood and flesh was just the same as the scent that rose from the barbecue pits. My stomach growled loudly; the slave's bulging, bloodshot eye met mine, astonished. My mouth twitched, and he giggled faintly through the tears and snot.

  I took the iron away, cloth poised. No fresh blood flowed. I tilted the man's head far back, squinting to see, and was pleased to find the small, clean mark, high on the mucosa. The burn would be a vivid red, I knew, but without the light of a scope, it looked black, a small scab hidden like a tick in the hairy shadows of the nostril.

  The man spoke no English; I smiled at him, but addressed his companion, a Young woman who had clutched his hand throughout the ordeal.

  "He'll be quite all right. Tell him, please, not to pick at the scab. If there should be swelling, pus or fever"-I paused, for the next line should be-"go to your doctor at once.55 and that was not an option.

  "Go to your mistress," I said, instead, reluctantly. "Or find an herbwoman." The present Mrs. Campbell was young, and rather muddleheaded, from the little I knew of her. Still, any plantation mistress should have the knowledge and wherewithal to treat a fever. And if it should go past simple infection and into septicemia ... well, there was not much anyone could do, in that case.

  I patted the slave's shoulder and sent him off, beckoning to the next in line. Infection. That was what was breiving. Things seemed quiet overall-after all, the Crown was withdrawing all its troops! But dozens, hundreds, thousands of tiny germs of dissent must linger, forming pockets of conflict throughout the Colonies. The Regulation was only one.

  A small bucket of distilled alcohol sto
od by my feet, for disinfecting instru-

  The Fiery Cross

  91

  ments. I dipped the cautery iron in this, then thrust it back in the fire; the alcohol ignited with a brief, lightless piffl

  I had the unpleasant feeling that the note presently burning a hole in Jamie's sporran was a similar flame, touched to one of a million small fuses. Some might be stamped out, some would fizzle on their own-but enough would burn, and go on burning, searing their destructive way through homes and families. The end of it would be a clean excision, but a great deal of blood would flow before the hot iron of guns should sear the open wound.

  Were we never to have a little peace, Jamie and I?

  4THERE'S DUNCAN MACLEOD, he's got three hundred acres near the Yadkin River, but no one on it save himself and his brother." Jamie rubbed a sleeve over his face, wiping off the sheen of moisture that clung to his bones. He blinked to clear his vision, and shook himself Eke a dog, spattering drops that had condensed in his hair.

  "But," he went on, gesturing toward the plume of smoke that marked MacLeod's fire, "he's kin to auld Rabbie Cochrane. Rabbie's not come to the Gathering-ill wi' the dropsy, I hear-but he's got eleven g r`o Mwna cbLaei ornds,, ms caaktetered over the mountains like seed corn. So, take your time 'Ai

  sure he's pleased to come, then tell him to send word to Rabbie. We'll muster at ]Hesehre'sitRaitdedge, oinnea foarntdniognht,Rtoeglierh'isma.r"m to prevent an abrupt departure. He squinted into the haze, reckoning up the possibilities. They'd visited three campsites together, and got the pledges of four men. How many more could be found at the Gathering?

  "After Duncan, go across to the sheep pens. Angus Og will be there, surelyye ken Angus Og?"

  Roger nodded, hoping he recalled the correct Angus Og. He'd met at least four men of that name in the last week, but one of them had had a dog at heel, and reeked of raw wool.

  "Campbell, aye? Bent like a fishhook, and a cast in one eye?"

  "Aye, that's him." Jamie gave a nod of approbation, relaxing his grip. "He's too crabbit to fight himself, but he'll see his nephews come, and spread the word amongst the settlements near High Point. So, Duncan, Angus ... oh, aye, Joanie Findlay."

  "Joanie?" Fraser grinned.

  "Aye, auld Joan, they call her. Her camp's near my aunt, her and her brother, Iain Mhor."

  Roger nodded, dubious.

  "Aye. It's her I speak to, though, is it?"

  "Ye'll have to," Fraser said. "lain Mhor's got nay speech. She's two more brothers who' have, though, and two sons old enough to fight. She'll see they come."

  Jamie cast an eye upward; the day had warmed slightly and it wasn't raining so much as misting-a mizzle, they'd call it in Scotland. The clouds had

  92 Diana Gabaldon

  thinned enough to show the disk of the sun, a pale blurry wafer still high in the sky, but sinking lower. Another two hours of good light, maybe.

  "That'll do," he decided, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Come back to the fire when ye've done wi' auld Joan, and we'll have a bit of supper before your wedding, aye?" He gave Roger an up-cocked brow and a slight smile, then turned away. Before Roger could move off, he turned back.

  "Say straight off as you're Captain MacKenzie," he advised. "They'll mind ye better." He turned again and strode off in search of the more recalcitrant prospects on his list.

  MacLeod's fire burned like a smudge pot in the mist. Roger turned toward it, repeating the names under his breath like a mantra. "Duncan MacLeod, Rabbie Cochrane, Angus Og Campbell, Joanie Findlay ... Duncan MacLeod, Rabbie Cochrane . - ." No bother; three times and he'd have it cold, no matter whether it was the words of a new song to be learned, facts in a textbook, or directions to the psychology of potential militia recruits.

  He could see the sense of finding as many of the backcountry Scots as possible now, before they scattered away to their farms and cabins. And he was heartened by the fact that the men Fraser had approached so f

  ar had accepted the militia summons with no more than a mild glower and throat-clearings of resignation.

  .Captain MacKenzie. He felt a small sense of embarrassed pride at the title Fraser had casually bestowed on him. "Instant Soldier," he muttered derisively to himself, straightening the shoulders of his sodden coat. "Just add water."

  At the same time, he'd admit to a faint tingle of excitement. It might amount to no more than playing soldiers, now, indeed-but the thought of marching with a militia regiment, muskets shouldered and the smell of gunpowder on their hands ...

  It was less than four years from now, he thought, and militiamen would stand on the green at Lexington. Men who were no more soldiers to start with than these men he spoke to in the rain-no more than him. Awareness shivered over his skin, settled in his belly with an odd weight of significance.

  It was coming. Christ, it was really coming.

  AA.AcLEOD WAS NO TROUBLE, but it took longer than he'd thought to find Angus