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The British officers stirred a little, hearing the Gaelic, and the young officer on the far side of the bed looked up, startled. Not nearly as startled as I was.
with the air of an exhausted man struggling against an overwhelming urge to tell the world to go to hell. I recognized the impulse and sympathized—but
“Where is your hat, Lieutenant Ransom?” The colonel spoke behind me, quietly reproving, and for the second time in five minutes I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Not at the colonel’s words but at the murmured reply. “… rebel whoreson shot it off my head,” said a voice. It was an English voice, young, hoarse with suppressed grief, and tinged with anger. Other than that—it was Jamie’s voice, and Jamie’s hand tightened so abruptly on mine that he nearly crushed my fingers.
“I believe I owe ye a hat, sir,” he said politely, and turned away at once, leaving the young man blinking at the battered tricorne in his hands. Glancing back, I caught a glimpse of William’s baffled face as he looked after Jamie,
I could feel Jamie vibrating like a plucked violin string, and his breath was coming fast. “Have you quite lost your mind?” I inquired conversationally.
“Very likely.”
“I dinna ken whether to laugh or to weep, Sassenach,” he said. He took his hand away from his face, and I saw that, in fact, he appeared to be doing both. His lashes were wet, but the corners of his mouth were twitching.
“I’ve lost a kinsman and found one, all in the same moment—and a moment later realize that for the second time in his life, I’ve come within an inch of shooting my son.”
“I shouldna have done it, I ken that. It’s only—I thought all at once, What if I dinna miss, a third time? And—and I thought I must just … speak to him. As a man. In case it should be the only time, aye?”
Colonel Grant cast a curious look at the trailhead, where a trembling branch marked the passage of the rebel and his wife, then turned his gaze on the hat in William’s hands. “What the devil was that about?” William cleared his throat. “Evidently, Colonel Fraser was the, um, rebel whoreson who deprived me of my hat during the battle yesterday,” he said, hoping for a tone of dry detachment. “He has … recompensed me.”
“Well, put it on, then, Captain Ransom. We must show a good example to the men, you know.”
“The brigadier …” He glanced back at the reeking, silent cabin, and the smile faded. “He wanted you made captain after Ticonderoga—should have been done then, but … well.” His lips thinned, but then relaxed. “General Burgoyne signed the order last night, after hearing several accounts of the battle. I gather that you distinguished yourself.”
“Do you know—did he—no, it doesn’t matter.” “Did he know?” Grant said gently. “I told him. I brought the order.” Unable to speak, William bobbed his head. The hat, for a wonder, fit him, and stayed in place.
The open door bothered him; while the fog lay heavy as a feather bed on the forest, the mist near the cabin was rising, drifting around the windows, and he had the uneasy fancy that it was somehow … coming for the brigadier.
“The donor of your hat said we must leave it open. Some Highland fancy—something about the, um, soul requiring an exit,”
“Looks more like you than like the brigadier,” Grant added offhandedly, then laughed, a painful creak. “Sure you haven’t a Scottish branch in your family?”
Whatever Grant might have said in reply was lost, as the sound of a doomed soul came down to them through the gloom. Both men froze, listening. The brigadier’s piper was coming, with Balcarres and some of his rangers. The burial detail.
Then wails and ululating shrieks joined the piper’s lament—Balcarres and his Indians. Despite the chilling sounds, William was a little comforted; it would not be just a hasty field burial, undertaken without regard or respect.
jugum penis,”
“It looks like a bear trap. What is it—it can’t be a device for performing circumcision, surely?” I picked up the object, which caused Dr. Rawlings to gasp, and I eyed him curiously.
“It prevents nocturnal … er … tumescence.” His face by this time was a dark, unhealthy sort of red, and he wouldn’t meet my eye. “Yes, I imagine it would do that.” The object in question consisted of two concentric circles of metal, the outer one flexible, with overlapping ends, and a sort of key mechanism that enabled it to be tightened. The inner one was sawtoothed—much like a bear trap, as I’d said. Rather obviously, it was meant to be fastened round a limp penis—which would stay in that condition, if it knew what was good for it.
“Why … it … the … the loss of the male essence is most debilitating. It drains the vitality and exposes a man to all manner of sickness, as well as grossly impairing his mental and spiritual faculties.” “Just as well no one’s thought of mentioning that to my husband,” I said.
I was pleased to be in one place long enough to wash my clothes without risk of being shot, scalped, or otherwise molested. Beyond that, there were a good many casualties from the two battles who still required nursing.
“Who’s that, Auntie? One of your rejected suitors?” Young Ian spoke by my ear, a grin in his voice.
“Why, that bloody filthy arsehole!”
“Oh, there ye are, Auntie.” A tall presence loomed up, no more than a shadow in the dark, and Young Ian touched my arm. “Are ye all right, Auntie?” There was an anxious tone in his voice, bless him. “Yes,”
Mortification flamed up his chest, but he was speaking to perhaps the only woman in camp who might take arseholes as a common topic of conversation. Well, the only one save his auntie, he amended.
“I’m sorry about the grease,” she said abruptly. He blinked. “Grease?” “For someone’s arsehole, Friend Murray said. The dog ate it.” “The dog ate … oh, the dog ate the grease.” His mouth twitched,
He smiled at me. “Ever heard of coup de foudre, Sassenach? It didna take me more than one good look at you.” “Hmm,” I said, pleased.
I could sense the tension thrumming through him; he was strung like a bow with the arrow nocked.
Jamie might have decided against throwing a cup of coffee at him, but I was willing to have a try with the pot.
I could see the tautness in Jamie’s body subtly shifting; the bow was being drawn.
Colonel Martin dashed after him, and I managed to stick out a foot and trip him. He went sprawling through the fire, sending a fountain of sparks and ashes into the night.
“I—” Jamie began, but Rachel Hunter forestalled him, falling to her knees and grabbing Rollo by the scruff. “I’ll mind thy dog for thee,” she said, breathless but certain. “Run!” He took one last despairing look at her, then at Rollo. And he ran.
they did want to kill the dog, particularly Colonel Martin, and it had taken not only all Jamie’s resources but the young Quaker lass’s prostrating herself upon the hound’s hairy carcass and declaring that they must kill her first.
He made his way back to his tent with his head in a whirl, wondering whether he could disguise Young Ian as his wife’s maid, in the manner of Charles Stuart.
Safe, that gesture said, though he still stood straight as the rifle beside him. Thank God. He is safe.
He moved suddenly into the light, and Roger saw his eyes more clearly. Cold, and a deep, striking green.
incensed the remains heavily with burning sage and sweetgrass (not much help in terms of olfaction, but the smoke did draw a gentle veil over the more horrid aspects of the situation)
he is technically a murderer and thus unable to appear in public in the vicinity of the Continental army. As a side result of the technical murder (a very unpleasant person, and no great loss to humanity, I assure you),
P.S. Your father insists upon adding a few words to this. This will be his first try at writing with his altered hand, and I would like to watch to see how it’s working, but he instructs me firmly that he requires privacy. I don’t know whether this is to do with his subject matter or simply with the fact that he doesn’t want anyone to see him struggle. Both, probably.
the letters seemed looser, less jagged somehow.
My Dearest, Your Brother is alive, and unwounded. I saw him march out from Saratoga with his Troops, bound for Boston and eventually England. He will not fight again in this War. Deo gratias. Your most loving Father, JF Postscriptum: It is the Feast of All Saints. Pray for me.
She looked straight into eyes that were the twins of Roger’s, then glanced wildly at Roger, just to be sure. Yes, they were.
“How have ye been feeding yourself?” Roger asked, eyeing the steadily diminishing pile of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches.
a bhana-mhaighstir?”
He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose, in just the way her father did. A MacKenzie thing, she thought, entertained.
“How old are you?” she asked abruptly, and he shrugged, brushing the back of his wrist across his eyes. “Eight and thirty,” he said. “Why?”
B. 1744. 38 would be 1782. Alamance was 1771. He makes it sound like his Jem was still little and did they float around NC for 11 years??? Diana really CAN'T keep track of dates, can she?
An ill-favored wee lad, Jamie thought, scrawny and narrow-faced as a ferret, with a walleye and a mouth that hung open as though in astonishment.
Too late, Jamie saw that his spine was badly twisted and one leg shorter than the other. There was no way to apologize that would not make matters worse, though, and so he only nodded shortly and let the man lurch his way off into the house,
