Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (49 page)

“Oh! It was—he was—your father is a great, good man,
Guillaume
! You’re so fortunate to have him.”

“I—er—yes,” William said, a little dubiously. “But what did he say—”

“He told me all about my father,” Cinnamon said, and stopped to swallow at the enormity of the word. “My father. He’s called Malcolm Stubbs; have you ever met him?”

“I’m not sure,” William said, frowning in an effort at recollection. “I’m sure I’ve heard the name once or twice, but if I’ve ever met him, it must have been when I was quite young.”

Cinnamon flapped a large hand, dismissing this.

“He was a soldier, a captain. He was badly hurt in the big battle for the City of Quebec, up on the Plains of Abraham, you know?”

“I know about the battle, yes. But he survived?”

“He did. He lives in London.” Cinnamon squeezed William’s shoulder in a transport of delight at the name, and William felt his collarbone shift.

“I see. Well, that’s good, I suppose?”

“Lord John says that if I choose to write a letter, he will see that Captain Stubbs receives it. In
London
!” Clearly, London was next door to Faery-land, and William smiled at his friend, at once truly happy that Cinnamon was genuinely thrilled about this revelation—and secretly and shamefacedly relieved that, after all, Cinnamon really wasn’t Papa’s natural son.

It was necessary to walk up and down the yard several times, listening to Cinnamon’s excited account of exactly what he had said, and what Lord John had said, and what he had thought when Lord John said it, and…

“So you are going to write a letter, aren’t you?” William finally managed to interrupt him sufficiently as to ask.

“Oh, yes.” Cinnamon grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Will you help me,
Guillaume
? Help me decide what to say?”

“Ouch. Yes, of course.” He retrieved his crushed hand and flexed the fingers gently. “Well. I suppose that means that you’d like to remain here in Savannah for a bit, in case there should be a reply from Captain Stubbs?”

Cinnamon seemed to pale slightly, whether at the thought of receiving such a reply, or at the possibility that he might not, but he took a huge breath and nodded.

“Yes. Lord John was so kind as to invite us to remain with him, but I think that wouldn’t be right. I told him I’ll find work, a little place to live. Oh,
Guillaume,
I’m
so
happy.
Je n’arrive pas à y croire!
”

“So am I,
mon ami,
” William said, and smiled; Cinnamon’s delight was catching. “But I tell you what—let’s go and be happy together over supper. I’m going to drop dead of starvation any minute.”

Fraser’s Ridge

THE MEETING HOUSE, AS
everyone had taken to calling the cabin that was to serve the Ridge as schoolroom, Masonic Lodge, a church for Presbyterian and Methodist services, and a place for Quaker meeting, was now finished, and in the afternoon of that day, the reluctant schoolteacher, the Worshipful Master of the Lodge, and the three competing preachers met—spouses brought along as congregation—to inspect and bless the place.

“It smells like beer,” said the nominative schoolteacher, wrinkling her nose.

It did, the smell of hops strong enough to compete with the fragrance of the raw pinewood of the walls and the new benches, so freshly cut as still to be oozing a pale golden sap in places.

“Aye,” said the Master. “Ronnie Dugan and Bob McCaskill had a difference of opinion about whether there should be something for the preachers to stand on besides the floor, and someone kicked over the keg.”

“No great loss,” replied the husband of the sole practicing Quaker on Fraser’s Ridge. “Worst beer I’ve had since wee Markie Henderson pissed in his mother’s brew tub and no one found it out before the beer was served.”

“Oh, it wasn’t quite
that
bad,” the Presbyterian minister said, presumably on the judge-not principle, but he was drowned out by a general buzz of agreement.

“Who made it?” asked Rachel in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder in case the miscreant brewer should be in earshot.

“I blush to admit that I supplied the keg,” Captain Cunningham said, frowning, “but I’ve no notion of its manufacture. It came up with some of my books from Cross Creek.”

There was a general murmur of understanding—punctuated by a grunt of disapproval from Mrs. Cunningham—and the topic of beer was tabled by unspoken general consensus.

“Well, now.” Jamie called the meeting to order, opening one of his spare ledgers, this now devoted to the business of the Meeting House. “Brianna says she’s willing to teach the wee bug—er, the bairns—for two hours in the morning, from nine o’clock until elevenses, so spread the word about that—she’ll be starting after the harvest. And if any of the older lads and lassies canna read or write yet, they can come to learn their letters…when,
a nighean
?”

“Let’s say ‘by appointment,’ ” Bree replied. “What about slates—do we have any?”

“No,” Jamie replied, and wrote down
Slates—10
in his ledger with a pencil.

“Only ten?” I said, peering over his arm. “Surely there are more children than that to be taught.”

“They’ll come once they’re sure Brianna won’t beat them,” Roger said, grinning at his wife. “I think we can find out where to get slates from Gustav Grunewald, the Moravian schoolmaster; I know him and he’s a good sort. I’ll paint you a blackboard to use until we get them.”

“I know where there’s a decent chalk bed,” I chimed in. “I’ll bring some back when I go up there tomorrow after cranesbill.”

“Desks?” Bree asked tentatively, glancing round. The room was spacious and well lighted, with windows—so far, uncovered—in three of the four walls, but there were no furnishings beyond the benches—apparently whoever had wanted to construct a podium had lost the argument.

“As soon as someone has the time,
mo chridhe.
It willna hurt them to hold their slates on their knees for a bit, and ye’ll no have more than a few before the autumn. They need to be working until the crops are in, ken.” Jamie flipped over a page.

“Business of the Lodge…well, that’s for the Lodge to deal with. Now, we’ve been accustomed—last time we had a gathering place—to have the regular Lodge meeting on a Wednesday, but I understand that the captain here would like to have that night for a church service?”

“If it does not discommode you too much, sir?”

“Not at all,” Roger said, causing the captain to look sharply at him. “You’d be more than welcome to join us at Lodge, of course, Captain.”

Cunningham glanced at Jamie, who nodded, and the captain relaxed, just slightly, with an inclination of his own head.

“Then it will be regular meeting of the Lodge on Tuesday, and…we’ve been accustomed to use the cabin as a meeting place on other evenings, just socially, aye?”

“Bring your own stool and bottle,” Roger clarified. “And a stick of wood for the hearth.”

Mrs. Cunningham snorted in a ladylike fashion, indicating what she thought of free-form social gatherings of men involving bottles. I rather thought she had a point, but Jamie, Roger, and Ian had all assured me that the informal evenings were a great help in finding out what was going on around the Ridge—and just possibly doing something about it before things got out of hand.

“So, then.” Jamie flipped to a new page, this one headed
Church
in large black letters, underlined. “How d’ye want to manage Sundays—or is it Sunday for Friends, Rachel?”

“They call it First Day, but it’s really Sunday, aye,” Young Ian put in. Rachel looked amused, but nodded.

“So, will the three of ye hold service—or meeting,” he added, with a nod to Rachel, “every Sunday? Or d’ye want to alternate?”

Roger and the captain eyed each other, hesitant to say anything that might seem confrontational, but determined to claim time and space for their nascent congregations.

“I will be here each First Day,” Rachel said calmly. “But given the nature of Quaker meeting, I think perhaps it would be best if I were to come in the later part of the afternoon. Those who attend service earlier in the day might find it useful to sit and contemplate in the quietness of their hearts what they’ve heard, or to share it with others.”

“Mam and I will be there, too,” Ian said firmly.

The two preachers looked surprised, but then nodded.

“We’ll also hold service every Sunday,” Roger said. “The third commandment doesn’t say,
‘Thou shalt keep holy the Lord’s day twice a month,’
after all.”

“Quite true,” said the captain, but before he could speak further, Mrs. Cunningham said what everyone was thinking.

“Who goes first?”

There was an uneasy silence, which Jamie broke by digging in his sporran and pulling out a silver shilling, which he flipped into the air, caught on the back of his hand, and clapped the other hand over it.

“Heads or tails, Captain?”

“Um…” Caught by surprise, Cunningham hesitated, and I saw his mother begin to mouth “tails”—quite unconsciously, I thought. “Heads,” he said firmly. Jamie lifted his hand to peek at the coin, then showed it to the group.

“Heads it is. D’ye choose first or second, then, Captain?”

“Can ye sing, sir?” Roger asked, startling Cunningham anew.

“I—yes,” he said, taken aback. “Why?”

“I can’t,” Roger said, touching his throat in illustration. “If ye go first, ye can leave them in an uplifted frame of mind with a parting hymn. So they’ll be more receptive, maybe, to what I have to say.” He smiled, and there was a small ripple of laughter, but I didn’t think he was joking.

Jamie nodded.

“Ye needna worry about bein’ first or last, Captain. Entertainment’s scarce.”

JOHN QUINCY MYERS
had, during his short stay with us, opined that mountain-dwellers were so lacking in opportunities for entertainment that they would travel twenty miles to watch paint dry. This thought was part of his modest disclaimer to being entertaining in himself, but he wasn’t wrong.

One new preacher would have been enough to draw a crowd. Two was unheard of, and two preachers representing different faces of Christianity…! As I stood with Jamie outside the new Meeting House, waiting for Captain Cunningham’s service to begin, I heard muttered bets behind me—first, as to whether the two preachers would fight each other, and if so, who might win.

Jamie, also hearing this, turned round to address the gaggle of half-grown boys doing it.

“A hundred to one says they willna fight each other,” he said, in a carrying voice, adding then in a lower tone, “But if they do, I’ll have ten shillings on Roger Mac, five to one.”

This caused a minor sensation among the boys—and a clucking of disapproval among the few actual Methodists and Anglicans present—which died away as the captain approached, in full naval uniform, including gold-laced hat, but with a surplice over one arm, and his mother—fine in black, with a black lace bodice—on the other. An approving murmur broke out, and Jamie and I made our way to the front of the crowd to bid them welcome.

The captain was sweating a little—it was a warm morning—but seemed both in good spirits and self-possessed.

“General Fraser,” he said, bowing to Jamie. “And Mrs. General Fraser. I hope I see you well on this blessed morning.”

“You do, sir,” Jamie said, bowing back. “And I thank ye. I’ll thank ye further, though, to grant us a title more modest, perhaps, but more fitting. I am Colonel Fraser—and this is my lady.”

I spread my calico skirts and curtsied, hoping I remembered how. I wondered whether the captain had caught the intimation that Jamie had, did, or could command a militia. Yes, he had…

The captain had stiffened noticeably, but Mrs. Cunningham executed a beautiful straight-backed curtsy to Jamie and rose smoothly.

“Our thanks to you, Colonel,” she said, not batting an eye, “for providing my son the opportunity to bring God’s word to those most in need of it.”

ROGER HAD BEEN
of several minds regarding attending Captain Cunningham’s service.

“Mama and Da are going,” Bree had argued. “
And
Fanny and Germain. We don’t want to look as though we’re avoiding the poor man, do we—or high-hatting his service?”

“Well, no. But I don’t want to look as though I’ve just come to judge the competition, as it were. Besides, your da has to go; he can’t seem…partial.”

She laughed, and bit off the thread she’d been sewing with, hemming one of Mandy’s skirts, which had somehow contrived to unhem itself on one side while the owner was supposedly virtuously occupied with helping Grannie Claire make applesauce.

“Da doesn’t like things happening on the Ridge behind his back, so to speak,” she said. “Not that I think Captain Cunningham is going to preach insurrection and riot from the pulpit.”

“Neither am I,” he assured her. “Not first thing, anyway.”

“Come on,” she said. “Aren’t you curious?”

He was. Intensely so. It wasn’t as though he’d not heard his share of sermons, growing up as the son of a Presbyterian minister—but at the time, he hadn’t had the slightest thought of becoming a minister himself, and hadn’t paid much attention to the fine points. He’d learned quite a bit during his first go at sermonizing on the Ridge, and more during his try at ordination, but that was a few years past—and many of the present audience wouldn’t know him as anything other than Himself’s son-in-law.

“Besides,” she added, holding up the skirt and squinting at it to judge her work, “we’ll stick out like a sore thumb if we don’t go.
Everybody
on the Ridge will be there, believe me. And they’ll all be there for your service, too—remember what Da said about entertainment.”

He had to admit that she was right on all counts. Jamie and Claire were there in their best, looking benign, Germain and Fanny with them, looking unnaturally clean and even more unnaturally subdued.