Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (98 page)

JAMIE CAME INTO THE
surgery with three bottles of whisky cradled in one arm and another gripped with his free hand.

“Oh—presents?” I asked, smiling.

“Well, this one’s yours—or for your patients, at least.” He set the bottle in his hand on my counter, amidst the scatter of dried herbs, mortar and pestle, bottles of oil, and stacks of gauze squares. I dusted crumbs of goldenseal off my hands, picked it up, pulled the cork, and sniffed.

“I take it this is not the Jamie Fraser Special,” I said, coughing a little, and put the cork back in. “It smells like paint remover.”

“I might be offended at that, Sassenach,” he said, smiling. “Save that I didna make it.”

“Who did?”

“Mr. Patton. Husband of Mary Patton, who makes gunpowder in Tennessee County.”

“Really?” I squinted at the bottle, which was squat and square. “Well, I suppose one might need a dram at the end of the day, if you’ve spent said day grinding powder that might blow you to kingdom come at any moment. I do hope nobody there is drinking it to steady their nerves
before
going to work.”

“The man doesna drink whisky himself,” Jamie informed me, setting the other bottles on the table. “Only beer. Which accounts for the taste of it, I suppose. He’s selling it to the folk who come for his wife’s powder. Or so he says.”

I glanced at him.

“You think he’s selling it to the Indians?” The Powder Branch of the Wautauga River, where the Patton powder mill was located, was very near the Cherokee Treaty Line. Jamie lifted one shoulder briefly.

“If he isn’t now, he soon will be. Unless his wife stops him. She’s a good bit wiser than he is—and most of the money is hers. She buys land with it.”

“Well, that does sound prudent.” I looked at the three bottles stood on my surgery table. “Are those also from Mr. Patton’s still?”

“No,” he said, in a tone of mingled pride and regret. “These
are
the Jamie Fraser Special—the last three bottles. There are two more small kegs in the cave, and maybe one or two more back in the rocks—but that’s the end, until I can brew again.”

“Oh, dear.” The malting shed had been destroyed by the gang that had attacked the Ridge, and the thought of it made my stomach knot. The still itself had been damaged, too, but Jamie had been putting it in order, in the brief interstices of house building. “And then it still needs to be aged.”

“Ach, dinna fash,” he said, and picking up one of the Special bottles uncorked it and poured a dram into one of my medicine cups, which he handed me. “Enjoy it while ye can, Sassenach.”

I did, though my enjoyment of the dram was tempered by the knowledge that whisky was our main source of income. Granted, he likely had more of the lesser vintages—did whisky have a vintage? Possibly not…

Jamie interrupted these musings by reaching into his sporran, from whence he withdrew a small wooden object.

“I almost forgot. Here’s the wee bawbee ye asked me for.”

It was a cylinder, roughly two inches in diameter, three inches long, and tapered so that it was wider at the top. It had been carefully sanded and rubbed with oil, the sides glossy smooth, and the edges beveled and smoothed as well.

“Oh, that’s lovely, Jamie—thank you!” He’d made it from a piece of rock maple, and the grain swirled beautifully around the curve of the wood.

“Aye, nay bother, Sassenach,” he said, clearly pleased that I admired it. “What is it meant for, though? Ye didna tell me. Is it a toy for Amanda, or a teether for Rachel’s bairn?”

“Ah. No. It’s—” I stopped abruptly. I’d turned the object over in my hand and saw that he had—as he usually did with things he made—scratched his initials,
JF,
into the bottom of the piece.

“What’s wrong,
a nighean
?” He came to look, and taking my hand in his, turned it over so the peg lay exposed in my palm.

“Er…nothing. It’s just…Um. Well.” I could feel my ears getting warm. “It’s a, uh, present for Auld Mam.”

“Aye?” he looked at it, baffled.

“Do you happen to remember Roger telling me he’d been visiting up there and talked to her and she told him that when she, er, visited the privy, her…womb…fell out into her hand?”

He looked up at me, startled. Then his eyes returned to the thing in my hand.

“It’s, um, called a pessary. If you insert it into the—”

“Stop right there, Sassenach.” He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, lips pursed.

“It’s really beautiful,” I assured him. “And it will be perfect. It’s just—I thought—maybe having your mark on it would make her feel…self-conscious?” It had also occurred to me that Auld Mam, being Not Quite Right in the Head, might, conversely, feel special, singled out by Himself. Which was well and good, but might easily lead to her removing the pessary in company to show it off.

He gave me a look, reached out, and delicately tweezed the pessary from my palm with two fingers.

“Not nearly as self-conscious as it would make
me,
Sassenach, I tell ye. I’ll sand it off.”

Royal Colony of New York

Early October 1779

RACHEL’S FINGERS TREMBLED, TYING
the knot of Oggy’s clout, and the end slipped out of her left hand, the clout came apart, and Oggy’s small penis, exposed to cold air, instantly stiffened and sent a jet of steaming urine a good three feet in the air, narrowly missing her face.

Ian, sitting on the bed half dressed beside his son, laughed like a loon. Rachel gave him a look of annoyance, and he stopped laughing, though the grin stayed on his face as he took the damp cleaning rag from her hand. He slid down onto the floor and began mopping up, saying something to Oggy in Mohawk. The words seemed to burrow under her skin, itching.

He’d been talking to Oggy in Mohawk more and more as they crossed into New York, drawing ever nearer to Canajoharie. Not that she blamed him. Patience and Prudence were enchanted by the sound of the language and could now say a number of useful things, including “Don’t kill me,” “Give me food,” “No, I don’t want to lie with you,” and “I belong to Wolf’s Brother, of the Wolf clan of the Kahnyen’kehaka, and he will castrate you if you molest me.”

She could hear them solemnly practicing these remarks in the next room, where Jenny was helping Silvia to get everyone dressed in what passed for their best. For today, they would reach Canajoharie.

She felt as though she’d swallowed a half pint of musket balls, these rolling heavily in her stomach. They had worried—well, she had—about encountering roving soldiers, random battles, or the men war cuts loose from society, but with the help of God, Ian’s skill at seeing things coming and avoiding them, and—no doubt—sheer blind luck, they had crossed seven hundred miles without meeting serious trouble. But today they would reach Canajoharie—and, just possibly, meet Works With Her Hands.
“She was lovely. I met her by the water—a pool in the river, where the water spreads out and there’s not even a ripple on the surface, but ye feel the spirit of the river moving through it just the same.”

The musket balls dropped one by one into her entrails as she remembered Ian’s words.
“She was lovely…”

And
she had three children, one of whom might be Ian’s.

She closed her eyes and said a brief, fierce prayer of apology, with a request for quietness of mind and peace of spirit. She rested her hand on Oggy’s wriggling body, saying it, and the peace of spirit came at once.
He
was Ian’s son, without doubt, nor could she doubt Ian’s love for him—or for her.

“Ifrinn!”
Ian exclaimed. She felt a sudden hot wetness bloom against the palm of her hand, and a dreadful stink filled the air. “We’ll never be away at this rate, laddie!”

As he hastily wiped and reclouted Oggy and Rachel mopped up the overflow, Ian turned suddenly, kissed her forehead, and smiled at her, his eyes tender above his tattoos.

Thank you,
she thought toward God, and smiled back at her husband.

“I told thee that Friends have no doctrines, did I not, Ian?”

“Aye, ye did.” He cocked his head, waiting, and she raised a brow at him and handed him one of the wire fasteners Brianna called safety pins, with which to secure the clout.

“That does not mean that we therefore approve of all manner of behavior, merely because it’s the normal practice of others.”

“Mmphm. And, um, which normal behavior is it ye had in mind that ye willna stand for?”

“I had in mind polygamy.”

He laughed, and her spirit bloomed afresh.

THEY REACHED CANAJOHARIE
in the afternoon, and Ian found them two rooms in a small, relatively clean inn and then sent a message, written in Mohawk, to Joseph Brant, one of the most powerful military leaders of the Mohawk—and a relative of Emily’s—introducing himself and asking audience. Before nightfall, an answer had come back, in English:
Come in the afternoon and we will drink tea. I will be pleased to make your acquaintance.

“He’s well spoken,” Jenny observed, taking in not only the message but the paper it was written upon, which was handsome—and secured with a wax seal.

“Thayendanegea’s been to London, Mam,” Ian replied. “He probably speaks English better than you do.”

“Aye, well, we’ll see about
that,
” she said, but Patience and Prudence giggled and began to sing, “Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been? I’ve been to London to visit the Queen!”

“
Has
he been to London to visit the Queen?” Patience asked, breaking off.

“Your mam can ask him for ye,” Ian replied, making Silvia go pink to the ears.

Oggy would have to accompany them, as Rachel would burst if obliged to do without him for too long, but Silvia assured Rachel that Prudence and Patience could easily tend Chastity—and should anything untoward occur, such as the inn suddenly taking fire or an intrusion by bears, they were fleet of foot and could be trusted to take their sister along while making their escape.

Both Silvia and Jenny had offered to stay behind—and so had Rachel—but Ian was firm: they must all go with him.

“It wouldna be seemly for me to show myself alone, as though I have nay family. Thayendanegea would think me a pauper.”

“Oh,” said Jenny, raising a brow in interest. “So that’s it, is it? If ye can support a gaggle o’ women and children, that proves ye must have a wee bit o’ coin put away in your mattress?”

“That’s it,” he agreed. “A bit of ground, at least. Wear your silver watch, Mam, aye? And if ye wouldna mind wearing Rachel’s other cloak, Friend Silvia?”

None of the women had bright clothes, Jenny being still in her widow’s black, Silvia possessing only one dress without holes, and Rachel’s modest traveling wardrobe sporting nothing more ornate than a fur lining in her best cloak, Ian having insisted on it as a matter of survival rather than vanity. But they were all clean and decent, the fabrics good wool—and Jenny’s bodice was a heavy black silk, at least.

“And we havena got soil or animal leavings under our fingernails,” Jenny pointed out. “And we’ve good caps, though a bit of lace wouldna come amiss.”

Ian shook his head good-naturedly and put on three bracelets over the sleeves of his jacket, two of silver and one of polished copper. He bent to peer into the tiny shaving mirror the landlady had provided, in order to fix in his hair the spectacular blue and red feathers John Quincy Myers had brought him—from a “macaw,” Myers had said, though he was unable to describe what such a bird might look like, having never seen aught of it himself save a handful of feathers.

“Tell me again how to pronounce the gentleman’s name, will thee, Ian?” Rachel said, nerves getting the better of her.

“T’ay’ENDan’egg-e-a,” Ian replied, squinting into the mirror, hands busy behind his head. “But it doesna matter; his English name is Joseph Brant.”

“Brant,” Rachel repeated, and swallowed.

“And my—the woman we’ve come to see about—is Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa,” he added, with apparent casualness. He grinned at Rachel in the mirror. “Just so ye’ll ken when we’re talkin’ about her.”

Jenny sniffed and drew Rachel away to the outer room, to leave Ian space for his toilette, the bedroom being small and cramped.

“I shouldna imagine we’ll be talkin’
to
her,” she said to Rachel under her breath as they emerged into the tiny parlor. “Or I’d be askin’ him how to say, ‘Clear off, ye brazen-faced trollop,’ in Mohawk. Though that’s maybe no just polite…”

“Possibly not,” Rachel said, feeling her spirit lighten a little. “If you find out, though, do tell me. Just in case.”

Jenny shot her a sideways look.

“And you a Friend,” she said in mock disapproval. “Though I suppose having the light o’ Christ inside her doesna necessarily keep a woman from bein’ a brazen-faced trollop…” She squeezed Rachel’s wrist with her free hand. “Dinna fash, lassie. The lad loves ye. Surely ye ken that?”

“I haven’t any doubt,” she assured Jenny. And she didn’t—truly, she didn’t. It was the children who troubled her. Emily’s children.

But this was Ian’s choice to make; it had to be. He came out of the bedroom then, resplendent. He was outwardly grave, but she could almost hear excitement humming in his blood. She had picked up her cloak but stood holding it, looking at him.

“Perhaps I should stay with the children. Surely thee should go alone, first?” she asked. “To—to—”

“No,” he said, in a tone indicating that he didn’t mean to argue about it, and swung Oggy up into his arms. “We’re invited to tea.”

TO HER EVERLASTING
surprise, it
was
tea. A formal tea, in an elegant parlor, in a house that could have been built by a moderately successful Boston merchant. Joseph Brant was dressed rather like a merchant, too, in a good blue suit—though he wore a wide silver bracelet that clasped the blue broadcloth just above his elbow and had his hair plaited in a queue and tied with a lace from which dangled two small—but bright—red feathers.

Rachel thought that no one would have mistaken him for anything but what he was, no matter what his dress. He wasn’t a tall man, but had a broad-shouldered presence and a wide, square-jawed face with a firm, fleshy mouth and heavy black brows.

“I thank thee for thy kindness in receiving us,” she said, looking him in the eye as she smiled. Friends neither bowed nor curtsied, but she gave him her hand and he bowed low over it and rose with a look of interest on his face.

“You’re a Friend?” he said.

“I am,” she replied, and nodding toward Silvia, “as is my friend, Silvia Hardman.”

“Be welcome,” he replied, bowing low to each lady in turn, and lower still to Jenny. “Madam, I am honored.”

“Well, I’m no a Friend myself, sir,” she said. She eyed his feathers and jewelry. “But I’m friendly.”
For the moment,
her face said plainly.

Brant smiled at that—a genuine smile that reached his eyes.

“I am relieved to hear that, madam. I think I shouldn’t care to have you for an enemy.”

“No, you wouldna,” Ian assured him, straight-faced. “But by good fortune, we all come in peace. My uncle sends ye a token of his friendship.”

Jamie and Ian between them had decided on the gift for Brant, and Ian had had it made in Philadelphia: a handsome inkwell whose heavy crystal was banded with silver, this stamped with the four triangles that symbolized air, earth, fire, and water, and had upon the cap the two triangles lying atop each other, pointing in different directions, that stood for “all that is.” With it was a quill, also banded with silver, made from the forefeather of a great horned owl, supplied by Jamie.

Brant looked at the feather with interest, then at Ian. It was the first feather of the wing, the barbs shorter at one side, so that the feather had a long indented curve at the leading edge, while the barbs on the trailing edge were serrated, like a comb. It was this that let an owl fly silently, with no hint of its presence until it dropped suddenly out of the night to seize its prey. As a present, such a feather might be taken as compliment—or warning. Owls were a symbol of wisdom—but also might be harbingers of something dire or dangerous.