No? And just what the hell dye mean by it, then? MacKenzie put a possessive hand on his wifes shoulder, glowering at Roger. She flinched; her husbands fingers were digging into her flesh. Roger would have liked to knock the hand away, but that was likely to cause more trouble than he had already.
I met your wifeand you he added, on board the Gloriana, a year or two ago. When I recognized her here, I thought to inquire as to the familys welfare. Thats all.
He meant nay harm, William. Morag touched her husbands hand, and the painful grip lessened. Its right, what he says. Do ye not ken the man? It was him that found me and Jemmy in the hold when we hid therehe brought us food and water.
You asked me to care for them, Roger added pointedly. During the fight, that night when the sailors threw the sick ones into the sea.
Oh, aye? MacKenzies features relaxed a trifle. It was you, was it? I didna see your face, in the dark.
I didnt see yours, either. He could see it clearly now, and despite the awkwardness of the present circumstances, couldnt help studying it with interest.
So this was the sonunacknowledgedof Dougal MacKenzie, erstwhile war chief of the MacKenzies of Leoch. He looked it. His was a rougher, squarer, fairer version of the family face, but looking carefully, Roger could easily spot the broad cheekbones and high forehead that Jamie Fraser had inherited from his mothers clan. That and the family height; MacKenzie stood over six feet tall, nearly eye to eye with Roger himself.
The man turned slightly at a sound in the brush, and the sun lit those eyes with a flash of bright moss-green. Roger had a sudden urge to shut his own eyes, lest MacKenzie feel the same bolt of recognition.
MacKenzie had other concerns, though. Two men emerged from the bushes, wary-eyed and grimy with long camping. One held a musket; the other was armed with nothing but a rough club cut from a fallen limb.
Whos this, then, Buck? the man with the gun asked, eyeing Roger with some suspicion.
Thats what I mean to be finding out. The momentary softening had disappeared, leaving MacKenzies face grimly set. He turned his wife away from him and gave her a small push. Go ye back to the women, Morag. Ill deal with this fellow.
But, William Morag glanced from Roger to her husband, face drawn in distress. He hasna done anything
Oh, ye think its nothing, do you, that a man should cheek up to ye in public, like a common radge? William turned a black look on her, and she blushed suddenly crimson, evidently recalling the kiss, but stumbled on.
Ino, I meanthat ishe was kind to us, we shouldna be
I said go back!
She opened her mouth as though to protest, then flinched as William made a sudden move in her direction, fist clenched. Without an instant of conscious decision, Roger swung from the waist, his own fist hitting MacKenzies jaw with a crack that jarred his arm to the elbow.
Caught off-balance, William staggered and fell to one knee, shaking his head like a pole-axed ox. Morags gasp was drowned by startled exclamations from the other men. Before he could turn to face them, Roger heard a sound behind himquiet in itself, but loud enough to chill the blood; the small, cold snick of a hammer drawing back.
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There was a brief pst! of igniting powder, and then a phfoom! as the gun went off with a roar and a puff of black smoke. Everyone jerked and stumbled with the noise, and Roger found himself struggling in a confused sort of way with one of the other men, both of them coughing and half-deafened. As he shoved his assailant off, he caught sight of Morag, kneeling in the leaves, dabbing at her husbands face with a bit of wet laundry. William shoved her roughly away, scrambled to his feet, and headed for Roger, his eyes bulging, face blotched red with fury.
Roger spun on his heel, slipping in the leaves, and shook off the grip of the man with the gun, making for the shelter of the bushes. Then he was into the thicket, twigs and small branches splintering around him, raking face and arms as he thrust his way through. A heavy crashing and the huff of breath came just behind him, and a hand fastened on his shoulder with a grip of iron.
He seized the hand and twisted hard, hearing a crack of joint and bone. The hands owner yelled and jerked back, and Roger flung himself headlong toward an opening in the scrub.
He hit the ground on one shoulder, half-curled, rolled, broke through a small bush, and tobogganed down a steep clay bank and into the water, where he landed with a splash.
Scrabbling to find a foothold, he plunged and coughed and flapped upright, shaking hair and water from his eyes, only to see William MacKenzie poised at the top of the bank above him. Seeing his enemy thus at a disadvantage, MacKenzie launched himself with a whoop.
Something like a cannonball crashed into Rogers chest and he fell back into the water in a mighty splash, hearing the distant shrieks of women. He couldnt breathe and couldnt see, but grappled with the twisting mess of clothes and limbs and roiling mud, churning the bottom as he strove vainly for footing, lungs bursting for air.
His head broke the surface. His mouth opened and closed like a fishs, gulping air, and he heard the wheeze of his breath, and MacKenzies, too. MacKenzie broke away, floundering, and stood upright a few feet away, wheezing like an engine as water poured from his clothes. Roger bent, chest heaving, hands braced on his thighs and his arms quivering with effort. With a final gulp of air, he straightened, wiping away the wet hair plastered over his face.
Look, he began, panting, I
He got no further, for MacKenzie, still breathing heavily himself, was advancing on him through the waist-deep water. The mans face had an odd, eager look, and the moss-green eyes were very bright.
Belatedly, Roger thought of something else. The man was the son of Dougal MacKenzie. But the son also of Geillis Duncan, witch.
Somewhere beyond the willows, there was a deep booming noise, and flocks of startled birds rose screeching from the trees. The battle had begun.
ALAMANCE
The Governor then sent Captain Malcolm, one of his Aides-de-Camp, and the Sherif of Orange, with his Letter, requiring the Rebels, to lay down their Arms, Surrender up their outlawed Ringleaders &c. About half past ten Capt. Malcolm and the Sherif returned with the Information that the Sherif had read the Letter four several Times, to different Divisions of the Revels, who rejected the Terms offered, with disdain, said they wanted no time to consider of them, & with Rebellious Clamours called out for
Battle.
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A Journal of the Expedition against the Insurgents, Wm. Tryon
YELL WATCH FOR MACKENZIE. Jamie touched Geordie Chisholms shoulder, and Geordie turned his head, acknowledging the message with a slight nod.
All of them knew. They were good lads, theyd be careful. Theyd find him, surely, coming back toward them.
He told himself so for the dozenth time, but the reassurance rang as hollow this time as it had before. Christ, what had happened to the man?
He moved up into the lead, shoving aside the brush with as much violence as though it were a personal enemy. If they were watching out, theyd see MacKenzie in time, not shoot him by mistake. Or so he told himself, knowing perfectly well that in the midst of enemies and the heat of battle, one fired at whatever moved, and there was seldom time to check the features of a man who came at you out of the smoke.
Not that it would make so much difference who did for MacKenzie, if anyone did. Brianna and Claire would hold him responsible for the mans life, and rightly so.
Then, to his relief, there was no more time to think. They broke out into open ground and the men spread out and ran, bending low, zigzagging through the grass in threes and fours as he had taught them, one seasoned soldier to each group. Somewhere behind them, the first boom of cannon came like thunder from a sunny sky.
He spotted the first of the Regulators then, a group of men running, as they were, coming from the right across the open ground. They hadnt seen his men yet.
Before they could, he bellowed Casteal an DUIN! and charged them, musket raised overhead in signal to the men behind him. Roars and shrieks split the air, and the Regulators, startled and taken unawares, stumbled to an untidy halt, fumbling their weapons and interfering with each other.
Thugham! Thugham! To me, to me! Close enough, it was close enough. He dropped to one knee, crouched over the musket, brought it to bear, and fired just over the heads of the milling men.
Behind him, he heard the grunt of his men falling into firing order, the clink of flint and then the deafening noise of the volley.
One or two of the Regulators crouched, returning fire. The rest broke and ran for cover, toward a small rise of grassy ground.
A draigha! Left! Nach links! Cut them off! He heard himself bellowing, but did it without thought, already running himself.
The small group of Regulators split, a few making off toward the creek, the rest bunching like sheep, galloping for the shelter of the rise.
They made it, disappearing around the curve of the hill, and Jamie called his troops back, with a piercing whistle that would carry over the rising thunder of the guns. He could hear firing now, a rattle of muskets, away to their left. He sheared off in that direction, trusting that they would follow.
A mistake; the land here was marshy, full of boggy holes and clinging mud. He shouted and waved again, back toward the higher ground. Fall back there, let the enemy come to them across the bog, if they would.
The high ground was heavy with brush, but dry, at least. He spread his fingers wide and waved, gesturing the men to spread out, take cover.
The blood was pumping through his veins, and his skin prickled and tingled with it. A puff of gray-white smoke drifted through the nearby trees, acrid with the scent of black powder. The boom of artillery was regular now, as the gun-crews fell into their rhythm, thumping like a huge, slow heart in the distance.
He made his way slowly toward the west, keeping an eye out. The brush here was mostly sumac and redbud, with waist-high tangles of bramble and clumps of pine that rose above his head. Visibility was poor, but he would hear anyone coming, long before he saw themor they saw him.
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None of his own men were in sight. He took cover in a stand of dogwood and gave a sharp call, like a bobwhite quail. Similar calls of bob-WHITE! came from behind him, none in front. Good, they knew roughly where one another were. Cautiously, he went forward, pressing through the brush. It was cooler here, with the shade of the trees, but the air was thick and sweat ran down his neck and back.
He heard the thump of feet and pressed back into the branches of a pinetree, letting the dark-needled fans swing over him, his musket raised to sight on an opening in the bushes. Whoever it was was coming fast. A crack of snapping twigs underfoot and the sound of labored breath, and a young man shoved through the shrubbery, panting. He had no gun, but a skinning-knife glinted in his hand.
The lad was familiar, the first glance gave him that, and Jamies memory put a name to the young mans face before his finger had relaxed upon the trigger.
Hugh! he called, low-voiced but sharp. Hugh Fowles!
The young man let out a startled yelp, and swung round staring. He saw Jamie and his gun through the screen of needles, and froze like a rabbit.
Then a surge of panicked determination rose in his face, and he launched himself toward Jamie, screaming. Startled, Jamie barely got his musket up in time to catch the knife-blade on its barrel. He forced the knife up and back; it sheared down the barrel with a screech of metal, glancing off Jamies knuckles. Young Hugh whipped back his arm for a stab, and he kicked the boy briskly in the knee, stepping back out of the way as the lad lost his balance and lurched to one side, knife swinging wildly.
Jamie kicked him again, and he fell down, the knife embedding itself in the ground.
Will ye stop that? Jamie said, rather crossly. For Christs sake, lad, do ye not know me?
He couldnt tell whether Fowles knew him or notnor even whether the boy had heard him. Face white and eyes staring, Fowles was thrashing in a panic, stumbling and gasping as he tried to get up, trying at the same time to wrench his knife free.
Will you Jamie began, and then jerked back as Fowles abandoned the knife and threw himself forward with a grunt of effort.
The boys weight knocked Jamie backward, and hands scrabbled at him, trying for a grip on his throat. He dropped the musket, turned a shoulder into Fowless grip, and put a stop to this nonsense with a quick, brutal punch to the lads midsection.
Hugh Fowles collapsed and lay curled into a ball on the ground, twitching like a wounded centipede, and making the shocked breathless faces of a man whose breakfast has just been knocked up into his lungs.
Jamie put his right hand to his mouth, sucking blood from his grazed knuckles. The boys knife had skinned all four, and the punch hadnt helped; they burned like fire, and the blood had the taste of hot silver in his mouth.
More feet, coming fast. He had barely time to seize his musket before the bushes burst open once more, this time to reveal Fowless father-in-law, Joe Hobson, his own musket held at the ready.
Stop right there. Jamie crouched behind his gun, training the muzzle on Hobsons chest. Hobson halted as though a puppet-master had jerked his strings.
What have ye done to him? Hobsons eyes flicked from Jamie to his son-in-law and back.
Nothing permanent. Put your gun down, aye?
Hobson didnt move. He was grimed with filth and sprouting a beard, but the eyes were live and watchful in his face.
I mean ye nay harm. Set it down!
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Well not be taken, Hobson said. His finger rested on the trigger of his gun, but there was a dubious note in his voice.
Ye already are, fool. Dinna fash yourself, nay harm will come to you or the lad. Youre a deal safer in gaol than out here, man!
A whistling crash punctuated his statement, as something flew through the trees a few feet overhead, shearing branches as it went. Chain shot, Jamie thought automatically, even as he ducked in reflex, bowels clenched.
Hobson jerked in terror, swinging the barrel of his musket toward Jamie. He jerked again, and his eyes went wide with surprise, as a red stain flowered slowly on his breast. He looked down at it in puzzlement, the muzzle of his gun drooping like a wilted stem. Then he dropped the gun, sat down quite suddenly, leaned back against a fallen tree, and died.
Jamie whirled on his heel, still squatting, and saw Geordie Chisholm behind him, face half-black with the smoke of his shot, looking at Hobsons body as though wondering just how that had happened.
The boom of artillery came again, and another missile crashed through the branches and landed nearby with a thud Jamie felt through the soles of his boots. He flung himself flat on his belly and writhed toward Hugh Fowles, who had got himself up on hands and knees now, retching.
He grabbed Fowless arm, disregarding the pool of vomit, and jerked, hard.
Come on! He scrambled up, seizing Fowles by waist and shoulder, and dragged him toward the shelter of the copse behind them. Geordie! Geordie, help me!
Chisholm was there. Between them, they got Fowles onto his feet and half-dragged, half-carried him, running and stumbling as they went.
The air was filled with the pungent scent of tree-sap, oozing from the severed branches, and he thought fleetingly of Claires garden, turned earth, churned earth beneath his boots, the fresh-turned earth of furrows and graves, and Hobson sitting in the sun by the log, the look of surprise not yet gone from his eyes.
Fowles stank of vomit and shit. He hoped it was Fowles.
He thought he would vomit himself from sheer nerves, but bit his tongue, tasting blood again, and clenched the muscles of his belly, willing his wame to go back down.
Someone rose from the shrubbery to his left. He held the gun in his left hand, raised it by reflex, fired one-handed. He stumbled through his own smoke, seeing whoever he had fired at turn and run, smashing heedless through the trees.
Fowles had his feet back under him now, and Jamie let go his arm, leaving Geordie to it. He fell to one knee, groping for powder and shot, ripped the cartridge with his teeth and tasted gunpowder tinged with blood, poured and rammed home, filled his priming pan, checked his flintall the while noticing with a sense of bemusement that his hands were not shaking in the least, but went about their business with a deft calm, as though they knew just what to do.
He raised the barrel and bared his teeth, only half-conscious of doing it. There were men coming, three, and he raised the gun to bear on the first. With a last shred of conscious thought, he jerked it higher and fired above their heads, the musket jolting in his hands. They stopped, and he dropped the gun, ripped the dirk from his belt, and charged them, screaming.
The words seared his throat, raw from the smoke.
Run!
As though from a distance, he watched himself, thinking that it was just so that Hugh Fowles had done, and he had thought it foolish then.
Run!
The men scattered like fleeing quail. As a wolf might do, he turned at once after the slowest, bounding over the broken ground, a ferocious joy flooding his legs, blooming in his belly. He could run forever, the wind cold on his skin and shrill in his ears, the spring of the earth beneath him lifting his feet so he flew over grass and rock.
The man he pursued heard him coming, glanced back over his shoulder, and with a shriek of terror, ran full-tilt into a tree. He threw himself upon his prey, landing on the mans back and feeling the springy crack of ribs beneath his knee. He gripped a handful of hair, slick and hot with greasy sweat, and jerked back the mans head. He barely stopped himself cutting the naked throat that lay before him, stretched and defenseless. He could feel the shock of the blade on flesh, the hotness of the spurting blood, and wanted it.
He gulped air, panting.
Very slowly, he drew the knife away from the leaping pulse. The movement left him trembling with need, as though he had been dragged from his womans body on the verge of spilling seed.
You are my prisoner, he said.
The man stared up at him, uncomprehending. The man was weeping, tears making tracks through the dirt on his face, and trying to speak, sobbing, but unable to draw enough air to make words with his head wrenched back. Vaguely, it occurred to Jamie that he had spoken in Gaelic; the man did not understand.
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Slowly, he loosened his grip, made himself release the mans head. He groped for the English words, buried somewhere under the bloodlust that pulsed through his brain.
You are... my... prisoner, he managed at last, panting for air between words.
Yes! Yes! Anything, dont kill me, please dont kill me! The man huddled under him, sobbing, hands clasped to the back of his neck and shoulders hunched around his ears, as though he feared Jamie would seize his neck in his teeth and snap his spine.
At the thought, he felt a dim desire to do so, but the thrum of his blood was even now dying down. He could hear again, as his heartbeat faded in his ears. The wind no longer sang to him, but made its own way, heedless and alone, through the leaves above. There was a popping of distant gunshots, but the boom of the artillery had ceased.
Sweat dripped from chin and eyebrows, and his shirt was sodden with it, reeking.
He slid slowly off his prisoner, and knelt beside the prone body. The muscles of his thighs trembled and burned from the effort of the chase. He felt a sudden inexpressible tenderness for the man, and reached to touch him, but the feeling was succeeded by a sense of horror, quite as sudden, and as suddenly gone. He closed his eyes and swallowed, feeling sick, the place where he had bitten his tongue throbbing.
The energy the earth had lent him was draining from his body now, flowing out of his legs, going back to the earth. He reached out and patted the prisoners shoulder, awkwardly, then struggled to his feet against the dead weight of his own exhaustion.
Get up, he said. His hands were shaking; it took three tries to sheathe his dirk.
Ciamar a tha thu, Mac Dubh? Ronnie Sinclair was at his side, asking if he was all right. He nodded, and stood back as Sinclair pulled the man to his feet and made him turn his coat. The others were coming, in ones and twos: Geordie, the Lindsays, Gallegher, catching up and clustering round him like iron filings drawn to a bit of magnet steel.
The others had bagged prisoners, too; six in all, looking sullen, frightened, or simply exhausted, their coats turned lining-out to show their status. Fowles was among them, white and wretched.
His mind had cleared now, though his body felt limp and heavy. Henry Gallegher had a bloody graze across his forehead; one of the men from BrownsvilleLionel, was it?carried one arm at an awkward angle, obviously broken. Bar that, no one seemed to be injured; that was good.
Ask if they have seen MacKenzie, he said to Kenny Lindsay in Gaelic, with a small gesture toward the prisoners.
The gunshots had mostly ceased. There was only a random firing now, and a flock of doves passed overhead in a racket of wings, belatedly alarmed.
None had seen Roger MacKenzie, to know him. Jamie nodded, hearing, and wiped the last of the sweat from his face with his sleeve.
Either he has come back safe, or he has not. But whatevers done is done now. Yeve done brawly, ladslets go.
A NECESSARY SACRIFICE
This Evening the Dead were interred with military Honors; and three Outlaws taken in the Battle were hanged at the Head of the Army. This gave great Satisfaction to the Men & at this Time it was a necessary Sacrifice to appease the Murmurings of the Troops, who were importunate that public Justice should be immediately executed against some of the Outlaws that were taken in the Action and in opposing of whom they had braved so many Dangers, & suffered such Loss of lives and Blood.
A Journal of the Expedition against the Insurgents,
Wm. Tryon
ROGER JERKED HARD at the rope round his wrists, but succeeded only in digging the rough hemp farther into his flesh. He could feel the burn of abraded skin and a damp feel that he thought was oozing blood, but his hands had gone so numb that he wasnt sure. His fingers felt the size of sausages, the skin stretched tight.
He was lying where Buccleigh and his friends had thrown him, after tying his wrists and ankles, in the shade of a fallen log. Soaked through from the river, he would have been shivering with cold, had he not been struggling so desperately to get loose. Instead, sweat ran down his neck, his cheeks burned, and he felt as though his head would burst from the influx of furious blood.
Theyd gagged him with the flag of truce, stuffing the kerchief so deep into his throat that he was close to choking, and knotting his own stock round his mouth. Ancestor or no, he was going to mangle William Buccleigh MacKenzie, if it was the last thing he ever did.
Shots were still being fired nearby; not in volleys, but a ragged popcorn rattle. The air reeked with black powder smoke, and every so often, something came whistling through the trees like a jabberwock, with a tremendous ripping and snapping of branches and leaves. Chain-shot? Cannonballs?
A cannonball had thudded into the riverbank, earlier, burying itself in a small explosion of mud and momentarily interrupting the fight. One of Buccleighs friends had uttered a cry and run, splashing, for the shelter of the trees, but the other had stayed, grappling and punching, heedless of the shooting and yelling, until he and Buccleigh had managed to press Rogers head beneath the water and overpower him. He could still feel the burn of the river-water in his sinuses.
Hed managed to get to his knees now, hunched like an inch-worm, but didnt dare to raise his head above the log, for fear of having it shot off. Fury was running so strong through his veins that he hadnt really been frightened, even at the realization that the battle was going on round him, but he hadnt lost his mind entirely.
He rubbed his face hard against the crumbling bark of the log, trying to snag the strip of linen tied round his head. It worked; the stub of a twig caught, and he jerked his head up, pulling the stock down below his chin. Grunting with the effort, he shoved the wadded kerchief out a little way, caught it on the same twig, and drew back, the soggy rag pulling out of his throat like a snake-swallower in reverse.
He gagged with reaction, feeling bile rise up the back of his throat. He gulped air, greedy for oxygen, and his stomach settled a bit.
Great, he could breathe, now what? The firing was still going on, and he could hear crashing off to his left, as several men plowed through the bushes, heedless of obstruction.
Running feet were coming toward him; he ducked behind the shelter of the log, just in time to avoid being flattened as a body catapulted over it. His new companion scrambled up onto hands and knees, pressing tight against the log, only then becoming aware of his presence.
You! It was Black-beard, from Husbands encampment. He stared at Roger, face suffusing slowly with blood. He could smell the man, a rank, penetrating reek of fear and anger.
Black-beard grabbed him by the shirt-front, jerking him close.
This is your fault! Bastard!
With his hands and feet still tied, he had no means of fighting back, but jerked back, trying to free himself.
Let go, fool!
Only then did the man realize that he was tied, and in his astonishment, did let go. Off-balance, Roger fell to the side, scraping his face painfully on the rough bark of the log. Black-beards eyes bulged with amazement, then narrowed in glee.
By Dad, you been captured! If that aint luck! Whos got you, fool?
Hes mine. A low Scottish voice behind him announced the return of William Buccleigh MacKenzie. What dye mean its his fault? What is?
This! Black-beard flung out an arm, indicating the field around them, and the dying battle. The artillery had ceased, and there were no more than scattered rifle-shots in the distance.
This damn smooth-talker come unto the camp this morning, asking for Hermon Husband, and took him away for a private word. I dont know what in desolations name he said, but when he finished it, Husband come out, got straight onto his horse, told us all to go home, and rode off!
Black-beard glared at Roger, and drawing back his hand, slapped him hard across the face. What did you say to him, arse-bite?
Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to Buccleigh, who was glancing back and forth between his captive and his visitor, a look of deep interest furrowing the thick, fair brows. If Hermon had stuck with us, we might ha stood, Black-beard raged. But with him goin off like that, it cut the ground right from under uswasnt no one knew quite what to do, and the next thing you know, heres Tryon a-bawling surrender at usand a course we wasnt goin to do that, but we wasnt what youd call prepared to fight neither... He trailed off at this, catching Rogers eye on him, and uncomfortably aware that Roger had seen him fleeing in panic.
There was nothing but silence on the far side of the log; all firing had stopped. It was dawning on Roger that the battle was not only over, but well and truly lost. Which meant in turn that the militia were likely to be swarming over this place in short order. His eyes were still watering from the slap, but he blinked them clear, glaring at Black-beard.
I said to Husband what I say to you, he said, with as much authority as he could muster, lying trussed on the ground like a Christmas goose. The Governor is serious. He means to put down this rebellion, and by the looks of things, hes done just that. If you have a care for your skinand Id say you do
With an inarticulate growl of rage, Black-beard seized Roger by the shoulders and tried to smash his head into the log.
Roger twisted like an eel. He reared back, breaking the mans grip, then threw himself forward, and butted the man squarely, smashing Black-beards nose with his forehead. He felt the satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage, and the spurt of blood hot and wet against his face, and fell back onto one elbow, panting.
