Диана Гэблдон - Drums of Autumn 4

Even filthy and unkempt, we passed notice for the most part; few travelers were in better case. Fergus and Duncan could not be indentured men, maimed as they were, and Jamie’s presence transcended his clothes; shabby coat or not, no man would take him for a servant.

Tonight was different, though. There were eight soldiers at the checkpoint, not the usual two, and all were armed and alert. Musket barrels flashed in the moonlight as the shout of “Halt! Your name and your business!” came from the dark. A lantern was hoisted up six inches from my face, blinding me for a moment.

“James Fraser, bound for Wilmington, with my family and servants.” Jamie’s voice was calm, and his hands were steady as he handed me the reins before reaching for the passes in his coat.

I kept my head down, trying to look tired and indifferent. I was tired, all right—I could have lain down in the road and slept—but far from indifferent. What did they do to you for aiding the escape of a fugitive from the gallows? I wondered. A single drop of sweat snaked its way down the back of my neck.

“Have you seen anyone along the road as you passed, sir?” The “sir” came a little reluctantly; the dilapidation of Jamie’s coat and my gown were obvious in the pool of yellow lantern light.

“A carriage that passed us from the town; I suppose you will have seen that yourselves,” Jamie answered. The sergeant replied with a grunt, checking the passes carefully, then squinting into the dark to count and see that the attendant bodies matched.

“What goods do you carry?” He handed back the passes, motioning to one of his subordinates to search the wagon. I twitched the reins inadvertently, and the horses snorted and shook their heads. Jamie’s foot nudged mine, but he didn’t look at me.

“Small household goods,” he answered, still calm. “A half of venison and a bag of salt, for provision. And a body.”

The soldier who had been reaching for the wagon covering stopped abruptly. The sergeant looked up sharply.

“A what?”

Jamie took the reins from me and wrapped them casually about his wrist. From the corner of my eye, I saw Duncan edge toward the darkness of the wood; Fergus, with his pickpocket’s skill, had already faded from view.

“The corpse of the man who was hanged this afternoon. He was known to me; I asked permission of Colonel Franklin to take him to his kinsmen in the north. That is why we travel by night,” he added delicately.

“I see.” The sergeant motioned a lantern bearer closer. He gave Jamie a long thoughtful look, eyes narrowed, and nodded. “I remember you,” he said. “You called out to him at the last. A friend, was he?”

“I knew him once. Some years ago,” he added. The sergeant nodded to his subordinate, not taking his eyes off Jamie.

“Have a look, Griswold.”

Griswold, who was perhaps fourteen, betrayed a notable lack of enthusiasm for the order, but dutifully lifted the canvas cover and raised his lantern to peer into the wagon bed. With an effort, I kept myself from turning to look.

The near horse snorted and tossed its head. If we did have to bolt, it would take several seconds for the horses to get the wagon moving. I heard Ian shift behind me, getting his hand on the club of hickory wood stowed behind the seat.

“Yes, sir, it’s a body,” Griswold reported. “In a shroud.” He dropped the canvas with an air of relief, and exhaled strongly through his nostrils.

“Fix your bayonet and give it a jab,” the sergeant said, eyes still on Jamie. I must have made a small noise, for the sergeant’s glance shifted to me.

“You’ll soil my wagon,” Jamie objected. “The man’s fair ripe, after a day in the sun, aye?”

The sergeant snorted impatiently. “Jab it in the leg, then. Get on, Griswold!”

With a marked air of reluctance, Griswold affixed his bayonet, and standing on tiptoe, began to poke gingerly about in the wagon bed. Behind me, Ian had begun to whistle softly. A Gaelic tune whose title translated to “In the Morn We Die,” which I thought very tasteless of him.

“No, sir, he’s dead all right.” Griswold dropped back on his heels, sounding relieved. “I poked right hard, but not a twitch.”

“All right, then.” Dismissing the young soldier with a jerk of his hand, the sergeant nodded to Jamie. “Drive on then, Mr. Fraser. But I’d advise you to choose your friends more carefully in future.”

I saw Jamie’s knuckles whiten on the reins, but he only drew himself up straight and settled his hat more firmly on his head. He clicked his tongue and the horses set off sharply, leaving puffs of pale dust floating in the lantern light.

The darkness seemed engulfing after the light; despite the moon, I could see almost nothing. The night enfolded us. I felt the relief of a hunted animal that finds safe refuge, and in spite of the oppressive heat, I breathed more freely.

We covered a distance of nearly a quarter mile before anyone spoke.

“Are ye wounded, Mr. Bonnet?” Ian spoke in a loud whisper, just audible over the rattle of the wagon.

“Yes, he’s pinked me in the thigh, damn the puppy.” Bonnet’s voice was low, but calm. “Thank Christ he left off before the blood soaked through the shroud. Dead men don’t bleed.”

“Are you hurt badly? Shall I come back and have a look at it?” I twisted around. Bonnet had pushed back the canvas cover and was sitting up, a vague pale shape in the darkness.

“No, I thank ye, ma’am. I’ve my stocking wound round it and ’twill serve well enough, I expect.” My night vision was returning; I could see the gleam of fair hair as he bent his head to his task.

“Can ye walk, do ye think?” Jamie slowed the horses to a walk, and twisted round to inspect our guest. While his tone was not inhospitable, it was clear that he would prefer to be rid of our dangerous cargo as soon as possible.

“Not easily, no. I’m that sorry, sir.” Bonnet was aware of Jamie’s eagerness to be rid of him, too. With some difficulty, he hoisted himself up in the wagon bed, rising onto his good knee behind the seat. His lower half was invisible in darkness, but I could smell the blood on him, a sharper scent than the lingering faint reek of Gavin’s shroud.

“A suggestion, Mr. Fraser. In three miles, we’ll come to the Ferry Trail road. A mile past the crossroads, another road leads toward the coast. It’s little more than a pair of ruts, but passable. That will take us to the edge of a creek with an outlet to the sea. Some associates of mine will be puttin’ in to anchor there within the week; if ye would grant me some small stock of provisions, I can await them in reasonable safety, and you can be on your way, free o’ the taint of my company.”

“Associates? Ye mean pirates?” Ian’s voice held a certain amount of wariness. Having been abducted from Scotland by pirates, he invested such persons with none of the romanticism normal to a fifteen-year-old.

“That would depend upon your perspective, lad.” Bonnet sounded amused. “Certainly the governors of the Carolinas would call them so; the merchants of Wilmington and Charleston perhaps regard them otherwise.”

Jamie gave a brief snort. “Smugglers, aye? And what might these associates of yours be dealing in, then?”

“Whatever will fetch a price to make it worth the risk of carrying.” The amusement had not left Bonnet’s voice, but was now tinged with cynicism. “Will you be wanting some reward for your assistance? That can be managed.”

“I do not.” Jamie’s voice was cold. “I saved you for Gavin Hayes’ sake, and for my own. I wouldna seek reward for such service.”

“I meant no offense to ye, sir.” Bonnet’s head inclined slightly toward us.

“None taken,” Jamie answered shortly. He shook out the reins and wrapped them afresh, changing hands.