I heard the drums long before they came in sight. The beating echoed deep in the pit of my stomach, as though I too was hollow. The sound traveled through the crowd, a harsh military rhythm meant
to be heard over speech or gunfire; I saw heads turn as the people
fell silent, looking down the stretch of Street, where it came
down from the fort.
It was a hot day, even for Charleston in June. My shift was
soaked through, and the cotton bodice clung between my breasts. I
wiped my face for the tenth time in as many minutes and lifted the
heavy coil of my hair, hoping vainly for a cooling breeze upon my
neck.
I was morbidly aware of necks at the moment; my own and those
around me. Unobtrusively, I put my hand up to the base of my
throat, letting my fingers circle it. I could feel the pulse beat
in my carotid arteries, along with the drums, and when I tried to
breathe, the hot wet air clogged my throat, as though I were
choking.
I quickly took my hand down, and drew in a breath as deep as
I could manage. That was perhaps a mistake; the man in front of me
hadn't bathed in a week or more; the edge of the stock about his
thick neck was dark with grime and his clothes smelt sour and
musty, pungent even amid the sweaty reek of the crowd. The smell
of hot bread and frying pig fat from the food-vendors' stalls lay
heavy on the air, only slightly relieved by the faint whiff of salt
from the harbor.
There were several children in front of me, craning and
gawking, running out into the street to look up the hill, being
called back by anxious parents. The girl nearest me had a neck
like the white part of a grass stalk; slender and succulent.
There was a ripple of excitement through the crowd; the
gallows procession was in sight at the far end of the street. The
drums grew louder.
"Where is he?" Fergus muttered beside me, craning his own neck
to see. "I knew I should have gone with him!"
"He'll be here." I wanted to stand on tiptoe, but didn't,
feeling that this would be undignified. I did glance around,
though, searching. I could always spot Jamie in a crowd; he stood
head and shoulders above most men, and his hair caught the light in
a blaze of reddish gold. There was no sign of him yet, though;
only a bobbing sea of bonnets and tricornes, sheltering the
citizens of Charleston from the blistering heat.
The flags came first, fluttering above the heads of the
excited crowd, the banners of Great Britain and of the Royal Colony
of South Carolina. And another, bearing the family arms of Lord [
], Governor of the colony.
Then came the four drummers, walking two by two in step, their
sticks a alternating, single-beat and blur. It was a slow march,
grimly inexorable. A dead march, I thought they called that
particular cadence; very suitable under the circumstances. All
other noises were drowned by the rattle of the drums.
Then came the platoon of red-coated guards from the garrison
[ck. fort?], and in their midst, the prisoners.
There were three of them, hands bound before them, linked
together by a chain that ran through rings on the iron collars
about their necks. The first man was small and elderly, ragged and
disreputable, a shambling wreck who lurched and staggered so that
the dark-suited clergyman who walked beside the prisoners was
obliged to grasp his arm to keep him from falling.
"Is that Gavin Hayes? He looks sick," I murmured to Fergus.
"He's drunk." The soft voice came from behind me, and I
whirled, to find Jamie standing at my shoulder, eyes fixed on the
pitiful procession.
The small man's disequilibrium was disrupting the progress of
the parade, as his stumbling forced the two men chained to him to
zig and zag abruptly in order to keep their feet. The general
impression was of three inebriates rolling home from the local
tavern; grossly at odds with the solemnity of the occasion. I
could hear the rustle of laughter over the drums, and shouts and
jeers from the crowd.
"Your doing?" I spoke quietly, so as not to attract notice,
but I could have shouted; no one had eyes for anything but the
scene before us.
I felt rather than saw Jamie's shrug, as he moved forward to
stand beside me.
"It was what he asked of me," he said. "And the best I could
manage for him."
"Brandy or whisky?" asked Fergus, evaluating Hayes' appearance
with a practiced eye.
"The man's a Scot, wee Fergus." Jamie's voice was as calm as
his face, but I heard the small note of strain in it. "Whisky's
what he wanted."
"A wise choice. With luck, he won't even notice when they
hang him," Fergus muttered. The small man had slipped from the
preacher's grasp and fallen flat on his face in the dusty road,
pulling one of his companions to his knees; the last prisoner, a
tall young man, stayed on his feet but swayed wildly from side to
side, trying desperately to keep his balance. The crowd roared
with glee.
The captain of the guard glowed crimson between the white of
his wig and his leather stock, flushed with fury as much as with
sun. He barked an order as the drums continued their somber roll,
and a soldier scrambled hastily to remove the chain that bound the
prisoners together. Hayes was jerked unceremoniously to his feet,
a soldier grasping each arm, and the procession resumed, in better
order.
There was no laughter by the time they reached the gallows.
I could feel the drums beating through the soles of my feet. I felt
slightly sick from the sun and the smells. The drums stopped
abruptly, and my ears rang in the silence.
"Ye dinna need to watch it, Sassenach," Jamie whispered to me.
"Go back to the wagon." His own eyes were fixed unblinkingly on
Hayes, who swayed and mumbled in the soldiers' grasp, looking
blearily around.
The last thing I wanted was to watch. But neither could I
leave Jamie to see it through alone. He had come for Gavin Hayes;
I had come for him. I touched his hand.
"I'll stay."
Jamie drew himself straighter, squaring his shoulders. He
moved a pace forward, making sure that he was visible in the crowd
below the gallows. If Hayes was still sober enough to see
anything, the last thing he saw on earth would be the face of a
friend.
He could see; close as we were, I could see Hayes glare to and
fro as they dragged him up the steps of the gallows, twisting his
neck desperately around, looking for someone.
"_Gabeain! A charaid!_" Jamie shouted suddenly. Hayes' eyes
found him at once, and he ceased struggling.
The little man stood swaying slightly as the charge was read:
theft in the amount of six pounds, ten shillings. He was covered
in reddish dust, and pearls of sweat clung trembling to the grey
stubble of his beard. The preacher was leaning close, murmuring
urgently in his ear.
Then the drums began again, in a steady roll. The hangman was
ready; he guided the noose over the balding head and fixed it
tight, knot positioned precisely, just under the ear. The captain
of the guard stood poised, saber raised.
Suddenly, the condemned man drew himself up straight. Eyes on
Jamie, he opened his mouth, as though to speak.
The saber flashed in the morning sun, and the drums stopped,
with a final thunk!
I looked at Jamie; he was white to the lips, eyes fixed wide.
From the corner of my eye, I could see the twitching rope, and the
faint, reflexive jerk of the dangling sack of clothes. A sharp
stink of urine and feces struck through the thick air.
On my other side, Fergus watched dispassionately.
"I suppose he noticed, after all," he murmured, with regret.
end section
The body swung slightly, a dead weight oscillating like a
plumb-bob on its string. There was a sigh from the crowd, of awe
and release. Gulls squawked from the burning sky, and the harbor
sounds came faint and smothered through the heavy air, but the
gallows square was wrapped in silence. From where I stood, I could
hear the small plit...plat...plit of the drops that fell from the
toe of the corpse's dangling shoe.
I hadn't known Gavin Hayes, and felt no personal grief for his
death, but I was glad that it had been quick. I stole a glance
upward, with an odd feeling of intrusion. It was a most public way
of accomplishing a most private act, after all, and I felt vaguely
embarrassed to be looking.
The hangman had known his business, though; there had been no
undignified struggle, no staring eyes, no protruding tongue;
Gavin's small round head tilted sharply to the side, neck
grotesquely stretched, but cleanly broken.
It was a clean break in more ways than one. The captain of
the guard, satisfied that Hayes was dead, motioned with his saber
for the next man to be brought to the gibbet. I saw his eyes
travel down the red-clad file, and then widen in outrage.
At the same moment, there was a cry from the crowd, and a
ripple of excitement that quickly spread. Heads turned and people
pushed each against his neighbor, striving to see where there was
nothing to be seen.
"He's running!"
"He's gone!"
"There he goes!"
"Stop him!"
It was the third prisoner, the tall young man, who had seized
the moment of Gavin's death to run for his life, sliding past the
guard who should have been watching him, but who had been unable to
resist the gallows' fascination.
I saw a flicker of movement behind a vendor's stall, a flash
of dirty blond hair. Some of the soldiers saw it, too, and ran in
that direction, but many more were rushing in other directions, and
among the collisions and confusion, nothing was accomplished.
The captain of the guard was shouting, face purple, his voice
barely audible over the uproar. The remaining prisoner, looking
stunned, was seized and hustled back in the direction of the fort
as the redcoats began hastily to sort themselves back into order
under the lash of their captain's voice.
Jamie snaked an arm around my waist and dragged me out of the
way of an oncoming wave of humanity. The crowd fell back before
the advance of squads of soldiers, who formed up and marched
briskly off to quarter the area, under the grim and furious
direction of their sergeant.
"We'd best find Ian," Jamie said, fending off a group of
excited apprentices. He glanced at Fergus, and jerked his head
toward the gibbet and its melancholy burden. "Claim the body, aye?
We'll meet at the Willow Tree later."
"Do you think they'll catch him?" I asked, as we made our way
slowly through the ebbing crowd toward the harbor.
"I expect so. Where can he go?" He spoke abstractedly, a
narrow line visible between his brows. Plainly the dead man was
still on his mind, and he had little attention to spare for the
living.
"Did Hayes have any family?" I asked. He shook his head.
"I asked him that, when I brought him the whisky. He thought
he might have a brother left alive, but no notion where he might
be. The brother was transported soon after the Rising--to
Virginia, Hayes thought, but he'd heard nothing since."
Not surprising if he hadn't; an indentured laborer would have
had no facilities for communicating with kin left behind in
Scotland, unless the bondsman's employer were kind enough to send
a letter on his behalf. And kind or not, it was unlikely that a
letter would have found Gavin Hayes, who had spent ten years in
Ardsmuir prison before being transported in his turn.
"Duncan!" Jamie called out, and a tall, thin man turned and
raised a hand in acknowledgement. He made his way through the
crowd in a corkscrew fashion, his single arm swinging in a wide arc
that fended off the passersby.
"Mac Dubh," he said, bobbing his head in greeting to Jamie.
"Mistress Claire." His long, narrow face was furrowed with
sadness. He too had once been a prisoner at Ardsmuir, with Hayes
and with Jamie. Only the loss of his arm to a blood infection had
prevented his being transported with the others. Unfit to be sold
for labor, he had instead been pardoned and set free to starve--
until Jamie had found him.
"God rest poor Gavin," Duncan said, shaking his head
dolorously.
Jamie muttered something in response in Gaelic, and crossed
himself. Then he straightened, casting off the oppression of the
day with a visible effort.
"Aye, well. I must go to the docks and arrange about Ian's
passage, and then we'll think of burying Gavin. But I must have
the lad settled first."
We struggled through the crowd toward the docks, squeezing our
way between knots of excited gossipers, eluding the drays and
barrows that came and went through the press with the ponderous
indifference of trade.
A file of red-coated soldiers came at the quick-march from the
other end of the quay, splitting the crowd like vinegar dropped on
mayonnaise. The sun glittered hot on the line of bayonet points
and the rhythm of their tramping beat through the noise of the
crowd like a muffled drum. Even the rumbling drays and handcarts
stopped abruptly to let them pass by.
"Mind your pocket, Sassenach," Jamie murmured in my ear,
ushering me through a narrow space between a turban-clad slave
clutching two small children and a street preacher perched on a
box. He was shouting sin and repentence, but with only one word in
three audible through the noise.
"I sewed it shut," I assured him, nonetheless reaching to
touch the small weight that swung against my thigh. "What about
yours?"
He grinned and tilted his hat forward, dark blue eyes
narrowing against the bright sunlight.
"It's where my sporran would be, did I have one. So long as
I dinna meet with a quick-fingered harlot, I'm safe."
I glanced quickly at the slightly bulging front of his
breeches, and then up at him. Broad-shouldered and tall, with
bold, clean features and a Highlander's proud carriage, he drew the
glance of every woman he passed, even with his bright hair covered
by a sober blue tricorne. The breeches, which were borrowed, were
substantially too tight, and did nothing whatever to detract from
the general effect--an effect enhanced by the fact that he himself
was totally ignorant of it.
"You're a walking inducement to harlots," I said. "Stick by
me; I'll protect you."
He laughed and took my arm as we emerged into a small clear
space.
"Ian!" he shouted, catching sight of his nephew over the heads
of the crowd. A moment later, a tall, stringy gawk of a boy popped
out of the crowd, pushing a thatch of brown hair out of his eyes
and grinning widely.
"I thought I should never find ye, Uncle!" he exclaimed.
"loadingChrist, there are more folk here than at the Lawnmarket in
Edinburgh!" He wiped a coat-sleeve across his long, half-homely
face, leaving a streak of grime down one cheek.
Jamie eyed his nephew askance.
"Ye're lookin' indecently cheerful, Ian, for having just seen
a man go to his death."
Ian hastily altered his expression into an attempt at decent
solemnity, belied by the sparkle in his eyes.
"Oh, no, Uncle Jamie," he said. "I didna see the hanging."
Duncan raised one brow and Ian blushed slightly. "I-I wasna afraid
to see; it was only I had...something else I wanted to do."
Jamie smiled slightly and patted his nephew on the back.
"Don't trouble yourself, Ian; I'd as soon not have seen it
myself, only that Gavin was a friend."
"I know, Uncle. I'm sorry for it." A flash of sympathy
showed in the boy's large brown eyes, the only feature of his face
with any claim to beauty. He glanced at me. "Was it awful,
auntie?"
"Yes," I said. "It's over, though." I pulled the damp
handkerchief out of my bosom and stood on tiptoe to rub away the
smudge on his cheek.
Duncan Innes shook his head sorrowfully. "Aye, poor Gavin.
Still, it's a quicker death than starving, and there was little
left for him but that."
"Let's go," Jamie interrupted, unwilling to spend time in
useless lamenting. "The Bonnie Mary should be near the far end of
the quay." I saw Ian glance at Jamie and draw himself up as though
about to speak, but Jamie had already turned toward the harbor and
was shoving his way decisively through the crowd. Ian glanced at
me, shrugged, and offered me an arm.
We followed Jamie through the street of warehouses that lined
the docks, side-stepping sailors, loaders, slaves, passengers,
customers and merchants of all sorts. Charleston was a major
shipping port, and business was booming, with a hundred ships a
month [ck. traffic] coming and going from Europe in the season.
The Bonnie Mary belonged to a friend of Jamie's cousin, Jared
Fraser, who had gone to France to make his fortune in the wine
business, and succeeded brilliantly. With luck, the Bonnie Mary's
captain might be persuaded for Jared's sake to take Ian with him
back to Edinburgh, allowing the boy to work his passage as a cabin
lad.
Ian was not enthused at the prospect, but Jamie was determined
to ship his errant nephew back to Scotland at the earliest
opportunity. It was news of the Bonnie Mary's presence in
Charleston that had brought us here from Georgia, where we had
first set foot in America--by accident--six months before.
As we passed a tavern, a slatternly-looking barmaid came out
with a bowl of slops. She caught sight of Jamie and stood, bowl
braced against her hip, giving him a slanted brow and a pouting
smile. He passed without a glance, intent on his goal. She tossed
her head, flung the slops to the pig who slept by the step, and
flounced back inside.
He paused, shading his eyes to look down the row of towering
ship's masts, and I came up beside him. He twitched unconsciously
at the front of his breeches, easing the fit, and I took his arm.
"Family jewels still safe, are they?" I murmured.
"Uncomfortable, but safe," he assured me. He plucked at the
lacing of his flies, grimacing. "I would ha' done better to hide
them up my bum, I think."
"Better you than me, mate," I said, smiling. "I'd rather risk
robbery, myself."
We had been driven ashore on the coast of Georgia by a
hurricane, arriving soaked, ragged, and destitute--save for a
handful of large and valuable gemstones.
In theory, Jamie's pouch and my pocket contained a sizable
fortune. In practice, the stones might have been beach pebbles so
far as the good they were to us. While gems were an easy, compact
way of transporting wealth, the problem was changing them back into
money, in a place so primitive that most trade was conducted by
means of barter. No one in the small town of [ ] in Georgia had
sufficient capital even to think of buying a ruby or a Canary
diamond, let alone to offer us a decent price.
Nor was there any chance of selling one of the stones in the
endless stretches of red clay and pine forest through which we had
passed on our journey north. Charleston was the first city we had
reached of sufficient size to harbor merchants and bankers who
might help to liquidate a portion of our frozen assets.
Not that anything was likely to stay frozen long in Charleston
in July, I reflected. Diamonds would melt in this heat. Rivulets
of sweat were running down my neck and the cotton shift under my
bodice was soaked and crumpled against my skin. Even so close to
the harbor, there was no wind at this time of day, and the smells
of hot tar, dead fish, and sweating seamen were nearly
overwhelming.
I hoped the captain of the Bonnie Mary thought highly enough
of Jared Fraser to accept Ian as a cabin boy, because if not, we
were going to have a spot of difficulty about the passage.
Despite their protestations, Jamie had insisted on giving one
of our gemstones to Mr. and Mrs. Olivier, the kindly people who had
taken us in when we were shipwrecked virtually on their doorstep,
as some token of thanks for their hospitality. In return, they had
provided us with a wagon, two horses, clothes for traveling, some
food, and a small amount of money.
Of this, one pound, six shillings and threepence remained in
my pocket, constituting the entirety of our disposable fortune.
"This way, Uncle Jamie," Ian said, turning and beckoning his
uncle eagerly. "I've got something to show ye."
"What is it?" Jamie asked, threading his way through a throng
of sweating slaves, who were loading dusty bricks of indigo into an
anchored cargo ship. "And how did ye get whatever it is? Ye
havena got any money, have you?"
"No, I won it, playing cards." Ian's voice floated back, his
body invisible as he skipped around a cartload of corn.
"Playing cards! Ian, for God's sake, ye canna be gambling
when ye've not a penny to bless yourself with!" Holding my arm,
Jamie shoved a way through the crowd to catch up to his nephew.
"You do it all the time, Uncle Jamie," the boy pointed out,
pausing to wait for us. "You've been doing it in every tavern and
inn where we've stayed."
"I know what I'm doing!"
"So do I," said Ian, looking smug. "I won, no?"
Jamie rolled his eyes toward heaven, imploring patience.
"Jesus, Ian, but I'm glad you're going home before ye get your
head beaten in. Promise me ye willna be gambling wi' the sailors,
aye? Ye canna get away from them on a ship."
Ian was paying no attention; he had come to a bollard, around
which was tied a stout rope. Here he stopped and turned to face
us, gesturing at an object by his feet.
"See? It's a dog," Ian said proudly.
I took a quick half-step behind Jamie, grabbing his arm.
"Ian," I said, "that is not a dog. It's a wolf. It's a
bloody big wolf, and I think you ought to get away from it before
it takes a bite out of your arse."
The wolf twitched one ear negligently in my direction,
dismissed me, and twitched it back. It continued to sit, panting
with the heat, its big yellow eyes fixed on Ian with an intensity
that might have been taken for devotion by someone who hadn't met
a wolf before. I had.
"Those things are dangerous," I said. "They'd bite you as
soon as look at you."
Disregarding this, Jamie stooped to inspect the beast.
"It's not quite a wolf, is it?" Sounding interested, he held
out a loose fist to the so-called dog, inviting it to smell his
knuckles. I closed my eyes, expecting the imminent amputation of
his hand. Hearing no shrieks, I opened them again to find him
squatting on the ground, peering up the animal's nostrils.
"He's a handsome creature, Ian," he said, scratching the thing
familiarly under the chin. The yellow eyes narrowed slightly,
either in pleasure at the attention or--more likely, I thought--in
anticipation of biting off Jamie's nose. "Bigger than a wolf,
though; it's broader through the head and chest, and a deal longer
in the leg."
"His mother was an Irish wolfhound," Ian was hunkered down by
Jamie, eagerly explaining as he stroked the enormous gray-brown
back. "She got out in heat, into the woods, and when she came back
in whelp--"
"Oh, aye, I see." Now Jamie was crooning something in Gaelic
to the monster, while he picked up its huge foot and fondled its
hairy toes. The curved black claws were a good two inches long.
I glanced at Duncan, who arched his eyebrows at me, shrugged
slightly, and sighed. Duncan didn't care for dogs.
"Jamie--" I said.
"[Pretty boy]," Jamie said to the wolf. "Are ye no the bonny
laddie, then?"
"What would he eat?" I asked, somewhat more loudly than
necessary.
Jamie stopped caressing the beast.
"Oh," he said. He looked at the yellow-eyed thing with some
regret. "Well." He rose to his feet, shaking his head
reluctantly.
"I'm afraid your auntie's right, Ian. How are we to feed
him?"
"Oh, that's no trouble, Uncle Jamie," Ian assured him. "He
eats fish."
Duncan made a small muffled sound next to me. Seeing three
skeptical faces surrounding him, Ian dropped to his knees and
grabbed the beast's muzzle in both hands, prying his mouth open.
"He does! I swear, Uncle Jamie! Here, just smell his
breath!"
Jamie cast a dubious glance at the double row of impressively
gleaming fangs on display, and rubbed his chin.
"I--ah, I shall take your word for it, Ian. But even so--for
Christ's sake, be careful of your fingers, lad!" Ian's grip had
loosened, and the massive jaws clashed shut, spraying droplets of
saliva over the stone quay.
"I'm all right, Uncle," Ian said cheerfully. "He wouldn't
bite me, I'm sure. His name is Rollo."
Jamie rubbed his knuckles across his upper lip.
"Mmphm. Well, whatever his name is, and whatever he eats, I
dinna think the captain of the Bonnie Mary will take kindly to his
presence in the crew's quarters."
Ian didn't say anything, but the look of happiness on his face
didn't diminish. In fact, it grew. Jamie glanced at him, caught
sight of his glowing face, and stiffened.
"No," he said, in horror. "Oh, no."
"Yes," said Ian. A wide smile of delight split his bony face.
"She sailed three days ago, Uncle. We're too late."
Jamie said something in Gaelic that I didn't understand.
Duncan looked scandalized.
"Damn!" Jamie said, reverting to English. "Bloody damn!"
Jamie took off his hat and rubbed a hand over his face, hard. He
looked hot, disheveled, and thoroughly disgruntled. He opened his
mouth, thought better of whatever he had been going to say, closed
it, and ran his fingers roughly through his hair, jerking loose the
ribbon that tied it back.
Ian looked abashed.
"I'm sorry, Uncle. I'll try not to be a worry to ye, truly I
will. And I can work; I'll earn enough for my food."
Jamie's face softened as he looked at his nephew. He sighed
deeply, and patted Ian's shoulder.
"It's not that I dinna want ye, Ian. You know I should like
nothing better than to keep ye with me. But what in hell will your
mother say?"
The glow returned to Ian's face.
"I don't know, Uncle," he said, "but she'll be saying it in
Scotland, won't she? And we're here." He put his arms around
Rollo and hugged him happily. The wolf seemed mildly taken aback
by the gesture, but after a moment, put out a long black tongue and
daintily licked Ian's ear. Testing him for flavor, I thought
cynically.
"Besides," the boy added, "she kens well enough that I'm safe;
you wrote from Georgia to say I was with you."
Jamie summoned a wry smile.
"I canna say that that particular bit of knowledge will be
ower-comforting to her, Ian. She's known me a long time, aye?"
He sighed and clapped the hat back on his head, and turned to
me.
"I badly need a drink, Sassenach," he said. "Let's find a
decent tavern."
end section
The inside of The Willow Tree was dark, and might have been
cool, had there been fewer people in it. As it was, the benches
and tables were crowded with sightseers from the hanging and
sailors from the docks, and the atmosphere was like a sweat-bath.
I inhaled as I stepped into the taproom, then let my breath out,
fast. It was like breathing through a wad of soiled laundry,
soaked in beer.
Rollo at once proved his worth, parting the crowd like the Red
Sea as he stalked through the taproom, lips drawn back from his
teeth just slightly in a constant, inaudible growl. He was
evidently no stranger to taverns. Having satisfactorily cleared
out a corner bench, he curled up under the table and appeared to go
to sleep.
Out of the sun, with a large pewter mug of dark ale foaming
gently in front of him, Jamie quickly regained his normal self-
possession.
"We've the two choices," he said, brushing back the sweat-
soaked hair from his temples. "We can stay in Charleston long
enough to find a buyer for one of the stones, and then book a
passage for Ian to Scotland on another ship. Or we can make our
way north to Cape Fear, and find a ship for him there."
"Oh, let's go north, Uncle!" Ian said quickly. He wiped away
a small mustache of ale-foam with his sleeve. "The journey might
be dangerous; you'll need an extra man along for protection, aye?"
Jamie buried his expression in his own cup, but I was seated
close enough to feel a subterranean quiver go through him. Jamie
was indeed very fond of his nephew. The fact remained that Ian was
the sort of person to whom things happened. Usually through no
fault of his own, but still, they happened.
The boy had been kidnapped by pirates the year before, and it
was the necessity of rescuing him that had brought us by circuitous
and often dangerous means to America. Nothing had happened
recently, but I knew Jamie was anxious to get his fifteen-year-old
nephew back to Scotland and his mother before something did.
"Ah...to be sure, Ian," Jamie said, lowering his cup. He
carefully avoided meeting my gaze, but I could see the corner of
his mouth twitching. "Ye'd be a great help, I'm sure, but..."
"We might meet with Red Indians!" Ian said, eyes wide. His
face, already a rosy brown from the sun, glowed with a flush of
pleasurable anticipation. "Or wild beasts! Dr. Stern told me that
the wilderness of Carolina is alive wi' fierce creatures--bears and
wild cats and wicked panthers--and a great foul thing the Indians
call a skunk!"
I choked on my ale.
"Are ye all right, auntie?" Ian leaned anxiously across the
table.
"Fine," I wheezed, wiping my streaming face with my kerchief.
I blotted the drops of spilled ale off my bosom, pulling the fabric
of my bodice discreetly away from my flesh in hopes of admitting a
little air.
Then I caught a glimpse of Jamie's face, on which the
expression of suppressed amusement had given way to a small frown
of concern.
"Skunks aren't dangerous," I murmured, laying a hand on his
knee. A skilled and fearless hunter in his native Highlands, Jamie
was inclined to regard the unfamiliar fauna of the New World with
what I considered undue caution.
"Mmphm." The frown eased, but a narrow line remained between
his brows. "Maybe so, but what of the other things? I canna say
I wish to be meeting a bear or a pack o' savages, wi' only this to
hand." He touched the large sheathed knife that hung from his
belt.
Our lack of weapons had worried Jamie considerably on the trip
from Georgia, and Ian's remarks about Indians and wild animals had
brought the concern to the forefront of his mind once more.
Besides Jamie's knife, Fergus bore a smaller blade, suitable for
cutting rope and trimming twigs for kindling. That was the full
extent of our armoury.
On the journey from Georgia to Charleston, we had had the
company of a group of sorghum farmers--all bristling with rifles,
pistols, and muskets--bringing their produce to the port to be
shipped north to Pennsylvania and New York. If we left for Cape
Fear now, we would be alone, unarmed, and essentially defenseless
against anything that might emerge from the thick forests that
surrounded the narrow road.
At the same time, there were pressing reasons to travel north,
our lack of available capital being one. Cape Fear was the largest
settlement of native Highlanders in the American Colonies, boasting
several towns whose inhabitants had emigrated from Scotland during
the last thirty years, following the upheaval after Culloden. And
among these emigrants were many of Jamie's kin, who would willingly
offer us refuge: a roof, a bed, and time to establish ourselves in
this new world.
"Charleston is a fair-sized city, seemingly." Duncan spoke
hesitantly, smoothing the ends of his drooping mustache with a
finger. "Might it not provide a good buyer for one of your wee
pebbles, Mac Dubh?"
Jamie nodded.
"So it might. But I dinna feel quite easy in my mind about
that, aye?" He leaned back against the wall of the tavern,
glancing casually around the crowded room. "D'ye no feel the eyes
on your back, Duncan?"
A chill ran down my back, despite the trickle of sweat doing
likewise. Duncan's own eyes widened fractionally, then narrowed,
but he didn't turn around.
"Ah," he said.
"Whose eyes?" I asked, looking rather nervously around. I
didn't see anyone taking particular notice of us, though anyone
might be watching surreptitiously; the tavern was seething with
alcohol-soaked humanity, and the babble of voices was loud enough
to drown out all but the closest conversation.
"Anyone's, Sassenach," Jamie answered. He glanced sidewise at
me, and smiled. "Dinna look so scairt about it, aye? We're in no
danger. Not here."
"Not yet," Innes said. He leaned forward to pour another cup
of ale. "Mac Dubh called out to Gavin on the gallows, d'ye see?
There will be those who took notice--Mac Dubh bein' the bittie wee
fellow he is," he added dryly.
"And the farmers who came with us from Georgia will have sold
their barrels by now, and be takin' their ease in places like
this," Jamie said, evidently absorbed in studying the pattern of
his cup. "All of them are honest men--but they'll talk, Sassenach.
It makes a good story, no? The folk cast away by the hurricane? And
what are the chances that at least one of them kens a bit about
what we carry?"
"I see," I murmured, and did. We had attracted public
interest by our association with a criminal, and could no longer
pass as inconspicuous travelers. To try to sell a stone would be
to advertise what we had. If finding a buyer took some time, as
was likely, we risked inviting robbery, or scrutiny from the
English authorities. Neither prospect was appealing.
Jamie lifted his cup and drank deeply, then set it down with
a sigh, shaking his head.
"No. I think it's perhaps not wise to linger in the city.
We'll see Gavin buried decently, and then we'll find a safe spot in
the woods outside the town to sleep. Tomorrow we can decide
whether to stay or go."
The thought of spending several more nights in the woods--
with or without skunks--was not appealing. I hadn't taken my dress
off in eight days, merely rinsing the outlying portions of my
anatomy whenever was paused in the vicinity of a stream.
I had been looking forward to a real bed, even if flea-
infested, and a chance to scrub off the grime of the last week's
travel. Still, he had a point. I sighed, ruefully eyeing the hem
of my sleeve, gray and grubby with wear.
The tavern door flung suddenly open at this point, distracting
me from my contemplation, and four red-coated soldiers shoved their
way into the crowded room. They wore full uniform, held muskets
with bayonets fixed, and were obviously not in pursuit of ale or
dice.
Two of the soldiers made a rapid circuit of the room, glancing
under tables, while another disappeared into the kitchen beyond.
The fourth remained on watch by the door, pale eyes flicking over
the crowd. His gaze lighted on our table, and rested on us for a
moment, full of speculation, but then passed on, restlessly
seeking.
Jamie was outwardly tranquil, sipping his ale in apparent
obliviousness, but I saw the hand in his lap clench slowly into a
fist. Duncan, less able to control his feelings, bent his head to
hide his expression. Neither man would ever feel at ease in the
presence of a red coat, and for good reason.
No one else appeared much perturbed by the soldiers' presence;
the little knot of singers in the chimney corner went on with an
interminable version of "Fill Every Glass", and a loud argument
broke out between the barmaid and a pair of apprentices.
The soldier returned from the kitchen, evidently having found
nothing. Stepping rudely through a dice game on the hearth, he
rejoined his fellows by the door. As the soldiers shoved their way
out of the tavern, a slight dark figure squeezed in, pressing
himself against the door jamb to avoid swinging elbows and musket
butts.
I saw one soldier's eyes catch the glint of metal and fasten
with interest on the hook Fergus wore in replacement of his missing
left hand. He glanced sharply at Fergus, but then shouldered his
musket and hurried after his companions.
Fergus shoved through the crowd and plopped down on the bench
beside Ian. He looked hot and irritated.
"Blood-sucking _salaud_," he said, without preamble.
Jamie's brows went up.
"The priest," Fergus elaborated. He took the mug Ian pushed
in his direction and drained it, lean throat glugging until the cup
was empty. He lowered it, exhaled heavily, and sat blinking,
looking noticeably happier. He sighed and wiped his mouth.
"He wants two pounds to bury the man in the churchyard," he
said. "Wretched userer! He knows we have no choice about it. The
body will scarcely keep 'til sunset, as it is." He ran a finger
inside his stock, pulling the sweat-wilted cotton away from his
neck in illustration.
Jamie frowned.
"Did you agree?"
"No, how? I have no money." Fergus banged his fist several
times on the table to attract the attention of the serving maid,
who was being run off her feet by the press of patrons. "I told
the super-fatted son of a pig that you would decide whether to pay
or not. We could just bury him in the wood, after all. Though
even then, we should probably have to purchase a shovel," he added,
frowning. "These grasping townsfolk know we are strangers; they'll
take our last coin if they can."
Last coin was perilously close to the truth. I had enough to
pay for a decent meal here and to buy a little food for the journey
north; that was all. I saw Jamie's eyes flick round the room,
assessing the possibilities of picking up a little money at hazard
or faro.
Soldiers and sailors were the best prospects for gambling, but
there were few of either in the taproom--likely most of the
garrison was still searching the town for the fugitive. In one
corner, a small group of men were being loudly convivial over
several pitchers of brandywine; two of them were singing, or trying
to, their attempts causing great hilarity among their comrades.
Jamie gave an almost imperceptible nod at sight of them, and turned
back to Fergus.
"What have ye done with Gavin for the time being?" Jamie
asked. Fergus hunched one shoulder.
"Put him in the wagon. I traded the clothes he was wearing to
a rag-woman for a shroud, and she agreed to wash the body as part
of the bargain." He gave Jamie a faint smile. "Don't worry,
milord; he's seemly. For now," he added, lifting the fresh mug of
ale to his lips.
"Poor Gavin." Duncan Innes lifted his own mug in a half-
salute to his fallen comrade.
"[Gaelic]," Jamie replied, and lifted his own mug in reply.
He set it down and sighed.
"He wouldna like being buried in the wood," he said.
"Why not?" I asked, curious. "I shouldn't think it would
matter to him one way or the other.
"Oh, no, we couldna do that, Mrs. Claire." Duncan was shaking
his head emphatically. Duncan was normally a most reserved man,
and I was surprised at so much apparent feeling.
"He was afraid of the dark," Jamie said softly. I turned to
stare at him.
He gave me a lop-sided smile. "I lived wi' Gavin Hayes nearly
as long as I've lived with you, Sassenach--and in much closer
quarters. I kent him well." He took a swallow of his ale.
"Aye, he was afraid of being alone in the dark," Duncan chimed
in. "He was most mortally scairt of _tannasgeach_--of spirits,
aye?"
His long, mournful face bore an inward look, and I knew he was
seeing in memory the prison cell that he and Jamie had shared with
Gavin Hayes--and with forty other men--for three long years. "D'ye
recall, Mac Dubh, how he told us one night of the urisge he met?"
"I do, Duncan, and could wish I did not." Jamie shuddered
despite the heat. "I kept awake myself half the night after he
told us that one."
"What was it, Uncle?" Ian was leaning over his cup of ale,
round-eyed. His cheeks were flushed and streaming, and his stock
crumpled with sweat.
Jamie rubbed a hand across his mouth, thinking.
"Ah. Well, it was a time in the late, cold autumn in the
Highlands, just when the season turns, and the feel of the air
tells ye the ground will be shivered wi' frost come dawn," he said.
He settled himself in his seat and sat back, alecup in hand. He
smiled wryly, plucking at his own collar. "Not like now, aye?
"Well, Gavin's son brought back the kine that night, but there
was one beast missing--the lad had hunted up the hills and down the
corries, but couldna find it anywhere. So Gavin set the lad to
milk the two others, and set out himself to look for the lost cow."
He rolled the pewter cup slowly between his hands, staring
down into the dark ale as though seeing in it the bulk of the
night-black Scottish peaks and the gray mist that floats in the
autumn glens.
"He went some distance, and the cot behind him disappeared.
When he looked back, he couldna see the light from the window
anymore, and there was no sound but the keening of the wind. It
was cold, and he went on, tramping through the mud and the heather,
hearing the crackle of ice under his boots.
He saw a small grove through the mist, and thinking the cow
might have taken shelter beneath the trees, he went toward it. He
said the trees were birches, standing there all leafless, but with
their branches all grown together so he must bend his head to
squeeze under the boughs."
He came into the grove and saw it was not a grove at all, but
a circle of trees. There were great, tall trees, spaced verra
evenly, all around him, and smaller ones, saplings, grown up
between to make a wall of branches. And in the center of the
circle stood a cairn."
Hot as it was in the tavern, I felt as though a sliver of ice
had slid melting down my spine. I had seen ancient cairns in the
Highlands myself, and found them eerie enough in the broad light of
day.
Jamie took a sip of ale, and wiped away a trickle of sweat
that ran down his temple.
"He felt quite queer, did Gavin. For he kent the place--
everyone did, and kept well away from it. It was a strange place.
And it seemed even worse in the dark and the cold, from what it did
in the light of day. It was an auld cairn, the kind laid wi' slabs
of rock, all heaped round with stones, and he could see before him
the black opening of the tomb.
He knew it was a place no man should come, and he without a
powerful charm. Gavin had naught but a wooden cross about his
neck. So he crossed himself with it and turned to go."
Jamie paused to sip his ale.
"But as Gavin went from the grove," he said softly, "he heard
footsteps behind him."
I saw the Adam's apple bob in Ian's throat as he swallowed.
He reached mechanically for his own cup, eyes fixed on his uncle.
"He didna turn to see," Jamie went on, "but kept walking.
And the steps kept pace wi' him, step by step, always following.
And he came through the peat where the water seeps up, and it was
crusted with ice, the weather bein' so cold. He could hear the
peat crackle under his feet, and behind him the crack! crack! of
breaking ice.
He walked and he walked, through the cold, dark night,
watching ahead for the light of his own window, where his wife had
set the candle. But the light never showed, and he began to fear
he had lost his way among the heather and the dark hills. And all
the time, the steps kept pace with him, loud in his ears.
"At last he could bear it no more, and seizing hold of the
crucifix he wore round his neck, he swung about wi' a great cry to
face whatever followed."
"What did he see?" Ian's pupils were dilated, dark with drink
and wonder. Jamie glanced at the boy, and then at Duncan, nodding
at him to take up the story.
"He said it was a figure like a man, but with no body," Duncan
said quietly. "All white, like as it might have been made of the
mist. But wi' great holes where its eyes should be, and empty
black, fit to draw the soul from his body with dread."
"But Gavin held up his cross before his face, and he prayed
aloud to the Blessed Virgin." Jamie took up the story, leaning
forward intently, the dim firelight outlining his profile in gold.
"And the thing came no nearer, but stayed there, watching him."
"And so he began to walk backward, not daring to face round
again. He walked backward, stumbling and slipping, fearing every
moment as he might tumble into a burn or down a cliff and break his
neck, but fearing worse to turn his back on the cold thing.
"He couldna tell how long he'd walked, only that his legs were
trembling wi' weariness, when at last he caught a glimpse of light
through the mist, and there was his own cottage, wi' the candle in
the window. He cried out in joy, and turned to his door, but the
cold thing was quick, and slippit past him, to stand betwixt him
and the door.
"His wife had been watching out for him, and when she heard
him cry out, she came at once to the door. Gavin shouted to her
not to come out, but for God's sake to fetch a charm to drive away
the urisge. Quick as thought, she snatched the pot from beneath
her bed, and a twig of myrtle bound wi' red thread and black, that
she'd made to bless the cows. She dashed the water against the
doorposts, and the cold thing leapt upward, astride the lintel.
Gavin rushed in beneath and barred the door, and stayed inside in
his wife's arms until the dawn. They let the candle burn all the
night, and Gavin Hayes never again left his house past sunset--
until he went to fight for Prince _Tearlach_."
Even Duncan, who knew the tale, sighed as Jamie finished
speaking. Ian crossed himself, then looked about self-consciously,
but no one seemed to have noticed.
"So, now Gavin has gone into the dark," Jamie said softly.
"But we willna let him lie in unconsecrated ground."
"Did they find the cow?" Fergus asked, with his usual
practicality. Jamie quirked one eyebrow at Duncan, who answered.
"Oh, aye, they did. The next morning they found the poor
beast, wi' her hoofs all clogged wi' mud and stones, staring mad
and lathered about the muzzle, and her sides heavin' fit to burst."
He glanced from me to Ian and back to Fergus. "Gavin did say," he
said precisely, "that she looked as though she'd been ridden to
Hell and back."
"Jesus." Ian took a deep gulp of his ale, and I did the same.
In the corner, the drinking society was making attempts on a round
of "Captain Thunder," breaking down each time in helpless laughter.
Ian put down his cup on the table.
"What happened to them?" he asked, his face troubled. "To
Gavin's wife, and his son?"
Jamie's eyes met mine, and his hand touched my thigh. I knew,
without being told, what had happened to the Hayes family. Without
Jamie's own courage and intransigence, the same thing would likely
have happened to me and to our daughter Brianna.
"Gavin never knew," Jamie said quietly. "He never heard of
his wife--she will have been starved, maybe, or driven out to die
of the cold. His son took the field beside him at Culloden.
Whenever a man who had fought there came into our cell, Gavin would
ask--'Have ye maybe seen a bold lad named Archie Hayes, about so
tall?' He measured automatically, five feet from the floor,
capturing Hayes' gesture. "A lad about fourteen," he'd say, "wi'
a green plaidie and a small gilt brooch.' But no one ever came who
had seen him for sure--either seen him fall or seen him run away
safe."
Jamie took a sip of the ale, his eyes fixed on a small group
of British officers who had come in and settled in the corner. It
had grown dark outside, and they were plainly off duty. Their
leather stocks were unfastened on account of the heat, and they
wore only sidearms, glinting under their coats; nearly black in the
dim light save where the firelight touched them with red.
"Sometimes he hoped the lad might have been captured and
transported," he said. "Like his brother."
"Surely that would be somewhere in the records?" I said
hesitantly. "Did they--do they--keep lists?"
"They did," Jamie said, still watching the soldiers. A
small, bitter smile touched the corner of his mouth. "It was such
a list that saved me, after Culloden, when they asked my name
before shooting me, so as to add it to their roll. But a man like
Gavin would have no way to see the Engish dead-lists. And if he
could have found out, I think he would not." He glanced at me.
"Would you choose to know for sure, and it was your child?"
I shook my head, and he gave me a faint smile and squeezed my
hand. Our child was safe, after all. He picked up his cup and
drained it, then beckoned to the serving maid for another pitcher
and a tray of meat pasties.
The girl brought the food, skirting the table widely in order
to avoid Rollo. The beast lay motionless under the table, his head
protruding into the room and his great hairy tail lying heavily
across my feet, but his yellow eyes were wide open, watching
everything. They followed the girl intently, and she backed
nervously away, keeping an eye on him until she was safely out of
biting distance.
Seeing this, Jamie cast a dubious look at the so-called dog.
"Is he hungry? Must I ask for a fish for him?"
"Oh, no, Uncle," Ian reassured him. "Rollo catches his own
fish."
Jamie's eyebrows shot up at this, but he only nodded, and with
a wary glance at Rollo, took a pasty from the tray.
"Ah, the pity of it." Duncan Innes was quite drunk by now.
He sat slumped against the wall, his armless shoulder riding higher
than the other, giving him a strange, hunch-backed appearance.
"That a dear man like Gavin should come to such an end!" He shook
his head lugubriously, swinging it back and forth over his alecup
like the clapper of a funeral bell.
"Not a member of his family left to mourn him, cast alone into
a savage land--hung as a felon, and to be buried in an
unconsecrated grave. Not even a proper lament to be sung for him!"
He picked up the cup, and with some difficulty, found his mouth
with it. He drank deep and set it down with a muffled clang.
"Well, he shall have a lament!" He glared belligerently from
Jamie to Fergus to Ian. "Why not?"
Jamie wasn't drunk, but he wasn't completely sober, either.
He grinned at Duncan and lifted his own cup in salute.
"Why not, indeed?" he said. "Only it will have to be you
singin' it, Duncan. None of the rest knew Gavin, and I'm no
singer. I'll shout along wi' ye, though."
Duncan nodded magisterially, bloodshot eyes surveying us.
Without warning, he flung back his head and emitted a terrible
howl. Ian and Fergus, who had evidently heard Gaelic laments
before, didn't turn a hair. I jumped in my seat, spilling half a
cup of ale into my lap.
All over the room, benches were shoved back, as men leaped to
their feet in alarm, reaching for their pistols. The barmaid
leaned out of the serving hatch, eyes big. Rollo came awake with
an explosive "Woof!", and glared round wildly, teeth bared.
"[Gaelic......]," Duncan thundered, in a ragged baritone. I
had just about enough Gaelic to translate this as, "We are met to
weep and cry out to heaven for the loss of our friend, Gavin
Hayes!"
"_Eisd e-fein!_" Jamie chimed in.
"[Gaelic....!]" _He was born of Seaumais Emmanuel Hayes and
of Louisa Maclellan, in the village of Kilmartin in the parish of
Dodanil, in the year of our lord seventeen hundred and one!_
"_Eisd e-fein!_" This time Fergus and Ian joined in on the
chorus, which I translated roughly as, "Hear him!"
Rollo appeared not to care for either verse or refrain; his
ears lay back flat against his skull, and his yellow eyes narrowed
to slits. Ian scratched his head in reassurance, and he lay down
again, muttering wolf-curses under his breath.
The audience, having caught on to it that no actual violence
threatened, and no doubt bored with the inferior vocal efforts of
the drinking society in the corner, settled down to enjoy the show.
By the time Duncan had worked his way into an accounting of the
names of the sheep Gavin Hayes had owned before leaving his croft
to follow his laird to Culloden, many of those at the surrounding
tables were joining enthusiastically in the chorus, shouting "Eisd
e-fein!" and banging their mugs on the tables, in perfect ignorance
of what was being said, and a good thing, too.
Duncan, drunker than ever, fixed the soldiers at the next
table with a baleful glare, sweat pouring down his face.
"[Gaelic....]!" _Wicked English dogs, eaters of dead flesh!
Ill does it become you to laugh and rejoice at the death of a
gallant man! May the devil himself seize upon you in the hour of
your death and take you straight to hell!_
Ian blanched slightly at this, and Jamie cast Duncan a narrow
look, but they stoutly shouted "_Eisd e-fein!_" along with the rest
of the crowd.
Fergus, seized by a happy inspiration, got up and passed his
hat among the crowd, who, carried away by ale and excitement,
happily flung coppers into it for the privilege of joining in their
own denunciation.
I had as good a head for drink as most men, but a much smaller
bladder. Head spinning from the noise and fumes as much as from
alcohol, I got up and edged my way out from behind the table,
through the mob, and into the fresh air of the early evening.
It was still hot and sultry, though the sun was long since
down. Still, there was a lot more air out here, and a lot fewer
people sharing it.
Having relieved the internal pressure, I sat down on the
tavern's chopping block with my pewter mug, breathing deeply. The
night was clear, with a bright half-moon peeping silver over the
harbor's edge. Our wagon stood nearby, no more than its outline
visible in the light from the tavern windows. Presumably, Gavin
Hayes' decently shrouded body lay within. I trusted he had enjoyed
his lament.
Inside, Duncan's chanting had come to an end. A clear tenor
voice, wobbly with drink, but sweet nonetheless, was singing a
familiar tune, audible over the babble of talk.
_To Anacreon in heavn'n, where he sat in full glee,
A few sons of harmony sent a petition,
That he their inspirer and patron would be!
When this answer arived from the jolly old Grecian:
"Voice, fiddle, and flute,
No longer be mute!
I'll lend you my name and inspire you to boot._
The singer's voice cracked painfully on "voice, fiddle, and
flute," but he sang stoutly on, despite the laughter from his
hearers. I smiled wryly to myself as he hit the final couplet,
_And, besides, I'll instruct you like me to entwine,
The Myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine!_
I lifted my cup in salute to the wheeled coffin, softly
echoing the melody of the singer's last lines.
_Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave,
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!_
I drained my cup and sat still, waiting for the men to come
out.
[end section]
"Ten, eleven, twelve...and two, and six...two pounds, one
shilling, sixpence, two farthings!" Fergus dropped the last coin
ceremoniously into the cloth pocket, pulled tight the drawstrings,
and handed it to Jamie. "And three buttons," he added, "but I have
kept those," and patted the side of his coat.
"You've settled with the landlord for our meal?" Jamie asked
me, weighing the little bag.
"Yes," I assured him. "I have ten shillings and threepence
left, plus what Fergus collected."
Fergus smiled modestly, square white teeth gleaming in the
faint light from the tavern's window.
"We have the necessary money for the burial, then," he said.
"Will we take Monsieur Hayes to the priest now, or wait 'til
morning?"
Jamie frowned at the wagon, standing silent at the edge of the
inn-yard.
"I shouldna think the priest will be awake at this hour," he
said, with a glance at the rising moon. "Still--"
"I'd just as soon not take him with us," I said. "Not to be
rude," I added apologetically to the wagon. "But if we're going to
sleep out in the woods, the...er...scent..." It wasn't
overpowering, but once away from the smoky reek of the tavern, a
distinct smell was noticeable in the vicinity of the wagon. It
hadn't been an easy death, and it had been a hot day.
"Auntie Claire is right," Ian said, brushing his knuckles
inconspicuously under his nose. "We dinna want to be attracting
wild animals."
"We canna be leaving Gavin here, surely!" Duncan protested,
scandalized at the thought. "What, leave him lying on the step o'
the inn in his shroud, like a foundling wrapped in swaddling
clothes?" He swayed alarmingly, his alcoholic intake affecting his
always precarious balance.
I saw Jamie's wide mouth twitch with amusement, the moon
shining white on the knife-edged bridge of his nose.
"No," he said. "We willna be leaving him here." He tossed the
little bag from hand to hand with a faint chinking sound, then,
making his decision, thrust it into his breeches.
"We'll bury him ourselves," he said. "Fergus, will ye be
stepping into the stable yonder and see can ye buy a shovel cheap?"
End of Chapter 1.
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