$ituation, and after some cauti man, after all, Jacobite or no. rendeman was a gentle
vited Fraser to join them. A g FLoger thought, but this Quarry Not precisely an orthodox situation,
o suit himself. For that matter, so was sounded the type to adjust regulations t
Fraser. I and he moved from Apprentice to Fellow Craft in a "So Quarry made hin ,
month's time, and was a Master himself a month after that-and that was when he chose to tell us of it. And so we founded a new lodge that night, the seven Of ber Two."
us--Ardsmuir Lodge Num
Roger snorted in wry amusement, seeing it.
ristie ' Tom Christie the Protestant. And Christie "Aye. You six-and Ch - e Mason's Oaths, would have had no stiff-necked but honorable, sworn to th
choice, but been obliged to accept Fraser and his Catholics as brethren
"To start with. Within three months, though, every man in the cells was uch trouble after that."
made Apprentice. And there wasna so in
e notions There wouldn't have been. Freemasons held as basic principles th
of equality-gentleman, crofter, fisherman, laird; such distinctions were not ssion of politics or relit of in a lodge-and tolerance. No discu
taken accoun
gion among the brothers, that was the rule. ge, either," "I can't think it did Jamie any harm to belong to the officers' lod
Roger said. er vaguely. "No7 I dinna suppose it did." He pushed "Oh," said Kenny, rath rise; the story was done; the dark had come- -and it back his stool and made to d the clav candlestick that was time to light a candle. He made no move towar
stood on the hearth, but Roger glanced toward the glow of the banked fire, e- first time that there was no smell of cooking food.
and noticed for th rising himself. "Come with "It's time I was away home for supper," he said,
me, aye?"
Kenny brightened noticeably. moment to milk the goats,
11 will, then, a Sme6raich, and thanks. Give- me a
and I'll be, right along-"
ACK upstairs next morning after a deticious breakfast feaWHENICAMEB minced buffalo meat, sweet onions, and mushturing omelettes made with . bly bright-eyed.
rooms, I found Jamie awake, though not noticea
826 Diana Gabaldon
"How are you this morning?" I asked, setting down the tray I had brought him and putting a hand on his forehead. Still warm, but no longer blazing; the fever was nearly gone.
"I wish I were deid, if only so folk would stop asking how am I?" he replied grumpily. I took his mood as an indicator of returning health, and took my hand away.
"Have you used the chamberpot yet this morning?,, He raised one eyebrow, glowering.
"Have you?"
"You know, You are Perfectly impossible when you don't feel well," I remarked, rising to peer into the crudely glazed pot for myself. Nothing.
C 'Does it not occur to ye, Sassenach, that perhaps it's yourself that's impossible when I'm ill? If ye're not feeding me some disgusting substance made of ground beetles and hoof-shavings, you're pokin' my belly and making intimate inquiries into the state of my bowels. Ahh!
I had in fact pulled down the sheet and prodded him in the lower abdomen. No distention from a swollen bladder; his exclamation appeared to be due entirely to ticklishness. I quickly palpated the liver, but found no hardness-that was a relief.
"Have you a pain in your back?"
46
f I've a marked pain in my backside," he said, narrowing one eye at me and olding his arms Protectively across his middle. "And it's getting worse by the moment."
11 am trying to determine whether the snake venom has affected your kidneys, 1l I explained patiently, deciding to overlook this last remark. "If you can't Piss-
"I can do that fine," he assured me, pulling the sheet up to his chest, lest I demand proof "Now, just leave me to my breakfast, and I'll-"
"How do you know? You haven't-"
"I have." Seeing my skeptical glance at the chamberpot, he glowered under his brows, and muttered something ending in '4 ... window." I swung round to the open window, shutters open and sash raised in spite of the chilly morning air. "You did what?"
"Well," he defended himself, "I was standing up, and I just thought I would, that's all."
"Why were you standing up?"
ccOh, I thought I would." He blinked at me, innocent as a day-old child. I left the question, going on to more important matters.
"Was there blood in-"
"What have ye brought for my breakfast?" ignoring my clinical inquiries, he rolled to one side, and lifted the napkin draped over the tray. He looked at the bowl of bread and milk thus revealed, then turned his head, giving me a look of the most profound betrayal.
Before he could start in on fiirther grievances, I f
orestalled him by sitting down on the stool beside him and demanding bluntly, "What's wrong with Tom Christie?"
He blinked, taken by surprise.
"Is something amiss AT the man?"
The Fiery Cross 827
"I wouldn't know; I haven't seen him."
,Well, I havena seen him in more than twenty years myself," he said, picking "If he's grown a ,up the spoon and prodding the bread and milk suspiciously.
I are head in that time, it's news to me."
p "Ho," I said tolerantly. "You may-and I say may-possibly have fooled Roger, but I know you."
He looked up at that, and gave me a sidelong smile.
"Oh, aye? D'ye know I dinna care much for bread and milk?"
My heart fluttered at sight of that smile, but I maintained my dignity.
"If you're thinking of blackmailing me into bringing you a steak, you can forget it," I advised him. "I can wait to find out about Tom Christie, if I have to." I stood up, shaking out my skirts as though to leave, and turned toward the door.
"Make it parritch with honey, and I'll tell ye." I turned round to find him grinning at me.
Z "Done," I said, and came back to the stool.
He considered for a moment, but I could see that he was only deciding how and where to begin.
"Roger told me about the Masonic lodge at Ardsmuir," I said, to help out. "Last night."
Jamie shot me a startled look.
"And where did wee Roger Mac find that out? Did Christie tell him?"
"No, Kenny Lindsay did. But evidently Christie gave Roger a Masonic sign of some sort when he arrived. I thought Catholics weren't allowed to be Masons, actually."
He raised one eyebrow.
"Aye, well. The Pope wasna in Ardsmuir prison, and I was. Though I havena heard that it's forbidden, forbye. So wee Roger's a Freemason, too, is he?" "Apparently. And perhaps it isn't forbidden, now. It will be, later." I flapped
a hand, dismissing it. "There's something else about Christie, though, isn't there? "
He nodded, and glanced away.
"Aye, there is," he said quietly. "D'ye recall a Sergeant Murchison, Sassenach?"
"Vividly," I had met the Sergeant only once, more than two years previously, in Cross Creek. The name seemed familiar in some other, more recent context, though. Then I recalled where I had heard it.
"Archie Hayes mentioned him-or them. That was it; there were two of them, twins. One of them was the man who shot Archie at Culloden, wasn't he?"
Jamie nodded. His eyes were hooded, and I could see that he was looking back into the time he had spent in Ardsmuir.
"Aye. And to shoot a lad in cold blood was nay more than one could expect from either of them. A crueler pair I hope never to meet." The corner of his mouth turned up, but without humor. "The only thing I ken to Stephen Bonnet's credit is that he killed one o' yon lurdans.
"And the other?" I asked. "I killed the other."
828 Diana Gabaldon
The room seemed suddenly very quiet, as though the two of us were far removed from Fraser's Ridge, alone together, that bald statement floating in the air between us. H
e was looking straight at me, blue eyes guarded, waiting to see what I would say, I swallowed.
"Why?" I asked, vaguely surprised at the calmness of my own voice. He did look away then, shaking his head.
."A hundred reasons," he said softly, "and none." He rubbed absently at his Wrist, as though feeling the weight of iron fetters.
could tell ye stories of their viciousness, Sassenach, and they would be true. They preyed upon the weak, robbing and beating-and they were the sort who took delight in cruelty for its own sake. There's no recourse against such men, not in a prison. But I dinna say so as an excuse-for there is none."
The prisoners at Ardsmuir were used for labor, cutting peats, quarrying and hauling stone. They worked in small groups, each group guarded by an English soldier, armed with musket and club. The musket, to prevent escape-the club, to enforce orders and ensure submission.
"It was summer. Ye'll ken the summer in the Highlands, Sassenach-the summer dim?"
I nodded. The summer dim was the light of the Highland night, late in summer. So far to the north, the sun barely set on Midsummer's Eve; it would disappear below the horizon, but even at midnight, the sky was pale and milky white, and the air was not dark, but seemed filled with unearthly mist.
The prison governor took advantage of th 'light, now and then, to work the prisoners into the late hours of the evening. e
"We didna mind so much," Jamie said. His eyes were open, but fixed on whatever he was seeing in the summer dim of memory. "It was better to be outside than in. And yet, by the evening, we would be so droukit wi, fatigue that we could barely set one foot before the other. It was like walking in a dream."
Both guards and men were numb with exhaustion, by the time the work of the day was done. The groups of prisoners were collected, f
ormed up into a column and marched back toward the prison, shuffling across the moorland, stumbling and nodding, drunk with the need to fall down and sleep.
"We were still by the quarry, when they set Off; we were to load the wagon wi' the stone-cutting tools and the last of the blocks, and follow. I rememberI heaved a great block up into the wagon bed, and stood back, panting wil the effort. There was a sound behind me, and I turned to see Sergeant Murchison-Billy, it was, though I didna find that out 'til later."
The Sergeant was no more than a squat black shape in the dim, face invisible against a sky the color of an oyster's shell.
"I wondered, now and then, if I wouldna have done it, had I seen his face." The fingers of Jamie's left hand stroked his wrist absently, and I realized that he still felt the weight of the irons he had worn.
The Sergeant had raised his club, poked Jamie hard in the ribs, then used it to point to a maul left lying on the ground. Then the Sergeant turned away,
"I didna think about it for a moment," Jamie said softly. "I was on him in two steps, wi' the chain of my fetters hard against his throat. He hadna time to make a sound."
The Fiery Cross 829
The wagon stood no more than ten feet from the lip of the quarry poolthere was a drop of forty feet straight down, i feet deep, black and waveless under that and the water below, a hundred hollow white sky.
"I tied him to one of the blocks and threw him over, and then I went back Ito the wagon. The two men from my group were there, standing like statues in I ste ped up and took the the dim, watching. They said nothing, nor did I.
Ove toward the prison. We reins, they got into the back of the wagon, and I dr p
nt back together, without a caught up to the column before too long, and all we
word. No one missed Sergeant Murchison until the next evening, for they thought he was down in the village, off-duty. I dinna think they ever found him - "
He seemed to notice what he was doing, then, and took his hand away from his wrist.
"And the two men?" I asked softly. He nodded. "Tom Christie and Duncan Innes."
He sighed deeply, and stretched his arms, shiffing his shoulders as though to ease the fit of his shirt-though he wore a loose nightshirt. Then he raised one hand and turned it to and fro, frowning at his wrist in the light.
"That's odd," he said, sounding faintly surprised. "What is?"
"The marks-they're gone."
"Marks ... from the irons?" He nodded, examining both his wrists in bemusement. The skin was fair, weathered to a pale gold, but otherwise unblemished.
"I had them for years-from the chafing, aye? I never noticed that they'd gone."
I set a hand on his wrist, rubbing my thumb gently over the pulse where his radial artery crossed the bone.
"You didn't have them when I found you in Edinburgh, Jamie. They've been gone a long time."
He looked down at his arms, and shook his head, as though unable to believe it.
"Aye," he said softly. "Well, so has Tom Christie."
PART NINE
A Dangerous Business
AURUM
T WAS QUIET IN THE HOUSE; Mr. Wemyss had gone to the gristmill, taking Lizzie and Mrs. Bug with him, and it was too late in the day for anyone on the Ridge to come visiting-everyone would be at their
chores, seeing that the beasts were fed and bedded down, wood and water fetched, the fires built up for supper.
My own beast was already fed and bedded; Adso perched in a somnolent ball in a patch of late sun on the window ledge, feet tucked up and eyes closed in an ecstasy of repletion. My contribution to the supper-a dish Fergus referred to elegantly as lapin aux cbanterelles (known as rabbit stew to the vulgar among us)-had been burbling cheerfully away in the cauldron since early morning, and needed no attention from me. As for sweeping the floor, polishing the windows, dusting, and general drudgery of that sort ... well, if women's work was never done, why trouble about how much of it wasn't being accomplished at any given moment?
I fetched down ink and pen from the cupboard, and the big black clothbound casebook, then settled myself to share Adso's sun. I wrote up a careful description of the growth on little Geordie Chisholm's ear, which would bear watching, and added the most recent measurements I had taken of Tom Christie's left hand.
Christie did suffer from arthritis in both hands, and had a slight degree of clawing in the fingers. Having observed him closely at dinner, though, I was nearly sure that what I was seeing in the left hand was not arthritis, but Dupuytren's contracture-an odd, hooklike drawing-in of the ring and little fingers toward the palm of the hand, caused by shortening of the palmar aponeurosis.
Ordinarily, I should have been in no doubt, but Christie's hands were so heavily calloused from years of labor that I couldn't feel the characteristic nodule at the base of the ring finger. The finger had felt wrong to me, though, when I'd first looked at the hand-in the course of stitching a gash across the heel of it-and I'd been checking it, whenever I caught sight of Tom Christie and could persuade him to let me look at it-which wasn't often.
In spite of Jamie's apprehensions, the Christies had been ideal tenants so far, living quietly and keeping largely to themselves, aside from Thomas Christie's schoolmastering, at which he appeared to be strict but effective.
I became aware of a looming presence just behind my head. The sunbeam had moved, and Adso with it.
"Don't even think of it, cat," I said. A rumbling purr of anticipation started
834 Diana Gabaldon
up in the vicinity of my left ear, and a large paw reached out and delicately patted the top of my head.
"Oh, all right," I said, resigned. No choice, really, unless I wanted to get up and go write somewhere else. "Have it your way."
Adso could not resist hair. Anyone's hair, whether attached to a head or not, Fortunately, Major MacDonald had been the only person reckless enough to sit down within Adso's reach while wearing a wig, and after all, I had got it back, though it meant crawling under the house where Adso had retired with his prey; no one else dared snatch it from his jaws. The Major had been rather austere about the incident, and while it hadn't stopped him coming round to see Ja
mie now and then, he no longer removed his hat on such visits, but sat drinking chicory coffee at the kitchen table, his tricorne fixed firmly on his head and both eyes fixed firmly upon Adso, monitoring the cat's whereabouts.
I relaxed a bit, not quite purring myself, but feeling quite mellow. It was rather soothing to have the cat knead and comb with his half-sheathed claws, pausing now and then in his delicate grooming to rub his face lovingly against my head. He was only really dangerous if he'd been in the catnip, but that was safely locked up. Eyes half-closed, I contemplated the minor complication of describing Depuytren's contracture without calling it that, Baron Depuytren not having been born yet.
Well, a picture was worth a thousand words, and I thought I could produce a competent line drawing, at least. I did my best, meanwhile wondering how I was to induce Thomas Christie to let me operate on the hand.
It was a fairly quick and simple procedure, but given the lack of anesthesia and the fact that Christie was a strict Presbyterian and a teetotaller ... perhaps Jamie could sit on his chest, Roger on his legs. If Brianna held his wrist tightly ...
I gave up the problem for the moment, yawning drowsily. The drowsiness disappeared abruptly, as a three-inch yellow dragonfly came whirring in through the open window with a noise like a small helicopter. Adso sailed through the air after it, leaving my hair in wild disarray and my ribbon-which he appeared to have been quietly chewing-hanging wet and mangled behind my left ear. I removed this object with mild distaste, laid it on the sill to dry, and flipped back a few pages, admiring the near drawing I had done of Jamie's snakebite, and of Brianna's rattlesnake hypodermic.
The leg, to my amazement, had healed cleanly and well, and while there had been a good bit of tissue sloughing, the maggots had dealt with that so effectively that the only permanent traces were two small depressions in the skin where the original fang marks had been, and a thin, straight scar across the calf where I had made an incision for debridement and maggot-placement. Jamie had a slight limp still, but I thought this would cure itself in time.
Humming in a satisfied sort of way, I flipped back farther, idly browsing through the last few pages of Daniel Rawlings' notes,
Josepbus Howard ... chief complaint being a fistula of the rectum, this of so long a standing as to have become badly abscessed, together with an advanced case of Piles. Treated with a decoction of Ale Hoof, mixed with
The Fiery Cross 835
Burnt Alum and small amount of HoneY, this boiled together with juice of Marigold.
note on the same page, dated a month tater5 referred to the efficacy A later