Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone

“Maybe he’s doing the same thing you are, Da.” Bree poured cream on her own pudding, and then on Jamie’s. “Raising a personal militia to guard his property.”

I glanced at Jamie. He returned the look, but shook his head almost imperceptibly and took up his spoon. While preventing attacks on the Ridge was certainly one of Jamie’s motives in arming some of his men, I was sure he had others. He clearly didn’t feel this was the time to be telling Roger and Bree about them, though.

“Ian said one of the men who’d brought the guns was a naval lieutenant—one of the captain’s men from his career at sea, I suppose?” Bree asked.

“I’d suppose that, too,” Jamie said, with a certain terseness.

“Implying,” she said, “that he still has connections with the navy. Which is probably where the guns came from—do they use muskets on ships?”

“Aye, they do.” Jamie shifted slightly, as though his shirt was too tight—which it wasn’t. “When ships come close together, fightin’, the sailors take muskets up into the rigging and fire down into the other ship. The navy has a great many guns.”

“How do you know that?” Bree asked, curious.

“I read, lass,” her father said, raising one eyebrow at her. “There was an account of a sea battle in the Salisbury newspaper, and a drawing showin’ the wee sailors up among the masts, blastin’ away.”

“Aye, well,” said Roger, spooning ripe, sliced strawberries over his pudding, “I doubt Cunningham will try to bring guns up that way again. And if he does …”

“Then he’s arming us, instead of himself.” Despite the seriousness of the discussion, Bree was amused. The look of amusement faded, though, and she leaned toward us.

“But you’ll need more guns than what you took from the captain, won’t you?”

“I will,” Jamie admitted. “But it may take some time to find them. And buy the powder and shot to fire them.”

Roger and Bree exchanged a look, and he nodded.

“Let us help with that, Da,” she said, and reaching into her pocket drew out three small, flat strips of what could only be gold, glowing dully in the candlelight.

“Where on earth did you get those?” I picked one up, fingering it gingerly. It was surprisingly heavy for its size; definitely gold.

“A jeweler on Newbury Street in 1980,” she said. “I had fifty of these made; I sewed some into the hems of our clothes, and hid others in the heels of our shoes. It only took ten to provision us for the trip and buy passage on the ship from Scotland. There’s plenty left, I mean, if you need to buy powder or anything.”