Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone
- Автор: Гэблдон Диана
- Серия: Outlander #9
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Delacorte Press
- ISBN: 978-1-473-51900-8
- Жанр: Исторические приключения
Электронная книга - «Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone». Краткое содержание книги:
The past may seem the safest place to be . . . but it is the most dangerous time to be alive. . . .
Jamie Fraser and Claire Randall were torn apart by the Jacobite Rising in 1746, and it took them twenty years to find each other again. Now the American Revolution threatens to do the same. It is 1779 and Claire and Jamie are at last reunited with their daughter, Brianna, her husband, Roger, and their children on Fraser’s Ridge. Having the family together is a dream the Frasers had thought impossible. Yet even in the North Carolina backcountry, the effects of war are being felt. Tensions in the Colonies are great and local feelings run hot enough to boil Hell’s teakettle. Jamie knows loyalties among his tenants are split and it won’t be long until the war is on his doorstep. Brianna and Roger have their own worry: that the dangers that provoked their escape from the twentieth century might catch up to them. Sometimes they question whether risking the perils of the 1700s—among them disease, starvation, and an impending war—was indeed the safer choice for their family. Not so far away, young William Ransom is still coming to terms with the discovery of his true father’s identity—and thus his own—and Lord John Grey has reconciliations to make, and dangers to meet . . . on his son’s behalf, and his own. Meanwhile, the Revolutionary War creeps ever closer to Fraser’s Ridge. And with the family finally together, Jamie and Claire have more at stake than ever before.
“If he can somehow make away wi’ me, though,” he went on dispassionately, taking up the pepper, “he can ride up with his men and turn you and the lassies out and take possession o’ the place, wavin’ his letter under the noses of the tenants. They wouldna like it, but Cunningham and his men would support him, and while the Lindsays and MacMillans and Bobby are all good fighting men, none o’ them are what ye’d call leaders. They’d not stand long, against trained soldiers and Cunningham’s lot—and Ulysses wouldna hesitate to burn them out, should he feel the need. He wouldna mind a small war, at all.”
“Ian and Roger wouldn’t stand for that,” I said.
Jamie cocked a brow at me.
“Ian’s a Mohawk and he’d fight to the death, but he’s never commanded men,” he pointed out. “Mohawk dinna really fight that way. And while a good many of the men on the Ridge like him, just as many are that wee bit afraid of him—and liking’s not enough to get a man to risk his life and family. As for Roger Mac …” He smiled a little, ruefully.
“I won’t say I’ve never seen a priest be a bonnie fighter, because I have. And Roger Mac can draw folk together and make them listen. But it’s no his business to make war and he hasna got any experience in doin’ it. Besides—” He straightened his back and stretched, with a muffled popping of vertebrae. “Oh, God. Besides,” he repeated, and gave me a very direct look, “there’s nay telling when Roger Mac and Bree will be home from Salem. And I dinna ken when ‘Captain Stevens’ may come back—but come back he will, Sassenach.”
I glanced at the window. It was raining again, a speckle of fine droplets.
“I don’t suppose,” I said diffidently, “that Frank mentioned His Majesty’s Company of Black Pioneers in that book?”
“He did not. Yon bastard was only concerned wi’ the Scots,” he said, frowning. “I dinna recall one word in that book about black soldiers.” Then his face went blank for a moment and he made a Scottish noise between disgust and amusement. “Nay, he did say there were black men at the battle of Savannah. They were from Saint-Domingue, though—wi’ the French navy.”
He made an impatient gesture, dismissing all this complication.
“What I do ken is that Stevens will try to kill me if he can, and the sooner the better. And I also ken he’ll send someone to fetch his corporal sooner than that.”
The kitchen was warm and cozy but the breakfast congealed in my stomach.
“I don’t think so. Corporal Jackson said that Cunningham would make provision to send him to Charlotte,” I blurted.
Jamie stared at me for a moment, and I could see the counters falling into place behind his eyes.
“Ah,” he said, plainly thinking what I was: Charlotte must be the place where Ulysses planned to rendezvous with the rest of the Company of Black Pioneers. “That will be where Ian’s gone, then. He should be back soon, and then …”
“No!” I said. “You can’t take your militia after him!”
“I dinna mean to,” he said mildly, and picked up his fork. “It would be good exercise, but the weather’s chancy, and the game’s beginning to gather and move. The men need to be hunting deer, not British soldiers. Besides, ken what would happen if I caught him but some of his men got away to tell the tale?”
I did, but I let go the breath I’d been holding; he wasn’t going to do it. Then a second thought struck me in the solar plexus. I froze for a moment.
“No,” I said, and stood up suddenly, looming over him. “No! If you go hunting that man alone, Jamie Fraser, you—you—can’t.”
He blinked. Bluebell jerked out of sleep with a small, startled wuff! but, not seeing anything unusual, she sidled up to Jamie and nosed his leg. He put a hand down to scratch her ears but kept his gaze on me, considering.
“Jamie,” I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “If you love me … don’t. Please don’t. I can’t bear it.” I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear the thought of his being killed, but nor could I bear the thought of his hunting, performing execution. The sound of a rifle shot echoed in my head whenever I thought of the man he had killed, rousing other echoes—of that night, a heavy body in the dark, pain and terror and helpless suffocation.
“And I don’t even bloody know if you shot him,” I said abruptly, and sat down. “The man … whose name I don’t know.”
He looked at me for a moment, head on one side, then reached out delicately and scooped up a bit of yellow with a fingertip. He touched this to my lower lip and I licked it off by reflex: warm, savory, delicious.
“I love you,” he said softly, and his hand cupped my cheek, big and warm. “As an egg loves salt. Dinna fash, mo chridhe. I’ll think o’ something else.”
133
Such an Odd Feeling
July 8, A.D. 1780
From: Captain William C.H.G. Ransom
To: Mrs. Roger MacKenzie of Fraser’s Ridge
Dear Sister—
Such an odd Feeling to write that; my first Time of doing it.
I haven’t much—Time, I mean—but I have recently been involved in a number of strange Circumstances, one of which invoked your Name—or rather, not your Name; the Fellow only said, “I know your Sister.”
Possibly he does. However, I have known this Man—his Name is Ezekiel Richardson—over the Course of several Years, during which he has arguably attempted on one or more Occasions to kill or abduct me, or otherwise to interfere with my Actions. I first knew him as a Captain in His Majesty’s Army, and much more recently, as a Major in the Continental Army.
Upon our most recent Meeting (near Charles Town), he looked at me oddly and remarked that he knew you. His Manner—and indeed, his saying such a Thing at all—was Peculiar in the Extreme and aroused a profound Feeling of Unease in me.
I will not presume to instruct you, as I haven’t the vaguest Notion as to what Advice I should give. But I felt that I must warn you— though against What, I have no Idea.
With my Deepest Respect and Affection,
Your Brother (damn, I’ve never written that before, either),