It is my firm Belief that this is no idle Rumor, and I will send you various Proofs as they come into my hands. Therefore …”
As he read, I had the oddest feeling of déjà vu. A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and the ripple of gooseflesh up my arms. The room was hot and moist as a Turkish bath, but I felt as though I stood in a cold, empty room, with an icy Scottish rain beating at the window, hearing words of inescapable doom.
“And herewith acknowledged the Support of these Divine Rights by the Chieftains of the Highland Clans, the Jacobite Lords, and various other such loyal Subjects of His Majesty, King James, as have subscribed their Names upon this Bill of Association in token thereof.”
“No. Oh, God, no …” I hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but it escaped my lips, though only in a whisper that made the people to each side of me glance sideways, then hastily away, as though I had suddenly sprouted leprosy. Jamie finished:
“I urge you therefore to make such Preparations as lie in your Power, and stand ready to join us in case of urgent Need, to defend our Lives and Liberty.”
There was a moment of ringing silence, and then Jamie folded the note and spoke before the reaction of the crowd could erupt.
“I shallna tell ye the name of the gentleman who sent me this letter, for he is a gentleman known to me by name and reputation and I will not endanger him. I believe that what he says is true.”
People were stirring all around me, but I sat frozen, staring at him.
No. Not again. Please, not again …
But you knew, the reasonable part of my mind was saying. You knew it was coming back. You knew he couldn’t get out of the way—and he wouldn’t, even if he could …
“I ken very well that some here profess loyalty to the King. Ye’ll all ken that I do not. Ye’ll do as your conscience bids ye—and so will I.” He met the eyes of men here and there in the audience, but avoided looking at Captain Cunningham, who stood, quite expressionless, to one side.
“I willna drive any man from his land for what he believes.” Jamie stopped for a moment, took his glasses off, and looked directly from face to face to face before continuing. I knew he was looking at the men he knew to be professed Loyalists, and repressed the urge to look round.
“But this land and its tenants are mine to protect, and I will do that. I’ll need help in this endeavor, and to that end, I will be raising a militia. Should ye choose to join me, I will arm ye, feed ye on the march, and provide mounts for those men who may not have one.”
I could feel Samuel Chisholm—aged eighteen or so—sitting next to me, stiffen and move his feet slightly under him, plainly deciding whether to leap to his feet and volunteer on the spot. Jamie saw him move and lifted his hand slightly, with a brief smile.
“Those who wish to join me today—come and speak wi’ me outside. Those who wish to think on the matter may come to my house at any time. Day or night,” he added, with a wry twist of the mouth that made a few people titter nervously.
“Your servant, sir,” he said, turning to a stone-faced Captain Cunningham, “and I thank ye for your courtesy.”
He walked steadily down the aisle between the benches, put down a hand to me and pulled me up, gave me his arm, and we walked briskly out, leaving a dropped-pin silence behind us.
HE DID THE same thing at the Presbyterian service, Roger standing gravely behind him, eyes cast down. Here, though, the audience was prepared—everyone had heard what had happened at the Methodist service.
No sooner had he finished speaking than Bill Amos was on his feet.
“We’ll ride with ye, Mac Dubh,” he said firmly. “Me and my lads.”
Bill Amos was a handsome, black-haired, solid man, both physically and in terms of character, and there were murmurs of agreement among the people. Three or four more men rose on the spot to pledge themselves, and I could feel the hum of excitement stirring the humid air.
I could feel the sense of cold dread among the women, too. Several of them had spoken to me during my surgery between the services.
“Can ye no persuade your man otherwise?” Mairi Gordon had asked me, low-voiced and looking round to be sure she wasn’t overheard. “I’ve only my great-grandson, and I’ll be left alone to starve if he’s kilt.” Mairi was near my own age and had lived through the days after Culloden. I could see the fear at the back of her eyes, and felt it, too.
“I’ll … talk to him,” I said awkwardly. I could—and I would—try to persuade Jamie not to take Hugh Gordon, but I knew quite well what his answer would be.