Immanent, too, in the still figure of Fergus, hook gleaming on his knee and his shadow growing long across the quay. My brother. Thank you for him, Roger thought toward God. Thank you for all the souls you’ve put in my hand. Help me take care of them.
“Well, then.” Fergus sat up straight and reached into his bosom for a large ink-stained handkerchief, with which he wiped his face. “Wilmington, do you think? Or New Bern?”
“I’m not sure.” Roger sat down beside him on the crate and took out his own handkerchief, freshly washed this morning, now grubby with the day’s efforts. “There weren’t a lot of Scots there …” He broke off and cleared his throat. It was harsh with so much talking today, and explaining Frank—let alone his book—was well beyond his powers at the moment. “I think perhaps the British had a go at New Bern—some officer named Craig, he was Scottish—but if so, it’ll be quite late in the war.”
“Scots?” Fergus raised one brow at that, then brushed it away. “C’est bien faite. Perhaps Wilmington, then. Do you know when the British will arrive here?”
Roger shook his head.
“In the spring sometime, May, maybe. I don’t remember exactly when.”
Fergus sucked his lower lip for a moment, then nodded, decision made. He took his hand away from the medal.
“Perhaps Wilmington, then. But not yet.” He stood up and stretched himself, lean body arched toward the sky.
The air was still like treacle, but Roger’s spirit was refreshed.
“Then let’s have a pint of something and you can tell me where the guns are.”
“You’re sitting on them. But by all means, let’s have a drink.”
73
Stand by Me
ROGER’S ARRIVAL AT THE printshop with Fergus, Roger looking slightly dazed but enormously happy, caused so much commotion that it was some time before people could stop asking questions long enough for him to answer some of them.
“Yes,” he said at last, his white neckcloth taken off and carefully hung from one of the drying lines in the printshop, to avoid loss or the possibility of dirty fingerprints. “Yes,” he said again, and accepted a glass of cooking sherry—that being the most festive beverage available at the moment. “It’s official. All three of them agreed. I’ll be formally ordained in a church, and that may need to wait ’til spring—but I’ve been accepted as suitable to be a Minister of the Word and Sacrament.”
“Is that as good as being the Pope?” Joanie asked, staring at her uncle in newfound awe.
“Well, I don’t get a fancy hat or a shepherd’s crook,” Roger said, still grinning, “but otherwise … aye. Just as good. Slàinte!” He toasted Joanie and then the rest of them, and downed the sherry.
“Mind,” he said, his voice hoarse and eyes watering slightly, “it was a near thing for a bit.” He coughed and waved away the proffered sherry bottle. “Thanks, no, that’s enough. Everything went down well, all through the Latin, Hebrew, and Greek, knowledge of Scripture, and evidence of good character—even having a Catholic wife didn’t give them more than a moment’s pause.” He grinned at Brianna. “As long as I could swear in good conscience that I should never allow ye to persuade me into Romish practices.”
Brianna laughed. She was still trembling inwardly from the experience on the riverbank, but that seemed trivial, drowned by her joy in Roger’s happiness. Firelight gleamed in his black hair and gave his eyes a green spark. He glowed, she thought, he really did. Like a firefly dancing under the trees.
“What Romish practices did they have in mind?” she asked. She’d been sipping brandy, and now handed him her glass. “Slaughtering infants on the altar and drinking their blood?”
“No, just conspiring with the Pope, mostly.”
“To do what?”
“Ye’d have to ask the Pope,” he said, and laughed. “No, really,” he said, “the only thing that was a serious problem to them was the singing.”
“The singing?” she asked, puzzled. “Granted, Catholics sing—but so do you.”
“Aye, that was the problem.” His amusement came down a notch, but it was still there. “I dinna ken how they found out, but they’d heard that I sang hymns during services in church on the Ridge.”
“And they thought ye shouldna?” Marsali said, frowning. “Presbyterians dinna sing?”