“I see. Speaking of having no sense—what the devil was that taradiddle about me planning to kidnap George Washington?”
Randall actually laughed at that, and William felt his ears grow warm.
“Well, not you, personally,” he assured William. “Just a ruse de guerre. It worked, though, didn’t it? And I had to think of some explanation for your outré appearance; being an intelligencer was the only halfway believable thing I could think of.”
William grunted and gingerly tried a mouthful of succotash, a fried and buttered mixture of diced squash and corn sliced from the cob. It went down well, and he attacked the rest of his meal with increasing enthusiasm, ignoring the minor discomfort of eating. Denys watched him, smiling a little as he ate his own meal but leaving him alone.
When the plates were empty, there was a contemplative silence between them. Not friendly, but not hostile, either.
Denys picked up the brandy bottle and shook it; a small sloshing noise reassured him and he poured out what was left into their cups, then picked one up and raised it to William.
“A bargain,” he said. “If you come across any news of Ezekiel Richardson, send word to me. If I hear of anything pertaining to your cousin Benjamin, I’ll send word to you.”
William hesitated for a moment, but then touched his cup firmly to Randall’s.
“Done.”
Denys drank, then set down his cup.
“You can send me word in care of Captain Blakeney; he’s with Clinton’s troops in New York. And if I hear of anything …？”
William grimaced, but there wasn’t a lot of choice.
“Care of my father. He and my uncle are with the garrison at Savannah with Prévost.”
Denys nodded, pushed back his bench, and stood up.
“All right. Your horse is outside. With your knife and musket. May I ask where you’re bound?”
“Virginia.” He hadn’t actually known that for sure until he said it, but the speaking gave him certainty. Virginia. Mount Josiah.
Denys groped in a pocket and laid two guineas and a handful of smaller coins on the table. He smiled at William.
“It’s a long way to Virginia. Consider it a loan.”
8
Visitations
Fraser’s Ridge
BY MIDAFTERNOON, I’D MADE great progress with my medicaments, treated three cases of poison ivy rash, a broken toe （caused by its owner kicking a mule in a fit of temper）， and a raccoon bite （non-rabid; the hunter had knocked the coon out of a tree, thought it was dead, and went to pick it up, only to discover that it wasn’t. The raccoon was mad, but not in any infectious sense）。
Jamie, though, had done much better. People had come up to the house site all day, in a steady trickle of neighborliness and curiosity. The women had stayed to chat with me about the MacKenzies, and the men had wandered off through the site with Jamie, returning with promises to come and lend a day’s labor here and there.
“If Roger Mac and Ian can help me move lumber tomorrow, the Sinclairs will come next day and give me a hand wi’ the floor joists. We’ll lay the hearthstone and bless it on Wednesday, Sean McHugh and a couple of his lads will lay the floor with me on Friday, and we’ll get the framing started next day; Tom MacLeod says he can spare me a half day, and Hiram Crombie’s son Joe says he and his half brother can help wi’ that as well.” He smiled at me. “If the whisky holds out, ye’ll have a roof over your head in two weeks, Sassenach.”
I looked dubiously from the stone foundation to the cloud-flecked sky overhead.
“A roof?”
“Aye, well, a sheet of canvas, most likely,” he admitted. “Still.” He stood and stretched, grimacing slightly.
“Why don’t you sit down for a bit?” I suggested, eyeing his leg. He was limping noticeably and the leg was a vivid patchwork of red and purple, demarcated by the black stitches of my repair job. “Amy’s left us a jug of beer.”
“Perhaps a wee bit later,” he said. “What’s that ye’re making, Sassenach?”
“I’m going to make up some gallberry ointment for Lizzie Beardsley, and then some gripe water for her little new one—do you know if he has a name yet?”
“Hubertus.”
“What?”
“Hubertus,” he repeated, smiling. “Or so Kezzie told me the day before yesterday. It’s in compliment to Monika’s late brother, he says.”
“Oh.” Lizzie’s father, Joseph Wemyss, had taken a kind German lady of a certain age as his second wife, and Monika, having no children of her own, had become a stalwart grandmother to the Beardsleys’ growing brood. “Perhaps they can call him Bertie, for short.”