I heard a last trickle, a deep sigh from Corporal Jackson, and the metallic scrape of a tin chamber pot sliding across wood, then the noise of Jamie—presumably—sliding it under the counter.
“I thank you, sir,” Jackson said, courteous but wary.
“Well, ye’re no my prisoner,” Jamie said, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “But ye do seem to be my guest. As such, of course ye’re more than welcome to stay for as long as ye like—or need to. But I canna help but think ye might have other places ye’d rather be, once my wife is pleased wi’ your leg.”
Mr. Jackson made a brief sound in which surprise and amusement were mingled in equal proportion, and there was a rustling noise and the creak of my rocking chair as Jamie evidently made himself comfortable.
“I’m mos’ grateful for your hospitality, sir,” Jackson said. “And your wife’s care of me.”
“She’s a good healer,” Jamie said. “Ye’ll do fine. But your leg’s broken, so ye’re no walking out on your own. I’ll take ye in my wagon where ye want to go, so soon as Claire says ye’re fettled.”
Jackson seemed a bit taken aback by this, for he didn’t answer at once, but made a sort of low humming noise.
“I’m not your prisoner, you say,” he said, carefully.
“No. I’ve nay quarrel wi’ you, nor reason to do ye harm.”
“You and your men seem to think otherwise yesterday,” the corporal pointed out, a cautious tone in his voice.
“Ach, that.” Jamie was silent for a moment, then asked, with no apparent emotion other than mild curiosity, “Do ye ken Captain Stevens’s intent in calling upon me?”
“No, sir. And I don’ wish to know,” Jackson said firmly.
Jamie laughed. “Likely a wise choice. I willna tell ye, then, save to say it was a personal matter between him and me.”
“It looked that way.” Was that a hint of humor in Jackson’s voice? I was listening so intently that I’d paid no attention to the food I was holding, but the scent of bacon at close range was insistently seductive.
“Aye.” The hint of humor was stronger in Jamie’s voice. “I’m figuring that he didna drag the lot of you up here just to make a show of force for me. But there’s nothing else within fifty miles of this place—it’s nearly a hundred miles to the nearest town of any size, save Salem, and neither the Crown nor Captain Stevens would have business wi’ the Moravian brothers and sisters. Ye ken them?”
It was a casual question—ostensibly, I thought, and nibbled the crispy end of a rasher—and Jackson answered it likewise.
“I’ve been to Salem, once. You right, soldiers have no business there.”
“But they have business in the backcountry, apparently.”
Dead silence. Then I heard the faint squeak of my rocking chair, going back and forth, back and forth. Slowly. I swallowed the bacon, feeling a tightness in my throat.
For a roving company of British soldiers to have “business” in a general way, they must have intended one of two things—or possibly both. To rouse Loyalists, or to hunt, harass, and discomfit rebels. And a company of Black soldiers wouldn’t be sent to inspire Loyalists to form militias and turn against their neighbors. I glanced involuntarily at the ceiling above me, hearing in memory the crackle of wood and remembering the look of burning timbers, about to collapse.
But they wouldn’t burn this place—yet. Ulysses wanted it.
“If I was your prisoner,” Jackson said at last, slowly, “I wouldn’ have to answer your questions, is that right? I don’ know,” he added shyly. “I haven’ been a prisoner before.”
“I have,” Jamie assuredly him gravely, “and aye, that’s right. Ye have to tell your captors your name and rank, and the company ye belong to, but that’s all.” I heard the chair rock forward, and Jamie’s slight grunt as he rose to his feet. “Ye dinna even have to tell me that much, as my guest. But as ye honored me with your name and rank, and Captain Stevens told me your company, you’re square either way.”
I blinked at that. Perhaps he’d meant it casually, but “you’re square” was one of the coded phrases Freemasons used to identify one another; I’d heard it frequently in Jamaica when we had enlisted the local Lodge to help in our search for Young Ian. Were there black Freemasons in this time? Jackson made no reply, though.
“But I dinna suppose ye want to spend the next several weeks on my wife’s table. She’ll be needing it, sooner or later,” Jamie said.