He sighed, tucked the letter into his pocket, and, unable to sit still with his thoughts, walked up the hill to Claire’s garden, not meaning to tell her about Locke’s letter and his thoughts—just wanting the momentary comfort of her presence.
She wasn’t there, and he hesitated inside the gate, but then closed it after him and walked slowly toward the row of hives. He’d built a long bench for her, and there were nine hives now on it, humming peacefully in the autumn sun. Some of them were the coiled-straw skeps, but Brianna had built three boxes, too, with wooden frames inside and a sort of drain to make harvesting the honey easier.
Something was in the back of his mind, a poem Claire had told him once, about nines and bees. Only a bit of it had stuck: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, and live alone in the bee-loud glade. The number nine always made him wary, owing to his meeting with an old Parisian fortune-teller.
“You’ll die nine times before your death,” she’d told him. Claire had tried, now and then, to reckon the times he should have died but hadn’t. He seldom did, having a superstitious fear about attracting misfortune by dwelling on it.
The bees were about their business. The air was full of them, the late sun catching their wings and making them glisk like sparks among the green of the garden. There were some tattered sunflowers along one wall, their seeds like gray pebbles, along with sedum and cosmos. Purple gentians—he recognized those, because Claire made an ointment out of them that she’d used on him more than once, and had brought some back from Wilmington and coddled it here in a sandy spot she’d made for it. He’d dug the sand for her and smiled at the pale splotch of soil among the darker loam. The bees seemed to be liking the goldenrod—but Claire said they were hunting mostly in the woods and meadows now.
He came slowly to the bench and put out a hand toward the hives, but didn’t touch one until one or two bees had landed lightly on his hand, their feet tickling his skin. “So they won’t think you’re a bear,” Claire had said, laughing. He smiled at the memory and put his hand on the sun-warmed straw and just stood there for a bit, letting go of his troublesome thoughts, little by little.
“Ye’ll take care of her, aye?” he said at last, speaking soft to the bees. “If she comes to you and says I’m gone, ye’ll feed her and take heed for her?” He stood a moment longer, listening to the ceaseless hum.
“I trust ye with her,” he said at last, and turned to go, his heart easier in his chest. It wasn’t until he’d shut the gate behind him and started down toward the house that another bit of the poem came to him. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow …
142
Don’t You …？
September 20, 1780
From Col. John Sevier
To Col. James Fraser
We have word that Ferguson’s Loyalist Militia is on the move from Camden, whence he departed with Cornwallis, but has now gone South into North Carolina.
Word is that he proposes to attack and burn such Patriot Settlements as he comes to on his Way. We propose to meet him at some convenient Point in his Progress. Should you and your Troops be of a Mind to join us, we will meet and muster at Sycamore Shoals on the 25th of September.
Bring such Arms and Powder as you may have.
John Sevier, Colonel of Militia
September 21, 1780
To The Inhabitants of North Carolina
Gentlemen: Unless you wish to be eat up by an Inundation of Barbarians, who have begun by murdering an unarmed Son before his Father, and afterward lopped off his Arms, and who by their shocking Cruelties and Irregularities, give the best Proof of their Cowardice and want of Discipline, I say if you wish to be pinioned, robbed, and murdered, and see your Wives and Daughters, in four days, abused by the Dregs of Mankind—in short, if you wish or deserve to live or bear the Name of Men, grasp your Arms in a Moment and run to Camp.
The Backwater Men have crossed the Mountains; McDowell, Hampton, Shelby, and Cleveland are at their head, so that you know what you have to depend upon. If you choose to be pissed upon forever and ever by a set of Mongrels, say so at once, and let your Women turn their Backs upon you, and look out for real Men to protect them.
Pat. Ferguson, Major 71st Regiment
Fraser’s Ridge
September 22, Anno Domini 1780
I, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, being of sound Mind
JAMIE WONDERED HOW MANY men paused at this point to debate the state of their minds with themselves. If ye’d been talking with a dead man for the last year, ye might reasonably have some doubts, he thought. On the other hand, who’d admit in writing that he kent for sure he was away with the faeries?