clandestinely sanctioning them.
The long-drawn whine of a dog’s yawn reached me faintly from the hall, and I excused myself, to go and check on Ian.
I wondered whether Governor Martin had the slightest idea what he was loosing. I rather thought he did, and was making the best of a bad job, by trying to ensure that some, at least, of the Committees of Safety were run by men who had backed the Crown during the War of the Regulation. The fact remained that he could not control—or even know about—many such committees. But the colony was beginning to seethe and bump like a teakettle on the boil, and Martin had no official troops at his command, only such irregulars as MacDonald—and the militia.
Which was why MacDonald was calling Jamie “Colonel,” of course. The previous governor, William Tryon, had appointed Jamie—quite against his will—colonel of militia for the backcountry above the Yadkin.
“Hmph,” I said to myself. Neither MacDonald nor Martin was a fool. Inviting Jamie to set up a Committee of Safety meant that he would call upon those men who had served under him in the militia—but would commit the government to nothing, in terms of paying or equipping them—and the Governor would be clear of any responsibility for their actions, since a Committee of Safety was not an official body.
The danger to Jamie—and all of us—in accepting such a proposal, though—that was considerable.
It was dark in the hall, with no light but the spill from the kitchen behind me, and the faint glow of the single candle in the surgery. Ian was asleep, but restless, a faint frown of discomfort wrinkling the soft skin between his brows. Rollo raised his head, thick tail swishing to and fro across the floor in greeting.
Ian didn’t respond when I spoke his name, or when I set a hand on his shoulder. I shook him gently, then harder. I could see him struggling, somewhere under the layers of unconsciousness, like a man drifting in the underwater currents, yielding to the beckoning depths, then snagged by an unexpected fishhook, a stab of pain in cold-numbed flesh.
His eyes opened suddenly, dark and lost, and he stared at me in incomprehension.
“Hallo there,” I said softly, relieved to see him wake. “What’s your name?”
I could see that the question made no sense to him at once, and repeated it, patiently. Awareness stirred somewhere in the depths of his dilated pupils.
“Who am I?” he said in Gaelic. He said something else, slurred, in Mohawk, and his eyelids fluttered, closing.
“Wake up, Ian,” I said firmly, resuming the shaking. “Tell me who you are.”
His eyes opened again, and he squinted at me in confusion.
“Try something easier,” I suggested, holding up two fingers. “How many fingers do you see?”
A flicker of awareness sprang up in his eyes.
“Dinna let Arch Bug see ye do that, Auntie,” he said drowsily, the hint of a smile touching his face. “That’s verra rude, ken.”
Well, at least he had recognized me, as well as the “V” sign; that was something. And he must know who he was, if he was calling me Auntie.
“What’s your full name?” I asked again.
“Ian James FitzGibbons Fraser Murray,” he said, rather crossly. “Why d’ye keep asking me my name?”
“FitzGibbons?” I said. “Where on earth did you get that one?”
He groaned and put two fingers against his eyelids, wincing as he pressed gently.
“Uncle Jamie gave it me—blame him,” he said. “It’s for his auld godfather, he said. Murtagh FitzGibbons Fraser, he was called, but my mother didna want me named Murtagh. I think I’m going to puke again,” he added, taking his hand away.
In the event, he heaved and retched a bit over the basin, but didn’t actually vomit, which was a good sign. I eased him back onto his side, white and clammy with sweat, and Rollo stood on his hind legs, front paws braced on the table, to lick his face, which made him giggle between groans and try feebly to push
The long-drawn whine of a dog’s yawn reached me faintly from the hall, and I excused myself, to go and check on Ian.
I wondered whether Governor Martin had the slightest idea what he was loosing. I rather thought he did, and was making the best of a bad job, by trying to ensure that some, at least, of the Committees of Safety were run by men who had backed the Crown during the War of the Regulation. The fact remained that he could not control—or even know about—many such committees. But the colony was beginning to seethe and bump like a teakettle on the boil, and Martin had no official troops at his command, only such irregulars as MacDonald—and the militia.
Which was why MacDonald was calling Jamie “Colonel,” of course. The previous governor, William Tryon, had appointed Jamie—quite against his will—colonel of militia for the backcountry above the Yadkin.
“Hmph,” I said to myself. Neither MacDonald nor Martin was a fool. Inviting Jamie to set up a Committee of Safety meant that he would call upon those men who had served under him in the militia—but would commit the government to nothing, in terms of paying or equipping them—and the Governor would be clear of any responsibility for their actions, since a Committee of Safety was not an official body.
The danger to Jamie—and all of us—in accepting such a proposal, though—that was considerable.
It was dark in the hall, with no light but the spill from the kitchen behind me, and the faint glow of the single candle in the surgery. Ian was asleep, but restless, a faint frown of discomfort wrinkling the soft skin between his brows. Rollo raised his head, thick tail swishing to and fro across the floor in greeting.
Ian didn’t respond when I spoke his name, or when I set a hand on his shoulder. I shook him gently, then harder. I could see him struggling, somewhere under the layers of unconsciousness, like a man drifting in the underwater currents, yielding to the beckoning depths, then snagged by an unexpected fishhook, a stab of pain in cold-numbed flesh.
His eyes opened suddenly, dark and lost, and he stared at me in incomprehension.
“Hallo there,” I said softly, relieved to see him wake. “What’s your name?”
I could see that the question made no sense to him at once, and repeated it, patiently. Awareness stirred somewhere in the depths of his dilated pupils.
“Who am I?” he said in Gaelic. He said something else, slurred, in Mohawk, and his eyelids fluttered, closing.
“Wake up, Ian,” I said firmly, resuming the shaking. “Tell me who you are.”
His eyes opened again, and he squinted at me in confusion.
“Try something easier,” I suggested, holding up two fingers. “How many fingers do you see?”
A flicker of awareness sprang up in his eyes.
“Dinna let Arch Bug see ye do that, Auntie,” he said drowsily, the hint of a smile touching his face. “That’s verra rude, ken.”
Well, at least he had recognized me, as well as the “V” sign; that was something. And he must know who he was, if he was calling me Auntie.
“What’s your full name?” I asked again.
“Ian James FitzGibbons Fraser Murray,” he said, rather crossly. “Why d’ye keep asking me my name?”
“FitzGibbons?” I said. “Where on earth did you get that one?”
He groaned and put two fingers against his eyelids, wincing as he pressed gently.
“Uncle Jamie gave it me—blame him,” he said. “It’s for his auld godfather, he said. Murtagh FitzGibbons Fraser, he was called, but my mother didna want me named Murtagh. I think I’m going to puke again,” he added, taking his hand away.
In the event, he heaved and retched a bit over the basin, but didn’t actually vomit, which was a good sign. I eased him back onto his side, white and clammy with sweat, and Rollo stood on his hind legs, front paws braced on the table, to lick his face, which made him giggle between groans and try feebly to push
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