#book9

#DailyLines #BookNine #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #noitsnotdone #itsabigbook #justlikealltheotherones #Illtellyouwhenweregettingclose #YESIworkwhenImtraveling #sheesh #minorspoilerinthisone #emptybracketsmeanImnottellingyousomething #notthatIdontknow #cuzIdo

Roger had dressed for his occasions. Luckily, the same black broadcloth suit, long-coated and pewter-buttoned, would do for both, since it was the only one he possessed. Brianna had plaited and clubbed his hair severely, and he was so clean-shaven that his jaw felt raw. A high white stock wrapped round his neck completed the picture—he hoped—of a respectable clergyman. The British sentries at the barricade on [ ] had given him no more than a disinterested glance before nodding him through. He could only hope the American sentries outside the city felt the same lack of curiosity about ministers.

He rode out a good distance from the city before beginning to circle back toward the Americans’ siege lines, and it was just past noon when he came within sight of them.

The American camp was rough but orderly, an acre or so of canvas tents fluttering in the wind like trapped gulls, and the amazingly big [ ] war-ships visible beyond, from which every so often, a volley of cannon-fire would erupt with gouts of flame, setting loose vast clouds of white smoke to drift across the marshes with the scattered clouds of gulls and oyster-catchers alarmed by the noise.

There were pickets posted among the [ ] bushes, one of whom popped up like a jack-in-the-box and pointed a musket at Roger in a business-like way.

“Halt!”

Roger pulled in his reins and raised his stick, white handkerchief tied to its end, feeling foolish. It worked, though. The picket whistled through his teeth for a companion, who popped up alongside, and at the first man’s nod, came forward to take Dundee’s bridle.

“What’s your name and what d’you want?” the man demanded, squinting up at Roger. He wore a backwoodsman’s ordinary breeches and hunting shirt, but had army boots and an odd uniform cap, shaped like a squashed bishop’s mitre, and bore a copper badge on his collar reading “Sgt. Bradford”.

“My name is Roger MacKenzie. I’m a Presbyterian minister, and I’ve brought a letter to [ ] from General James Fraser, late of George Washington’s Monmouth command.”

Sergeant Bradford’s brows rose out of sight beneath his hat.

“General Fraser,” he said. “Monmouth? That the fellow that abandoned his troops to tend his wife?”

This was said with a derisive tone, and Roger felt the words like a blow to the stomach. Was this how Jamie’s admittedly dramatic resignation of his commission was commonly perceived in the Continental Army? If so, his own present mission might be a little more delicate than he’d expected.

“General Fraser is my father-in-law, sir,” Roger said, in a neutral voice. “An honorable man—and a very brave soldier.”

The look of scorn didn’t quite leave the man’s face, but it moderated into a short nod, and the man turned away, jerking his chin in an indication that Roger might follow, if he felt so inclined.

Written by gotham_ruaidh

#DailyLines #BookNine #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #backtotheRidge #madbackwoodskilz #ifyourewonderingnoitsnotdone #Illtellyouwhenwegetclose #NotClose #butgoingwell

They had brought me breakfast, lavish by my present standards: two fresh corn dodgers, warm griddled sausage patties wrapped in layers between burdock leaves [ck.], a boiled egg, still hot, and a quarter-inch of Amy’s last year’s huckleberry jam, in the bottom of its jar.

“Missus Higgins says to send back the empty jar,” Jemmy informed me, handing it over. Only one eye was on the jar; the other was on the Big Log, which had been hidden by darkness the night before. “Wow! What kind of tree is that?”

“Poplar,” I said, closing my eyes in ecstasy at the first bite of sausage. The Big Log was roughly sixty feet long. It had been a good bit longer, before Jamie had scavenged wood from the top for building and fires. “Your grandfather says it was likely more than a hundred feet tall before it fell.”

Mandy was trying to get up onto the log; Jem gave her a casual boost, then leaned over to look down the length of the trunk, mostly smooth and pale, but scabbed here and there with remnants of bark and odd little forests of toadstools and moss.

“Did it blow down in a storm?”

“Yes,” I said. “The top had been struck by lightning, but I don’t know whether that was the same storm that knocked it down. It might have died because of the lightning and then the next big storm blew it over. Mandy, be careful there!”

She’d scrambled to her feet and was walking along the trunk, arms stretched out like a gymnast, one foot in front of the other. The trunk was a good five feet in diameter at that point; there was plenty of room atop it, but it would be a hard bump if she fell off.

“Here, sweetheart.” Roger, who had been looking at the house with interest, came over and plucked her off the log. “Why don’t you and Jem go gather wood for Grannie? D’ye remember what good firewood looks like?”

“Aye, of course.” Jem looked lofty. “I’ll show her how.”

“I knows how!” Mandy said, glowering at him.

“You have to look out for snakes,” he informed her.

She perked up at once, pique forgotten.

“Wanna see a snake!”

“Jem—“ Roger began, but Jemmy rolled his eyes. “_I_ know, Dad,” he said. “If I find a little one, I’ll let her touch it, but not if it’s got rattles or a cotton mouth.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Roger muttered, watching them go off hand in hand.

I swallowed the last of the corn dodgers, licked sugary jam from the corner of my mouth and gave him a sympathetic look.