Chapters (28)
“So ye’ve been handfast to the Presbyterians and now ye’re going to marry them?” Jem asked, frowning a little. “Will Mam not mind?”
“No, she doesn’t,” Roger assured him, hoping it was true.
Another example occurred to him.
“Ye’ve seen your grandda ride out with his men now and then, aye?”
“Oh, aye!” Jem’s eyes grew bright at the recollection. “He says I can go with them when I’m thirteen!”
Roger swallowed his automatic “the hell you will,” and cleared his throat instead. Jamie Fraser had gone on his first cattle raid at the age of eight; in his view of life, as long as the boy’s feet reached the stirrups, why shouldn’t a thirteen-year-old be capable of keeping public order, socializing with Indians, and facing down Loyalist militias?
He’s got to learn sometime, he could hear Jamie saying, with that mild tone that belied the stubborn conviction behind the words. Better early than too late.
“Mmphm. Well. Ye’ve seen when they ride out, your grandda lifts his sword or his rifle as the signal to start?”
Jem nodded enthusiastically, and Roger was obliged to admit that seeing Jamie do that sent a small thrill down his own spine.
“Well, see, that’s the signal that the men are to follow him and go where he leads them. If they come to a place where they need to go in a certain direction, quickly, he’ll draw his sword and point it in the way they should go, so they can all follow at once and not get lost.
“He’s still just who he is—your grandda, and your mam’s father, and a good man—but he’s also got to be a leader, and when he does that, he wears his leather waistcoat and he has his sword in his hand, so everyone knows he’s the leader. He doesna have to stop and explain it to anybody.”
Jem nodded again, listening intently.
“So, that’s sort of what it’s like for me to be ordained. Folk will know that I’m … a sort of leader. Being ordained is—my sword, in a way.” And with luck, they might pay attention to what I tell them, now and then …
“Ohh …” Jem said, understanding dawning. “I see.”
“Good.” He wanted to pat Jem on the head, but instead shook his hand briefly and squeezed it, then rose. “I’ll need to be off now, but I’ll be back by suppertime.”
The smell of gumbo full of shrimp and oysters and sausage was seeping out of the printshop, oddly mixed with the smells of ink and metal, but enough to stir the gastric juices nonetheless.
“Dad?” Jem said, and Roger turned to look over his shoulder.
“Aye?”
“I think they should give you a real sword. You might need one.”