MacFarlane's Ridge (30 page)

“Hey, is everything alright?” he asked.

She shook her head mutely.

“Did you find them? The journals?”

Cam sat on the bottom step. “Yeah.”

“Well, have you read them?” he asked impatiently. “What did they say?”

She looked up. “I think you’d better come see.”

He followed her to the attic wordlessly.

November 1, 1776

I have received word from Captain Thibodeaux of Robert’s death. Reading his letter was a great blow, as I had held onto the hope that Rob might have survived the wound inflicted upon him by Mr. Sinclair. Ian blames Angus for not bringing Robert to safety, but he is hurting and angry, and I do not think Angus should be held accountable for this Tragedy. The Captain also advised me that Rob left his share of the ship to Hamish and Jamie. Thibodeaux apparently is intent upon Privateering, and now that it is lawfully authorized by Congress, he expects to turn a handsome profit. I have not told young Jamie of this yet, and think I shall speak to Angus privately about it, as he and Winnie are the ones raising the boy and I do not wish to interfere with the progress they have made with him. Winnie has taught him to read and do figures, and I believe there may be hope for him yet, if he can learn not to use such awful language. Just a few days ago little Hamish dropped his cup and then shouted out “Damn it all to hell” I strongly suspect Jamie is the source of this newfound vocabulary.

Winnie herself does not seem as Distraught by news of Rob’s death as the rest of us, but perhaps this is because she did not know him as well. I understand now that she was with Cameron and Mr. Sinclair in Richmond. She tells me that she sent Cameron home but will elaborate no further. Without Robert, there would be no reason for Cameron to return to the Ridge in any case, I suppose, although I wish that I could have said goodbye to her.

Of Mr. Sinclair himself, there has been no word, and I think we will not see him again. I believe Winnie knows something about him but she has remained silent on the subject. Sometimes she is so quiet that I would like to slap her, if only to force some sort of a reaction from her. May God forgive me for such thoughts.

November 3, 1776

A schoolmaster from Connecticut has been hanged by the British as a traitor. The gentleman’s name is Nathan Hale. He had been collecting information on the enemy troops for months, but, fool that he was, consistently wrote down what he learned on a paper he kept in his waistcoat. Of course when he was captured, the Evidence was upon him. He was not given a trial, but merely sentenced to hang. He did say a valiant thing before his death, however. Master Hale said to the mob before him, “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.”

Angus and Winnie will be leaving soon to go to New Jersey of all places. Why anyone would go there I do not know, but Winnie says she has information that may be of use to General Washington in future campaigns, and Angus refuses to let his new wife travel alone. I do not know what it is she thinks is so important, but I have learned not to question her. She says they need to be there by Christmas, so it is unlikely that I will see them again for a few months. Jamie will stay with Ian and me in their absence. He is a hard worker and a good boy.

I miss Robert terribly.

January 29, 1777

I have received a rather odd and somewhat distressing letter from a Lieutenant William Clarendon. He is evidently a British officer of some sort, stationed at Fort Wyndham near Philadelphia.

Dear Madame,

I am writing to advise you of an event that I believe will have some impact upon the financial futures of two young children in your care. A Pirate Ship,
the Lady Meg
, owned in part by your husband’s uncle, Andrew MacFarlane of Jamaica and in part by Hamish MacFarlane and Jamie Fleming Duncan, has been boarded, and commandeered by His Majesty’s Royal Navy. All hands aboard were captured and allowed the opportunity to swear an Oath of Allegiance to His Majesty King George. A good many of the junior crewmembers took the opportunity wisely, but some of the more Senior men did not. The Free Negro Captain of the ship, a Dominic Thibodeaux, resisted completely and was shot and killed for his efforts. His mate, an Alexander McFarland, has been imprisoned as a traitor and will be facing trial accordingly.

Because of the youthful age of Hamish MacFarlane and Jamie Fleming Duncan, they will not be prosecuted for any part of their ownership of
the Lady Meg
. You may, however, rest assured that they will not be receiving any profit in the future from any of her treasonous endeavors.

Respectfully,

Lt. Wm. Clarendon

His Majesty’s Royal Dragoons

I am more than a bit confused about this. I do not have any idea who Alexander McFarland may be, but assume he must be a deckhand who was promoted to the position of mate after Robert’s demise. Now, sadly, I must inform Ian that in addition to losing his brother, we have lost Hamish and Jamie’s financial upkeep as well.

February 20, 1777 –

Poor Betsy Kerr is dead. As her time of confinement drew near, rather than glow with the joy of motherhood, she became wan and pale and thin, so much that I was afraid her child would not survive. As it happens, she went into labor four days ago, and was delivered of a small but healthy son. After the birth, she did not speak, merely stared at the wall. We could not even get her to nurse the child, and Ian fashioned a nipple of sorts that he filled with goat’s milk, and we fed the babe in that manner. Sally was in attendance, and in the middle of the night after she dozed off, Betsy slipped away into the darkness.

Ian and Tom went hunting for her when daylight came, after we discovered her absence. They were unable to find a single trace of her until this morning, when Charlie sniffed out her frail and broken body. It appears that she flung herself into a gorge, and died a most horrible death. Poor Sally is beside herself, and blames Tom because he turned her out, but Tom himself blames the cad that got Betsy with child.

This sweet nameless infant will return home with Sally, and she shall raise him with her own children – her youngest, Maggie, is the same age as Hamish. While I am devastated at the loss of Betsy, at least her son lives. We have had entirely too much sadness on the Ridge of late, and it is good to know that one small life has managed to endure while those around have gone.

I myself am big and fat, but Ian tolerates my Whims and Moods. It seems as though I am far too big to wait two more months, but I have checked the dates and am quite sure my child will be born in April. Whether it be boy or girl, it must be enormous.

If it is a boy, I shall name him Robert. If a girl, her name will be Sarah Cameron MacFarlane.

Cam blinked back tears, and resisted the impulse to flip ahead in the journal to read about the birth of Mollie’s baby. She sniffled a little bit, and looked over at Troy. They had moved all of the boxes and chests downstairs to the parlor, where the light was better.

The phone rang in the shop, and Troy trotted in to answer it. Cam rooted gently around in yet another chest, which she had found tucked in a corner under the eaves. There were eight journals in all, including the first, the one Cam had in the display case in the shop. Troy poked his head back in the room.

“Cam? That was Diana Basham, from the historical society. She stumbled across another letter in her collection that she thought might interest you, and she’s going to fax it over. She thinks it might have something to do with Mollie or the MacFarlanes.”

Troy heard her sudden intake of breath and looked over.

Her hands were shaking, and she was focused on the box in front of her. There was a tangle of dried wool, and some dark material at the bottom under a pair of boots. Cam began to pick at it cautiously.

The phone rang again, and Troy could hear the fax machine making its noises as it received the transmission. “I’ll go get that for you.”

When he came back in, papers in hand, Cam still said nothing, and he saw that she was very pale. She was staring into the box, a dazed expression on her face.

“Cam? What is it?” He leaned over, and looked over her shoulder into the chest. Peering into the bottom, he saw the tangled scraps of wool. “Is that a rat? If it is, I’m pretty sure it’s dead. Cam?”

“That scrap of material in the bottom,” she whispered.

“What, this?” He held up a filthy, faded green and red piece of fabric. “It’s an old scrap of plaid.”

“It’s Robbie’s tartan,” she said, staring at the scrap. Chills were running down her spine. “It’s his plaid, that his father wore at Culloden.”

Troy stared at her. “Cam, you’re imagining things. I’ll bet there were plenty of guys around who wore a MacFarlane plaid. There were thousands of Scottish immigrants in Virginia and North Carolina in the 1700s.”

“It’s his,” Cam said defiantly.

“You don’t know that.”

She stood back up. “I do know it,” she said softly. She reached into the box and pulled out the tangles of wool.

“What is that? Old socks?”

“Sort of,” she said sadly, as the tears began to fall. “It was stockings. I couldn’t fix them because there were too many holes. I made Hamish a dog for Christmas. It was a sock doggy.” Then the flood really began, and she couldn’t stop.

Troy was more concerned for Cam’s well-being than ever. “You need to go lay down. I think things are finally catching up to you.”

She shook her head. “I’m not sick, Troy, and I’m not losing my mind. This was the sock dog I made for Hamish, and that scrap… that was Rob’s.” She took it from him, gingerly, afraid the fibers would crumble at her touch. It was surprisingly thick, and she buried her face in the rough material. It smelled like campfires and whiskey and Robert.

She glanced back over to Troy, who was staring at the fax intently. “What is it?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “It might be nothing.” He began to read aloud.

June 22, 1777

It is hereby Declar’d, by this court of His Majesty King George, held this day in Fort Wyndham, Pennsylvania, before the honorable Brigadier General Simon Fraser, that the Defendant, one Alexander MacFarland is indeed Guilty as Charged of the Crime of Treason against the Crown of Great Britain, and did knowingly and willfully allow a ship under his command, the
Lady Meg
, to participate in Acts of Piracy against British Cargo ships in the waters of the Hudson and Delaware Rivers.

The Defendant states that he does not recognize King George or the Crown of Great Britain as a legitimate governing body, also a Treasonous Act, and in fact taunted the Court and suggested that were the Court to sentence him to death he would welcome it proudly, stating that the alternative, i.e., swearing loyalty to the Crown, was “unthinkable.”

A Witness for the Crown, Lieutenant Wm. Clarendon, testified that the Defendant, Alexander MacFarland, was indeed a traitor to the crown and was involved in a ring of Spies and Rebels, and should be treated accordingly.

In light of the Defendant’s other treasonous activities, it was deemed prudent to sentence that he shall be hung by the neck until Dead.

One line of the letter stood out to Cam, practically leaping off the page.
The alternative… was unthinkable.

And in that moment, Cam understood the letter from Lieutenant William Clarendon, and the confusion Mollie expressed in her journal about the identity of the
Lady Meg
’s new first mate.

She looked at Troy, dawning recognition beginning to show on her face. “It’s him,” she whispered. “Robert’s alive.”

She descended the attic steps, went down to the parlor, and sat on the couch, still clutching the piece of plaid, dragging the trunk behind her.
I thought I was over him. I
am
over him.

But he was alive when I left. It’s him. It has to be.

“Troy, thank you. I hate to push you out, but don’t you have to go to work?”

He checked his watch, and nodded glumly. “Yeah. You want me to stop by later and check on you?”

Cam shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Thanks, though. I do appreciate it.”

As he opened the door to let himself out, he turned to look at her. She was staring at the scrap of wool. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Aye,” she said, without even thinking. He was sure she never heard the door close behind him.

Late in the evening, she reached the bottom of the trunk. There was a soft, oilskin pouch, and as she lifted it out, a familiar scent reached her nostrils. It was the faintest trace of patchouli.

Oh, Wanda, you wild woman, you. You left me a message after all, didn’t you?

She untied the thong slowly on the pouch, and opened it up. There was a fat pile of paper within. The ink was faded and brown, but still legible in Wanda’s loopy handwriting.

December 29, 1776 –

Dear Cameron,

It has been several months now since you left, and I told you I might keep a journal myself, didn’t I? Well, I haven’t started on it yet but I am having the time of my life. Angus and I left the Ridge so that I could find General George Washington – yes,
that
George Washington! I knew he would be engaging in the battle of Trenton on December 26
th
, defeating the Hessians, and I just wanted to see it in person. It was, unfortunately, a battle of bayonets because of the snow and rain freezing the muskets. I have never seen a sight as horrible, and I hope I never do again.

Angus and I are married now, by the way. I returned to Richmond to find him, hoping he might have gotten off the ship. He indeed had. As I said, we had an understanding (by the way, he retrieved his dad’s sword from the Captain Carter Inn). General Washington is very tall and imposing. He really does have the most awful false teeth, but I desperately want to tell him to smile more because someday he will be on the one-dollar bill, looking very serious. So far I have kept my mouth shut. It is killing me. Angus and I are working for the General collecting information. I have an inside track, of course, but I keep that to myself as well.

Ian and Mollie are married too, but I bet that doesn’t surprise you any. They hitched up on the 4
th
of July, the same day our country declared independence from the Crown. I suspect Mollie is pregnant even though she hasn’t told me yet – I think she either dislikes me or is a little bit afraid of me. She smiles a lot and her cheeks are glowing. Ian makes her happy, and he lets her boss him around.

Now, on to the part you’re still wondering about… Captain’s Mate of The Lady Meg, Robert Andrew MacFarlane.

Cam paused for a moment, and blinked.

Cam, you have no idea what happened in Richmond. When he and Angus reached the Lady Meg that morning, Sinclair was at the ship. They all had a friendly conversation in the cabin of Captain Thibodeaux, at the end of which Wayne decided not to be friendly anymore. He shot Rob in the leg. Do you remember the bronze sculpture of the naked lady in the Captain’s cabin? When Rob was shot, he hit his head on it and was, according to Angus, “rendered bloody unconscious.” When he awoke, he forced Thibodeaux to put Angus on a skiff back to the docks. Mollie received a letter from Captain Thibodeaux in late summer, telling her that Robert’s wound festered, and that he died. I have not heard any news to the contrary, so I believe it is
possible
he is dead. However, I have my doubts.

Cam dropped the letter into her lap, and sat back on the couch. Her hands were shaking.

As to W.S., I did not kill him that day in the cave, merely grazed him and dragged him back down the mountainside, where I left him. I had to allow him to remain alive a bit longer, which I have done, and now he has disappeared. I am betting we won’t be seeing him again, but I guess I could be wrong. As to why I had to let him live, it is better left alone and I won’t mention it again.

It is cold here in the northeast and my ink is nearly frozen. So are my feet, but we are getting ready to celebrate the New Year here in the camp. The men are joyous, and I intend to advise Washington that he should lay a trap for General Cornwallis. We are camped along the Assumpink Creek just south of Trenton, and if we leave a skeleton crew here digging trenches, Cornwallis will assume that Washington’s troops will be here when his own are refreshed and ready. Then Washington can move the rest of his men out in the night, and rather than attack Pennsylvania, as Cornwallis is expecting, he can attack Princeton. I shall go along behind the troops to provide medical attention, but I can’t bear to watch any more carnage first hand.

Do you remember when we went back to Fairy Stone, and the tall tale I spun for Wayne, about there being multiple sites? Do you recall the name of the town I mentioned in New Jersey? I will be there some time in the spring, if all works as planned – late May or early June… and then on to Philadelphia… but no more on that. You don’t need to know, or maybe you don’t want to.

Cam stared at the fireplace for a while, and then set the letter aside. She tossed in some fat logs and a handful of kindling. She pulled the lighter from its spot on the mantle, and went to click the button. On second thought, she paused and put the butane lighter back. She squatted down in front of the fireplace and pulled out two sticks, each about as thick as her finger. She began to twirl them together in her palms, rubbing them back and forth as Mollie had shown her. She could feel them getting warm, and she concentrated harder. The heat in her hands was almost too much, and then there was finally a small spark, then another, and another after that. She touched them to the wads of newspaper in the fireplace, and the edge turned orange and red. Cam sat back, pleased with herself. She could still do it.

She picked up the letter again. She was on the last page.

In addition to this letter, I plan to accumulate a variety of stuff for you over the next few years of my life. Virginia won’t really become too involved in the War for a couple of years (remember your American History 101!), so I should have lots of time to put together a little collection for you. I will try to make sure it stays in reasonably good condition. You can do what you like with all this stuff, sell it in your shop, dress up as Betsy Ross for Halloween, whatever. Or just maybe… well, never mind.

By the time you get this,
if
you get it, you are probably happily married to Troy (if he’s not dead, of course) and I bet you guys have about seven kids. Troy is nice and you could certainly do worse. He is stable and secure and predictable, isn’t he? Just the kind of guy that everyone wants to end up with in the long run.

Then again, maybe stable and secure and predictable isn’t what you need. Maybe you need spontaneity and passion and mystery. Just rambling with my thoughts here… anyway, enjoy the goodies in this collection, hopefully they haven’t ended up locked in some awful museum vault.

I left you a letter once before, remember? Even though nothing made sense to you at the time, you followed your instinct and you were right. Just in case you’re ever feeling really adventurous and you’re not too old and feeble, there’s a map on the back of this page.

Peace, love and light,

Wanda.

It was getting dark outside. Cam stoked the fire a bit and put a few more logs on. The rest of the items in the boxes were things that would have been of interest to any collector or history buff. There was a small pouch of coins, all minted in Virginia prior to 1775. There were dress patterns, and even a pair of cracked leather boots. There was a faded copy of
Common Sense
, and a sheet with the words to a song on it,
The Pausing American Loyalist
.

Cam turned the last page of the letter over gently. There was indeed a map there. On the left there was a sketch of a cave, with a cross above it.
A fairy stone,
she thought. There was a trail, meandering through the mountains past various landmarks, even the Wagner farm. And on the right side of the page was a drawing of a crude house with a group of little stick figure people, hands raised, waving at her. She could just barely make out the smiley faces. She grinned.
Good old Wanda. She sure tells it like it is, doesn’t she?

Cam sat for a long time, staring into the blazing fire until she finally dozed off.

The next morning, when she came downstairs after her shower, Troy was sitting amongst the cartons. He was holding Wanda’s letter, and staring at the map. He looked at her, his round face pale.

“You’re going back.” It was not a question.

She glanced at the letter. “You shouldn’t have read that.”

“But you are going, aren’t you? That’s why she left you the money, and the map, and even the boots, although you sure can’t wear them.” Troy paused. “You know, I thought maybe both of you were crazy.”

“That’s comforting.”

He shrugged. “I guess truth really is stranger than fiction. It’s all real, isn’t it? And she left you the option of going back there.”

“It’s March now. If I leave in the next few weeks, that gives me a couple of months to get to Morristown, find Wanda, and then get to Philadelphia from New Jersey.”

He frowned. “Wait a second, Cam. Let’s think about this for a few minutes, okay? Remember you told me what Wanda said about interfering with things, and changing the course of history?”

Cam paused. “I remember. But it’s not changing the course of history on a grand scale. It’s just affecting the lives of one or two people.”

“Okay, well, keeping that in mind, and assuming that this all works, let’s say you get through the Faerie’s Gate, or the gate in New Jersey, wherever the hell it is. Let’s assume you get to Fort Wyndham. You need to consider a few things.” He peered over his glasses at her. “First of all, what makes you think you can stop him – if it
is
him -- from being hanged? Second, how do you know he wants you to?”

“Why wouldn’t he want me to? It’s him, Troy, I know it,” she interrupted.

“—the defendant,
Alexander
, not Robert, stated he would be, let’s see, hm, here it is.
Were the Court to sentence him to death he would welcome it proudly.
So maybe if you go in and somehow figure out a way to save him, you’ll be changing history in some way. Maybe he’s supposed to hang.”

“But why? What good would it do anyone? How can it have any effect on anything in the future if he lives, rather than being hanged at Fort Wyndham?” Cam argued.

“Beats me. Something else to think about -- why didn’t he die of a festering wound like Thibodeaux said in his letter? Are you saying he faked his own death?”

Cam threw her hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know, Troy! I don’t have the answers! The only one who seemed to know was Wanda, or Winnie, or whatever the hell she’s calling herself now, and she’s roaming around in the snow in New Jersey some place!”

“Was.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“Was,” he repeated. “She
was
running around in the snow in New Jersey. You keep saying
is
, like all this is going on in the present tense. Just like whoever Alexander McFarland is, he died two hundred years ago.”

Cam sat down abruptly.

“And something else, Cam,” Troy said gently. “You may not be able to save him. You know that, right? It may happen whether you get there and interfere or not, you know? Remember? Wanda said maybe it’s all predestined to happen, and you might not have any control over any of it at all.”

Cam sat beside him on the floor, and took his hand. “What would you do? If it was you, and there was someone who loved you that much? Someone you thought about with every breath you took, even when you tried so hard to forget? What would you do, Troy?”

Troy had a funny look on his face. “Cam, what wouldn’t I do?”

She smiled sadly. “Exactly.”

“Are you coming back?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know what’s going to happen.” She took a deep breath. “I wish Wanda was here.”

“Well, she kind of is. She did leave you her little tour guide packet.”

She looked around Granny Emily’s parlor. “What do I do with this place?”

Troy shrugged. “I’d hate to see you sell it. If you’re planning on coming back, that is.”

Cam brightened. “You could stay here, couldn’t you? And run the shop for me? For a while?”