An Echo in the Bone (72 page)

“No, why?” she said warily.

“The Outer Hebrides are part of the Gaeltacht,” he said. “They do the line-singing in the
Gàidhlig
on Lewis, and on Harris, too. Don’t know about Uist and Barra—they’re mostly Catholic—but maybe. I’m thinking I’d like to go and see what it’s like these days.”

She could see the Isle of Lewis on the map, shaped like a pancreas, off the west coast of Scotland. It was a large map. Large enough for her to see the small legend
Callanish Stones
, on the Isle of Lewis.

She exhaled slowly.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”

“Ye’ve got work, haven’t you?”

“I’ll take time off.”

They looked at each other in silence for a moment. Brianna broke away first, glancing at the clock on the shelf.

“Jem’ll be home soon,” she said, the prosaic nature of daily life asserting itself. “I’d better start something for supper. Annie brought us a nice salmon that her husband took. Shall I marinate it and bake it, or would you like it grilled?”

He shook his head and, rising, began to fold the map away.

“I won’t be in to supper tonight. It’s lodge night.”

THE PROVINCIAL GRAND Masonic Lodge of Inverness-shire included a number of local lodges, two of them in Inverness. Roger had joined Number 6, the Old Inverness Lodge, in his early twenties, but had not set foot inside the building in fifteen years, and did so now with a mingled sense of wariness and anticipation.

It was, though, the Highlands—and home. The first person he saw upon walking in was Barney Gaugh, who had been the burly, smiling station agent when Roger had come to Inverness on the train, aged five, to live with his great-uncle. Mr. Gaugh had shrunk considerably, and his tobacco-stained teeth had long since been replaced by equally tobacco-stained dentures, but he recognized Roger at once and beamed in delight, seizing him by the arm and towing him into a group of other old men, half of whom likewise exclaimed over his return.

It was weird, he thought a bit later, as they settled to the business of the lodge, doing the routine rituals of the Scottish Rite.
Like a time warp
, he thought, and nearly laughed out loud.

There were differences, aye, but they were slight—and the
feeling
of it… He could close his eyes and, if he imagined the haze of stubbed-out cigarettes to be the smoke of a hearth, it could be the Crombies’ cabin on the Ridge, where the lodge there had met. The close murmur of voices, line and response, and then the relaxation, the shifting of bodies, fetching of tea and coffee, as the evening became purely social.

There were a good many present—many more than he was used to—and he didn’t at first notice Lionel Menzies. The headmaster was across the room, frowning in concentration, listening to something a tall bloke in shirtsleeves was saying to him, leaning close. Roger hesitated, not wanting to break in upon their conversation, but the man talking to Menzies glanced up, saw Roger, returned to his conversation—but then stopped abruptly, gaze jerking back to Roger. To his throat, specifically.

Everyone in lodge had stared at the scar, whether openly or covertly. He’d worn an open-collared shirt under his jacket; there was no point in trying to hide it. Better to get it over with.

The stranger stared at the scar so openly, though, as almost to be offensive.

Menzies noticed his companion’s inattention—he could hardly not—and, turning, saw Roger and broke into a smile.

“Mr. MacKenzie,” he said.

“Roger,” Roger said, smiling; first names were usual in lodge, when they weren’t being formally

“brother so-and-so.” Menzies nodded and tilted his head, drawing his companion into introduction. “Rob Cameron, Roger MacKenzie. Rob’s my cousin—Roger’s one of my parents.”

“I thought so,” Cameron said, shaking him warmly by the hand. “Thought you must be the new choirmaster, I mean. My wee nephew’s in your infants’ choir—that’ll be Bobby Hurragh. He told us all about ye over supper last week.”

Roger had seen the private glance exchanged between the men as Menzies introduced him and thought that the headmaster must also have mentioned him to Cameron, likely telling him about his visit to the school following Jem’s Gaelic incident. That didn’t concern him at the moment, though.

“Rob Cameron,” he repeated, giving the man’s hand a slightly stronger squeeze than usual before releasing it, this causing him to look startled. “You work for the Hydro, do you?”

“Aye. What—”

“Ye’ll ken my wife, I think.” Roger bared his teeth in what might—or might not—be taken for a genial smile. “Brianna MacKenzie?”

Cameron’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He realized this and closed it abruptly, coughing.

“I—uh. Yeah. Sure.”

Roger had sized the man up automatically as he’d grasped his hand, and knew if it came to a fight it’d be a short one. Evidently, Cameron knew it, too.

“She, uh …”

“She told me, aye.”

“Hey, it was no but a wee joke, right?” Cameron eyed him warily, in case Roger meant to invite him to step outside.

“Rob?” said Menzies curiously. “What—”

“What’s this, what’s this?” cried old Barney, bustling up to them. “Nay politics in lodge, lad! Ye want to talk your SNP shite to brother Roger, take it roond to the pub later.” Seizing Cameron by the elbow, Barney towed him off to another group across the room, where Cameron at once settled into conversation, with no more than a brief glance back at Roger.

“SNP shite?” Roger asked, brows raised at Menzies. The headmaster lifted one shoulder, smiling.

“Ken what auld Barney said. Nay politics in lodge!” It was a Masonic rule, one of the most basic—no discussion of religion or politics in lodge—and probably the reason Freemasonry had lasted as long as it had, Roger thought. He didn’t care much about the Scottish National Party, but he did want to know about Cameron.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Roger said. “Our Rob’s a political, though, is he?”

“My apologies, brother Roger,” Menzies said. The look of humorous good nature hadn’t deserted him, but he did look somewhat apologetic. “I didn’t mean to expose your family’s business, but I did tell my wife about Jem and Mrs. Glendenning, and women being what they are, and my wife’s sister living next door to Rob, Rob got to hear about it. He was interested because of the
Gàidhlig
, aye? And he does get carried away a bit. But I’m sure he didn’t mean to be seeming too familiar with your wife.”

It dawned on Roger that Menzies had hold of the wrong end of the stick regarding Rob Cameron and Brianna, but he didn’t mean to enlighten him. It wasn’t only the women; gossip was a way of life in the Highlands, and if word got round about the trick Rob and his mates had played on Bree, it might cause more trouble for her at her work.

“Ah,” he said, seeking for a way to steer the conversation away from Brianna. “Of course. The SNP’s all for resurrecting the
Gàidhlig
, aren’t they? Does Cameron have it himself?”

Menzies shook his head. “His parents were among those who didn’t want their kids to speak it.

Now, of course, he’s keen to learn. Speak of that—” He broke off abruptly, eyeing Roger with his head to one side. “I had a thought. After we spoke the other day.”

“Aye?”

“I wondered, just. Would ye maybe think of doing a wee class now and then? Maybe only for Jem’s form, maybe a presentation for the school as a whole, if you felt comfortable about it.”

“A class? What, in the
Gàidhlig
?”

“Yes. You know, very basic stuff, but maybe with a word or two about the history, maybe a bit of a song—Rob said ye’re choirmaster at St. Stephen’s?”

“Assistant,” Roger corrected. “And I don’t know about the singing. But the
Gàidhlig…
aye, maybe. I’ll think about it.”

HE FOUND BRIANNA WAITING up, in his study, a letter from her parents’ box in her hand, unopened.

“We don’t have to read it tonight,” she said, putting it down, rising, and coming to kiss him. “I just felt like I wanted to be close to them. How was lodge?”

“Odd.” The business of the lodge was secret, of course, but he could tell her about Menzies and Cameron, and did.

“What’s the SNP?” she asked, frowning.

“The Scottish National Party.” He skinned out of his coat, and shivered. It was cold, and there was no fire in the study. “Came in during the late thirties, but didn’t get really going until quite recently. Elected eleven members to Parliament by 1974, though—respectable. As ye might gather from the name, their goal is Scottish independence.”

“Respectable,” she repeated, sounding dubious.

“Well, moderately. Like any party, they have their lunatic elements. For what it’s worth,” he added, “I don’t think Rob Cameron’s one of them. Just your average arsehole.”

That made her laugh, and the sound of it warmed him. So did her body, which she pressed against his, arms round his shoulders.

“That would be Rob,” she agreed.

“Menzies says he’s interested in the Gaelic, though. If I teach a class, I hope he doesn’t turn up in the front row.”

“Wait—what? Now you’re teaching Gaelic classes?”

“Well, maybe. We’ll see about it.” He found himself reluctant to think too much about Menzies’s suggestion. Maybe it was only the mention of singing. Croaking out a tune to guide the kids was one thing; singing alone in public—even if it was only schoolkids—was something else again.

“That can wait,” he said, and kissed her. “Let’s read your letter.”

June 2, 1777

Fort Ticonderoga

“Fort Ticonderoga?” Bree’s voice rose in astonishment, and she all but jerked the letter from Roger’s hands. “What on earth are they doing in Fort Ticonderoga?”

“I don’t know, but if ye’ll settle for a moment, we’ll maybe find out.”

She didn’t reply but came round the desk and leaned over, her chin propped on his shoulder, her hair brushing his cheek as she focused anxiously on the page.

“It’s okay,” he said, turning to kiss her cheek. “It’s your mum, and she’s in an especially parenthetical mood. She doesn’t normally do that unless she’s feeling happy.”

“Well, yes,” Bree murmured, frowning at the page, “but… Fort Ticonderoga?”

Dear Bree, et al—

As you’ve doubtless gathered from the heading of this letter, we are not (yet) in
Scotland. We had a certain amount of difficulty on our voyage, involving a) the
Royal navy, in the person of one Captain Stebbings, who attempted to press your
father and your cousin Ian (it didn’t work); b) an American privateer (though her
captain, one—and one of him is more than enough—Asa Hickman insists upon the
more dignified “letter of marque” as the designation of his ship’s mission, which
is essentially piracy but executed under the authority of the Continental
Congress); c) Rollo; and d) the gentleman I mentioned to you earlier, named (I
thought) John Smith, but who turns out to be a deserter from the Royal navy
named Bill (aka “Jonah,” and I begin to think they are right) Marsden.

Without going into the details of the whole blood-soaked farce, I will merely
report that Jamie, Ian, the damned dog, and I are all fine. So far. I’m hoping this
state of affairs continues for the next forty-two days, that being when your
father’s short-term militia contract expires. (Don’t ask. Essentially, he was saving
Mr. Marsden’s neck, as well as providing for the welfare of a couple of dozen
seamen inadvertently forced into piracy.) Once it does, we propose to leave
promptly on whatever transport might be headed in the general direction of
Europe, provided only that said transport is not captained by Asa Hickman. We
may have to travel overland to Boston in order to do this, but so be it. (I suppose
it would be interesting to see what Boston looks like these days. The Back Bay
still being water and all, I mean. At least the Common will still be there, if
sporting rather more cows than we were used to.)

The fort is under the command of one General Anthony Wayne, and I have the
uncomfortable feeling that I have heard Roger mention this man, using the
nickname “Mad Anthony.” I’m hoping this designation either does or will refer to
his conduct in battle, rather than in administration. So far he seems rational, if
harried.

Being harried is rational, as he is expecting the more or less imminent arrival of
the British army. Meanwhile, his chief engineer, a Mr. Jeduthan Baldwin (you’d
like him, I think. Very energetic fellow!), is building a Great Bridge, to connect
the fort with the hill they call Mount Independence. Your father is commanding a
crew of laborers at work on this bridge; I can see him just now, from my perch on
one of the fort’s demilune batteries. He stands out, rather, being not only twice
the size of most of the men but one of the few wearing a shirt. Most of them in fact
work naked, or wearing only a clout, because of the heat and wet. Given the
mosquitoes, I think this is a mistake, but no one asked me.

No one asked my opinion of the hygienic protocols involved in maintaining a
proper sick bay and prisoner accommodations, either (we brought several British
prisoners with us, including the aforementioned Captain Stebbings who should by
all rights be dead, but somehow isn’t), but I told them anyway. I am thus persona
non grata with Lieutenant Stactoe, who thinks he is a surgeon but isn’t, and
therefore am prevented from treating the men under his care, most of whom will
be dead within a month. Fortunately, no one cares if I treat the women, children,
or prisoners, and so I am usefully occupied, there being a lot of them.

I have a distinct notion that Ticonderoga changed hands at some point, probably
more than once, but have no idea who took it from whom, or when. This last point
rather weighs upon my mind.

General Wayne has almost no regular troops. Jamie says the fort is seriously
undermanned—and even I can see this; half the barracks are vacant—and while
the occasional militia company comes in from New Hampshire or Connecticut,
these normally enroll for only two or three months, as we did. Even so, the men
often don’t stay their full term; there is a constant melting away, and General
Wayne complains—publicly—that he is reduced to (and I quote) “Negroes,
Indians, and women.” I told him that he could do worse.