"Better than they'd do under the Dutch," he said, scratching the rough black stubble that was beginning to emerge along his jaw. "If a ship's coming in from a port known to have plague of some kind, the damned Hollanders make the sailors swim ashore naked."
"What do they do for clothes once they get ashore?" I asked curiously.
"I don't know," said Jared absently, "but since they'll find a brothel within moments of stepping on land, I don't suppose they'd need any—begging your pardon, m'dear," he added hastily, suddenly remembering that he was talking to a lady.
Covering his momentary confusion with heartiness, he rose and came to peer out of the window beside me.
"Ah," he said. "They're getting ready to fire the ship. Given what she's carrying, they'd best tow it a good way out into the harbor first."
Towropes had been attached to the doomed Patagonia, and a number of small boats manned by oarsmen were standing ready, waiting for a signal. This was given by the harbor master, whose gold braid was barely visible as a gleam in the dying light of the day. He shouted, waving both hands slowly back and forth above his head like a semaphore.
His shout was echoed by the captains of the rowboats and galleys, and the towropes slowly lifted from the water as they tautened, water sluicing down the heavy hemp spirals with a splash audible in the sudden silence that struck the docks. The shouts from the towboats were the only sound as the dark hulk of the condemned ship creaked, quivered, and turned into the wind, shrouds groaning as she set out on her last brief voyage.
They left her in the middle of the harbor, a safe distance away from the other ships. Her decks had been soaked with oil, and as the towropes were cast off and the galleys pulled away, the small round figure of the harbor master rose from the seat of the dinghy that had rowed him out. He bent down, head close to one of the seated figures, then rose with the bright sudden flame of a torch in one hand.
The rower behind him leaned away as he drew back his arm and threw the torch. A heavy club wrapped with oil-soaked rags, it turned end over end, the fire shrinking to a blue glow, and landed out of sight behind the railing. The harbor master didn't wait to see the effects of his action; he sat down at once, gesturing madly to the rower, who heaved on the oars, and the small boat shot away across the dark water.
For long moments, nothing happened, but the crowd on the dock stood still, murmuring quietly. I could see the pale reflection of Jamie's face, floating above my own in the dark glass of the window. The glass was cold, and misted over quickly with our breath; I rubbed it clear with the edge of my cloak.
"There," Jamie said softly. The flame ran suddenly behind the railing, a small blue glowing line. Then a flicker, and the forward shrouds sprang out, orange-red lines against the sky. A silent leap, and the tongues of fire danced along the oil-drenched rails, and one furled sail sparked and burst into flame.
In less than a minute, the shrouds of the mizzen had caught, and the mainsail unfurled, its moorings burnt through, a falling sheet of flame. The fire spread too rapidly then to watch its progress; everything seemed alight at once.
"Now," Jared said suddenly. "Come downstairs. The hold will catch in a minute, and that will be the best time to make away. No one will notice us."
He was right; as we crept cautiously out of the tavern door, two men materialized beside Jared—his own seamen, armed with pistols and marlinspikes—but no one else noticed our appearance. Everyone was turned toward the harbor, where the superstructure of the Patagonia was visible now as a black skeleton inside a body of rippling flame. There was a series of pops, so close together they sounded like machine-gun fire, and then an almighty explosion that rose from the center of the ship in a fountain of sparks and burning timbers.
"Let's go." Jamie's hand was firm on my arm, and I made no protest. Following Jared, guarded by the sailors, we stole away from the quay, surreptitious as though we had started the fire.
7
ROYAL AUDIENCE
Jared's house in Paris stood in the Rue Tremoulins. It was a wealthy district, with stone-faced houses of three, four, and five stories crowded cheek by jowl together. Here and there a very large house stood alone in its own park, but for the most part, a reasonably athletic burglar could have leaped from rooftop to rooftop with no difficulty.
"Mmphm" was Murtagh's solitary observation, upon beholding Jared's house. "I'll find my own lodging."
"And it makes ye nervous to have a decent roof above your head, man, ye can sleep in the stables," Jamie suggested. He grinned down at his small, dour godfather. "We'll ha' the footman bring ye out your parritch on a silver tray."
Inside, the house was furnished with comfortable elegance, though as I was later to realize, it was Spartan by comparison with most of the houses of the nobility and the wealthy bourgeois. I supposed that this was at least in part because the house had no lady; Jared had never married, though he showed no signs of feeling the lack of a wife.
"Well, he has a mistress, of course," Jamie had explained when I speculated about his cousin's private life.
"Oh, of course," I murmured.
"But she's married. Jared told me once that a man of business should never form entanglements with unmarried ladies—he said they demand too much in terms of expense and time. And if ye marry them, they'll run through your money and you'll end up a pauper."
"Fine opinion he's got of wives," I said. "What does he think of your marrying, in spite of all this helpful advice?"
Jamie laughed. "Well, I havena got any money to start with, so I can hardly be worse off. He thinks you're verra decorative; he says I must buy ye a new gown, though."
I spread the skirt of the apple-green velvet, more than a little the worse for wear.
"I suppose so," I agreed. "Or I'll go round wrapped in a bedsheet after a while; this is already tight in the waist."
"Elsewhere, too," he said, grinning as he looked me over. "Got your appetite back, have ye, Sassenach?"
"Oaf," I said coldly. "You know perfectly well that Annabelle MacRannoch is the general size and shape of a shovel handle, whereas I am not."
"You are not," he agreed, eyeing me with appreciation. "Thank God." He patted me familiarly on the bottom.
"I'm to join Jared at the warehouse this morning to go over the ledgers, then we're going to call on some of his clients, to introduce me. Will ye be all right by yourself?"
"Yes, of course," I said. "I'll explore the house a bit, and get acquainted with the servants." I had met the servants en masse when we had arrived late in the previous afternoon, but since we had dined simply in our room, I had seen no one since but the footman who brought the food, and the maid who had come in early in the morning to put back the curtains, lay and light the fire, and carry away the chamber pot. I quailed a bit at the thought of suddenly being in charge of a "staff," but reassured myself by thinking that it couldn't be much different from directing orderlies and junior nurses, and I'd done that before, as a senior nurse at a French field station in 1943.
After Jamie's departure, I took my time in making what toilette could be made with a comb and water, which were the only grooming implements available. If Jared was serious about my holding dinner parties, I could see that a new gown was going to be merely the start of it.
I did have, in the side pocket of my medicine chest, the frayed willow twigs with which I cleaned my teeth, and I got one of these and set to work, thinking over the amazing fortune which had brought us here.
Essentially barred from Scotland, we would have had to find a place to make our future, either in Europe or by emigrating to America. And given what I now knew about Jamie's attitude toward ships, I wasn't at all surprised that he should have looked to France from the start.
The Frasers had strong ties with France; many of them, like Abbot Alexander and Jared Fraser, had made lives here, seldom if ever returning to their native Scotland. And there were many Jacobites as well, Jamie had told me, those who had followed their king into exile, and now lived as best they could in France or Italy while awaiting his restoration.
"There's always talk of it," he had said. "In the houses, mostly, not the taverns. And that's why nothing's come of it. When it gets to the taverns, you'll know it's serious."
"Tell me," I said, watching him brush the dust from his coat, "are all Scots born knowing about politics, or is it just you?"
He laughed, but quickly sobered as he opened the huge armoire and hung up the coat. It looked worn and rather pathetic, hanging by itself in the enormous, cedar-scented space.
"Well, I'll tell ye, Sassenach, I'd as soon not know. But born as I was, between the MacKenzies and the Frasers, I'd little choice in the matter. And ye don't spend a year in French society and two years in an army without learning how to listen to what's being said, and what's being meant, and how to tell the difference between the two. Given these times, though, it isna just me; there's neither laird nor cottar in the Highlands who can stand aside from what's to come."
"What's to come." What was to come? I wondered. What would come, if we were not successful in our efforts here, was an armed rebellion, an attempt at restoration of the Stuart monarchy, led by the son of the exiled king, Prince Charles Edward (Casimir Maria Sylvester) Stuart.