A Man Cannot Be Born Again Unless He Is Baptised of Water

It is a vicious occupation,he wrote, and God aid me, if I am no hero, I am damned expert at it. You understand, I think, for I know you are the aforementioned.

The quill had left marks on his fingers, so tightly every bit he'd gripped information technology. He laid it downwardly briefly, rubbing his hand, then took information technology upward once again.

God help me further,he wrote, more slowly. I am afraid.

Agape of what?

Some arsehole panicked….

I am agape of everything. Agape of what I may accept done, unknowing—of what I might do. I am afraid of expiry, of mutilation, incapacity—only any soldier fears these things, and fights regardless. I have washed it, and—

He wished to write firmly, and will do information technology again.Instead, the words formed below his quill every bit they formed in his mind; he could non help but write them.

I am afraid that I might find myself unable. Not but unable to fight, but to command.He looked at that for a moment, and put pen tentatively to the paper one time more than.

Have you known this fear, I wonder? I cannot think it, from your outward aspect.

That outward aspect was vivid in his mind; Fraser was a man who would never pass unnoticed. Even during their most relaxed and cordial moments, Fraser had never lost his air of command, and when Grayness had watched the Scottish prisoners at their work, it was plain that they regarded Fraser as their natural leader, all turning to him every bit a matter of class.

And then, in that location had been the thing of the scrap of tartan. He felt hot blood wash through him and his stomach clench with shame and anger. Felt the startling thud of a cat-o'-nine-tails on blank flesh, felt it in the pit of his stomach, searing the peel between his shoulders.

He shut his optics in reflex, fingers clenching so tightly on the quill that it cracked and bent. He dropped the ruined plumage and sat still a moment, breathing, then opened his eyes and reached for another.

Forgive me,he wrote. And then, hardly pausing, And yet why should I beg your forgiveness? God knows that it was your doing, equally much as mine. Between your deportment and my duty…Merely Fraser, too, had acted from duty, even if there was more to the thing. He sighed, crossed out the terminal bit, and put a period after the words Forgive me.

We are soldiers, you and I. Despite what has lain between us in the past, I trust that…

That we understand one another.The words spoke themselves in his mind, but what he saw was not the agreement of the burdens of command, nor withal a sharing of the unspoken fears that haunted him, sharp every bit the sliver of metal next his heart.

What he saw was that one frightful glimpse of nakedness he had surprised in Fraser's confront, naked in a way he would wish to encounter no homo naked, let alone a man such equally this.

"I understand," he said softly, the audio of the words surprising him. "I wish information technology were non so."

He looked down at the muddled mess of newspaper before him, blotched and crumpled, marked with spider blots of confusion and regret. It reminded him of that terse notation, written with a burnt stick. Despite everything, Fraser had given him assist when he asked information technology.

Might he ever run into Jamie Fraser once more? In that location was a good adventure he would not. If chance did not kill him, cowardice might.

The mania of confession was on him; best make the most of it. His quill had dried; he did not dip it again.

I dear yous,he wrote, the strokes light and fast, making scarcely a mark upon the paper, with no ink. I wish it were non and then.

Then he rose, scooped up the scribbled papers, and, burdensome them into a brawl, threw them into the fire.

Hdue east was unfortunately notdead when he woke in the forenoon, but wished he were. Every musculus in his body ached, and the ghastly remainder of everything he had drunkard clung like dusty fur to the inside of his throbbing caput.

Tom Byrd brought him a tray, paused to view the remains, and shook his head in a resigned manner, just said naught.

Oddly enough, his hands did not milkshake. Still, he clasped them carefully round his teacup and raised it cautiously to his lips. As he did so, he noticed a letter on the tray, sealed with a blob of ruddy wax, in which the initials SC were incised. Simon Coles.

He sat upwardly, narrowly avoiding spilling the tea, and fumbled open the missive, which proved to contain a brief note from the lawyer and a sheet of paper containing several drawings, with penciled descriptions written tidily beneath. Descriptions of the bits of jewelry that Anne Thackeray had taken with her when she eloped with Philip Lister.

"Tom," Grey croaked.

"Yes, me lord?"

"Go tell the stable lad to ready the horses, and so pack. We'll leave in an hour."

Both Tom'due south eyebrows lifted, but he bowed.

"Very skillful, me lord."

He had hoped to escape from Blackthorn Hall unnoticed, and was in the human action of depositing a gracious note of thanks—pleading urgent concern as alibi for his precipitous removal—on Edgar'due south desk, when a vox spoke suddenly behind him.

"John!"

He whirled, guilt stamped upon his features, to notice Maude in the doorway, a garden trug over one arm, filled with what looked like onions simply were probably daffodil bulbs or something agricultural of the sort.

"Oh. Maude. How pleased I am to see y'all. I thought I should take to take my leave without expressing my cheers for your kindness. How fortunate—"

"Yous're leaving u.s., John? So shortly?"

She was a tall woman, and handsome, her night proficient looks a proper lucifer for Edgar's. Maude's eyes, however, were not those of a poetess. Something more in the nature of a gorgon'due south, he had always felt; riveting the attending of her auditors, fifty-fifty though all instinct bade them flee.

"I…yes. Yes. I received a letter of the alphabet—" He had Coles's note with him, and flourished it as prove. "I must—"

"Oh, from Mr. Coles, of form. The butler told me he had brought y'all a note, when he brought me mine."

She was looking at him with a most unaccustomed fondness, which gave him a minor arctic upward the back. This increased when she moved all of a sudden toward him, setting aside her trug, and cupped a paw behind his caput, looking searchingly into his optics. Her breath was warm on his cheek, smelling of fried egg.

"Are you lot sure y'all are quite well enough to travel, my dear?"

"Ahh…yes," he said. "Quite. Quite sure." God in heaven, did she mean to kiss him?

Thank God, she did not. After examining his face feature past feature, she released him.

"You should have told usa, you know," she said reproachfully.

He managed a vaguely interrogative dissonance in answer to this, and she nodded toward the desk-bound. Where, he now saw, the newspaper cut referring to him every bit the Hero of Crefeld was displayed in all its glory, along with a annotation in Simon Coles's handwriting.

"Oh," he said. "Ah. That. Information technology really—"

"We had not the slightest idea," she said, looking at him with what in a lesser woman would take passed for doe-eyed respect. "You are then small, John! To think of all you take suffered—it shows and so clearly upon your haggard countenance—and to say non a word, even to your family!"

It was a cold day and the library fire had non been lit, but he was beginning to feel very warm. He coughed.

"At that place is, of course, a sure caste of exaggeration—"

"Nonsense, nonsense. But of course, your natural dignity of graphic symbol causes you to shun public acclaim, I understand entirely."

"I knew yous would," Grey said, giving upwardly. They beamed at each other for a few seconds; so he coughed once again and made purposefully to pass her.

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Source: https://litlife.club/books/171204/read?page=53

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