Eleven #2
“It doesn’t,” Constance said, answering herself.
“You are just as afraid as she is. All of you are. You don’t believe in this fight.
Not truly. And so you’re biding your time, not putting a great deal of effort into the Cause or the men who will fight it.
Well, I’m not so namby-pamby.” She moved toward the tent flap.
“What does that mean?” Grace demanded.
Constance paused. “Lacking in character. Being afraid because fear is comfortable. Are the others outside? Are they listening?” She didn’t wait for a response but flipped open the flap.
Sure enough, it appeared as if every woman in the camp was gathered around Gordon’s tent, unabashedly eavesdropping. Constance came to face them.
They actually took a step back. Some of them held babies in their arms. Others had small children clinging to their skirts. They returned her stare with undisguised hostility.
Well, that was fine with her. The only ones not paying attention seemed to be Mad Maggie, who stood off the side rocking her “Patty,” and Fiona, who was nowhere to be seen.
Grace came out of the tent behind her. Constance didn’t wait for an introduction, but decided to charge right in with her opinions. Charlotte would be proud. No one had ever accused a Cameron of being shy.
“You heard what was said in there?” she asked.
No one said yea or nay. They didn’t need to. Constance understood frontier politics among women. They always knew more than they gave away, and no one wanted to be the first to speak out, although she was certain they all had opinions.
“You know I’ve decided to join your cause.” The words filled her with pride.
In response, not one of the women batted so much as an eyelash. No congratulations. No welcome to the clan. Instead, they stood in grim, condemning silence.
She realized that this might be more difficult than she had imagined. The Scots could be stubborn. But she refused to be deterred.
“You heard me accuse Grace of not being supportive of your cause. Well, I believe that of all of you.”
Now she received a reaction. A collective gasp of outrage rose from the crowd at her audacity.
“So you do have some pride,” Constance plunged on.
“Well, you couldn’t tell as much if you looked around this camp.
” She boldly strolled forward, and they backed away to clear a path.
“See with your own eyes what is happening. Livestock roaming freely, children with dirty faces, no order, no cleanliness. Everyone is involved in their own little lives without anyone working together. Except for making soap,” she remembered with a snap of her fingers.
“And I believe that is shared because whoever made it created such a sticky mess, she didn’t want it around her home. ”
Chins shot up, eyes glittered with outrage. “You don’t know one thing about us,” a woman with squiggly orange hair said.
“Or about what we’ve lost,” an older woman agreed—and Constance realized that in her boldness, she’d surrounded herself with angry Scotswomen.
For a second she had the very reasonable urge to run. The circle of women looked no less menacing than a Shawnee war party.
Except they weren’t, she reminded herself. She had nothing to fear. They needed her, and so she raised her voice, daring to say, “Perhaps I don’t know what you’ve lost, but I know what you are going to lose. Your husband’s lives, your children’s birthright, your pride as a nation.”
“We’ve already lost that,” Grace answered.
Constance turned to her. “No, you haven’t.
Not as long as you have fight left in you.
” She noticed that several heads nodded at her words.
Emboldened, she continued, “If it wasn’t for women, there would be no civilization.
Men know nothing about the home and the hearth.
We are the ones who care, who force them to make laws and build homes.
We are the ones who know how to make soap, and make them use it. ”
It wasn’t the best rallying cry, but it hit its mark.
“That’s right,” she heard several murmur to each other.
Then a woman from the back of the crowd said, “Malcolm McDowell and his family left last night.”
Apparently, this news was distressing to most of the women. Frowns formed and lines of concern marred foreheads.
Constance turned to Grace. “What is this? Why are these people important?”
“Lucy McDowell was a good friend to many of them. Her husband was a strong supporter of Gordon’s cause.”
“Gordon’s cause?” Constance repeated, indignation rising. “I thought it was the Cause of everyone here?” Now Constance understood why Gordon wanted the sword. He was battling for the very life of his rebellion. And if it failed, he would be the one to pay the price.
Constance’s blood boiled. Why, Gordon couldn’t even count upon the support of his sister, his own flesh and blood.
Well, he had one ally. Herself.
“So what did these people do?” Constance demanded. “Sneak away in the middle of the night? Do they run like cowards? Because if they do, it is a shame. And where did they go?”
“Probably to London or wherever they can find work,” the orange-headed woman said.
This information horrified Constance. “London? Where their children can starve on the streets? Have you been there?” She didn’t wait for an answer.
“I have, and a dirtier, nastier city you could never hope to see. The streets are teeming with people looking for work, including women and children who would do anything for a slice of bread. And the air—” She shuddered.
“One can barely breathe. There are parks, but they aren’t for you.
They are for people with money and privilege.
You are better living here, where your children have clear complexions and clearer eyes.
Why, I once saw a child no more than a babe sucking on a gin bottle. ”
That description widened more than a few eyes. Mothers gathered their children closer.
“We are at a moment in history when legends are made,” Constance declared in a ringing voice.
She noticed Fiona had come to stand a bit away from the group.
Good. She needed to hear this. “If you give up now, what is left to you?” she asked them.
“Nothing. Not even your self-respect. You are here for a reason. Your men can’t fight without you.
I come from a country where a woman knows how to load a gun.
If there are Indians at the door, we all fight.
And that is what you have here—Indians at the door.
You can either throw your apron over your head and hide, or stand alongside your men and fight. ”
She let her words soak in, hoping she was persuasive enough. Taking the leadership role was new to her. Always before, she’d answered to her sisters. Few people had ever listened to her.
The women looked at each other. There was a whisper here and there. Constance feared she hadn’t swayed them.
And then Grace asked, “What would we need to do?”
“We start by cleaning,” Constance said. “And I’d recommend a common cooking fire. A few women could cook for all, leaving the rest of us free to see to other matters.”
Grace’s brow furrowed with concern, and then she said, “I like the idea of a common cooking fire. I’ll organize it. What else needs to be done?”
“The latrine area needs fresh dirt. It’s not nice work, but necessary.”
Silence met this task.
Heaving a weary sigh, Constance said, “I’ll see to it. At home, as the youngest, my sisters always expected me to do it anyway.”
Grace turned to the orange-haired woman. “What about you, Sarah Kimball? Are you with us? And how can you help?”
“I will help with the fires. I’ll send my sons out to gather kindling for the whole camp. I’m not so interested in the latrines.”
Her words were met with a smattering of laughter.
Grace sighed. “Then I shall help with the latrines.” She looked to a pale blond woman with a baby in her arms. “Linnea, will you cook? You are the best cook in the clan.”
Linnea shifted her baby in her arms before admitting, “Cook what? My family has no meat and very little but oats and barley.”
“Why did you not say something?” the woman closest to Linnea asked.
Linnea didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. They all understood pride.
“Everyone will bring what they have to you,” Constance said. “We will all share, and you will cook for the clan.” Her words were quickly seconded with offers of food and other aid from everyone.
The tension eased from Linnea’s shoulders. “Very well, yes, I will cook.”
“I have meat,” Grace said, mentioning an item that few of the others had claimed.
The clanswomen turned tight-lipped. No one spoke. Constance realized it was up to her to answer. “Thank you—” she began.
“I don’t know that we should include her,” Sarah challenged.
Emma Reivers, the wife of the couple Gordon had put in charge of Constance the day before, stood beside her, nodding agreement. Others shifted uncomfortably.
“She’s a tart, plain and simple,” Sarah said. “Good folks don’t associate with her. She gives our daughters bad ideas of how a woman should act. There are many of us who question the Lachlan’s judgment in allowing Thomas to keep her.”