Part 1: Fraser of Balnain

Author's note: This is the first in a series of excerpts from a larger work I am writing called "All Ye Who Pass By", dealing with the Saratoga Campaign and featuring General Simon Fraser as a major character. We follow history from the perspective of Lieutenant Southworth one of British General John Burgoyne's young aides. Stay tuned for more installments!

At several of the parties General Burgoyne hosted, Edmund was instructed to check guests at the door while Jonathan and Gavin scurried around obtaining whatever the general wanted from his baggage cart or the shops in town. He would never forget the early arrival of a well-dressed, Highland officer, complete with a belted kilt, of a stout and sturdy build, who intoned in a Scottish burr, "Tell General Burgoyne that Fraser of Balnain has come out for him."

Edmund turned to do just that, but Burgoyne, who was not very far from the door, called over to Ned, "Tell the gentlemen to be more specific. That clan breeds like bloody rabbits!"

Fraser's eyebrow rose up. "Tell the general…the Christian name is Simon."

Again, Edmund turned to relay the message, and again he was cut off by Burogyne replying, "Come, now, that's no good! Never have there been so many Simons in one bloodline since the time of the apostles!"

Fraser smirked, and pushed past a befuddled Ned. "Never have you been known to forget a face, dear John. Are you going to start now?"

Burgoyne put a finger to his chin. "Ah, yes. You're the husband of that fine German lady, dear Margarita. God knows what possessed her…"

"The best of wives indeed, and better than her poor husband deserves," Fraser admitted with a genuine smile, then added softly, and more solemnly, "not so very different from dear Lady Charlotte."

Burgoyne blinked, but did not respond.

Fraser tilted his head. "And how are you faring?"

"Not in Bedlam." He grinned oddly, and Fraser's own expression fell flat. "Oh, I'm joking. Can't you tell when I'm joking after more than eight years?" He slapped his friend on the back. "I'm keeping busy! That's the important thing. We'll both be very busy bees and give the cursed rebels a right proper sting like we did when they tried to press north. Now it's our turn to press south!"

"I'm convinced you left Canada last winter just to escape the cold," Fraser stated, waving a finger.

"I'm not the one who occasionally appears without breeches," Burgoyne replied, gesturing to his kilt.

"You're the one who wanted a Highlander by your side when you drain the honey from the Yankee hive," Fraser replied. "I'm afraid you must take my poor self as you find me, or else beseech London to send you an Englishman or a Lowlander..."

"Your poor self," Burgoyne snorted. "Everyone in London sings your praises!"

"Everyone?" He folded his arms.

"Everyone who matters," Burgoyne started with a shrug. "And you know for a fact I hold no one in greater esteem, and I have impeccable judgment in all things!"

Again, Fraser smirked. "Impeccable."

"We'll toast to that." Burgoyne poured him a glass of champagne. "Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow…"

"Careful, Johnny," Fraser cautioned.

"We win," Burgoyne finished, clinking his glass against his friend's. "You mustn't fear to test the Almighty so much. We are wed to the army, so it is part of our natures by now!"

"Call me superstitious." He drank down the champagne. "Och, this is bloody weak stuff, John."

"You see, a bullet hasn't been made that can do you in," Burgoyne chortled.

"Oh?"

"Well, not outright at least. You'd flop around for an ungodly amount of time shouting curses at the sky...and probably at me. You remember I told you about another Scot, Major Pitcairn of the Marines."

"Ah, yes, a Lowlander," Fraser noted.

"But as tenacious as all your lot," Burgoyne insisted. "When led the last charge up Breed's Hill, It took six bullets to take him down! What a painting it would make, or a scene in a play…"

"Good God, John," Fraser sighed, shaking his head.

"I can't help it! It's how I see the world! It's how I...make sense of it." Burgoyne glanced down to the floor momentarily.

Fraser did the same. "Is Pitcairn buried on this continent, or has he been taken home?"

"Still in Boston. Why do you ask?"

"I just...wondered." His eyes glazed. "So many of our own, sleeping here, on this far side of the water…"

"But not us," Burgoyne assured, his voice cheerful once more. "We'll live to be dirty old men and die in our beds, hopefully next to much younger women, with our names forever etched in the book of time by destiny's golden pen!"

Fraser paused for a moment, then lifted his glass again. "To growing old with Margarita." With that, he drank down the last of the champagne.

"And now…your mail, sir," Burgoyne declared, picking up a bundle of letters lying on a nearby table.

"Ah, you remembered!" Fraser exclaimed, fingering the letters. "I rather you'd have given it to that addle-headed, cross-eyed boy to drop off, instead of him just sliding your invitation under the door…"

"Entrust your letters to Freddie?" Burgoyne clicked his tongue. "No, no. Our friendship means more to me than that. Besides, he's terrified of you."

"As he should be," Fraser snorted. "He's Lowlander by the sound of him, and however hearty some of their folk may prove to be, mine can still eat them for breakfast."

Burgoyne rolled his eyes.

"Why in the name of all that's holy did you attach him to your staff to begin with?" Fraser queried. "He's not exactly the most reliable messenger…"

"His father is a gentleman from Roxburghshire who I lost a small fortune to," Burgoyne confessed.

"Horses?"

"Roosters. I didn't much like all the blood, but I couldn't manage to tear myself away from the pot of gold, until of course, it tore itself away from me…"

"Damn, Johnny."

"At any rate," Burgoyne sighed. "I told you I'd deliver your letters in person, and I have, just as I did when we were in Ireland. You were always getting too much mail, what with your twenty siblings and all..."

"As usual, you exaggerate, but as you know, my father was married twice," the Scotsman explained. "Lots of half-bloods out and about, having mostly had prestigious broods, but they're Frasers still, so I find it my duty to look out for them as best I am able."

"It's all about who you know in this business," Burgoyne said, nudging him with his elbow.

"My clan has little other option," Fraser admitted with a grim smirk. "But I'll be sure they make good use of their opportunity, or they'll be swimming back to shore without transport or recommendations from me."

"I have every confidence you'll make good soldiers and honest Britons of the lot of them," Burgoyne replied. "Even those few still fondly gaze across the water in search of princes and pretenders."

"And I have every confidence that my knowing your own honorable self will continue to fill my life with additional color," Fraser returned.

"And glory!" Burgoyne insisted, taking him by the arm and leading him into the dining room.
During the party that evening, Burgoyne, full of bubbling enthusiasm for the campaign to come, sat quite near to Fraser and nearly talked his ear off. Fraser seemed to be genuinely amused by his friend's exuberance, talking far less, but always making the remarks suitably clever to keep the game going. When pressed for his opinion about Burgoyne's grand scheme to split the colonies in two, however, Fraser first declined commentary, as he had accepted the job, and that alone should have been enough as a matter of duty and endorsement. But when pressed again by Burgoyne as they began to play cards, he conceded simply, "Yes, it will succeed, should the fates favor us, and the cards fall into place."

"The fates favor the King, God save him," declared Burgoyne, revealing his four kings.

Fraser snorted and passed on his hand. But Ned had seen over his shoulder it was aces. Highland superstition, perhaps. It would be unwise to defeat the omen of victory.