A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [624]
Near enough to have frightened Duncan badly. The debacle of the promised guns and powder had deprived him of any influence with the local Loyalists and left him completely isolated, vulnerable to the next wave of hostilities—which any fool could see would not be long in coming.
He had therefore moved swiftly to sell River Run at a decent price, before it was seized. He had kept one or two warehouses on the river and a few other assets, but had disposed of the plantation, slaves, and livestock, and proposed to remove at once with his wife to Canada, as many other Loyalists were doing.
“Hamish MacKenzie is there, ken,” he explained. “He and some others from Leoch settled in Nova Scotia, when they left Scotland in the wake of Culloden. He’s Jocasta’s nephew, and we’ve money enough—” He glanced vaguely toward the hall, where Ulysses had dumped the saddlebags. “He’ll help us to find a place.”
He smiled crookedly.
“And if things shouldna turn out well . . . they do say the fishing’s good.”
Jamie smiled at the feeble joke, and poured him more whisky, but he shook his head when he came to join me in the surgery, before dinner.
“They mean to travel overland to Virginia, and with luck take ship there for Nova Scotia. They can perhaps get out of Newport News; it’s a small port, and the British blockade isna tight there—or so Duncan hopes.”
“Oh, dear.” It would be a grueling journey—and Jocasta was not a young woman. And the state of her eye . . . I was not fond of Jocasta, in light of what we had learned about her recently, but to think of her ripped from her home, forced to emigrate while suffering excruciating pain—well, it caused one to think there might be such a thing as divine retribution, after all.
I lowered my voice, looking over my shoulder to be sure Duncan had in fact gone upstairs. “What about Ulysses? And Phaedre?”
Jamie’s lips pressed tight.
“Ah. Well, as to the lass—I asked Duncan to sell her to me. I shall set her free as quickly as I can; perhaps send her to Fergus, in New Bern. He agreed at once, and wrote out a bill of sale on the spot.” He nodded toward his office. “As for Ulysses . . .” His face was grim. “I think that matter will adjust itself, Sassenach.”
Mrs. Bug came bustling down the hall to announce that the supper was served, and I had no chance to ask him what he meant by that remark.
I SQUEEZED OUT the poultice of witch hazel and Carolina allspice, and laid it gently over Jocasta’s eyes. I’d already given her willow-bark tea for the pain, and the poultice would do nothing for the underlying glaucoma—but it would be soothing, at least, and it was a relief to both patient and physician to be able to offer something, even though that might be the merest palliative.
“Will ye have a keek in my saddlebags, lass?” she asked, stretching a little to ease herself on the bed. “There’s a bittie parcel in there of an herb ye might find of interest.”
I found it immediately—by smell.
“Where on earth did you get that?” I asked, halfway amused.
“Farquard Campbell,” she replied matter-of-factly. “When ye told me what the difficulty was with my eyes, I asked Fentiman if he kent anything that might be of help, and he told me that he’d heard somewhere that hemp might be of use. Farquard Campbell has a field of it under cultivation, so I thought I might as well try it. It does seem to help. Would ye put it in my hand, please, niece?”
Fascinated, I put the parcel of hemp and the little stack of papers down on the table beside her, and guided her hand to it. Rolling carefully onto her side to prevent the poultice falling off, she took a good pinch of aromatic herb, sprinkled it down the center of the paper, and rolled as tidy a joint as I had ever seen in Boston.
Without comment, I held the candle flame