Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [309]
“Verra sensible,” she said, having heard my plan. “Cousin Archie’s made some arrangements, I expect, but of course he’s wanting to be with the army just now.” Her firm chin stuck out a little farther. “That’s where the fun is, after all,” she said wryly.
“I’m surprised you didn’t insist on going along,” I said.
She laughed, her small, homely face with its undershot jaw making her look like a good-humored bulldog.
“I would if I could, but I can’t,” she admitted frankly. “Now that Hugh’s come, he keeps trying to make me go home. Told him I was”—she glanced around to be sure we weren’t overheard, and lowered her voice conspiratorially—“damned if I’d go home and sit. Not while I can be of use here.”
Standing on the cottage doorstep, she looked thoughtfully up and down the street.
“I didn’t think they’d listen to me,” I said. “Being English.”
“Aye, you’re right,” she said, “but they will to me. I don’t know how many the wounded will be—pray God not many,” and she crossed herself unobtrusively. “But we’d best start with the houses near the manse; it’ll be less trouble to carry water from the well.” With decision, she stepped off the doorstep and headed down the street, me following close behind.
We were aided not only by the persuasion of Miss Cameron’s position and person but by the fact that sitting and waiting is one of the most miserable occupations known to man—not that it usually is known to men; women do it much more often. By the time the sun sank behind Tranent kirk, we had the bare rudiments of a hospital brigade organized.
* * *
The leaves were beginning to fall from larch and alder in the nearby wood, lying loose, flat and yellow on the sandy ground. Here and there a leaf had crisped and curled to brown, and took off scudding in the wind like a small boat over rough seas.
One of these spiraled past me, settling gently as its wind current failed. I caught it on my palm and held it for a moment, admiring the perfection of midribs and veins, a lacy skeleton that would remain past the rotting of the blade. There was a sudden puff of wind, and the cup-curled leaf lifted off my hand, to tumble to the ground and go rolling along, down the empty street.
Shading my eyes against the setting sun, I could see the ridge beyond the town where the Highland army was camped. His Highness’s half of the army had returned an hour before, sweeping the last stragglers from the village as they marched to join Lord George. At this distance, I could only pick out an occasional tiny figure, black against the graying sky, as here and there a man came over the crest of the ridge. A quarter-mile past the end of the street, I could see the first lighting of the English fires, burning pale in the dying light. The thick smell of burning peat from the cottages joined the sharper scent of the English wood fires, overlying the tang of the nearby sea.
Such preparations as could be made were under way. The wives and families of the Highland soldiers had been welcomed with generous hospitality, and were now mostly housed in the cottages along the main street, sharing their hosts’ plain supper of brose and salt herring. My own supper was waiting inside, though I had little appetite.
A small form appeared at my elbow, quiet as the lengthening shadows.
“Will you come and eat, Madame? The goodwife is keeping food for you.”
“Oh? Oh, yes, Fergus. Yes, I’ll come.” I cast a last glance toward the ridge, then turned back to the cottages.
“Are you coming, Fergus?” I asked, seeing him still standing in the street. He was shading his eyes, trying to see the activities on the ridge beyond the town. Firmly ordered by Jamie to stay with me, he was plainly longing to be with the fighting men, preparing for battle on the morrow.
“Uh? Oh, yes, Madame.