Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [321]
At the last, however, he went purple. As I finished the stitching, the limp penis began to stiffen slightly, brushed in passing by my hand. Thoroughly rattled by this justification of his faith in Jamie’s word, MacBeth snatched down his kilts the instant I was finished, lurched to his feet, and staggered away into the darkness, leaving me giggling over my kit.
* * *
I found a corner where a chest of medical supplies made a seat, and leaned against the wall. A surge of pain shot up my calves; the sudden release of tension, and the nerves’ reaction to it. I slipped off my shoes and leaned back against the wall, reveling in the smaller spasms that shot up backbone and neck as the strain of standing was relieved.
Every square inch of skin seems newly sensitive in such a state of fatigue; when the necessity of forcing the body to perform is suddenly suspended, the lingering impetus seems to force the blood to the perimeter of the body, as though the nervous system is reluctant to believe what the muscles have already gratefully accepted; you need not move, just now.
The air in the cottage was warm and noisy with breathing; not the healthy racket of snoring men, but the shallow gasps of men for whom breathing hurts, and the moans of those who have found a temporary oblivion that frees them from the manly obligation of suffering in silence.
The men in this cottage were those badly wounded, but in no immediate danger. I knew, though, that death walks at night in the aisles of a sick ward, searching for those whose defenses are lowered, who may stray unwittingly into its path through loneliness and fear. Some of the wounded had wives who slept next to them, to comfort them in the dark, but none in this cottage.
They had me. If I could do little to heal them or stop their pain, I could at least let them know that they didn’t lie alone; that someone stood here, between them and the shadow. Beyond anything I could do, it was my job only to be there.
I rose and made my way slowly once again through the pallets on the floor, stooping at each one, murmuring and touching, straightening a blanket, smoothing tangled hair, rubbing the knots that form in cramped limbs. A sip of water here, a change of dressing there, the reading of an attitude of tense embarrassment that meant a urinal was needed, and the matter-of-fact presentation that allowed the man to ease himself, the stone bottle growing warm and heavy in my hand.
I stepped outdoors to empty one of these, and paused for a moment, gathering the cool, rainy night to myself, letting the soft moisture wipe away the touch of coarse, hairy skin and the smell of sweating men.
“Ye dinna sleep much, Sassenach.” The soft Scottish voice came from the direction of the road. The other hospital cottages lay in that direction; the officers’ quarters, the other way, in the village manse.
“You dinna sleep much, either,” I responded dryly. How long had he gone without sleep? I wondered.
“I slept in the field last night, with the men.”
“Oh, yes? Very restful,” I said, with an edge that made him laugh. Six hours’ sleep in a wet field, followed by a battle in which he’d been stepped on by a horse, wounded by a sword, and done God knows what else. Then he had gathered his men, collected the wounded, tended the hurt, mourned his dead, and served his Prince. And through none of it had I seen him pause for food, drink, or rest.
I didn’t bother scolding. It wasn’t even worth mentioning that he ought to have been among the patients on the floor. It was his job to be here, as well.
“There are other women, Sassenach,” he said gently. “Shall I have Archie Cameron send someone down?”
It was a temptation, but one I pushed away before I could think about it too long, for fear that if I acknowledged my fatigue, I would never move again.
I stretched, hands against the small of my back.
“No,” I said. “I’ll manage ’til the dawn. Then someone else can take over for a time.” Somehow I felt that I must get them through