The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [223]
“Lie down,” I said, just as softly. “I’ll see to things.”
There was a certain amount of bustle and confusion, but within a half hour or so, everyone was more or less settled, the horses hobbled, and a small fire going.
I knelt to check my chief patient, who was sitting on his chest, splinted leg stuck out in front. Hiram, with his ladies safely gathered behind him in the shelter of the bank, emitted a belligerent “Meh!” and threatened me with his horns.
“Ungrateful sod,” I said, pulling back.
Jamie laughed, then broke off to cough, his shoulders shaking with the spasm. He was curled at one side of the depression in the bank, head pillowed on his folded coat.
“And as for you,” I said, eyeing him, “I wasn’t joking about that goose grease. Open your cloak, lift your shirt, and do it now.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, and shot a quick glance in Mrs. Beardsley’s direction. I hid a smile at his modesty, but gave Mrs. Beardsley the small kettle from my saddlebag and sent her off to fetch water and more firewood, then dug out the gourd of mentholated ointment.
Jamie’s appearance alarmed me slightly, now that I had a good look at him. He was pale and white-lipped, red-rimmed round the nostrils, and his eyes were bruised with fatigue. He looked very sick, and sounded worse, the breath wheezing in his chest with each respiration.
“Well, I suppose if Hiram wouldn’t die in front of his nannies, you won’t die in front of me, either,” I said dubiously, scooping out a thumbful of the fragrant grease.
“I am not dying in the least degree,” he said, rather crossly. “I’m only a wee bit tired. I shall be entirely myself in the morn—oh, Christ, I hate this!”
His chest was quite warm, but I thought he wasn’t fevered; it was hard to tell, my own fingers being very cold.
He jerked, made a high-pitched “eee” noise, and tried to squirm away. I seized him firmly by the neck, put a knee in his belly, and proceeded to have my way with him, all protests notwithstanding. At length, he gave up struggling and submitted, only giggling intermittently, sneezing, and uttering an occasional small yelp when I reached a particularly ticklish spot. The goats found it all very entertaining.
In a few minutes, I had him well-greased and gasping on the ground, the skin of his chest and throat red from rubbing and shiny with grease, a strong aroma of peppermint and camphor in the air. I patted a thick flannel into place on his chest, pulled down his shirt, drew the folds of his cloak around him, and tucked a blanket up snugly under his chin.
“Now, then,” I said with satisfaction, wiping my hands on a cloth. “As soon as I have hot water, we’ll have a nice cup of horehound tea.”
He opened one eye suspiciously.
“We will?”
“Well, you will. I’d rather drink hot horse piss, myself.”
“So would I.”
“Too bad; it hasn’t any medicinal effects that I know of.”
He groaned and shut the eye. He breathed heavily for a moment, sounding like a diseased bellows. Then he raised his head a few inches, opening his eyes.
“Is yon woman back yet?”
“No, I imagine it will take her a little time to find the stream in the dark.” I hesitated. “Did you . . . hear everything she was telling me?”
He shook his head.
“Not all—but enough. Mary Ann and that?”
“Yes, that.”
He grunted.
“Did ye believe her, Sassenach?”
I didn’t reply immediately, but took my time in cleaning the goose grease out from under my fingernails.
“I did at the time,” I finally said. “Just now—I’m not sure.”
He grunted again, this time with approval.
“I shouldna think she’s dangerous,” he said. “But keep your wee knife about ye, Sassenach—and dinna turn your back on her. We’ll take watch and watch about; wake me in an hour.”
He shut his eyes, coughed, and without further ado, fell fast asleep.
CLOUDS WERE BEGINNING to drift across the moon, and a cold wind stirred the grass on the bank above us.
“Wake him in an hour,” I muttered, shifting myself in an effort to achieve some minimal level of comfort on the rocky ground. “Ha, bloody ha.” I leaned over and hoisted Jamie