The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [435]
And then the stubborn impulse left him and he felt his body stretch and loosen, reaching, reaching for the earth. A cool wind embraced him and he felt the soothing warmth of his body’s voidings. A brilliant light blazed up behind his eyes, and he heard nothing more but the bursting of his heart and the distant cries of an orphaned child.
69
HIDEOUS EMERGENCY
JAMIE AND BREE were nearly ready to leave. Smoke-stained and weary as they were, a number of the men had offered to join the search-party, an offer that made Bree bite her lip and nod thanks. She was grateful for the offer of help, I knew—but it takes time to move a larger group, and I could see the impatience flare up in red blotches under her skin as weapons were cleaned, canteens refilled, cast-off shoes located.
“Wee Josh” had been mildly apprehensive regarding his new position as surgeon’s assistant, but he was a groom, after all, and thus accustomed to tending the ills of horseflesh. The only difference, as I told him—making him grin—was that human patients could tell you where it hurt.
I had paused to wash my hands before stitching a lacerated scalp, when I became aware of some disturbance taking place at the edge of the meadow behind me. Jamie, hearing it too, turned his head—and then came swiftly back across the clearing, eyebrows raised.
“What is it?” I turned to look, and saw a young woman, evidently in a dreadful state, heading toward us at a lopsided trot. She was slight of build and limping badly—she had lost a shoe somewhere—but still half-running, supported on one side by Murdo Lindsay, who seemed to be expostulating with her even as he helped her along.
“Fraser,” I heard her gasp. “Fraser!” She let go of Murdo and pushed her way through the waiting men, her eyes raking the faces as she passed, searching. Her brown hair was tangled and full of leaves, her face scratched and bloody.
“James . . . Fraser . . . I must . . . are you . . .?” She was panting for breath, her chest heaving and her face so red it looked as though she might have an apoplexy on the spot.
Jamie stepped forward and took her by the arm.
“I’m Jamie Fraser, lass,” he said. “Is it me ye want?”
She nodded, gasping, but had no breath for words. I hastily poured a cup of water and offered it to her, but she shook her head violently, instead waving her arms in agitation, gesturing wildly toward the creek.
“Rog . . . er,” she got out, gulping air like a landed fish. “Roger. MacKen . . . zie.” Before the final syllable left her mouth, Brianna was at the young woman’s side.
“Where is he? Is he hurt?” She seized the young woman’s arm, as much to compel answers as to provide support.
The girl’s head bobbed up and down, shook back and forth, and she gasped out, “Hang . . . they . . . they are . . . hanging him! Gov—ner!”
Brianna let go of her and ran for the horses. Jamie was already there, untying reins with the same swift intensity he had shown when the fighting began. Without a word, he stooped, hands cupped; Brianna stepped up and swung into the saddle, kicking the horse into motion before Jamie had reached his own. Gideon caught the mare up within moments, though, and both horses disappeared into the willows, as though swallowed up.
I said something under my breath, with no consciousness of whether I’d uttered a curse or a prayer. I thrust needle and suture into Josh’s startled hands, caught up the sack with my emergency kit, and ran for my own horse, leaving the brown-haired woman collapsed on the grass, vomiting from her effort.
I CAUGHT THEM UP within a few moments. We didn’t know precisely where Tryon was holding his drumhead court, and valuable time was lost as Jamie was compelled to stop, time and again, and lean from his horse to ask directions—these often muddled and contradictory. Bree was gathered into herself, quivering like a nocked arrow, ready for flight, but lacking direction.
I tried to ready myself for anything,