The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [463]
“Ow! Will you stop that?” I looked up from scouring out a pan with a handful of rushes and sand, to find Brianna locked in mortal combat with her son, who was arched backward like a bow over her arm, kicking, squirming, and making the sort of nerve-wracking fuss that makes even devoted parents momentarily contemplate infanticide. I saw Roger’s shoulders draw up toward his ears at the racket, but he went doggedly on with his writing.
“What is the matter with you?” Bree demanded crossly. She knelt and wrestled Jemmy into a semi-sitting position, evidently trying to make him lie down so she could change his clout for the night.
The diaper in question was much in need of attention, being wet, grimy, and hanging halfway down the little boy’s legs. Jem, having slept most of the afternoon in the wagon, had wakened sun-dazed, cranky, and in no mood to be trifled with, let alone changed and put to bed.
“Perhaps he isn’t tired yet,” I suggested. “He’s eaten, though, hasn’t he?” This was a rhetorical question; Jemmy’s face was smeared with hasty pudding, and he had bits of eggy toast in his hair.
“Yes.” Bree ran a hand through her own hair, which was cleaner, but no less disheveled. Jem wasn’t the only cranky one in the MacKenzie family. “Maybe he’s not tired, but I am.” She was; she had walked beside the wagon most of the day, to spare the horses on the steepening slopes. So had I.
“Leave him here and go have a wash, why don’t you?” I said, nobly suppressing a yawn. I picked up a large wooden spoon and waggled it alluringly toward Jem, who was oscillating backward and forward on his hands and knees, emitting horrible whining noises. Spotting the spoon, he stopped making the noise, but crouched in place, glaring suspiciously.
I added an empty tin cup to the lure, setting it on the ground near him. That was enough; he rolled onto his bottom with a squish, picked up the spoon with both hands and began trying to pound the cup into the dirt with it.
Bree cast me a look of profound gratitude, scrambled to her feet, and disappeared into the woods, heading down the slope to the small creek. A quick rinse in cold water, surrounded by dark forest, wasn’t quite the sybaritic escape that a fragrant bubble-bath by candlelight might be—but “escape” was the important word here. A little solitude worked wonders for a mother, as I knew from experience. And if cleanliness was not quite next to godliness, having clean feet, face, and hands definitely improved one’s outlook on the universe, particularly after a day of sweat, grime, and dirty diapers.
I examined my own hands critically; between horse-leading, fire-starting, cooking, and pot-scouring, my own outlook on the universe could stand a bit of improvement, too.
Still, water was not the only liquid capable of lifting one’s spirits. Jamie reached over my shoulder, put a cup of something into my hands, and sat down beside me, his own cup in hand.
“Slàinte, mo nighean donn,” he said softly, smiling at me as he lifted his cup in salute.
“Mmm.” I closed my eyes, inhaling the fragrant fumes. “Is it proper to say ‘Slàinte,’ if it isn’t whisky you’re drinking?” The liquid in the cup was wine—and a nice one, too, rough but with a good round flavor, redolent of sun and grape leaves.
“I canna see why not,” Jamie said logically. “It’s only to wish ye good health, after all.”
“True, but I think ‘Good Health’ may be more a practical wish than a figurative one, at least with some whiskies—that you hope the person you’re toasting survives the experience of drinking it, I mean.”
He laughed, eyes creasing in amusement.
“I havena killed anyone wi’ my distilling yet, Sassenach.”
“I didn’t mean yours,” I assured him, pausing for another sip. “Oh, that’s nice. I was thinking of those three militiamen from Colonel Ashe’s regiment.” The three in question had been found blind-drunk—in one case, literally blind—by a sentry, after having indulged in a bottle of so-called whisky, obtained from God knew where.
As Ashe’s Company had no surgeon, and we were