The Outlandish Companion - Diana Gabaldon [252]
“Anyone hearing ye just now would likely think ye didna care for me ower-much, Sassenach,” he said, behind me.
I turned to look down at him. The impudent grin was gone, but he was still smiling.
“Ye’ve the tongue of a venomous shrew,” he said, “but you’re a bonny wee swordsman, Sassenach.”
My mouth opened, but the words that had been so abundant a moment before had all evaporated like the rising mist. The sword felt cold and heavy in my hand.
“I’ll tell ye later why,” he said softly, and laid his good hand on my arm. “But for now, a nighean donn—thank ye for my life.”
I closed my mouth. The men had nearly reached us, rustling through the grass, their exclamations and chatter drowning out the ever-fainter moans of the wounded.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
“Hamburger,” I said, under my breath, but not far enough under. He raised an eyebrow at me.
“Chopped meat,” I elaborated, and the eyebrow fell.
“Oh, aye, it is. Stopped a sword stroke wi’ my hand. Too bad I didna have a targe; I could have turned the stroke, easy.”
“Right.” I swallowed. It wasn’t the worst injury I’d seen, by a long shot, but it still made me slightly sick. The tip of his fourth finger had been sheared off cleanly, at an angle just below the nail. The stroke had sliced a strip of flesh from the inside of the finger, and ripped down between the third and fourth fingers, splitting his hand halfway to the wrist.
“You must have caught it near the hilt,” I said, trying for calm. “Or it would have taken off the outside half of your hand.”
“Mmphm.” The hand didn’t move as I prodded and poked, but there was sweat on his upper lip, and he couldn’t keep back a brief grunt of pain.
“Sorry,” I murmured automatically.
“It’s all right,” he said, just as automatically. He closed his eyes, then opened them.
“Take it off,” he said suddenly.
“What?” I drew back and looked at him, startled.
He nodded at his hand.
“The finger. Take it off, Sassenach.”
“I can’t do that!” Even as I spoke, though, I knew that he was right. Aside from the injuries to the finger itself, the tendon was badly damaged; the chances of his ever being able to move the finger, let alone move it without pain, were infinitesimal.
“It’s done me little good in the last twenty years,” he said, looking at the mangled stump dispassionately, “and likely to do no better now. I’ve broken the damn thing half a dozen times, from its sticking out like it does. If ye take it off, it wilna trouble me any more, at least.”
I wanted to argue, but there was no time. Besides, wounded men were beginning to drift up the slope toward the wagon. The men were militia, not regular army; if there was a regiment near, there might be a surgeon with them, but I was closer.
“Once a frigging hero, always a frigging hero,” I muttered under my breath. I thrust a wad of lint into Jamie’s bloody palm and wrapped a linen bandage swiftly around the hand. “Yes. I’ll have to take it off, but later. Hold still.”
“Ouch,” he said mildly. “I did say I wasna a hero.”
“If you aren’t, it isn’t for lack of trying,” I said, yanking the linen knot tight with my teeth. “There, that will have to do for now; I’ll see to it when I have time.” I grabbed the wrapped hand and plunged it into the small basin of alcohol and water.
He went white as the alcohol seeped through the cloth and struck raw flesh. He inhaled sharply through his teeth, but didn’t say anything more. I pointed peremptorily at the blanket I had spread on the ground, and he lay back obediently, curling up under the shelter of the wagon, bandaged fist cradled against his breast.
I rose from my knees, but hesitated for a moment. Then I knelt again and hastily kissed the back of his neck, brushing aside the queue of his hair, matted with half-dried mud and dead leaves. I could just see the curve of his cheek; it tightened briefly as he smiled, and then relaxed.
Word had spread that the hospital wagon was there; there