The Outlandish Companion - Diana Gabaldon [255]
“There we are,” I said with satisfaction, checking the array one last time. Everything must be ready, since I was working by myself; if I forgot something, no one would be at hand to fetch it for me.
“It seems a great deal o’ preparation, for one measly finger,” Jamie observed behind me.
I swung around to find him leaning on one elbow, watching, the cup of laudanum undrunk in his hand.
“Could ye not just whack it off wi’ a wee knife and seal the wound with hot iron, like the regimental surgeons do?”
“I could, yes,” I said dryly. “But fortunately I don’t have to; we have enough time to do the job properly. That’s why I made you wait.”
“Mmphm.” He surveyed the row of gleaming instruments without enthusiasm, and it was clear that he would much rather have had the business over and done with as quickly as possible. I realized that to him, this looked like slow and ritualized torture, rather than sophisticated surgery.
“I mean to leave you with a working hand,” I told him firmly. “No infection, no suppurating stump, no clumsy mutilation, and—God willing—no pain, once it heals.”
His eyebrows went up at that. He had never mentioned it, but I was well aware that his right hand and its troublesome fourth finger had caused him intermittent pain for years, ever since it had been crushed at Wentworth Prison, when he was held prisoner there in the days before the Stuart Rising.
“A bargain’s a bargain,” I said, with a nod at the cup in his hand. “Drink it.”
He lifted the cup and poked a long nose reluctantly over the rim, nostrils twitching at the sickly sweet scent. He let the dark liquid touch the end of his tongue and made a face.
“It will make me sick.”
“It will make you sleep.”
“It gives me terrible dreams.”
“As long as you don’t chase rabbits in your sleep, it won’t matter,” I assured him. He laughed despite himself, but had one final try.
“It tastes like the stuff ye scrape out of horses’ hooves.”
“And when was the last time you licked a horse’s hoof?” I demanded, hands on my hips. I gave him a medium-intensity glare, suitable for the intimidation of petty bureaucrats and low-level Army officials.
He sighed.
“Ye mean it, aye?”
“I do.”
“All right, then.” With a reproachful look of long-suffering resignation, he threw back his head and tossed the contents of the cup down in one gulp.
A convulsive shudder racked him, and he made small choking noises.
“I did say to sip it,” I observed mildly. “Vomit, and I’ll make you lick it up off the floor.”
Given the scuffled dirt and trampled grass underfoot, this was plainly an idle threat, but he pressed his lips and eyes tight shut, and lay back on the pillow, breathing heavily and swallowing convulsively every few seconds. I brought up a low stool and sat down by the camp bed to wait.
“How do you feel?” I asked, a few minutes later.
“Dizzy,” he replied. He cracked one eye open and viewed me through the narrow blue slit, then groaned and closed it. “As if I’m falling off a cliff. It’s a verra unpleasant sensation, Sassenach.”
“Try to think of something else for a minute,” I suggested. “Something pleasant, to take your mind off it.”
His brow furrowed for a moment, then relaxed.
“Stand up a moment, will ye?” he said. I obligingly stood, wondering what he wanted. He opened his eyes, reached out with his good hand and took a firm grip of my buttock.
“There,” he said. “That’s the best thing I can think of. Having a good hold on your arse always makes me feel steady.”
I laughed, and moved a few inches closer to him, so his forehead pressed against my thighs.
“Well, it’s a portable remedy, at least.”
He closed his eyes then and held on tight, breathing slowly and deeply. The harsh lines of pain and exhaustion in his face began to soften as the drug took effect.
“Jamie,” I said softly, after a minute. “I’m sorry about it.”
He opened his eyes, looked upward, and smiled, giving me a slight squeeze.
“Aye, well,” he said. His pupils had begun to shrink; his eyes were sea-deep and fathomless, as