An Echo in the Bone (102 page)

“He said he’d hang me,” he whispered suddenly.

“Who?”

“The English officer. A Captain Bradbury, I think his name was. Said he thought I was a-playing at spies and soldiers, and if I didn’t confess at once, he’d hang me.”

“But he didn’t,” I said softly, and put a hand on his arm.

He was trembling all over, and I saw a drop of sweat hanging from the tip of his chin, translucent in the dimness.

“I told him—told him he could, I s’posed. If he pleased. And I truly thought he would. But he didn’t.” His breath came thick, and I realized that he was crying, silently.

I put my arms around him, held him, making hushing noises, and after a little he stopped. He was quiet for a few minutes.

“I thought—I would be prepared to die,” he said softly. “That I would go happy to the Lord, whenever He chose to call me. I am ashamed to find it untrue. I was so much afraid.”

I took a long, deep breath, and sat back beside him.

“I always wondered about martyrs,” I said. “No one ever said they weren’t afraid. It’s only that they were willing to go and do whatever they did in spite of it. You went.”

“I did not set up to be a martyr,” he said after a moment. He sounded so meek, I nearly laughed.

“I doubt very much that many people do,” I said. “And I think a person who did would be very obnoxious indeed. It’s late, Denzell, and your sister will be worried. And hungry.”

IT WAS AN HOUR or more before Jamie came back. I was lying in the hay, my shawl pulled over me, but wasn’t asleep. He crawled in beside me and lay down, sighing, putting an arm over me.

“Why him?” I asked after a moment, trying to keep my voice calm. It didn’t work; Jamie was acutely sensitive to tones of voice—anyone’s, but particularly mine. I saw his head turn sharply toward me, but he paused a moment in turn before answering.

“He wished to go,” he said, doing much better with the approximation of calmness than I had.

“And I thought he’d do well with it.”

“Do
well?
He’s no actor! You know he can’t lie; he must have been stammering and tripping over his tongue! I’m astonished that they believed him—if they did,” I added.

“Oh, they did, aye. D’ye think a real deserter wouldna be terrified, Sassenach?” he said, sounding faintly amused. “I meant him to go in sweating and stammering. Had I tried to give him lines to speak, they’d ha’ shot him on the spot.”

The thought of it made the bolus of bread rise in my throat. I forced it back down.

“Yes,” I said, and took a few breaths, feeling cold sweat prickle over my own face, seeing little Denny Hunter, sweating and stammering before the cold eyes of a British officer.

“Yes,” I said again. “But… couldn’t someone else have done it? It’s not just that Denny Hunter is a friend—he’s a doctor. He’s needed.”

Jamie’s head turned toward me again. The sky outside was beginning to lighten; I could see the outline of his face.

“Did ye not hear me say he wished to do it, Sassenach?” he asked. “I didna ask him. In fact, I tried to dissuade him—for the very reason ye said. But he wouldna hear it and only asked me to look after his sister, should he not come back.”

Rachel. My stomach clenched afresh at mention of her.

“What can he have been
thinking
?”

Jamie sighed deeply and turned onto his back.

“He’s a Quaker, Sassenach. But he’s a man. If he was the sort of man who’d not fight for what he believes, he’d ha’ stayed in his wee village and poulticed horses and looked after his sister.

But he’s not.” He shook his head and looked at me.

“Would ye have had me stay at home, Sassenach? Turn back from the fight?”

“I would,” I said, agitation fading into crossness. “In a heartbeat. I just know you aren’t bloody
going
to, so what’s the point?”

That made him laugh.

“So ye do understand,” he said, and took my hand. “It’s the same for Denzell Hunter, aye? If he’s bound to risk his life, then it’s my job to see he gets the most return from his gambling.”

“Bearing in mind that the return of most gambling is a big, fat zero,” I remarked, trying to repossess the hand. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that the house always wins?” He wasn’t letting go, but had begun to run the ball of his thumb gently back and forth over the tips of my fingers.

“Aye, well. Ye reckon the odds and cut the cards, Sassenach. And it’s not
all
luck, ken?” The light had grown, in that imperceptible predawn way. Nothing so blatant as a sunbeam; just a gradual emergence of objects as the shadows round them went from black to gray to blue.

His thumb slipped inside my hand, and I curled my fingers involuntarily over it.

“Why isn’t there a word that means the opposite of ‘fade’?” I asked, watching the lines of his face emerge from night’s shadow. I traced the shape of one rough brow with my thumb and felt the springy mat of his short beard against the palm of my hand, changing as I watched it from amorphous smudge to a distinction of tiny curls and wiry springs, a glowing mass of auburn, gold, and silver, vigorous against his weathered skin.

“I dinna suppose ye need one,” he said. “If ye mean the light.” He looked at me and smiled as I saw his eyes trace the outlines of my face. “If the light is fading, the night’s coming on—and when the light grows again, it’s the night that’s fading, aye?”

It was, too. We should sleep, but the army would be astir around us shortly.

“Why is it that women don’t make war, I wonder?”

“Ye’re no made for it, Sassenach.” His hand cupped my cheek, hard and rough. “And it wouldna be right; you women take so much more with ye, when ye go.”

“What do you mean by that?”

He made the small shrugging movement that meant he was looking for a word or a notion, an unconscious movement, as though his coat was too tight, though he wasn’t wearing one at the moment.

“When a man dies, it’s only him,” he said. “And one is much like another. Aye, a family needs a man, to feed them, protect them. But any decent man can do it. A woman…” His lips moved against my fingertips, a faint smile. “A woman takes life with her when she goes. A woman is…

infinite possibility.”

“Idiot,” I said, very softly. “If you think one man is just like any other.”

We lay for a bit, watching the light grow.

“How many times have ye done it, Sassenach?” he asked suddenly. “Sat betwixt the dark and the dawn, and held a man’s fear in the palms of your hands?”

“Too many,” I said, but it wasn’t the truth, and he knew it. I heard his breath come, the faintest sound of humor, and he turned my hand palm up, his big thumb tracing the hills and valleys, joints and calluses, lifeline and heartline, and the smooth fleshy swell of the mount of Venus, where the faint scar of the letter “J” was still barely visible. I’d held him in my hand for the best part of my life.

“Part of the job,” I said, meaning no flippancy, and he did not take it that way.

“D’ye think I’m not afraid?” he asked quietly. “When I do my job?”

“Oh, you’re afraid,” I said. “But you do it anyway. You’re a frigging gambler—and the biggest gamble of all is a life, isn’t it? Maybe yours—maybe someone else’s.”

“Aye, well,” he said softly. “Ye’d know about that, I suppose.

“I’m the less bothered for myself,” he said thoughtfully. “Looking at it all in all, I mean, I’ve done the odd useful thing here and there. My children are grown; my grandchildren are thriving—that’s the most important thing, no?”

“It is,” I said. The sun was up; I heard a rooster crow, somewhere in the distance.

“Well, so. I canna say I’m so verra much afraid as I used to be. I shouldna like dying, of course—but there’d maybe be less regret in it. On the other hand”—one side of his mouth turned up as he looked at me—“while I’m maybe less afraid for myself, I’m that wee bit more reluctant to kill young men who’ve not yet lived their lives.” And that, I thought, was as close as I’d get to an apology for Denny Hunter.

“Going to assess the age of the people shooting at you, are you?” I asked, sitting up and beginning to brush hay out of my hair.

“Difficult,” he admitted.

“And I sincerely hope that you don’t propose to let some whippersnapper kill you, merely because they haven’t had such a full life as yours yet.”

He sat up, too, and faced me, serious, ends of hay bristling from hair and clothes.

“No,” he said. “I’ll kill them. I’ll just mind it more.”

INDEPENDENCE DAY

Philadelphia

July 4, 1777

GREY HAD NEVER been to Philadelphia before. Bar the streets, which were execrable, it seemed a pleasant city. Summer had graced the city’s trees with huge verdant crowns, and a walk left him lightly dusted with leaf fragments and the soles of his boots sticky with fallen sap.

Perhaps it was the febrile temperature of the air that was responsible for Henry’s apparent state of mind, he thought darkly.

Not that he blamed his nephew. Mrs. Woodcock was lissome but rounded, with a lovely face and a warm character.
And
she had nursed him away from death’s door when the local prison officer had brought him to her, worried lest a potentially lucrative prisoner die before yielding a full harvest. That sort of thing formed a bond, he knew—though he had never, thank God, felt any sort of
tendresse
for any of the women who had attended him in ill health. Except for…

“Shit,” he said involuntarily, causing a clerical-looking gentleman to glare at him in passing.

He had clapped a mental teacup over the thought that had buzzed through his head like a meddlesome fly. Unable not to look at it, though, he cautiously lifted the cup and found Claire Fraser under it. He relaxed a little.

Certainly not a
tendresse
. On the other hand, he was damned if he could have said what it had been. A most peculiar sort of unsettling intimacy, at least—no doubt the result of her being Jamie Fraser’s wife and her knowing what his own feelings for Jamie were. He dismissed Claire Fraser, and went back to worrying about his nephew.

Pleasant Mrs. Woodcock undeniably was, and just as undeniably rather too fond of Henry for a married woman—though her husband was a rebel, Henry had told him, and God knew when or whether he might return. Well enough; there was no danger of Henry losing his head and marrying her, at least. He could imagine the scandal, should Henry bring home a carpenter’s widow, and she a sable enchantress, to boot. He grinned at the thought and felt more charitable toward Mercy Woodcock. She had, after all, saved Henry’s life.

For now
. The unwelcome thought buzzed in before he could clap the teacup over it. He couldn’t avoid it for long; it kept coming back.

He understood Henry’s reluctance to undergo another surgery. And there was the lingering fear that he might be too weak to withstand it. But at the same time, he could not be allowed to remain in his present state; he would simply dwindle and die, once illness and pain had drained the last of his vitality. Not even the fleshly attractions of Mrs. Woodcock would hold him, once that happened.

No, the surgery must be done, and soon. In Grey’s conversations with Dr. Franklin, the old gentleman had made him acquainted with a friend, Dr. Benjamin Rush, who he claimed was a most prodigious medical man. Dr. Franklin urged Grey to visit him, should he ever find himself in the city—had given Grey a letter of introduction, in fact. He was on his way to pre sent this, in hopes that Dr. Rush might either be practiced in surgery or be able to refer him to someone who was. Because, whether Henry wanted it or not, it had to be done. Grey could not take Henry home to England in his present state, and he had promised both Minnie and his brother that he would bring their youngest son back, were he still alive.

His foot slipped on a muddy cobble, and he let out a whoop and pitched sideways, arms pinwheeling for balance. He caught himself and shook his clothes back into order with a good assumption of dignity, ignoring the giggles of two milkmaids who had been watching.

Damn it all, she was back. Claire Fraser. Why? … Of course. The ether, as she called it. She’d asked him for a carboy of some sort of acid and had told him that she required it to make ether.

Not as in the ethereal realm but a chemical substance that rendered people unconscious, so as to make surgery… painless.

He stopped dead in the middle of the street. Jamie had told him about his wife’s experiments with the substance, with a full account of the amazing operation she had performed on a young boy, he rendered completely senseless as she opened his abdomen, removed an offending organ, and sewed him back together. After which the child was right as a grig, apparently.

He walked on more slowly, thinking furiously. Would she come? It was a laborious journey to almost anywhere from Fraser’s Ridge. Not such a terrible trip from the mountain to the shore, though. It was summer, the weather was good; the journey could be made in less than two weeks. And if she would come to Wilmington, he could arrange for her to be brought to Philadelphia on whatever naval vessel was available—he knew people in the navy.

How long? How long might it take her—if she would come? More sobering thought: how long did Henry have?

He was pulled from these troubling reflections by what appeared to be a small riot proceeding down the street in his direction. A number of people, most of them drunken to judge by their behavior, which involved a good deal of shouting and pushing and waving of handkerchiefs. A young man was beating a drum, with much enthusiasm and no skill, and two children bore between them an outlandish banner, striped red and white but with no legend upon it.

He pressed back against a house, to give them room to pass. They did not pass, however, but instead hauled up before a house on the opposite side of the street and stood there shouting slogans in English and German. He caught the shout of “Liberty,” and someone blew a cavalry charge upon a trumpet. And then he caught the shout of “Rush! Rush! Rush!”

Good God, it must be the house he was seeking, that of Dr. Rush. The mob seemed good-humored; he supposed they did not mean to drag the doctor out for a dose of tar and feathers, this being a notable form of public entertainment, or so he had been told. Cautiously, he approached and tapped a young woman on the shoulder.