The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3) (23 page)

If we stay here much longer,
Beth thought, smiling to herself
, we will all become little children again.
She tried to keep in mind what Alex had said, that life was not always this carefree. Maybe not, but the irrespressible good humour of the MacGregors was infectious, irresistible. If there was pleasure to be found in something, they would find it. She did not want to leave.

She sighed, and stopped at a point where the stream bubbled merrily over an outcrop of rocks. She contemplated whether it was worth negotiating the boulders, many of which were wet and looked slippery, and decided against it. She had walked far enough. Instead she sat down on one of the drier rocks and stared moodily at the stream for a while, lost in thought. Then she stood and picked her way carefully down to the edge of the water, bending to cup her hands in the icy flow and drink.

A flash of scarlet caught her eye and she froze immediately. It was too bright to be hawthorn or rowan, and in any case the patch of colour was too extensive for berries, and in the wrong place. She turned her head with infinite slowness in the direction of the bright splash, and found herself looking into the frightened brown eyes of what was unmistakably a British soldier, who had wedged himself between two boulders.

She should have run, as fast as possible, praying as she went that his musket wasn’t loaded and that he was not fast enough to overtake her. Part of her mind told her to do just that, and she jerked backwards, then stopped. The rest of her mind told her that he had been there all the time she was sitting brooding, and must have known she was there; she had not been quiet. If he had wanted to kill her, he would already have done so. His eyes indicated that he was more terrified of her than she was of him, and the pale strained face around the eyes told her that he was no more than a boy, in spite of the military garb.

Seeing her indecision, he raised his hand in supplication.

“Please,” he said, his voice soft and etched with pain. “I won’t hurt you. Please, don’t tell anyone I’m here.”

Beth straightened slowly, moved a few steps closer, then stopped. She was still far enough away to run if he made a move, but from her new vantage point she could see that he was not going to do that. He was slumped against the rock, half sitting, his legs stretched out in front of him, the lower half of the left one canted at an unnatural angle. He had clearly made an effort to take his boot off, and had given up.

She approached him now without fear, and squatted down a few paces away from him.

“It’s all right,” she said. “You’re injured. What happened?”

His eyes widened in amazement.

“You’re English!” he said. “Is there a regiment camped nearby?”

He clearly assumed she was a soldier’s wife or a camp follower. Yet his voice held no optimism at the thought of being in close proximity to a British regiment, as she would have expected it to.

“No,” she said. “Not as far as I know. I am not with the British. This is clan country.” That was as much information as she was willing to give. He must already know it was clan country, and could surmise what he wished from her presence in it. She looked at him, made a decision, drew her knife from her pocket slowly, and saw him flinch.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said. “Your leg is broken, I think. If you will let me take your boot off, I can have a look at it.”

“I’ve tried already,” he said. “I can’t get it off. My leg’s too swollen.”

“I can cut the boot off if you’ll let me,” she replied. “But you must stay still so I don’t cut you by accident.” Even so, it would hurt, although she did not tell him that. He nodded, and she moved closer.

The stench that hit her nose was so sudden and so overpowering that she heaved, screwing up her face in disgust and turning away to try to hide her revulsion.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shamed. “I’ve…”

“It’s all right,” she interrupted. “It’s understandable. I just wasn’t expecting…it’s not that bad,” she lied, breathing through her mouth.

The smell was appalling. She could only think that he must have soiled himself, badly. The smell of faeces was unmistakable, mixed with another odour that she could not identify.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“Since yesterday,” he said. “I fell off my horse and he ran away, so I crawled in here to get out of the wind.”

She quelled her stomach and set to work on his boot.

“Your accent is from the south, isn’t it?” she said, hoping to engage him in conversation and take his mind off the pain she could not avoid causing him.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m from Dorset.”

“How did you come to be here, then?” she asked.

It was the question he must have wanted to ask her, but to her relief, he did not.

“My regiment was sent here two months after I enlisted,” he said. “We’re on our way to reinforce Fort William in case of a rebel…” his voice trailed off as he realised he’d said more than he should.

The knife, razor sharp, was making easy work of the boot, but she had to go slowly because of the swelling.

“You’re very young, if you don’t mind me saying,” she observed, pretending she hadn’t noted the import of what he’d just said. “What made you want to enlist in the army?” Probably the glamour of the uniform and the promise of travel and adventure.

“I didn’t really want to,” he said to her surprise. “It was a mistake. Oh!”

She had cut the leather down to the sole, and now pulled the boot gently from his leg, which had hurt, and had caused his exclamation. She looked at the injury.

“Mother of God,” she said softly under her breath.

“Is it bad?” he asked.

It was definitely, most definitely, broken. The shattered tibia had pierced the skin and was poking through his stocking, which was soaked with blood, the jagged end of the bone clearly visible through the thin material. The whole leg was terribly swollen.

“Yes,” she said. There was no point in lying. “I need to take your stocking off to get a better look at it. Do you mind?”

“No,” he said bravely. “But won’t it make you feel sick, if it’s very bad?”

She looked up at him and smiled. She thought nothing could make her feel more sick than the smell emanating from him, but did not say so. It was not his fault. In the state he was in, he could hardly wander off in search of a latrine.

“Yes,” she said. “But if I want to help you, and I do, I’ve got no choice.”

She took the time to steel herself by taking his empty water bottle and refilling it from the stream. Then she came back and handed it to him, before setting to work on his leg again.

“Why was it a mistake?” she asked. “Enlisting, I mean.”

“I was drunk,” he said. “I’d been doing bits of jobs on Johnson’s farm for years, you know, casual stuff, helping out with the harvest, a bit of weeding, that sort of thing. Anyway, when I turned fourteen, he said that I was such a good worker he’d take me on permanent, like.” He stopped, shuddering with the pain as she eased the stocking from his leg, bravely trying not to cry out.

“Is that what you wanted to do, be a farmer?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, his voice strained. “One day I’d like to have my own place. I was really pleased to have the job, because Mr Johnson was a good master, strict but fair, and I knew I’d learn a lot from him and he’d pay my wages on time. Which was the problem.”

“Why?” Beth lifted her skirt slightly, tore a strip off her petticoat, and wetting it, started to carefully clean the worst of the blood away from the wound.

“At the end of six months he paid me, and I took the money to my parents. My dad gave me a shilling back. A whole shilling! So I went to a tavern in Poole to celebrate with some of the other farm boys.”

“What happened?” she asked. The wound had stopped bleeding, which was good. At least he was not going to bleed to death. She wanted him to continue talking, to take both his mind and hers off the horrible mess of his leg. He obviously appreciated the company, having had a whole day alone to brood on his injury.

“I got in with some dragoons, who started telling me what a great life it was, how it made a man of you. They bought me a few drinks, started telling me about Dettingen and what a glorious victory it had been. It sounded fantastic.”

“Is that why you enlisted, then?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I never wanted to travel to fancy places. Like I said, I want to be a farmer. No, they got me drunk, and when I woke up in the morning I found that I’d enlisted, though I don’t remember it. I tried to tell them it was a mistake, but they said I’d accepted the king’s shilling, and that was that.”

“At fourteen?” she said, incredulous.

“Fifteen now,” he corrected her. “It was my birthday two weeks ago.” He tried to pull himself up a little and then thought better of it and subsided, his face white. A fresh wave of foul odour emanated from him. “How’s the leg?” he asked faintly.

“It’s stopped bleeding,” she said. “But I can’t set it myself.” Or amputate it, as seemed to be the more likely treatment. She did not say that. “I need to go and get help.”

His eyes filled with panic instantly, and he clutched convulsively at her dress.

“No!” he cried. “Don’t tell them I’m here! They’ll hang me if they find me!”

What was he talking about? Was he delirious?

“No one’s going to hang you for falling off a horse,” she replied soothingly. “You’re injured. You can’t stay here, and I can’t move you on my own. I’ve got to get help, you must understand that.”

“No. You can’t. I…I…ran away,” he said, shamefully.

Understanding dawned.

“You mean you’re a deserter?” she asked.

“Yes,” he whispered.

He bit his lip and looked away, unable to bear the open contempt he knew he would see on her face.

Very gently she detached his hand from her dress.

“I am not going to ask the redcoats for help,” she assured him. “I don’t blame you for deserting. They should never have made you join in the first place. It’s their fault, not yours.”

She took her cloak off and laid it gently over him, and then stood.

“I’ll be as quick as I can,” she said. “I’ll leave the water with you, and I’ll bring food and someone who can help you. Don’t try to move, you’ll only start bleeding again if you do. I won’t betray you, I swear it.”

Without waiting for his answer, she turned and began to pick her way carefully across the rocks. It was afternoon. Alex would surely be back by now. He would understand, and would know what to do.

She ran most of the way, her legs strong and fit after two months of daily exercise, but even so it took her over half an hour to get back to the settlement. She paused in the trees to get her breath, not wanting to arouse concern. Then she strolled towards the house. No smoke came from the chimney, which was not a good sign.

“Is Alex back?” she asked the passing Janet casually.

“No, not yet,” came the reply. “They should be down any time now though.”

Beth carried on to the house. Duncan was with Alex, but Angus might be back from his picnic by now. She opened the door and walked in. The house was empty. She stood there for a minute, undecided, trying to work out what to do.

She couldn’t go and find him. She wasn’t sure where the men had gone to practice. It could be any one of half a dozen different venues. She had no idea where Angus was either, and even if she could find him he would not appreciate her spoiling his last chance to be alone with Morag.

So the only sensible thing to do was to wait, which was something Beth was not good at doing. She sat down, stood up, lit the fire and sat down again. After maybe ten minutes she got up again and went into the kitchen, gathering together some oatcakes, a piece of mutton, some cloth for bandaging, and whisky. He would need that to dull the pain when Alex moved him. She realised she had not asked the boy his name, and spent a few minutes trying to guess what it might be. The sound of masculine voices came from outside and she ran to the door, forcing herself to open it slowly. Several men were walking past, dirty and tired-looking. One of them had a makeshift bandage round his head. Alex was not there, nor Duncan.

“Are they on their way?” she asked, leaning against the doorpost.

“No, they’ve gone away off for a wee walk,” said William, the injured man. In spite of her casual tone, he caught the expression that clouded her features, and thankfully misinterpreted it.

“Have ye got their meal ready for them?” he asked, assuming this would be the most likely cause for anger. She seized on it.

“No,” she said huffily. “And it’s just as well, isn’t it? Did they say how long they’d be?”

“No,” replied Alasdair. “But they’ll be back before dark, I’ve nae doubt.”

Beth retired back into the house, seething with frustration. She could not ask anyone else to help. The boy was a redcoat, after all, and she was not certain whether the clansmen would be sympathetic to his plight or not. Alex would be. She was sure of it. Damn it! Why did they have to go for a walk, when she needed them? She couldn’t wait until they returned, hours from now. The boy would think she’d deserted him, or betrayed him.

She had to go back. She gathered together the provisions, bundled them up in a blanket and set off, skirting the settlement to minimise the chance of meeting someone who would ask where she was going with such a large parcel. She would take him the food and the whisky, bind his leg as best she could, and get a small fire going to warm him until she could return again with Alex.

She couldn’t run this time, encumbered as she was, and the sun was much lower in the sky when she finally reached him. He was still where she had left him, his mouth taut with pain, his eyes dark smudges in the pallor of his face.

“You came back,” he said, relieved.

“Of course I did,” she replied, bracing herself against the stench, which if anything, had grown stronger. “I couldn’t bring help yet,” she said, squatting down beside him. “The people I trust weren’t there, but they’ll be back later. I’ve brought you some food and a blanket, and something to dull the pain. I’ll make you as comfortable as I can, and then I’ll go back and fetch the person who can help you.”