The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3)(36)

       
           



       

"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."

"You've helped me," he said. "You're very kind."

His voice slurred as though he was drunk, and she realised that he was only half conscious. She felt his forehead, expecting it to be hot and fevered, but his skin was cold, too cold, and clammy, and his lips were tinged with blue.

"You must stay awake and eat something," she said, trying to hide the alarm she felt at the deterioration in his condition since she'd been away.

"I'm not sure it's a good idea for me to eat," he said, attempting to smile at her. "You see I … " he stopped with a gasp and his eyes widened, fixing on a point over her shoulder. Then he moved, clawing at her dress with his left hand and fumbling frantically for his sword with his right.

She had unwrapped the blanket, and was unpacking the oatcakes, but looked up at this unexpected movement. Following the direction of his gaze, she turned and looked behind her.

For a split second she saw the two men as the boy must have done, tall, broad and ferocious, half-naked, bristling with weapons, their long hair wild and tangled on their shoulders, bare arms bulging with muscle, their faces fierce and implacable. Then they became simply Alex and Duncan, and she almost fainted, so great was her relief.

"It's all right, they're friends," she said, turning back to the boy and stroking his arm reassuringly, moved beyond measure by the fact that he had been trying, in spite of his pain and the impossibility of the task, to put her behind him and defend her against these savages.

"Have you told him your name? Or ours? Or anything about us?" Alex asked, in Gaelic.

"No," she replied in the same language. "Of course not. I'm not stupid. I've told him nothing at all. His leg is broken, and I don't know how to set it. Can you help him?"

To her surprise, instead of examining the boy he scrutinised her first, taking in the scarf covering her hair, the grubby dress, the work-reddened hands, and the scuffed shoes. Then he moved forward and squatted down beside the boy. His nostrils flared suddenly, and he grimaced.

"He smells very bad," she explained, still in Gaelic, but this time to spare the boy's blushes rather than for any secretive purposes. "He's been here two days."

Alex ignored both her and the boy's leg, instead examining his face. The young soldier remained silent, frozen with fear.

"It's all right, laddie," said Alex softly. "I'm here to help ye, like the lady says." Like Beth, he laid a hand on the boy's forehead, then nodded to himself, and with great care he removed the cloak she had laid over him and began to unbutton the scarlet coat. Beth retched suddenly, the smell overpowering her control, and Alex waved a hand behind him at his brother.