“And I!” called another man. And throughout the close-packed men came more cries of anger and confirmation, climaxed when Angus Fraser stalked from the rear of the great cavern, a bridle in one hand and curiosity on his dark face. He made his way through to the center of the throng and checked, the breath hissing through his suddenly clenched teeth. “Lord ha’ mercy!” He dropped the bridle and ran to bend over the stricken man. “Doone! Great God! What happened?”
MacLeod, his face white and drawn, muttered, “I hit him.”
Fraser’s hand darted for the dirk at his belt, and he turned on the big man, his lips drawn back in a snarl of rage. The white-haired individual said sharply, “None of that, Angus. It was a mistake. Let’s get him onto a bed.”
Delacourt was lifted tenderly and borne to a crude bed, the occupant having demanded he be moved so that the Englishman might have his place.
A bowl of water and rags were brought. With Cole’s help, Prudence went to work. Lockerbie disappeared to return with a glass of brandy, which she waved away. “Some water, please,” she begged, and there was a rush to respond.
The white-haired man said, “You know me, Lockerbie?”
“Aye, sir. Ye’re Sir Ian Crowley and were on the Prince’s staff.”
“Yes. I was cut off from him, and by great good luck your people found me and brought me here.”
Gently folding back Delacourt’s lower lip to inspect the cuts his teeth had made, Prudence asked anxiously, “And His Highness, sir? Is he safe away?”
Crowley’s mouth tightened. He said curtly, “He’s away to the Western Sea. But he’ll be back, I’ve no doot. Now—what of this brave fellow? Is it true he has a mortal wound?”
Lockerbie nodded glumly. “’Tis truth. He grows ever weaker, however he fights it. And”—he slanted a murderous glare at the young giant who stood silently a short distance away, his brown curly head bowed and massive shoulders slumped—“and fight it he does, though his chances are a muckle smaller the noo—or damned well gone, more like—thanks tae the MacLeod!”
A fierce muttering went up, many heads turning in wrath to the big man, but he neither looked up nor spoke.
Sir Ian, who had been watching Delacourt narrowly, murmured, “Lassie—I think perhaps ye waste your efforts. He looks to be—”
“Don’t,” sobbed Prudence, distraught, “oh, dinna say it! Tae think one o’ the very men he’s risked his life for…” She sprang up, turning on MacLeod like a mad thing, the tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks. “Beast,” she raged, her fists clenched. “Horrid savage! God in heaven! What is wrong wi’ us? Always fighting! Always killing! If not the English, then our own folk! And now we must turn on the man who has helped more than two score of our lads escape death! Is this how you thank him, you wretched … evil brute?” Hysterical, she ran at him, her fists pounding furiously against his muscular chest. And still MacLeod did not move, or make the least attempt to defend himself or to stop her, while the company looked on in a grim silence, even Sir Ian making no move to intervene.
Prudence’s fury spent itself. She bowed her face into her throbbing hands and wept, then, looking up, saw that MacLeod’s head had lifted. In his face was a stark look of misery. Without a word, he drew the dirk that hung at his belt, and handed it to her, hilt foremost.
She snatched the glittering weapon and drew back her arm, fully prepared to strike. And still no one remonstrated with her.
MacLeod stood unmoving, his eyes lowered and a suspicious brightness on his lashes.
It was that brightness that stopped her; that and the echo of Delacourt’s voice: “… there’s been too damned much killing…” She lowered her arm, then flung the dirk at the Highlander’s feet. “I’ll no soil my hands,” she said in a voice that rang with loathing.
A sort of rippling sigh stirred the watching men. Not taking up the dirk, MacLeod moved off towards the mouth of the cavern, only young Jock Eldredge slipping quietly after him.
Sir Ian touched Prudence’s elbow, his compassionate gaze on her. He said gently, “You must be very tired, Miss MacTavish. We will contrive a private couch for you, so you can rest.”
“If the Captain is dying,” she answered in a dulled, despairing voice, “I’ll no leave his side.” And glancing to where several men bent over Sidley, she asked, “Is he dead, too?”
Graham, one of the group, called, “Just stunned, ma’am. ’Twas a brave thing he did, fer such a scrawny Sassenach.”
The butler was carried back towards the rear, where the cavern, as Prudence was later to discover, branched into several other connecting chambers. Sir Ian called Fraser and went off with him in low-voiced conference. Many willing hands worked to erect a partition formed of plaids hung on strung ropes. A rough bed was fashioned, and more plaids and cloaks were offered to serve in lieu of blankets. Prudence was ushered inside, a pan of hot water was brought, and she washed as best she could. Soon, shy offerings of food were tendered: a mug of pure mountain water laced with whisky, a piece of dried fish, a hunk of dark bread, and some rather questionable cheese. Her heart was heavy because Cole told her that Delacourt had not stirred, but she was not so lost in grief that she was oblivious of the sacrifice these offerings constituted, and she thanked the ragged donors warmly. She fell asleep sitting beside the bed in the crude chair they had brought for her, and it was big Stuart MacLeod who, unknown to the exhausted girl, lifted her and laid her gently on her own makeshift bed.
The sound of low voices woke her some hours later. For an instant she was bewildered by strangeness; the mattress was excessive lumpy, she was cold, and something was tickling her cheek. She blinked at the muted light of the torches and memory rushed in. She was up in a flash and pulling back the plaid curtain. Lockerbie was bending over the pallet. Delacourt was awake, and saw her at once. A smile quivered on his lips. He tried to speak, coughed, and doubled up, jerking his head away so that she could not see his face.
Lockerbie came to her and whispered, “Belike his wound was torn by that fall. It never has healed right. Best ye go, miss. He’d no wish that ye see him like—like this.”
She drew back reluctantly. Sir Ian came through the plaids that now enclosed Delacourt’s small area. He had brought a flask, and urged him to try to drink. Prudence intervened hurriedly. “Not if it is spirits, sir. You are very kind, but it will make him cough, and that pains him so.”
Delacourt’s dark head turned on the cloak Lockerbie had rolled up for a pillow. His face shone with sweat, and there was a frantic look in his eyes. His lips were clamped shut, and he made no further effort to speak, but she could feel his suffering and she knelt to stroke the damp hair back from his forehead.
“I hae nursed my papa and my brother many’s the time, Captain,” she murmured, “and I will think no less o’ ye do ye feel the need tae swear or to cry oot.”
She took up the hand that was tight-clenched on the plaid. Briefly, his fingers relaxed, then clamped over her own so that she was hard put to it not to whimper. Delacourt closed his eyes and lay rigid, but after a moment the paroxysm appeared to ease, for his hold relaxed again. He whispered in broken little gasps, “Fought him … Prestonpans.” Incredibly, a twinkle came into the dark eyes. “Beat him, too!” His mouth twisted, he jerked his head away again, and his grip was bruising her.
She took his other hand and held both strongly and, seeing blood creep down his chin, blinked in anguish, but said, “Do not dare to bite your lip, Geoffrey Delacourt! Trouble enough I’ve had, tending your cuts.”
He shuddered, and peered around as though he could not see her. “I’ll not have them say … the English … whine.” The heavy lids drooped, the grip on her hands eased and became limp.
Terrified, she bent closer and was inexpressibly relieved to find that he was still breathing. Lockerbie leaned to her ear. “Belike he’ll sleep the noo. Ye need rest yersel’, miss. I’ll call ye if he wakes.”
She nodded, but when she made to slip her hand away, Delacourt’
s fingers tightened about it. She glanced up, smiling. Lockerbie smiled back, brought in some plaids, and did all he might to make her comfortable.
Prudence leaned back in the chair, thinking drearily that only two nights since, she had been in a gracious home with servants to do her bidding, and a warm bed with a soft feather mattress awaiting her. She closed her eyes, listening drowsily to the snores of the men who slept all around her, and to an occasional smothered moan from the wounded. She dozed briefly, and her fingers slid from Delacourt’s grasp. He groaned in his sleep, and his hand groped about, his head beginning to toss agitatedly. Prudence was awake at once and clasped his thin fingers again, and he was quiet.
She smiled into the darkness and dismissed all thought of her feather bed.
All the next day and night she scarcely left her vigil. Delacourt kept his head turned from her, but she knew when he was conscious, for then would come the spasmodic clutch at the covers, and the breaths he drew would become spaced and shallow or, sometimes in his worst moments, a harsh, painful panting. At these times she would hold his hands, praying silently that he would not die, and he would cling to her until the attack eased. She bathed his wet face and murmured to him that it was better now and he must try to go back to sleep. He watched her then, his eyes narrowed and dulled, but not a word passed his compressed lips. Occasionally, he would cry out or moan in his sleep, but always he would jerk awake and peer anxiously to see if she had heard, and to spare his pride she would feign sleep.
Lockerbie and Cole stayed close by, providing their own care of the sick man, and bringing Prudence food, though they had given up trying to persuade her to go to her own bed. Always, beyond the plaid curtain she could see a great shadow lurking, and she knew Stuart MacLeod waited there. She sensed something of his remorse, but she could not forgive him, and she hoped bitterly that he heard when Delacourt’s implacable hold on himself was broken and faint sounds of pain would escape him.
On the third day she whispered to Lockerbie that nothing had passed the invalid’s lips save for a few drops of water she’d managed to coax him to swallow from time to time. “He must have nourishment,” she whispered. “Only see how thin he grows. Ask if someone can make gruel.”
Lockerbie thought it would be a miracle if Delacourt was able to swallow anything, or if they could prepare it in time, but he went off and came back in a quarter of an hour with a cracked bowl of broth that had, he said, been taken from a weak stew they had made of some rabbits one of the hunters had snared.
Delacourt was quiet, apparently sleeping, but one hand was fast gripped on the plaid, and Prudence was not deceived. She said softly, “I know ye’re awake, sir. We are going to lift you, just a wee bit, so you can take some broth.”
His eyes shot open to direct a horrified glance at her. There was a faint shake of the head but, hardening her heart, she nodded to the apprehensive Lockerbie, and he slid an arm very gently under Delacourt’s shoulders. The Englishman kept his pleading gaze on Prudence, but although she suffered her own agonies, she forced herself to ignore that mute appeal. His eyes closed and his head rolled against Lockerbie’s shoulder. The spoon in Prudence’s hand shook. She thought, ‘Dear Lord! Have I killed the brave soul?’ but she said in a voice that quavered, “Geoffrey … please try.…”
The dark eyes opened. Through his misery he saw her tears. That must not be, so he tried, and managed to get down a few mouthfuls. Surprisingly, it was not as excruciating as he had expected, and he sank back into the dark depths, wanting to thank her but lacking the strength to do so.
It seemed to him then that he slept for a very long time. When he awoke, Prudence was gone and Cole sat dozing in the chair. Delacourt watched his old groom and wondered wearily how much more of this he must endure. He slept again, and once more, when he awoke, Cole was snoring softly. The pain was very bad. But different, in some odd way, and not nearly as terrible as it had been when first he had crashed into those boxes.
He was suffering another pain, however; a pain in his stomach. He thought, ‘Lord, but I’m ravenous!’ He contemplated waking Cole, but then he thought that there were many other wounded, and that everyone was ravenous, so he lay quietly, trying to ignore the pain and pull his thoughts together. He must have been lounging here for several days. He wondered if old Thad was about and, even as the thought struck him, saw the plaid cautiously drawn back and Angus Fraser’s bearded face peering in at him.
“Angus,” he whispered recklessly, and thought a surprised, ‘Jupiter!’ for the expected tightening of that ruthless jagged band around his lung did not materialize.
Cole gave a start and fell off the chair, and Angus hurried in, beaming. “Mon, are ye alive yet?” he enquired with a sad want of tact.
“No.” Delacourt managed to grin at him. “Is … Briley…?”
Angus slanted a glance at Cole, who knelt on the floor staring at Delacourt in total disbelief. “Master Geoff!” gulped the groom, his eyes misting. “You—you can—talk!”
“Enough to ask … if I might have just—a crust of … bread, maybe.”
Cole scrambled up. One hand went out shyly to touch Delacourt’s arm, then he rushed out.
“By God,” Angus murmured, taking the chair and pulling it closer to the bed. “I think ye mean tae make me lose my bet, Captain.”
“Sorry. Briley…?”
Angus glanced cautiously to the small ‘chamber’ where Prudence slept. He kept his voice very low. “Ye’ll be knowing that he took a right smart ding o’ the sconce? Aye, well, we couldnae bring him roond fer days. Then, he was fair beside hissel tae get back tae Lakepoint. He said ’twas on account o’ a promise he’d made tae ye, but I suspicion there’s a lassie in the plot, forbye. At all events, nothing could hold him, and off he went wi’ one o’ Crowley’s gillies tae guide him.” Delacourt was tiring fast, but he watched anxiously as Angus shrugged and went on, “He’d a garron as sure-footed as any mountain goat, but in the high pass he tumbled oot o’ the saddle. Gave his ankle a bad sprain and has lain cursing ever since.”
Delacourt thought fuzzily, ‘Damnation! Then Thad cannot carry the cypher,’ and fell asleep again.
* * *
“Are ye awake, miss?”
Prudence was so drugged with sleep that she lay unmoving for a few seconds, her thoughts muddled and half formed. Something dark and terrible hung over her, she knew that. Something she shrank from facing. She blinked at the plaid curtains and remembered. Fear gripping her, she threw back the covers and ran to slip through the plaids, her eyes flying to the bed.
Delacourt lay with head and shoulders propped against a saddle. Sir Ian Crowley, Angus Fraser, Cole, and many others were crowding about the open ‘curtains,’ faces wreathed in grins. She scarcely saw them, or MacLeod who, supporting Thaddeus Briley, shrank back at the sight of her. She saw only a face, newly shaven, that showed alarmingly pale where it was not bruised; two dark eyes set in shadowed hollows that yet held a glowing look; the tug of a smile at cracked lips; the eager outreaching of one thin hand.
The hum of conversation died into a hush, as she flew to kneel beside him. She could not see, but she felt Delacourt’s touch on her cheek.
“Prudence,” he said weakly.
Prudence could not say a word.
* * *
After ten long months of misery, Delacourt now began to enjoy a gradual cessation of pain. His recovery was astonishingly rapid. Throughout his illness he had maintained a dogged optimism, but in his heart he’d known he was losing the battle. Now, instead of being plagued by an ominously increasing listlessness, he rejoiced in his growing strength; the return of health was a heady delight; his spirits were restored and his buoyant enthusiasm infectious.
He was soon engaging in daily conferences with Angus Fraser and Sir Ian Crowley, as a result of which discussions a system of relay stations was set up. Two-man teams were positioned at high points in a three-mile radius of the cavern. Each team was equipped with short rations for their four
-day period of duty, and also with lanterns, mirrors, and spy-glasses, the latter articles having been begged or borrowed from nearby crofters. A code for light signals was devised, very similar to that which Delacourt had initiated in the Lakepoint area. The occupants of the cavern were thus kept apprised of the proximity of red-coats. The lookouts proved remarkably effective; by the end of a week, fifteen men were enabled to slip safely through the patrols and make their way northwards to the MacKenzie country, into whose rugged fastnesses no dragoon would dare follow.
Despite the primitive conditions, these were happy days for Prudence. Delacourt was still weak, and she suspected he occasionally suffered some bad moments, but there was no doubt that he was greatly improved and she no longer had to go to sleep at night dreading what the morning might bring.
Lockerbie and Cole collected their share of whatever food was available and for a time they all took very small portions so as to ensure that the sick man received sufficient nourishment to speed his recovery. It was evident that others went hungry for his sake, as Prudence often found pieces of bread, roots, or dried meats left on the chair in Delacourt’s section of the screened area, though never were any of them able to determine who was their benefactor. As his body mended, Delacourt began to watch the portions with an eagle eye and when he realized what they had sacrificed for his sake, he was both touched and angered. He did not propose, he declared, to be the only fat man in a company of skeletons. They would survive or starve together, and if he received more food than the others of their little group, he would donate his entire meal to one of the wounded men. He made good his threat one day when he suspected (rightly) that he had been given three-quarters of a carrot for his dinner, instead of the half-carrot the others drew. After that, they dared not indulge him and their portions were arranged equally. The anonymous donations continued, however, for which Prudence could not be sorry.
She had no want of tasks to keep her occupied. The Highlanders were a resourceful lot, and a surprising number of them carried needle and thread about their persons. Since many of their garments were in rags, Prudence lost no time in offering her services as a seamstress—an art in which she was quite proficient—and was soon busily repairing ripped shirts, torn jackets, and worn stockings. She also made her rounds of the wounded at least once a day, and that alone was sufficient to keep her fully employed. Most of the men were ambulatory, but two were completely helpless, having been carried here by comrades. One, a gentle Lowlander named Matthew Rogers, had been shot through the body and had lost the use of his legs. Her efforts in his behalf seemed doomed to failure. He was a patient and uncomplaining boy of seventeen, and Prudence spent many hours sitting with him, doing what little she might to ease his suffering, and even singing the old country songs he would beg for. She chatted often with Thaddeus Briley, trying to alleviate his worries for Elizabeth. He was much changed from the debonair dandy she first had met, his pleasant face thinner and a haunted look to his tawny eyes, but his manner was as bright, his smile as ready, his humour as effervescent as ever, so that he had become quite a favourite with the men.
Journey to Enchantment Page 24
