The Companion to the Fiery Cross, a Breath of Snow and Ashes, an Echo in the Bone, and Written in My Own Heart's Blood

by Diana Gabaldon

  He rounded on me, indignant and astonished.

  “Are you contradicting me?”

  “Well, yes,” I said, rather mildly. “You’re wrong. You want to have a good look in his left ear. It’s—”

  “I, madam, am a diplomate of the Medical College of Philadelphia!”

  “I congratulate you,” I said, beginning to be provoked. “You’re still wrong.”

  This conversation is still fresh in Claire’s mind when she joins Jamie to conduct the inspection of his troops.

  There were three hundred men, he’d told me, and most of them were quite all right. I kept walking and nodding, but wasn’t above beginning to fantasize some dangerous circumstance in which I found Captain Leckie writhing in pain, which I would graciously allay, causing him to grovel and apologize for his objectionable attitude. I was trying to choose between the prospect of a musket ball embedded in his buttock, testicular torsion, and something temporarily but mortifyingly disfiguring, like Bell’s palsy, when my eye caught a glimpse of something odd in the lineup.

  The man in front of me was standing bolt upright, musket at port arms, eyes fixed straight ahead. This was perfectly correct—but no other man in the line was doing it. Militiamen were more than capable, but they generally saw no point in military punctilio. I glanced at the rigid soldier, passed by—then glanced back.

  “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” I exclaimed, and only sheer chance kept Jamie from hearing me, he being distracted by the sudden arrival of a messenger.

  I took two hasty steps back, bent, and peered under the brim of the dusty slouch hat. The face beneath was set in fierce lines, with a darkly ominous glower—and was completely familiar to me.

  “Bloody effing hell,” I whispered, seizing him by the sleeve. “What are you doing here?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he whispered back, not moving a muscle of face or body. “Do walk on, my dear.”

  Such was my astonishment, I might actually have done it, had my attention not been drawn by a small figure skulking about behind the line, trying to avoid notice by crouching behind a wagon wheel.

  “Germain!” I said, and Jamie whirled about, eyes wide.

  Lord John, with some presence of mind, surrenders to Jamie—as does Germain. Jamie is about to dispatch the prisoners to custody, but Claire objects, on grounds that Lord John’s eye is clearly in need of attention.

  As Claire is contemplating ways and means, though, she is interrupted by the appearance of Percy Wainwright Beauchamp, who wants to talk to Lord John. Lord John doesn’t wish to talk to Percy, though, and when Jamie enters and orders Percy to sit down, the quasi-Frenchman rises smoothly and exits, saying he is required to attend upon the Marquis de La Fayette, with whose entourage he is associated.

  With help from a slightly squeamish Jamie, Claire manages to free Lord John’s frozen eyeball and anoints it with honey, that substance being both antibacterial and slippery. John refuses to answer any questions, and Jamie leaves him, having other urgent things to do.

  Claire return to her other patients but finds them hovering anxiously, making way for a dangerous-looking mule skinner, who is nursing a nasty bite and threatening to beat to death the mule responsible. Germain recognizes the man as the thief who stole Clarence—obviously the mule in question.

  As Claire is wondering exactly what to do with her patient, Germain steals away—with the obvious intent of reclaiming Clarence. Terrified that Germain will be noticed and harmed by the other mule skinners, Claire takes advantage of the appearance of Percy Beauchamp, asking him in French to go and see if he can retrieve the boy safely—which Percy gallantly does.

  The reappearance of Percy with Germain and Clarence leads to a major scene with the irate mule skinner, this broken up by the appearance of Fergus, who stops the fight by firing his pistol into the air.

  Everything stopped, for a split second, and then the shouting and screaming started again, everyone surging toward Clarence and his companions to see what had happened. For a long moment, it wasn’t apparent what had happened. The teamster had let go his grip in astonishment and turned toward Fergus, eyes bulging and blood-tinged saliva running down his chin. Germain, with more presence of mind than I would have had in such a situation, got hold of the reins and was hauling on them with all his strength, trying to turn Clarence’s head. Clarence, whose blood was plainly up, was having none of it.

  Fergus calmly put the fired pistol back into his belt—I realized at this point that he must have fired into the dirt near the teamster’s feet—and spoke to the man.

  “If I were you, sir, I would remove myself promptly from this animal’s presence. It is apparent that he dislikes you.”

  The shouting and screaming had stopped, and this made several people laugh.

  “Got you there, Belden!” a man near me called. “The mule dislikes you. What you think of that?”

  Not much, is the answer, but Percy has a better one.

  But Percy had managed to get to his feet and, while still somewhat hunched, was mobile. Without hesitation, he walked up and kicked the teamster smartly in the balls.

  This went over well. Even the man who appeared to be a friend of Belden’s whooped with laughter. The teamster didn’t go down but curled up like a dried leaf, clutching himself. Percy wisely didn’t wait for him to recover, but turned and bowed to Fergus.

  “À votre service, monsieur. I suggest that you and your son—and the mule, of course—might withdraw?”

  “Merci beaucoup, and I suggest you do the same, tout de suite,” Fergus replied.

  Percy is in agreement but lingers long enough to ask to speak with Fergus—who grimaces but agrees to do so later.

  PREPARATIONS FOR THE coming battle go on:

  Three hundred men. Jamie stepped into the darkness beyond the 16th New Jersey’s campfire and paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust. Three hundred bloody men. He’d never led a band of more than fifty. And never had much in the way of subalterns, no more than one or two men under him.

  Now he had ten militia companies, each with its own captain and a few informally appointed lieutenants, and Lee had given him a staff of his own: two aides-de-camp, a secretary—now, that he could get used to, he thought, flexing the fingers of his maimed right hand—three captains, one of whom was striding along at his shoulder, trying not to look worrit, ten of his own lieutenants, who would serve as liaison between him and the companies under his command, a cook, an assistant cook—and, of course, he had a surgeon already.

  His own men are Jamie’s major concern but scarcely the only one. Washington’s plan calls for a foray by a thousand men, to come round Clinton’s flank and attack from the far side. Charles Lee is to lead this but declines—on the grounds that a thousand men is not a large enough number to be a suitable command to an officer of his reputation. La Fayette is put in command instead. But discussions go on all night, and in the end, Lee takes command of five thousand men—a sufficient number to satisfy the general’s ego—while La Fayette will still keep his lesser command but under Lee, as are General Fraser and his militia companies.

  Jamie is less than impressed with Charles Lee as a man but hopes that his European reputation as a good soldier and officer is true.

  His thoughts are interrupted by the appearance of the Reverend Woodsworth, captain of the 16th Pennsylvania, the militia company that brought John Grey into camp. The reverend is concerned:

  “They are saying—the men from Dunning’s company—that Armstrong is a government spy, that he is a British officer who concealed himself among us. That they found a commission upon him, and correspondence. I—” He paused and gulped breath, the next words coming out in a rush. “I cannot believe it of him, sir, nor can any of us. We feel that some mistake must have been made, and we—we wish to say that we hope nothing…hasty will be done.”

  “No one has suggested anything of the sort, Captain,” Jamie assured him, alarm running down his spine like quicksilver. Only bec
ause they haven’t had time. He’d been able to ignore the thorny problem Grey presented as a prisoner, in the fierce rush of preparation and the fiercer rush of his own feelings, but he couldn’t ignore it much longer. He should have notified La Fayette, Lee, and Washington of Grey’s presence immediately, but had gambled on the confusion of imminent battle to disguise his delay.

  There’s nothing to be done about Grey now, though Jamie regrets having asked Lord John to give his parole; if he hadn’t, Grey might easily—and honorably—escape in the bustle of the army’s departure. Right now, all Jamie can do is reassure Wordsworth that Lord John is being cared for and that nothing hasty will be done.

  With preparations as much in hand as is possible, Jamie seeks out Claire. Despite the lateness of the hour and her own long and arduous day, she’s relieved and happy to see Jamie, and they steal a brief hour’s respite alone together by the water.

  “You…all right?” I murmured, thick-tongued with drowsiness.

  “Aye, fine,” he whispered, and his hand smoothed the hair from my cheek. “Go back to sleep, Sassenach. I’ll wake ye when it’s time.”

  My mouth was sticky, and it took a moment to locate any words.

  “You need to sleep, too.”

  “No,” he said, soft but definite. “No, I dinna mean to sleep. So close to the battle…I have dreams. I’ve had them the last three nights, and they get worse.”

  My own arm was lying across his midsection; at this, I reached up involuntarily, putting my hand over his heart. I knew he’d dreamed—and I had a very good idea what he’d dreamed about, from the things he’d said in his sleep. And the way he’d wakened, trembling. “They get worse.”

  “Shh,” he said, and bent his head to kiss my hair. “Dinna fash, a nighean. I want only to lie here wi’ you in my arms, to keep ye safe and watch ye sleep. I can rise then with a clear mind…and go to do what must be done.”

  What must be done involves his own spiritual preparations, washing and speaking to his own dead—the men who have stood with him in battle—or the ones he trusts to be with him in this one.

  Jamie is not the only one making ceremonial preparations. Young Ian is preparing for battle in the Mohawk way, putting on his war paint. When his uncle emerges from the trees near the river, Ian invites him to do the same; Jamie declines but helps Ian to put on his own.

  “I can, aye.” Jamie’s head was bent over the paint dishes, hand hovering. “Did ye not tell me once the white is for peace, though?”

  “Aye, should ye be going to parley or trade, ye use a good deal of white. But it’s for the mourning, too—so if ye go to avenge someone, ye’d maybe wear white.”

  Jamie’s head came up at that, staring at him.

  “This one’s no for vengeance,” Ian said. “It’s for Flying Arrow. The dead man whose place I took, when I was adopted.” He spoke as casually as he could, but he felt his uncle tighten and look down. Neither one of them was ever going to forget that day of parting, when he’d gone to the Kahnyen’kehaka, and both of them had thought it was forever. He leaned over and put a hand on Jamie’s arm.

  “That day, ye said to me, ‘Cuimhnich,’ Uncle Jamie. And I did.” Remember.

  “So did I, Ian,” Jamie said softly, and drew the arrow on his forehead, his touch like a priest’s on Ash Wednesday, marking Ian with the sign of the cross. “So did we all. Is that it?”

  Ian touched the green stripe gingerly, to be sure it was dry enough.

  “Aye, I think so. Ken Brianna made me the paints? I was thinking of her, but then I thought I maybe shouldna take her with me that way.”

  He felt Jamie’s breath on his skin as his uncle gave a small snort and then sat back.

  “Ye always carry your women wi’ ye into battle, Ian Òg. They’re the root of your strength, man.”

  “Oh, aye?” That made sense—and was a relief to him. Still…“I was thinkin’ it maybe wasna right to think of Rachel in such a place, though. Her being Quaker and all.”

  Jamie dipped his middle finger into the deer fat, then delicately into the white clay powder, and drew a wide, swooping “V” near the crest of Ian’s right shoulder. Even in the dark, it showed vividly.

  “White dove,” he said with a nod. He sounded pleased. “There’s Rachel for ye.”

  He wiped his fingers on the rock, then rose and stretched. Ian saw him turn to look toward the east. It was still night, but the air had changed, just in the few minutes they’d sat. His uncle’s tall figure was distinct against the sky, where a little before he’d seemed part of the night.

  “An hour, nay more,” Jamie said. “Eat first, aye?” And, with that, turned and walked away to the stream and his own interrupted prayers.

  ON THE OTHER side of the night, William is also wakeful, if a good deal less spiritual. He’s lying on his cot, sweating and irritable, not looking forward to the coming battle, as he isn’t going to fight in it. His grim ruminations are interrupted by the sudden appearance of Jane, who indicates her intent of offering aid and comfort in a physical way. He goes outside with her, to prevent his tentmates from hearing, but declines her offer, with some difficulty, leaving Jane as annoyed as he is.

  “You’re going to fight tomorrow, aren’t you?” There was enough light to see the shine of her eyes as she glared at him. “Soldiers always want to fuck before a fight! They need it.”

  He rubbed a hand hard over his face, palm rasping on his sprouting whiskers, then took a deep breath.

  “I see. Yes. Very kind of you.” He suddenly wanted to laugh. He also—very suddenly—wanted to take advantage of her offer. But not enough to do it with Merbling on one side and Evans on the other, ears flapping.

  “I’m not going to fight tomorrow,” he said, and the pang it caused him to say that out loud startled him.

  “You’re not? Why not?” She sounded startled, too, and more than a little disapproving.

  “It’s a long story,” he said, struggling for patience. “And it’s not your business. Now, look. I appreciate the thought, but I told you: you’re not a whore, at least not for the time being. And you’re not my whore.” Though his imagination was busy with images of what might have happened had she stolen into his cot and taken hold of him before he was fully awake…He put the thought firmly aside and, taking her by the shoulders, turned her round.…

  “When we get to New York,” he whispered, bending to speak in her ear, “I’ll think again.”

  She stiffened, her buttock rounding hard in his hand, but didn’t pull away or try to bite him, which he’d half-expected.

  “Why?” she said, in a calm voice.

  “That’s a long story, too,” he said. “Good night, Jane.” And, releasing her, stalked away into the dark. Nearby, the drums of reveille began.

  PART 4: DAY OF BATTLE

  And at last, the day of battle dawns. Jamie gathers his men to ride out, and Claire joins Denny, with Rachel and Dottie, taking Denzell’s wagon full of medical supplies. Lord John, left behind, receives an unwelcome visitor—Percy Beauchamp, who gives Lord John even more unwelcome news: that the suspicious Captain Richardson intends to abduct William, with the notion of using him as a hostage to influence the Greys’ political actions regarding the war.

  Ian is out before first light, scouting the land, and William is dressing, still sore in spirit—a state not relieved by a note from Sir Henry Clinton, ordering him to remain in camp with the clerks. Before he can obey this order, though, Captain John André appears with a dispatch to be delivered to Colonel Banastre Tarleton, commander of the new British Legion.

  Scouting in advance of the Continental army, Ian attracts the notice of two Abenaki scouts in the employ of the British army. They taunt him with cries of “Mohawk” and shoot arrows at him, but he escapes, returning to his scouting with one eye over his shoulder.

  William yields to temptation and rides out in search of Tarleton, who receives the dispatch but then mentions Jane to William, expressing admiration of her person and essentia
lly asking William if the girl is his. William replies that Jane and her sister are under his protection—rashly telling Tarleton to keep away from her.

  Tarleton isn’t the sort to be told things. He offers to fight William for Jane’s favors, and a fight ensues, but it’s interrupted by the sudden appearance of a company of American militia. Dragged off Tarleton, William manages to mount his horse and escape.

  Jamie’s militia companies come under fire, and things become serious in short order. Meanwhile, Claire and her companions have reached Tennent Church, which the Continental army has commandeered as a hospital. Unfortunately, the uncivil Captain Leckie is in charge and refuses to have some ignorant “cunning-woman” taking up valuable space. Claire doesn’t waste time arguing but tells Denzell to work inside; she’ll set up her tent outside and do triage for incoming patients.

  I DON’T KNOW when physicians began calling it “the Golden Hour,” but surely every battlefield medic from the time of the Iliad onward knows about it. From the time of an accident or injury that isn’t immediately fatal, the victim’s chances of living are best if he receives treatment within an hour of sustaining the injury. After that, shock, continued loss of blood, debility due to pain…the chance of saving a patient goes sharply downhill.

  Add in blazing temperatures, lack of water, and the stress of running full out through fields and woods, wearing wool homespun and carrying heavy weapons, inhaling powder smoke, and trying either to kill someone or avoid being killed, just prior to being injured, and I rather thought we were looking at a Golden fifteen minutes or so.

  Jamie receives an order from La Fayette to take some of his men and try to dispose of a British artillery company that has taken over a strategically placed cider orchard. And Lord John escapes from the American camp, in search of William.