And then Marjory heard a phrase from long ago echo in her heart.
Return unto me.
She well remembered the words and who’d spoken them.
“Help me,” she whispered so softly no one could hear but the Almighty. Was he listening? Did he still watch over her as he once had?
Marjory closed her eyes and opened her heart ever so slightly. My sons are all I have, Lord. Please.
Forty-Seven
Morning fair Came forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray.
JOHN MILTON
E lisabeth emerged from the murky interior of her sedan chair into the pale morning light. “You’ll return for me at noontide, Mr. Fenwick?”
“Aye,” the chairman assured her, pocketing his sixpence. “Leuk for me whan Saint Giles plays her last tune.” He headed back whence he came, toward the town proper. With the prince’s men gone from Duddingston and Holyroodhouse deserted, few travelers would be found at the foot of the Canongate.
The sun had been up for less than an hour. Elisabeth drank in the fresh, cold air as she eyed the crowstepped gables and wooden dormers of the Canongate. The homes were altogether grander and not nearly so tall as the dizzying lands of the High Street. Beneath her feet oblong paving stones were meant to give a horse purchase on the sloping street, and above her stretched a colorless sky without a hint of sun or a threat of rain.
By employing the dependable Mr. Fenwick as her chairman, Elisabeth had overcome her mother-in-law’s halfhearted protest. “Visiting injured soldiers? Are you certain ’tis wise?” Marjory had fretted. “A charitable deed, to be sure, but…”
Neither Marjory nor Janet understood why Elisabeth had ventured out that morn. She could hardly explain it herself. “I need to do something useful,” she’d told them. That was the truth, so far as it went. Elisabeth also longed to be on her own. Away from Milne Square with its confining walls of wood and stone. Away from the Kerrs, if only for a few hours.
Marjory had been inconsolable last evening despite Elisabeth’s attempts to lift her spirits. “If the prince and his men are as victorious in England as they were at Gladsmuir, your worries will be for naught,” she’d assured her mother-in-law, though it did not seem to help.
Janet, who’d gone to sup with the Dalziels at Marjory’s urging, had returned home less than an hour later in tears, having found an equally cold reception. “Whatever has happened to our city?” Janet had wailed, throwing herself across her bed, crushing the gown Mrs. Edgar had spent two hours ironing. “When the prince resided at the palace, we were all Jacobites!”
Were we? Elisabeth had held her tongue but not without effort.
Gazing down the street toward Holyroodhouse, she remembered Janet’s heated words from three days past. You are the true Jacobite among us. Would there be many supporters left in Edinburgh now that Prince Charlie and his five thousand Highlanders were gone?
Elisabeth sensed a tidal change coming, a swift and thorough shift of opinion and practice. The capital would be all for King George now. Ministers would return to their pulpits, magistrates would resume their duties, and the town guard would bang their ten o’ the clock drums once more. Edinburgh Castle, no longer under siege, would open its portcullis, and the royalist troops would reclaim the town for King George.
Life would return to normal for most. But for loyal Jacobites, things might never be the same. Marjory and Janet had experienced that firsthand last evening. Elisabeth had little doubt her turn was coming. This morning’s mission would leave no doubt of her allegiance to the prince.
Taking in another draught of fresh air, she resolutely walked toward the entrance of Queensberry House, a temporary hospital for Jacobite officers and soldiers injured at Gladsmuir. These were the men who’d fought beside Simon, the ones who’d survived but could not march out with the prince.
She’d passed by the makeshift infirmary each time she visited White Horse Close and wished she might stop for a visit. This morning upon waking she’d thought again of these men—strangers, yet true to the cause—who might be feeling rather abandoned just now. For Simon’s sake, for their sakes, she would offer what comfort she could.
The residence of a duke, Queensberry House had a suitably impressive exterior. Harled walls, stretched three floors high, were lined with windows and topped with a mansard roof. Two large wings pointed toward the street, creating the open courtyard she was now crossing. Her footsteps echoed between the walls on either side of her. Since she was not expected, Elisabeth had worn her white cockade prominently displayed on her cape, hoping she would not be rebuffed at the door.
A man of forty-odd years in waistcoat and shirt sleeves answered her knock. He’d not shaved in days, by the look of him, and wore a flesher’s apron streaked with blood. Surgeon or meat dresser, his broad smile boded well as did his hearty welcome.
“What a Jacobite rose is this!” His bow was as ebullient as his speech. “I am Martin Eccles, madam. One of the surgeons, at your service.”
“Lady Donald Kerr,” she responded, curtsying with a quiet sigh of relief. Now that she was through the door, how best to proceed? “I thought I might be of some use caring for the men. My brother, Simon Ferguson, fought at Gladsmuir—”
“He did indeed.” Mr. Eccles escorted her into the entrance hall, with its marble floors, Corinthian pillars, and a rich cornice outlining the high ceiling. Candles flickered in all four corners, illuminating the statuary on the stair. “When the prince called for surgeons, I was the one who dressed your brother’s wounds. Fine young man, with the zeal of ten.” He shook his head, a sorrowful expression on his weathered face. “I did all that I could for him, Lady Kerr. But…”
“’Twas not your fault.” She paused to clear her throat lest the strain in her voice add to his guilt. “My brother died as he lived.”
“Courageously,” he assured her, nodding. “Well, madam, you’ve not come for my benefit but for the lads’, aye?” He smoothed a hand over his bare, freckled crown, then pointed her to an open doorway. “This way, if you please.”
Elisabeth followed him into a square room with paneled walls, a fine molded chimney piece, and sufficient windows to usher in the much-needed light of day. She counted eight beds, such as they were: wooden planks on stout legs with the thinnest of mattresses. Nonetheless, the soldiers appeared well cared for. Their dressings looked cleaner than she’d feared, and their limbs were set with sturdy planks.
To a man, they were smiling at her. Nae, grinning.
One lad with wavy black hair and crooked teeth called out, “Is this what the apothecary sent to make us weel?”
Another soldier cried, “I’ll take my medicine without complaint.”
“Gentlemen,” the surgeon cautioned them, “this is Lady Kerr, come to… eh, change your bandages…” He looked at her to be sure, then continued. “And to offer a word of encouragement, nae doubt. Her brother, Simon Ferguson, fought bravely at Gladsmuir. Aye, and died bravely as well.”
At this the men pounded on their bedframes with their fists and shouted as one, “Huzzah! Huzzah!”
Their obvious respect for Simon brought tears to her eyes. Why had she not visited his fellow soldiers weeks ago? “Forgive me for not coming sooner,” Elisabeth began, slipping off her cape. The men quieted at once, sobered perhaps by the sight of her black gown. She told them, “My husband, Lord Donald, and his brother, Andrew, rode out with His Royal Highness on Thursday eve. Let us see what can be done to heal your wounds and send you off to join them.”
The same young lad piped up. “But if ye’ll be coming round to see us, milady, we’ll none of us want to go.” The others laughed, and a roll of bandages was pitched in his direction, along with a few good-natured insults. He protested, “I didna say I wouldna fight!”
Elisabeth plucked the bandages from amid his sheets. “Then I’ll be sure to start with you.”
Mr. Eccles pointed out the few supplies available: alum for cuts, camphor for itching, ginger for nausea, o
il of turpentine and yarrow to staunch the bleeding, comfrey and figwort for healing compresses. Several of the soldiers had broken bones that time alone would mend, but those with ugly gashes and musket wounds would benefit from the physic herbs.
“I’ll be in the next room, should you have need of me.” Mr. Eccles finished with a cheerful bob of his head, then disappeared through the door.
“Now then, gentlemen.” Elisabeth quickly detached the black ruffles lining her sleeves and laid them aside with her cape, then borrowed a few pins from her hair to fasten her gown’s full cuffs out of the way. “I trust you’ll not mind smelling of heather,” she said, reaching into her hanging pocket for a bar of Donald’s favorite soap.
The lad nearest her blushed profusely. “Onie smell will be an improvement, milady.”
More laughter ensued as she filled a basin with steaming hot water from the room’s crackling hearth. She’d borrowed one of Mrs. Edgar’s aprons, hoping to spare her gown, and had stuffed the pockets full of clean linen squares. The simple act of bathing the young man’s face and hands, then attending to the wound on his leg gave Elisabeth a deep sense of satisfaction. When she finished, her hands would be chapped and her sleeves soaked, despite her efforts to keep them dry. But it was a worthy cause.
She learned each of their names in turn. Grant Findlay, her first patient, was the youngest and bearded Will McWade, the stoutest. Every visible inch of Thomas MacPadden was covered in red hair, and Alex Baird served as their unofficial leader by virtue of his daunting height and strength. Robert Glendinning hailed from Aberdeen, and David Grassie, despite his two broken legs, had a hearty laugh. Alasdair Campbell, who spoke only Gaelic, was elated when Elisabeth responded in kind. But it was green-eyed John Hardy she was most glad to meet. He’d marched from Perth with Simon and knew her brother well.
“A stubborn lad,” John said, then looked at her as if prepared to apologize.
“I’ve never known his equal,” she agreed, remembering the brother who’d clambered up trees he was told not to climb, forded rivers he was ordered not to cross, and eaten berries he was warned would make him sick, which they did. Elisabeth’s smile was bittersweet. “Simon did not bend, nor did he break.” Not even beneath the hand of Ben Cromar. The thought strengthened her spine and put her to work serving her brother’s comrades.
Beginning with soap and water, she spent perhaps a quarter hour with each patient. They were a brave lot, not once flinching when she cleaned their wounds or tightened the rags holding their splints in place. In her youth she’d cared for Simon’s gashes and sprains, so nothing she saw that morning made her feel faint. While she went about her work, the men plied her with questions concerning the prince’s departure. Had Secretary Murray arranged a formal ceremony? Did His Royal Highness look well? Was the elderly Lord Pitsligo fit to ride?
Elisabeth was in the midst of describing the prince’s grand carriage when a loud commotion on the street cut her short. Angry shouts and cries of alarm could be heard, and the clatter of hoofs filled the courtyard. Elisabeth hastened to the nearest window, the hair on the back of her neck prickling. Was there trouble in Dalkeith? Had some of the prince’s men returned?
She swept open the curtains, then froze. Not the prince’s men. The king’s. As she watched, more than a dozen British soldiers stormed the entrance to Queensberry House, teeth bared, swords drawn, vengeance in their eyes.
Forty-Eight
Ay me! What perils do environ The man that meddles with cold iron!
SAMUEL BUTLER
D ragoons!” Elisabeth cried, backing away from the window.
She looked to her patients and found they were nearly as horrified as she, with no weapons at hand and their limbs wrapped in bandages and splints.
But they did not give in to fear.
Those who were able to stand, even on one leg, got up from their beds at once and grabbed whatever they could find to defend themselves: water pitchers, chamber pots, wooden crutches, or a sharp iron poker still hot from the fire. Men too injured to move from their beds braced themselves, faces like flint, daring whoever came through the door to meddle with them.
“Behind me, Leddy Kerr!” Alex Baird ordered, his broad chest and thick arms more menacing than the sharpest blade.
Elisabeth did as she was told, grasping the bandage scissors like a dagger and raising them just above her head. She would not be taken without a fight. Nae, none of them would.
She could hear the dragoons in the entrance hall cursing at the surgeon, who valiantly stood his ground. “We have naught but injured soldiers here!” Martin Eccles shouted. “Where is your sense of honor, gentlemen?”
“Honor?” an English voice roared. “Highlanders have no honor.” A sharp cry was followed by an awful thud.
Elisabeth fought down a wave of nausea. She could not succumb to weakness or fear. Not now. She drew strength from the men round her as they silently closed ranks.
“The Jacobites showed no mercy,” shouted another voice in the hall, louder than the first. “Nor will we. Not this day.”
The sound of boot heels striking the marble floor grew closer. Elisabeth’s heart was in her throat as her small contingent prepared for the onslaught. They did not have to wait long.
Splintered wood flew like sparks from a fire as the door exploded off its hinges. Four dragoons burst into the room, their polished rapiers matched by the lethal gleam in their eyes. Others in their company continued down the hall, blistering the air with their words.
Elisabeth did not flinch beneath their fierce gazes, though she gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. Help us. Someone.
“I see no honorable men, do you?” growled their leader, a thick-necked brute.
“Nae, Mr. Morgan,” one of the dragoons behind him said. “But I do see a woman.”
Alex Baird ground out, “Nae, ye see a leddy.”
Standing behind him, Elisabeth watched the muscles in Alex’s shoulders swell, while his arms seemed to turn to solid oak. In his hands a three-legged stool and a heavy pewter plate were formidable weapons. Though his left calf was wrapped in a splint, knee to foot, the dragoons would have to get past the rest of him first.
“Leddy Kerr is in mourning for her brither,” Alex told them, his voice low, like distant thunder. “He was killed by one o’ yer muskets.”
“A well aimed one, apparently,” Morgan said, making the others laugh. All four moved closer, sizing up the Jacobites as if choosing their first victims.
Elisabeth tightened the grip on her scissors. “My brother died a hero. But your men fled from the field.”
It was true, and they all knew it. The dragoons had run for their lives at Gladsmuir, abandoning their horses, red coats tucked between their legs.
“Are the four o’ ye cowards as weel?” Alex taunted them. “Threatening wounded soldiers wha bear nae weapons?”
Morgan suddenly thrust his sword into Will McWade’s round belly. “This man has a weapon.”
With a cry of pain, Will dropped the clay pitcher in his hand. It shattered into jagged pieces on the hardwood floor.
“See that?” Morgan withdrew his sword with a swift jerk. “You could hurt someone with those pottery shards.”
A stunned expression on his face, Will pressed his linen shirt against the wound. The spot of blood quickly bloomed into a dark, red circle. He stumbled back, his face growing ashen as the stain spread.
Elisabeth longed to help him but dared not move.
David Grassie shouted from his bed, “This is an infirmary, not a field o’ battle. By yer ain law, ye canna wound us further.”
“No need to inflict new wounds, really.” Morgan glanced over his shoulder at the others, a murderous look in his eye. “The ones you have now will suffice.”
As if on signal, the four swept through the room like a whirlwind, unleashing their fury, snapping and twisting the soldiers’ recently set bones with their bare hands, using their daggers to slice open wounds not yet healed. The
Highlanders fought back however they could, tearing at the men’s coats, clawing at their faces, pulling out their hair in fistfuls. But the dragoons were determined to exact their revenge.
“Stop!” Elisabeth cried, lunging at the smallest of the four men. She’d no more than torn his sleeve before he wrested the scissors from her hands and cast them into the fire, then grabbed her round the neck.
“No one tells Gilbert Elliot whan to stop.” He pushed her to the floor with a vile oath, then bent over her and began fumbling with the buttons on his breeches, leering at her, his breath reeking of brandy. She screamed for help, struggling against her skirts and hoops.
Alex and John responded at once, throwing themselves at the Englishman with a Highland battle cry. The dragoon crumpled to the floor beneath their weight and did not rise when her two rescuers hauled each other to their feet, then kicked the man’s ribs for good measure.
“Are ye hurt, Leddy Kerr?” When Alex turned to assist her, Elisabeth flinched at the sight of his lower leg, newly broken, the bone protruding from his flesh. His hand was cold when he reached down to help her stand, and his face was drenched in sweat. “Milady,” he said hoarsely, then promptly collapsed.
As swiftly as it began, the rampage ended. The three dragoons who could walk dragged out the fourth and summoned the others. Snarling epithets as they departed, the men soon rode off—some downhill toward Holyroodhouse, some uphill toward the Castle—leaving a battered and bloody mess in their wake.
A collective groan rose from every corner of Queensberry House. Through a veil of angry tears, Elisabeth eyed her Jacobite brothers strewn about the room. She would attend to their needs first. Surely there were nurses elsewhere who’d been spared and could help the others. These eight men were her primary concern.
Elisabeth retied her apron strings and got to work cleansing fresh wounds and applying compresses. Will McWade worried her the most, especially when neither yarrow nor turpentine staunched his bleeding. She could not press hard enough nor tie a bandage tight enough round his soft middle, and Will was too weak to apply sufficient pressure himself.
Here Burns My Candle Page 27
