“Mrs. Fraser,” he said coldly. “I have just been telling your Quaker friend that there is no room inside the church for cunning-women or—”
“Claire Fraser is the most skillful surgeon I have seen operate!” Denzell said. He was flushed and fairly bristling with anger. “You will do your patients great harm, sir, by not allowing her to—”
“And where did you obtain your training, Dr. Hunter, that you are so confident of your own opinion?”
“In Edinburgh,” Denny said through his teeth. “Where I was trained by my cousin, John Hunter.” Seeing that this made no impact on Leckie, he added, “And his brother, William Hunter—accoucheur to the queen.”
That took Leckie aback, but unfortunately also got up his nose.
“I see,” he said, dividing a faint sneer evenly between us. “I congratulate you, sir. But as I doubt the army requires a man midwife, perhaps you should assist your . . . colleague”—and here he actually flared his nostrils at me, the pompous little swine—“with her seeds and potions, rather than—”
“We haven’t time for this,” I interrupted firmly. “Dr. Hunter is both a trained physician and a duly appointed surgeon in the Continental army; you can’t bloody keep him out. And if my experience of battle—which I venture to suggest may be somewhat more extensive than your own, sir—is anything to go on, you’ll need every hand you can get.” I turned to Denzell and gave him a long, level look.
“Your duty is with those who need you. So is mine. I told you about triage, did I not? I have a tent and my own surgical instruments and supplies. I’ll do triage out here, deal with the minor cases, and send in anyone requiring major surgery.”
I had a quick look over my shoulder, then turned back to the two fuming men.
“You’d best go inside and be quick about it. They’re starting to pile up.”
This was not a metaphorical expression. There was a crowd of walking wounded under the trees, a few men lying on makeshift stretchers and sheets of canvas . . . and a small, sinister heap of bodies, these presumably men who had died of their wounds en route to the hospital.
Fortunately, Rachel and Dottie appeared at this moment, each lugging a heavy bucket of water in each hand. I turned my back on the men and went to meet them.
“Dottie, come and put up the tent poles, will you?” I said, taking her buckets. “And, Rachel—you know what arterial bleeding looks like, I imagine. Go and look through those men and bring me anyone who’s doing it.”
I gave my burnt artilleryman water, then helped him to his feet. As he stood up, I saw behind his legs the epitaph carved into Gilbert Tennent’s headstone:
O READER HAD YOU HEARD HIS LAST TESTIMONY YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN CONVINCED OF THE EXTREME MADNESS OF DELAYING REPENTANCE.
“I suppose there are worse places to be doing this,” I remarked to the artilleryman, but, unable to hear me, he simply raised my hand and kissed it before swaying off to sit down on the grass, the wet towel pressed to his face.
THE CIDER ORCHARD
THE FIRST SHOT took them by surprise, a muffled boom from the cider orchard and a slow roll of white smoke. They didn’t run, but they stiffened, looking to him for direction. Jamie said to those near him, “Good lads,” then raised his voice. “To my left, now! Mr. Craddock, Reverend Woodsworth—circle them; come into the orchard from behind. The rest—scatter to the right and fire as ye can—” The second crash drowned his words, and Craddock jerked like a puppet with his strings cut and dropped to the ground, blood spraying from the blackened hole in his chest. Jamie’s horse shied violently, nearly unseating him.
“Go with the reverend!” he shouted at Craddock’s men, who stood there drop-jawed, staring at their captain’s body. “Go now!” One of the men shook himself, grabbed the sleeve of another, pulled him away, and then they all began to move as a body. Woodsworth, bless him, raised his musket overhead and roared, “To me! Follow me!” and broke into the stork-legged shamble that passed with him for running—but they followed him.
The gelding had settled but was moving uneasily. He was—supposedly—used to the sound of guns, but he didn’t like the strong smell of blood. Jamie didn’t like it, either.
“Shouldn’t we . . . bury Mr. Craddock?” a timid voice suggested behind him.
“He’s not dead, lackbrain!”
Jamie glanced down. He wasn’t—but it wouldn’t be more than a few seconds longer.
“Go with God, man,” he said quietly. Craddock didn’t blink; his eyes were fixed on the sky, not yet dull but sightless.
“Go wi’ your fellows,” he said to the two lingerers, then saw that they were Craddock’s two sons, maybe thirteen and fourteen, white-faced and staring as sheep. “Say farewell to him,” he said abruptly. “He’ll still hear ye. Then . . . go.” He thought for a moment to send them to La Fayette, but they’d be no safer there. “Run!”
They ran—they were a deal safer running—and with a gesture to Lieutenants Orden and Bixby, he wheeled his horse to the right, following Guthrie’s company. The cannon were firing more regularly from the orchard. He saw a ball bounce past, ten feet away, and the air was thickening with smoke. He could still smell Craddock’s blood.
He found Captain Moxley and sent him with a full company to look at the farmhouse on the far side of the orchard.
“At a distance, mind. I want to know if the redcoats are in it or if the family’s still there. If the family’s there, surround the house; go inside if they’ll let ye, but don’t force your way. If there are soldiers inside and they come out after you, engage them and take the house if ye think ye can. If they stay inside, don’t stir them up; send someone back to tell me. I’ll be at the back o’ the orchard; the north side.”