Outlander [08] Written in My Own Heart's Blood

by Diana Gabaldon

  That thought evidently hadn’t struck Murray; death, yes—amputation, no. He turned his head and frowned at the wound.

  “Bloody hell,” William said, and turned to Rachel.

  “All right,” he said. “Tell me where this settlement is. I’ll take them.”

  She grimaced, fists balling up at her sides. “Even Friends may not take well to the sudden appearance of a stranger who asks them to give indefinite sanctuary to a murderess. I am not a stranger and can plead the girl’s case better than thee can.” She drew a breath that swelled her bosom noticeably and looked at Murray, then turned her head to give William a piercing look.

  “If I do this, thee must see him safe.”

  “I must?”

  “Rachel!” Murray said hoarsely, but she ignored him.

  “Yes. We’ll have to take the wagon, the girls and I.”

  William drew a breath of his own, but he could see that she was right. He could also see just what the decision to save Jane was costing her.

  “All right,” he said tersely. He reached up and took the gorget from his neck and handed it to her. “Give Jane this. She may need it, if they find themselves on their own.” Oddly, the removal of the gorget seemed a weight off his mind, as well. Even the possibility of being arrested if anyone in Philadelphia recognized him didn’t trouble him overmuch.

  He was about to remove his incriminating coat and waistcoat—he’d have to hide those somewhere—when Rachel stepped close to him and laid a hand on his arm.

  “This man is my heart and my soul,” she said simply, looking up into his face. “And he is thy own blood, whatever thee may presently feel about the fact. I trust thee to see him safe, for all our sakes.”

  William gave her a long look, thought of several possible replies, and made none of them, but gave a curt nod.

  “Where should I take him?” he asked. “To my—to Lady J—I mean, to Mrs. F—I mean, God damn it,” he amended, feeling the blood rise in his cheeks, “to his aunt?”

  Rachel looked at him, startled.

  “Thee doesn’t know? Of course thee doesn’t, how could thee?” She waved off her own denseness, impatient. “His aunt was shot in the course of the battle, outside Tennent Church, where she was tending the wounded.”

  William’s annoyance was doused at once, as though ice water had been poured on his head, flooding his veins.

  “Is she dead?”

  “By the grace of our Lord, no,” she said, and he felt the tightness in his chest relax a little. “Or at least she wasn’t yesterday,” she amended with a frown. “Though very badly hurt.” The tightness returned.

  “She is in the Macken house in the village of Freehold—about six miles in that direction.” She nodded down the road. “My brother is likely there, as well, or nearby; there are still wounded from the battle there. He can deal with I-Ian’s wound.” For the first time, her voice lost its steadiness as her eyes went to her betrothed.

  Murray’s eyes were sunken and glazed with fever, but he had sufficient command of himself to reach out his good hand to her. The movement put weight on the bad arm and he grimaced, but Rachel was kneeling beside him in an instant, arms around him.

  William coughed and turned discreetly away to leave them a moment’s privacy in which to make their farewells. Whatever his own feelings, they deserved that. He’d seen many wounds go bad, and reckoned Murray’s chances as no better than even. On the other hand, the man was apparently both a bloody Scot and a Mohawk, and both races were notoriously hard to kill.

  He had walked away from the road, and his eye now caught the flutter of pink fabric behind a bush.

  “Jane!” he called. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” she said. She stepped out into the open, folded her arms, and pointed her chin at him. “What do you mean to do? With me, I mean.”

  “Miss Hunter is going to take you and Fanny to a safe place,” he said, as gently as he could. In spite of her brave façade, she reminded him of a fawn, dappled light coming through the trees mottling her face and gown, making her seem shy and insubstantial, as though she might fade into the forest in the next breath. “I’ll send word to you there when I’ve made some … suitable arrangement.”

  “Her?” Jane shot a surprised glance toward the road. “Why? Why can’t you take us? Doesn’t she want to stay with her—the Indian?”

  “Miss Hunter will have time to explain everything to you on the way.” He hesitated, unsure what else to say to her. From the road, he heard the distant murmur of voices, Rachel and Ian Murray. He couldn’t make out the words, but it didn’t matter; what they were saying to each other was plain. He felt a small, sharp pain under his third waistcoat button and coughed, trying to dislodge it.

  “Thank you, thir,” said a soft voice behind him, and he turned to find Fanny at his elbow. She took his hand, turned it palm upward, and planted a small, warm kiss in the center.

  “I—you’re most welcome, Miss Fanny,” he said, smiling at her in spite of everything. She nodded to him, very dignified, and walked out to the road, leaving him with Jane.

  For a moment, they stood staring at each other.

  “I offered you a lot more than a kiss,” she said quietly. “You didn’t want it. I haven’t got anything else to give you in thanks.”

  “Jane,” he said. “It’s not—I didn’t—” And then stopped, desperately sorry but helpless to think of anything he could possibly say in reply. “Safe travels, Jane,” he said at last, his throat tight. “Goodbye.”

  IT’S A WISE CHILD WHO KNOWS HIS FATHER

  IT WAS APPARENT that, while sound, Rachel’s mule wasn’t up to the weight of two men the size of William and Ian Murray. No matter; they couldn’t go any faster than a walk in any case; Murray could ride, and William would walk alongside to make sure the bastard didn’t fall off.

  Murray managed to get up into the saddle, in spite of having only one functional hand; Rachel had roughly bandaged his wounded arm and put it into a sling torn from her underpetticoat. William didn’t offer him assistance, feeling reasonably sure that such an offer would be neither welcomed nor accepted.

  Watching the laborious process, though, William was interested to note that while the fabric of the sling was much-laundered and faded, it had been embroidered with small blue and yellow sunbursts along one edge. Did Quaker women commonly wear attractive undergarments beneath their sober gowns?

  As they set off at a cautious walk, the sound of the wagon was still audible, though fading into the rush of trees.

  “Are ye armed?” Murray asked suddenly.

  “Slightly.” He still had the knife Jane had pushed into his hand, now wrapped in a handkerchief and tucked in his pocket, as he had no sheath for it. He fingered the wooden handle, wondering whether it was the same knife that she … Well, of course it was.

  “I’m not. Will ye find me a club?”

  “You don’t trust me to see you safe?” William asked sarcastically.

  Murray’s shoulders were slumped and his head thrust forward, nodding a little with the mule’s gait, but he turned and gave William a look that was heavy-eyed with fever, but still surprisingly alert.

  “Oh, I trust ye fine. It’s men like the ones ye just fought I dinna trust.”

  This was a fair point; the roads were far from safe, and the knowledge gave William a severe pang of conscience on behalf of the women he’d just dispatched, unarmed and unprotected, to drive miles over those very roads with a valuable mule and cart. I should have gone with them, insisted we all go together …

  “My mam always says there’s no one more stubborn than my uncle Jamie,” Murray observed mildly, “but a Quaker lass wi’ her mind made up could give Uncle Jamie a run for his money, I’ll tell ye. I couldna have stopped her—and neither could you.”

  William wasn’t in a mood to discuss any of the persons mentioned, nor yet engage in philosophical discussions of relative stubbornness. He put a hand on the bridle and pulled the mule to a halt.
/>   “Stay here. I see something that might do.” He’d already seen that there was little in the way of fallen branches near the road; there never was, when an army’s foragers had recently passed through. But he saw an orchard of some kind, a little way from the road, with a farmhouse beyond.

  As he made his way toward the orchard, he could see that artillery had been hauled through it; there were deep furrows in the ground, and many of the trees had broken limbs, hanging like jackstraws.

  There was a dead man in the orchard. American militia, by his hunting shirt and homespun breeches, lying curled among the gnarled roots of a big apple tree.

  “Should have culled that one,” William said aloud, keeping his voice steady. Old apple trees never yielded much; you took them out after fifteen, twenty years and replanted. He turned away from the body, but not fast enough to avoid seeing the greedy flies rise up in a buzzing cloud from what was left of the face. He walked three paces away and threw up.

  No doubt it was the cloying smell of rotting apples that rose above the ghost of black powder; the whole orchard hummed with the noise of wasps gorging themselves on the juices. He unwrapped the handkerchief from Jane’s knife and thrust the knife through his belt without looking to see if there were bloodstains on it. He wiped his mouth, then, after a moment’s hesitation, went and laid the handkerchief over the Rebel’s face. Someone had stripped the body; he had neither weapons nor shoes.

  “THIS DO YOU?” He laid a three-foot length of applewood across the saddlebow. He’d broken it at both ends, so it made a serviceable club, about the thickness of his own forearm.

  Murray seemed to wake from a doze; he drew himself slowly upright, took hold of the club, and nodded.

  “Aye, that’ll do,” he said softly. His voice sounded thick, and William looked at him sharply.

  “You’d best drink some more,” he said, handing up the canteen again. It was getting low; probably no more than a quarter full. Murray took it, though moving sluggishly, drank, and gave it back with a sigh.

  They walked without conversation for a half hour or so, leaving William time at last to sort through the events of the morning. It was well past noon now; the sun was pressing on his shoulders like a heated flatiron. How far did Rachel say it was it to Freehold? Six miles?

  “D’ye want me to tell ye, or no?” Murray said suddenly.

  “Tell me what?”

  There was a brief sound that might have been either amusement or pain.

  “Whether ye’re much like him.”

  Possible responses to this came so fast that they collapsed upon themselves like a house of cards. He took the one on top.

  “Why do you suppose I should wonder?” William managed, with a coldness that would have frozen most men. Of course, Murray was blazing with such a fever, it would take a Quebec blizzard to freeze him.

  “I would, if it was me,” Murray said mildly.

  That defused William’s incipient explosion momentarily.

  “Perhaps you think so,” he said, not trying to hide his annoyance. “You may know him, but you know nothing whatever about me.”

  This time, the sound was undeniably amusement: laughter, of a hoarse, creaking sort.

  “I helped fish ye out of a privy ten years ago,” Murray said. “That was when I first kent it, aye?”

  Shock struck William almost dumb, but not quite.

  “What—that … that place in the mountains—Fraser’s Ridge …?!” He’d succeeded, for the most part, in forgetting the incident of the snake in the privy, and with it, most of a miserable journey through the mountains of North Carolina.

  Murray took William’s choler for confusion, though, and chose to elucidate.

  “The way ye came out o’ the muck, your eyes bleezin’ blue and your face set for murder—that was Uncle Jamie to the life, when he’s roused.” Murray’s head bobbed forward alarmingly. He caught himself and straightened up with a muffled groan.

  “If you’re going to fall off,” William said, with elaborate courtesy, “do it on the other side, will you?”

  “Mmphm.”

  They paced another hundred yards before Murray came to life again, resuming the conversation—if it could be called that—as though there had been no pause.

  “So when I found ye in the swamp, I kent who ye were. I dinna recall ye thankin’ me for saving your life that time, by the way.”

  “You can thank me for not strapping you into a travois with a dead panther and dragging you for miles through the dirt now,” William snapped.

  Murray laughed, gasping a little.

  “Ye’d likely do it, if ye had a dead panther.” The effort of laughing seemed to deprive him of balance, and he swayed alarmingly.

  “Fall off and I’ll do it anyway,” William said, grabbing him by the thigh to steady him. “Dead panther or not.” Christ, the man’s skin was so hot he could feel it through the buckskin leggings.

  Despite his fog, Murray noticed his reaction.

  “You lived through the fever,” he said, and took a deep breath. “I will, too; dinna fash.”

  “If by that expression you mean that I ought not to be concerned that you’ll die,” William said coldly, “I’m not.”

  “I’m no worrit, either,” Murray assured him. The man wobbled slightly, reins held loose in one hand, and William wondered if he could be sunstruck. “Ye promised Rachel, aye?”

  “Yes,” William said, adding almost involuntarily, “I owe her and her brother my life, as much as I do you.”

  “Mmphm,” Murray said agreeably, and fell silent. He seemed to be going a nasty grayish color under the sun-browned skin. This time he stayed silent for a good five minutes before coming suddenly to life again.

  “And ye dinna think I ken much about ye, after listening to ye rave wi’ fever for days?”

  “I do not,” William said. “No more than I think I’ll know a great deal about you by the time I get you to Freehold.”

  “Maybe more than ye think. Stop, aye? I’m going to puke.”

  “Whoa!” The mule obligingly halted, though it clearly didn’t like either the sound or the smell of what was going on behind its head, and kept sidling round in circles, trying to escape it.

  William waited ’til it was over, then handed up his canteen without comment. Murray drained it and handed it back. His hand was shaking, and William began to be worried.

  “We’ll stop as soon as I find water,” he said. “Get you into the shade.” Neither of them had a hat; he’d left his in the copse, rolled up with his uniform coat under a bush.

  Murray didn’t reply to this; he was not precisely raving, but seemed to be pursuing a separate conversation in his head.

  “I maybe dinna ken ye that well, but Rachel does.”

  That was undeniably true and gave William an oddly mixed sense of shame, pride, and anger. Rachel and her brother did know him well; they’d saved his life and nursed him back to health, had traveled with him for weeks and shared both food and danger.

  “She says ye’re a good man.”

  William’s heart squeezed a little.

  “I’m obliged for her good opinion,” he said. The water hadn’t helped that much; Murray was definitely swaying in the saddle, his eyes half closed.

  “If you die,” William said loudly, “I’ll marry her.”

  That worked; Murray’s eyelids lifted at once. He smiled, very slightly.

  “Ken that,” he said. “Ken I’m no going to die? And, besides, ye owe me a life, Englishman.”

  “I don’t. I saved your bloody life, too; I saved the both of you from that maniac—Bug, was he?—with the ax in Philadelphia. We’re quits.”

  Some interminable time later, Murray roused himself again.

  “I doubt it,” he said.

  KEEPING SCORE

  JAMIE SAW THE GREYS out of the house and came back with an air of grim satisfaction. I would have laughed if it hadn’t hurt to do it, but settled for smiling at him.

  “Your son,
your nephew, your wife,” I said. “Fraser, three; Grey, nil.”

  He gave me a startled look, but then his face truly relaxed for the first time in days. “You’re feeling better, then,” he said, and, coming across the room, bent and kissed me. “Talk daft to me some more, aye?” He sat down heavily on the stool and sighed, but with relief.

  “Mind,” he said, “I havena the slightest idea how I’m going to keep ye, with no money, no commission, and no profession. But keep ye I will.”

  “No profession, forsooth,” I said comfortably. “Name one thing you can’t do.”

  “Sing.”

  “Oh. Well, besides that.”

  He spread his hands on his knees, looking critically at the scars on his maimed right hand.

  “I doubt I could make a living as a juggler or a pickpocket, either. Let alone a scribe.”

  “You haven’t got to write,” I said. “You have a printing press—Bonnie, by name.”

  “Well, aye,” he admitted, a certain light coming into his eyes. “I do. But she’s in Wilmington at the moment.” His press had been shipped from Edinburgh in the care of Richard Bell, who was—presumably—keeping her in trust until her real owner should come to repossess her.

  “We’ll go and get her. And then—” But I stopped, afraid to jinx the future by planning too far. It was an uncertain time for everyone, and no telling what the morrow might bring.

  “But first,” I amended, reaching out to squeeze his hand, “you should rest. You look as though you’re about to die.”

  “Dinna talk that sort of daft,” he said, and laughed and yawned simultaneously, nearly breaking his jaw.

  “Lie down,” I said firmly. “Sleep—at least until Lieutenant Bixby shows up again with more cheese.” The American army had withdrawn to Englishtown, some seven miles away, only an hour’s ride. The British army had decamped entirely, but as many of the militia units’ enlistments had expired soon afterward, the roads were still very busy with men going home, mostly afoot.

  He did lie down on his pallet, with surprisingly little protest—a good indication of just how exhausted he really was—and was asleep in seconds.