by Sara Donati
It had taken all her strength to hide her unease when she had first examined his arm and seen how little control he had over elbow and wrist and fingers. The fact that he was not able to lie to her about the pain was just as alarming: this brother, who had once sat still while she stitched a long gash on his leg without uttering a sound.
She made a sling for his arm and told him to keep it still. She used her firmest and most threatening voice, her older-sister voice. As if it were her bossy nature and not the injury that kept him from walking around the room on his hands.
Then he had used his good hand to stop her, catching the fabric of her overdress in his fingers.
“Will you have to take it off?”
The first amputation she had ever done on her own had been of an arm, and somehow Hannah had the sense that he was remembering that, and how it ended.
“There is no sign of gangrene,” she said. Something she had said before, but he must hear it again. “There is sufficient blood flow to your fingers. You see, the color is good and they are warm to the touch.”
“Will you have to take it off?” His gaze never wavered, nor his voice.
“No,” she said. “No, I will not.”
“Will I have the use of it again?”
Another man might have asked when the pain would stop. Hannah wished he had asked that question.
“I don't know,” she said, meeting his gaze. And then, in a firmer voice: “Maybe.”
He had closed his eyes and turned his face away, but not before she saw that he was weeping.
At night, sometimes, Hannah lay awake and wished for the Hakim, who had been her teacher for a while. While the men prayed aloud to Jesus and his mother and the saints, she conjured forth her many teachers out of her memories: her grandmothers Falling-Day and Cora Munro, Curiosity, Richard Todd, Valentine Simon. They came at her bidding and each of them told her what she knew already. There was nothing she could do for her brother; no medicine or knife existed that could mend damaged nerves. They would recover and he would have the use of his arm, or they would not.
She put a palm to Daniel's cheek, and he roused himself to her touch.
He was thirsty. She helped him to water, and then to the gruel. Two of the larger eggs had been put aside for him. He wrinkled his nose at the idea of eating them raw and swallowed them whole, as most of the others did. When he had eaten she helped him lie down again, and then set about unwrapping him.
“There was a package late yesterday, from Luke.”
She studied his face while she worked. From the set of his eyes and mouth she could read how fierce the pain was.
“He sent the medicines you asked for?”
“Yes. Dragon's blood and willow bark and laudanum, and the rest of it. New needles too.”
“Simon?”
“Yes,” Hannah said, not bothering to hide her smile. “If you're in a mood to argue about Simon Ballentyne you must be feeling strong today.”
At that he pushed an impatient breath out through his nose. “My business with Simon Ballentyne is my business,” he said.
“Spoken like a protective brother,” Hannah said.
His mouth twitched, but Daniel did not take up the challenge.
She said, “I think it must be today, Daniel. The bullet.”
Wherever his thoughts had been, he turned his attention back to her.
“I thought you said it would work its way out.”
“I hoped that it would,” she said. “But the infection is worse, and I can't take the chance of leaving it any longer.”
“Today?”
She paused. “Yes. As soon as Jennet is here.”
His gaze flickered toward her and along with it came a faint smile. “You've sent her to see Caudebec.”
“I would not put it like that,” Hannah said. “Jennet can no more be sent on an errand than a cat. She decided what must be done, and she is doing it. I only hope she hasn't lost her touch.”
That made Daniel laugh, at least. A low, deep chuckle that turned into a shallow cough. Hannah did not like the sound of it, but she was a healer before she was a sister, and she kept the full force of her alarm hidden away.
Jennet had only seen Colonel Caudebec from afar once or twice: a man of medium height and build, with nothing out of the ordinary to recommend him except that it was within his power to make the prisoners miserable. Stepping into his quarters, she learned something else: the colonel was a man who appreciated art and beautiful things and the comforts of civilization, and not even war was enough to make him give such things up.
He had taken over the entire upper level of one of the blockhouses for his office and quarters, and filled it with fine things: china and glass and a beautiful India rug. A servant asked her for her muddy boots before she had come more than two steps into the room, and then made them disappear where they would do no damage. A large crucifix dominated one wall, and in a corner was a statue of the Virgin, cast in bronze. Next to that was an ornate chair, carved and cushioned with red velvet, and in the chair sat the tallest priest she had ever seen. Even without an introduction she would have known him from the stories the soldiers told.
The colonel almost simpered, so proud was he of his visitor. “Father O'Neill, may I present Mrs. Huntar, who works among our prisoners.”
He unfolded himself from the chair, a man six and a half feet tall, with a head of black hair going gray at the widow's peak and sharp blue eyes and a smile that spoke more of the ways of the world than those of heaven.
“Mrs. Huntar,” he said, not quite meeting her eye. “Please, sit. I have questions for you.”
“Questions,” she echoed, and wondered if she looked as dim as she sounded.
“About your work here. You must be a very unusual and courageous lady indeed.”
“Ah,” said Jennet. “Weel.”
He was examining her face closely. “Not many have the fortitude or courage to take up missionary work, especially not in time of war.”
Jennet's first assessment of the priest was shifting rapidly. In part because she couldn't place his accent—it was not Irish, not English, not American, but some odd combination of all those with a strong undercurrent of French. Beyond that first and distracting question, there was a crumble of bread at the corner of his mouth, tucked into a crease. And whoever had shaved the priest this morning had been distracted enough to leave a patch of bristle in the thumb-sized indentation under his lower lip. Jennet simply could not look away, though she knew that she must.
If the priest minded he was good at hiding his discomfort. He went on making observations and assumptions and drawing the most incredible conclusions without any encouragement. One part of Jennet's mind wondered where he might end up if he went on like this.
“—known to me.”
She blinked. “I'm sorry, sir. I'm a wee muddleheided the morn.”
And now Scots. It had the habit of pouring out of her at the oddest moments.
“You are a widow, as I understand it? I was asking what brought you to this part of the world.”
Jennet had always been particularly good at making up stories on the spot, and she had polished and refined the gift over the years. A gift that might fail her now; she felt herself blanching.
“I meant to cause you no distress,” the priest said. He put a hand on her wrist where it rested on the arm of the chair, and Jennet started at that: the heat of him, and his closeness, and something else she could hardly name.
She remembered then why she was making this visit, and the men in the stockade, whose well-being depended on what she could accomplish here.
Jennet withdrew her hand. “I am a widow woman, aye. My husband was a vicar, ye see. We were on our way here as missionaries when he took ill. He wanted me to carry on without him, and so I try, poor woman that I am.”
The priest's blue eyes considered her, calculating openly, adding things together and taking others away. Jennet had the strangest sense that she had met the man b
efore, and realized then that he reminded her of her own father: someone with the gift of seeing the truth no matter how well hidden it might be, and using it to his own advantage.
She must rise to that challenge, for her own sake and for the sake of the men who were counting on her.
He said, “Would you object, then, to my visiting the Catholic prisoners?”
She didn't like the idea at all, of course, but Jennet could do nothing but smile and assure him that his company would be welcome.
“I would like to have the chance to talk to you a bit about my mission,” said the priest. “I think my work will interest you. I have a sister who took orders with Grey Nuns in Montreal. You remind me of her.”
Jennet pressed her hands together in her lap. “But of course, Father O'Neill. I would be pleased. In the meantime there are a few matters I must discuss with the colonel.”
The priest's gaze never left her face. “Ah, yes. You've come to ask for favors for the prisoners, have I guessed it? I'm sure that Colonel Caudebec would be happy to see that your needs are met, is that not so, Colonel?”
Jennet thought of Sergeant Jones, and wondered if trading that problem for the one in front of her was such a very good idea. But the colonel was looking at her, his expression all eagerness. She took a deep breath, and presented her case.
“I'll tell you aye true,” Jennet told Hannah much later. “I came close to wetting my drawers when I saw him sitting there. As big as a house, and hawk-eyed, forbye.”
“You know this priest?” Hannah whispered, pulling Jennet farther into the corner where they had gone to talk. Next to them the boy slept on with his eyes open and fixed on nothing in particular. The regular slow hiss of his breath was the only sign that he still lived.
“I know of Adam O'Neill, aye,” Jennet whispered. “And so do you. The priest wha thumped Uz Brodie on the head with his crucifix. You recall, he told us the tale when we were here no two days, when he was on guard duty.”
Hannah said, “You're speaking Scots. You must be worried.”
“A wee bit, aye.” Jennet pursed her mouth. “I've known many priests in my time, but none like this Father O'Neill.”
“You knew that before,” Hannah said. “From the stories.”
“Och, I don't mean the fighting. There are stories enough about soldier-priests. I canna tell ye what it is exactly that bothers me. Nor can I tell ye what the man's doing here, beyond the fact that he's got some connection to Caudebec. It's no like I could ask, you'll agree.”
“All right,” Hannah said, forcing herself to breathe deeply. “Could he be some kind of spy?”
“I thought of that,” Jennet said. “I suppose it's possible, but what could he want to learn from this poor lot?”
She cast a quick look over their patients. Mr. Whistler, watching them closely while he tended to the brazier, nodded at her and she raised a hand in greeting. Then she sent Hannah a sharp look.
“I've been thinking, perhaps it would be best if I let the colonel know whose daughter I am.”
Hannah saw a particular look in her cousin's eye that made her nervous indeed. She pitched her voice a tone lower. “Jennet. We've discussed all this. If they know that, then they know that you're connected to Luke. And there's good reason to keep Luke out of all this, you'll remember that much.”
She pushed out a breath and the curls that fell over her forehead stirred irritably.
“Out of what? I'm here against Luke's wishes, am I no? You read the letter.” She flushed a little, remembering the single closely written page delivered by Simon Ballentyne. The only thing that had made it bearable was the fact that along with the letter came all the things she had asked him for: food and blankets and medicines. The gift of a good friend, an anonymous donor. The man she was supposed to marry. If she did not drive him away, first.
“Jennet,” Hannah said sharply. “Don't forget why we're here. As soon as Daniel is well enough to travel we'll be away. Runs-from-Bears and Sawatis will find a way. And how would it look, once we're gone? Then Luke would be connected to the escape, and maybe to worse.”
She didn't say the word, the one word that could bring disaster down on all of them. The Tories made short work of anyone they suspected of spying. It was one of the reasons that both of them were careful never to talk to any of the guards or soldiers about things even vaguely military.
The small red mouth contorted. “Aye. Aye, aye, aye. I see that, I do. But I just thought—”
Hannah waited.
“Had ye thought,” Jennet began again, “how much I could do for these prisoners, were the officers to know who I am? Jennet Huntar brings them a handful of eggs. But there's verra little they could refuse Lady Jennet of Carryck. And aye, it's far too great a risk. I'll bide my time, you have my promise.”
There was a small silence. Hannah smoothed her cousin's hair away from her face and managed a smile.
“What about the rest of it? Were you able to present our case to Caudebec? You do remember? Braziers, firewood, rations, Jones.”
“Och, aye. Of course I remembered.” Jennet was looking over Hannah's shoulder.
“And?”
Jennet pointed with her chin. “Yon's your answer on one point, at least.”
Sergeant Jones had appeared at the doors. His face was contorted with anger, white and red and trembling. Jennet and Hannah stood just as they were, unflinching.
For a moment Hannah thought the sergeant would speak, but then he turned on his heel and left. The doors closed behind him.
“That's the end of Jones,” said Jennet. “He's been reassigned to Halifax, I think the colonel said.”
It took a moment for Hannah to understand. “Caudebec has sent him away?”
“Aye. Father O'Neill said Caudebec should, and so he did. And then he promised braziers and wood and better food, forbye—and all in front of the priest. What Father O'Neill said was, to tell it all, that if the British army was living off American pork smuggled over the border, American prisoners should get no less.”
“Did he?” Hannah bit back a smile. “He sounds like a good friend to have, this priest of yours.”
“It does seem that way. To tell you true, I had the sense that the priest could talk the colonel into sending us all home, if he got that in his head.”
A flush of color moved over her neck, and she dropped her head to study her shoes.
“And what did all of that cost?” Hannah crossed her arms at her waist. “What did you have to give him?”
“Och, no so verra much,” Jennet said.
“Let me guess. You said he could come preach, here. Among the prisoners.”
Jennet's mouth twitched. “As if he needed my leave, or yours. He'll come, no doubt. And we canna stop him, even if we cared to.”
“What then? I know you well enough, Jennet. There's something you're up to.”
Her cousin was smiling now. This was Jennet with a hand of cards she liked: whether to bluff with, or to take the pot, Hannah was not sure.
“I think he wants to win me over for the church, and I intend to let him.”
For once Hannah felt herself completely at a loss. “Win you over . . . baptize you into the Catholic church?”
“Aye.”
“Jennet. You are Catholic.”
Her cousin smiled up at her prettily. “Aye, I am. But there are so few of us in Scotland these days—and Father O'Neill doesn't need to know I'm one of them, does he? He wants to tell me about his sister the nun.”
For a moment Hannah studied her cousin. There were faint lines at the corners of her eyes that told not so much her age as her temperament. For all her laughing ways, Jennet was sharp-witted and keen-eyed, and there was something about this priest she was not saying, and did not want to say. Out of fear, or the idea that she must protect others before she thought of her own welfare.
I cannot manage her on my own, Hannah thought. I should send her to Luke. As soon as Daniel is well enough to travel, I must send
her to Luke.
Instead she said, “You mustn't take unreasonable risks, Jennet. Promise me.”
Jennet closed her eyes and opened them again. “I promise. But it's no so bad as you imagine. Caudebec wants to please the priest. Why, I canna say. There's something afoot there. But so long as the priest is here, Caudebec is far more likely to be generous. And if it makes yon bloody great Irish priest happy to poach a soul for Rome, why then he shall have his convert. Who will it hurt, I ask you?”
Hannah could not help herself: she burst into laughter.
The men turned from their pallets to look at her, pleased at her laughter and a little wistful, that there should be something to laugh about that excluded them, hungry for diversion as they were.
When Hannah had calmed herself Jennet said, all business now: “Shouldn't we start with Daniel while we still have the light?”
Hannah said, “Yes, I suppose we should.”
And then she followed her cousin to her brother's bedside, and set about making him ready.
It was not hard to assemble the things she would need: the single brown bottle of laudanum, dressings newly washed and folded, the herbs she had ground into a salve this morning, tincture of winterbloom, willow bark, and meadowsweet. Jennet went to the guard to request Hannah's surgeon's kit, kept under lock and key in the sergeant's office. She would come back with the box and two armed guards, who would not leave again until the operation was done and they could take the instruments away with them. As if sick men armed with scalpels might overpower the garrison. Mr. Whistler ranted at the idea, but it pleased him, too, that the redcoats should fear such a motley collection of underfed farmers and trappers.
There was a moment, while Jennet was out of sight and Daniel lay on the table before her, pale and sweating, that Hannah imagined the worst: Sergeant Jones had taken her surgeon's kit with him. She was wishing that she had thought of this possibility before Jennet went to see Caudebec, when her cousin appeared with the box in her arms and two great guards behind her, their scarlet coats like beacons in the dim barracks.