Here Burns My Candle Part 31

Mr. Eccles pointed out the few supplies available: alum for cuts, camphor for itching, ginger for nausea, oil 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 ap.r.o.ns, 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 Gra.s.sie, 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 p.r.i.c.kling. 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 succ.u.mb 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 Gra.s.sie 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 b.u.t.tons 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 a.s.sist 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 hoa.r.s.ely, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 ap.r.o.n 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.

Since John Hardy lay nearby, she asked for his help, then winced when she saw how much it cost him to move even a few inches. "Can you use your good hand, John, to hold his compress in place?"

"Aye, Leddy Kerr," he said with a faint smile.

While John helped her, she examined his wound. A heartless dragoon had pierced the skin along freshly formed scar tissue, cutting open John's thigh nearly to the bone. She was grateful Janet was not with her that morning. Skittish as her sister-in-law was in the presence of blood, and expecting a child besides, Janet would have quickly become her ninth patient.

Elisabeth lost all track of time as she kept busy kneeling, bending, washing, bandaging, and offering whatever words of comfort came to mind. Black-haired young Grant, in somewhat better shape than the others, hobbled about as her a.s.sistant, emptying and refilling the basin with hot water. Donald's heather soap was soon depleted and replaced with a serviceable bar made from lye.

It wasn't until she heard voices in the hall that Elisabeth remembered the splintered wood hanging from the door hinges. "Have a care!" she called out as Mr. Eccles stumbled through the open doorway, supporting another man in worse condition.

"Lady Kerr," the surgeon said weakly. "This is Mr. Cunningham. He, too, is a surgeon, though he'll not be of much help at the moment."

Nor, she realized, would Mr. Eccles. One eye swollen, his face and hands badly beaten, the surgeon was in no condition to hold a needle. What was to be done when she had a roomful of men requiring st.i.tches? Thomas MacPadden had an especially bad gash on his forearm, and John Hardy's thigh was oozing blood.

Then there was the matter of resetting Alex Baird's lower leg. He'd pa.s.sed out on the floor-a blessing, if only to spare him the pain-but the Highlander was too large for her to move on her own. It seemed the surgeons themselves needed attending first.

"Come and sit, both of you." Elisabeth guided them to the only chairs that had survived the a.s.sault, then bathed their wounds with the last of the heated water. She eyed the long, narrow-necked stoup hanging by the fireplace. The Canongate wellhead was not far from the mansion's door. Did she dare send Grant Findlay beyond the safety of these walls with the dragoons still abroad?

The lad followed her gaze and guessed her thoughts. "Ye'll be needing me to fetch mair water." He lifted the stoup from its peg. "I'll not be lang."

Mr. Eccles grimaced as she dabbed his head wounds with powdered alum diluted with water. "I am sorry as any man can be, Lady Kerr. You came as an angel of mercy, only to be burdened with the lowest of duties."

"I came so I might be useful," she told him. In truth, she had never felt so alive, as if a glowing branch from the hearth were burning inside her.

"On behalf of the prince's men, we are most grateful, madam." Mr. Eccles closed his eyes while she held a warm cloth to his cheek. "'Tis certain the Almighty sent you."

The surgeon's comment did not go unnoticed. Did G.o.d send people about, like caddies in the street, running errands and delivering messages? If so, she had a request. "We'll be needing surgeons," she told Mr. Eccles gently, not wanting to offend him. "Whom might I call upon?"

Mr. Cunningham, silent until now, came to life, lifting his blood-caked head. "You'll not find a Jacobite surgeon in Edinburgh. The prince took them all to Dalkeith, save us."

Her busy hands stilled. No surgeons? Whatever was to be done? These men would die without proper care. Yet 'twas against the law for anyone to practice medicine who'd not been approved by his fellow surgeons.

Martin Eccles had little interest in legalities, it seemed. He was studying her hands with marked interest. "Have you any skill with a needle? 'Twill be some time before I can be trusted with anything sharp." The surgeon held up his badly mangled hands. "One of the dragoons thought it sport to use the b.u.t.t of his pistol like a hammer."

She lightly touched his fingers. "I am no surgeon, Mr. Eccles. But I am a seamstress."

He looked up, mouth agape. "Surely not by trade?"

"Not presently," she said, thinking of the years she'd sewn for Angus's customers. Then her heart skipped a beat. Rob MacPherson. Aye, he could st.i.tch the men's wounds. And within the law if Mr. Eccles remained at the patient's bedside while Rob worked. "Do you know the tailor Angus MacPherson?"

Mr. Eccles nodded. "A loyal Jacobite. Rode out with the prince."

"His son is here in Edinburgh. I'm sure he would come at once and serve you well."

"We'd be glad for his help," Mr. Cunningham admitted. "Might you call upon him, Lady Kerr? We're neither of us fit for the High Street."

Mr. Eccles frowned at him. "You ask too much of the lady, sir."

"Not at all." Elisabeth untied her ap.r.o.n, casting a wistful gaze round the room. Much as she wanted to nurse each of them to health, they needed a strong man with capable hands, someone who could move them onto their beds and st.i.tch their gaping wounds. If he was willing, Rob was the man for the task. "I shall take a chair to the Luckenbooths," she told the surgeons, uncertain how that might be managed. Mr. Fenwick had no doubt come and gone by now.

"Take great care in the street," Mr. Eccles cautioned her. "The dragoons know which families support the prince. And some of them have seen your courage. Even now they may be waiting for you, Lady Kerr."

Forty-Nine.

Idle rumors were also added to well-founded apprehensions.

LUCAN.

A shiver ran down Elisabeth's spine as if the cold point of a knife were being dragged from the nape of her neck to the curve of her waist. "I shall hide beneath my hooded cape," she promised the surgeon, "and not emerge from the chair until I reach Mr. MacPherson's shop."

Her answer seemed to satisfy him, though she'd not entirely convinced herself. Janet's words rang more true by the hour. Whatever has happened to our city?

"Here's young Findlay with our water." Mr. Eccles gestured toward the splintered remains of the doorway. "Have you brought a report for us as well?"

"Aye." The lad emptied the water into an iron pot and swung it over the fire, then hung the stoup on its peg. "Half the toun is blethering on their stairs."

Elisabeth knew where the other half could be found: hiding behind their doors, Marjory and Janet among them.

"What news, then?" Mr. Cunningham prompted him.

The curtain of black hair across his face did not hide the lad's discouragement. "The dragoons found Cameron o' Lochiel's wife at hame and abused her harshly. Spat in the guid leddy's face and called her wirds I darena say." The lad shot a furtive glance in Elisabeth's direction.

She'd seen the sort of men they were. Their cruel words were not hard to imagine.

"They've been to Holyroodhouse as weel," Grant continued. "Tore doon the silk whaur the prince laid his head, broke all the fine gilded gla.s.ses, and took whatsomever they liked from the Duke o' Hamilton's rooms. In the Great Gallery they slashed the paintings." His countenance darkened. "Queen Mary's worst o' a'."

The surgeons exchanged glances, then Mr. Eccles said, "We've another errand for you, lad. Hail a sedan chair for our Lady Kerr, if you please. 'Tis not safe to have her tarrying in the street."

"Aye, sir." Grant hastened to the door, trying to disguise his limp with a jaunty gait.

A moment ago Elisabeth had been loath to depart. Now she was clearly needed elsewhere. No home was safe from these marauders, not even her own.

She slipped off her bloodstained ap.r.o.n, intending to leave it behind. Mrs. Edgar would understand. Scooping a bowlful of lukewarm water from the pot, she bathed her hands and face, then unpinned her sleeves, drenched as expected. Once she reattached the ruffles, at least her forearms were spared the feel of damp fabric.

When she fastened her wool cape, the white c.o.c.kade caught her eye.