Fire Along the Sky
Page 130
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Within days Jennet had forgotten completely what it meant to be warm and dry and clean. It was only the work that distracted her from chilblains and blood blisters and the growling of her own stomach. There was little food, or time to eat it; certainly she would waste no time on vanity.
Except that today she must rouse herself to notice such things and more. Shivering still from her sponge bath, Jennet took a gown from her traveling box. It should have been suitable for her meeting with Colonel Caudebec, except that the damp had found it first and the damask was sprinkled liberally with mold, and wrinkled beyond repair. Even to her desensitized nose it stank.
“I suppose the smell might get his attention,” she said in a conversational tone. “Perhaps he'll give us the braziers just to get rid of me.”
Hannah, her mouth full of cornbread, held out another gown. This one, never pretty, had seen hard use in its life; it was stained at hem and cuffs and a burn on the skirt had been patched with a fabric that matched neither in color or pattern. And still it was the best they had between them.
“I'll have to kittle up the skirt with my belt,” Jennet said, reaching for it. Water ran from her hair over her arm and hissed into the fire.
Hannah said, “Come and let me comb through your hair again, and then we must be gone. It's almost light.”
Jennet did as she was bid, pulling the cocoon of blankets more closely around her shoulders.
“Tell it again,” Hannah said.
Jennet said, “Braziers, firewood, rations, Sergeant Jones.”
“But not in that order,” Hannah prompted.
“Not in that order. Jones first, or nothing else will do any good.”
Behind her Hannah hesitated. “It's a fine line you'll have to walk.”
“Och, that you leave to me,” Jennet said. “I'm a daughter of Carryck, you mustn't forget. Did my father the earl not declare I could charm blood from a stone?”
“We don't need any more blood,” Hannah said.
Jennet's mouth tightened. “We'll be rid of the wee Welsh cockerel before the day is out, or I'm no my father's daughter.”
Just before sunrise they took their leave from Runs-from-Bears and joined the queue of women waiting at the garrison gates, all of them with blankets wrapped around their heads against the cold rain, all of them ankle deep in the muck and mud. Most were bent low by the weight of baskets filled with laundry or mending. A few of the youngest, still supple or pretty enough, carried nothing and wore little under their blanket coats.
Most of the women greeted Hannah, but to Jennet they gave only shy nods. Jennet might dress rough as they did and her hands might be as blistered with work; she could speak Scots and plain English and a common French, but the cap of damp curls under her hood was the yellow of corn silk, and her skin was as translucent as milk after all the cream has been skimmed from it. A white woman among the camp followers was odd enough, but one as young and fine-born as Jennet Huntar who was here to nurse prisoners of war—she must be a mystery and a danger.
The gates swung open and the crowd pushed forward.
“Do not put yourself in danger,” Hannah said as they went forward. In response came only her cousin's grin and a fluttering of fingers.
“What is there to fear, with Sergeant Brodie to escort me?”
Waiting for Jennet just inside the gates, Uz Brodie heard this, exactly as Jennet meant him to. His cheeks had been scrubbed clean, resulting in two very red and shiny spots to either side of a blue-veined nose. On that hard-worn face a schoolboy's blush was both comical and touching.
In the followers' camp Jennet was an object of suspicion and some jealousy, but inside the garrison a pretty young Scots widow with a friendly word for everyone was highly thought of, and sought out. Doors opened quickly when she approached, and jackets and hats were put to rights. There were a dozen men who took every opportunity to cross paths with her, and then always found some topic to keep her talking for a minute or two.
In the first days the men had hesitated to ask questions. Then one of them had got up the courage and wondered out loud what it was that brought a young woman of good family to Nut Island. Jennet, ready for the question, had cocked her head to one side like a little bird and returned curiosity with wonder and Bible verses. And, she added, innocently enough, wouldn't any of the brave men of His Majesty's forces want and deserve a nurse like herself should he ever find himself, Lord preserve, on the other side of the border, in such a place as this? Among themselves the men decided that Mrs. Huntar was a war widow, a rumor that she did nothing to correct.
When asked about her connection to the Mohawk medicine woman called Walks-Ahead, Jennet would change the subject so neatly and sweetly that no one noticed, at least until it was too late, that she had provided no information at all. Jennet had the gift for pleasing and appeasing with a few bright words. It worked to their advantage and solved many of their problems, but not all.
Standing in front of the stockade was the problem that had sent Jennet to the colonel: one of the few men who had resisted her charms. Approaching him with mud sucking at her heels, Hannah kept her expression studiously blank.
“Sergeant Jones,” she said. “Good morning.”
He was a small man, soft of jowl and gut but with a jaw carved out of twisted gristle. The frizzled hair that showed under his hat had once been red, but had faded to a rusted iron gray. Wiry twists of the same color exploded from his ears and nostrils and cascaded over his pinkish eyes. When he opened his mouth he showed bloody gums studded with teeth like bits of weathered wood.
Except that today she must rouse herself to notice such things and more. Shivering still from her sponge bath, Jennet took a gown from her traveling box. It should have been suitable for her meeting with Colonel Caudebec, except that the damp had found it first and the damask was sprinkled liberally with mold, and wrinkled beyond repair. Even to her desensitized nose it stank.
“I suppose the smell might get his attention,” she said in a conversational tone. “Perhaps he'll give us the braziers just to get rid of me.”
Hannah, her mouth full of cornbread, held out another gown. This one, never pretty, had seen hard use in its life; it was stained at hem and cuffs and a burn on the skirt had been patched with a fabric that matched neither in color or pattern. And still it was the best they had between them.
“I'll have to kittle up the skirt with my belt,” Jennet said, reaching for it. Water ran from her hair over her arm and hissed into the fire.
Hannah said, “Come and let me comb through your hair again, and then we must be gone. It's almost light.”
Jennet did as she was bid, pulling the cocoon of blankets more closely around her shoulders.
“Tell it again,” Hannah said.
Jennet said, “Braziers, firewood, rations, Sergeant Jones.”
“But not in that order,” Hannah prompted.
“Not in that order. Jones first, or nothing else will do any good.”
Behind her Hannah hesitated. “It's a fine line you'll have to walk.”
“Och, that you leave to me,” Jennet said. “I'm a daughter of Carryck, you mustn't forget. Did my father the earl not declare I could charm blood from a stone?”
“We don't need any more blood,” Hannah said.
Jennet's mouth tightened. “We'll be rid of the wee Welsh cockerel before the day is out, or I'm no my father's daughter.”
Just before sunrise they took their leave from Runs-from-Bears and joined the queue of women waiting at the garrison gates, all of them with blankets wrapped around their heads against the cold rain, all of them ankle deep in the muck and mud. Most were bent low by the weight of baskets filled with laundry or mending. A few of the youngest, still supple or pretty enough, carried nothing and wore little under their blanket coats.
Most of the women greeted Hannah, but to Jennet they gave only shy nods. Jennet might dress rough as they did and her hands might be as blistered with work; she could speak Scots and plain English and a common French, but the cap of damp curls under her hood was the yellow of corn silk, and her skin was as translucent as milk after all the cream has been skimmed from it. A white woman among the camp followers was odd enough, but one as young and fine-born as Jennet Huntar who was here to nurse prisoners of war—she must be a mystery and a danger.
The gates swung open and the crowd pushed forward.
“Do not put yourself in danger,” Hannah said as they went forward. In response came only her cousin's grin and a fluttering of fingers.
“What is there to fear, with Sergeant Brodie to escort me?”
Waiting for Jennet just inside the gates, Uz Brodie heard this, exactly as Jennet meant him to. His cheeks had been scrubbed clean, resulting in two very red and shiny spots to either side of a blue-veined nose. On that hard-worn face a schoolboy's blush was both comical and touching.
In the followers' camp Jennet was an object of suspicion and some jealousy, but inside the garrison a pretty young Scots widow with a friendly word for everyone was highly thought of, and sought out. Doors opened quickly when she approached, and jackets and hats were put to rights. There were a dozen men who took every opportunity to cross paths with her, and then always found some topic to keep her talking for a minute or two.
In the first days the men had hesitated to ask questions. Then one of them had got up the courage and wondered out loud what it was that brought a young woman of good family to Nut Island. Jennet, ready for the question, had cocked her head to one side like a little bird and returned curiosity with wonder and Bible verses. And, she added, innocently enough, wouldn't any of the brave men of His Majesty's forces want and deserve a nurse like herself should he ever find himself, Lord preserve, on the other side of the border, in such a place as this? Among themselves the men decided that Mrs. Huntar was a war widow, a rumor that she did nothing to correct.
When asked about her connection to the Mohawk medicine woman called Walks-Ahead, Jennet would change the subject so neatly and sweetly that no one noticed, at least until it was too late, that she had provided no information at all. Jennet had the gift for pleasing and appeasing with a few bright words. It worked to their advantage and solved many of their problems, but not all.
Standing in front of the stockade was the problem that had sent Jennet to the colonel: one of the few men who had resisted her charms. Approaching him with mud sucking at her heels, Hannah kept her expression studiously blank.
“Sergeant Jones,” she said. “Good morning.”
He was a small man, soft of jowl and gut but with a jaw carved out of twisted gristle. The frizzled hair that showed under his hat had once been red, but had faded to a rusted iron gray. Wiry twists of the same color exploded from his ears and nostrils and cascaded over his pinkish eyes. When he opened his mouth he showed bloody gums studded with teeth like bits of weathered wood.
