shall hold him to it.”
And so she had walked back to the hospital, her guilt assuaged—for a time.
Amalie laid the cool cloth on the prisoner’s forehead and pushed the blankets aside to change the bandage on his thigh, careful to bare no more than his limb. Although she’d cared for many a sick and injured soldier this past year, she couldn’t remember being as aware of any soldier as a man as she was of this Ranger. She told herself it was simply the fact that he was a dreaded Ranger that set him apart in her mind, and yet she knew there was more to it than that.
He was the most intimidating man she had ever seen. It wasn’t just his apparent physical strength, but also his animal wildness—his long hair with its braids, his sun-browned skin, the Mahican drawings on his arms that marked him as a warrior. Were all Rangers as big and fierce-seeming as this one? If so, she had no trouble understanding how they’d managed to inspire terror and legend along the frontier.
She removed the linen strips that bound his dressing in place, sliding her hand beneath his muscular thigh to pass the cloth through. Though his chest was healing, the wound in his thigh was much deeper and had festered badly. Monsieur Lambert had bled him twice to counter the fever and had made his customary poultice of rose oil, egg yolks, and turpentine to draw the sickness out of the wounds, but it was too soon to know whether these remedies would work.
Amalie set the linen strips aside and lifted the dressing, relieved to find that the wound looked no more savage than before. The surgeon’s stitches were holding, and the redness had not spread. There were no streaks running up his thigh, nor had the surrounding flesh begun to swell. The Ranger might have to live with a limp, but it seemed as if Monsieur Lambert’s decision not to amputate—
He won’t live with a limp, Amalie, silly child! They’re going to burn him!
Her stomach seemed to fall to the floor.
How could she have forgotten, even for an instant?
Of course, she hadn’t forgotten, not truly. It was just the strangeness of the situation—caring for a man’s hurts so that he might live to be killed—that was to blame. She was accustomed when caring for the sick to think of each small step toward healing as a little victory. Not this time.
And yet why shouldn’t she consider each stride he made toward recovery a triumph? It meant she was doing her duty well, that she might play some small part in helping to end this war and bringing peace to New France. Although this Ranger might live only to die a terrible death, countless lives might yet be spared by the information Bourlamaque would take from him.
Seeking at least some comfort in that thought, she reached for the poultice and had just begun to dab it over the wound with a clean bit of linen when the door opened.
“Mademoiselle.” Lieutenant Rillieux entered, gave her a crisp bow. “Bourlamaque sent me to inquire after the prisoner. How does he fare?”
Still upset with the lieutenant, she refused to glance up. “He is unchanged.”
Lieutenant Rillieux stood for a moment, watching. “You are displeased with me.”
“It is unbefitting a gentleman to deny a dying man last rites.”
Lieutenant Rillieux came to stand behind her and placed an unwelcome hand upon her shoulder, his thumb caressing the bare skin at her nape. “You are young and a woman. I don’t expect you to understand. Besides, he does not seem to be dying.”
Why did he insist on touching her? She leaned forward, out of his grasp, and reached for more poultice, fighting to keep the anger from her voice. “He is quite feverish. It is still too soon to know whether he will live.”
For a moment there was silence.
“Monsieur de Bourlamaque is most impressed with my conduct in this affair. He has written to Montcalm, praising me for MacKinnon’s capture. I have reason to believe that I will find myself a captain by summer’s end.”
At this
And so she had walked back to the hospital, her guilt assuaged—for a time.
Amalie laid the cool cloth on the prisoner’s forehead and pushed the blankets aside to change the bandage on his thigh, careful to bare no more than his limb. Although she’d cared for many a sick and injured soldier this past year, she couldn’t remember being as aware of any soldier as a man as she was of this Ranger. She told herself it was simply the fact that he was a dreaded Ranger that set him apart in her mind, and yet she knew there was more to it than that.
He was the most intimidating man she had ever seen. It wasn’t just his apparent physical strength, but also his animal wildness—his long hair with its braids, his sun-browned skin, the Mahican drawings on his arms that marked him as a warrior. Were all Rangers as big and fierce-seeming as this one? If so, she had no trouble understanding how they’d managed to inspire terror and legend along the frontier.
She removed the linen strips that bound his dressing in place, sliding her hand beneath his muscular thigh to pass the cloth through. Though his chest was healing, the wound in his thigh was much deeper and had festered badly. Monsieur Lambert had bled him twice to counter the fever and had made his customary poultice of rose oil, egg yolks, and turpentine to draw the sickness out of the wounds, but it was too soon to know whether these remedies would work.
Amalie set the linen strips aside and lifted the dressing, relieved to find that the wound looked no more savage than before. The surgeon’s stitches were holding, and the redness had not spread. There were no streaks running up his thigh, nor had the surrounding flesh begun to swell. The Ranger might have to live with a limp, but it seemed as if Monsieur Lambert’s decision not to amputate—
He won’t live with a limp, Amalie, silly child! They’re going to burn him!
Her stomach seemed to fall to the floor.
How could she have forgotten, even for an instant?
Of course, she hadn’t forgotten, not truly. It was just the strangeness of the situation—caring for a man’s hurts so that he might live to be killed—that was to blame. She was accustomed when caring for the sick to think of each small step toward healing as a little victory. Not this time.
And yet why shouldn’t she consider each stride he made toward recovery a triumph? It meant she was doing her duty well, that she might play some small part in helping to end this war and bringing peace to New France. Although this Ranger might live only to die a terrible death, countless lives might yet be spared by the information Bourlamaque would take from him.
Seeking at least some comfort in that thought, she reached for the poultice and had just begun to dab it over the wound with a clean bit of linen when the door opened.
“Mademoiselle.” Lieutenant Rillieux entered, gave her a crisp bow. “Bourlamaque sent me to inquire after the prisoner. How does he fare?”
Still upset with the lieutenant, she refused to glance up. “He is unchanged.”
Lieutenant Rillieux stood for a moment, watching. “You are displeased with me.”
“It is unbefitting a gentleman to deny a dying man last rites.”
Lieutenant Rillieux came to stand behind her and placed an unwelcome hand upon her shoulder, his thumb caressing the bare skin at her nape. “You are young and a woman. I don’t expect you to understand. Besides, he does not seem to be dying.”
Why did he insist on touching her? She leaned forward, out of his grasp, and reached for more poultice, fighting to keep the anger from her voice. “He is quite feverish. It is still too soon to know whether he will live.”
For a moment there was silence.
“Monsieur de Bourlamaque is most impressed with my conduct in this affair. He has written to Montcalm, praising me for MacKinnon’s capture. I have reason to believe that I will find myself a captain by summer’s end.”
At this
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