Journey to Enchantment (32 page)

Lockerbie thought it would be a miracle if Delacourt was able to swallow anything, or if they could prepare it in time, but he went off and came back in a quarter of an hour with a cracked bowl of broth that had, he said, been taken from a weak stew they had made of some rabbits one of the hunters had snared.

Delacourt was quiet, apparently sleeping, but one hand was fast gripped on the plaid, and Prudence was not deceived. She said softly, “I know ye're awake, sir. We are going to lift you, just a wee bit, so you can take some broth.”

His eyes shot open to direct a horrified glance at her. There was a faint shake of the head but, hardening her heart, she nodded to the apprehensive Lockerbie, and he slid an arm very gently under Delacourt's shoulders. The Englishman kept his pleading gaze on Prudence, but although she suffered her own agonies, she forced herself to ignore that mute appeal. His eyes closed and his head rolled against Lockerbie's shoulder. The spoon in Prudence's hand shook. She thought, ‘Dear Lord! Have I killed the brave soul?' but she said in a voice that quavered, “Geoffrey … please try.…”

The dark eyes opened. Through his misery he saw her tears. That must not be, so he tried, and managed to get down a few mouthfuls. Surprisingly, it was not as excruciating as he had expected, and he sank back into the dark depths, wanting to thank her but lacking the strength to do so.

It seemed to him then that he slept for a very long time. When he awoke, Prudence was gone and Cole sat dozing in the chair. Delacourt watched his old groom and wondered wearily how much more of this he must endure. He slept again, and once more, when he awoke, Cole was snoring softly. The pain was very bad. But different, in some odd way, and not nearly as terrible as it had been when first he had crashed into those boxes.

He was suffering another pain, however; a pain in his stomach. He thought, ‘Lord, but I'm ravenous!' He contemplated waking Cole, but then he thought that there were many other wounded, and that everyone was ravenous, so he lay quietly, trying to ignore the pain and pull his thoughts together. He must have been lounging here for several days. He wondered if old Thad was about and, even as the thought struck him, saw the plaid cautiously drawn back and Angus Fraser's bearded face peering in at him.

“Angus,” he whispered recklessly, and thought a surprised, ‘Jupiter!' for the expected tightening of that ruthless jagged band around his lung did not materialize.

Cole gave a start and fell off the chair, and Angus hurried in, beaming. “Mon, are ye alive yet?” he enquired with a sad want of tact.

“No.” Delacourt managed to grin at him. “Is … Briley…?”

Angus slanted a glance at Cole, who knelt on the floor staring at Delacourt in total disbelief. “Master Geoff!” gulped the groom, his eyes misting. “You—you can—talk!”

“Enough to ask … if I might have just—a crust of … bread, maybe.”

Cole scrambled up. One hand went out shyly to touch Delacourt's arm, then he rushed out.

“By God,” Angus murmured, taking the chair and pulling it closer to the bed. “I think ye mean tae make me lose my bet, Captain.”

“Sorry. Briley…?”

Angus glanced cautiously to the small ‘chamber' where Prudence slept. He kept his voice very low. “Ye'll be knowing that he took a right smart ding o' the sconce? Aye, well, we couldnae bring him roond fer days. Then, he was fair beside hissel tae get back tae Lakepoint. He said 'twas on account o' a promise he'd made tae ye, but I suspicion there's a lassie in the plot, forbye. At all events, nothing could hold him, and off he went wi' one o' Crowley's gillies tae guide him.” Delacourt was tiring fast, but he watched anxiously as Angus shrugged and went on, “He'd a garron as sure-footed as any mountain goat, but in the high pass he tumbled oot o' the saddle. Gave his ankle a bad sprain and has lain cursing ever since.”

Delacourt thought fuzzily, ‘Damnation! Then Thad cannot carry the cypher,' and fell asleep again.

*   *   *

“Are ye awake, miss?”

Prudence was so drugged with sleep that she lay unmoving for a few seconds, her thoughts muddled and half formed. Something dark and terrible hung over her, she knew that. Something she shrank from facing. She blinked at the plaid curtains and remembered. Fear gripping her, she threw back the covers and ran to slip through the plaids, her eyes flying to the bed.

Delacourt lay with head and shoulders propped against a saddle. Sir Ian Crowley, Angus Fraser, Cole, and many others were crowding about the open ‘curtains,' faces wreathed in grins. She scarcely saw them, or MacLeod who, supporting Thaddeus Briley, shrank back at the sight of her. She saw only a face, newly shaven, that showed alarmingly pale where it was not bruised; two dark eyes set in shadowed hollows that yet held a glowing look; the tug of a smile at cracked lips; the eager outreaching of one thin hand.

The hum of conversation died into a hush, as she flew to kneel beside him. She could not see, but she felt Delacourt's touch on her cheek.

“Prudence,” he said weakly.

Prudence could not say a word.

*   *   *

After ten long months of misery, Delacourt now began to enjoy a gradual cessation of pain. His recovery was astonishingly rapid. Throughout his illness he had maintained a dogged optimism, but in his heart he'd known he was losing the battle. Now, instead of being plagued by an ominously increasing listlessness, he rejoiced in his growing strength; the return of health was a heady delight; his spirits were restored and his buoyant enthusiasm infectious.

He was soon engaging in daily conferences with Angus Fraser and Sir Ian Crowley, as a result of which discussions a system of relay stations was set up. Two-man teams were positioned at high points in a three-mile radius of the cavern. Each team was equipped with short rations for their four-day period of duty, and also with lanterns, mirrors, and spy-glasses, the latter articles having been begged or borrowed from nearby crofters. A code for light signals was devised, very similar to that which Delacourt had initiated in the Lakepoint area. The occupants of the cavern were thus kept apprised of the proximity of red-coats. The lookouts proved remarkably effective; by the end of a week, fifteen men were enabled to slip safely through the patrols and make their way northwards to the MacKenzie country, into whose rugged fastnesses no dragoon would dare follow.

Despite the primitive conditions, these were happy days for Prudence. Delacourt was still weak, and she suspected he occasionally suffered some bad moments, but there was no doubt that he was greatly improved and she no longer had to go to sleep at night dreading what the morning might bring.

Lockerbie and Cole collected their share of whatever food was available and for a time they all took very small portions so as to ensure that the sick man received sufficient nourishment to speed his recovery. It was evident that others went hungry for his sake, as Prudence often found pieces of bread, roots, or dried meats left on the chair in Delacourt's section of the screened area, though never were any of them able to determine who was their benefactor. As his body mended, Delacourt began to watch the portions with an eagle eye and when he realized what they had sacrificed for his sake, he was both touched and angered. He did not propose, he declared, to be the only fat man in a company of skeletons. They would survive or starve together, and if he received more food than the others of their little group, he would donate his entire meal to one of the wounded men. He made good his threat one day when he suspected (rightly) that he had been given three-quarters of a carrot for his dinner, instead of the half-carrot the others drew. After that, they dared not indulge him and their portions were arranged equally. The anonymous donations continued, however, for which Prudence could not be sorry.

She had no want of tasks to keep her occupied. The Highlanders were a resourceful lot, and a surprising number of them carried needle and thread about their persons. Since many of their garments were in rags, Prudence lost no time in offering her services as a seamstress—an art in which she was quite proficient—and was soon busily repairing ripped shirts, torn jackets, and worn stockings. She also made her rounds of the wounded at least once a day, and that alone was sufficient to keep her fully employed. Most of the men were ambulatory, but two were completely helpless, having been carried here by comrades. One, a gentle Lowlander named Matthew Rogers, had been shot through the body and had lost the use of his legs. Her efforts in his behalf seemed doomed to failure. He was a patient and uncomplaining boy of seventeen, and Prudence spent many hours sitting with him, doing what little she might to ease his suffering, and even singing the old country songs he would beg for. She chatted often with Thaddeus Briley, trying to alleviate his worries for Elizabeth. He was much changed from the debonair dandy she first had met, his pleasant face thinner and a haunted look to his tawny eyes, but his manner was as bright, his smile as ready, his humour as effervescent as ever, so that he had become quite a favourite with the men.

Inevitably, Prudence had a few favourites of her own. One of these was the young Highlander Graham had brought back from the abandoned croft. He was a shy young man named Rafe Stevenson, and rather pathetically grateful for her attention to his wounded arm. He had been able to creep into the croft, he told her, after the soldiers searched it for the first time. When Graham later arrived, he had guessed from the man's furtive approach that he was a fugitive, and had been only too delighted to learn that Ligun Doone was close by. “I knew, ma'am,” he said, wincing from her ministrations, “that if I could but join up wi' Doone, I'd be safe. 'Twas fortunate, though, I still had me water canteen.”

Prudence stayed her efforts and looked at him curiously. “Graham was thirsty, was he?”

He laughed. “Och, nae! We used it tae attract the troopers, accordin' tae Mr. Doone's plan. Did he no tell ye?”

“To tell you the truth, I'd forgot to ask him, but I'd wondered at the time how it was done. The troopers were shouting that they'd seen smoke, and then I heard an explosion. Had you started a fire?”

“Aye. And filled me canteen wi' powder and shot. 'Twas wood, ye ken, and just slow enough tae burn that we could get oot before the black powder went up. Bein' closed intae the canteen it made a bonnie wee bang and sent the shot flying in all directions. The troopers were properly taken in. Mr. Doone's a canny one all right. This cave was found by him, I'm told.”

“Yes. When he was a fugitive himself, last year. It was Lockerbie or his relations who knew of it, I believe. Captain Delacourt has sent many of our men here since, as you can see.” She glanced around the cavern. “How many are there now?”

“We're back up tae fifty, I think. More came in after the others left.” He gave a rather wry grin. “Likely the first time sae many clans have gathered wi'oot a fight!”

It was all too true. The fugitives were grateful for this sanctuary, but inactivity, enforced proximity, shortness of food, discomfort of wounds, and above all, anxiety for their loved ones began to tell. Like many another before him, Delacourt found himself trying to cope with the swift flare of clan rivalry, the fierce Scots pride, the fighting spirit that centuries of warfare had built into these young warriors. Sir Ian Crowley and Angus Fraser struggled to keep the peace, but it was an uphill endeavour. Delacourt's dramatic arrival had brought a temporary cessation of bickering, and in the days after he was struck down, the fear that he might die had resulted in a drawing together of the rebels. Once he was on the mend, however, hostilities resumed. He was so venerated by the men that he had more success than had Crowley or Fraser in controlling the quarrelling. He was not a hot-tempered person, but when he was called upon for the fourth time in one day to terminate a violent squabble, his patience ran out. He signalled to Lockerbie, who was always at his side, to call a meeting. The hanging iron bar was struck softly, its gonglike summons bringing an immediate hush. Lockerbie helped Delacourt onto the makeshift table they had wrought, and every eye turned to him.

“You're a damnable pack of rabble,” he told them with a grin.

Laughter rang out.

“We've been lucky with this cave up to now, but I think we should be ready for a quick evacuation—just in case. To that end, I want you to look to your gear. You've all been taking care of your own needs very well, but it would be more efficient had we a list of experts in all the trades. For instance: barbers, farriers, saddlemakers, fishermen, men who know how to make nets, especially; and many other skills. It would be helpful for those of us not familiar with the Highlands, if maps could be drawn up and routes gone over by those who know the area well. I've asked Jock Eldredge, Alec Dermott, and Thaddeus Briley to make lists of the trades each of you can master. Please divide yourselves into groups and report to these gentlemen so that we can learn how much talent we have here.” He waved a dismissing hand, and MacLeod assisted him from the table.

The men began to form up as he had requested, and Sir Ian, curious, wandered over to Delacourt, who had returned to his pallet. “It's something tardy for all that, is it not?” he enquired, seating himself on the makeshift chair.

“Shakespeare said, ‘All our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.'” Delacourt looked at Sir Ian levelly. “To my mind, that is what you Scots have done.” He threw up one hand, smiling as Crowley stiffened, his eyes sparking resentment. “No, do not eat me. I mean no disrespect. God knows I've never seen more courageous fighting men than you breed up here, sir.”

“But…?”

“But your land is cursed by this terrible divisioning—this need to separate into clans that are ruled like so many individual kingdoms.”

“Well—so they are.”

“Sir, that was well enough in past centuries. It will not do now. You are not Clan MacGregor, or Cameron, or MacDonell. You are Scotland!”