The Fiery Cross

  been waging war on germs for thousands of years, without any notion what they were fighting. I knew; that was some slight advantage.

  I began to make a list of the herbs I had on hand, and under each name) all the uses that I knew for that herb-whether I had ever made such use of it or not. Any herb used to treat a septic condition was a possibility-cleansing lacerations, treating mouth sores, treatment of diarrhea and dysentery ... I heard footsteps in the kitchen, and called to Mrs. Bug, wanting her to bring me a kettle of boiling water, so I could set things to steeping at once.

  She appeared in the doorway, her cheeks bright pink from the cold and her hair coming down in untidy wisps from under her kerch, a large basket clutched in her arms. Before I could say anything, she came and plunked the basket down on the counter in front of me. just behind her came her husband, with another basket, and a small open keg, from which came a pungent alcoholic scent. The air around them held a faint ripe smell, like the distant reek of a garbage dump.

  "I did hear ye say as how ye'd not enough mold on hand," she started in, anxious but bright-eyed, "so I said to Arch, I said, we must go round to the

  806 Diana Gabaldon

  houses nearabouts, and see what we can fetch back Ari' us for Mrs. Frase or r' f after all, bread does go bad so quick when it's damp, and the good Lord kens that Mrs. Chisholm is a slattern, for all I'm sure she's a good heart, and what goings-on there may be at her hearth I'm sure I shouldna like even to tbink about, but we-,,

  I wasn't paying attention, but was staring at the results of the Bugs' morning raid on the pantries and middens of the Ridge. Crusts of bread, spoilt biscuit, half-rotted squash, bits of pie with the marks of teeth still visible in the pastry ... a hodgepodge of gluey orts and decaying fragments-all sprouting molds in patches of velvet-blue and lichen-green, interspersed ivith warty blobs of pink and yellow and dustings of splotchy white. The keg was half-filled Nvith decaying corn, the resultant murky liquid rimmed with floating islands of blue mold.

  "Evan Lindsay's pigs," Mr. Bug explained, in a rare burst of loquacity. Both Bugs beamed at me, begrimed with their efforts.

  "Thank you," I said, feeling choked, and not only from the smell. I blinked, eyes watering slightly from the miasma of the corn liquor. "Oh, thank you.))

  IT WAS JUST AFTER DARK when I made my way upstairs, carrying my tray of potions and implements, feeling a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

  Jamie was propped on his pillows, surrounded by visitors. People had been coming by the house all day to see him and wish him well; a good many of them had simply stayed, and a host of anxious faces turned toward me as I came in, glimmering in the light of the candles.

  He looked very ill, flushed and drawn, and I wondered whether I ought to have chased the visitors away. I saw Murdo Lindsay take his hand, though, and squeeze it tight, and realized that the distraction and support of his company through the day was probably much more helpful to him than the rest that he wouldn't have taken in any case.

  "Well, then," Jamie said, with a good assumption of casualness, "we're ready, I suppose." He stretched his legs, flexing his toes hard under the blanket. Given the state of his leg, it must have hurt dreadfully, but I recognized that he Was taking what he thought would be the last opportunity to move the limb, and bit the inside of my lip.

  "Well, we're ready to have a go at something,,, I said, smiling at him with an attempt at confident reassurance. "And anyone who would like to pray about it, please do."

  A rustle Of surprise replaced the air of dread that had been sprung up at my appearance, and I saw Marsali, who was holding a sleeping Joan with one hand, grope hastily in her pocket with the other to pun out her rosary.

  There was a rush to clear the bedside table, which was littered with books, Papers, candle-stubs, various treats brought up to tempt Jamie's appetite-all untouched-and, for some unfathomable reason, the fret-board of a dulcimer and a half-tanned groundhog hide. I set down the tray, and Brianna, who had

  The Fiery Cross 807

  come up with me, stepped forward, her invention careffilly held in both hands, like an acolyte presenting bread to a priest.

  "What in the name of Christ is that?" Jamie frowned at the object, then up ,at me.

  "It's sort of a do-it-yourself rattlesnake," Brianna told him. th the Everyone murmured with interest, craning their necks to see- ough interest was diverted almost at once as I turned back the quilt and began to unxvrap his leg, to a chorus of shocked murmurs and sympathetic exclamations at sight of it. resh, hot onion and flaxseed

  Lizzie and Marsali had been faithfully applying f

  poultices to it all day, and wisps of steam rose from the wrappings as I put them aside. The flesh of his leg was bright red to the knee, at least in those parts that weren't black or seeping with pus. We had removed the maggots temporarily, afraid the heat would kill them; they were presently downstairs on a plate in my surgery, happily occupied with some of the nastier bits of the Bugs' gleanings. If I succeeded in saving the leg, they could help with the tidying-up, later.

  I had carefully gone through the detritus bit by bit, examining the blue molds with my microscope, and putting aside everything that could be identified as bearing Penicillium into a large bowl. Over this miscellaneous collection I had poured the fermented corn liquor, allowing the whole to steep during the dayand with luck, to dissolve any actual raw penicillin from the garbage into the alcoholic liquid.

  Meanwhile, I had made a selection of those herbs with a reputation for the internal treatment of suppurative conditions, and made a stiff decoction of them, steeped in boiling water for several hours. I poured a cup of this highly aromatic solution, and handed it to Roger, careffilly averting my nose.

  "Make him drink it," I said. "All of it," I added pointedly, fixing Jamie with a look.

  Jamie sniffed the proffered cup, and gave me the look back-but obediently sipped, making exaggerated faces for the entertainment of his company, who giggled appreciatively. The mood thus lightened, I proceeded to the main event, turning to take the makeshift hypodermic from Bree.

  The Beardsley twins, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the corner, pressed forward to see, swelling with pride. They had gone out at once at Bree's request, coming back in mid-afternoon with a fine rattlesnake, nearly three feet long-and fortunately dead, having been cut nearly in half with an ax, so as to preserve the valuable head.

  I had dissected out the poison sacs with great caution, detaching the fangs, and then had put Mrs. Bug to the task of rinsing the fangs repeatedly with alcohol, to eradicate any lingering traces of venom.

  Bree had taken the oiled silk that had been used to wrap the astrolabe, and stitched part of it into a small tube, gathering one end of this with a drawstitch, like a purse-string. She had cut a thick segment from a turkey's wingquill, softened with hot water, and used this to join the gathered end of the silk tube to the fang. Melted beeswax had sealed the joints of tube, quill, and fang, and been spread carefully along the line of the stitching, to prevent leakage. It

  808 Diana Gabaldon

  was a nice, neat job-but it did look quite like a small, fat snake with one enormous curved fang, and occasioned no little comment from the spectators. Murdo Lindsay was still holding one of Jamie's hands. As I motioned to Fer-

  gus to hold the candle for me, I saw Jamie reach out the other toward Roger, Roger looked momentarily startled, but grabbed the hand and knelt down by the bed, holding on tight.

  I ran my fingers lightly over the leg, selected a good spot, clear of major blood vessels, swabbed it Aith pure alcohol, and jabbed the fang in, as deeply as I could. There was a gasp from the spectators, and a sharp intake of breath from Jamie, but he didn't move.

  "All right." I nodded at Brianna, who was standing by with the bottle of strained corn-alcohol. Teeth sunk in her lower lip, she poured carchilly, filling the silk tube as I supported it. I folded the open top tightly over, and with thumb and forefinger, firmly pressed downward, forcing
the liquid out through the fang and into the tissues of the leg.

  Jamie made a small, breathless noise, and both Murdo and Roger leaned in ward instinctively, their shoulders pressing against his, holding on.

  I didn't dare go too fast, for fear of cracking the wax seals by exerting too much pressure, though we had a second syringe, made with the other fang, just in case. I worked my way up and down the leg, with Bree refilling the syringe with each injection, and blood rose glistening from the holes as I withdrew the fang, rolling in tiny rivulets down the side of his leg. Without being asked, Lizzie picked up a cloth and blotted it clean, eyes intent on the job.

  The room was silent, but I felt everyone's breath held as I chose a new spot, let out in a sigh as the stab was made-and then the unconscious leaning toward the bed as I squeezed the stinging alcohol deep into the infected tissues. The muscles stood out in knots on Jamie's forearms, and sweat ran down his face like rain, but neither he, nor Murdo, nor Roger made a sound or moved.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Joseph Wemyss stroke back the hair from Jamie's forehead, and Aipe away the sweat from his face and neck with a towel. 'Becausc Ye need me,' he'd said. And I realized then that it wasn't only me that he'd meant.

  It didn't take a long time. When it was done, I spread honey carefully over all the open wounds, and rubbed oil of wintergreen into the skin of foot and calf.

  "That's a nice job of basting, Sassenach. D'ye reckon it's ready for the oven yet?" Jamie asked, and wiggled his toes, causing the tension in

  the room to retax into laughter.

  Everyone did leave, then, patting Jamie's shoulder or kissing his cheek in farewell, with gruff wishes of good luck. He smiled and nodded, lifting his hand in farewell, exchanging goodbyes, making small jokes.

  When the door closed behind the last of them, he lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes, letting all his breath out in a long, deep sigh. I set about tidying my tray, setting the syringe to soak in alcohol, corking bottles, folding bandages. Then I sat down beside him, and he reached out a hand to me, not opening his eyes.

  His skin was warm and dry, the hand reddened from Murdo's fierce grip. I

  The Fiery Cross 809

  iced his knuckles gently with my thumb, listening to the rumble and clatter r the house below, subdued but lively. L41 know it will."

  "It will work," I said soft1y7 after a minute.

  A1 know," he said. He took a deep breath, and at last, began to weep.

  NEW BLOOD

  f a black -and dreamless sleep. He OGER WOKE ABRUPTLY, out 0

  felt like a landed fish, jerked gasping into an alien and unimagined element. He saw but did not grasp his surroundings; strange light and r

  ened surfaces. Then his mind made sense of Brianna's touch on his arm, ttent

  -h he was once more inside his skin, and in a bed. e

  t, "Hwh?" He sat up suddenly, making a hoarse noise of inquiry.

  "I'm sorry to wake you." Brianna smiled, but a line of concern drew her "I'n

  S together as her eyes searched his face. She smoothed the tangled hair Ws

  I*k from his brow, and he reached for her by reflex, falling back against the Oow with her heavy in his arms.

  reality-solid flesh and warm skin, "HV'Im.l Holding her was an anchor to

  her hair soft as dreams against his face. pie , "Okay?" she asked softly. Long fingers touched his chest and his nip ,Puckered, curly hairs around it rising. e kissed her forehead briefly, and re:, "Okay," he said, and sighed deeply. H his mouth felt sticky, but he 'taxed, blinking. His throat was dry as sand, and

  was beginning to think coherently again. "Whatime ist)" He was in his own ),h in the room to be evening, but that was because bed, and it was dim enoug

  the door was closed and the windows covered. Something felt wrong about the tight, the air.

  She pushed herself up Off him, sweeping back the fall of red hair with one hand.

  have waked V up, but there's a man, "It's a little past noon. I wouldn't OU

  e direction of the and I don't know what to do about him." She glanced in th

  big house, and lowered her voice, though surely no one was near enough to hear her. too," she said, confirming this impression. -Da's sound asleep, and Mama, he smiled briefly one corner of "I don't want to wake them-even if I could." S

  her long Mouth cnrling up with her father's irony. "it would take gunpowder, I think. They're dead to the world." table. The sound Of waShe turned away and reached for the pitcher on the d he drained the ter pouring fell on Roger's ears like rain on parched land, an

  offered cup in three gulps and held it out again.

  8-10 Diana Gabaldon

  "More. Please. Man?" That was an improvement; he was making complete words again, and his capacity to think coherently was coming back.

  "He says his name is Thomas Christie. He's come to see Da; he says he was at Ardsmuir.-

  "Yeah?" Roger drank the second cup more slowly, assembling his thoughts. Then he put down the cup and swung his legs out of bed, reaching for the disrom the peg. "Okay. Tell him I'll be there in a minute." carded shirt that hung f

  She kissed him briefly and left, pausing long enough to untack the hide over the window and let in a brilliant shaft of light and chilly air.

  He dressed slowly, his mind still pleasantly torpid. As he bent to dredge his stockings out from under the bed,

  though, some-thing in the tumbled bed clothes caught his eye, just under the edge of the pillow. He reached out slowly and picked it up. The "auld wifie"-the tiny fertility charm, its ancient pink stone smooth in the sun,

  surprisingly heavy in his hand.

  "I will be damned," he said, aloud. He stood staring at it for a moment, then bent and tucked it gently back beneath the pillow.

  BRIANNA HAD PUT the visitor in Jamie's study-what most of the tenants still called the speak-a-word room. Roger stopped for a moment in the corridor, checking to be sure all his bodily parts were present and attached. There hadn't been time to shave, but he'd combed his hair; there was a limit to what this Christie might expect, under the circumstances.

  Three faces turned toward the door as he came in, surprising him. Bree hadn't thought to warn him that Christie had outriders. Still, the elder man, a square-set gentleman with trimly cut black hair streaked with gray, was obviously Thomas Christie; the dark-haircd younger man was no more than twenty and just as obviously Christie's son.

  "Mr. Christie?" He offered the older man his hand. "I'm Roger MacKenzieI'm married to Jamie Fraser's daughter-you,ve met my wif I e,

  Christie looked mildly surprised, and looked over Rog I think."

  though expecting Jamie to materialize behind him. Roger clea er's shoulder, as red his throat; his voice was still thick from sleep, and thus even more hoarse than it usually was.

  "I'm afraid my father-in-law is ... not available at present. Could I be of service to you?-

  Christie frowned at him, assessing his potential, then nodded slowly. He took Roger's hand, and shook it firmly. To his astonishment, Roger f

  thing both familiar and grossly unexpected; the distinctive pressure a elt someknuckle of a Masonic greeting. He had not experienced that in years, gainst his more reflex than reason that caused him to respond with what h and it was

  e hoped was the proper Countersign. Evidently it was satisf

  actory; Christies severe expression eased slightly, and he let go.

  "Perhaps ye may, Mr. MacKenzie, perhaps ye may," Christie said. He fixed a piercing gaze on Roger. "I wish to find land on which to settle with my familYand I was told that Mr. Fraser might feel himself in a position to put something suitable in my way.- - Roger replied cautiously. wb,,t tb, bell? he "That might be possible,

  oss 811 The Fiery Cr

  ght. Had Christie just been trying it on at a venture, or had he reason to ct that sign would be recognized? If he did-that presumably meant that knew Jamie Fraser would recognize it, and thought his son-in-law might, asr />
  . Jamie Fraser, a Freemason? The thought had never so much as crossed Set's mind, and Jamie himself had certainly never spoken of it.

  visitors. Christie's "Please-do sit down," he said abruptly, motioning to the

  e son and a girl who might be either Christie's daughter or the son's -had risen as well when Roger came in, standing behind the paterfamilias attendants behind some visiting potentate.

  Feeling more than slightly self-conscious, Roger waved them back to their Is, and sat down himself behind Jamie's desk. He plucked one of the quills m.the blue salt-glazed jar, hoping this would make him seem more busi. Christ, what questions ought he to ask a potential tenant?

  i"Now, then, Mr. Christie." He smiled at them, conscious of his unshaven . "My wife says that you were acquainted with my father-in-law, in Scotland)" "In Ardsmuir prison," Christie answered, darting Roger a sharp look, as ugh daring him to make something of this.

  Roger cleared his throat again; healed as it was, it tended still to be clogged *hd rasping for some time after rising. Christie appeared to take it as an adverse iornment, however, and bristled slightly. He had thick brows and prominent IS of a light yeltowish-brown color, and this, coupled with feathery, closeIipped dark hair and the lack of any visible neck, gave him the aspect of a large, scible owl.

  "Jamie Fraser was a prisoner there as well," he said. "Surely ye knew as inuch?"

  "Why, yes," Roger said mildly. "I understand that several of the men who are Settled here on the Ridge came from Ardsmuir."

  ."Who?" Christie demanded, increasing the owlish impression.

  "Ah ... the Lindsays-that's Kenny, Murdo, and Evan," Roger said, rubbing a hand over his brow to assist thought. "Geordie Chisholm and Robert MacLeod. I think-yes, I'm fairly sure Alex MacNeill was from Ardsmuir, too."

  Christie had been following this list with close attention, like a barn owl keeping track of a rustling in the hay. Now he relaxed, settling his feathers, as Roger thought.

  "I know them," he said, with an air of satisfaction, "MacNeill will vouch for my character if that's needful." His tone strongly suggested that it shouldn't be. Roger had never seen Jamie interview a potential tenant, but he had heard

  Fraser talk to Claire about the ones he chose. Accordingly, he posed a few questions regarding Christie's more recent past, trying to balance courtesy with an attitude of authority, and-he thought-managing it none too badly.

  Christie had been transported with the other prisoners, he said, but had been fortunate in having his indenture purchased by a plantation owner in South Carolina, who upon finding that Christie possessed some learning, had made him schoolmaster to his own six children, taking fees from the nearby families for the privilege of sending their children also to be tutored by Christie. Once Christie's term of indenture had expired, he had agreed to remain, working for wages.

  "Really?" Roger said, his interest in Christie increasing markedly. A school-

  812 Diana Gabaldon

  master, eh? It would please Bree no end, to be able to resign her involuntary position as what she disparagingly termed Bo-peep. And Christie looked more than capable of dealing with intransigent scholars. "What brings you here, then, Mr. Christie? It's some way from South Carolina."

  The man shrugged broad shoulders. He was road-worn and quite dusty, but his coat was of decent cloth, and he had sound shoes.

  "My wife died," he said gruffly. "Of the influenza. So did Mr. Everett3 the owner. His heir did not require my services, and I did not wish to remain there without employment." He shot Roger a piercing took under shaggy brows. "You said Mr. Fraser is not available. How long will it be until his return?"

  "I couldn't say." Roger tapped the end of the quill against his teeth, hesitating. In fact, he couldn't say how long Jamie might be inca acitated; when seen p

  last night, he'd looked barely alive. Even if he recovered uneventfully, he could be ill for some time. And he hated to send Christie away or make him wait; it was late in the year, and not much time to spare, if the man and his family were to be settled for the winter.

  He glanced from Christie to his son. Both sizable men, and strong, from the looks of them. Neither had the look of a drunkard or a lout, and both had the callused palms that bespoke at least familiarity with manual labor. They had a woman to look after their domestic requirements. And after all, Masonic brotherhood quite aside, Christie had been one of Jamie's Ardsmuir men. He knew that Jamie always made a special effort to find such men a place.

  Making a decision, Roger pulled out a clean sheet of paper and uncapped the inkwell. He cleared his throat once more.

  "Very well, Mr. Christie. I think we can reach some ... accommodation." To his pleased surprise, the study door opened, and Brianna came in, carrying a tray of biscuits and beer. She cast down her eyes modestly as she set it on the desk, but he caught the flash of amusement she sent him under her lashes. He bent his head, smiling, and touched her wrist lightly in acknowledgment as she set out the