Dougal MacKenzie had died before Ian was born, but he’d heard a good bit about the man, one way and another. His mouth twitched.
“Would ye care to pass on any of it?”
“God, no.” Jamie stood up and brushed bits of bark from the tails of his coat. “I think ye already ken ye should be gentle about it, aye?”
“Aye, I’d thought of that,” Ian assured him. “Nothing else?”
“Aye, well.” Jamie stood still, considering. “The only useful thing was what my wife told me on the night. ‘Go slowly and pay attention.’ I think ye canna go far wrong wi’ that.” He settled his coat on his shoulders. “Oidhche mhath, Ian. I’ll see ye at first light—if not somewhat before.”
“Oidhche mhath, Uncle Jamie.”
As Jamie reached the edge of the clearing, Ian called after him.
“Uncle Jamie!”
Jamie turned to look over his shoulder.
“Aye?”
“And was she gentle with ye?”
“God, no,” Jamie said, and grinned broadly.
CASTRAMETATION
THE SUN WAS LOW in the sky by the time William reached Clinton’s camp, and lower still before he’d turned Goth over to Sutherland’s grooms. Zeb was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he was with Colenso.
He delivered his cartouche of dispatches to Captain von Munchausen, saw the company clerk, and found the tent he shared with two other young captains, both of the 27th Foot. Randolph Merbling was sitting outside, reading by the last of the sun, but there was no sign of Thomas Evans—nor of Colenso Baragwanath. Nor of Zebedee Jeffers. Nor of William’s baggage.
He breathed for a moment, then shook himself like a dog shedding water. He was so tired of being angry that he just couldn’t be arsed anymore. He shrugged, borrowed a towel from Merbling, washed his face, and went to find a bite to eat.
He’d made up his mind not to think about anything whatever until he’d had some food and largely succeeded, letting roast chicken, bread, cheese, and beer fill at least some of his empty spaces. As he finished, though, a sudden sharp image punctured his pleasant digestive reverie. A flushed, pretty face, with wary eyes the exact color of the cider he was drinking.
Jane. Bloody hell! What with one thing and another, he’d quite forgotten the whore and her sister. He’d told them to meet him at the surgeon’s tent at sundown. . . . Well, the sun wasn’t down yet. He was on his feet and on his way, but then had a second thought and, going back to the cook, wangled a couple of loaves and some cheese, just in case.
Castrametation was the science of laying out a proper military camp. Drainage, sanitary trenches, where to put the powder depot to avoid flooding if it rained . . . He’d had a brief course in it once. He’d likely never need to do it himself, but it did help in locating things, if you knew where they were supposed to be. And when in camp, the hospital was meant to be on the opposite side from command headquarters, close to water but on a height, if one was available.
One was, and he found the large green-canvas tent without difficulty. Could have found it with his eyes closed. Surgeons carried the smell of their work around with them, and the whiff of dried blood and the uneasy tang of sickness and recent death were perceptible at a hundred yards. It was worse—much worse—after a battle, but there was always illness and accident, and the stink lingered even on peaceful days, aggravated now by the muggy heat that lay like a wet blanket over the camp.
There were men, and not a few women, clustered round the tent, waiting for attention. He gave them a quick glance, but didn’t see Jane. His heart had sped up a little at thought of seeing her, and he felt unaccountably disappointed. No reason why, he told himself. She and her sister would be nothing but trouble to him. They must have grown tired waiting, and—
“You’re very late, my lord,” said an accusatory voice at his elbow, and he whirled round to see her looking down her nose at him—as well as someone who was shorter than he could do, which wasn’t very well. He found himself smiling down at her, absurdly.
“I said sundown,” he replied mildly, nodding toward the west, where a thin slice of brilliance still glowed through the trees. “Not down yet, is it?”
“The sun takes a bloody long time to go down out here.” She switched her disapproval to the orb in question. “It’s much faster in the city.”
Before he could argue with this ridiculous assertion, she’d glanced back at him, frowning.
“Why aren’t you wearing your gorget?” she demanded, hands on her hips. “I went to a deal of trouble to get it back for you!”
“I’m exceedingly grateful to you, ma’am,” he said, striving for gravity. “I thought it might provoke inquiries, though, should I turn up suddenly in the midst of camp wearing it, and I thought you and your sister might just possibly wish to avoid . . . tedious explanations?”
She sniffed, but not without amusement.
“How thoughtful. Not quite so thoughtful of your servants, though, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come with me.” She linked her arm with his and towed him off toward the wood before he could protest. She led him to a small lean-to shelter in the undergrowth, which seemed to have been constructed of an unstuffed army bed sack and two petticoats. Bending down at her invitation, he discovered her sister, Fanny, within, sitting next to a bed sack that had been stuffed with fresh grass, upon which crouched both Colenso and Zeb, both looking bewildered. On sight of him, they crouched further.