He made a shocked, strangled sort of noise, and Jamie gasped but didn’t drop the mirror.
There are not many things in the world slipperier than a wet eyeball. I tried to squeeze as lightly as I could, but there was no help for it; a light pressure merely allowed the eyeball to pop out of my fingers like an oiled grape. I clenched my teeth and tried again, gripping harder.
On the fourth try, I managed to get a sufficient grip as to allow me to try to rotate the eyeball in its socket. I didn’t quite manage it, but at least got a better idea of how it might go.
Five minutes later, John was trembling like a blancmange, hands clenched tight on the rails of the cot, Jamie was praying under his breath in Gaelic, and all three of us were drenched with sweat.
“Once more,” I said, drawing breath and wiping sweat from my chin with the back of my hand. I rinsed my fingers again. “If I can’t get it this time, we’ll have a rest and try again later.”
“Oh, God,” said John. He closed both eyes briefly, swallowed hard, and opened them as wide as he could. Both eyes were watering badly, and tears washed down his temples.
I felt Jamie move slightly next to me. He refocused the mirror—but I saw that he had also moved nearer to the cot, so that his leg pressed against the rail, just next to John’s gripping fingers. I wiggled my wet fingers in preparation, said a brief prayer to St. Claire, patron of sore eyes, and thrust my fingers as deeply into the socket as I could manage.
By this time, I had a very clear mental image of the fracture, a dark line beneath the torn conjunctiva, and the line of the inferior rectus muscle wedged into it. I twisted, a short, sharp jerk, before my fingers slipped—and felt the muscle pop free. John shuddered the full length of his body and gave a little moan.
“Glory be,” I said, and laughed from sheer relief. There was a little blood—not much—on my fingers, and I wiped them on my apron. Jamie flinched and looked away.
“Now what?” he asked, carefully not looking at John.
“Now what—Oh.” I considered that one for a moment, then shook my head.
“He has to lie down for several hours with the eye covered—a day or two, ideally. If Germain finds me some honey, I’ll lubricate the eye socket with a bit of it, to prevent adhesion.”
“I mean,” Jamie said patiently, “does he require to be kept under a doctor’s care?”
“Not all the time,” I said, surveying John critically. “Someone—me, I mean—needs to check the eye every so often, but there’s really nothing else to be done for it; the swelling and bruises will take care of themselves. Why? What were you planning to do with him?”
Jamie made a small gesture of frustration.
“I would hand him over to Washington’s staff for interrogation,” he said. “But—”
“But I surrendered to you personally,” John said helpfully. He glanced at me out of his working eye. “That means I’m his responsibility.”
“Aye, thank ye for that,” Jamie muttered, giving him an irritable look.
“Well, you aren’t going to tell him anything useful, either, are you?” I asked, putting a hand on John’s forehead. Slightly warm, but no gross fever. “Such as the nature of the relations between yourself and the recent Mr. Beauchamp?”
Jamie gave a brief snort.
“I ken fine what his relations are wi’ that wee sodomite,” he said bluntly. He gave John a piercing stare. “Ye dinna mean to tell me what he’s doing here, do ye?”
“No,” John said cheerfully. “Though it almost certainly wouldn’t help you if I did.”
Jamie nodded, having evidently expected nothing better, and rose with an air of decision.
“Well, then. I’ve work to do, and so have you, Sassenach. Wait here for Germain, if ye will, and when ye’ve finished with the honey, tell Germain he’s to be in charge of his lordship. He’s no to leave his lordship under any circumstances, save you or I tell him he may—and should Monsieur Beauchamp pay another call, Germain is to be present at any conversation. He speaks French verra fluently,” he advised John. “And should ye think of attempting to subvert my grandson’s loyalty—”
“Sir!” John said, looking shocked at the mere idea.
“Mmphm,” Jamie said darkly, and left.
THE MULE DISLIKES YOU
I DIDN’T KNOW QUITE what to say to John, in the wake of recent events. He seemed similarly at a loss, but coped with the social awkwardness by closing his eyes and pretending to be asleep. I couldn’t leave him until Germain got back with the honey—assuming he found any, but I had a fair amount of faith in his abilities.
Well, no point in sitting about with my hands folded. I took out my mortar and pestle and set to work grinding gentian root and garlic for antibiotic ointment. This occupied my hands, but unfortunately not my mind, which was scampering in circles like a hamster on a wheel.
I had two main anxieties at the moment, one of which I could do nothing about: that being the escalating sense of oncoming battle. I knew it very well; I couldn’t be mistaken. Jamie hadn’t told me explicitly, perhaps because he hadn’t had written orders yet—but I knew as clearly as if it had been shouted by a town crier. The army would move soon.
I stole a glance at John, who lay like a tomb effigy, hands neatly crossed at his waist. All it wanted was a small dog curled up at his feet. Rollo, snoring under the cot, would have to do, I supposed.
John, of course, was the other anxiety. I had no idea how he’d come to be where he was, but enough people had seen him surrender that his presence would be common knowledge by nightfall. And once it was . . .