Ashes (8 page)

I stuffed moss in my ears and tried to sleep.

For three nights we passed through a pine barren, an eerie, stinking landscape of enormous, scarred trees that wept tears of sap. We came across a friendly chap there, name of Huntly, who had liberated himself and his wife from a farm in Georgia after the Savannah battles. He was living rough, earning a bit of coin by collecting pine sap and tending the tar-burning kilns, which gave the air its stink. His wife lay buried by a laurel tree with their baby boy, born dead after his mother labored three days and nights to bring him into the world. Huntly said his wife died of a broken heart hours later.

He offered to trade us an old axe for Nancy Chicken. We turned him down but gave him that day's egg, which he enjoyed mightily. Using a stick, he scratched out a map in the sand to show us the safest way through the rest of the barren, detouring us around a collection of unsavory folk. Then he offered to marry me, should I be so inclined to stop my journeying.

I thanked him politely and declined his offer.

O
NE OF THE MEANS OF PREVENTING INTERMITTENT [FEVERS] IS
WARMTH
.
P
ERMIT ME TO RECOMMEND IT TO YOUR WHOLE FAMILY, IN CLOTHING, BED CLOTHES, AND IN LARGE AND CONSTANT FIRES.

–L
ETTER FROM
D
R
. B
ENJAMIN
R
USH TO
A
BIGAIL
A
DAMS

W
EEKS OF HARD TRAVEL HAD
weakened and wearied us all. Ruth had been limping for days on account of a twisted ankle; though, of course, she would not let me tend to her. Curzon had a ragged cough, and my bowels had declared rebellion. Added to all that misery was Aberdeen, that half-witted looby, that fool slubberdegullion, who had begun to doubt our course. He suddenly wanted us to head west, away from the war and everything that wanted to chase us. He and Curzon argued the merits and weaknesses of his plan ceaselessly, dogs scrapping over a meatless bone.

I feared that if Aberdeen left, Ruth would follow him, but I knew that the scrawny lad would more likely listen to Curzon than to me. I strode ahead on the path, my gaze flitting from tree to tree like a sparrow, hoping to spot an apple tree heavy with ripe fruit. I fought a yawn and lost. Curzon had taken to making each day's journey longer and our time for sleeping shorter. 'Twas another sign of how anxious he was to be quit of us.

“Ruth!” Aberdeen suddenly yelled.

I spun around. The boys were kneeling next to Ruth's twitching form, sprawled on the ground. She'd been seized by a fit.

I ran as fast as I could, cursing myself with every step for walking too far in front. By the time I got there, the fit had ended. Ruth lay still, eyes closed, her breath coming regular. I saw no blood nor sign that she'd hurt herself in the fall. If she were still a child, I'd have cradled her head in my lap and spoken quiet and sweet to her until she'd come back to herself. Fits confuddled and sometimes alarmed her. But I hung back, unsure of how she would react to me. It was Aberdeen who brushed the leaves from her kerchief and cupped his hands around her face, her eyes still closed.

He looked up at me in horror. “She's burning up!”

  *  *  *  

We made camp right there.

At first it just seemed a pestilent fever. Ruth slept deeply but woke if pinched hard on the neck. Each time I roused her, Aberdeen or Curzon would get her to drink water until she slipped back into sleep. She had a few more shaking fits but never opened her eyes. Her body gave off the sour smell of illness, as if the fever were slowly burning its way through her. She slept an unnatural sleep all that night and the day after that.

This was my fault, all of it.

I should have stayed by her side no matter how much it vexed her. I should have slowed the pace of the journey. No wonder Ruth couldn't abide me. I was a wretched, impatient, horrid sister. I knelt next to her, bowed my head, and prayed without cease, but it did not seem to help.

At dawn we moved her to an abandoned shack near a stream. It was more of a hovel than a shack: three leaning log walls with a few roof beams but no roof, and a fire pit instead of a proper hearth and chimney. The boys engineered a sort of roof by laying densely leaved ash and oak branches over the beams. I covered the far corner of the hovel with pine needles and dry leaves and then spread a blanket on top of it all so Ruth could lie in a spot both soft and dry.

She did not notice. The fever had pulled her down to insensibility. She lay like a rag doll, not moving at all if pinched.

After some discussion we left Aberdeen to keep watch over her whilst Curzon and I scouted a bit farther afield, both to measure the safety of the place and to look for food. He looped around and around the hovel in ever-growing circles and found no sign of other people. I moved back and forth between the stream and the hovel, bringing water, wild grapes, and a handful of grubs for Nancy Chicken.

On the last trip I ranged as far upstream as I dared and was rewarded with the blessed sight of a willow tree. Willow bark could bring down a fever and strengthen the sick.

Thank you, Lord
, I prayed as I cut the slim branches.
Thank you for your protection and wisdom and guidance. Thank you for this wonderful tree and that remarkable shack. Please forgive my . . . well, forgive me for everything that I've done wrong, including ending this prayer in haste. Ruth needs me. Amen.

Aberdeen had a fire going by the time I returned.

“Any change?” I asked as I scraped the bark from the twigs.

He shook his head sorrowfully. “She hasn't even moved.”

“Are
you
feeling feverish?” I asked him. “Pain in the belly? Does your head hurt?”

“Don't worry about me,” he said. “I can take care of myself.”

He watched as I brewed a pot of willow bark tea, then tried to get some of it into Ruth. She would not wake enough to swallow. I dared not pour it into her mouth for fear she would choke.

“Seems like we might be here awhile,” he said.

“Nay,” I lied, trying to mask my fear. “She'll be on her feet again tomorrow.”

He looked at me for a long moment without speaking. A fever that came on this hard and fast could be fatal; everybody knew that.
I might lose her again. I might lose her for good.

“A wash-down always makes a sick person feel better,” I said hoarsely. “Can you fetch more wood for the fire?”

Soon as Aberdeen left, I tore a strip off the bottom of my shift, dunked it in the cooling tea, then gently washed Ruth's face. The rag was quickly stained with weeks of dirt and sweat. I rinsed the rag, then cleaned her neck. Heated more water, then washed her arms and her hands.

Aberdeen returned, built up the fire, and fetched more water. Once it was ready, I untied and pulled off her left boot. Her foot smelled hideous. It was so filthy that it required another two pots of water to clean it proper.

Curzon looked in. “Wouldn't it be easier if we carried her to the stream and washed her there?”

I shook my head. “The shock of the cold would harm her. Sick bodies require comfort and moderation in all things.”

Sick bodies require proper bed rest
, I thought,
covered with clean blankets and under a proper roof.

I pulled on the reins in my brainpan to stop the progress of my thoughts. It would do no good to stray into melancholy or to fuss about the things we did not have or could not do. I set a fresh pot of water on the fire to warm, then unlaced Ruth's right boot. It refused to slip off as easily as its mate had. In fact, it was necessary to fully loosen the laces and tug hard as I could. Before I could wonder at the cause of this, the boot finally came off.

I dropped it with a gasp and clapped my hand over my mouth in horror. The stench of death filled the air.

W
HEN A WOUND IS GREATLY INFLAMED, THE MOST PROPER APPLICATION IS A POULTICE OF BREAD AND MILK, SOFTENED WITH A LITTLE SWEET OIL OR FRESH BUTTER.

–
D
OMESTIC
M
EDICINE
, B
Y
D
R
. W
ILLIAM
B
UCHAN, 1769

C
URZON AND ABERDEEN RUSHED IN
. I pointed.

Aberdeen gagged and hurried outside.

“Dear Lord,” Curzon murmured.

Ruth's heel was cut open with an ugly, festering wound. The foot and the ankle were swollen and hot. Injuries such as this could be as fatal as musketballs and cannon fire.

“How did it happen?” I asked.

“Four days ago I caught her walking barefooted again,” he said. “Only noticed on account of she was limping.”

“You didn't tell me? You didn't think to check her feet?”

“I told her to put her boots on, and that was that.” He glanced at the wound again and rubbed his hand over his head. “That must have hurt like the Devil. She's a tough one.” He paused and motioned for me to follow him outside.

I went reluctantly, afraid of his next words.

The three of us stood around the small fire.

“You know what we must do,” Curzon said.

The thought of it sickened me. I shook my head furiously. “We can't.”

“We must,” Aberdeen said. “That foot smells of poison. Only one way to cure it.”

Curzon pulled his knife from his belt and set the blade in the fire. “We've got to burn it out.”

“Nay.” I shook my head again. “I won't allow it.”

“You want to see her dead?” he asked.

“Of course not.” I wrapped my hand in the bottom of my skirt, snatched the knife from the fire, and dropped it in the dirt. “But I know better than you what the pain of fire can do to a person. She's already terrible weak. It could kill her.”

Curzon studied me hard, then dropped his eyes to the knife. He'd been in that crowd outside the court in New York. He'd witnessed everything I suffered the day they marked me.

“But–” Aberdeen started.

“Hush,” Curzon said. “This is for Isabel to decide.”

“We'll try it my way first,” I said. “Just for today. But I'll need your help. She'll fight me.”

As I heated another pot of water with willow bark, Curzon found a supple oak stick as big around as his finger. I tore another wide strip off the bottom of my shift, ripped it into three rags, and boiled them in the pot. As I lifted the first one out with the handle of my hatchet, Curzon placed the stick in Ruth's mouth, giving her something to bite upon. She stirred but did not wake. Aberdeen followed my directions and crouched to hold Ruth's legs. Curzon put his hands on her shoulders.

“Ready?” I asked.

They nodded.

I said a quick prayer, then pressed the hot poultice against the festering cut.

Ruth awoke with a strangled scream.

The boys gripped her tight. I quickly wiped away the dirt, pus, and blood. She screamed so loud, I thought my ears would burst. I dashed out of the hut and pulled the next steaming rag from the pot. I waved it quick to let it cool a bit, but not too much, for we needed the heat to draw out the poison. The boys had been talking to her the whole time, explaining the circumstances and begging her to be strong.

I dared not look her in the face for fear that it would weaken my resolve. Folding the rag, I pressed it against the cut hard enough to force out more blood and pus.

Ruth shrieked, arching her back, then collapsed into blessed unconsciousness. I took advantage of this and pressed the hot rags even harder, until the wound wept only blood and her foot was as clean as possible. Aberdeen staggered outside to retch and was a long time in returning.

That evening Curzon again scouted the area as the sun was setting, to make sure our hiding place was still secure. The two boys slept outside. I lay alongside Ruth but could not sleep. I held her as she shook with fits and with fever, then rocked her gentle side to side, quietly asking her to forgive me, telling her how much I loved her, and begging her not to die. Every time the poultice on her heel cooled, I fetched a hot one.