Read Online Follow the River by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom - Free Book Online
Authors: JAMES ALEXANDER Thom
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chieftain let a suggestion of a grim smile move the corner of his mouth.
But in the meantime, there was Bettie to be taken care of.
“Medicine leaves,” Mary repeated.
“Mo-ther go there, be still,” the chieftain ordered, pointing to Bettie and the children.
“Please, Mist …”
“There.”
And so the prisoners huddled together near the mouth of the cave and watched the Indians build two fires, a large one and a smaller one. The warriors rigged a wooden frame over each fire. They hung a small kettle over the smaller fire and the big kettle over the larger fire. They brought vessels of water and filled the kettles. The Indians had built and managed the fires so that they were virtually smokeless, and the little smoke that did rise from them flowed up a natural draft out of the cave mouth and up the face of the cliff.
Mary did not express her fears to Bettie or Henry. Perhaps those or similar fears were haunting them already. But to talk of them would only worsen the fright that was already as much as they could bear in dignity. Mary settled the childrenside by side in a niche floored with soft, dusty earth, and told them to take a nap before supper. It was like a down mattress compared with the flinty cliff-top of the first night’s camp, and the boys’ eyes grew heavy immediately and they fell into a sound sleep. God be merciful, Mary thought. If they’re to be murdered, let it be in their sleep so’s they won’t see it coming. Then she turned to the care of Bettie’s arm. Being careful not to unsettle the position of the bones, she untied the knots in the splint’s bindings and laid back the sticks. “Some nice, for a riggin’ done blind,” observed Henry Lenard with satisfaction as he knelt and helped. “We can make a better, though, with some o’ them sticks yonder.”
“Aye,” Mary said. “But I don’t care f’r th’ looks o’ that flesh.” The edges of the wound were swollen and were issuing a mass of greenish-white pus. There were bits of dirt and bark, even some dead gnats, in the pus, the result of their having dressed the wound by feel in the darkness. Mary knelt close, straining over her own massive, hurting belly, and sniffed the wound. The baby within her kicked, as if demanding more room. “Not stinkin’ a whole lot yet. How’s it feel, Bet?”
“Hurts somethin’ unspeakable. An’ itches.”
“Well, by the Eternal, if these savages have got no humanity to a sick woman, I sh’ll … Got to clean that. Raise up there, darlin’. I need your apron.” She removed it, then rose with a wheeze and stood. She went dizzy, and had to grope for a handhold on a boulder. Her vision cleared. She carried the apron straight to the small kettle and, before any warrior could move to stop her, dipped it into the boiling water. She raised it out steaming and, tossing it from hand to hand to avoid scalding herself, carried it back to Bettie’s side and stooped. “Hot, now,” she said. “Don’t jerk your arm.” And, deftly folding it into a pad, she laid it on the suppurating wound and held it there snug with her palms. Bettie lurched at the contact of the heat, but she kept the arm still.
“Oh, merciful God,” she groaned. “Thankee, Mary. Oh, I feel it’s helpin’. Oh, leave it there. Oh, I feel it’s just a-pullin’ that corruption out …”
Mary gathered herself to rise. “Got to rinse it hot again.” She swabbed the wound gently as she took the cloth away.
The chieftain stood between her and the kettle, frowning. “ ’Scuse me, Mister,” she muttered, going around him. But he grabbed her arm and held her back.
“You not do,” he said. “See this.” He nodded to a warrior who stood over the kettle with an armful of various leaves and strips of green bark. As he spilled them into the boiling water, Mary recognized some of the plants as comfrey. “Go be still,” the chieftain said, shoving her back toward the other captives.
Mary hardly dared to hope.
But in the meantime, there was Bettie to be taken care of.
“Medicine leaves,” Mary repeated.
“Mo-ther go there, be still,” the chieftain ordered, pointing to Bettie and the children.
“Please, Mist …”
“There.”
And so the prisoners huddled together near the mouth of the cave and watched the Indians build two fires, a large one and a smaller one. The warriors rigged a wooden frame over each fire. They hung a small kettle over the smaller fire and the big kettle over the larger fire. They brought vessels of water and filled the kettles. The Indians had built and managed the fires so that they were virtually smokeless, and the little smoke that did rise from them flowed up a natural draft out of the cave mouth and up the face of the cliff.
Mary did not express her fears to Bettie or Henry. Perhaps those or similar fears were haunting them already. But to talk of them would only worsen the fright that was already as much as they could bear in dignity. Mary settled the childrenside by side in a niche floored with soft, dusty earth, and told them to take a nap before supper. It was like a down mattress compared with the flinty cliff-top of the first night’s camp, and the boys’ eyes grew heavy immediately and they fell into a sound sleep. God be merciful, Mary thought. If they’re to be murdered, let it be in their sleep so’s they won’t see it coming. Then she turned to the care of Bettie’s arm. Being careful not to unsettle the position of the bones, she untied the knots in the splint’s bindings and laid back the sticks. “Some nice, for a riggin’ done blind,” observed Henry Lenard with satisfaction as he knelt and helped. “We can make a better, though, with some o’ them sticks yonder.”
“Aye,” Mary said. “But I don’t care f’r th’ looks o’ that flesh.” The edges of the wound were swollen and were issuing a mass of greenish-white pus. There were bits of dirt and bark, even some dead gnats, in the pus, the result of their having dressed the wound by feel in the darkness. Mary knelt close, straining over her own massive, hurting belly, and sniffed the wound. The baby within her kicked, as if demanding more room. “Not stinkin’ a whole lot yet. How’s it feel, Bet?”
“Hurts somethin’ unspeakable. An’ itches.”
“Well, by the Eternal, if these savages have got no humanity to a sick woman, I sh’ll … Got to clean that. Raise up there, darlin’. I need your apron.” She removed it, then rose with a wheeze and stood. She went dizzy, and had to grope for a handhold on a boulder. Her vision cleared. She carried the apron straight to the small kettle and, before any warrior could move to stop her, dipped it into the boiling water. She raised it out steaming and, tossing it from hand to hand to avoid scalding herself, carried it back to Bettie’s side and stooped. “Hot, now,” she said. “Don’t jerk your arm.” And, deftly folding it into a pad, she laid it on the suppurating wound and held it there snug with her palms. Bettie lurched at the contact of the heat, but she kept the arm still.
“Oh, merciful God,” she groaned. “Thankee, Mary. Oh, I feel it’s helpin’. Oh, leave it there. Oh, I feel it’s just a-pullin’ that corruption out …”
Mary gathered herself to rise. “Got to rinse it hot again.” She swabbed the wound gently as she took the cloth away.
The chieftain stood between her and the kettle, frowning. “ ’Scuse me, Mister,” she muttered, going around him. But he grabbed her arm and held her back.
“You not do,” he said. “See this.” He nodded to a warrior who stood over the kettle with an armful of various leaves and strips of green bark. As he spilled them into the boiling water, Mary recognized some of the plants as comfrey. “Go be still,” the chieftain said, shoving her back toward the other captives.
Mary hardly dared to hope.
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