WHISKY
Morgan had a sense of being lifted and put down onto a hard surface. He tried to sit up, fighting the drowsiness that threatened to swamp him. “It’s…it’s im…imper…ative I explain to Glenheath,” he stammered.
Strong hands pressed on his shoulders, easing him down. “Lie still, laddie. I’m listening.”
Hands gripped his injured arm…surely they weren’t going to touch…“Shite,” he yelled though gritted teeth as pain exploded. “Stop that.”
Something blessedly cool soothed his forehead, followed by the caress of warm lips. He tried to swallow but had no saliva. “Hannah? Where am I? What’s happening?”
“’Tis a crofter’s cottage in the hills above the Gairn. Bouchmorale is too far away. He has to look at your fingers, Morgan, my love.”
The cool air on his hand came as a relief—for ten seconds. “Is he a doctor? Where did you find a doctor? In Gairn?” A terrifying thought rattled him. “It’s not Peabody, is it? Don’t let that butcher near me. He’ll insist on taking off my whole arm.”
She cradled his face and kissed him, on the lips this time. “Hush, it’s nay Peabody. Murtagh has tended many a warrior wounded in battle.”
Some gigantic insect buried its stinger into his throbbing finger. He tried to turn his head to get a better look, but she held firm. “What the fyke is he doing?”
Hannah lifted his head and touched a bottle to his lips. Water at last. He took a long gulp that nigh on choked him. “Whisky?” he croaked.
“Aye,” Hannah said, bringing the bottle to his lips again. “Ye must drink a lot.”
“But I don’t—like—whisky,” he spluttered as more of the vile stuff trickled down his throat. “What is going on?” he roared hoarsely.
Glenheath’s bearded face loomed over him. “Hannah doesna wish to tell ye, so I will. Yon finger has to come off, lest it putrefy and ye lose the hand, or yer life. Now lie still and drink.”
He’d known in his heart it would come to this, but the reality sobered him and suddenly he wanted to be dead drunk. He guzzled obediently when the bottle was offered again…and again…and again.
Soon the pain eased and he resolved to impart his plan before he passed out. “Abbott's a bastard.”
Glenheath laughed. “Aye. We ken.”
No, that wasn’t what…
He tried again. “Abbott promoted me to major.”
Hell’s teeth!
He took a deep breath, belched and started over. “Abbott thinks Cromwell can’t govern.”
“I doot he spoke against Oliver Cromwell,” the earl scoffed. “They’re as thick as thieves.”
Sighing with frustration, Morgan accepted another swig. Mayhap whisky wasn’t so bad after all. “No, the other one. What’s his name?”
“His son, Richard?”
“Aye.”
Chuckling ensued, though he couldn’t grasp what was amusing. “Charles and Abbott have corres…corr…Charles wrote to Abbott.”
There was a long silence. Had he died?
“So what ye’re sayin’ is Abbott is of the opinion the Commonwealth will come to an end when Cromwell dies and our king will be restored to the throne?”
Morgan hiccuped, thankful he still lived and had got the message across. “’Xackly.”
His limbs already felt heavy, so he didn’t appreciate having his arms and legs pinned down. “Is it time?” he asked Hannah.
“Aye,” she replied hoarsely.
“Don’t weep for me,” he rasped. “Is there more whisky?”
“Nay, Morgan,” she whispered. “They need the last wee bit.”
He couldn’t think what else they might need whisky for except drinking. Then his hand finally went up in flames.
“Bluidy hell,” he shouted before the darkness took him.
~~~
Hannah had witnessed amputations before, but it was a struggle to hold on to the meager contents of her belly as Murtagh—cook, blacksmith, barber and surgeon to the rebellion—used his smithing pincers to snip Morgan’s mangled finger. “Cleaner than yon saw,” he explained gruffly.
She told herself over and over it was just a finger, and not his hand, or his arm. Murtagh assured her there was no putrefaction, thanks to the yarrow. “We mun watch fer fever,” he warned as he poured the last of the whisky on the wound and cauterized the stump with a poker heated in the hearth.
Morgan twitched and let out a pitiful cry. It was a blessing he had passed out, but he’d have a fearful headache when he awoke, not to mention the pain of his loss.
Watching Murtagh swathe her lover’s elegant hand with linens the crofter’s wife had sacrificed, she considered what she’d learned about Abbott. Could it be the hateful man truly foresaw the restoration of the monarchy? And how had Morgan known of this? The general must have taken him into his confidence. But why?
Her uncle put an arm around her shoulders. “Get some rest, lass,” he urged. “He’ll sleep for a while.”
Reluctant to leave Morgan, but acknowledging utter fatigue, she allowed him to lead her outside. To her surprise, dusk was stealing into the camp her uncle’s troops had set up. “Ye willna ride to Bouchmorale this night?” she asked.
He turned her to face him. “Can we trust what yer mon claims?”
She clung to his wrists. “He’s intelligent and he’s nay a liar. He’s had many an opportunity to betray me, but he hasna.”
“So he’s a traitor to his own cause.”
“Nay. If ye choose to stand and fight, he’ll obey Abbott's orders to shoot ye down. He’s an artillery man. ’Twill be a massacre.”
She didn’t want to contemplate what such a tragedy might mean for her and Morgan, if they survived.
Glenheath grunted. “If we flee into yon mountains, they’ll pursue us. ’Twill take months to regroup and rebuild our strength. Is he right about the size of the English army?”
“Aye. Hartlock and Abbott combined forces in Stonehyve.”
Glenheath looked to the dark Grampians. “The notion of surrender sticks in my craw.”
She grieved for him. “I dinna envy ye the decision, but Morgan may be right that ’tis the best choice.”
He kissed her forehead. “We’ve set up yon tent for ye, lass. Go. Rest a wee while.”
She hugged him and did as he bade.
~~~
Arianrhod appeared in Morgan’s confused dream. He recognized the Moon-Mother goddess from his grannie’s tales. “You’ve come to carry me to the land of death on your silver-wheeled chariot,” he acknowledged.
He tried to hide his fear while he awaited her confirmation, but she changed into an all-seeing owl and peered into his very soul. She knew he’d been drinking.
“No, Morgan Pendray,” the bird replied, spreading its wings over him, “I bring solace.”
“I’ll live then?” he ventured.
The owl flew away and he despaired, but then Hannah appeared out of the mist, holding the hand of a boy with raven-black hair.
“Our son?” he said hoarsely.
“Aye,” she whispered. “Our firstborn.”
He smiled, content to drift into a deep, dreamless sleep.