“No ma’am. Hadley,” Marcus replied, his eyes pinned to Jimmy’s pallid face and blue-tinged lips. “I don’t think he’s getting enough air.”
“None of us are. Not with all this smoke.” Mistress Bishop contributed to it by drawing on her pipe. She sighed, a fug of tobacco surrounding her, and looked down at Jimmy. “He’ll sleep a bit now.”
Marcus knew better than to ask whether Jimmy would wake up.
“It took me eighteen hours to bring that boy into the world, and no time at all for some idiot with a gun to steal him away.” Mistress Bishop pulled a small bottle out of her pocket. “War is such a waste of women’s time.”
Mistress Bishop used her teeth to pull the cork from the bottle and spat it into the fire. It popped and sizzled for a moment before igniting in the flames. She took a substantial swig and offered it to Marcus.
“Thank you, no.” Marcus still felt as though his stomach could rise up at any moment. Memories of the battle struggled to the surface of his mind.
He had killed a man. Somewhere in England, a mother was waking up without a son—and it was his fault.
“Think about that weeping mother before you pull the trigger next time,” Mistress Bishop said, returning the flask to her own lips.
Somehow, the woman had divined the contents of Marcus’s guilty conscience. Alarmed and overwhelmed, Marcus clapped a hand over his mouth as his guts heaved. Mistress Bishop looked at him sharply, her hazel eyes snapping.
“Don’t you dare go all missish on me. I haven’t got time for your nonsense. One of the Proctor boys broke his leg running away from the guns. Fell in a hole. First sensible story of battle I’ve heard today.” Mistress Bishop took another swig from her bottle, then lumbered to her feet. She beckoned for Marcus to follow.
Marcus remained where he was until his innards returned to their natural place. It took rather longer than the redheaded healer found acceptable.
“Well?” she demanded, standing over a prone soldier whose eyes were bugged out from pain and fear. “Are you going to faint, or are you going to help me?”
“I’ve never set a broken leg.” Marcus felt that honesty was the best policy with Mistress Bishop.
“You’ve never killed a man, either. There is a first time for everything,” Mistress Bishop said tartly. “Besides, I’m not asking you to set it. You’re going to hold him down while I do it.”
Marcus stood at the man’s head.
“No, not there.” Bishop’s patience had been spent. “Hold his hip here and his thigh there.” She placed Marcus’s hands in the proper position.
“You have anything to drink, Sarah?” the man croaked.
Marcus thought a drink was a very good idea, based on the angle of the soldier’s ankle relative to his knee. It looked as though the tibia had snapped in two.
She slapped her flask into Marcus’s palm. “You have a sip first, then give John a swig. You’ve gone all green again.”
This time, Marcus accepted her offer. The liquid burned a path down his throat. He held the bottle to the soldier’s lips.
“Thank you,” the man whispered. “You got anything else for the pain, Sarah? Anything stronger, I mean?”
A long look passed between the soldier and the healer.
Sarah shook her head. “Not here, John Proctor.”
“It was worth asking.” Proctor sighed and laid back. “The rum will have to do.”
“You ready, MacNeil?” Sarah clamped her pipe between her teeth.
Before Marcus could respond, or indeed even fully understand the question, Sarah Bishop had pulled the bones back into place, the muscles in her arms rigid with effort.
Proctor howled in agony, then passed out from the shock.
“There, there. All done.” Sarah patted Proctor’s leg. “Not shy with their feelings, the Proctors.”
Marcus thought the patient had been remarkably composed considering the seriousness of the injury, but he held his tongue.
Sarah pointed to the rum. “Have some more of that. And the next time you set a bone, remember to do it just like I did: immobilize the limb, then put your back into one good tug. You’ll do less harm that way. There’s no point in being so timid with the bones that you shred the muscles to pieces.”
“Yes, ma’am.” It had been difficult for Marcus to obey Woodbridge’s orders, but Sarah Bishop was another matter.
“I’ve got more men to treat.” Sarah’s pipe had gone out, but she kept chewing on it anyway, as though it gave her comfort.