“Oh? You’re not curious as to where your husband is sleeping?”
“No, I’m not!” Amanda lied.
Damien made atskingnoise at her. She sighed impatiently, noted that one of her patients was burning up, and hurried back to the barrel to moisten a towel for his forehead. “Damien, I’m busy here.”
Damien leaned against a support pole. “Well, the last three days he has been out foraging. And I think that I know where he was before then.”
“Oh?”
“But then, you’re not interested.”
She kicked him as hard as she could in the shin. “Damien—”
“With Von Steuben. Von Steuben is brilliant—I think that he might whip us into a viable fighting force after all. Well, if enough of us live. But Eric knows Indians—and the Brits have half the Mohawk tribes on our tails. So they’ve much to talk about, you see.”
“I see,” she said, then she paused, because she knew where her husband was at that moment—standing just inside the doorway, watching her with Damien.
“Ah, Major General Lord Cameron!” Damien said quickly. He saluted sharply and disappeared through the sickbay. Amanda watched him, winding his way through the endless makeshift cots and the various women and doctors who moved about the room. Then she felt a rough hand upon her arm. She swung around once more to find that Eric had come to her, his expression was grim.
“What are you doing in here?”
“Why, I’m trying to help—” she began.
“These men have smallpox!” he reminded her.
She smiled. “I had it. Damien and I both had it as children, and they say that if you survive—” She paused. “What are you doing in here?”
“Trying to get you out.”
A man groaned on his pallet. “Lord Cameron! Eh, sir, we’re about ready to ride again, eh?”
The man was feverish; his eyes were bleary, but they had touched upon Eric with something like adoration. And Eric patted the man’s shoulder, heedless of disease, and assured him with a smile. “No, Roger, we’re not ready to ride. Not until spring. But Von Steuben is waiting for you, have no fear. He’ll drill you to the ground once you’re up and about. I promise you, lad.”
The sick man laughed. His eyes rolled, then fell shut. “My God, I think he’s died!” Amanda said miserably.
Eric felt the man’s heart, then touched his forehead. “No, he’s just breathing easy again. Von Steuben may get his hands on the boy yet.”
He straightened, staring at Amanda. She wanted to say something to him, anything to bring him back. But words would not come. She couldn’t apologize—he owed her the apologies, and he would never see it, and never admit it.
And he was standing in the smallpox ward!
“Get out of here, Eric!”
“Come with me. I want to talk to you.”
She sighed and looked around. There were many women in the room. Wives, sisters, daughters—and lovers and whores. The officers’ ladies, the poor privates’ women, some in velvet and lace, and some in homespun. Tears suddenly stung her eyes, and she realized that in a way, that was what it was all about. The colonies had joined, and the people had joined. If the war was won, it would be a new land indeed, with a new society and new look at life. Here a man could aspire to greatness no matter his birth. A blacksmith could fight alongside the landed gentry. The country would belong to all of them, the wives, the sisters, the daughters, the lovers and the whores.
“Amanda?”
“I’m coming.” She untied her apron and hurried out of the sickbay with Eric. The weather had not improved. The wind came scurrying furiously about her and she shivered. Eric quickly swept his greatcoat about her and headed her toward the open stables. She felt his arm about her, her heart quickening as she walked.
He drew her into the stable. Not far from them a smithy’s fire burned and hammering could be heard as a harness was repaired. Amanda leaned against the rough wooden wall, watching Eric, waiting.
“What?” she demanded.
He smiled. “Do you know where Howe’s men are spending their winter?”
She stiffened. “In Philadelphia.”
