If only they would stay that way.
Chapter Seventeen
Acold, steady drizzle fell against the colonists as they made their way in eight canoes down the Red River toward Lake Winnipeg. Assiniboia had disappeared from sight hours ago, yet not one of the evacuees had looked back.
Eleanor sat in the lead canoe with Arran, shivering. Her head pounded and her teeth chattered. For two days, she had battled whatever ailment had befallen her and Miriam, trying desperately to help where possible. When she learned that everyone must inventory their property, she had spent hours going from one tent to another, writing endless lists.
“Only a few more hours,” Arran said to Eleanor, “and we’ll make camp. Mayhap the rain will stop and I will build you a fire to take away your chill.”
Eleanor tried to smile for him, but she could not find enough energy for such a small task.
Miriam lay in her arms, listless and dull. Her fever still raged, but there was nothing they could do. Cuthbert Grant had come into the fort the day after the massacre and overtaken Semple’shouse. Eleanor, Miriam, Nicolette, and Arran had removed to the main hall, where they had slept on the hard floor for two nights before all was ready for their departure.
“Let me hold Miriam.” Arran reached for the baby, concern tightening his voice. “You should rest upon my shoulder.”
If they had been back in England, it would not be possible for Eleanor to lie upon a man’s shoulder in public—but here, where they were fighting for their lives and freedom, no one would look at her twice.
Miriam didn’t protest as Arran took her into his arms, holding her in a way to shelter her from the rain under his jacket. She looked up at him with her glossed-over blue eyes.
“Here,” he said to the baby, “try to drink some water.” Arran took a canteen and put it up to her lips. She fussed and turned her head. “You must drink, Miriam, my love.” He tried again. Water dribbled from her lips, down her cheeks.
Eleanor had no more tears in her. All she could do was watch helplessly as Miriam suffered. Her head pounded and her throat felt as if she’d swallowed fire. It was so raw and sore, she could not swallow. If Miriam felt the same, no wonder she didn’t want to drink the water.
Arran set down the canteen and put his free arm around Eleanor, drawing her into his warmth. “I feel so helpless,” he said, pressing a kiss to her head. “What can I do to make you feel better?”
“There is nothing.”
Voyageurs paddled the canoes, while the miserable settlers sat huddled together. Tears fell down the cheeks of several. Fiona sat in one of the canoes with her four children around her, including her newest arrival, who was not yet three months old. Her grief was so intense, Eleanor struggled to know what to say to her friend. Though Eleanor had experienced loss, shecould not fathom being alone in the world with four children depending upon her.
Eleanor must have fallen asleep, because when next she opened her eyes, the rain had stopped and the humidity had risen. The air was thick and sticky, and the mosquitoes began to swarm. Arran worked to keep them off Miriam, who was sleeping in his arms.
“You’re awake.” He placed his hand on her forehead, his eyebrows coming together. “You’re still burning.”
All Eleanor could think about was a cool bath and a soft bed. Never had she missed Edgewood Manor and her previous life as much as she did in this moment. As a child, there had been an endless number of servants to see to her needs when she was ill. She had been treated by a country doctor with a gentle touch and a kind smile. Her bed had been plush and her baths had been drawn whenever she so wished.
She struggled to keep her eyes open and the constant push-pull of the canoes as the oars moved them forward made her dizzy and sick to her stomach.
“Eleanor?” Arran’s voice seemed to be calling to her through a fog. It was thick and hard to push through.
The next thing she knew, she was in a tent, on a hard cot. It was dark outside, but a single candle flickered nearby. Nicolette was there, on her own cot, with Miriam nestled in the crook of her arm. Both were sleeping.
The only sound was the call of a loon somewhere beyond the camp—and Arran, moving about as he bled her.
She came to awareness with a start and he held her down with a gentle pressure on her shoulder. “Dinna fash,” he said tenderly, his words just above a whisper. “I’m bleeding you again.”
“Again?” Her voice was weak and all she had the energy to do was turn her head.
“Aye. I bled you when we made camp this afternoon.”
“Afternoon?” She felt stupid as she kept repeating his words.
“You were unconscious. I told the others we needed to make camp so I could tend to you. Nicolette has been helping.” He nodded at her and Miriam. “I bled Miriam earlier.”
“How is she?” Eleanor whispered, afraid of what he might say.
He didn’t answer immediately but finished bleeding her and put a tincture of friar’s balsam on a piece of lint, which he pressed against her inner arm. “She isna doing much better than you.”
Eleanor allowed her head to loll back against the cot. “Please,” she begged. “Don’t let her die.”
