* * *
I soon found that I had been correct in my surmise as to the force of Jenny Cameron’s personality. A woman who could raise three hundred men and lead them across the mountains to fight for an iian-accented fop with a taste for brandywine was bound to have both a low threshold of boredom and a rare talent for bullying people into doing what she wanted.
“Verra sensible,” she said, having heard my plan. “Cousin Archie’s made some arrangements, I expect, but of course he’s wanting to be with the army just now.” Her firm chin stuck out a little farther. “That’s where the fun is, after all,” she said wryly.
“I’m surprised you didn’t insist on going along,” I said.
She laughed, her small, homely face with its undershot jaw making her look like a good-humored bulldog.
“I would if I could, but I can’t,” she admitted frankly. “Now that Hugh’s come, he keeps trying to make me go home. Told him I was”—she glanced around to be sure we weren’t overheard, and lowered her voice conspiratorially—“damned if I’d go home and sit. Not while I can be of use here.”
Standing on the cottage doorstep, she looked thoughtfully up and down the street.
“I didn’t think they’d listen to me,” I said. “Being English.”
“Aye, you’re right,” she said, “but they will to me. I don’t know how many the wounded will be—pray God not many,” and she crossed herself unobtrusively. “But we’d best start with the houses near the manse; it’ll be less trouble to carry water from the well.” With decision, she stepped off the doorstep and headed down the street, me following close behind.
We were aided not only by the persuasion of Miss Cameron’s position and person but by the fact that sitting and waiting is one of the most miserable occupations known to man—not that it usually is known to men; women do it much more often. By the time the sun sank behind Tranent kirk, we had the bare rudiments of a hospital brigade organized.