“Rolan?” I called. The man did not move. “Brendan, get me that vinegar and some rum. I will change this. You had better pray for him if he is your friend, for to get a blood fever in the neck, he will never last.”
I thought I had witnessed all the worst that man or animal could bear in the way of sores and disease, but I was not prepared for what came away in the filthy stocking at Rolan’s neck. I was glad he did not seem to feel me tending him and glad I had not yet eaten. Once I got fresh linen wrapped about him, I hoped he felt better, for I knew I felt better, but whether or not he felt relieved as I, I could not tell. I tried to wake him and held up his head to put a spoonful of rum between his lips. He swallowed it, opened his eyes for a moment and mumbled something, then fell back to sleep or swoon.
I took my scissor and trimmed the beard on his neck and then trimmed all about his chin, as well. I combed his hair and braided a queue in the back, tying it with a length of woolen yarn. “Why are you doing that?” Gwenny asked. “What difference does it make how the man looks if he’s sick unto death?”
“I am not doing it for his grooming, Gwyneth. It is to keep the hair from tangling about the bandage or just getting in his face. Keeping the bandaging and wound clean are most important now, and it will need to be changed again in a few hours.”
“I’ll do it,” she declared with a conviction that brooked no response.
Brendan told me about his prisoner. Rolan Perrine was the second son of a farmer. He had no interest in soldiering, while Brendan thought of nothing else. Rolan was a terrible shot, and more terrified of killing a man than facing a noose for desertion. He had admitted to Brendan that when he had him in his line of aim, he had pulled the barrel high so as to fire at his officer’s command yet not kill anyone. Brendan laughed deep in his chest. “Fine soldier, this fellow. If he killed anyone it was an accident. The most effective weapon he used on our men was being too thin to see behind a tree. Me, I, well, have you any of those flat cakes you used to make?”
“Yes. See if Rolan will have another spoonful of rum while I make the batter and start the iron heating.”
Rolan did not die that day or the next and he was still alive when Sunday came and able to sit up and eat broths and pancakes. I begged Brendan to stay with his friend. “I never miss Meeting now,” I said. “Do not look surprised. I have sent many a prayer heavenward on your behalf. And your father is not home yet. Your uncle sails under more danger of his own making. There is more to living in a town than I knew when you were young. Things have happened. It is important to go and to give to the poor and to keep in good graces with all who know us.”
“But you always said to trust your own heart.”
“That is true, son. I do not do this for trickery but to make myself known. If people have your acquaintance and friendship, they are not so quick to believe falsity. Last month across town, Goody Meacham was tried for witchcraft because she argued with a neighbor whose dog killed her goose. The neighbor’s child then died and his cow had a calf born with two heads. No one knew her. No one came to her defense. She might have been hung had not the judges disagreed on whether she looked the part of a witch. I never want to be in a place where no one would come forward to say to a judge that they have known me to be righteous. A life well lived, in some respects, needs witnesses.”
Brendan cocked his head. He watched me pour batter on the hot iron, turned back to my gaze, then he said with a laziness to his voice that belied the workings of his brain, and that I recognized in the son I knew, “That will be something to think about. I believe you are right. Evil loves darkness and good the light. Is that cake ready to turn?”
I smiled and flipped the flat cake over. The other children gathered around and ate, and after breakfast Jacob said he would stay with the boys while we went to Meeting.
*