A Voice from the Past

Chapter 10: Taking the Reins

 Banner by LOS

. . . . .

Frank was the first in the camp to be up, dressed, and out of the tent to muster the men. It was a daunting task for him to find an increment of rest the prior night, and so rather than remain on his cot, he roused himself to begin the day.

The sight of Randall with the grotesque bullet hole in the center of his forehead, and the look of shock on his face haunted him for hours. He presumed that vision would more than likely follow him to a trench prepared for his own grave.

By the light of day, Frank worried that he might be caught in a faux pas in this ruse. He was familiar with military procedure and stratagem; it was his carrying out the impersonation of the captain that was the real concern. But then, if he fell back into his usual well-bred manner, perhaps the troops would welcome the change in behavior. It was a known fact that Randall was hated, or at the very least, feared. The man's moods were so capricious as to make one's head spin. A comrade in arms could be dining pleasantly with the captain one evening and be hanging by a rope the following morning.

. . . . .

After a hasty meal, one of his men—that would take some getting used to—saddled up Randall's black stallion, Mystere—a magnificent animal—and the move to Leoch was once again on the road.

Frank tried to be as surly as possible to the troops, so as not to cause suspicion, but it taxed him to the limit to play such a villainous part. His only respite from the stress of it all was when he finally retired for the night and he could put Captain Randall to bed.

# # # # #

The Highlanders were out and mucking about again; Dougal drumming up more support for Bonny Prince Charlie, I imagined. I wasn't allowed to accompany the men this time, as there were several people within the confines of Leoch, falling ill with a fever, and I couldn't be spared to go along with them. My prayers however followed the motley band to spare them any harm or accident since they'd be miles away from my medical skills.

Jamie came home one evening so sozzled that he was precariously listing to one side, his shoulder bumping against the wall of our room.

I sat up in bed. "Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Jamie! Stay away from the hearth. I don't wish to be tending to your burnt hide."

"Dinna fash, woman. I'm no goin' to be fallin' anatime soon."

"Says you. You're falling-down snockered!"

"Och ... I wouldna say as much. As long as I can stand op, I'm nay drunk, only a wee bit tipsy."

He swayed unsteadily, heading toward our bed and finally sat down with a plop. Then, nearly sliding, arse first to the floor, Jamie tugged off his boots, pitching them onto the stone tiles. His broadsword and dirk clattered to ground level next, the sound reverberating in my ears.

"Shhhh ..." I admonished him. "You'll wake the dead with all this commotion."

Struggling with his jerkin, sark, and kilt for several minutes, he finally managed to remove his clothes, and slid in beside me. In an instant, his lips were incessantly making the voyage from my throat down to my breasts. I shoved him away abruptly, the pungent aroma emanating from his normally welcome body, offending my nostrils.

Lovely ..."Honestly, Jamie. You smell like a brewery, mixed with horse dung. If you expect a go round with me, then clean yourself up. When was the last time you bathed—a week ago?"

With his head jerked back, he counted on his fingers, and muttered, "Let's see now, what day is it, t'day?"

Lying back down, I scolded, "Oh, for heaven's sake, just go to sleep. It's late; your urges can wait until morning, after you've sobered up and washed off that offensive odor. And please, give the maid your clothes to be laundered. I'll not have my husband donning the same filthy apparel."