Gunwitch (15 page)

Rosalind, still holding her torn dress to her bosom, stooped to pass through the door and jumped. Without her arms for balance, she stumbled when she landed. She would have fallen except that the man steadied her with a hand on her bare shoulder. His fingers were rough with calluses, but his touch did not linger. He made sure she would not fall, then he let go.

Rosalind looked around. Dirty white tents, arranged in neat rows, surrounded the dusty clearing where they had stopped. Other enclosed carriages like theirs were lined up with more traditional carriages and empty wagons. Everywhere were men and women in the red uniforms of the infantry, but with black-and-yellow facings instead of white. They led horses, they marched in cadence carrying rifles, they pushed carts with burdens, they stirred the contents of large cauldrons suspended over fires. Some of them looked at her and Thomas as he stepped down, but only for an instant before they went on about their tasks. Standing only a few yards away were a woman and a man, both in uniform, both with pistols in their belts, and both rigidly at attention, their arms at their sides, their eyes facing directly forward. Neither of the two looked at Rosalind or Thomas.

The man’s voice boomed again, just as loud as it had been in the carriage, pulling her attention back to him.

“My name,” the man said, “is Staff Sergeant Emory Strauss.” He snapped his heels together and nodded at them. “And I would like to be the first to welcome you to the King’s Coven North, the blasting grounds of the 101st Pistoleers. Here we’ll make soldiers out of you. Or,” he went on, showing them a smile that reminded Rosalind of a wolf, “you’ll die from our trying.”

* * *

The woman soldier, introduced as Corporal Edwards, saluted Sergeant Strauss, spun on her heel, and led Rosalind into the ordered maze of tents. Rosalind struggled to keep up, hindered by her skirt nearly as much as by the need to hold up her dress. At least she did not have the shackles on anymore.

She had had to stand there, her dress and undergarment hanging to her waist, breasts exposed to the world, arms extended. She could have been fully clothed for all the interest Sergeant Strauss showed. She had kept her eyes forward, not wanting to see if Thomas was looking, or Sergeant Morris, until Sergeant Strauss twisted the bolt. The shackles popped open and fell to the ground. She had not had time to even rub her wrists, though, or pull her dress back up, before Sergeant Strauss fitted an iron bracelet around her left wrist and snapped it closed. She was not sure, but she thought she saw runes flash against the black metal. Then–and she was sure about this–she saw the bracelet shrink to fit her perfectly. She stared at the bracelet, now a perfectly smooth band of iron showing neither runes nor even the seam where it had been joined. “You would best be covering yourself again, Miss Bainbridge,” the sergeant had told her, and she had.

Corporal Edwards stopped in front of a large tent and gestured for Rosalind to precede her through the canvas door. Inside, Rosalind was made to sit while a woman cut her hair. She tried to protest, but neither the corporal nor the woman paid her any attention, except to order her to be still. When she refused, and tried to stand, the corporal sat on her lap and held her arms to her sides. She submitted, finally, crying as her hair was cut off to just below her ears and chin.

Then her dress was removed by two more women using scissors. The remains of her underclothes were cut off the same way and her shoes taken off. The shoes and the scraps of clothing were then stuffed into a bag and tossed aside, leaving her naked.

“This is your uniform,” Corporal Edwards said, and one of the other women handed Rosalind a stack of folded clothes. “Put it on.”

She did, wincing at the feel of the materials, rough cotton trousers and shirt, yellow waistcoat, red woolen buffcoat, stiff leather shoes with silver buckles and white gaiters. Finally allowed to wear pants, she thought, and they
itched
where they did not feel indecent. Her shirt chafed against the lashes on her back. There were no undergarments, and no socks. Her toes felt squeezed by the shoes. And all of it topped by a peaked, bearskin hat that pushed her hair down so it covered her eyes.

Corporal Edwards looked her over. Except for adjusting the angle of the hat and telling her to keep her hair out of her eyes, the corporal’s only reaction was a curt nod. Then the corporal said, “You are now
Pistoleer
Private Bainbridge, of the King’s Infantry. Forget your old name. It is entirely possible that you will never hear it again.” She paused, as if waiting for Rosalind to say something. Then, before Rosalind could think of a question, added, “Follow me, Private.”

The corporal led Rosalind out of the tent again. Rosalind tried to match the stride and bearing of the corporal, but it felt awkward. Like she was trying to walk like a man. Or was rushing to keep up with one. A question had occurred to her.

“Corporal,” she said, “will I see Thomas again?”

The woman stopped, and Rosalind almost ran into her back. Corporal Edwards turned around and leaned in so her face was close to Rosalind’s. “The private,” she said, “will only speak when spoken to. And when she speaks to a superior, she will say, ‘sir’.” Her face showed no emotion, but her eyes seemed to be telling–ordering–Rosalind not to be so stupid as to point out her gender.

“I’m sorry,” Rosalind said. The corporal stared at her. “I mean, I am sorry, sir.”

Another curt nod, and the corporal was again leading her forward.

The next tent was long and open on two sides, north and east. The open sides looked over a wide, flat field. Men and women in uniform clustered around two tables near the west wall. Looking at the other uniforms, Rosalind noticed a difference. Everyone wore a peaked hat like hers, but most, including Corporal Edwards, had badges on the front of their hat. The badges were black metal with a bright red circle. In the circle were a lightning bolt and a musket, crossed.

Corporal Edwards took her to the southernmost table where only a woman sat. The woman sat with her hands steepled in front of her, elbows on the arms of her chair, looking at nothing. She had her hat on the table near to hand, revealing her close-cropped gray hair, cut like a man’s, even shorter than Rosalind’s new coiffure. The badge on her hat had a white circle instead of a red one, but the crossed lightning bolt and musket were still there. A musket pistol lay on the table in front of the woman, pointing to her right, due north. Perpendicular to the musket lay a long knife, it’s tip pointing east, directly at Rosalind. She saw that the packed dirt of the floor had a darker tint in front of the woman’s table. She wanted to ask why, but kept her mouth closed.

As they approached the table, the soldiers around the northern table turned to look at Corporal Edwards, then at Rosalind. Their faces showed only curiosity. No malice nor ill will.

Not until they stood directly in front of the woman’s table, and Corporal Edwards had saluted–Rosalind considered saluting, decided she did not know how, and just stood there–did the woman seem to see them. Her eyes, as gray as her hair, focused on Rosalind, who felt goosebumps run down her back.

“Pistoleer Bainbridge,” Corporal Edwards said, “is rumored to have the gift of healing. The rumor must be–” She paused. “The rumor must be confirmed.”

The woman at the table nodded to indicate she had heard the corporal, but she did not take her eyes off Rosalind. Rosalind wanted to blink or look away, but found she could not. The woman’s gray eyes pinned hers. The goosebumps became a trembling chill and Rosalind felt more naked than she had in front of Sergeant Strauss. This woman
saw
her, inside and out, top to toes.

Rosalind felt as if her bones and her organs were being pulled out one by one and examined. Then her mind and her heart. She relived the Leftenant’s lashes, her capture, the day in the woods with William Phillips, the broken betrothal, Mother Stevens restored breathing, her first issuance of blood …

With a start, she found herself back in the tent, standing in front of the table beside Corporal Edwards. The woman still sat across from her, her hands steepled again. She only looked
at
Rosalind now, not
into
her. The woman gave a nod.

Corporal Edwards tensed, then picked up the musket and presented it, grip first, to Rosalind. “Take it, Pistoleer,” the corporal said. “It is not loaded,” she added when Rosalind hesitated.

Rosalind took the musket in her right hand, wrapping her fingers around the grip. As she did, she felt a jolt run up her arm, through her chest, to the bracelet on her left wrist. Runes flashed on the bracelet, and along the black metal barrel of the pistol.

“Do not drop it,” the corporal said.

The other woman sat up now, and handed the long knife to Corporal Edwards hilt first.

Rosalind stared at the corporal, and at the woman behind the table. The gun felt heavy in her hand. She did not like the way Corporal Edwards’ face tensed up.

The corporal hefted the knife, as she met Rosalind’s eye. Her tight, unfriendly smile made Rosalind take a step back. She held the gun in front of her, though she was not sure what she would do with it if the corporal attacked her. She noticed that all of the other soldiers in the tent stood, watching and waiting.

“Stand ready, Pistoleer,” Corporal Edwards said. She held up her left hand, palm facing Rosalind. Then she turned her hand and put the point of the knife against her palm.

“What are you doing?” Rosalind asked. “Sir?”

Corporal Edwards did not answer. Instead she plunged the knife into her palm, six inches of bloody blade stabbing out the back of her hand. Rosalind had only begun to cry out when the corporal pulled the blade back, and turned the gashed palm to face Rosalind again. Only a tightness around the corporal’s eyes betrayed any sign of pain.

“Pistoleer,” the corporal said, “heal my hand.”

Shocked past words, Rosalind could only stare.

“Remember the hand whole,” the woman across the table said, her first words. Her voice was calm, steady, as if she had seen many hands stabbed in front of her.

Rosalind stared at the woman, then looked back at the corporal’s hand again, which seemed to hover in front of her, disembodied. Blood dripped from the wound to splash on the dirt floor, adding another stain to the ground. She opened her mouth, but all she could manage was, “What … ?”

“Remember the hand whole,” the woman said again. “Feel your own hand. Then touch the wound.”

“Touch … ?”

“Use your left hand,” the woman said. Her voice was still calm, still steady, unmoved by either the violence or the blood or Rosalind’s growing panic. “Your left hand is closer to your heart, making the touch more powerful. And,” she added, “you are holding a gun in your right hand. If you would prefer, though, you can touch her hand with the gun.”

Rosalind wanted to drop the gun and run away from the bloody hand, the tent, and the whole bloody King’s infantry.

“Hold yourself together, Pistoleer,” the woman said, as if she had read Rosalind’s thoughts. “Blood is not the problem. The blood is not even important, to a point. All that is important is that you remember Corporal Edwards’ hand as it was before.”

Before she stabbed it with a knife!
Rosalind wanted to shout, but she could only shake her head.

Rosalind started, surprised to hear the words whispered in her ear. Surprised to find the woman now stood behind her. The woman put one hand on Rosalind’s right shoulder, and one under her left elbow.

“Remember the corporal’s hand as it was before.” Whispering, soft, in control. The hand on her shoulder gently pushed her forward, closer to Corporal Edwards. The hand on her elbow then, also gently, pushed and caused her to extend her left hand.

Rosalind felt the warmth in her chest, but she hesitated to reach for it. Instead she resisted, pushed back against the woman’s urgings. She wanted to help the corporal. But the eyes. Of the corporal. Of the woman behind her. Of all the soldiers now watching. Then she saw Thomas. She hardly recognized him in his hat and uniform. And he was watching her too, with his one good eye, the other still swollen shut. She had been unable to help him. She did not want to fail again. Not with so many people–and Thomas–watching. “I … I can’t.”

“You can, Pistoleer. And,” the whisper added, “once you heal the corporal’s wound, you can heal your own hurts. The process is more tiring when done on yourself, and the results often less complete, but it is something to consider. Or perhaps you would rather heal the hurts of your traveling companion?”

Rosalind felt her face grow warm and she bit her lip, but she stopped resisting. She remembered the corporal’s palm, open toward her–

The woman’s grip on her elbow loosened. Rosalind could feel the warmth inside her, pulsing with the beat of her heart. She reached forward with her left hand, fingers together. She hesitated before touching the wound. She could
feel
the wound, the damage, the pain, radiating, brushing against her fingertips. She did
not
want to touch the wound. Because it was
wrong
.

A gentle nudge on her shoulder pushed her forward the last fraction of an inch. Her fingers touched the open, bleeding palm of Corporal Edwards and the warmth in her chest surged into the gun she held, the bracelet on her wrist, and out of her through her fingertips.

“I’m so sorry!” she said, as the corporal’s face twisted in pain. “I’m so sorry!”

But even as she watched, the wound closed, from within, the muscles and skin knitting themselves back together. The blood remained, but in less than two breaths only a thin white scar was still visible. Rosalind looked closer. How many thin white scars were there? How many times had the corporal stabbed her hand? Before she could be sure that there was more than the one scar, Corporal Edwards clenched her fist and unclenched.