The Last Sister by Courtney McKinney-Whitaker

Author:Courtney McKinney-Whitaker
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of South Carolina Press
Published: 2014-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

23.

April 13, 1760

Afternoon

A very young provincial private who appears to have followed Owen and me hands my basket and rifle to Amelia Williamson. She takes them, dismissing the boy with a polite smile, and stoops to reenter the tent, beckoning me to follow. She deposits my things in one corner and holds a finger to her lips.

“If you wouldn’t mind being very quiet for the children,” she says. I nod, glancing down at a pallet that holds two children so little I can’t tell if they are boys or girls. They are tangled together in sleep, white-blond hair clinging to their damp, flushed faces.

“One of each,” she says, in response to the question I haven’t asked. “Twins.”

“Are they well?” They look like they might be sick.

“Over warm,” she says, with a smile that stretches the skin over her jaw. “And underfed, like all of us.” So she knows her children are sick.

Amelia Williamson motions toward a small cot in the corner of the tent. “You are most welcome to rest as long as you like. I imagine Captain Demere will have the quartermaster make some arrangement for you by tonight.”

She presses the flat of one hand against her apron, the other against her stomach. “Before the siege, we lived in a house outside the walls. It’s been destroyed, of course. I miss it. During the winter, we were all crowded into the barracks. Many of the men, officers and rank and file, were willing to give up their places to the men with families, but I prefer the tent, to be honest. The weather is warm during the day now, and soon it will be hot. The tent feels cleaner than the barracks, too. Sickness spreads so quickly in cramped quarters.”

She is chattering, which doesn’t appear to be in her nature. The notion of illness worries her. My hand moves to the short locks of hair escaping from under my cap.

“My fever came from an injury,” I tell her. “I’ve been quite cured of it for three months. I’m afraid my hair will be the last thing to heal.”

I smile slightly, intending it for a joke. Amelia Williamson smiles, too, a smile of relief. She smoothes the tan blanket on the cot with a thin hand. “My husband will be out for several hours. If you’d rest better in fewer clothes, it’s quite all right to undress.”

Grateful for her kindness, I lay down my straw hat and remove my outer gown and neckerchief, dismayed at the rings of sweat stains under the arms of the wool gown and the griminess of the neckerchief. My mother always managed to keep her linens spotless. I wish I had been able to keep my clothes clean, but once Malcolm and I were out of the shelter, washing wasn’t a priority, and it was impossible to keep my clothes from staining. My overskirt is made of the same dark wool as the outer gown and is just as hot. I step out of it and inspect the bottom, which is caked with dirt.

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