Chapter 2: Commitment

Bonnington Mills was quite a bit of a walk from the Royal Mile, and yet due to the engulfing thought processes that crippled the rest of her senses, even in her tiredness it felt like nothing in terms of physical exertion. There was a lot on her mind: what should she say, how would Mary react, how should she handle the younger woman. Having already been through a lot together, Claire felt a certain amount of responsibility for the other brunette and then, while she intended to make sure the newly married woman stayed away, Claire also wanted to quiz her on everything she knew about the illness raging up on Castle Hill because if it took hold somewhere, it usually wasn't long before the whole city suffered. First however, it seemed that the order of the day was herself getting over the size of Mary's pregnant belly when they embraced, as she saw it for the first time in plain sight and not hidden under gowns and petticoats. The nurse wasn't often wrong as far as medical matters went, but it appeared that she had seriously underestimated how far along the pregnancy was. Not ready to pop just yet, not a long way from it either.

Unsurprisingly, Mary had proved to be pretty unavailing in providing the date of conception. While she had obviously gained some experiences regarding private matters, she was still clueless of others pertaining to female sexual health and reproduction. As for her mission, there was plenty of space at the Palace of Holyrood for her friend and tales abound of soldiers falling ill and fading within a day up at the castle, corridors swimming with excrement and bodies burning that lit up the Edinburgh night. Mary's fear was for Jack, or Johnny as she called him, following Alex' example. A Jack who gave her regard, provision, attention and at the same time, room to grieve. A Jack who gave her the gift of getting to know Alex more after his death through stories of their childhood. It wasn't a Jack Claire knew and it certainly wasn't one who's allusion Jamie ever listened to, making an excuse to busy himself with every time Mary opened her mouth.

Claire didn't give it much thought, listening nigh disregardful. Jack would keep his word, that she didn't doubt and it didn't make him a good man, or a bad one. It made him the man he always was, one that she would keep out of her thoughts as much as humanly possible, circumstances permitting. Mary was profoundly preoccupied with the subject however, comparing the similarities between the brothers, physical and otherwise, so much so that Claire was starting to become unsure if it was the memory of the father of Mary's child who the younger woman honoured or it was a new love she harboured for her benefactor. It disturbed Claire on a new level, reminding her or the brothers' similarities to her Frank she had decided to abandon. Did Alex never tell Mary of his brother's darkness? And how much of this darkness was the youngest Randall brother really aware of?

The question of possibly warning Mary of Jack's malefic ways however wasn't as pressing for Claire though as her urge to get involved and not simply sit idle as malady skunked to penetrate the mist below the castle and affect the inhabitants of Grassmarket after bodies were found rolled down the hill and onto King's Stables Road. And while Mary could be kept back for the sake of her unborn child, Claire could not convince herself with similar incentives. For one, nobody knew she was with child yet and could pressure her with it, and then she was aware of hygiene matters and would not be at as much risk as others were. And most importantly, there was the fact that she could only live in the here and now as after Culloden, they'd most likely to be dead. Feeling somewhat guilty and not inclined to engage in a conflict with the love of her life, she waited till Jamie took off to intercept a letter in Portobello for making her first visit to the fortress to find that despite a high body count and the stench that evaded her nostrils as soon as she reached the Half Moon Battery, conditions weren't as bad as she'd suspect in good faith as per misconceptions of the century about contagious diseases.

Armed with two gallons of rehydration liquid of her own concoction, Claire was directed to a building with gargoyles and sculptures on the outside, not far from the Forewall, where Captain Randall operated a commendable triage system as she found. As soon as anyone within the confines of the fort showed signs of the disease, they were sent and restrained in this edifice, centralising both contagion and smell to this part of the castle only. Claire was glad to see that her advice was also heeded, with large cauldrons boiling water under elaborate wall engravings. Tending to the sick and administering home made sweet and salty water to them however there weren't many. These people were positioned here, long distances away from their families and at times like this there weren't many others who would volunteer to mess with the devil's work and illnesses he would send upon wretched mortals. To some victims it was hard to get to for the revolting brown puddles they lay in. So that was where Claire started, getting a hold of a bucket and mop, making the rows of patients accessible. Nothing was below her, such work was in fact essential, she had learnt that well through experience in the World War and at the L'Hôpital des Anges. With nobody around who would be disputing her methods, getting in the way or questioning her presence, she was looking around to decide which cauldron she could use to disinfect blankets when she found herself face to face with one of the redcoats who turned on his heels just after bringing in and pouring more water into one of the caldrons. Breath caught in her throat in surprise. Didn't he have men to order around to do that sort of thing?

"Sending people into slaughter and cannons as fodder is somehow different to them," he explained her unvoiced question, "they'd rather be locked into the castle vaults for disobeying orders and be dealt with later as they indeed are, than come here." He nodded at her in greeting and carried the bucket bucket out.

It was the only sentence that passed between them that day, but she'd seen him giving orders to the men who dared to be around. He wanted them to help her with whatever she needed and carry more water, and the following days passed in a similar fashion. They were winning by this time, or more like not losing abysmally anymore, with less soldiers falling ill every day and less perishing if they did. Claire was confident that she would have to anger Jamie no more with coming here, perhaps castle dwellers could handle the rest themselves and so she skipped on visiting on Sunday. She was going to find Randall though on this her hopefully last visit on Monday, tell him to come get her if fates turned ugly again. Jack was however uncharacteristically nowhere to be found during her rounds in the emptying halls.

"Julian," Claire addressed the corporal who had been one of the first to recover and as such he had helped her with the rest of the sick over the last few days, "where will I find your captain?"

"The addressed averted his eyes sheepishly. "Don't you know, Mrs. Frazer? The captain has taken ill the night afore last. He's in a bad way," he supplied. Claire looked around the hall, but the Englishman shook his head and turned her to the right and round a corner into a more secluded part of the great hall, barred off with tables and armoury chests and providing effective privacy sorely needed judging by the soggy blankets underneath the man she was looking for.

"Why is nobody tending to him?" Claire questioned, understandably reluctant to volunteer.

"We were," the soldier assured, "but he's been chucking everything back up. There's hardly any point, bar for torturing him," the man held, somewhat unsure of her reaction. Clearly not one that has served under Randall for long cause then he'd might think otherwise about the needs of torturing that officer. "I've seen it many times over these last weeks. The ones who had the flux start so suddenly and fiercely do not recover," he tried to excuse himself.

But Randall wasn't supposed to die till April. Or did they change as much as that of history somehow? "Get me a cup and a bowl for washing," Claire decided, shaking her head slightly as Jack moaned unconscious, body limp and blanch bar for the fingers that dug into his own belly in a characteristic manner to this outbreak in the sufferers' vain hopes to ease the spasms. She should let him rot, but her nurturing qualities and perhaps more her moral compass didn't let her do that. Carefully avoiding as much of the unpleasant secretions as much was possible, she knelt next to him to take his pulse.

He was indeed in a bad shape, with a weak and rapid pulse of over a hundred, freezing cold hands despite the fever that raged in the rest of his body. Pinching the skin to see how quickly it bounced back as a test for dehydration was almost unnecessary, it was clear it wouldn't and to make matters more obvious, there was a blue tinge to his lips kept open by his rapid, shallow breathing. She had to get some liquid into him and quick. "Please tend to the others," Claire took the items she asked for from Julian, then set to attempt to rouse Jack. "Captain?" She took hold of his jaw to turn his head towards her and patted his cheek as it felt appropriate for the moment, which was non too lightly.

It seemed like Jack was squeezing his eyes shut more rather than opening them now, but it was a reaction, a sign that he was in there at least at some level of consciousness and thus she lifted his head and poured some of the honeyed water into his mouth. He did swallow, perhaps too greedily at that, his thirst clear till he started coughing. Claire helped him roll to his side when he tried and didn't manage and readied herself for him vomiting again, but it didn't come, it was his eyes that ventured open instead, gaze unfocussed, eyes sunken.

With a clearer cognitive state, awareness of his complaints came and he curled into himself, arms around his belly and shaking. "You need to drink a lot more," Claire established firmly and none too different to how he'd coaxed other soldiers earlier.

"Mhhmmm," Jack gave nondescriptly as a response, but Claire still took it as acknowledgement and manoeuvred the cup to his lips, or more like, as it were, his lips to the cup. He didn't resist, but didn't make much of an attempt to help her either and the exertion still exhausted him. The last mouthfuls of the boiled and cooled down water spilt out his mouth unswallowed and he went limp to the extent it was impossible to hold him and so Claire had to let go. She gave a sigh at the characteristic of the illness-many of the sufferers died simply because they have gotten too weak to as much as drink, and too quickly. If she ever got a breather in between exiles and wars, she would have to come up with a design that could double as an intravenous drip or at least procure some syringes she could use to pump fluids directly into veins.

"You need to drink some more," Claire persisted, parroting like a gramophone. It seemed like that was all she had been saying over and over again over the last few days. Getting no response, she resorted to physical handling once more. She supported the patient's neck and angled his head at the replenished cup.

Jack countered that with some resistance this time. He moved his head minutely away to refuse the handling, "just let me die," he managed slowly, breathlessly, as explanation. "Surely, it will be of some satisfaction."

"You will if you don't down at least a couple of pints of water over the next few hours." She agreed and forced some into his mouth unrelenting, only to cause a coughing fit with it going into the wrong pipe.

The gagging made him seize, both arms cradling his belly and he did swallow then, desperately trying to keep from vomiting, to no avail. Claire cursed and starting mopping the new mess, "maybe we should try something to stop the vomiting first," she took a little aniseed, mint and fennel from her bag to add to the rehydration mixture. "A couple of sips and see how you go after," she encouraged.

Jack gave her a wary glance, but complied with being given medicine, bar for the wince and pulling a leg higher towards his stomach with a little jump when handled and squeezing his eyes closed and blowing the air out slowly when he was let down onto the filthy blanket again. It wasn't a good sign, the way movement hurt him. "I'm going to take a look at your belly and clean you up," Claire informed him and pulled the coat he was covered with aside. "You need to let me," she reached under reluctant hands and gently pushed them aside. Then the nurse pulled his shirt up and proceeded with light palpation. There was no distension or palpable masses and he got his guarding reflex under conscious control, just about, by biting his lip, but there was some rigidity, indicating inflammation and he was clearly in pain, especially round the area around his navel, where pressing made him pant and pale further.

"I'm dying," he summarised her findings.

With a drip, round the clock intensive care and antibiotics, probably not. Only no such things were available in this century. "It's not your time yet," she grouched stubbornly, hung up over Frank's genealogical findings.

"Should I wait till April then?" He mocked her foretellings.

Claire shook her head. This was not right. None of this was right. After Mary's marriage to Jack and the impossibleness of stopping the rebellion, her and Jamie became convinced that history could not be changed as in the future where Claire came from, it has already happened. There had to be some reason why Jack had to live for a few more months, probably to do with the baby. Going by how big the unborn child felt when she had examined Mary, the Randall offspring would surely be born soon. Perhaps Jack would write to his older brother to maybe provide for them financially after his possible demise in the campaign, however little amount of money that would yearly be, judging by William Randall's earlier stinginess. Either way, despite medical signs, Claire had to suppose Jack wasn't dying, not just yet. "Your wife needs you," she said instead and persisted with raising the cup to his lips.

Tbc