Dr. Warren looked around him in the dim light, at the cobwebbed depths of the cellar: at the empty vegetable bins waiting for this year’s harvest, the shelves of preserves and jellies in stone crocks, the casks that held the stock in trade of the tavern above. He smiled briefly at Kitty, then he went down on his knees on the earth floor.
“A bad mishap, Timothy,” he said, bending over the old man. There was a note of cheery courage in his voice. Kitty felt it, and she knew that Timothy felt it too. The old man spoke weakly.
“Aye, sir. All the brandy in the house be not in that blasted keg there. Have the lass to fetch me a swig, if you will, sir.”
Kitty did not need to be told again. She ran upstairs to fetch a glass of brandy. When she came back, the doctor had cut Timothy’s boot away and bared the flesh beneath it. He shook his head, and there was a sober look on his face.
“’Tis somewhat crushed I fear. Drink up your brandy, sir, and I will patch it as best I can. Then the lads will carry you upstairs—where there should be a bed waiting.” He looked questioningly at Kitty.
“There will be,” she assured him tremulously. “I spoke to my cousin, Sally Rose. She’s getting it ready.”
She held the brandy glass to Timothy’s mouth, and the old man sipped feebly. Sometimes he flinched, as the doctor worked at the broken foot, reshaping it, applying splints and bandages. He did not utter a word, but his breath came in painful gasps, and he was shivering. The young soldiers stood looking on.
Dr. Warren talked as he worked, hoping, perhaps, to distract the old man’s attention.
“Well, sir,” he said, “to tell you the truth, sir, I was glad enough when the young lady came to fetch me here. I was in the act of quarreling with Old Put as we partook of a roast goose and glasses of claret. Somehow, in spite of the present triumph of more cautious gentlemen, I fear the General may yet have his way.”
Timothy grinned faintly. “I be sorry for ye,” he whispered, “if ye quarreled with Old Put.”