Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
23rd Oct 2013 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WrittenINMyOWNHeartsBLOOD #Book8 #OutMARCH25th #triage
I got hold of the girl by the non-wounded arm and sat her down on the stool, hastily pouring most of what remained in my brandy bottle into a cup. She didn’t look as though she had much blood left.
She didn’t. When I got the scarf off, I discovered that her hand was missing, and the forearm badly mangled. She hadn’t bled to death only because someone had twined a belt round her upper arm and fastened the tourniquet tight with a stick thrust through it. It had been a long time since I’d fainted at sight of anything, and I didn’t now, but did have one brief moment when the world shifted under my feet.
“How did you do that, sweetheart?” I asked, as calmly as possible. “Here, drink this.”
“I—grenade,” she whispered. Her head was turned away, not to see the arm, but I guided the cup to her lips and she drank, gulping the mix of brandy and water.
“She--he picked it up,” said a low, choked voice at my elbow. One of the other Continentals was back. “It rolled by my foot and he—she picked it up.”
The girl turned her head at his voice, and I saw his anguished look.
“She came into the army because of you, I suppose?” Clearly the arm would have to be amputated; there was nothing below the elbow that could be saved, and to leave it in this state was to doom her to death by infection or gangrene.
“No, I didn’t!” The girl said, huffing for breath. “Phil—“ She gulped air and twisted her head to look toward the trees. “He tried to make me go with him. Loyalist c-camp…follower. Wouldn’t.” With so little blood remaining in her body, she was having trouble getting enough oxygen. I refilled the cup and made her drink again; she emerged from it spluttering and swaying, but more alert. “I’m a patriot!”