Lewrie had been taken down below to the cockpit surgery a few times in his life, and could sympathise with the soldiers undergoing the surgeon’s ghoulish ministrations. He could appreciate his ship’s surgeons’ wit and civility … but he had no wish to witness them at work. Already there was a small pile of amputated legs, arms, and hands laid out on a tarpaulin, gruesomely near wounded men who waited to be seen to, a wailing, cursing, praying lot. He heard the rasp of a bone saw, the screams of the soldier losing his right arm, and his ability to work, his regimental home, and most likely his life if his wound festered, and turned away.
There was a row of wounded men laid out on blankets, men who had been seen to, operated on, or given up as lost causes. A kindly looking older Sergeant with white hair was tending them, ladling water or rum to those who were awake and able to swallow, and Lewrie felt drawn to that group, no matter his distaste.
“Yessir?” the old Sergeant asked, looking up from his chores.
“There’s a Captain Ford?” Lewrie said in a croak.
“’E’s over ’ere, sir, poor fellow,” the Sergeant, said. “Goin’ game, unlike some. You should face h’it as brave as th’ Captain, you lot,” he gently admonished the dying. “You’ll be with th’ Lord in Paradise, some o’ you, an’ there’s still time t’ask forgivness fer your sins, th’ rest o’ you. Want some ’elp prayin’ do you, lads?”
Lewrie slowly paced down the row of wounded, unable to hide a grimace ’til he discovered Captain Ford, propped up on a field pack, and nude under a blanket. Some effort had been made to staunch his bleeding, but the bandages and cotton batt were soaked.
“Captain Ford?” Lewrie began, kneeling down beside him. “I am sorry, sir.”
“Ah, Captain Lewrie,” Ford said in a weak voice, though his face lit up with joy to have someone visit him. “I’m glad to see that you’ve come through unscathed, so far. We saw the French off right smartly, did we not?”
“In a panicked rout, sir,” Lewrie tried to assure him, and give him some cheer, “flyin’ like flushed quail. That’s four of their columns smashed, so far.”
“Ah, good,” Ford said in a sigh. “It appears that the column cannot prevail against the line. My First Leftenant, Acklin. Do you know if he is well?”
“I met him, briefly,” Lewrie told him. “Aye, he’s whole, and your regimental Major told him to take command of your company.”
“Good, good,” Ford said, “young Acklin can be a thoughtless fellow, but he’s shaping well as an officer. My men will be in good hands, thank the Lord. I’d dearly like to see how the battle goes, but—” Ford cut off with a wince and a stifled groan of pain. “I’m done for, you know.” To which Lewrie could only nod. “A belly wound. You don’t come back from those. There’s nothing the surgeons can do for you, but make you comfortable. God grant me a quick exit, for I fear I might un-man myself does the pain get much worse … Aaahh!”
He stiffened as another wave of pain took him.
“I enjoyed our discussion this morning, Captain Ford,” Lewrie said, knowing full well that men wounded like Ford could linger for days, screaming in agony as their stomachs and bowels went gangrenous. “It was delightful to hear such a fine exposition on the units of the French army.”
“Always was a quick study,” Ford said with what sounded like a deprecating laugh, even as his pain ravaged him. “I knew when I went for a soldier that one must learn all one can about the enemy … unlike some,” he added, making a face, then turned serious and looked Lewrie directly in the eyes. “I am ready, you know, Captain Lewrie. My will is made, and my last letters to my parents written. They might not recoup all the costs of purchasing my commission, not in a fielded regiment, but, today’s laurels may encourage some young fellow to buy into a successful regiment. If we’d only managed to capture one of their damned eagles … aahh! Damn!” He broke off, groaning and gritting his teeth.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Ford?” Lewrie asked him. “Water, or some rum, or…?”
“Just enough to wet my mouth, I fear,” Ford said with another stoic grin as the pain passed for a moment. “The surgeons say that I’m not to drink anything. The bowels, you see.”
Lewrie offered him his canteen, which Ford used to dab at his dry lips, and swirl round his parched mouth.
“If someone could prevail upon the butchers to allow me a dose of laudanum,” Ford supposed, looking skyward. “I am trying to go game, but, Lord, it is hard!”
“I will ask them for you,” Lewrie promised, feeling a cowardly urge to get away from Ford, as if dying was catching. Men who’d died aboard his ships passed away out of sight on the orlop, unseen if not unheard, mourned later, after they’d been committed to the sea. He had never sat with one of them, not for long.
“I’d admire if you did, Captain Lewrie,” Ford said, extending his right hand. Lewrie took it, and felt him squeeze as his pains gnawed harder for a moment. “Buzzards, or kites? Or are there vultures in Portugal, do you know?”
“What?” Lewrie gawped.
“Those foul birds circling up there,” Ford said, jutting his chin skyward, and Lewrie looked up to see a whole flock of scavenger birds gyring about. “Wish they were larks, or something else. Just waiting for their feast, the horrid things. I wonder if you could tuck me up, Captain Lewrie. I’m feeling a bit of a chill.”
Lewrie lifted the rough army blanket up to pull it higher to cover Ford’s chest, noting that his thick pad of bandages were soaked red and dripping. He drew the blood-wet blanket up under Ford’s chin. “That better?”
“Yes, don’t know why … such a warm morning…,” Ford dreamily said. “If you’d hold my hand awhile longer, sir?”
Lewrie took hands with him, waving his left to atract the old Sergeant’s attention, who came over with his ladle and pail.
“’E ain’t t’have no water, sir.”
“His wound’s bleeding heavily, and he says he’s cold,” Lewrie told him. “One of the surgeons—”
“Won’t do no good, sir,” the old Sergeant said, shaking his head and whispering. “’At’s a blessin’, an’ God’s mercy ’at ’e’s bleedin’ out. ’E’ll go quick, all fer th’ best, ’at is.”
Lewrie could feel Ford’s hand go slack in his, and lowered it to the blanket, then stood up. “A brave fellow.”
“’E was, sir,” the Sergeant agreed. “A friend o’ yours?”
“Only met him this morning,” Lewrie said, feeling bleak.
“You did a kindly thing fer ’im, sir, God bless you, an’ sure when h’it’s your time, you’ll be rewarded,” the Sergeant said with a pious bob of his head. “You run along, now, sir, an’ we’ll see ’im inta th’ ground proper. Wot was ’is name?”
“Captain Samuel Ford, of your regiment’s Light Company,” Lewrie told him. “You said you knew him by name.”
“Make a note of h’it, I will.”
Lewrie took off his hat and laid it on his chest for a moment, then clapped it back on as the sounds of battle swelled. Cannonfire, bursting shrapnel shells, French drums and “Vive l’Empereur!”, and the long crackling of rolling volley fire from thousands of muskets.
He went back to the crest of the ridge to look both East and West to see French columns sway-marching into battle, unwilling to admit that they had met their match, and that their vaunted tactics no longer prevailed.
Horses neighed, drawing his attention down the line where Sir Arthur Wellesley and an older, stouter General in a red coat dripping with gold-lace sat their mounts in discussion.
“Captain Lewrie?” someone called out.
“Hey?” he called back, swivelling round to see who spoke.
“You came up to see the battle, too, sir?” Lt. Beauchamp, who had been his guide the day before, said in delight as he reined his horse over from the generals.
“Still an aide, Lieutenant Beauchamp?” Lewrie asked with a grin.