Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

V erdun, France, February 1813

Rob stood at the window gazing along the narrow street that ended at the town walls. He was grateful to have been given temporary lodgings in the town, rather than in the castle, which loomed menacingly above the rooftops. Although his room left much to be desired.

"Right, laddie, let's have a look at you."

Rob turned at the unexpected voice behind him, almost falling as pain shot up his leg and he lost his grip on the window surround. He reached for his crutch, propped on the wall beside him.

His visitor was middle-aged and greying, but still with a full head of hair. Although dressed in civilian clothes, he had a military bearing. Rob acknowledged his presence with a quick nod. He carefully turned back and pulled the window closed to shut out the cold air. In truth, airing the room had only exchanged the smell of damp bedding for the less attractive aromas from the noisy market outside. Then he reached out and awkwardly dragged the rickety chair close enough to lower himself onto it, his right leg sticking out in front of him.

"Captain Delafield, or Captain Bengrove?" Rob's visitor spoke with a trace of Scottish brogue, consulting a list in one hand. "Arrived yesterday?"

"Delafield." Standing by the window had definitely been a mistake—his ankle was throbbing in complaint again.

"Martin Campbell, assistant surgeon, 24th Foot. I've been here for three years. It's not so bad once you get used to the restrictions. Mind if I sit?" He didn't wait for an answer, but settled himself on one of the two beds crammed into the small room. "What happened to you, then, laddie?"

"Close encounter with a charging horse." Following a rearguard action in which many of his company had been killed, then a difficult retreat through what had felt like a sea of mud.

"A tedious journey from Spain, I imagine."

It was a statement, not a question, and Rob just nodded again.

"And Captain Bengrove has been put here, too, I understand. According to my list, he's suffering nothing more than a broken hand."

"And the indignity of being captive," Rob said wryly, beginning to relax slightly. The prodding and poking of well-meaning but not confidence-inspiring French doctors had been almost as trying as the pain from his wounds. This Scotsman, on the other hand, exuded an air of quiet competence.

"A complainer, eh? Good thing he's taken himself off, then. Now, it's no use looking wary. There's little enough for us to do most of the time, so you canna blame us for taking an interest when we get a new batch to look over."

Rob followed the surgeon's glance around the bare room and grubby bedding, and grimaced. Being more mobile, Bengrove had gone to choose from the few available lodgings for the two of them when they arrived in Verdun. Rob suspected he'd just taken the first one he'd been offered without bothering to look further.

"Might see if we can get you better lodgings, too, eh?" Campbell said. "Nay, lad, don't worry about funds. The Frogs'll give you an allowance. It's enough for the basics, but you'll be more comfortable if you can get money sent from home as well. If needs be, we can tide you over till you can get funds sent. "

"I've still got a few silver buttons left," Rob admitted. He indicated the filthy red jacket flung on the end of the bed, torn, and stained with mud and worse.

Campbell nodded. "Now, I can examine you here, or you can come to my lodgings where you can have a bath and borrow some clean clothes. It'll be a bit more private, as well."

Rob glanced down at his leg, sticking out stiffly before him.

"I can try to find a carriage," Campbell added doubtfully. "But it might take a while. I can get hold of a cart, but?—"

"Oh, a cart will do," Rob interjected hurriedly. "After all, I've been hauled across half of Spain and most of France like a sack of potatoes. If there is the chance of being properly clean…" He shrugged, hoping he wasn't going to regret it.

Campbell stood. "Verra well, lad. Do you want to leave a note for your friend? You may not want the effort of coming back tonight after I've examined you." He put a piece of paper and a pencil on the table. "Half an hour," he stated, gave a final nod, and left.

Campbell's lodgings were clean and warm. Warmer still was the tub of steaming water that Campbell's manservant helped Rob into, bandages and all. He sighed in bliss as the hot water soaked into him. Most of the inns on the journey had provided only enough hot water for shaving and a wipe with a wet cloth. Even when a bath had been offered, the price asked was extortionate, and Rob hadn't been sure he could get in and out of a tub without making his wounds worse. Consequently, he'd arrived here in Verdun feeling dirtier and smellier than on the muddiest of marches.

When the water had cooled, the servant helped him to wash and then dried him off and gave him a clean nightshirt. Rob inspected himself in the mirror as the man shaved him; his now-clean hair had resumed its usual chestnut colour, instead of the dark lankness of recent days. The cut across his forehead still showed as a red line, but it was fading, and the gaunt look induced by the pain of the long journey would disappear now he would be able to rest properly .

Rob's feeling of contentment vanished when Campbell appeared and soaked off the dressing on his left arm, then poured something astringent on his wound that almost made him leap out of his chair. Campbell tutted over the still-swollen gash, then caused further pain as he prodded sharply all the way down Rob's right leg. Once the examination was over, the manservant settled him in the bed, propped up with pillows, and Campbell pulled up a chair.

"Now then, laddie. Your ribs seem to have healed well. And no sign of swelling where you said you got that crack on the head. No dizzy spells?"

"Only in the first week or so."

"Blurred vision?"

"Only from…" Rob paused, not willing to admit to the cause.

"Drink?" Campbell asked.

"Yes." Rob felt rather ashamed, although there had been no criticism in Campbell's face or voice. He had never been fond of getting drunk, but for most nights on the interminable journey an alcoholic stupor had been the only way to get a little sleep, and cheap wine had also helped him get through the pain caused by the jolting coach.

"No poppy juice?"

"A few of the doctors on the way gave me some, but mostly not."

"Just as well really. It's too easy to get dependent on the stuff, and need more and more of it. Your arm is worrying. Could be a bit of your uniform still in there; may have to dig that out later. With a good dose of laudanum," he added.

Rob managed a nonchalant shrug. It wasn't the state of his arm that was his main concern, it was his leg. Although it was becoming easier for him to hobble around, his ankle did not bend, and the pain when he tried was excruciating. He could put up with that if he knew it would eventually heal.

"Walking on that hasn't done it any good," Campbell said, as if he were a mind reader. "Whoever set your leg did a good job; lucky the break was below the knee. But your ankle…" He got up and rummaged around in a cupboard, coming back with bandages and some wooden sticks .

"I'm going to wrap your ankle up so you can't move it. You are not to put any weight on it at all. I'll find you another crutch, so you can get about with those and your left leg. But it would be best if you didn't try to walk at all for a while."

The gentle pressure from the bandages helped to reduce the ache in his ankle, and when Campbell had finished, he lifted it into a more comfortable position on the bed. "I'm not a soothsayer; I don't know how much movement you'll get back, but what I do know is that if you continue to walk on it, you will almost certainly cause permanent damage."

Rob nodded. That was one instruction he intended to follow to the letter, for what use was an infantry officer who couldn't walk properly? His ankle had to heal.

Campbell left him then and he lay back against the pillows. It was only mid-afternoon; he didn't think he would sleep, but the sheets were clean and the mattress comfortable, and after all the surgeon's prodding and poking, he felt as if he'd been put through a mangle. Again. Then he did fall asleep, so soundly that he didn't awake until the following morning.

The house was silent, and for a moment Rob was confused, vaguely expecting one of the guards to summon him for another day's travel before remembering that he had reached Verdun. His tattered jacket and trousers lay across a chair, considerably cleaner than they had been, and Campbell had left him a clean shirt, too. He managed to dress himself, mindful of his ankle and the pain in his left arm, then hobbled down to the kitchen with his single crutch, hanging on to furniture and banisters to avoid using his right foot. He found a note from Campbell, telling him to help himself to breakfast, that his neighbour would call later to take him back to his lodgings, and that he'd send round another crutch when he located one.

When he reached his room in the lodging house, he found that Bengrove had returned, and was tucking into a breakfast of bread and ale.

"Where've you been?" Bengrove spoke with his mouth full.

"With the surgeon," Rob said shortly, seeing the note he'd left for Bengrove still resting on the corner of the table—exactly how he'd left it. "Any luck finding better lodgings?" he asked, without much hope. That had been the ostensible reason Bengrove had gone out again almost as soon as they had arrived yesterday.

"No. Hardly any of the frogs understand me; don't speak enough English." Bengrove seemed vaguely surprised by this. "The ones that did wanted payment in advance," he added, disgusted.

Rob didn't bother replying to this and just hopped over to his bed and lay down. The short trip up the stairs had exhausted him. Bengrove finished eating and went out again, leaving the used plates on the table. Rob vaguely wondered how he was to get his own meals—he didn't fancy eating anything prepared by the woman who ran this house. He'd have to send out for food somehow.

He drifted off to sleep again and did not wake until Bengrove returned. He was now sporting a clean bandage on his hand, and a neat sling that kept his right arm close to his chest—Campbell must have caught up with him. A boy followed him in carrying a basket. Bengrove gestured to the table, and the lad removed bottles of ale and several packages wrapped in paper. He didn't leave when he'd emptied the basket—hoping for a tip, Rob guessed, but Bengrove ignored him. With a muttered imprecation, the lad left, slamming the door behind him.

"What did he say?"

"No idea," Rob lied.

Bengrove shrugged and pointed at the table. "There's enough for two there."

The high and mighty Captain Bengrove showing concern for a fellow officer? That was novel.

"When you've eaten, you can write my letters for me." Bengrove put pen and paper on the table. "Campbell said he could get them sent."

Ah—everything as normal, then. The food was a bribe, not a gift. Better than Bengrove attempting to order him to do it, Rob supposed. He hopped over to the table and ate, then picked up the pen.

As before, Bengrove dictated a letter to his father and one to his betrothed, saying that he had arrived in Verdun and was looking for decent lodgings. The letter to his betrothed also said how much he missed her, along with some compliments that Rob felt uncomfortable writing. Rob couldn't help wondering again about the woman who'd agreed to marry Bengrove. He must have been on his best behaviour while courting her.

When Rob finished writing, Bengrove took the letters with a grunt and left, saying only that he'd be back later. Rob sighed. He supposed it was too much to expect Bengrove to wait and take Rob's own letter to Campbell. He wrote to William, asking him to make enquires about sending some funds, then retreated to his bed again. Campbell had said he'd call; Rob could give him the letter then. And Campbell might be able to introduce him to some more congenial companions.