Page 8 of The Ones Left Behind
The batman frowned. “I could not say. I suppose it is possible. A bullet was lodged in the bone, I believe, but the surgeon said nothing about a break.”
“It is infected, I presume?” Matthias asked.
“Yes, my lord. It has been over a month since we left Brussels.”
Matthias gave a distracted nod. He had missed an entire month? “I only have vague recollections.”
“The Duke of Waverley brought you and Lieutenant O’Neill back on his private yacht.” The batman swallowed hard and looked away.
“What is it? Did Tobin die?”
“No, my lord. At least he was alive when we parted. However, Major White was killed on the battlefield.”
Matthias closed his eyes and tipped his head back. Colin was one of his best men and dearest friends. He remembered. Colin had taken charge when Matthias fell out.
“It was swift, my lord. It took him and his horse together instantly.”
Matthias nodded. That was every soldier’s hope if he did not remain unscathed. A swift death was better than being left maimed. Was that to be his fate? Would it have been better if he had also died?
“Let me put you back in the bed, sir,” Hornsby said, moving to lift Matthias.
“No. I have been in a bed for a month. I will sit in the chair by the window.”
The batman helped him to his good foot and he hobbled a few feet to the chair, leaning heavily on his man.
That exertion alone felt as though he had fought in a hard battle all day.
“I shall send for the doctor, my lord. He asked to be informed when you awoke.”
“Then I want a proper meal,” Matthias said. “I feel as weak as a kitten.”
“I am not surprised. We have been spooning barley water and broth down you but that is not enough to sustain a man’s strength.”
Matthias had just finished a proper beef steak and coddled eggs when the doctor arrived. Doctor Beverly had been taking care of the Landry family for decades. He was a short and round gentleman, with a balding head and a kind face.
“Good morning, my lord. It is good to see you awake.” He glanced towards the empty tray with scant traces of his meal. “I see you have a healthy appetite, though I would have advised caution and a bland diet.”
Matthias inclined his head. “I have never been one to be a good invalid. I believe I must eat hearty in order to return to normal.”
The doctor looked sceptical, but held his tongue. “I should like to examine your leg, my lord. The wound is mostly healed, but having not extracted the bullet myself, and with you being so ill with fever, it was difficult to determine the extent of your injuries.”
“You mean how handicapped I will be?” Matthias preferred plain speaking.
He nodded. “It is a miracle you survived the infection. Battlefield medicine is an abomination.”
“They do the best they can. I would not wish to be a sawbones in the field,” Matthias admitted. He had never thought much about what it must be like to try to save thousands of wounded men pouring into the medical tent, and having to decide who was worth saving and who would be left to die.
“They do not even wash their instruments between patients!” Dr. Beverly’s face reflected his horror. “At least, that is what I have heard,” he added.
“I cannot say I was of a mind to notice at the time.”
“You were taken back to a house in Brussels and a nurse there cleaned out the wound and poured a large amount of spirits into it. She was convinced the spirits served to kill the infection,” Hornsby explained.
“Who am I to argue, since I am still alive?”
Dr. Beverly humphed. “That is probably due to the strength of your humours.”
Whatever those were, Matthias thought sardonically. Most medicine was all but witchcraft in his opinion. “Is there a chance the bone is broken? When I tried to stand, I felt a searing pain before it collapsed beneath me.”
