Bedford Square - Anne Perry [49]
He started to walk again. They passed half a dozen people, laughing and talking together: women with tiny waists and sweeping skirts, flowers and feathers on their hats; men in summer coats. And all the time carriages were busy along the street.
They found the house where Elliot had lived, only to be told that he had died of a kidney ailment two months previously.
They ate luncheon in a small, quiet restaurant, trying to keep each other’s spirits up, and then took the underground railway right across the city to Woolwich to find Samuel Holt. It was an extraordinary experience, and entirely new to Charlotte, although she had heard about it from Gracie. It was acutely claustrophobic, and the noise was beyond belief. The whole train shot through long, tubelike tunnels, roaring like a hundred tin trays dropped upon a paved yard. But it did achieve the journey in a remarkably short time. They emerged into the blustery, mild wind north of the river and only two streets from Holt’s house.
He received them with great pleasure, although unable to rise from his chair and apologizing for it with some embarrassment; old wounds and rheumatism had disabled him. But when asked, he said that yes, most certainly he had been on the Abyssinian Expedition and remembered it quite clearly. How could he assist?
Charlotte and Balantyne accepted the seats offered.
“Do you recall the storming of the baggage train on the Arogee Plains?” Balantyne said eagerly, unable to keep hope out of his voice.
“Arogee? Oh, yes.” Holt nodded. “Nasty.”
Balantyne leaned forward. “Do you remember a small bunch of men panicking before enemy fire?”
Holt thought for a few moments, his blue eyes misty and far away, as if he were seeing the plains of Abyssinia again, the brilliant skies, the dry earth and the colors of fighting men a quarter of a century before.
“Nasty,” he said again. “Got a lot of men killed that way. Never panic. Worst thing you can do.”
“Do you remember me?”
Holt squinted at him. “Balantyne,” he said with evident pleasure.
“Do you remember me going back for the wounded?” Balantyne said eagerly. “My horse fell. I was thrown, but I got up after a moment or two. Got Manders and helped him back. He was shot in the leg. You turned and went for Smith.”
“Oh, yes … Smith. Yes, I remember.” He looked at Balantyne with a charming, wide-eyed smile. “How can I help you, sir?”
“You remember it?”
“Of course. Dreadful business.” He shook his head, the sunlight catching his white hair. “Brave men. Too bad.”
A shadow crossed Balantyne’s face. “The Abyssinians?” he questioned.
Holt frowned. “Our men. Remember the jackals … eating the dead. Fearful! What makes you mention it now, sir?” He blinked several times. “Lose a lot of friends, did you?”
Balantyne’s face tightened; a bleakness crossed it as if in that instant some hope in him had died.
“Do you remember that attack and my going back for Manders? Do you remember how it happened?”
“Of course I do,” Holt insisted. “I said so, didn’t I? Why does it matter now?”
“Just recollections,” Balantyne replied, leaning back. “Bit of a difference of opinion with someone.”
“Ask Manders himself, sir. He’ll tell you. You rescued the poor devil. He’d have been dead for certain if you hadn’t. What any officer worth his salt would do. Who says otherwise?” Holt was puzzled; it upset him. “Terrible bloodshed. Remember the stench of bodies.” His face pinched with distress.
Charlotte looked at Balantyne. He, too, was torn with the pain of memory.
“Good men,” Holt murmured sadly. “Manders wasn’t one of them, was he?”
“Killed in India a couple of years later,” Balantyne said quietly.
“Was he? I’m sorry. Lost count, you know. So many dead.” He stopped, searching Balantyne’s face.
Balantyne took a deep breath and stood up, extending his hand.
“Thank you, Holt. Good of you to spare me your time.”
Holt remained seated in his chair. His face lit with pleasure, and he clasped Balantyne’s hand fiercely, clinging to it for several moments before he let go. His eyes shone. “Thank you, General,