The Summer Fields

  ‘You are the very man I wanted to see, Argyll,’ he says. She knows from his laboured breathing that the movement has fired up the pain in his leg.

  ‘Am I indeed?’

  ‘I want to know your opinion of my injury before I hand myself over to the barber surgeons.’

  The doctor frowns. He is wondering what sort of opinion he can give, she thinks, when amputation is the only option left. ‘I heard your leg was broken, my lord,’ the doctor says. ‘There is only one treatment for that.’

  ‘Look at it for me, I beg you.’

  ‘I cannot imagine it will alter anything…’ The doctor gives a great sigh. Elen knows nothing will change his opinion, but then she sees resignation soften his brow and feels a flutter of hope in her chest.

  ‘Shall I lift the muslin that covers the wound, sir?’ she says before he changes his mind.

  ‘Yes, Miss Griffiths, would you be so kind.’

  Mordiford narrows his eyes as she reaches over him. ‘I will be as careful as I can,’ she says. The gauze, which was laid across the lower part of Mordiford’s leg the night before, lifts with comparative ease. He exhales with relief. The doctor removes his hat and kneels beside Elen, a frown of concentration on his face.

  ‘It is quite a mess, is it not?’ Dr Argyll says. ‘And difficult to make out exactly. Miss Griffiths, I wonder if you would be kind enough to peel back some of this fabric here.’

  She can see that the ripped edge of the stocking is stuck fast in the dried blood around the wound. Mordiford tenses as, with the greatest care, she starts to peel back the fabric, supporting his leg firmly by the ankle with her other hand. She can feel herself drifting away from the man she has lain next to all night, stepping back inside herself again. She knows she hurts him, but if he is to be convinced that amputation is imperative, the doctor must see the full extent of the damage.

  She has to ignore his trembling, but it is difficult not to feel despair as she uncovers the crater in his leg. There is a deep gouge all the way down his shin, packed with mud and grass from the field. As she works she sees the jagged end of a small bone slicing up through the skin. The brandy would have helped but even so, she cannot imagine how he talked all night with such a wound as this.

  Mordiford never once tries to dash her hand away or beg her to pause to let him catch his breath. Several times she stops to check he is coping. He gives her a stiff nod to continue. Throughout the process the doctor peers at the wound, tilting and cocking his head to get a better view. Finally, he raises his hand and gets stiffly to his feet, knocking the dirt from his knees with his hat. ‘That is enough, Miss Griffiths,’ he says. ‘I can see the extent of the injury without you having to expose it any further.’

  The doctor makes himself comfortable on a bale of hay. She can see by his expression that the verdict is the same as everyone else’s. ‘I cannot begin to tell you my sadness, on hearing that you had been injured on the battlefield,’ Dr Argyll says. ‘I wish that I could bring you some comfort and give you the answer you want, but I cannot. In my opinion, you would risk everything if you did not submit yourself to the care of Mr Barker.’

  Mordiford groans, rolling his eyes away. Dr Argyll begins to tap the brim of his tricorn onto the toe of his boot. After a few minutes he continues, ‘When Miss Griffiths and I first arrived in The Hague, I was reluctant to make Mr Barker’s acquaintance. Was I not, Miss Griffiths?’

  She smiles; that is an understatement, she thinks. ‘Indeed you were, sir,’ she says.

  ‘I thought these surgeons were little more than butchers, but Miss Griffiths – who, I have to tell you, has shown me up somewhat by her openness of mind – championed concord between us, a necessary discipline as we were travelling companions for many months.’

  ‘And you have become firm friends, have you not, sir?’ she says.

  ‘Yes, I think I would almost go as far as to say that.’

  She is not going to allow the doctor to undermine Mordiford’s faith in the surgeon. ‘Did I not hear you saying only the other day, sir, that Mr Barker was a thoroughly sound fellow?’

  ‘Did I go that far? Well, perhaps I did.’

  Oh, for pity’s sake, Elen thinks, will you set your squabbles aside and put this soldier’s mind at rest. ‘And you have revised your reservations about his profession?’ she says, drilling him with a look.

  ‘Oh, I am sure there are as many quacks and charlatans among the barber surgeons as among my own branch of the profession…’

  ‘But that is not really the point, is it Dr Argyll?’ she says.

  Elen gives him such a glare that the doctor clears his throat and says, ‘No. Mr Barker is not one of them.’

  ‘He is extremely skilled,’ she says to Mordiford. ‘I worked next to him, all through yesterday. His speed and precision is breathtaking.’

  ‘I must agree with Miss Griffiths,’ the doctor says. ‘I have also seen him in action. His attack with the saw is formidable…’ Elen winces. This was not the line she had hoped he would take. ‘…and he cuts so clean and quick, that soldiers relieved of a limb by him, have a far greater chance of making it home than a soldier who has been operated on by one of those Prussians. If I had to lose a leg to anyone’s knife, it would be to his.’

  It is hard to read Mordiford’s thoughts. If he does not have the leg removed, he will die, but who would not flinch from the agony to come?

  ‘As for the pain…’ the doctor continues, having received no reply.

  ‘It is nothing to do with the pain,’ Mordiford replies, somewhat abruptly.

  ‘…but if it were…’ Dr Argyll persists. ‘Let me assure you, with Mr Barker, it is over in under a minute.’

  ‘I said it is not the pain.’

  ‘Then my advice to you is to have the damned thing off,’ Dr Argyll says. ‘The sooner the better and that is an end to it.’

  ‘And an end to my life as a dragoon.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Well, yes, that would be true but…’ The doctor hesitates, then casts a look at Elen. Clearly he is struggling to understand. ‘Surely, my lord, this dalliance with the army is a temporary thing.’

  In an instant, Elen knows the doctor has made a mistake.

  ‘I did not see the purchase of my commission as a dalliance,’ Mordiford says. ‘And for the love of God, stop calling me Lord.’

  ‘No, quite,’ the doctor blusters. ‘I have probably clutched at quite the wrong word in my puzzlement, but I had assumed that at some time in the not-too-distant future you would return to Wales and take up your role as master of the Duntisbourne estates.’

  ‘I have no desire to return while my father lives.’

  ‘No, indeed.’

  An awkward silence descends on the group, which the doctor eventually breaks. ‘I must say, it is most encouraging to see how well your skin has healed from the pox since I saw you last.’

  Mordiford looks up sharply. Elen expects his face to show contempt, as it would have in the past, for Dr Argyll’s clumsy attempt to move the conversation onto a more encouraging footing. Instead he smiles weakly at the doctor and replies, ‘I barely think of it now.’

  Dr Argyll chuckles, probably from a sense of relief as much as anything else.

  Mordiford leans forward in the hay and says in an urgent tone, ‘I cannot lose my leg. Let a few hours pass so that your creativity can begin to burn again.’

  ‘I cannot imagine what you mean,’ Dr Argyll says. She knows well from his tone that he is not immune to flattery. Mordiford catches her eye and she feels such a closeness to him that hope rises in her chest.

  She goes over to the bale and sits down beside the doctor. ‘You have read much, sir,’ she says. ‘You have travelled and seen how other cultures treat their sick.’

  ‘Indeed I have,’ the doctor says.

  ‘Do you think, that the captain would have survived smallpox had a London physician been brought down to bleed him, purge him, and bleed him again? Somehow, I imagine he would not.’

&n
bsp; ‘We will never know,’ Dr Argyll says. Mordiford’s eyes are glowing with keen interest and gratitude that she is championing his cause.

  ‘But see,’ she says, warming to her theme. ‘The scars the captain carries now are mere ghosts of the boils that covered him. No other infection hurried in.’

  ‘Thanks in its entirety to the care you, and of course, Miss Griffiths, under your instruction, gave to me.’

  ‘None of your treatments are currently practised or recommended,’ Elen says. ‘Not even at Court – and yet, the captain lives.’

  ‘Well, it is most gratifying to hear you both speak so enthusiastically of my work,’ Dr Argyll replies. ‘But wounds inflicted on the battlefield are not my area of study.’ Mordiford looks away, sinking back again. She can sense his despair. ‘However…’ the doctor says slowly.

  ‘Yes?’ Elen says with an intense urgency.

  The doctor gets to his feet and begins pacing around the stall. After a minute or so he turns to his expectant audience and says, ‘A moment. I need the advice of the barber surgeon.’ He hurries out of the stable. She hears him calling Mr Barker’s name.

  ‘He will not be persuaded,’ Mordiford says.

  ‘I am not so sure,’ she says.

  * * *

  Within minutes, the doctor and surgeon can be heard in lively discussion approaching the door of the stable. Mr Barker has clearly been pulled away from his breakfast, for he still clutches a hunk of bread in his hand, which he passes to Elen for safekeeping as he approaches the patient with Dr Argyll at his shoulder.

  He looks down at the wound and says, ‘I cannot see enough to advise you.’

  ‘But in theory, Paré’s principle could apply?’ Dr Argyll says.

  ‘In theory.’

  Elen looks from doctor to surgeon as if watching a game of catch. Eventually she says, ‘I beg you, gentlemen, do not keep my patient in suspense longer than is absolutely necessary. Will one of you please tell us what you are planning?’

  ‘Nothing at the moment,’ Dr Argyll says. ‘I do not want to raise the viscount’s hopes.’

  ‘For the love of God, man,’ Mordiford says. ‘This is more agonising than my wound.’

  ‘Very well,’ Dr Argyll says. ‘I read a translation a number of years ago written by a man who had studied survival rates among soldiers wounded during the campaign of Francis I.’

  ‘The man was French and a barber surgeon,’ Mr Barker says, his eyes alive with merriment.

  ‘So a rascal on both accounts?’ Elen says.

  Dr Argyll makes a tutting noise and narrows his eyes at her. ‘This is no time for mockery,’ he says a little testily.

  ‘I think it an excellent time,’ Mr Barker parries, giving Elen a broad wink.

  ‘Come along, gentlemen,’ she says. ‘Only minutes ago we were regaling Captain Mordiford with stories of your developing camaraderie.’

  ‘Which is still there, is it not, doctor?’ Mr Barker claps Dr Argyll heartily on the back. ‘I have never been known to tease a fellow I do not like.’

  ‘You are teasing us all, Mr Barker,’ Elen says, ‘if you do not tell us about this surgical pioneer.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Ambroise Paré. He has been a great inspiration to me especially as the phenomena he observed were contrary to expectations. During the Italian campaigns he noticed that a soldier who lay neglected on the battlefield for long enough for maggots to infest the wound, made a swifter and surer recovery than one whose wound remained clear.’

  Elen shudders. She cannot abide maggots. One hot and humid summer a neighbour lost his flock and livelihood to fly-strike, but before he accepted their inevitable demise, she saw the wretched sheep agitated, and mad with pain, as they gnawed at their rotting flesh. Surely amputation was preferable to that.

  ‘Oh, hell’s teeth. Where is this going?’ the captain murmurs.

  Mr Barker shrugs and looks at Elen.

  ‘It is worth some consideration,’ Dr Argyll says.

  ‘Surely not,’ Elen says. ‘Once a patient recovers from the shock of an amputation, our single aim is to keep the wound free from sluff and corruption.’

  ‘It seems,’ Mr Barker says, ‘the maggots’ sole interest is to feed on that very sluff and leave the living flesh alone.’

  ‘That is not how the maggot feeds on the breech of a sheep,’ she says. ‘I have seen them quite eat the back of an animal away.’

  ‘It is the fleece that encourages that, I expect,’ Dr Argyll says. Although Elen is not certain he is convinced by his own argument. ‘Provided the wound is open to the air, the maggots sate themselves solely on the dead flesh.’

  ‘Let me add a caveat to that,’ Mr Barker says. ‘I am referring to wounds open to the air without any complicated injury beneath. Until I can investigate the wound, I cannot recommend such a course of action. I understand the inestimable Mrs Barker has already acquainted you with the consequences of failure.’

  ‘She has,’ the captain says.

  ‘In that case, if you are willing to take the risk, you must let me probe the wound.’

  ‘Mr Barker, I beg you,’ Elen says. ‘The captain is already in extreme discomfort.’ Mordiford holds a hand up to her to cut her short.

  ‘Am I allowed to ask why you need to probe?’ he says.

  ‘Of course. After all, it is your wound.’ Mr Barker wipes his hands down the front of his waistcoat. ‘Miss Griffiths, I think I shall finish my breakfast, if you would be so kind.’ She passes him the hunk of bread and he drops to the ground, settling himself on the floor next to the viscount. ‘I have studied anatomy…’

  ‘On cadavers,’ interjects Dr Argyll.

  ‘Cadavers have the same bones as the living,’ Elen says quietly.

  Mr Barker smiles broadly up at her and takes another bite out of his bread, chewing it with relish. ‘The lower leg is made of two bones – one large, one small. I cannot be sure, but it appears in your case that it is the smaller bone that has broken through the flesh. If the larger one remains intact, it could act as a splint for the other.’

  ‘And if it isn’t?’ Elen says.

  ‘Then there is no way on God’s earth that I could realign the bone in such a fashion as it would heal, maggots or no maggots. You would have to allow me to amputate.’

  ‘And this probing – painful?’ the captain says.

  ‘Exquisitely.’

  The captain looks at Elen who shakes her head, her heart begging him not to embark on this risky and agonising course. After some consideration, the captain says, ‘I am willing to let you probe, Mr Barker, but on one condition.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Miss Griffiths does not witness the procedure.’

  ‘Sir,’ she interjects, ‘I have seen much worse during this campaign. You, of all people, should know I am not the same as a woman of your class who might swoon at the sight of blood or distress.’

  ‘I do know, Miss Griffiths. But if I am to allow Mr Barker a free hand with his knife, I intend to scream like Polyphemus and curse this good gentleman to Hades and back before he’s done. Should you hear such a thing from my lips, that fragile good opinion you have of me would be destroyed for ever.’

  Part III

  The Summer Fields

  Chapter 1

  August 1704

  Donauwörth, Bavaria

  ‘We should start back,’ Elen says. Sarah is leading her through the meadows to one of the many lakes that crowd along the banks of the Danube.

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ Sarah says. ‘Whatever will be, will be. Getting back to the barns will not change that. We have many days ahead of us filled with the smell of death and decay. Let’s enjoy tranquillity for a while longer.’

  When they reach the water’s edge, the lake is spangled with the floating cotton of the willow herb. Iridescent damsel flies flare blue as they flick over the surface. The hollow call of a moorhen comes from somewhere in the reeds, followed by the slap of a wing on water. It’s hard to believe that the bod
ies of thousands of men lie a few leagues to the west, already stripped and laid out for the gravediggers in that vast open-air morgue on the plains of Höchstadt.

  There will be no such honour for Bucephalus and the multitude of horses lost during the battle. The strictest orders have been given that no soldier touches them for fear of infection. Within days the stench rising up from this stretch of land will become unbearable. However, Mr Barker is confident that by then the wounded will all have been transported to the general hospital that the Duke of Marlborough has established fifty leagues to the north.

  ‘Whatever the outcome, the captain doesn’t want us to travel with the unit to Nördlingen,’ Elen says.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘He’s concerned that Ned Harley is still abroad. If we go to Nördlingen, we will be easy to find and the captain is not yet well enough to defend us.’

  Sarah frowns. ‘Us?’ she says. ‘By that, I assume you mean the captain and yourself.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Elen, my dear, let us sit down for a few moments.’

  ‘I don’t want to sit down. The sun is high in the sky, it is already past midday. I’m sure the operation is completed by now.’

  ‘No. I need you to sit down.’

  ‘I know what you are going to say.’

  ‘No, you do not.’

  Sarah sinks down onto the meadow, patting the grass next to her to encourage Elen to follow suit. When Elen looks down at her friend, she feels a jolt of anxiety, for Sarah looks grave.

  ‘Whatever is the matter?’ she says. ‘Why do you look so anxious?’

  ‘I have something bad to tell you about your captain.’ Elen is filled with a black dread.

  ‘He’s sicker than at first we thought?’ she says, grabbing at Sarah’s hand. ‘He bleeds inside and you could not bear to tell me?’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ Sarah says, drawing her down to sit.

  ‘What then?’

  Sarah reaches into the pocket of her apron and takes something out. At first Elen thinks she holds a jewel because as the sun glances across it, it shines with the brilliant light of a diamond. Sarah passes the keepsake across to her, watching Elen’s face with an earnest expression.