Instruments of Darkness by Imogen Robertson Page B

revolutionary fervour.’ Hugh laughed. ‘There are rumours that some of us may see action soon enough, Thornleigh. Talk of a march on Concord to relieve them of the arms we suspect are being collected there.’

    Hugh snorted. ‘Hardly an action. I have stolen apples from my neighbours’ orchards with more risk to life and limb. These rebels are cowards and braggarts. As soon as they see a company of British soldiers drawn up in front of them, they shall hand over whatever we ask for.’

    ‘I wish I had your confidence. They may not look like an army at the moment, but I think I see a determination in their eyes that could make any soldier cautious. Some of them fought in the last wars alongside us, remember. The reports of them were not all bad.’

    ‘What good will determination do them against ball and bayonet and trained men? Determination doesn’t render them bulletproof.’

    ‘Nor us our red coats.’

    ‘They are farmers! Hunters! If they can reload more than once in a minute I’ll buy them all the tea and stamps they want myself.’

    ‘If they fire straight with every shot,’ Hawkshaw said quietly, ‘they need not worry if they fire slow.’

    Captain Thornleigh was not by nature a reflective personality, but his friend was. Indeed, the friendship that had grown up between the two Captains since Thornleigh had transferred to them had surprised many in the regiment. They were now known among the officers as the Bull and Whippet; if either man knew, they did not seem to mind it.

    As they left the room, a breeze knocked the shutters against their frames, catching the curtains between them so the clack was muffled, like gunfire echoing across a body of water.

     
    The building requisitioned for the hospital was a former warehouse situated on the wharf. The surgeon obviously saw their arrival as something of an imposition, and having greeted them briefly, turned to his nurses, both wives of Sergeants in the regiment, to further instruct them on the preparation of bandages, and asking the officers to direct any further questions to his assistant.

    The young man he indicated stood up from his desk and approached them. He was well-made, dark in his colouring and moved with a certain grace. Hugh was reminded of the foxes on his estate. The impression was strengthened by the man’s high cheekbones, the cautious assessment of them apparent in his dark eyes.

    ‘I am Claver Wicksteed,’ he introduced himself. ‘You are Captains Thornleigh and Hawkshaw. Did the Colonel send you down to see how we get on?’

    ‘He did.’ Thornleigh was a little taken aback by the man’s attitude. Wicksteed continued to watch him.

    ‘And how do you get on?’ Hawkshaw asked pointedly. ‘Do you have all you require? You are new to this doctoring line, are you not?’

    ‘Not sure if you could call it doctoring, sir, what I do. The surgeon said he needed more help and here I am. He saws and sews people up, I help hold them steady then write out the requisition for blades and needles. Would you like to see around the place?’

    The Captains nodded and Wicksteed bowed. ‘Very well. This room we have reserved for surgery. As you see, men can be brought in direct from the wharf, and there is space for seven at a time, we think.’

    Hugh could not help feeling the man came a little too close, for comfort. He was as slender as Hawkshaw, but his movements seemed more sinuous. He held his hands together when he spoke, though the right would occasionally swim out to emphasise some point of the preparations made, only to be firmly clasped again by the left, as if it were a wayward animal in need of control. It seemed as though he was stirring the air between them into something more dense and difficult to breathe.

    They made their way through a broad corridor into a larger space, hurrying to keep up with Wicksteed’s brisk pace.

    ‘In this main area we will keep most of the beds, and we have a store of straw laid in.’