Young Bloods Read online

  YOUNG BLOODS

  SIMON SCARROW

  headline

  www.headline.co.uk

  Copyright © 2006 Simon Scarrow

  The right of Simon Scarrow to be identified as the Author of

  the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this

  publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form,

  or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or,

  in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of

  licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008

  All characters in this publication - other than the obvious

  historical characters - are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 0 7553 5088 9

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

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  www.hachettelivre.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - Ireland, 1769

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3 - Corsica, 1769

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6 - Ireland, 1773

  Chapter 7 - Corsica, 1775

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10 - Ireland, 1776

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13 - France, 1779

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18 - London, 1779

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23 - Brienne, 1782

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29 - Eton, 1783

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31 - Angers, 1786

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34 - London, Christmas 1786

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36 - France, 1786

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45 - Ireland, 1788

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57 - Corsica, 1789

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61 - Paris, 1792

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64 - 10th August

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70 - Dublin, 1791

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72 - Spring, 1793

  Chapter 73 - France, 1793

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82 - Flanders, May 1794

  Chapter 83 - September 1794

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Simon Scarrow worked for many years as a college lecturer. His lifelong fascination with history was fuelled by the historical fiction of Bernard Cornwell, Patrick O’Brian and C.S. Forester. Now, he tells the incredible story of his greatest heroes. His highly acclaimed Eagle series, featuring two centurions of the Roman armies in Europe in the first century AD, is also available from Headline. Simon Scarrow lives in Norfolk. For more information on Simon Scarrow and his novels, visit www.scarrow.fsnet.co.uk

  To Uncle John Cox,

  who is regarded with respect and affection by

  all who know him

  Names, dates and measurements

  Many readers will be aware that the Duke of Wellington had once been Arthur Wellesley. Before that his family name was Wesley. This was changed to the more familiar Wellesley after Arthur’s older brother inherited the family title. Arthur began to use the new version only after he arrived in India, an event covered in the next book in the series - The Generals.

  In order to keep matters clear for readers, I have used imperial measurements for both sides of the story. With regard to dates I have not used the revolutionary calendar, since most of the French only paid it lip service and continued to use the conventional calendar.

  Chapter 1

  Ireland, 1769

  With a last look back into the dimly lit room the midwife withdrew and closed the door behind her. She turned to the figure at the other end of the hall. Poor man, she thought to herself, unconsciously drying her strong hands in the folds of her apron. There was no easy way to tell him the bad news.The child would not last the night. That was clear enough to her, having delivered more babies into the world than she could remember. He had been born at least a month before his time.There had been only a flicker of life in the child when the lady had finally squeezed it from her womb with a piercing shriek of agony, shortly after midnight. The result had been a pasty thin thing that trembled, even after the midwife had cleaned it up, cut the cord and presented it to its mother swaddled in the clean folds of an infant’s blanket. The lady had clasped the child to her breast, awash with relief that the long labour was over.

  That was how the midwife had left her. Let her have a few hours of comfort before nature took its course and turned the miracle of birth into a tragedy.

  She bustled towards the waiting man, skirt hems rustling across the floorboards, then bobbed quickly as she made her report.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord.’

  ‘Sorry?’ He glanced beyond the midwife, towards the far door. ‘What’s happened? Is Anne all right?’

  ‘She’s fine, sir, so she is.’

  ‘And the child? Has it arrived?’

  The midwife nodded. ‘A boy, my lord.’

  For an instant Garrett Wesley smiled with relief and pride before he recalled the midwife’s first words. ‘What’s the matter, then?’

  ‘The lady’s well enough. But the lad’s in a poor way. Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t think he’ll last until the morning. Even if he does, then it’ll be a matter of days before he meets his Maker. I’m so sorry, my lord.’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘How can you be sure?’

  The midwife took a breath to restrain her anger at this slur on her professional judgement. ‘I know the signs, sir. He ain’t breathing properly and his skin’s cold and clammy to the touch. The poor mite hasn’t the strength to live.’

  ‘There must be something that can be done for him. Send for a doctor.’

  The midwife shook her head. ‘There isn’t one in the village, nor near it neither.’

  Garre
tt stared back at her, his mind working feverishly. Dublin was where he would find the medical care he needed for his son. If they set off at once they could reach their house on Merrion Street before dusk fell, and send for the best doctor immediately. Garrett nodded to himself. The decision was made. He grasped the midwife’s arm.

  ‘Get downstairs, to the stable. Tell my driver to harness the horses and make ready to travel as soon as possible.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ She looked back at him, wide-eyed. ‘Surely not, sir. The lady’s still very weak and needs to rest.’

  ‘She can rest in the carriage on the way to Dublin.’

  ‘Dublin? But, my lord, that’s . . .’ The midwife frowned as she tried to imagine a distance further than she had travelled in her entire life. ‘That’s too long a journey for your lady, sir. In her condition. She needs rest, so she does.’

  ‘She’ll be fine. It’s the boy I’m concerned for. He needs a doctor; you can’t do any more for him. Now go and tell my driver to get the carriage ready.’

  She said nothing, but just shrugged. If the young lord wanted to put the life of his wife at risk for the sake of a puny infant that was certain to die, then that was his decision. And he would have to live with the consequences.

  The midwife bobbed, scurried over to the stairs and descended with a clumping of boots. Garrett shot a last look of disdain in her direction before he turned away and hurried down the hall to the room where his wife lay. He paused for an instant outside the door, concerned for her health in the difficult journey to come. Even now he wondered if he was following the best course of action. Perhaps that midwife was right after all, and the boy would die long before they could reach a doctor skilled enough to save him. Then Anne would have suffered for nothing the discomfort of the carriage’s bumpy progress along the rutted road to Dublin. Worse still, it might place her health in jeopardy as well. One certain death if they stayed here. Two possible deaths if they made for Dublin. A certainty against a possibility. Put like that Garrett decided they must take the risk. He grasped the iron handle, thrust it down and pushed the door open.

  The inn’s best room was a cramped affair of clammy plastered walls with a chest, a washstand, and a large bed above which hung a plain cross. To one side of the bed was a table and on it rested a pewter candle stand. Three half-melted candles wavered ever so faintly from the draught of the door’s movement. Anne stirred beneath the folds of the covers and her eyes flickered open.

  ‘My love,’ she murmured, ‘we have a son, see.’

  Easing herself up on the bolster she nodded gently to the bundle in the crook of the other arm.

  ‘I know.’ Garrett forced himself to smile back. ‘The midwife told me.’

  He crossed to the bed and lowered himself to his knees beside his wife, taking her spare hand in both of his.

  ‘Where has she gone?’

  ‘To give word for our carriage to be readied.’

  ‘Readied?’ Anne’s gaze flickered towards the shutters, but there was no fringe of light around the edges. ‘It’s still dark. Besides, my love, I’m tired. So very tired. I must rest. Surely we can spare a day here?’

  ‘No. The child needs a doctor.’

  ‘A doctor?’ Anne looked confused. She removed her hand from her husband’s grasp and carefully drew back a fold of the soft linen cloth wrapped round the baby. In the warm glow of the candles Garrett saw the puffy features of the infant - eyes closed and lips still. Only the rhythmic flaring of the tiny nostrils indicated any sign of life. Anne stroked a finger across the wrinkled forehead. ‘Why a doctor?’

  ‘He’s weak and needs the proper attention as soon as possible. The only place we can be sure of that is Dublin.’

  Anne frowned. ‘But that’s a day’s journey from here. At least.’

  ‘Which is why I’ve given orders to ready the carriage.We must leave at once.’

  ‘But, Garrett—’

  ‘Hush!’ He softly pressed a finger to her lips.‘You mustn’t exert yourself. Rest, my dear. Save your strength.’

  He rose from the bed. Beyond the shutters there were sounds of stirring from down in the coach yard; one of the grooms cursing as the gates squeaked on rusty hinges. Garrett nodded towards the window. ‘I must go. They’ll need a firm hand to get us on the road in good time.’

  Down in the inn’s cobbled yard, two lanterns had been lit and hung from brackets outside the coach house. The doors had been wedged open and inside dim figures were harnessing the horses.

  ‘Hurry up there!’ Garrett called out as he crossed the yard.‘We must leave at once.’

  ‘But it’s still night, my lord.’ A man emerged from the servants’ quarters, pulling on his overcoat, and Garrett dismissed his coachman’s protest with a curt wave of his hand.

  ‘We leave the moment my wife is dressed and ready to travel, O’Shea. See to it that our baggage is loaded. Now get those horses out here and harnessed to the carriage.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.As you wish.’The coachman bowed his head, and strode into the stable. ‘Come on, lads! Move, you idlers!’

  Garrett’s gaze flickered up to the window of his wife’s room and he felt a pang of guilt at not being by her side. He glanced back towards the stable and frowned.

  ‘Come on there, you men! Set to it!’

  Chapter 2

  The carriage rumbled out of the yard in the last hour of darkness. Turning on to the roughly cobbled street of the village, the iron-bound wheels rattled harshly, shattering the silence of the night. On either side the dark mass of the houses packed along the length of the street were momentarily illuminated by the two carriage lanterns. Inside, the coach was lit by a single lamp fixed to the bulkhead behind the driver. Garrett sat with his arm around his wife and stared down at the still form of their son, cradled in her lap. The midwife was right. The baby looked weak and limp. Anne glanced at her husband, reading his concerned expression accurately.

  ‘The midwife told me everything before we left. I know there is little enough chance that he will survive.We must put our trust in the Lord.’

  ‘Yes,’ Garrett nodded.

  The carriage pulled out of the village and the rattle of cobblestones gave way to the softer rumble of the unpaved turnpike that wound through the countryside towards Dublin. Garrett flicked back one of the curtains from the small carriage door and pulled down the window.

  ‘O’Shea!’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Why are we not going faster?’

  ‘It’s dark, my lord. I can barely make out the way ahead. If we go any faster we could run off the road, or turn the carriage over. Not long to dawn now, sir. We’ll make better time as soon as there’s light to see.’

  ‘Very well.’ Garrett frowned, sliding the window closed before he slumped back against the padded seat. His wife took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  ‘My dear, O’Shea’s a good man. He knows he must hurry.’

  ‘Yes.’ Garrett turned to her. ‘And you? How are you coping?’

  ‘Well enough. I’ve never been so tired.’

  Garrett stared at her, thin-lipped. ‘I should have left you to rest at the inn.’

  ‘What? And carried our son to Dublin by yourself ?’

  He shrugged, and Anne chuckled. ‘My dear, much as I think you are a fine husband, there are some things that only a mother can do. I have to stay with the boy.’

  ‘Has he fed?’

  Anne nodded. ‘A little. Shortly before we left the inn. But not enough. I don’t think he has the strength.’ She lifted her little finger to the baby’s lips and teased them softly, trying to provoke a reaction. But the child wrinkled his nose and turned his face away. ‘It seems he has little will to live.’

  ‘Poor lad,’ Garrett said softly. ‘Poor Henry.’ He felt his wife stiffen as he used the name. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Don’t call him that.’ She turned away to the window.

  ‘But, it’s the name we agreed on.’

&nbs
p; ‘Yes. But he might not . . . live. I’d saved the name for a son who would be strong. If he dies then I’d not use the name for another. I couldn’t.’

  ‘I understand.’ Garrett gently squeezed her shoulder. ‘But no Christian child should die without a name.’

  ‘No . . .’Anne looked down at the tiny face. She felt powerless, knowing that scant hours might lie between the present and the moment at which the baby moved on to the next world, scarcely drawing breath in this. There would be sorrow in vast disproportion to the duration of the infant’s life. Conferring a name on the sickly thing would only make matters worse and she shied away from the duty.

  ‘Anne . . .’ Garrett was still looking at her. ‘He needs a name.’

  ‘Later. There’ll be time for that later.’

  ‘What if there isn’t?’

  ‘We must trust to God that there will be time.’

  Garrett shook his head. It was typical of her. Anne hated life to confront her with any difficulties. Garrett drew a deep breath. ‘I want him to have a name. Not Henry, then,’ he conceded.‘But we must agree one now, while he still lives.’

  Anne winced and looked out of the window. But all she saw was the juddering images of herself, and her husband and child reflected back at her.

  ‘Anne . . .’

  ‘Very well,’ she said irritably. ‘Since you insist. We shall name him. For whatever good it will do. What name shall we give him?’

  Garrett stared down at the boy for a moment, marvelling at the depth of his feelings for the infant, and at the same time dreading the midwife’s verdict. For Anne to have carried him in her womb for so many months; to have felt his first fluttering movements; to know that she carried a life within her . . . When she had told Garrett of the awful stillness within her womb, they had rushed to Dublin in a blind panic, only to have the birth begin on the way.When the child had been born alive, Garrett had felt his heart fill with relief, which had been crushed when the midwife had gently explained that the child was too weak to live. He fought back the grief welling up inside his heart.

  ‘Garrett?’ Anne raised her face to look into his eyes. ‘Oh, Garrett, I’m so sorry, I’m not being much help, am I?’