dropped. “How could I ever forgive myself?” A woman walking a small dog passed them, and Balantyne was too distracted even to acknowledge her by raising his hat, a gesture so automatic to him he would normally have done it without thought.
Impulsively, Charlotte reached out her hand and rested it on his arm, holding him lightly. “You must forgive yourself,” she said earnestly. “And no one else will need to forgive you, because they will not know. This may be precisely what the blackmailer wants, to make you so demoralized that when he asks for whatever it is, you are willing to give it to him simply to be rid of the fear and the doubts, to know at last who your enemy is so you can also know your friends.”
She felt the muscles in his arm tighten as he clenched them, but his hand did not move and he stayed close to her.
“I have had a second letter,” he said, watching her face. “It was much the same as the first. Cut from the
“What did it say?” she asked, trying to keep perfectly steady. He must not see how alarmed she was.
He swallowed. He was very pale. It was obviously difficult for him even to repeat the words. “That my friends would shun me, cross over in the street to avoid me, if they knew I was a coward and ran from battle, and was saved by a private soldier, and then would not even own up to my shame but let him conceal it for me.” He swallowed, his throat jerking painfully. His voice was hoarse. “That my wife, who had already suffered so much, would be ruined, and my son would have to disown his name or his career would be finished.” He stared at her in helpless misery. “And not a word of it is true, I swear that in the name of God.”
“I had not doubted you,” she said quite calmly. The depth of his distress had the strange effect of setting a deep resolution in her to fight the issue in his defense to the very last iota of her strength or imagination, and not give in even after that. “You must never allow him to think he has won,” she said with utter conviction. “Unless, of course, it should be a tactical ploy, to lead him to betray himself. But I cannot see, at the moment, how that would be an advantage.”
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,” he said with deep feeling. “It was a great thing that you came to see me.”
Outside in the street, Charlotte could hardly wait to turn to Balantyne and see his relief.
“That proves it!” she said exultantly. “Mr. Holt was there. He can make nonsense of the whole charge.”
“No he can’t, my dear,” Balantyne answered quietly, controlling his emotions with such difficulty he would not look at her. “We lost no men at Magdala. In fact, there were only two men killed in the entire campaign. Many wounded, of course, but only two dead.”
She was astounded, confused. “But the stench,” she protested, still trying to force away what he was saying. “He remembered it.”
“Abyssinians … seven hundred at Arogee with the baggage train. God knows how many at Magdala. They slew their prisoners. Hurled them over the walls. It was one of the worst things I ever knew.”
“But Holt … s-said …” she stammered.
“His mind is gone … poor creature.” He walked quickly, his body tight. “He is lucid in moments. I think when I left he actually did remember me. Most of the time he was simply lonely … and wanted to please.” He kept his face straight ahead, and she saw the pain in it, heard the thick huskiness in his voice. She knew it was not for himself. The hollowness of failure would come later.
She did not know what to do, whether touching him would be an intrusion. He was walking very rapidly. She had to pick up her skirts and stride to keep up with him, but he was unaware of it. She moved beside him in silence, every now and again giving a little skip not to be left behind. Loyalty was all she could offer.
Tellman was very fully occupied learning more about the recent life of Albert Cole. He began at Lincoln’s Inn Fields with a pair of bootlaces. He found the corner where Cole had stood, and already there was someone else there, a thin man with an unusually long nose but a cheerful expression.
“Laces, sir?” He held out a pair in a fairly clean hand.
Tellman took them and examined them closely.
“Best you’ll find,” the man assured him.
“You get them the same place as the fellow who was here before you?” Tellman said casually.
