William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

no satisfaction. He was powerless to explain.
    She pushed the hair back off his brow.
    “Good night,” she said quietly. “If you need me, you have only to knock the bell.”
    He raised his eyebrows.
    “Yes, of course I’ll come,” she promised.
    This time the smile was a little wider, then he turned away suddenly, and his eyes filled with tears.
    She went out quietly, bitterly aware that she was leaving him alone with his horror and his silence. The draft would give him at least a little rest.
    The doctor called the following morning. It was a dark day, the sky heavy-laden with snow and an icy wind whistling in the eaves. He came in with skin whipped ruddy by the cold and rubbing his hands to get the circulation back after sitting still in his carriage.
    Sylvestra was relieved to see him and came out of the morning room immediately when she heard his voice in the hall. Hester was on the stairs and could not help observing his quick effort to smile at her, and her relief. She went to him eagerly and he took her hands in his, nodding while he spoke to her. The conversation was brief, then he came straight up to Hester. He took her arm and led her away from the banister edge and towards the more private center of the landing.
    “It is not good news,” he said very quietly, as if aware of Sylvestra still below them. “You gave him the powders I left?”
    “Yes, in the strongest dose you prescribed. It provided him some ease.”
    “Yes.” He nodded. He looked cold, anxious and very tired, as if he too had slept little. Perhaps he had been up all night with other patients. Below them in the hall Sylvestra’s footsteps faded towards the withdrawing room.
    “I wish I knew what to do to help him, but I confess I am working blindly.” Wade looked at Hester with a regretful smile. “This is very different from the orlop deck on which I trained.” He gave a dry little laugh. “There everything was so quick. Men were carried in and laid on the canvas. Each waited his turn, first brought in, first seen. It was a matter of searchingfor musket balls, splinters of wood—teak splinters are poisonous, did you know that, Miss Latterly?”
    “No.”
    “Of course not. I don’t suppose you have them in the army. But then in the navy we didn’t have men trodden on or dragged by horses. I expect you did?”
    “Yes.”
    “But we are both used to cannon fire, saber slashes and musket shot, and fever …” His eyes were bright with remembered agony. “God, the fevers! Yellow Jack, scurvy, malaria …”
    “Cholera, typhoid and gangrene,” she responded, the past hideously clear for an instant.
    “Gangrene,” he agreed, his gaze unwavering from hers. “Dear God, I saw some courage. I imagine you could match me, instance for instance?”
    “I believe so.” She did not want to see the white faces again, the broken bodies and the fever and deaths, but it gave her a pride like a burning pain inside to have been part of it and to be able to share it with this man who understood as a mere reader and listener never could.
    “What can we do for Rhys?” she asked.
    He drew in his breath and let it go in a sigh. “Keep him as quiet and as comfortable as we can. The internal bruising will subside in time, I believe, unless there is more damage done than we know. His external wounds are healing, but it is very early yet.” He looked very grave and his voice dropped even lower, belying his words. “He is young, and was strong and in good health. The flesh will knit, but it will take time. It must still cause him severe pain. It is to be expected, and there is nothing to do but endure. You can relieve him to some extent with the powders I have left. I will redress his wounds each time I call, and make sure they are uninfected. There is little suppuration, and no sign of gangrene, so far. I shall be most careful.”
    “I was obliged to rebandage his hands last night. I’m sorry.” She was reluctant to tell him about the unpleasant incident with Sylvestra.
    “Oh?” He looked wary, the concern in his eyes deepening, but she saw no anger, no censure of her. “I think you had better tell me what happened, Miss Latterly. I am sensitive to your wish to protect your patient’s confidentiality, but I have known Rhys a long time. I am already aware of some of his characteristics.”
    Briefly, omitting detail, she told him of the encounter with Sylvestra.
    “I see,” he said quietly. He turned away so she could not see