The Portrait

Hazel Statham

The Battle of Salamanca, Spain, July 22, 1812

The French were in disarray and taking refuge in retreat
when a brief bombardment of cannon fire issued from their
ranks. Amid the onslaught, Marchant's Cavalry made good their
escape, but an explosion sent Edward Thurston, the new twentyseven-year-old Earl of Sinclair, reeling from his saddle.

In just one brief moment the tall, athletic earl, who had led
his men so enthusiastically in the attack, lay near death, his
life's blood seeping into the muddy ground. Briefly his gray
eyes registered pain before closing in blessed oblivion.

Seeing an injured, riderless horse racing at his side, one of
the young English officers, Major Anthony Drake, sharply
drew rein, fiercely swinging his horse around.

"My God, Ned!" he cried, heedlessly urging his horse once
more toward the cannon fire and throwing himself to the ground
beside the inert figure of his friend.

"My God! My God!" was all he could cry as panic and bile
rose at sight of the devastation wrought on his friend's noble
frame by the blast.

Another rider, a sergeant, appeared at his side and threw himself from his saddle. "We must get him onto my horse, sir," he
said urgently. "Help me lift him." And between them, despite
the bombardment, they raised the lifeless form from the mud.

Amid heavy rifle fire, they flung Sinclair over the horse's
withers before vaulting into their saddles and furiously galloping back to their own lines.

The air inside the field medical tent was oppressive. The
wounded and dying lay on pallets, with scarcely enough room
to walk between them. The battle had been won, but the cost
in human suffering was high.

Dr. Pyke, the surgeon, stood beside the cot of the young
nobleman, who lay with eyes closed against the sights around
him. "The left arm must come off at the shoulder, sir," he said
firmly.

Immediately Sinclair's eyes opened wide. "By God, it will
not!" he replied fiercely from between bloodless lips thinned
with pain. "I'll have none of your butchery!" The scarlet of the
wounds to his left cheek and torso stood out in stark contrast to
his ashen skin and the dark hair that clung to his fevered brow.
His left arm hung from its ragged joint, a useless, bloody appendage.