Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5) Read Online Free PDF

aid me!”
    “Certainly, if I knew what it is you want me to do,” said Underwood mildly, rather pleased that he had curtailed a dangerous line of enquiry.
    “Then allow me to elucidate,” said Jeremy, who couldn’t resist reminding Underwood that he was not a complete dunce, “I have an old friend ...”
    “Just the one?” asked Underwood, hiding a smile.
    “Very droll,” said the Major with a grimace, “Can we stick to the point?”
    Underwood filled his mouth with egg, just to show that he intended to interrupt no more and was all attention.
    “As I was saying, before your wit got the better of you, I have an old friend – no, he is more than a friend! I will admit to you, Underwood, as I would to no one else alive, I owe the man my life. It was he who dragged me from under the dead horse which had fallen on my legs – they were already mangled beyond saving by the explosion which had killed the horse, but trapped as I was, I would have died of blood loss within minutes if he hadn’t pulled me free and fixed tourniquets.”
    Underwood made no comment, but his mind raced. This was an important moment in his relationship with Thornycroft, who rarely, if ever, spoke of his battle experiences, and certainly he never told anyone the true story of how he lost his legs – though he had several very colourful yarns which could not possibly be true, including Napoleon himself slashing him with a sabre.
    Jeremy noted Underwood’s silence and was grateful for it. His bitterness at the loss of his limbs meant that he never admitted weakness of any kind. He had even designed and had made a special saddle so that he could ride a horse, though it tired him beyond measure as he needed all the strength left in his thighs and his upper body to keep him mounted. To tell Underwood now the real story of how he had relied upon another man to save him was galling, but his friend needed to know how important Rutherford Petch had been, and still was, to him.
    “Rutherford Petch is a hero in the truest sense of the word, Underwood.  He never alluded to his actions again and refused to listen when I tried to thank him. He insisted he was just doing what any other soldier would do – but I know he went beyond that, far beyond. He risked his life to save mine. This was still the heat of the battle and he could have been forgiven for keeping his head down and charging away, but he didn’t. He dismounted, calmed a panicking horse, secured the reins by tying them around his thigh and saw to me before yelling to two infantrymen to drop their rifles and help him to drag me up and throw me over the saddle on my belly. He yelled in my ear that he’d have me court-martialled if I dared to fall unconscious and that I was to hold on for dear life. I didn’t need telling twice, though how I held on I’ll never know. It’s astounding what you can do when your life depends on it. But I know that if his horse had taken off, he would have been dragged across a battlefield with his head bouncing on the ground like an inflated pig’s bladder. He directed the horse back towards the lines and slapped its rump, frightening it into haring back, carrying me to safety and leaving himself exposed and without a mount. I still don’t know to this day how he survived. Like me he had a dozen different versions of the truth, but I understand from others that he had to stop another galloping, riderless horse, stricken with terror and ready to kill, with flailing hooves, any man that approached it. Oddly enough, we were not even particular friends before the incident, good companions, who trained together and took our ease in the same places, occasionally played cards with each other, but nothing more. Of course, to me, and I believe to him, we were closer than brothers afterwards.”
    “I can imagine,” said Underwood softly, “Is he in some kind of trouble now?”
    “More trouble than you can conceive of,” said the Major morosely, “You’ll know