He knelt down beside an Indian soldier, who he moved respectfully aside, before he turned over another one of the British corpses. With each unidentified body a greater hope filled him that Kitson had been wrong in his assessment of Portland’s actions until, in the shadow of the enormous wall, he stared down at the face he had prayed he would not find here. Initially he stood, towering over the body, tears burning his eyes before he knelt down and clapped his hand to his face.

“Are you well, sir?” one of the three soldiers asked. “Is this the man you sought?”

“Yes,” Fotherby whispered as he lifted Portland’s head. He carried no wound save one, to the left side of his chest. His eyes were not open as many of the dead men, but were lightly closed as though he...

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