Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1)

Vermillion

.

Most of the
characters and events in this book are fictitious.

Some other
characters are real, and also dead, leaving little room for complaints.

Vermillion
copyright 2015

Cover art copyright
J Caleb Design 2015

Story & Copy editing
by Two Birds Ink

All rights
reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning,
uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission
is unlawful. Written permission can be obtained by emailing the author.
[email protected]

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First Printing:
June 2015

.

To Wesley, who bled a little into every word in
order to bring my dream to life;

Kirstin, for reminding me that complaining
never wrote a book;

And Robin, for being wonderfully surprised.

.

VERMILLION

-
Introduction
-

The Napoleonic Wars were fought
over twelve grueling years, touched every country in Europe, and ultimately
claimed the lives of around four million people – soldiers and civilians.

By 1815, Napoleon had,
deservedly, earned a terrifying reputation. Despite being beaten back
repeatedly and having been crushed in Russia and captured once already, still
the Emperor came on relentlessly. Humbled yet undaunted, he fled exile from the
island of Elba on February 26
^th
, 1815, raising six hundred
supporters just hours after his feet touched land in France.

The citizens of Europe, having witnessed
the Reign of Terror in France, must have realized their worst nightmare when
word reached Paris on March 4
^th
that Napoleon had returned to French
soil. These events marked the beginning of a period called The Hundred Days.

From his resurrected capital,
Napoleon steered his war machine over the Continent. In his way stood the
Allied forces: Britain's army, bolstered by Prussia, as well as troops from
nearly every nation in Europe. American and Canadian men also joined the fight,
including black soldiers from the United States and West Indies. Women
followed, as wives and lovers, nurses, and prostitutes. They operated
commissaries which sold liquor and cigarettes in order to boost morale. Women
also accounted for a fraction of the dead on Waterloo's battlefield.

The Duke of Wellington, at the
head of the Allies, was a seasoned veteran of the Napoleonic Wars. The fourth
son of a minor noble, he had been a soldier first in life, distinguishing
himself from the very start of his military career. He had studied his enemy
carefully for over a decade, and as the events of the Hundred Days unfolded, he
was determined to use that knowledge in order to repulse the Emperor of France
once and for all.

War raged over the southern
countries for nearly two months until, steadily, the various forces began to
weave together, funneling north. Troops advanced and retreated along a
meandering line until both the French and Allies found themselves inside the
borders of Belgium.

Wellington positioned his forces
strategically, north of the French and with access to ships at anchor in
Antwerp to use in the event of a retreat. His Light Division and other forces
were stationed at a place called Quatre Bras, which provided a strategic
cross-roads for safe movement of his troops and allowed him to hold the key
city of Brussels.

With Napoleon teasing the borders
of Paris, and in anticipation of the battle which was to eventually be fought
at Waterloo, Wellington acted quickly, restructuring, re-positioning, and
moving his command staff according to their strengths. In early March he sent
General Lord Webb, a long-time acquaintance and trusted officer, to take charge
of the division at Quatre Bras.

The Duke believed that, when the
time came, Webb would help ensure Napoleon's defeat a second, and final, time.

PROLOGUE

Matthew stood inside a gate under a
blazing red ash tree, which shaded the end of a gray stone walk, and stared up
at the house. He was not certain how long he had been there. A thousand miles
across an ocean and he was struggling with the last twelve feet.

The house was so very like her.
Perhaps that was where his struggle came from. The large two-story whitewashed
square was clean and practical, boasting sturdy brick made welcoming by a whole
facade of tall windows. A high, nearly octagonal portico lent elegance,
lightening what might otherwise have been austere. Fans of gold-leafed alders
stood sentry on either side of the house, filtering a warm midday glow onto the
walls.

Steadying himself with a breath,
Matthew at last found enough courage to approach the steps. His hard soled
boots rung off of the portico's stone floor, echoing from the ceiling high
above. The entry was cool and dim despite its flanking windows. It held a rich,
spicy aroma – food cooking inside, perhaps, and the sweet musk odor of fall
leaves drying in the sunshine.

A polished brass knocker winked back
against the door's red paint, inviting him to lift it. He raised the cold metal
ring, striking three times. Then he waited, long enough that he began to wonder
if anyone would answer. Finally, the knob turned, latch grating in the frame
until he could just make out a pair of dark, curious eyes.

“General Lord Webb.” Matthew snapped
a card with the same information at the woman peering through the crack. She
started at its attack, then opened the door fully, smoothing her apron over an
ample waist.

“Your Grace.” Concern painted the
housekeeper's narrow face while she tucked the calling card into her pocket.
“We didn't expect you so soon. The Livingstons have not come down from Chestnut
Grove, I'm afraid.” She stepped aside, patting at her salt-and-pepper bun and
waving him on as she might a passing stage coach. “But come in, come in. I
shouldn't keep you waiting here.” Her clipped American syllables lent an
easiness to her words, calming his nerves. She curtsied, taking his hat and
walking stick with authority. “I'm Liddy, your grace. And Tom will wait on you
directly. He's just finishing with the verge around back.”

His seven-week journey from London
to New York had found him in a whole other world. Servants went by their
Christian names, the gardener attended the guests, and everyone spoke with
unranked familiarity. It was new, and so completely disarming.

And so very like her,
he
thought
.
Clenching his jaw against too familiar grief
,
Matthew
stepped inside.

Liddy gestured down the hall. “I'll
go have my girl put on tea. A bite to eat won't hurt either, I expect.” She
tipped a nod at nothing in particular. “Make yourself easy, have a turn about
the house if you'd like. Tom will call you to the table.”

The information surprised him. “Have
a turn? You mean the house is open to visitors?”

“I suppose that's the way to put
it.” Liddy swept a hand around them. “Just the four of us here, with you come
along. No one to make a fuss and the Livingstons could have no objection. Me
and Tom, we've just stayed on these past months to keep the house fit until
things are settled.”

He had tried separating himself,
treating the visit as entirely business or as a necessity. Outwardly the ruse
was succeeding, but inside, the battle raged on. Something twisted hard in his
chest, hinting that he was losing control.

Liddy reached to take his coat, and
it occurred he had not offered her any condolences. “I am sorry, madam.”

She nodded vaguely, keeping silent.
It was still too fresh for her, or maybe Liddy was afraid of burdening him. She
could not have been more wrong, but the crushing weight above his heart stole
his words and pressed down any explanation.

When Liddy had gone, he stood in the
narrow entry hall, nipped by the late-afternoon chill of September. The
apple-green paint soothed him, neither cheerful nor somber, but comforting
nonetheless. He had been given leave of the entire house, but Matthew felt the
pull of one room in particular.

The family bedrooms would be on the
second floor. He eyed the steep oak staircase, torn between seeking instant
gratification or rewarding himself at the end when he had finished exploring.

Never able to deny himself when it
came to Kate, he mounted the first step. Halfway up, his head swam. She had
tread these stairs, fingers brushing over the banister where his hand rested.
If he could only move time around him, she might be standing there, too.
Suddenly, his eyes ached.

In the deep shadows of the landing
he worked to get his bearings, weighing the doors before him. One of them, at
his right, stood open a crack, spilling a hint of sunlight into the hall.
Taking it as a sign, he pushed it clear and stepped in.

Perhaps the light had guided him.
There was no denying it was her room. He stood on the threshold, closing his
eyes, unable to bring himself to look around.

The first thing that came to him was
a smell. It hung gentle in the air, diminished by time, but unmistakably
familiar. Lavender and chamomile. It was a soothing medley, but his heart's
pace quickened at the memory, how it had clung to his skin hours after he had
left her bed.

Matthew opened his eyes, and for the
first time in months, smiled.

Just the color of the room warmed
him against the fall ache in his bones. It wasn't the gaudy shade of gold
common in Parisian drawing rooms, or the insubstantial primrose hue of London
parlors. The yellow was buttery and soft, strikingly framed between the white
wainscoting and crown molding.

There was a book shelf to his left.
Matthew raked a finger across the spines, tugging out a volume here and there,
able to guess her favorites by the number of turned-down corners.

Her bed coaxed a laugh. It was
massive for just one occupant, making the dimensions of the blue and white
wedding-band quilt more impressive. She had coveted her bed on campaign, a
similar titan, begging him to have it broken down and stuffed in the baggage
train when the army moved camp.

A writing table positioned directly
before the room's floor to ceiling window testified to how much time she must
have spent sitting before it. Peering out through the panes, it was not hard to
gather why. She would have lost herself in the panorama of rolling hills,
capped by groves of towering rust and bronze oaks. He could think of few better
spots to read or compose a letter.

Both the table's leaves were turned
down, but having seen her desk on campaign, it wasn't hard to imagine the
entire surface littered with herbs, bottles, and papers. There were some of the
latter on it now, a bundle of postmarked letters bound by a silky cornflower
ribbon which he recognized immediately. Someone had returned the letters, her
sister or brother-in-law, perhaps. Matthew pinned the top-most envelope with
his index finger and pulled the faded vellum close. He had a right to read
them, didn't he? They were his letters now that she was gone, the last
remaining pieces of her that could touch the emptiness inside him.

Dropping into the half-cradle of a
sturdy Windsor chair, he scooted up to the table, unfolded the first letter,
and began to read.

CHAPTER ONE

Quatre Bras -
17 March, 1815

Dear Fann,

I live. That is the most
important news, and the simplest place to begin.

When last I wrote we were outside
Paris, I think. The gambling and utter degeneracy of the men during our bivouac
there is beyond telling. I cannot object to the gambling, especially given the
obscene sum now stuffed into my bed roll. The drunken riot, however, kept me
and poor Doctor Addison drowning in patients for nearly three days. No one
lands a sound blow to the eye like a crocked infantryman.

We are garrisoned now in Belgium,
along the western frontier. With Major Braddock relieved of duty, order has
mostly been restored and Major Burrell has kept the men busy while they wait
for Napoleon's invitation. This morning a courier brought word the emperor will
arrive in Paris, perhaps within the week, and that the people have readied a
hero's welcome.

This news has changed the tone of
the fight. Humbled in exile on Elba, he still managed to slip away, and bring
six hundred men to his cause by dinner. Only in hindsight are the Allies
appreciating that they failed to deprive him of his most dangerous weapon:
charisma. A rumor says that when he reached Lyon, he stood in front of the
opposing soldiers there and declared that if they wished to shoot him, they
should do it quickly.

Those men now follow him north.

17 March, Friday evening

I have news!

General Webb has returned to
command our division. How did I not mention it this afternoon?

Of course your first question is,
'Who is General Webb?', so I will tell you. He was general of this Division
four years ago, just before I joined them in Portugal. He was sent home to
England with other generals under a scandal. The details are not worth
dedicating ink to, but he and Field Marshal Wellington were acquitted. I have
not seen him even at a distance, so I know nothing interesting about his look
or dress. Since I have not inspected him myself, here is gossip to satisfy you.

The men say he is quiet, generous
in his praise and a great adherent to rules, but they swear they would follow
him across the River Styx. Major Burrell refuses to tell me anything, even
though he is fast friends with the general. I take this as a positive sign,
since if Tyler can torment me with something, he will. I've petitioned for a
meeting with Webb tomorrow, so we will have to wait till then for the truth.

Some of our men languish with
terrible infection, no treatment or relief in sight, thanks to Braddock's
mismanaged inventory and misuse by that snake of a doctor's assistant Gregory
Astley. The general state of the camp is unsanitary and no provisions are made
for improvement. Ty and the officers acting in Braddock's stead have been too
overwhelmed restoring basic order to tend anything else, but their troops
suffer all the same.

That is my chief reason for
speaking with Webb. Supplies must be gotten, and more vitally he needs a
competent physician. Is that cruel? It feels disloyal to say so. Doctor Addison
has done so much for me, but he is ancient. His heart is in the work, but his
hands quaver and his mind wanders. Astley disobeys and oversteps himself more
and more, but Addison's recollection from one day to the next is so poor that
no discipline is ever handed out.

Between Doctor Addison's age and
Astley's over-confidence, I would wager the general loses two men to the
sawbones for every one he loses to the musket. There cannot possibly be a
limitless supply of unshaven boys and trembling old men in England to replenish
the ranks. I have to stem the flow.

I? Truly I meant 'we', because no
woman alone could act in the capacity of doctor with any competence. I will not
prove a satisfactory army physician until I am able to switch genders.

I take heart. Eels can do it; it
must not be so difficult.

It's hard to discern what the
naysayers object to most: that I am a woman, or an American.

Curiously, when one of my
detractors finds himself with a particular burning itch or a ball lodged in his
gut, he reconciles himself easily. After my second wound, perhaps I've gained a
small measure of respect.

The stockings you sent are an
almost unholy pleasure, mostly because I never expected them to arrive. Between
misdirection and overt theft, little ever does. Soon the little cushions in
which I send you my pay will not fool anyone. We may eventually have to resort
to hollowed-out leg bones. Prepare yourself.

Much as it pains me, I must part
with you for now. One of the camp women suffered a terrible long labor all last
night and into this morning. Together we delivered a robust baby boy, but I've
had no sleep in two days.

God bless you, sweet sister, your
darling William and little Henry. It's rumored we will push north, though I
don't know when. I will write as soon, and as often as I can.

Keep me in your prayers, and
don't occupy yourself wondering why I've come here. I do that enough for us
both...

Kate tucked up the ends of the
paper, sliding fingers over the rough edges until it formed an uneven
rectangle.

Dipping the war-weary quill again,
she scratched Fann's direction across the front.

Mrs.
Elisabeth F.
Livingston

Chestnut Grove

Albany, New York

Tipping a candle, she puddled sooty
tallow until it straddled the flap. With nothing fancier at hand, she sealed it
with her thumbprint. Inking the nib of the quill one last time, she wrote '
78
'
on the lower right corner. It was a game she played with Fann, guessing how
many days the letter would take to arrive in New York. Sometimes they were
serious wagers, but more often she aimed to make her sister laugh by writing
things like '
1000
' and '
never
'.

She stood up to toss the letter in
the courier's satchel and lie down for a little sleep, but a soldier's throat
clearing on the other side of the tent wall dashed her hopes.

“Miss Foster, Doctor Addison has
called for you. Most urgently, miss.”

“Directly.” She was too tired to
form full sentences.
Couldn't the man deliver a baby or dab on some ointment
alone?
Of course, he would not send for his assistant. She doubted Addison
could stand the man any more than she, even if he could not recall the reasons.

She draped her cloak tightly around
her shoulders, no longer fooled into believing spring nights in Brussels were
anything like the days. Hefting up a red canvas sack from her cot, half-yawning
and half-sighing, she swore it had only been minutes since she'd tossed her kit
down. Throwing it over her shoulder, Kate slipped outside.

The camp was blanketed by tense
silence. The men even snored more quietly than usual.

Between the tents it was dark,
making the rows of little triangles look like jagged white teeth lit by the
moonrise. Most of the fires were banked and no late night stragglers filled the
courtyard. No one up tossing dice or passing the jug. Drunken midnight laughter
was conspicuously absent, replaced by enough quiet that her ear caught the
sound of tent canvas snapping in a light breeze. Was it the grim anticipation
of battle, or was this General Webb's influence? The changes were unsettling,
either way. Without meaning to, Kate picked up her pace a step.

A waxing moon was just rising over
her shoulder, bathing the walls. It cast deeper shadows ahead of her and a blue
glow out to the horizon. In daylight the land was beautiful, hills swaying with
burnished grasses rolling off into a sky a shade of blue Kate didn't believe
existed anywhere else.   Spring dotted the landscape with rambling wildflowers,
adding new green foliage to ancient tree branches. It was time for the world to
come alive again, but she did not find much joy in the season.

It wasn't the impending battle that
had concerned her for days now. The fighting was left to other hands and she
cleaned up after. Her worry was more immediate. The insistent stink of the
latrine pits as she crossed the camp had given pause for days. Wood ash
normally masked the odor, but the holes had grown too full to be disguised.
Constructed in unstable hillside soil, filling them in and digging more would
be near impossible.

At least the latrines were near the
walls. Midden piles dumped
inside
the camp had grown putrid, gagging her
at times along her daily route. The waste brought flies and rats in warmer
weather, and both brought disease. Commander Braddock had discharged his duties
poorly on all counts, and camp sanitation was no exception. She caught herself
sighing, and realized it was becoming a reflex.

Doctor Addison boasted the second
largest tent in the garrison after the officers' mess, a tall pavilion-style
arrangement where he saw patients during the day. If they required a saw and
the hospital was at capacity, a converted mess tent nearly abutting his living
quarters did the job.

The operatory was dark now, but the
doctor's tent blazed from inside.

She slid under the flap into a space
that, if not for the dirt floor, might have been a gentleman's study in a fine
townhouse. Books were everywhere, on shelves and tables or crenelated atop
supply trunks. The tables, filled with instruments and vials, were meticulously
arranged, and even the clothes in his footlocker were neatly folded. She knew
because, like the supplies, she was in charge of putting them away.

Despite her best efforts there was
an off-putting sense of clutter which was new to the doctor's quarters. The
disarray had been imposed by the recent occupation of an enormous bed. With a
frame practically medieval in construction, its wood planks must have been
planed from half a grove of trees. It was strung together with enough rope to
rig a man'o'war and needed a special wrench for tightening.            The
appeal of such an obnoxious piece of furniture was its down mattress, made up
of the feathers of more geese than France could boast, all stuffed into the
blue and white ticking. Major Ford, the only competent officer the garrison
could claim at the time, had brought the hulk back from a siege. He made a
present of it to the doctor, who had saved his arm. Dr. Addison had declared
the bed a necessity, replacing an army cot that had caused unabated misery for
old bones when his arthritis worsened during the winter.

He was lying on the bed now, a gaunt
line dividing the mattress right down the center, quilts swallowing him on both
sides. He smiled weakly at her entrance, and Kate knew immediately that Addison
was in grave shape. Only one side of the doctor's thin lips curved up. He
reached for her with his left hand instead of his right.

Taking her stool from under the
instrument table, she pulled it up to the bedside. She smoothed a hand over
what was left of Addison's snowy white hair. “Something has happened.”

“Louisa.” His daughter's name was
lightly garbled, as though he had been drinking. “My right arm is cold.”

His mistake dashed the last of
Kate's hope. Louisa, a woman old enough to be her mother, had died before the
doctor took her on. His left pupil didn't move as he searched her face.
Swallowing her worry, she squeezed his shoulder. “It's Kate, sir. You sent for
me.”

He seemed not to hear, grimacing
with the good half of his face. “Oh, ohhh!” He pawed at his temple with a
knobby hand. “My head, Louisa! Get me the willow bark powder at once.”

She jumped to obey, moving entirely
on reflex. The brown glass jar was at the back of the first table, on the left.
Water pitcher over her right shoulder, tumblers on the bottom shelf of the
stand. She tapped the sharp-scented tan powder into the glass, measuring a
spoonful of laudanum into the tincture to help him rest.

“Are we in the country?” he slurred.
“I don't know this place.”

There was no point upsetting him.
“Of course we're in the country. Drink this.”

“What is it? Is this quinine? Oh, we
must be in India!” As fast as he perked up, Addison went slack again, eyes half
shut. “Oh, my head. Are we in India?”

“That's right! No malaria – drink it
all down.” She put the glass in his trembling left hand, slipping an arm under
frail shoulders to sit him up. “Take a good long drink, and we'll see if that
doesn't fix things.” Tipping the liquid between his slack lips, she used her
apron tail to dab at the stream trickling back out. He sputtered, chest
wracking weakly, then relaxed into the bend of her elbow, eyes falling closed.

Voices outside the tent gave her
seconds' warning, a breath to prepare for the inevitable duel she was about to
fight. Astley, the doctor's assistant, tore through the flap, yammering without
a breath to whomever he had in tow. His mouth snapped shut when he caught sight
of her at the doctor's bedside. Kate felt a little satisfaction that something
had shut him up.

Gregory Astley, in another life,
would have been stationed on a London street corner, lifting his stovepipe hat
to passers-by while extolling the effectiveness of his toad wart liniment. He
was small and wiry, dark-eyed, with brown hair exactly like a goat's. His long
nose and broad mouth might have been handsome, except they were laced by a
perpetual sneer. Usually aimed at her.

Astley's only useful quality, in her
estimation, was his willingness to conscript even the smallest task for the
possibility of praise. Cold and full of ego, at least he accomplished a lot of
work.

The man towering behind him was such
a contrast that Kate nearly laughed. He had to hunch more than six feet of lean
frame deep under the roof just to get inside. His abandoned hat revealed black
hair that was short even by military standards. Dark brows furrowed in
perpetual concern. His gray eyes darted everywhere, seeming immediately to
glean key bits of intelligence and file them away for later. An attractive
symmetry to his bold features held her eye.