Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (23 page)

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

“How long has it been?” Ty grinned, wrestling the shirt tail from his
breeches.

Matthew skimmed the make-shift ring, nearly at the center of the
officers' quarters, and tried to remember. He tossed his own shirt atop the
splintered timber wall. “Vittoria?

“Sounds right.” Ty glanced overhead, weighing a canopy already growing
inky at its zenith. “Have to make it count, before we lose the light.”

They had snipped at one another for days. The major did not drill his
artillery the way that Matthew preferred. Not that there was anything deficient
in Ty's handling of his men. Taking umbrage, Ty had challenged him openly in
front of the company. They could not get on at cards, Ty drank too much and
accused him of not drinking enough. It had culminated in his labeling the major
'a cock about the yard', and receiving the probably apt title of 'Wiltshire
goat'.

It was a perfectly natural series of events, going back as long as they
had been friends.
Waiting
to fight had made them
ready
to fight.
When battle did not come, they turned to each other for some sort of relief.
Matthew cracked his knuckles. Only one sport would do.

“Let nighttime come.” He grinned, to get under the major's skin. “No
matter. I can beat you in daylight
or
dark.”

“Arrogance,” said Ty.

“
Skill
,” he corrected.

Ty nodded. “For a man your age, I suppose it is.”

He ignored the insult, staring at Ty's feet. “What the devil are those?”

“Training shoes,” Ty explained, looking sad for his backward general.

They looked suspiciously like a lady's dancing slippers. “For what
purpose?”

Raising one foot onto tip-toes, Ty easily flexed it forward and back
inside the heavily-stitched buckskin. “For that purpose.”

He grunted, refusing to be impressed.

Ty looked appalled. “You do not intend to wear your boots...”

Matthew grabbed a handful of chalk from a small tin pail, rubbing palms
hungrily. “I damn well do, and I will beat you in them.”

Ty held up a finger. “If I best you, you swear to purchase a pair. I have
your word.”

He answered with a jab, forcing Ty to leap back, chuckling. “So it's to
be that way. Very well.”

While they circled, Matthew watched Ty's eyes more than his hands. A good
boxer had to read his opponent, know the man's strengths and weaknesses, and
pair them against his own. It was a game of wits as much as fists, and Ty was a
very
good player.

Matthew cut the air between them with a hook. Ty slipped the punch,
twisting right so the fist slid over his back. He landed two solid blows to the
major's ribs in the aftermath, staggering him back into the rails. The burn in
his fingers was satisfying.

“I let you have that one!”
Jab, jab, jab
. Ty closed the distance,
arms working, keeping him on the defense. When Matthew finally swung, Ty
dropped his shoulders, ducking easily. “Come on, Webb! Are you going to hit me
or hold my hand?”

“I apologize.” He rocked forward onto his toes, then weaved back. Ty's
fist rammed his shoulder, wrenching the joint til it burned. Matthew stumbled,
caught himself on the gate, and winked. “I thought you just wanted to dance.”

Matthew hung his arms out front, forming a low guard over his belly. Ty's
blows jarred him back a half-step each time, pounding tender flesh deep inside
his musket wound. He repulsed each one, shoving back against its impact. The
pattern made him complacent; he was unprepared for a solid uppercut that tore the
skin over his brow bone. His neck snapped, eye socket pounding. Ty darted back,
out of range and raised his hands in the air. “Woo!”

They had drawn a crowd. Matthew realized it when several calls answered
Tyler's ungentlemanly cry. He jerked his head toward the men, who were taking
seats atop the north wall. “Good,” he panted. “Now there's someone to drag your
arse home once I've beaten you.”

Ty raked blood from his cheek with the back his hand. “Where's Miss
Foster, to put you back together?”

His answer was a right hook. It kissed Ty's chest, stumbling him back a
step. The major returned a half-hearted jab.

“Nothing to say?” Ty panted. “Disappointing.”

Left, right, and left again. Matthew dodged Ty's efforts. “You have some
grist to grind with me, major?”

“I do, until you admit what has really got your hackles up.”

Gut cramping, Matthew doubled over to rest fists against his knees. He
was too winded to comprehend Ty's meaning. “And what is that?”

“Stop being coy and admit you like her. Everyone in the garrison owns it
but you.”

He was not about to discuss his feelings for Kate. Not here. Not with
anybody, not even Tyler. He had thrown off Caroline's anchor, but that did not
mean he sailed with any direction. “Perhaps everyone in the garrison has too
much time for gossip. I shall review the drill schedule.”

Ty bristled, arms raising a fraction. “Hah!” His jab whispered past
Matthew's ear. His own cross caught the major wide open, knocking the smirk
from Ty's face.

Matthew lunged forward, driving them chest to jest, ramming Ty into the
fence. He worked his arms like pistons, countering and evading Ty's blows. The
major struck viciously, with all the force of a man pinned to the ropes.
Matthew brought a few hits to the ladder of Ty's ribs, but his run could not
last. A fist buried deep in his gut. Air left him, and he doubled over. A
second blow caught him under the chin. Flesh split. Teeth banged together.
Copper and salt coated his tongue, and Matthew turned and spat out blood. He
pressed searing, swollen knuckles to the dirt, to keep from dropping to his
knees. Lungs spasming, he shook his head against the sparkling in his
peripheral vision.

Chest heaving, Ty darted in for a killing blow. Matthew bounced to his
feet. Lacing arms around the major's neck, he wrapped Ty in a clinch. They hung
from one another, trembling muscles barely affording the small shuffle that
kept them moving.

From somewhere, an enthusiastic voice shouted for them to '
finish it
'.
It joined into a cry, running like a wildfire through the crowd. He shook his
head at the idea, sweat and blood slicking his face where it buried in the
crook of Ty's neck. Until he and Ty had pounded one another for good and all,
and someone came out on top, there would be no relief from their friction.

Matthew shoved Ty away with both fists and flexed his knuckles.

They were not done.

*          *          *

17 May, 1815 – Quatre Bras

Fann,

Kiss little Henry and give him
all my wishes for a joyful birthday, whenever this arrives. I recall so sweetly
the joy of grasping his mewling, wriggling little body and guiding him into
this world. He is half my heart, and you are the other.

Today has tried my patience
beyond anything. Syphilis is rampant in the camp, a common occurrence when the
men stay in one place too long with only women and drill to occupy them.
Despite my instructions to avoid certain ladies and symptoms, the malady
spreads like a fire in the brush. The excuse today was that men have been
confusing their small clothes and trousers with their afflicted fellows',
contracting the disease entirely by 'accident'.

I must appear the stupidest
person in three countries if they expect for a moment I believe unwashed
garments are to blame. I have asked the general to send away the ladies of
comfort if the men cannot behave, but he resists, sure it would cause mutiny
faster than outlawing grog. So, I have had Porter discreetly communicate to the
men that the only effective treatment for syphilis passed from man to man is
cauterization of the groin area. We'll see if the threat of one sort of fire
reduces another. I am doubtful.

Kate dipped the quill, holding it
over the paper for so long that a small splotch dropped and ran beneath her
sentence. Something had distracted her, a peripheral sound biting at the edges
of her concentration.

Cheering
. Muffled shouts and
calls, punctuated by small bouts of raucous cheering. It wasn't unusual in an
army camp; dice, cards, feats of endurance all merited some exuberance,
sometimes late into the evening. The difference, Kate realized at the next
round of cries, was that it came from near the
officers'
quarters.

Too curious to finish her letter,
Kate tossed it onto her cot, wrapped herself in a blue gingham shawl, and went
out.

The enlisted men as far as she could
see were clustered on high spots, gathered three and four in the wagons or
sitting, legs dangling from the scaffolding. Earthenware jugs changed hands at
the same speed as clanking sterling coins, and despite chortling and murmurs
their attention was fixed on something inside the officers' bivouac.

Kate tapped shoulders and raked with
elbows between the press of jostling, sweaty men.

“Major's a scrappy beau!” This from
a pock-faced soldier rocking onto his tiptoes to better see above the others. A
young private directly in Kate's way shook his head. “Gen'ral has a stone or
two on 'im, at least.”

Her heart gave a forward skip,
curious anticipation pushing her a little harder through the crush.

She slipped between two men at the
front who were whistling and waving their red grenadier's sashes in the air.

They circled inside the timbers of
an old horse pen, darting in, ducking away. Naked to the waist, sweat slicked
their backs. It carried rivulets of blood along its path, painting faces, arms
and chest. Matthew swung up under his opponent's chin. A few inches shorter, Ty
ducked the blow. A counter-strike caught Matthew's ribs, staggering him with a
groan. Ty darted away, but not quick enough. Kate winced, half turning her
face. Matthew's hand connected above Ty's left kidney in a meaty thud.

She would have laughed, if one or
the other had been paired with any other opponent. At least then she could be
assured of only a single fatality. Ty and Matthew, however, were tempers
unfamiliar with moderation or surrender.

They had been at it for a while, and
even Ty's lean, spry frame moved with leaden effort. Panting, Matthew grinned
and swung again. Crimson spittle sprayed from Ty's mouth over Matthew's chest,
making the tiger at his breast feral.

Matthew was too confident in his
blow, and he underestimated Ty's condition. Kate saw it in the way Ty was
already tensing as Matthew doubled up, closing the space between their bodies
without waiting. Ty, dazed but not staggered, recovered and swung high.
Hunching over, Matthew stumbled, listed to the side and finally regained his
feet. A tear across his right brow belied his smug grin.

Kate had seen enough. Somewhere they
had traveled from gentleman's sport to blood sport. It was obvious that the two
were prepared to scrap lying on the ground. Both looked savage and at least one
of them three-sheets to the wind. She had not the slightest interest in
cobbling them back together if Matthew and Ty carried on much longer.

Jamming two fingers into her mouth
as taught by a Portuguese sailor, she blew hard, splitting the air and their
bodies at once. Matthew looked her over, wide eyed, as though she had
materialized from thin air. Ty slung his head over one shoulder, then the
other, not seeming certain where the whistle had come from.

She had to be careful from here on
out. The general and the major were both on display in front of their men. Kate
bit her tongue and smacked a hand against the sticky dampness cooling on Ty's
back. “It is late, gentlemen. I would dearly love to sleep, and so would the
brave men of this garrison.”

A collective boo rolled over the
men. “How we gonna know who won?” A murmur buzzed between them all. “Yeah! I
got all my wages on the major!”

Near the front, a soldier – the same
one devoutly certain earlier that Matthew was the clear victor – squared up his
shoulders and took a step forward, hot glare directed right at her. Kate
realized too late that she had come between him and the only thing as dear to a
British solider as his homeland:
his wager
.

She held up both hands, waiting for
the protests to dull. “Let's make it more interesting. The man with the least
individual stitches is the winner. Double your coin if he requires less than
five.”

A roar erupted once more. Fistfuls
of money waved in unison at calls to lay a bet, sterling sliding between palms,
passing among the soldiers. With their attention turned on each other, Kate
waved her hands, shooing Matthew and Ty toward the general's quarters.

Following them in, Kate began to put
the pieces together. A deck of cards littered the floor, from the table to the
desk. A small, ill-used foot locker lay upended at the foot of the cot, guts
dumped half onto the floor. She spied a desecrated wine bottle on the table,
liberated cork confirming what she proved a moment later. Palming the green
glass, she turned it upside down. One sad drop fell onto the tablecloth. “This
would not have anything to do with what just happened outside?” She shook it at
the panting, groaning pair.

Matthew collapsed against his cot,
straining the canvas near to snapping under his impact.

“It was nothing.” Ty, hunched like a
village crone, raked fingers at his cravat and coat on the floor, draping them
over a trembling arm as he spoke. “Gentleman's sport.” His struggle to form
gentleman
and
sport
together severely undermined Ty's protest. “Just the thing to
tire me out before turning in.”

She sighed. “Don't you want me to
look at you?”