Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (6 page)

“You take my meaning, Miss Foster.”

Her shoulders slumped in a rare show
of defeat. “I know very well you do not enjoy our encounters any more than I.
And you seem content enough with Astley. Why make trouble?”

Actually, he did enjoy their
exchanges. Her arguments were unselfish and well-reasoned, even if they were
never-ending. There was a fine line between dissent and mutiny, and Kate
straddled it with skill. Matthew suddenly realized he'd been so preoccupied by
annoyance that he'd missed something else buried underneath.

Picking up a chair from beside the
desk, he planted it in front of her. “Sit down, Miss Foster.”    He dragged his
own chair over, settling across from Kate, who hung with suspicion off the edge
of her seat. Then he did something dangerous.

“I do not care for Astley. It's
impolitic and inappropriate for me to admit it to you, but there it is. How
much do my feelings matter, given our present circumstances?” Matthew shook his
head. “Not at all. I have majors and colonels under my command that I would
challenge with a brace of pistols, were we back home.”

She laughed in her infectious way,
and he responded in kind. “All of parliament would be dismissed, were I
permitted to act according to my own will. Sadly, I do not have that
convenience.”

He leaned forward, resting elbows on
knees and closing some of the space between them.

“This division has four thousand
men, and perhaps five doctors of any real stripe. Some regiments have none at
all. They rely on the local physician, a man who might arrive with leeches and
a plague mask – the sort who likely gives
you
nightmares.”

She laughed again, a throaty chuckle
really, and Matthew wished instantly that he could tease it from her again. The
sound evaporated any remaining tension, coaxing from him an earnestness he
never granted anybody. “Astley is thorny, officious and I'd wager not half as
skilled as you, but he is a necessary evil. Can you at least make an effort,
Miss Foster?”

“I do make an effort.” He could see
the war deep in her eyes. She wanted to make peace, but something was holding
her back. “Do you know much about Astley? Before you came, I mean.”

He shrugged. “Only by Addison's
reports, and Braddock's camp journal.”

Kate shook her head. “No offense,
but neither of those is a reliable source. For very different reasons.” She
scooted down in the chair as if she planned to be there a while. “Astley was an
infantryman before Vitoria. Useless as a soldier, by his own admission. Not
enough spine to shoot his musket, and even less to turn and flee the field. He
was being brought up on severe charges for it when his company fell under heavy
fighting. Tore the sling from his musket and used it to tie off a comrade's leg
after shrapnel tore his thigh.”

That Astley was a coward did not
surprise him. Quick-thinking bravery, did.

Kate smacked her hands together.
“Saved the man's life, unquestionably. Doctor Addison was curious when he heard
of it and asked to speak with the private. Coincidentally, Astley had been
studying medicine but debt pressed him into the service. Addison intervened in
the court martial, requesting that Astley be discharged and assigned to him as
an apprentice.”

Her brows knit with open disgust.
“From that moment, he was incorrigible. Slipping free of discipline fed his
sense of superiority. I believe Astley thinks himself exempt from the rules
which govern the rest of us because he thinks himself smarter. Better.”

She poked at his uniform coat. “The
men of his regiment were not kind to him, and I think there is a disdain in him
for the army. Astley has what little knowledge his pride will allow him to be
taught, and ability in spades, but there is not a dram of humility in that man.
I'm not certain he even knows the word compassion.”

He did not question a single thing
she had said, but they were back to the starting point. Without Astley, they
had no figurative doctor, and that meant no Miss Foster. Relieving Astley, no
matter how satisfying, was tossing the baby out with the bathwater.

He met her eyes, doing everything to
communicate his frustration with the paradox. “The men need a decent physician,
and to get that I have to tolerate a less than adequate one.” He tried a
meaningful look, hoping she understood. “This is war, Miss Foster. Sacrifices
must be made.”

CHAPTER FIVE

23 April, 1815 – Quatre Bras

Seven days. That is how long it
has taken for me to receive my own hospital, enjoy absolute elation, and run
almost entirely out of provisions.

Astley the Asp used up or hid
anything he could the moment General Webb dismissed us from his tent, but I do
not care. Providing for my own operation is worth almost never having to see or
answer to Gregory Astley. I have to admit he has been less abrasive when we do
pass one another, but I still do not trust him.

Porter has a break this afternoon
from repairs to the north wall, so we will venture out into the wild and see
what we can find. Unfortunately, I have collected everything within easy reach,
and much of the better trees and herbs grow in the fertile soil along the
river's ancient outwash, miles from here. But for the investment of a few more
hours, we can put our little surgery to rights.

I have seen General Webb exactly
once since I gained my independence. Not surprising; it is a historically
painful subject for the British.

Is that unkind?

Jesting aside, I thought he would
check our progress more often. He has greater matters to attend, of course, but
I find life a bit more gray without the prospect of a tongue lashing.

There is no pleasing me.

The quartermaster wasn't
saying
no, but he was telling her no.

John Campbell scrawled his signature
across a bill, transporting it from one pile to another atop the rickety table
that served as his makeshift desk.

She would not let him ignore her
because he had decided that their conversation was over. “John, how long have
we been acquainted?”

He stabbed the inkwell with his
quill, a frown deepening the orange-stubbled crags of his face. “Long enough
Miss, for you to ken that I'm not giving you two horses?”

“Two horses? I suppose
one
horse –”

“No horses.”

Kate clasped her hands. “Please,
John. There are far more supplies to be gotten. I can cover twice the distance
I'd manage on foot.” She had to make it past the ridge and into the valley,
only a few miles but too far to safely cover on foot.

John laughed. “Sounds as though that
puts you into French territory. Certainly don't need a horse for that sort 'o
trouble.”

She put on what she hoped was her
most winning smile. “Half bottle of whiskey says you'll change your mind...”

Campbell drew up his limber frame,
concentrating his freckles into colonies down his bare forearms while he
feigned indignation. “Tis a great comfort to my soul, lass, that I canna be
bought with any coin but His Majesty's.” He raked up on a red shock of hair,
already pulled thin, making a show of giving her request begrudging
consideration. “However, that farm nag o'er there is no' his majesty's horse.
Promise me the spirits, and she's yours.”

Kate stuck out her hand. “We have a
bargain. Give me the requisition.”

“She's no' been accounted for. On
your way, now.”

She would have hugged him, if his wooden
posture had invited it even a little. “Even better! I will have her back this
afternoon.”

By the time she mounted and Porter
climbed up behind her, the old horse's back was so loaded down that it might
have been faster to go by foot. At least they could haul back a good quantity
of whatever happened into their path.

They headed east towards the
crossroads, and it did not take long before they passed beyond the sounds of
the camp. Kate did not appreciate until they were away how constant some noises
were. Human sounds, coughing, laughing, shouting went on at all hours of the
day and night. Horses whinnied to each other, and Mister Hill's ancient,
mean-spirited rooster screeched at unpredictable intervals, probably too blind
to know dawn from any other time. Boots pounded out drills from dawn to sunset,
and singing passed the first half of the night while snoring constituted the
rest.

When was the last time she had
enjoyed complete silence? Not complete silence, she corrected. Songbirds
courted each other in the shade of an elm copse that they passed through. A
breeze whistled lightly between the hillocks at her back, carrying with it the
smells of lavender and damp, pungent grass. A pleasant change from midden pits,
unwashed bodies and the eye-watering smoke of a hundred campfires.

Now and then Porter hummed a few
notes of a Jamaican folksong as they bumped along, a tune she had only heard
him sing once. He had teased her that slaves were supposed to sing to show they
were happy with their lot. It worried their master when they were quiet.

After about an hour of companionable
silence, Porter drew up the reins at the edge of a copse. The trees guarded an
overgrown clearing, haunted by the stone skeleton of a burned-out farmhouse.
Knee-high stone foundations, a firebox, and a crumbling chimney were all that
remained. Through high grass along the side yard, Kate spotted a cluster of fat
stalks bushed up into thick green foliage. “Potatoes! Look at them all.” She
slipped from the horse, Porter hopping down behind. He pulled a musket from its
saddle-sleeve, slinging the shot bag around his neck.

Porter scanned the area. “I'll flush
the trees. Rabbit and potatoes for supper couldn't hurt.” They smiled at each
other a moment, enjoying the idea of something besides camp rations. Just
because they were there out of necessity didn't mean they couldn't incorporate
a little luxury into their errand.

Kate unhooked a burlap duffle from
the saddle. “I'll see what I can find around here. Bring me back a stick when
you come? We'll pry loose some potatoes after we beat back the snakes.”

“You'll be alright here?” he asked.

Kate pointed to the saddle bag.
“Pistol if I need it. Otherwise I'm fine.”

He nodded, shouldering the musket's
weathered stock. “Call out if you get in a bad way.”

She nodded with three years of trust
accumulated by bailing one another out of every kind of scrape.

He moved into the high scrub between
the oaks and elm, and Kate turned her attention to the area around the house.
The chimney towered stubbornly despite crumbling mortar between every joint.
Hopping up on the wall, she tottered along its uneven spine to avoid anything
lurking in the bushes until she had circled behind the carcass of the
fireplace. On the back side of the chimney's smooth gray river stones, in damp
shade, she discovered a family of tenacious blackberries hugging the wall.           Scooping
a handful of pebbles from the old floorboards, she pitched them into the
brambles. When nothing slithered or scurried, Kate shook out her sack, sat
down, and went to work. Blackberries were grounds for gluttony, as far as she
was concerned. Pies, wine, preserves were all her undoing. She felt stingy with
her small bounty, unable to decide on any single application for the delicious
berries.

She picked until her fingertips were
stained purple, the backs of her hands stinging from the thorns.

Crunching in the undergrowth brought
her eyes to the tree line. Porter emerged from the shade with a grin, and a
pair of pheasants dangling from his fist. “Not cottontail, but they'll fill our
bellies.”

It had been a long time since she
had felt real anticipation for supper. She rubbed her hands together. “Ready to
dig some potatoes?”

He chuckled. “Ready to eat them, so
the work's got to be done.”

She took the branch from his other
hand. “Jamaican grandmother?”

“Mmhmm. Ornery old witch.” Porter's
tales of his grandmother were amusing, and Kate suspected there was a strong
bond between them despite his barbs.

“Hmph. I like her.” Kate used the
branch and Porter the butt of his musket, stirring the grass tufting up between
the potato plants. “I think I would like to see Jamaica, whenever we're done
here.”

Porter shrugged. “Never been there.”

“Not even once? I guess I always
assumed,” said Kate.

“My grandmama's people had a feud with
my granddad's people in Trinidad. She went along with the men, meanin' to put
hex on him.” He whistled. “Got one look at Josue and never went home.”

Kate grabbed a bush, shaking sand
vigorously from the roots. “Decided not to hex him after all?”

“She
was
the hex. Poor
grandad.”

“Hah! Perhaps he deserved it. I
might have used just a touch of voodoo on my husband.”

Porter tried to purse his
heart-shaped lips, but laughter shook him. “You and my grandmother – dangerous
pair of snakes.”

“Good company.” Laughing, Kate
stuffed a final dirty handful of potatoes into the overflowing sack. “Remember
when we were in the Pyrenees? All we had for ages was oats and potatoes. Well,
it
felt
that way. I swore I would never eat another one, but now,” she
hefted the burlap tongues into his waiting hands, “I'm actually looking forward
to it.”

“Anything else?” While Porter
secured their load, Kate turned and searched the clearing.

“Looks like some comfrey around that
elm tree. I was going to snap a few of its leaves and...”

Not so much as a grunt.

She glanced back, but Porter was
already at the edge of the clearing, creeping deftly for a man of nearly six
feet. Ducking low, she wove through the grass to flank him. He jabbed two
fingers out to the horizon.

There were two of them, like sore
thumbs in their white trousers, red facings visible from half a mile away. The
French soldiers disappeared behind the low rise, but they were replaced by two
or three more cresting a hill behind them. The men were close enough that she
could just catch the timbre of their voices. If she and Porter tried to ride
away or run, they would be in musket range the moment they passed beyond the
trees.

“We're penned in by the river,”
Porter jammed a thumb behind them, “and there's a sight more of them east,” he
said, referring to the bulk of Napoleon's army.

“They heard our gunfire.” Her chest
ached, heart squeezing. It had been stupid to assume they were safe because
they were this side of the river.

Porter nodded at the mare. “Old girl
can move faster without us. Horse comes back without a rider, the garrison is
bound to send a patrol.”

Kate forced herself to inhale,
tamping down her nerves with every breath. “I suppose that will create a
distraction while we sort out where we'd prefer to be shot.”

Porter trotted, half-crouched, to
the horse who was nosing the ground in total ignorance of any peril. He snapped
her bridle free, giving a jump that reared her onto two legs. “Hah!” A crack of
his hand to her flank had the horse prancing wildly. Another smack, another
shout, and she was off, tree-trunk legs covering ground with more limber
eagerness than Kate would have guessed.

There was a crack in the distance
and a gray cloud of smoke from between the hills. Another followed, and then
another. They were
shooting
at the horse, she realized, immediately glad
they had chosen not to mount up. Not that they fired with much accuracy,
fortunately. The nag weaved a path left, then right, becoming a speck in the
distance.

“Hell and damnation.” She glanced at
Porter with his musket in hand and pointed toward the horse's path. “We sent
her off with the pistol.”
Stupid.
She wasn't thinking clearly, and she
needed to get hold of herself. Her panic would get them both killed.

Porter rapped knuckles against his
gray canvas bullet pouch. “Plenty of shot, but we need to lay low.”

Kate chewed her lip, looking at
their choice of cover. “You suppose we can manage four or five of them?”

“Don't know, but I'm not goin' back
to a plantation, so we're sure gonna try,” said Porter.

“Well said.” The soldiers had been
out of sight since firing on the horse, and Kate had no way of guessing where
they were by now, but it had to be close. She could hear their sharp exchanges
perfectly.

Porter nodded towards the chimney.
“Let's get around behind it. We can give them the most surprise from there.”

“If they come in through the mouth
of the clearing, perhaps they'll assume the house has already been picked over.
Hopefully they'll pass us by,” added Kate.

Porter was already moving. “Cover
from the wall if they don't.”

She darted behind him, looking back
for the soldiers' approach. They skirted the outside wall at a dash until they
were behind the fireplace. Porter dropped to the dirt at the base of the
chimney and Kate jumped the clean-picked blackberry bushes, meaning to land
beside him. A crack as her boots struck the ground was followed by a moment of
weightlessness. Even in the confusion, a primal bit of her brain warned that
what came next would not be pleasant.

“Oof!” Her back met soundly with
damp earth, knocking the breath from her chest. She writhed, panicking at the
burn of empty lungs. Cold, stale air rushed in to fill them, doubling her over
in a coughing fit that she knew could be heard outside the cellar. It took a
few gasps to calm the spasms. Kate fell onto her back and blinked up at jagged
wood slats framing a bright blue sky. It was a cellar, she realized, eyes
adjusting to the deep shadows. The weathered door must have been concealed by
the blackberry bushes, right there beside her the whole time.

“You alright?” Porter's words were
hushed. His head appeared at the edge of the hole, a black oval silhouetted by
the light behind him.

She groaned, sat up slowly, and
winced at throbbing ribs. “I'm sound. The rats are more afraid of me than I am
of them.”

Porter lowered the musket into her
grip and vaulted in after it.