Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1)

by Baird Wells

  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. Wells.Baird@gmail.com

  Follow Baird on Twitter: @BairdWells

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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 26th, 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 4th 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 e
dges 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.