Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1)

by Baird Wells

  Thumbing a few more pages, Matthew came across a letter. It was five or six haphazard lines absent punctuation, childlike in its construction. He read it over twice, still not certain of some of the words, but picking out enough to gather the sentiment. Private Taft of the 52nd had expressed his thanks to Miss Foster for curing a bout of fatigue by forbidding bleeding and imposing a diet of fish.

  Bleeding was the cure-all for any illness, draining excess blood and balancing the body's humors. Why had she opposed an accepted practice? Eating fish was a curious recommendation, but to Miss Foster's credit, it seemed to have worked. Private Taft made a full recovery and was returned to duty.

  A post-script at the bottom by Doctor Addison to Major Braddock asked that the commander make note of Taft's kind words and physical improvement when deciding 'the matter at hand'. Nothing else in the packet indicated what that matter had been.

  Rapid boot steps hammered to a stop outside his quarters, drawing him from his reading. There was a tell-tale slap of hands against wood, a sentry's musket being presented and shouldered to let the visitor pass.

  “Webb!” Major Burrell ducked in without waiting for an answer, not that he ever did. Tonight Matthew refused to be bothered by it. They had been apart since Portugal, and he was relieved to have Tyler under his command again. Ty's presence with the regiment had been one of the few bits of glue keeping Braddock from ripping it apart. Chief among only two or three people in whom he could truly confide, or call a friend, Matthew was grateful to have the major at hand.

  Ty bent his long frame into a camp chair with an easy grace that Matthew envied. It was the same masculine disregard that brought every woman in the ballroom running, whenever they were in London. His hat landed on Matthew's cot, and he immediately went to work righting the damage it had done to his barber's fashionable efforts.

  Matthew tipped the major an easy nod. “Tyler.”

  Ty grimaced. “You say it precisely like my mother.”

  “Someone has to. How was your time in London?”

  “Productive. In more ways than one.”

  “Meaning?” It was never just an answer with Ty.

  Ty swept disheveled blond hair into place with a practiced hand. “Meaning it was productive and beyond that, you would not be interested.”

  The pieces began to fit. Matthew raised his brows. “Meaning Georgiana Fitzgerald?”

  He was forced to swallow his jest when Ty shook his head. “Didn't see her, not once. My brother came down with some of his children, and we had a lovely afternoon with my mother who did not press me to make any of my own. Paid a call to my barber and my tailor.” His grin was unapologetic. “A visit for all the most important people in my life.”

  Matthew was not fooled. Ty might cultivate a dandy's reputation, and it certainly stuck, but he knew how hard the major had worked to earn his place in high society. The illegitimate child of a man he loved but refused to discuss, there was no chance of Ty's ever harvesting the bounty of a family estate.

  Fortunately, Ty did not need the family's help. Clever, with a good education and unaffected charm, he'd been keen enough to use those three tools to the greatest advantage. He might have come from relative obscurity, but when invitations went out for anything, Major Burrell's arrived in the first batch.

  They had bonded over a love of the army, a duty to England, and the talent for making war. Ty was ruthless in the field, an unmatched tactician when it came to artillery and beloved by the men. When Matthew issued an order, Major Burrell was the only officer to whom he granted complete autonomy in its execution.

  Matthew tapped the desk for emphasis, recapturing Ty's attention. “Nearly a month in town, and those were your only activities? You did nothing else on the other twenty-odd days...”

  “I'm thirty now, Webb. Put up on the shelf.” Ty pantomimed dusting himself, then laughed. “How are you settling in?” He kicked boots up onto the desk, defying ten years of Matthew's directives against it.

  “Ever seen a man-o-war run aground? About like that.” Matthew raised a hand, ticking off one finger at a time. “Half my baggage has not arrived. I'm certain Braddock sold off munition stores for pocket money – not that he kept any sort of inventory to prove or disprove my suspicion – and if the regiment's nurse is to be believed, my doctor is effectively dead.”

  Ty chuckled. “Truly you live by the sword. At least the men can be counted on to make you welcome. They've done nothing but belly-ache over your absence since Lisbon.”

  “They may well belly-ache more over my return.” He swept Braddock's documents to the edge of his desk. “Judging by what little drivel he's left behind, I'm a heavier hand than Major Braddock. Speaking of which...” He held up Private Taft's brief testimonial. “Tell me about Miss Foster and Mister Astley.”

  Miss Foster had been with the regiment as long as Doctor Addison, and Major Burrell would have acquainted himself with a woman so eye-catching at the first opportunity. If anyone had useful insight, it was bound to be Ty, but judging by his sly grin he wasn't apt to share it.

  Ty shook his head, squinting at the page. “Astley I do not particularly know. He's a recent addition to Addison's menagerie. Some of the men get on with him, but I cannot say if that is owing to superior care or male modesty. I find him a bit of eel-skin, personally.”

  Matthew grunted and said nothing. The major had practically confirmed Miss Foster's concerns, and heightened some of his own.

  “Miss Foster...I could entertain you with three years of stories about her.” He wrestled up his shirt and waistcoat, thumbing down the waistband of his gray trousers, exposing a shiny pink scar. The length of Matthew's little finger, it slashed across Ty's flank. “This can speak on my behalf. I survived my bayonet injury and a trailing infection at her hands.”

  Leaning forward, Matthew peered at the old injury, more curious about the story than the wound. Science and medicine piqued his interest nearly as much as the army. “How did she treat your wound? What was her method?”

  Ty's answered with a cryptic head-shake and a maddening grin. “Medical anecdotes cannot do the lady justice. I would not even attempt it.” Ty stuffed his shirt tail into his waistband. “You've a keen eye, Webb. See for yourself.”

  Matthew sighed, letting a smile escape for the first time in days. “How have I managed all this time without you, Major? I was in danger of becoming a sane man.”

  Ty rubbed his hands together. “I will be pleased to deprive you of your sanity, along with your wagers and good gin.”

  “I haven't got any gin. Not for you.”

  Gasping, Ty clutched at his chest. “Red-blooded Englishman and no gin. They ought to drum you right out!”

  “Good night, major.”

  “You had better get some,” warned Ty.

  He hesitated at something in the major's tone. “What?”

  “Gin.” Hammering a finger into the letter about Miss Foster, Ty wiggled his brows. “You're going to need it.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  20 March – Quatre Bras

  Fann,

  Doctor Addison, God rest him, is gone. It feels so much like losing Father again. I know you will be just as sad as I at the news. Rest your head on William's shoulder and let his comfort double for mine.

  How many men besides our father would have offered me the opportunities which Doctor Addison joyfully shared? I should not be surprised. Francis treated everyone with the same dignity and compassion. It was his gift to this harsh world, and we are all the worse off without him.

  I feel more, but I cannot write it now. Grief comes over me in unrelenting waves, and when I am not crying for the doctor's loss I am overcome with the unfairness of such a callous maggot replacing him.

  Napoleon has reached Paris, with ten times the men as when he set out.

  God has a plan, but today I cannot see it.

  -K

  “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, y
et shall he live.” General Webb paused, head bowed over the tattered brown leather bible.

  Kate stood on the open hilltop outside the garrison's western wall, under a silver-dome sky, unsheltered from a biting spring wind that slapped her cheeks, cutting through every layer of clothing. A last gasp of morning rain sprinkled her face, mingling with her tears.

  Porter tossed a scoop of dirt into the hole, the sandy soil skittering over the battered canvas wagon cover in which they had wrapped Doctor Addison that morning. He didn't show it, but she knew he shared her grief. A fugitive slave from the Carolinas, Porter had been scooped up by the doctor in New York, just as they were about to set sail. A person was a person in Addison's estimation, and both she and Porter had been treated accordingly for the last three years. In the middle of a war, they had found real freedom.

  She had sat up with the doctor for two nights after the illness overtook him, a painful, drawn-out conclusion, knowing he would never recover. His suffering was over now, and for that she was grateful. Still, she failed to fight back selfish tears at the loss of her friend and mentor, and for the men of the regiment. They were all in Astley's hands now.

  Dabbing the heel of her hand against swollen eyes, she leaned to Ty on her left, whispering with barely-moving lips. “Why is the general giving the service? We're not on a ship.” At sea a captain might give last rites, but they were on dry land, with several towns nearby.

  “He sent to the village, but the only holy man there is Catholic. Some of the officers objected strongly.” Ty grimaced an apology, knowing her religion was a sensitive topic. Most of the men did not concern themselves with how she worshiped on Sunday, but the ones who did were always eager to find fault with her, asserting that her every flaw stemmed from following the church of Rome.

  Snorting, Kate crossed her arms inside her shawl, staring out toward the stormy gray wisps along the horizon, glad that the service was nearly done.

  General Webb tucked the bible under his arm, removed his hat and cradled it against his chest. The regiment's nearly eight-hundred men followed suit, pressing hands to hearts. “Let us commend Francis Addison to the mercy of God, our maker and redeemer. Amen.”

  Amen.

  Colonel McAuley dismissed the men, who filed past in two lines thumbing a salute at the hole. In minutes she and Porter stood alone beside the ragged grave. She took up a shovel, impaled in the thin mound of soil at the foot of the hole. Palming the splintered wooden handle, along with Porter she began to yard the dirt. It was a task usually assigned to privates on light duty or under minor discipline, but she had asked Major Burrell to leave it to her and Porter.

  Addison had been a close acquaintance of her father, and the two exchanged ideas constantly, even controversial ones, like women practicing medicine. He encouraged her father to indulge her interest, to plant knowledge wherever he found a fertile mind. That had been her reason for seeking Addison out, three years earlier.

  In his letter inviting her to Spain, he had confessed that he could not offer her comfort or safety, just plenty of patients. Maybe he had meant to scare her off. Kate laughed, tossing more soil. If so, his plan had backfired.

  She had never regretted taking the leap and coming to Europe, and hoped he had not regretted sponsoring her. They were happy together even in the worst of times, at odds only once, when Addison had taken on Gregory Astley as his apprentice.

  He had believed Astley's ambition synonymous with loyalty. Prideful errors by Astley were attributed to a lack of knowledge rather than a lack of caring. Doctor Addison had believed it impossible that someone could devote himself to the practice medicine for selfish reasons.

  Addison had defended her to Astley as often as he defended his apprentice, believing discord was unhealthy for the patients. Kate raked in the last bit of dirt she could scrape from the grass, rolling her eyes. Astley was already working hard to test that theory.

  She threw her shovel down beside the mound, meeting Porter's eyes for the first time since they started. “You're still a freeman. You don't have to stay.”

  He nodded slowly. “You know this is as close to home as anywhere. I can't remember Trinidad. Don't want to remember Carolina.”

  Kate watched the fog lifting, mulling over something in his words. “You're right. We have a lot of good memories with the army. I suppose that makes home wherever we're camped.”

  He smiled, picking up her shovel. “I suppose it does.”

  Kate picked her way along the wall, heading for the hospital. Syphilis and gangrene gave no quarter for grief, and the patients would keep coming no matter what. Mourning would have to wait until she was under her quilt, whenever that might be. That did not mean she had to run headlong into the fray. She turned east at the main camp road, taking the long way back.

  A chill at her core deepened when she reached sight of the doctor's old tent. Stacks of his books sat in the dirt out front, some tossed onto a path muddy from the night's rain.

  She went from cold to hot in two steps, boiling by the time she cornered Astley ransacking a trunk of clothes. The whole tent resembled a shipwreck.

  “What are you doing?” She grabbed up a few wadded letters and a single boot, beginning to put them away.

  “Cleaning out my quarters.” Astley threw the mate to her boot, knocking a jar off of the tabletop.

  “Your – since when are these your quarters?” The general would hear about this.

  “Since Francis went to the worms last night.”

  The toe of her boot was thicker than she had guessed. Kate hardly felt her foot connect with his shin.

  Astley launched an armload of shirts and trousers, catching her in the face. He followed with a finger shaking under her nose. “I am in charge now. You assault me again or run contrary to my instructions, and I will have the general horsewhip you in front of the whole bleeding regiment.”

  She laughed. He would try, she had no doubt. Only once though, and his regret for it would be eternal. “Your instructions? Save yourself the trouble. I can manage my own course.”

  Kate spun to leave, but Astley's grip on her wrist snapped her painfully around. “General Webb has given his direction. You may take it or leave it. Preferably the latter.”

  She jerked an elbow, catching him in the ribs and breaking his grip. “I'm not a timid village girl. Lay hands on me again and I will dress you like a Christmas goose.” There had been so many things to learn during the years her father had spent treating the Indian tribes around their home. Some practical and some spiritual, and some just plain ruthless. She was more than eager to give him an education.

  He jerked a finger towards the flap. “Get out of my quarters. There must be something in the hospital for you to clean.”

  She snatched the last remaining stack of books from the bed, occupying her hands before she did Astley more harm. “I will take these. You must be daunted by all the long words.”

  Kate spun on her heel, not able to get clear of Astley quickly enough. She certainly was not going to the hospital, or cleaning one damned thing. She was going to have words with the man responsible for the situation.

  Red. She had heard people use the expression, but Kate was not certain of ever having felt it till now. It was a fog over the camp, staining the people, the tents and structures into an indistinct haze. She nearly tripped on two men sitting and cleaning rifles near the quartermaster's. Her feet knew the path to General Webb's tent, and they followed it without help while her mind raged.

  He groaned through the canvas at her name, telling the sentry to make her wait. He certainly was new. That was the fastest way to guarantee she did not wait. Yanking back the flap from a surprised guard, she stomped in.

  Matthew stood over a tall oak basin-stand, straight razor in one hand and a small mirror in the other. Irritation was written all over a face covered in tiny soap bubbles. His jacket lay carelessly over the desk, shirt wide open at the throat. She looked while pretending not to.

  “Miss Foste
r. Had you waited outside for an answer, it would have been communicated to you that I am indisposed. No intrusion necessary.”

  “Are you shaving?” She hardly absorbed his jab, still perplexed by his doing it in the middle of the day, when she could swear he had been bare-faced at Doctor Addison's service.

  He splashed water over his cheeks with cupped palms, no longer seeming to care that she was present. It was impossible to miss the square of his jaw, the blunt cut of his chin drawing her eye to his wry lips. “Twice daily, in keeping with my private routine.”

  Private routine. She did not miss the barb, but if Webb was going to put Astley in charge, then the general would have to learn a new routine. Kate moved her eyes to a spot past his shoulder, irritated that he had distracted her from her reason for coming. “I've just had the unfortunate experience of seeing Astley. He is ransacking Doctor Addison's quarters.”

  General Webb set down the towel, looking her straight in the eyes for the first time. “I am sorry Miss Foster, truly.”

  It surprised her, but she believed he truly was. His condolences sounded genuine, if curt. Acknowledging it made her uncomfortable.

  “Doctor Addison was very dear to you, I understand.” He shrugged. “The efficiency of the army in moving forward, though necessary, is not always kind.”

  She hated that he was being reasonable. It was undermining her outrage. “You've given Astley leave to use the tent?”

  “As the closest thing to a doctor we currently enjoy, yes.”

  She held up a wrist, still red but deepening into a raspberry bruise where Astley had grabbed her. “Did you give him leave to lord himself over me?”

  The general's jaw twitched at the sight of her injury. “Certainly not. Though, you are his nurse. Fulfilling his orders is naturally a part of your duties, and I imagine you'd wish to satisfy them.”

  “I am not his nurse. I wasn't even Addison's nurse!” She was yelling now, but she did not care. “I have more experience and in-hand qualifications than Gregory Astley.”