by Baird Wells
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 tre
es. 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.
Maybe they had a chance after all. “Now we have a place to hide, but can we get out?” asked Kate.
Chuckling, Porter stood up, extending himself above the entrance all the way to his armpits. “We can get out.”
* * *
“Private Taylor.” Matthew acknowledged the boy's salute, glancing around the surgery for any sign of Kate. “Faring well under your new commander?”
He had sent the wounded soldier to Miss Foster on light duty after Mister Astley had turned his nose up at the idea of unskilled help. She thought he did not check in, but a general had ways of gathering intelligence that did not include personal visits. Kate had snapped up Private Taylor, and rather than use him to fetch and carry, had begun to instruct him in the basic care of his fellow soldiers. His esteem for her had raised a good measure at the information.
Taylor colored at the mention of Kate, ducking blue eyes toward the floor, raking over thick brown bangs with the shyness of a sheltered Yorkshire boy. “Good enough, sir. You ain't as strict as her, though.” His tone communicated that if Miss Foster truly were more demanding, he did not particularly mind.
“And not half as pretty, I wager.” Matthew tossed a cautionary glance over his shoulder, making certain they were alone. “Miss Foster says you're a tolerably decent pair of hands.”
Taylor bent his eyes even lower if that was possible, toeing the floor with his good leg. “That’s kind sir. I don't mind it, for now.”
“For now?”
For the first time Taylor met his eyes directly, with a spirited lift to his chin. “This is lady's work, yeah? I come down to fight, and when I'm well enough, I will, sir.”
It had been a long time since Matthew thought back to the young colonel who left Portsmouth for India, scrappy as a tomcat. That boy had sounded no different than Taylor did now. He fought back a smile, eyeing Taylor's heavily splinted leg and wondering how it boded for his future.