by Baird Wells
Matthew looked him in the eye. “Fifty kinds of men can shoot a musket from a hundred yards, private. I can walk you through this garrison and point them out, to a man. There is only one sort capable of filling your shoes, looking his fellow in the eye and hacking off his leg. Most of us could not do it.” He shrugged. “I could not.”
Taylor shift uncomfortably to his good leg, and Matthew pressed on. “The regiment will have you back in an instant, but if you chose to stay on with Miss Foster there is no shame in it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Taylor, seeming to consider his general's words.
Recalling his true reason for coming, Matthew glanced around again. “Has Miss Foster returned yet?”
“I can't rightly say, sir. This is my usual shift. Teaching is in the evenings. Can't be long. Miss Foster said she was only going out for a bit.”
“Going out. Out of the garrison?” He blinked as if that could help him absorb the information.
“That's how I took her meaning, sir.”
Why hadn't it occurred to him to be concerned before now? Miss Foster was not an inconspicuous figure. The second time he had checked the camp without result, he should have asked more questions. Had she gone alone? What direction had she traveled? He leveled a scowl at Taylor without meaning to. “If she returns, you send her to my command post immediately.”
“Sir.” Taylor thumbed a quick salute.
He consigned her to the fires of Hades as he trudged along the rough timber wall bordering the south escarpment. How long had Miss Foster served with His Majesty's army? No one should pass through the gate without informing the sentry where they were going and when they would return. Not because anyone with authority enjoyed dissecting the movement of their subordinates. It was so that when someone did go missing, a timely effort was made to recover him before it was too late.
A good damn reason, he fumed, weaving between a row of tents. One that a woman who spent so much time bucking the rules would not appreciate. He took a perverse pleasure in stomping the mud up the main camp road, venting his frustration all the way to the supply yard. It was a collection of holey tents and a single scrap-wood shack, but they formed an area colloquially known within the garrison as 'Campbell's Kingdom'.
There was no higher lord and master over camp provisions than John Campbell. Steely eyes considered Matthew with a gruff squint under scraggly red brows. The Scotsman stood at his approach, but with muted deference and only half way, as though his chair were giving him a sore back. “General.”
“Mister Campbell. Can you point me in Miss Foster's direction? I was told she may have gone out.”
Campbell's grimace etched deeper into his face at the mention of her name, as though afraid Matthew would conjure her. “That she did, at the noon bell. Asked for a horse to boot.”
Matthew yanked at his watch fob. It was nearly a quarter past four. “Did you requisition her an animal?”
“I did not!” Campbell laced arms across his chest, pencils raising like spears from his brown waistcoat pocket. “Sent her off on a nag no' worth the expense of a lead ball. Village horse.”
“Did you ask where to?”
“I know better 'an that.” Campbell's chin raised a fraction.
“Think to warn her what might happen, outside the garrison?” he asked.
Campbell slouched and sighed. “General, ye've only just returned to command 'ere, an' perhaps you do na' know, but the lass has been with this army plenty long. Askin' if I warned her o' trouble is tha' same as me tellin' you the color of the sky. You already ken, and you dunna' care.”
Matthew sighed, his ire cooling. “She does not listen to you either, I take it.”
Pursing lips, Campbell shook his head. “With the ears o' a dead man.”
He took no comfort in their solidarity. “When she returns, send her my way.” It had become an all-too-common order. Soon half the garrison would be jumping to shoo her along.
He made for his quarters, not entirely certain what he intended to do when he got there. There was never so much interference as when he needed to be somewhere. A supply wagon stuck nearly to the axles blocked his route, wedged between a barricade and a defiant patch of matted grass that tore rather than offer the fractious horses any traction. Every platoon marching back from drill or patrol seemed determined to pass him by, filling the road and insisting solely by its presence on receiving from him a pause and a salute.
He was nearing the command post when a commotion broke out at the gate. Loping down the short grassy hill between the tent and the courtyard, he reached the entrance just in time to see a soldier leading in the very animal which Campbell had described.
A riderless animal.
Ty materialized on the other side of the crowd, probably drawn by the disturbance, waving a hand and weaving between the men. “I was just at your tent,” he said, out of breath. “McKinnon said Kate is missing outside the garrison. What has happened?”
Something sparked in his gut, an instinctive reaction to the smooth, familiar way in which Ty said 'Kate'. If he did not know himself better, the feeling could almost be mistaken for jealousy.
Matthew pointed to the horse while a soldier brushed a hand across her flank, coming away with a bloody palm.
“Just grazed, sir. She'll be alright.”
His breath wouldn't come. His gut lurched. Major Burrell traded him a desperate glance. Matthew pressed a palm to his eyes, feeling very tired for midday. “Whatever has happened, it cannot be good. Assemble a patrol, and send me word the moment they are prepared to move.” He had no idea where they were going, or how far, but he needed something to do.
“Horse?” asked Ty.
“And rifles.”
Ty's salute was curt, and then he was gone, barking orders on a determined path towards the officers' quarters.
In his tent, Matthew was incapable of being still. He paced between his cot and the door, then fell into or came up from his chair repeatedly. He made a note in the margin of his thoughts to speak sternly with his officers about how long it took to muster a damned patrol.
Massaging a stiff jaw, he shifted restlessly, staring toward the back of the tent. It was there. He never really forgot about it. Matthew got up and rearranged his stack of belongings. He tossed a spare pair of boots, two blankets, and a small crate of books into a heap on the floor. Hesitating, his hand stopped just short of the small case, fingers resting on the wide leather strap. It slipped free of its iron buckle with seductive ease, lid falling open with the invitation of a lover.
A half bottle of amber liquid sloshed gently, and a faint hint of peat and smoke teased his nostrils from the green velvet lining. He pinched the rim of a silver jigger carved with intricate knot-work, pulling it from a tailor-made slot.
It had been so long. Matthew expected the cork to give him trouble, to be stuck entirely. If it offered the slightest resistance, he would have the willpower to put the scotch away. Instead, it was easy, the stopper pulling free with an inviting pop.
“Matthew, the patrol is set to move.” Ty's voice from behind was a fist, striking Matthew in the gut. He slammed the cork back into the neck, dropping the bottle as if scorched.
If Ty had witnessed his temptation, he showed no sign. “Would you like us to set out now?”
“Once Bremen is saddled, we can leave.”
“You're not serious.”
He had fully expected Ty's protest. The major would not be doing his job if he failed to object. As a general, that did not obligate him to listen. “I am completely serious.”
“May I ask why?”
He suspected they both knew why. “Because it is my prerogative.” Matthew turned his back, inviting silence and nothing else. He was not ready to admit, even to Ty, that he was panicked.
* * *
They called to one another, from the trees at the mouth of the clearing, if she had to guess. The soldiers had seen her horse, and there was no chance they would miss signs that someone had
recently been near the farmhouse. Their only hope now was to huddle in the dark corner of the cellar and pray they went unnoticed.
Kate pressed her shoulder against Porter's, clutching stiff fingers along the edge of a shattered board. The French soldiers might overwhelm them, but Kate intended to leave as many as possible with throbbing regret directly between their eyes.
Footfalls rattled the floorboards overhead, shaking grit and sand into her hair. She glanced to Porter, who smiled reassuringly and pressed a finger to his lips. Kate squeezed the board tighter.
Something clattered to the floor above where they sat. “Voici un pot pour pisser!”
A second man laughed. “Oui.”
Fading steps signaled their retreat. Kate exhaled, head falling against Porter's arm. Somehow they had escaped notice.
The doorway overhead went dark, sunlight interrupted without warning. Two soldiers melded into a conjoined silhouette, squinting into the cellar. They must have had their suspicions; their approach to the door had been soundless.
Porter slowly rotated the musket's stock into his left hand, grasping the barrel with his right. Not to shoot, she realized. To strike. Thanks to the afternoon sun's low angle, the cellar was filled with shadow and the Frenchmen were too day-blind to see inside.
The first man swung his legs in. Boots struck the dirt at almost the same moment Porter drew back, driving the musket butt into his face. There was a meaty crack and the man crumpled prone at her feet.
She raised the makeshift club over her shoulder, ready for the second soldier who was already dropping over the threshold.
He stumbled, landing tangled in the legs of his companion. This oath Kate understood perfectly: What in the hell?
Porter shoved past her, jabbing the breath from their adversary with a sharp thrust. The man rolled forward to his knees and hands flailed inside his coat. A pistol, a knife – whatever it was, he failed to produce it before she connected a blow to his skull. Her teeth rattled at the impact, splinters biting the tight flesh of her palm. The soldier fell on top of his companion and was still.
Tipping his musket carefully against the wall, Porter grabbed one man's ankles, nodding to the other. “Quick now, into the corner.”
Resting her board beside the musket, Kate grabbed fistfuls of the Frenchman's blue coat, pulling with strength borne of a primitive instinct for survival. His body grated over the dirt, boot heels scraping loudly enough that Kate wondered how no else came running at the noise.
They crouched, catching their breath, waiting. It did not take long.
A shadow passed the entrance, then doubled back. “Henri...Etien?”
Kate wanted to be sick. She forced the air to come more slowly through her nostrils. Porter crouched just outside the border of sunlight, musket again in-hand.
The soldier got down on his hands and knees when Henri and Etien did not answer, leaning in to get a better look. Porter's arm hooked him around the neck, throwing him to the hard-packed floor.
The drop winded him, but not enough. Before she completed her swing, he yanked out a pistol, fixing her in his sights with shaking hands.
She froze. Porter froze. The newcomer could not readily pull the trigger without risking being shot himself and Porter was not going to shoot either, knowing it would bring the last soldiers running.
That did not mean the fight was over, Kate decided. She struck out with a foot, catching his stout shin. He answered by driving his pistol-butt up into her cheek. Light exploded behind her eyes. The bite of torn flesh radiated to a throbbing along her jaw, blood tickling a path to her chin.
The pain was worth the diversion. Porter wrapped himself around the soldier's arm, wrestling for the gun. Desperate for reinforcement, the soldier fired into the slats overhead, showering them all with sand.
Her heart sank. Porter's elbow clamped over their attacker's throat and he went still, but the damage had been done. In moments, the rest would be upon them.
“Scream,” Porter whispered.
“What?” Blood rushed through her ears, and the tiny cellar spun. She could hardly understand Porter's words, let alone his meaning.
“Scream, loud as you can,” he quietly barked, cutting through her confusion.
Obeying his instruction didn't require any theatrics. She had fought the urge for nearly an hour. Sucking in a deep breath that provoked her churning stomach, Kate exhaled with the shrillest banshee wail she could manage. Porter cupped hands over his mouth, throwing his voice to an impossibly high octave for the depth of his chest.
“Viens ici! Voyons ce que j'ai trouvais!” Come here! Look what I found.
It was a clever ruse; the notion struck her absently. The remaining soldiers would think their companions had found a woman hiding in the cellar.
Now it just had to work. There were only two more soldiers, by her count. But there were only two of them.
The sound of a woman cornered in the cellar brought the men at a gallop. They never hesitated or stopped to question, clawing one another, fighting tooth and nail for who would go in first. Kate shivered beneath chilled sweat and disgust.
Porter shouldered the musket. “Turn your head.”
The fourth man must have jumped in, but Porter fired before she ever heard feet strike the floor. Kate buried her face in a dusty sleeve, eardrums throbbing at the report as it echoed through the cellar. Sulfur stink filled her nose, powder smoke salty on her lips.
The last soldier hung above them, feet braced on the lip and fingers white from clutching the door frame, half committed to his jump when he registered the shot. He was caught in purgatory, too far in to run and too afraid to let go. Porter drew his ramrod from its cradle under the barrel. Eyes wide, the soldier scrambled back from the cellar door, unslinging his rifle.
It was a contest of seconds now. The soldier poured gunpowder while Porter wrapped a flannel patch around the ball. Both men struggled to seat their ammunition, Porter mashing with a broad thumb, grunting with the effort. He grabbed the rod, shoving like the arm on a mill wheel. Kate wanted to press her eyes shut. Her heart ached with dread.
Porter was too slow. The Frenchman raised his rifle and took aim. Kate stifled a scream, balling tightly against his impending shot. The trigger clicked, the lock snapped its jaws shut. She flinched.
Nothing.
Kate raised eyes to a face just as bemused as her own. The Frenchman jerked his stock sideways, desperately examining the mechanism. He looked at the ground, then checked the lock again. His confusion was nearly comical.
“His flint's gone!” She jabbed Porter with a fist, bringing him to his feet. Tossing the rifle so that it clattered somewhere out of sight, the soldier turned and began to run. Porter went up through the opening with the spring of a jackrabbit. Maybe two breaths passed before she heard a shot. Everything went quiet.
Kate clasped her hands. “Please...please, please.” Her trembling lips could hardly form the plea.
Footfalls rattled through the ground, coming closer. Kate held her breath till spots danced before her eyes. She looked around for a weapon, finding only the empty pistol.
A shape appeared in the door above, unmistakably Porter's. “Safe to come on out now.”
Kate wiped her trembling hands down her skirt, wiping sweat from her palms. He clasped her wrists, hauling her out into the light in one fluid motion. Blinded, Kate squinted, wincing as tight muscles tore her swollen cheek. She threw her arms around Porter, and they stood together a moment, shaking and relieved.
When they parted, she mopped damp strands of hair from her forehead, surveying the area. Booted legs sprawled out from the tree line perhaps fifty paces away. “Good shot.”
Porter only grunted.
Kate shivered against the sweaty cling of damp linen clothing. “Your grasp of the language probably saved us back there.”
He nodded, rubbing a hand over the stubble at his crown. “Captain only allowed French on the ship from Trinidad. Woo! I didn't care to take mor
e beatings than I had to. Learned his tongue real quick.”
Staring off for a moment, he pointed to the horizon. “We're safe now.”
Six riders conjured up seemingly from nothing. Cavalry, their cavalry, moving over the hill with two rows of infantry marching ahead. Kate's heart raced again, this time with joy at the bright red coats. And at the rear, conspicuous in his navy blue cloak, rode Matthew astride Bremen.
Giddy with relief, she tapped Porter with the back of her hand, pointing out the patrol. “Is it unpatriotic to be glad that the British are coming?”
He only laughed, head shaking, but Kate gathered by the relaxed line of his shoulders that he felt the same.
While Porter reloaded, she retrieved her satchel from the yard. The soldiers had tossed it, looking for anything of value. She raked fingers over the ground, scraping all the leaves and blossoms she could manage back inside as she went.
Suddenly, they could not make enough time, cover enough ground. The grass and scrub swished at her skirts, pulling the fabric and slowing every stride, leaving Kate annoyed by her own pace.
The patrol did not reach them until she and Porter had trudged a few hundred yards. Kate's knees nearly buckled at the sight of Ty, marching smartly alongside his men. Not caring what they thought, she rushed him, throwing arms around his neck and squeezing her eyes shut. Her impact toppled his black leather shako, muddling the bright red plume. He wrapped her in a stern embrace. “Good God, Kate. The whole garrison is at sixes and sevens.” She opened her eyes, looking past Ty's shoulder, steeling herself for the general's disapproval, but he was squinting out along the horizon.
“We were set upon at the farm, just this side of the river,” she murmured, feeling disconnected from the memory.
Ty's head snapped so quickly that Kate expected to see more French soldiers just behind them. “That farm? La Maison Grise?”