by Baird Wells
To his credit, Astley stood across the yard, arms crossed and stone-faced. He was smart enough to keep quiet, for once.
Matthew threw a glance over his shoulder at Kate, who would have fooled him into thinking she was composed except that her face was blanched. “What started this?”
Her lips moved, but Kate's eyes never left Astley and his small mob. “Astley has been telling them stories for three days.”
“Ho!” Astley's arms raised, an indication of blamelessness. “These people have concerns, which they shared with their physician.”
“You're not a physician,” Kate spit back.
Matthew shushed her. Now was not the time for one of her barbs.
Astley lifted pleading arms. “I listened to their worries of course, but it is not by my hand they've assembled. I came out to aid Miss Foster, and she threatened to geld me!”
“They were trying to burn me at the stake!” She turned to him. “He was not helping. They threatened to fetch torches. I'm not even certain which century we're in.” Kate inhaled raggedly, pulling back a sob.
He shared her disbelief at their utter ignorance, disheartened that such backward people existed anywhere in the British empire. Witchcraft? Next they would produce an iron maiden and try to shut her in it.
Matthew glared at the shifting, menacing bunch. He was certain that Astley had at least fueled the unrest, even if he were not its author. He raised his arm, a signal to Captain Adams, and barked loudly enough to be heard over the din. “Captain, have your men make ready. Anyone who disbands by the count of three avoids corporal punishment and court martial. The first man or woman who refuses to move off after three, shoot them and every other person fomenting rebellion, until the yard is clear. One!”
Some were already trickling away, likely the agitators who had simply turned out for sport. Two pried loose the more hardened troublemakers, stomping, muttering and even hurling curses back over their shoulders. They all went, not one person left by three. He snapped to Astley and Kate, “I want both of you at the command post. Major Burrell, assemble the command staff. Escort Miss Foster first, please.”
Astley drew up, not managing to make himself any more imposing. “Escort her? What about the danger to my person?”
Matthew plucked the knife from Kate's grip, slipping it into the holster beside his pistol and cutting Astley's protest. “I would not admit to a square full of people, Mister Astley, that you are timid enough to require the army's protection against one woman.”
* * *
She was a curiosity on display.
Standing in the center of the command tent, officers eyeing her from a half-moon of scarlet wool, Kate found herself in sympathy with circus bears. Or maybe they were about to turn out with pitchforks and burn her at the stake, after all. The smug curve of Astley's mouth hinted at his support of the idea.
Matthew slapped a palm against the solid top of his oak table, snapping everyone to attention.
“Miss Foster, Mister Astley. You are both here to answer for breaches of the peace and undisciplined conduct within a garrison of His Majesty's army.”
When you put it that way, she thought, it sounded very serious. Not at all like a ridiculous witch hunt.
His eyes fell to her, and she swore his mouth twitched. “Mister Astley has called into question a number of your methods as unsafe and irresponsible.”
Kate snorted and realized immediately that it had not helped her case.
The stern rebuke in Matthew's eyes stayed fixed on her face while he addressed Gregory. “Several of my men have raised concerns about your incivility and mistreatment of a lady. More than one witness already cites you as the author of rumors that Miss Foster and Porter Grimm have conspired to practice witchcraft.”
Astley's limbs spasmed in protest. “If I have raised even the slightest concern, it is only for the well-being of this garrison! Miss Foster disregards practically every bit of accepted medical theory. The men of this army are not experiments. She rubs them with herbs and dung and god-knows what else.”
A host of the men behind the general widened their eyes, eager to hear more accusations, and apparently just as eager to believe them.
She chaffed at his flair for the dramatic. Astley's speech, inflammatory as it was, was also damned persuasive. It was no secret even among the officers that her methods were unusual. He did not have to present a well-reasoned argument, just help them infer why she was dangerous.
It was hard to guess if his resistance to medical advancement was ignorance or stubbornness, but she hated them both. Kate met the eyes of every man across from her, stopping on Matthew last. “Would any one of you eat from a plate caked with blood, feces, or road dirt?”
A collective grumble of disgust passed between the officers.
She grabbed one of Gregory's hands, holding up the blood streaked palm for their inspection. As he wrestled against her grip, Kate scraped crust out from under one of his finger nails, flicking the brown-black detritus onto the table top. “If you wouldn't let him feed you from those hands, why would you allow him to touch your wounds?”
The murmur became a small din, except from the general, who stared at the clump and was quiet.
Astley laughed, tossing out astonished glances to the officers. “These men are hearty! They are soldiers, not children in a nursery. Their systems are used to dirt and ill-humors.”
“Their systems are not used to germs,” she bit out.
“Germs?” He laughed again, shaking his head.
“Germs. The tiny organisms which contaminate us through our wounds in unsanitary conditions, spreading illness from one person to the next,” explained Kate.
“You sound mad. Do you realize that?”
She did not care how she sounded. It was not a theory she had made up. Some of the most preeminent medical publications were taking notice. Germs were an idea backed by real science. Kate held up a hand of splayed fingers. “Bassi has five years of research proving otherwise. His silk worms are irrefutable evidence of how disease is passed.”
Astley rolled his eyes, as though correcting a backward child. “Bassi is a drunk Italian. Every sane person knows miasmas are the true culprit. Not little people crawling inside of us, or whatever nonsense you're spouting. One man can't give another marsh air or a contaminated breeze.”
More grumbling. Matthew sat stiff in his chair, one knee drawn up and one leg outstretched. He pressed a fist to his lips, scowling over a faraway look. She could still win him over. Kate had seen the journals in his tent, overheard his conversations in the mess. Matthew had a weakness for and grasp of science that she intended to exploit.
“A wager then, Mister Astley.” Kate wished she could take credit for sound thinking on her feet, but the idea truck without warning. “We'll conduct a scientific experiment with rules agreed on by both of us. The winner stays, and the loser packs up and leaves.”
Astley rubbed greedy hands together. “Name your terms for this experiment.” He was not the only one intrigued. Matthew snapped to attention in his seat.
She thought it out carefully a moment. Whatever she suggested had to be two fold. Astley had to be discredited, but she had to truly prove herself at the same time. Kate met the general's eyes across the tent. “Patients of equal complaint. We treat them independently. Neither of us is allowed in proximity to the other's, and we document the course of treatment. Daily reports are sent to the general.”
“Done.” It was Matthew who snapped his agreement before Astley could accept. He looked from her to Astley, and back. “Your patient's outcome decides your fate in my division.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
There were two men among the wounded skirmishers who had the misfortune of being in proximity to the enemy's cannon fire. Kate had taken the soldier who slightly more resembled mincemeat. When she won the wager, there would be no claiming she'd had an easier time of it.
In her tent, Porter stripped the boy while she stirred a pot, waving away
the smoke burning her eyes. Cat's claw, melissa, oregano and mint churned in water growing thick and starchy as she squeezed goop from the aloe leaves she'd been hoarding since Portugal. Porter had shared the recipe when she explained their task, touting it as a family ward against swamp fever. As with many folk remedies, there was science behind his claim. Herbs like oregano and mint killed infection of the mouth and skin in spades.
She jerked the cast iron from the flame, wincing as steam bit her wrist. “Your grandmother was a wise woman, Porter.”
“She always knew what everyone needed to do to live forever.” He laughed with the sound of deep drums in his chest. “Didn't keep her from dyin' like the rest of us.”
“She's dead?”
His smile was serene. “Like a stone in the ground. But her spirit is all around us, still listening for gossip.”
Kate snorted. “Well, if she can use her supernatural position to keep John Miller here alive, she can gossip about me all she likes.”
He laughed again, tossing the soiled uniform beside her at the fire. “Don' fret. She will.”
“Keep him alive?”
“No. Wag her tongue over you.”
“Hah.” She stood up, inspecting Private Miller's prone form while the laudanum kept him quiet and still. “Trauma to the arm and shoulder are the worst. The face is superficial but we'll need to suture the ear back down. The leg looks worse than it is. Just heavy abrasions. What do you think of our boy?” Porter was her coin-toss any time she was on the fence and unable to climb down either side. He had been surgeon's mate on a French ship that had plucked him from the ocean. When the surgeon was caught by an enemy deck gun, Porter had been forced to take his place for nearly five months at sea. He could suture, amputate, set bones and diagnose. She would trade ten Astleys for one Porters any day.
Porter leaned close and inspected the scabbed limb from several angles, then shrugged. “I saw worse aboard the Archon.”
“All right, let's wash him down before he wakes up.” Kate held out her hands, and Porter doused them from the basin. Coating them with a thin white film of Castile soap, she scrubbed unmercifully at her skin with a coarse horse-hair brush till her hands were red and tingling. She held them out for a rinse before rubbing them down with the steaming liniment.
Adding a spoonful of the mix to a pail of water by the table, Kate stirred it thoroughly, then began to pour the mixture over Miller's body. Blood, dirt and clumps of horse manure came free, sliding down in rivulets and pooling on the dirt floor. She brushed the rag over Miller's face in short, slow strokes, continuing to his neck and then chest, stopping to wring the brick-brown liquid from her cloth. Porter followed behind her with needle and silk, long fingers dipping and tugging, closing each wound in turn.
When they had both finished, she set the pot between them. They smeared Porter's concoction over each abrasion and ragged line of stitches. Porter took up a strip of muslin and dressed the wounds while Kate found a quill so she could note their progress in her journal. She copied it again onto a sheet of foolscap that she folded and held up between her fingers. “I have a good feeling, Porter. In a week's time, we'll have a healthy patient and finally be rid of Gregory Astley.”
Porter chuckled. “You say it like it's going to be easy. That man is a snake, and they strike worst when they're cornered.”
* * *
18 April, 1815 – Quatre Bras
Fann,
I am victorious, I feel it! Private Miller is up and alert faster than even I would have guessed. No lethargy and no sign of infection. The first moment he can leave the hospital under his own power, I will have won, and Astley will be no more. He has said nothing regarding his own patient, which is admission enough for me. I have no doubt that if he fared half so well, that cock would never stop crowing.
Our competition has had other benefits. General Webb, according to Ty, is occupied with Napoleon's recent schemes, and I am so consumed with Private Miller's care that we have time for little but a civil greeting in passing.
Now that I have read this over, I admit a good deal of guilt at my last sentence. After the camp followers tried to burn me at the stake, it would have been a small matter for general Webb to decide that I am not worth the trouble and to send me away. He has allowed a fair contest between myself and Astley, and I trust him to keep his word regarding the outcome.
I suppose the general is not the only one who has been stubborn...
Over the next five days she checked on Private Miller every eight hours. He tolerated his pain well enough, sleeping through the night with laudanum, and the most minor wounds were already well-scabbed with no sign of oozing or infection. Even the fevered swelling in his damaged leg had receded enough for her to declare it safe.
Kate decided that today she would check on him after morning clinic. Miller was always a little confused in the morning, probably a side effect of the opiate. He was sitting when she came in, concern drawing up his baby-face.
“Miller, how are you faring this morning?” she probed.
“There's blood, ma'am.” He chewed at his bottom lip.
“Blood where?”
He picked at the blanket. “When I piss ma'am, if you'll excuse me for sayin'.”
Her mind went to work. “Lie back. Did you keep it in the pot?”
“Porter said I ought to.”
Kate leaned over the chamber pot, sloshing it gently with her foot. The pink cast was bright, not the rust color of old blood she had hoped for. “Well, it's not a lot. About what I would expect if you'd been hit in the back or gut.”
She rubbed her hands with the liniment, and reached under the boy's shirt, undulating fingers up and down over his belly button. “Any pain?”
“Yes ma'am, a little. Dull, all over.” He was searching her face for worry or reassurance. She smiled and leaned around behind him, lifting the shirt higher. “You have bruises on your back. I'd guess your kidneys have been injured. Give it a day or so, and take fluids.” His shoulders relaxed. Miller was reassured, but her chest was just as tight. Why was the bleeding only showing up now? “Any other complaints?”
He scrubbed at his shock of brown hair. “I can't see for nothin' at night. I wake up sure a man's in the tent, but there's no one there.”
She patted his hand. “That's the laudanum, without a doubt. It's a little frightening, but it lets you rest, which your body needs right now.”
Porter filled the doorway, wooden tray clasped in his hands. “Back from the mess. Ready to eat?”
For the first time, Miller smiled. “Yes, please.”
She took the tray and helped settle it on Miller's lap, gently stuffing the pillow farther down his back. “Get your meal down and then I'll change your bandages. It would be cruel to come between a man and his food.”
While Porter dug out the linen, Kate opened her journal to make note of Miller's symptoms. They were expected, considering his injuries, except that they were late. Six days in, and he seemed to be declining. Kate shook her head. Sometimes things got worse before they got better.
“General!” Miller's exclamation stayed her hand. Matthew filled the doorway, brows furrowed, taking in his surroundings.
“Private Miller.” He made a little bow in her direction. “Miss Foster.”
“General.” She smiled at him without thinking. To her consternation, he smiled back.
“I've been to see Mister Astley, and have come to inquire after your patient as well.”
“Oh?” She worked at a neutral tone. Really, she was dying to know if Astley had killed his charge yet. It wouldn't have shocked her, but she was too proud to admit curiosity to anyone and Gregory had been purposefully silent on the matter to even his close acquaintances. There had been no useful gossip to satisfy her.
Matthew indulged her a little. “Astley's man battles a fever, but his spirits seem high enough. And Miller, how are you faring under Miss Foster's attentions?”
The boy stretched a tired grin from ear to
ear, showing a dimple. “Very well, sir. I'll be hale and whole any day now.”
Typical. Everyone always chomping at the bit to get up and run about. She glanced up from her journal, chuckling. “Let's not be hasty. You need plenty of rest. Finish your food and we'll go from there.”
Miller didn't smile at her jest. For a moment his face froze, then he tried to speak. A wet belch caught his words. Turning his head away, he vomited.
Matthew's eyes snapped to hers, and she shook her head. Earlier she had been certain that Miller's symptoms were nothing of concern, but a lead weight hung now in the pit of her stomach, warning that all was not well.
Miller wiped his mouth along the back of his wrist, panting. “I'm sorry, sir. I must've et too fast.”
She was ready to chastise him when he went slack, crumpling back onto the cot. His arms and legs curled up tight like a dead spider, and his body began to quiver.
Porter jumped to the bedside without direction, dragging Miller to the floor.
She knelt beside his jerking body, and Matthew hunched beside her. “What is the matter?” His voice held a measure of concern, but he was calm watching Miller flail against the dirt.
Kate pressed a hand to the boy's contorting face. “It's a convulsion, though I have no idea why.” There was no wound to his head significant enough to warrant such a fit. Miller's jaw worked hard, the squeak of his grinding teeth audible. A guttural 'uhhh' sound vibrated from his throat.
Matthew glanced around, looking eager to help. “Should I get you a stick or a spoon?”
“Good God, no! If you wouldn't jam something in his mouth while he's sleeping, don't do it while he's having a fit.” She had no idea why people always wanted to put things in a person's mouth when they were at their most incapacitated. Maybe it gave them a mistaken sense of usefulness. “We just have to wait until he comes out of it.” If he comes out of it.
Matthew didn't appear the least bit overwhelmed; she was impressed. He pointed to a bloody gob of spit hanging off of Miller's bottom lip. “Is this the result of fever?”