His friend Stanton was equally distasteful to her. “He puts enough bloody grease on his hair,” she muttered as she pulled off the pillow slips, “to silence a Portuguese oxcart!” She chuckled to herself over that one. All the grease in the world wouldn’t silence the damned carts.
Captain James Lambert, Lord Wimborne, on the other hand, was one of her favorites. She loved rolling his title on her tongue. She never had to strip his cot or pick up his clothes off the dirt. No, there they were, his dirty linens and uniform tied neatly in a sheet. A monogrammed sheet. “Now, that’s true quality, Mags.”
She hadn’t had a chance to approach Lieutenant Aston about doing his laundry. But as she came up to his tent she saw a shadow moving about and decided to stop and see if she could drum up a little more business for herself.
“Lieutenant Aston?” she called into the tent door.
“Who is it?”
“ ‘Tis Mags Casey, Sergeant Tallman’s…friend.” Now, that was a right genteel expression, Mags, she thought.
“Come in, Mrs. Casey, come in. What can I do for you?”
Mags Casey had to bend as much as the average soldier when she entered the tent, she was that tall. “I was wondering if you needed anything laundered,” she said, looking pointedly at the wrinkled sheet on his cot.
“I suppose I do, Mrs. Casey,” Val said with a wide smile.
My Lord, Mags, this one is dangerous, she warned herself. Not so tall, though taller than Will, but broad-shouldered and slim-hipped. Clear gray eyes that were such a contrast to his brown skin. He’d just been washing up, so his shirt was open and she could see that the hair on his chest was curly, like the hair on his head. She liked hair on a man’s chest. Too bad Will had so little. But Will had other things to recommend him, she reminded herself. But she couldn’t deny it: Lieutenant Aston made her pulse quicken!
“I charge tuppence for a shirt and four pence for each sheet. You get them back within the week, as good as new. I’ll iron your shirts for only another penny,” she added, “seeing as you’re Will’s officer and all.”
“Not anymore, Mrs. Casey. I’m detached from the Eleventh Foot.”
“You work for Captain Grant, don’t you? Now, that’s a gentleman whose laundry I’d love to be doing. But almost all my officers are lieutenants,” she added with a rueful smile. “Maude Parrish gets the captains’ and majors’ business. Except for Major Gordon, who has Private Ryan’s wife doing for him.”
“Will tells me you’ve been with the army a long time.”
“I have indeed, sir. My first husband was a recruiting officer. Died of a fever, he did, without ever leaving England. My second husband died in the retreat from Corunna.”
“And Mr. Casey?”
“Private Casey was killed in a drunken quarrel,” she said solemnly. “And I was married to each and every one of them, Lieutenant, no matter what you are thinking.”
“Of course, Mrs. Casey.”
“No ‘of course’ about it, Lieutenant. There’s but a handful of us who’s stood before the parson amongst all the soldiers’ ‘Mrs.’ and we both know it. But I have managed to remain a respectable woman until now,” she added sadly.
“Surely you are still a respectable woman, Mrs. Casey.”
“I may be a real widow, Lieutenant, but Sergeant Will Tallman is very much alive,” Mags said with a wink, “and we are still no closer to tying the knot than we were when we first met. Will says he’s never been married and never intends to.”
“I have heard him say that,” admitted Val, keeping his face straight with difficulty as he thought of his conversation with Will. “Surely there are other men who might be more willing, for you’re an attractive woman, Mrs. Casey.”
“Ah, but I love Will Tallman, you see, Lieutenant.”
“Well, a man can change his mind, Mrs. Casey.”
“And this is true, Lieutenant. Now, if you have no objection, I’ll collect your laundry once a week from your tent and I ask you to pick it up when it is ready. That way, anything that gets wrinkled or dirty on the way home, it won’t be me as has done it. And all my officers pay me when they come to collect their things. I hope that won’t be a problem, Lieutenant, for I make no exceptions, even for friends of my Will.”
“Understood, Mrs. Casey.”
“Then I’ll just strip your bed, sir. If you have any shirts, just add them to the bundle.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Casey,” said Val as she was leaving. “I hope this is the beginning of a mutually rewarding acquaintance.”
She was only just out of the tent when he followed and stopped her. “Mrs. Casey?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You say you pick up all your officers’ laundry?”
“It works out easier, what with all you hither and yon with your soldiering. I have never been accused of stealing, Lieutenant,” she added defensively.
“Of course not. I didn’t mean that at all, Mrs. Casey. Who are your other officers?”
“Why, Lieutenants Trowbridge and Stanton, among others. And Captain Lord Wimborne,” she added proudly.
“An impressive roster, Mrs. Casey,” Val complimented her.
“And now I can add you, Lieutenant, and an exploring officer will impress all the other women.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Casey, but I wouldn’t be too happy, for you’ll have a real challenge with me. Less laundry, but a whole lot dirtier!”
“Was there something you wanted to ask me, Lieutenant?”
“No, nothing, Mrs. Casey. Thank you and good luck with Will!”
“But he did want to ask you something, Mags,” she declared as she trudged back with her bundle slung over her shoulder. “I wonder what it was.”
Val smiled as he watched Mrs. Casey walk easily down the row of tents despite the heavy laundry she carried. She was a strong woman, and, it seemed, a sensible one. And she had ready access to a number of officers’ tents, which was, at the moment, the fact he found most interesting. He didn’t know her very well yet, but Will certainly did. He would have to spend some time with both of them. Perhaps Mags Casey would eventually be able to offer some assistance in his investigation.
When Val rode out the next morning, he was grateful for his heavy wool cloak, for as November drew to a close, it was getting colder. Caesar had become familiar with the track he took over the hills and, for the first part of his journey to Santarem, Val could relax and let the horse lead the way. The sky was pewter and there was a moisture in the air that felt like snow. He hoped that the winter would hold off, for he wasn’t looking forward to these steep tracks when they turned icy.
He was riding directly into the wind and could feel his lips and face getting chapped. For a moment he was envious of his fellow soldiers back in camp: At least drilling kept you warm! He wasn’t a drinking man, but he wouldn’t mind being in front of the Gordons’ fire and sipping some of the major’s best port right now.
As he pictured himself there, he could hear George’s derisory tones. So Lord Trowbridge was not fighting to free Spain and Portugal but to save England, not so much from the “Corsican Monster” but to keep her aristocrats safe from the dreaded Jacobins. Most Tories felt the same, Val supposed. No liberty, equality, or fraternity for them. Yet a number of Wellington’s officers had Whiggish sympathies. Major Gordon probably did. And they fought to free Europe from tyranny. Val gave a short laugh and his gelding flicked back his ears. “It is an oddity, Caesar. Here is a man who began as a revolutionary and ends up declaring himself an emperor. Not king, mind you. France wasn’t enough for his ambitions; only Europe would do. And he wants England too. And where do I stand in all this, Caesar? You may well ask.”
It was a good question and he hadn’t spent much time thinking about it over the last twelve years. Where did he stand? Why, right close to the man next to him. Right behind his sergeant and in front of his lieutenant. He stood on the hard-packed earth of the parade ground and he counted himself lucky to have still been s
tanding on the bloody battleground of Talavera.
He hadn’t become a soldier for patriotic reasons. He had enlisted because it seemed the only thing left for him to do. And it was damn sure that his comrades were there for the same reason. Oh, a few had been drawn by idealism and the glamour of the red coat. But there were few of them and they soon enough realized there wasn’t much glamour in getting up at dawn, digging latrines, and drilling all day. Most of the army was made up of men like Val who’d had no choice. For them, it was wander as a beggar or enlist. Be transported or enlist.
He’d stayed a soldier because it offered him a home of sorts and a clear purpose. Despite the boredom of his years in Kent, it was a better life than most. And despite fevers and seasickness, he had traveled to places he’d never dreamed of.
He laughed out loud again. Of course he’d dreamed of them. He’d dreamed of little else as a young boy playing with the lead soldiers his mother had given him.
And here he was, following in his imaginary father’s footsteps. Fighting to save the way of life of men like his real father and Lucas Stanton. Surely, if there was a God, He was having a good laugh at the likes of Val Aston, freezing his arse off in Portugal to defend a system of rank and privilege that had excluded him.
Ah, but there was more to it than that. He had come to know soldiering almost better than he’d known smithing and he’d never felt such satisfaction as on the day he’d received his sergeant’s stripes. He’d served under many a blockhead, but his service under Colquhoun Grant had been a privilege, and he wagered he’d learned more in the last five years than men did at university. There was an art to being a good soldier, and he enjoyed practicing it. Accepting the commission had been a bittersweet experience, but he had to admit that for all the discomfort, he loved reconnaissance work. He had grown fond of the Portuguese and admired their struggle. So he guessed maybe he was fighting for them and their freedom. And against tyranny. And for Colquhoun Grant and Lord Wellington. “And those are not bad reasons, eh, Caesar?”
* * * *
Massena’s encampment looked the same. There was no sign of any troop movements, either in or out. It certainly appeared that the French had settled in for the winter. Wellington’s lines had surprised them and stymied them. But Wellington’s brilliance would mean nothing if the Whigs got in. Obviously, Massena was counting on that and was going to stay no matter how tight his men’s bellies got, thought Val.
The stalemate was clear: Wellington safe behind his lines, but in danger from his own countrymen; and Massena, with no supplies, but the hope of a British withdrawal if the prince became regent. A tenuous balance, and one that Massena would only strive to maintain if he were receiving information from someone with an insider’s knowledge of the political situation.
Chapter 8
Val had positioned himself to the east of Santarem. He spent a cold, uncomfortable night, for he didn’t dare make a fire, no matter how small. He wrapped himself in his cloak and fell asleep long after midnight. He was awakened by the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against his cheek.
“Sit up slowly, monsieur.”
He opened his eyes and saw a French corporal standing above him. Damn, the sentries had been farther afield than he’d thought. But when he sat up and really looked at the man, he realized that he was not one of Massena’s pickets, but a dispatch officer.
“Open your cloak, monsieur.”
Val slowly pushed his cloak back.
“So, you are an officer. I am sure that the marshal will accept your parole. It is just too bad that bringing you in will delay my errand.”
So he was on his way out of the camp, thought Val. Heading toward France. Val bowed his head as though in defeat and the Frenchman relaxed the pressure against his cheek.
“Come, come, monsieur, it happens to the best of us.”
Val looked up again. The pistol was now at least six inches away and the Frenchman was getting up from his crouch. Val didn’t think, he just acted, sweeping his arm against the man’s heel and destroying his balance.
Val was up on his feet, diving for the pistol in an instant. He had his hand on the man’s wrist, but the man was just as fast and as soon as Val grabbed him, he swung around behind. When he felt the Frenchman’s arm around his throat, Val forced himself not to fight against the hold. He ducked his chin, which took some of the pressure off his windpipe, at the same time realizing if he wasn’t choked to death, he was likely going to shoot himself, for the Frenchman was slowly forcing Val’s arm back. His arm was shaking from the effort to resist, and Val knew he wouldn’t be able to hold the man off for much longer, and so instinctively he collapsed his arm and, using the man’s own strength against him, knelt down and brought the Frenchman over his shoulder. The pistol flew out of his hand, and Val dove for it.
“So, you are on an errand for the marshal, eh, monsieur?”
The Frenchman just looked up at Val with no expression.
“Get on your knees, man, and open your jacket.”
Reluctantly the man opened his jacket, revealing a slight bulge in the lining.
“Take it off and toss it here.”
Val kept his eye on his enemy as he picked up the jacket and heard the telltale crackling of paper.
“The marshal sent you off alone? You must be very good if he thinks you can make it past the guerrilleros.”
“Sometimes a patrol draws unnecessary attention,” the man answered calmly.
“Indeed.” Val cocked the pistol.
“I am an officer like yourself, may I remind you, monsieur. I give you my parole.”
“First you will give me the real dispatches, mon capitaine,” Val said with heavy irony in his voice.
“I assure you, those in my jacket are real enough.”
“And too easily discovered. Get up and go over to your horse, Captain. I will be right behind you.” Just as the Frenchman reached his mount, he lifted his arm, ready to hit the horse’s rump and send him running. “Oh, no, you don’t,” Val told him, smashing the pistol into the side of his head. “That should take care of you for a while, Monsieur Frog.”
There was nothing in the saddlebags but food, but that was only what Val had expected. He ran his hands carefully over the Frenchman’s saddle searching for any odd lumps or seams. Finally, as he slipped his hand under the pommel, he found it, a secret compartment built right into the saddle. “Voila!” said Val with a satisfied grin on his face as he pulled out a thin packet. “I will keep this safe for you, monsieur le capitaine.”
Taking a knife from his belt, Val pulled down the gray blanket tied behind the saddle and cut it into strips. The Frenchman did not regain consciousness until Val had bound his hands and feet.
“I am an officer and a gentleman, monsieur,” the Frenchman protested “and I assure you if I give my parole, I will honor it.”
“I mean no insult, Captain, but I can’t let you go so close to the camp.”
“Then I take it back,” the man replied angrily. “If you do not accept my parole I will do everything in my power to escape. I will make the journey very tedious for you, Lieutenant.”
Bloody hell, thought Val, he was right. He could make the ride home a misery or trust the Frog bastard.
“Do you give me your word, Captain?”
“I give you my word of honor, sir.”
“All right. But you ride in front. One move to escape and you’ll have a bullet through your head. Do you understand?”
“Mais oui, monsieur.”
* * * *
By the time they arrived back in camp it was almost suppertime. Val directed his prisoner toward Captain Grant’s tent but found it empty.
“The captain dines with Wellington tonight, sir,” Grant’s orderly told him.
“Damn,” muttered Val. He supposed he could wait, but Grant’s orders to him when he had first arrived were to seek him out immediately when he had obtained important information. He didn’t know yet how important the dispatches were,
but he decided he’d better err on the side of caution.
“Venez avec moi, capitaine. You are going to meet Lord Wellington.”
* * * *
Val had met Wellington only once or twice, and that very briefly. Now here he was, going to interrupt the general’s dinner.
“Your dispatches better be worth it, Captain,” Val muttered as they made their way to the general’s quarters, which were in a house quite similar to the Gordons’. The door was opened by the general’s aide-de-camp.
“Lord Wellington is at dinner, Lieutenant,” he announced.
“I offer my deepest apologies to His Lordship, but I must speak to Captain Grant, sir.”
“Just a moment.”
Thank God it was Colquhoun Grant who opened the door a minute later. “You have something for me, Lieutenant Aston?” he asked with a welcoming smile.
“I am sorry to disturb you sir, but—”
“But I ordered you to do so, Aston. No need to apologize. What have we here?”
“Je suis Capitaine Moreau,” the Frenchman announced before Val could answer.
“He was on his way back to France, sir. I found two packets on him,” said Val, as he pulled the papers out of his jacket.
“Two, eh?”
“One sewn in his uniform and the other in the pommel of his saddle.”
“Ah, I have heard of these special saddles, Captain. I will have to see it for myself tomorrow. You have given your parole?”
“Oui.”
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