Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (31 page)

Colonel McAuley piped up from
behind. “Should we position ourselves at the bridge then, at Charleroi? Drive
them back?”

Matthew realized in that moment what
an anchor Kate had become, when he was talking himself through a problem with
her before he consulted his officers. Her intelligence lent itself to sound
advice, even in unfamiliar situations. He began to wonder how he had managed
before she came along.

He paced a few steps from the table,
mentally summarizing all he had learned on his expedition. “What our Field
Marshal did not include in his note, is that Blucher disagrees with his second.
The old fox has some faith left in us yet.”

Ty uncrossed a leg and sat forward,
frowning and bracing elbows on his thighs. “The Prussian army is molded in
Gniesenau's image. What will persuade him to bring it to us, if he believes we
shall misuse it?”

It was a fair question. He had
worried more than once recently that when the moment arrived, the Prussians
might
not
. “One of our agents from Whitehall has secured intelligence
hinting that his suspicion may be more to test us, than to dismiss us outright.
Gniesenau might be the soul of his army but he
will
carry out Blucher's
orders.” He tapped at a point on both the left and right sides of the map. “We
will shut a steel trap on
Le Grand Armee
which their emperor has failed
to predict.”

Kate pressed a hand to his sleeve,
drawing his attention back from the officers. “You have matters to attend, so
I'll not keep you. Just tell me if I should make preparations now.”

The answer was simple. He had
calculated the number of horses, the weight of heavy guns and the distance a
hundred times on the ride back. “There is time. A week, or two. Unless we
encounter a picket, our fighting remains on the horizon.”

Her nod was clipped, entirely
official. “Good afternoon, general.”

“Miss Foster.” He leaned forward
under the impulse to kiss her cheek, only catching himself at the last moment.
He transformed it with difficulty into the high, overextended bow of a drunken
man.

Stifling a laugh, she curtsied and
turned away.

Matthew watched her progress across
the camp for a moment, her head still shaking with silent laughter. There had
been no opportunity to tell her all the things he was thinking. Or to prepare her
for the night ahead, to explain that, for the first time since they had met, he
could not be willingly at her disposal. There was simply too much to do. A note
felt more than a bit crass – the third time in as many days. Resigned, he
sighed. It would have to suffice.

Turning back into the tent, he
caught Ty's raised eyebrows and answered in kind, daring the major a single
remark. Ty kept quiet, looking content to save any interrogation for later.

Bracing palms on the edge of the
table, Matthew examined the map and rearranged a few markers, sliding them to
more closely resemble what he had observed from the ridge.

Greene tapped at a dashed line just
under the flourish of '
Charleroi'
on the map. “This is the main bridge
at the high road. We could blow it up. It's of stone construction, but we have
sufficient ordinance.”

Ty traced the river's bends. “There
are fords on both sides. The French will continue their advance, with or
without the bridge. At least if it remains intact, they might concentrate their
crossing there, and we can check them en masse. Preferable to guessing where
they'll attempt it otherwise.”

Matthew moved two blue cubes he had
assigned to Marshal Ney, considering the advantage of their new position. “The
Prussians are determined to settle the matter of the bridge for us, despite
Wellington's protests. They have already attempted to demolish it.” Wellington
swore he had told Blucher that the sentry standing guard would not be moved.
Matthew was not sure if the Prussians truly did not know, or did not care.
Likely it was the latter. He scowled his frustration at Ty. “Nearly blasted our
sentry to bits this afternoon, and injured five of their own with the effort.
Still they could not manage in five hours what our bridge burners could in five
minutes.” He shook his head, dismissing the whole idea. “We'll leave it be, and
hope Blucher does likewise.”

He squinted at the map, through the
glare of sunlight now burning low on the horizon.
Where would it come?
His hand passed over the drawn terrain, feeling its shape in his mind. Ligny or
his own little stronghold of Quatre Bras, or perhaps both. Matthew's gut gave
him no decisive answer; he would simply have to wait until Napoleon moved up
closer. It was a dangerous game, but one he felt confident his men were able to
play. They were fit and would be ready for fighting, hungry for blood whenever
the moment came.

Colonel McKinnon's wiry frame cut a
shadow on the tent wall, momentarily blocking out the light over Matthew's
shoulder. “News, sir.” He slid a neatly-folded envelope onto the battered
table.

“What news?” Matthew raked it
closer, snapping Wellington's seal with a thumb. Whatever instructions he
received, McKinnon always received more, explaining how his general ought to
follow the first set. Why did he bother reading the dispatches? McKinnon could
just summarize them.

“You're to move up, sir. To
Brussels, and make your headquarters there.”
            Matthew skimmed the few brief lines. “When?”

“Directly. Three days at most,
before you're expected in the city.”

He did not have to wonder at the
Field Marshal's motivations. Wellington had made his own headquarters in the
city for some time. It was a stronghold, well north of French lines as military
geography went, and the Duke of Richmond's reserves were soundly garrisoned
there under wild Thomas Campbell. In the event that the Allies were forced to
retreat, Brussels guaranteed their route to British ships anchored in Antwerp.
The city was strategic and viciously defended, and he recognized that being
summoned there was a clear indication that the gears of war were turning.

Matthew met the eager gaze of the
officers frozen before him, anticipation etched on their faces, and grinned. He
held the letter up. “Well, gentlemen, seems we've come to it at last.”

*          *          *

“Ow! Damn and hellfire...” Kate
shook her singed finger, sticking it in her mouth despite knowing that it would
not help her burn. She rapped a ladle against her pitted, black, cast-iron
kettle, then laid it in her nicked wooden bowl. Falling back onto her bottom,
she settled on the dirt in the warm sun of her tent-yard and waited for the
stew to boil.

She and Porter had become such
aficionados of camp gourmet that they often joked about opening an inn
somewhere as partners. Not that most people would be keen on the sorts of
dishes at which they'd become skilled. The army offered very little to work
with. Still there was a small bright side to their rations. Moldy biscuits were
hardly objectionable boiled into a soup, and roasted snake could be just as preferable
as fowl. Some foods even displayed magical properties. A handful of grain
beneath a tree could become a wild boar when placed in range of a musket. A cut
of rancid beef could transmute into a stout bear, its tough gamy cuts abundant
and preferable to the alternative. It had become a game for her and Porter,
exchanging food of smaller quantity or lower quality as bait for something
better. Foraging around the camp could be dangerous, but it yielded worthwhile
results.

Tonight they were treated to game
hen. It had been a fat, nervous and not terribly bright specimen. Porter had
confessed his initial hesitation in shooting the creature, which had crossed
his trail after strutting awkwardly from the high grass. It had run ahead of
him in the wide-open, a few paces at a time down the road, before turning back
to see if he still followed. He had joked it was a kindness, putting a thing so
dumb out of its misery.

She had seared it in hot fat with
the last shallot left from France, a handful of barley, carrots, and half a
draught of wine given as a peace offering by Mister Hill. Relieving his
indigestion had apparently earned forgiveness over the goat. She smiled into
the delicious steam. Moldy biscuits it was
not
.

“Kate.” Porter ducked his head
against the blaze of a near-setting sun, pulling off his straw and wiping the
sheen from his brow.

She rubbed hands together. “Just in
time.”

“I got caught up for a bit,” he
said.

“Your stomach was paying attention,”
said Kate.

He smiled, but it was a flat and
halfhearted. “Can I speak to you, before supper?”

“Of course.” She had rarely seen him
so serious. It gave her pause.

“I was thinking...you have a fair
number of hands now – good hands. I was speakin' to the major earlier, now that
it looks like we'll be fighting soon.” He hunkered down across the fire, throat
working to build courage, but Kate already knew what he wanted to say.

She poked at the stew, not meeting
his eyes. “Have you re-enlisted?”

“No, told the major I would speak to
you first.”

“I thought you were done with
soldiering, in Portugal.” The protest sounded a little childish, once she had
said it out loud.

“I was,” he nodded slowly. “But I
got a fierce taste for it now.” He rubbed a hand over his sharp, handsome
cheekbones. “I have a lady now, in the village. King's coin, it isn't much, but
it's better than what we earn here.”

There was no arguing that point. If
she'd had to survive on army pay alone, Kate thought she would have been sent
to debtor's prison ages ago.

“Just want to know you'll be alright
with my leavin',” he said, glancing at the camp around them.

The words stuck a moment in her
throat. “You don't need my permission, Porter. You're a free, capable man.”
            “Don't want it, either. We're friends, Kate. Can hardly just up and
run off without a word, like my mouth's full of mush.”

She reached around the fire,
squeezing his hand, and forced a smile for his sake. The thought of waiting at
the rear, wounded rolling in without him, filled Kate with the same anxiety as
watching a tidal wave sweep in without turning to run. Knowing that Porter
would be out in the fray was crushing.         She wouldn't let him see it.
Porter was a soldier, and he should not for a single moment regret his choice.

Before she could speak, a man came
into view, striding confidently up the path. He was not especially tall, but
his bearing tricked her into believing otherwise, head high and shoulders
square for a man of advanced age. His clothes were stern colors, blue and
earthen brown, cut finely but made of simple, practical fabrics. A few paces
away, he lifted his tricorn, showing a kindly face, handsomely masculine for
someone she guessed was well approaching sixty. “Miss Foster?”

Kate jumped up from the yard,
smoothing hands down what was thankfully probably the cleanest of all her
aprons, and accepted his hand. “I am.”

“Excellent.” The warmth in his
single word was genuine. “I am Doctor Henry Hallick.”

His introduction knocked the wind
from her chest. She had known this day would come, of course. After Captain
Greene's vindictive maneuvering, Matthew was left with little choice but to
accept a new doctor whenever Wellington sent him. For a while, she had reminded
herself almost daily not to get too comfortable in her position. Then days had
turned into weeks, and Kate let go of worried anticipation, simply enjoying her
little kingdom. Now the day of reckoning was upon her. Hard on the heels of
Porter's news, she fought off crushing disappointment.

Hallick tucked his hat into the
crook of a slender arm. “Field Marshal Wellington has sent me here to fill
Doctor Addison's sad absence. Tardy, I'm afraid, but...” He shrugged, sweeping
a hand around them, and smiled.

Doctor Hallick had a pleasant,
halting warble to his speech that put her immediately at ease. “I was deeply
saddened to hear of his passing. We were acquainted, you know, in Lisbon.” He
looked from her to Porter and back with downcast eyes, clucking his tongue as
though they were Addison's orphaned children. “So very sad. In any matter, I
have been sent, I am here, and I am briefed.” He reached a hand out to Porter,
bracing their palms, earning her esteem in one simple gesture.

Porter withdrew, patted her
shoulder, and nodded to her and their guest. “I had best be getting back to
Major Burrell. He's been waiting.”

“Dinner won't keep for long,” she
warned with a smile.

“Not with your stomach about,” he
teased, and Kate shook her head at Doctor Hallick.

As Porter passed by, she took one of
the camp stools from beside her tent – in truth nothing more than an
ingeniously shaped tree stump, and pushed it around to Doctor Hallick. Looking
abundantly pleased, he collapsed onto the seat and patted hands atop his knees.
“General Webb has effuse praise for you and Mister Grimm. Truly a wonder, by
his account.”

The information warmed her, head to
toe. She drew a slow breath, chasing off a telling smile. “He deserves ample
credit. The general has allowed me a great deal of latitude here, given some of
my more controversial practices. I hope that you and I will be equally
comfortable with one another.” She was testing, watching for resistance or a
frown.

He nodded. “You seem clever and
sensible to me, but I don't estimate we'll have much chance to work together.”
There was a touch if regret to his words.

He was letting her go. Kate fought
the disappointment gripping her chest and stiffened her expression. “Oh? I am
sad to hear that.”
            “Are you?” He snapped up straight, looking genuinely concerned.
“You had better communicate that to the general. He seemed convinced you would
wish to move up with him, to headquarters in Brussels. If you wish to stay, I
have no objection to a skilled nurse...”