Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (45 page)

French reinforcements from
Papelotte
. His newly minted resolve crumbled. Whatever advantage Maitland's
infantry had gained them, it could never hold up to the addition of several
thousand French.

The body gained momentum as it
fanned out onto the field, churning faster, but as they came into view their
commander's uniform was anything but blue and red.
Black and gold
. The
coat, tailored long for a regal frame he recognized even in silhouette.

Von Bulow
.

He was Blucher's left arm, ferocious
and tactically brilliant. Even better, his corps had not taken part in the
fighting two days earlier. They would be well-rested and well-supplied, the
best reinforcements for which Matthew could hope. Bulow swallowed ground with
little interference, bringing his Prussians at ramming speed hard against the
French flank.

Matthew shook his head in disbelief.
If
he
had been confused in the midst of his despair, the French appeared
doubly so, caught unawares by Bulow at the height of their success. If Napoleon
had been informed how close Bulow truly was, he had disregarded the
intelligence.
Arrogance
, Matthew thought. Uncharacteristic and advantageous.

Rallied by the sight of
reinforcements, Maitland's miracles forgot order, bearing down on their
harassers. They advanced with such fury that Matthew signaled his artillery to
stop before his own men were hit. Red coats washed over blue until there were
no distinguishable lines. The field was almost absent musket fire, and even
bayonets were forgotten on the slope. His men fought hand to hand, dragging
panicked Frenchmen down by fists and knees, kneeling on throats. They quite
literally choked the life from opponents who had, an hour before, given no
quarter and spared no prisoners.

In the blink of an eye, they were
winning. Tenuously, he admitted, but chaos was burning through the French lines
exponentially. For the first time all day, Matthew saw them truly struggle,
disorganized and swirling back on themselves under Bulow's assault. Anything
was possible; Maitland's hidden forces had reminded him of it. But in that
moment, they had all the cohesion of sand, and Matthew dared to wager the French
could not pull themselves back together.

He wheeled Bremen, raising up as
much as he dared for a look at his main body. The Imperial Guard, Napoleon's
trusted veteran eagles, hammered his center with everything they had. They must
know better than anyone that if they could not break the rib cage of the Allies
and keep the Prussians east, they were lost.

Bulow had grasped that, too. Matthew
knew it for certain when the Prussian rounded his men, driving a first repulse
at the French lines. Matthew felt they had gone from midnight despair to
brilliant hope in a quarter hour, and just as the sun was falling below the
horizon. If they could end this now, there would be no battle tomorrow.

“God save the king,” he murmured,
crossing himself, unable to imagine a more appropriate gesture. His heels bit
Bremen's flanks, spurring him to the front. They had reached the beginning of
the end, and Matthew was determined to see it through himself.

Two galloping passes in front of his
light infantry got their spirits high, voices shouting at a fever pitch. He
galloped back to the center, wheeling Bremen, and raised his saber. “Up lads,
and at 'em!”

He turned and faced the field,
lowering the point of his blade to the horizon, belting a cry he'd learned from
his Highlanders in Portugal. “Sons of the hounds, come and take flesh!”

The clamor of Hades jarred his back,
cries and whoops, clanking bayonets and fists beating their musket stocks.
Matthew launched from the ridge with the din of his legion close behind. For a
moment, he understood the Scots' meaning, hungry for anything which crossed his
path, blood lust piqued by the scent of weakness in his enemy. The field went
red and he was built only for slaughter. The feeling might unsettle him later,
when the battle-fever broke and he could ponder never having been so hungry for
death. But for now, it was fueled by his saber, eager to slash out eyes and
slip between ribs.

His men broke behind him like waves,
spilling past and into one half of the Old Guard as Bulow pummeled the other
with dispassionate Teutonic precision. Matthew took pleasure at jarring teeth,
a burn in his shoulders at every stab and stroke, every shriek-inducing slice
of his blade. The French lines bent like a horseshoe under his men, trembling
along their arc, crushed by Allied jaws.

A piercing order rose above the
French lines, shrill and desperate. It was drowned to his ears in the belch of
heavy guns, but the enemy slackened, looking to each other instead of their
combatants at an impossible order. It came again, urgent and carried by more
voices. This time he did not mistake the command and his mouth fell open, in as
much disbelief as the Frenchman.

“
Le Guard, recule! Recule!
”
Guard,
retreat!

Clearly the bullet which had struck
him earlier had done some lasting damage. He was hallucinating. That was the
only explanation for the impossible thing happening around him. The phrase had
never
been spoken by the emperor's elite, not in any battle over twenty years.
Matthew was shocked that they even knew the words.

The heads of thousands of French
soldiers snapped to the Old Guard's line in time to see it break, fold on
itself, and drain from the field with all the order of a whirlpool. Word was
shouted again and again, moving down the French lines, breaking formations with
the drive of a fist. The news accomplished more damage than a gun battery or a
whole regiment of fresh reinforcements.

'Le Guard, recule!'
They were
the most demoralizing three words known to
Le
Grand Armee
.

Wellington appeared to the north at
last. Matthew had no idea if he had seen the miraculous turn of events, but
clearly he had heard it. Relief softened the haggard lines around the Field
Marshal's eyes as he raised a hand in Matthew's direction. Relief, and
something else Matthew could only identify because he felt it, too. It was the
gratitude of a man who knew he should, for all intents and purposes, be dead.

Matthew jabbed twice into the sky
with his sword, indicating they had broken the center. The Field Marshal
nodded, shouting something which Matthew was too far away to hear. It didn't
matter. Wellington's hat swept the air in three wide circles, the universal
signal for a general advance. Tens of thousands of Allied soldiers melded
together, surging forward in the closest thing possible to order. Pride swelled
in him from gut to throat at the sight, sating the beast which had carried him
across the field.

“Keep at them, lads,” Matthew called
out. “Get ahead!” His men flowed with him over the field ahead of the retreat,
forming up at his instruction and cutting off the road where the Imperials
aimed to make their flight. They were a furious, red wall of opposition six
ranks deep, muskets shouldered, bayonets darkened with clotted blood, held at
the ready with some appetite left.

The Guard bore down on his troops,
shakos and bearskins flying into the air with a rough eagerness to lighten
their burden, tripping over themselves. They stumbled in earnest when Matthew
held up his blade, indicating he would not open fire if they halted.

The moment their boots stopped
pounding, the Frenchmen doubled over, hands braced on trembling knees and
gasping for every breath.

“Je offre cession et trimestre!” He
offered surrender and quarter, but the Guard's commander spit, raking him with
a hot glare.

“The Guard dies. It does not
surrender.”

“Your men do not seem to be in
agreement on the matter.” He jerked his chin to some soldiers hunched behind
the officer who were already dropping muskets and raising shaking hands. It was
not enough. If he was going to prevent more fighting, Matthew knew he would
have to cut French morale off at its knees. He swept a hand around them. “Where
is the shame in yielding? You have fought bravely, yet your emperor has already
quit the field and left you here. He has yielded before
you
have!”

The commander's weathered jowls
stiffened up. He raised his sword and gave the order to make ready. Matthew
steeled himself, bracing for a stubborn last attack.

There was a noise from the French
ranks, but not of muskets being cocked. It was the unnatural sound of a gun
stock being stomped into two splintered pieces. Flushing purple, the officer
spun around swearing, berating his men in stuttering French, finishing his
tirade with a very English word:
Traitor
.

A bear of a grenadier over the
French commander's shoulder
did
make ready, but not at Matthew or his
men. He took aim at his superior's head. “Speak of us so again, and I'll shoot
you between the eyes were you stand,” he growled.

Matthew kept his gaze mostly out
beyond the Frenchmen, having no desire to add to their humiliation. They had
fought hard and had sacrificed as much as his own men. They would surrender,
one way or another, but it would be easier for everyone if they came to that
decision without his interference.

“Cowards!” the commander sputtered.
“Stand your ground and fight!”

A lanky, bloody-faced soldier swept
his hand around them. “Fight for who? We have no emperor.” He launched his
musket forward, and it clattered to a stop almost at Bremen's hoof. A hundred
more struck the ground directly after.

Matthew exhaled. It was the second
most gratifying sound of the whole day. He extended a hand, and the French
officer, with hatred in his eyes enough to murder, filled it with his sword.

It was over.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Matthew trotted beside Wellington
into the lamp-lit clearing, warmed by the glow against an evening chill seeping
into the sweat permeating his uniform. The yard hugged a little farmstead
called
La Belle Alliance
. That morning, it had belonged to the emperor
Napoleon. Now, at ten in the evening, on June the eighteenth, there was no
emperor of France. Napoleon was once again a fugitive and, soon enough, would
be a prisoner. His head swam at the realization. He had lived it once before,
of course, when Napoleon had been exiled the first time. Now, in his heart,
Matthew believed it was final.

Wellington slowed Copenhagen and
bumped Matthew with an elbow while pointing across the yard. “Here comes the
old fox now.”

Blucher trotted up the lane a moment
later on his magnificent black gelding, looking as powerful and calculating at
seventy as he must have been at half that. His regal sweep of snowy hair and
bird-wing mustache gave him the look of a grandfather. There was a marked
kindness to the creases around his eyes, but it was not hard to imagine them
deepening into a predatory, hawkish squint. The old Prussian tossed back his
black cape, extending an arm to Wellington. Matthew held his breath as their
hands met, never as sure of tasting history, of seeing something which would
undoubtedly be in books for centuries to come. Wellington took the proffered
hand, and Matthew felt the shift. They had crossed from one era, a time in
which he had lived most of his life and all of his military career, to another.
One beyond the choking grip of Bonaparte's never-ending conquest. For a moment,
his throat tightened, and he was overcome. They had moved into the future.

Blucher took his hand and pumped it
furiously, smiling and nodding, unashamed to press a sleeve at the corners of
his eyes. “You acquitted yourself well, boy. Think what a tactician you will be
when you get to my age.” His halting English was endearing, adding to his
teasing. “Pity you've left yourself no one to fight!”

Matthew laughed in reply, shifting
in his saddle. “That's very kind, sir.” The praise made him uncomfortable,
particularly from a man who had accomplished whole lifetimes of victories.

Wellington, who knew him better than
anyone aside from Ty, spotted it and intervened. “Go in, General Webb. Your room
should be prepared. We will speak, once the Marshall and I have settled our own
matters.”

He was more than thrilled to comply.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Saluting them, Matthew urged Bremen up the lane to the
dooryard, dreading what would follow. He had been in the saddle for fifteen
hours, and his hips throbbed, thighs having passed beyond numbness long ago. He
swung a leg over, feeling the creak of his joints, and hung as far off Bremen's
back as he could manage before dropping to the ground. It sodding hurt. His
knees buckled and he nearly tasted gravel before recovering his balance. He
grimaced. Bad as it was now, come morning it would be worse.

Inside he met with a plump Dutch
lady, a housekeeper of sorts, who broke the bad news that his room was upstairs.
He immediately asked for two sheets of paper, one to write a letter and one to
make a list of all the things he required, because he would not be coming back
down the stairs unless ordered. Halfway up, his courage and muscles began to
falter, and Matthew doubted he would gain his room at all.

Slipping into the closet-small but
tidy chamber, he turned a protesting key in its lock to guarantee privacy.
There was a bed no wider than his cot, a spindle-backed chair and card table
doubling as a desk. He passed them over, falling prostrate beside the bed and
burying his face in its gray wool blanket. Numbness, a necessity at times like
these, had done its part since his meeting Wellington at the command post an
hour earlier. He was thawing now. At first all he could feel, all he
let
himself feel, was gratitude. A robust gratefulness at just being alive, tinged
at the edges with guilt that he had been chosen over so many. That thought was
the final straw. The control he had fought to maintain all afternoon crumbled
to dust.

He clutched fistfuls of blanket,
chest heaving while he pressed his face hard into the mattress, soaking the
rough wool. Victory could not taste sweet with a butcher's bill that had nearly
bankrupted them.

His feelings boiled over for long
minutes. The faces of his dead, his own brushes with the Reaper, guilt and joy
and relief. Even agitation, trying to adjust to how different things would be
now without the constant threat of Napoleon at his back.

He was nearly recovered when the
name slipped unbidden into his thoughts:
Kate
.

He lost himself all over again, arms
aching to press her close, soul aching to be soothed by her words.

Get a hold of yourself,
he
chastised. She was likely mad with worry by now. If he could not see her, at
least he could reassure her and his mother. If he moved fast enough there was a
chance of slipping news to the courier along with Wellington's letter to the
Prince Regent announcing their victory.

Scrubbing dirty fists against his
eyes, he winced. His temple tore open, and he wished again for Kate. He
snatched the paper from his bed, moving to the splintered table, and scooted
in, back and thighs already screaming at the too-familiar position of sitting.

My Dearest Ladies,

I sit here at headquarters, at
once the proudest and humblest of men. Our boys have brought us victory this
night, rewarding us with a sound view of Bonaparte's tail feathers. They were a
credit to the army and their king. We have won.

I have a bed here at our
temporary bivouac, a small fire, all my necessary parts and want for only your
company in order to be satisfied.

Mother, you will receive all this
news in advance of the town and likely even the Prince. You must keep it in
your bosom until he issues the news. Please do not make the same over-zealous
mistake as you did with his divorce.

Kate, my love for you has made me
stubborn, and I defied every attempt by Death to separate us. I will be with
you the first moment I am granted leave.

My love to both of you. But a
little longer until I am home.

With my whole heart –

Webb

As he folded up the edges, his eyes
grew leaden, beginning to droop with the absence of command or
self-preservation. He shook his head and shifted in the chair, fighting off
sleep until his hostess rapped at the door. Before she could hand off her tray,
he pressed the letter into her hands, making her swear an oath in broken
English to take it immediately to the Field Marshal.

He set the board of stew and brown
bread on the table untouched. Steam filling his nose hinted at the savory
contents, but his stomach could never tolerate food after a battle. Not even
bothering to remove his boots, he fell onto the hard mattress, appreciating how
similar it was to his cot. Almost immediately, he sunk into a black sleep that
was blessedly dreamless.

*          *          *

His mother's reply did not reach him
until Paris a week later. That it arrived at all was miraculous, and he was
certain it would have been completely lost if she had not posted it by special
courier. Word of Napoleon's abdication on the 24
^th
had spread like
fire in the brush, and the drunkenness and celebration reduced even the most
faithful public servant to the equivalent of a sun-mad Bermuda rum runner.

The news could not have come at a
better moment. He and several other officers were seated at the dining table
with Wellington, having been invited to his new Paris residence for their first
real supper since the Richmond ball. The house, rented from none other than
Napoleon's sister Pauline, was beyond lavish and well into gaudy inside and
out. Matthew had discovered Wellington's feelings on the matter throughout
their meal. Whenever a well-meaning guest tried to offer a positive remark on
the décor, the Field Marshal would simply bite out 'Stripped!' never looking up
from his plate. If Wellington had his way, Matthew suspected the house would be
gutted by morning.

He had been unprepared for the
taxing level of diplomacy required in Paris. Some of the men around him were
allies, friendly acquaintances. Others, however, were nearly unsavory enough to
spoil his appetite. A few of these were Talleyrand, one of Napoleon's most able
ministers, and Joseph Fouche, his head of police. The former, Matthew despised
as a detached bureaucrat and the latter, as an engineer of terror who had
victimized the French people since the death of their monarch nearly twenty
years before.

It galled him that both men were so
openly allowed to redecorate their loyalties to match whichever flag was
flying. They might be useful, but they were also dangerous. He had no eagerness
to make conversation with either one, though Fouche's attempts in reverse said
he was eager to interrogate.

Matthew pointedly raised the letter
in front of his face. He opened it, read it, then read it again.

...Miss Foster has not come with
me, but stayed on in Antwerp to wait for news of the fighting, which we had
heard was fixed for the following day. I have neither seen nor heard from her
since. No visits or letters...

Excusing himself from the dinner
table, he slipped from the room with his heart in his throat.

He reasoned that Kate had likely
stayed in Antwerp simply to defy him, not willing to go until she had heard
something. She was probably still there now. The thought soothed him. Or, more
likely, considering her resourcefulness, she was already on her way to Paris,
having discovered he was posted there. Still, it worried him that his mother
had heard nothing from Kate in weeks.

In his room, Matthew penned a hasty
note to Ty, who was in command near Brussels. He asked if the major would check
for Kate and send word. He ground his back teeth, annoyed at being apart from
her for so long, and at injured Colonel McKinnon's absence. The man would have
ridden his letter to hell in the middle of the night if he'd asked. He had been
happy to learn his faithful aide's arm was saved, but the man was in no shape
for work of any real stock.

For now, the best he could do was to
wait

*          *          *

It was surprising, how little he
noticed the days passing in Paris. Every night was some dinner or engagement at
which he was expected. Daytime was full of responsibilities. Mostly he acted on
Wellington's behalf, and other times his own, now that he was somehow tangled
into the formation of a provisional government. Kate would be proud; before he
had always made a conscientious effort to keep all government at arm's-length.

Today was already the sixth of July.
Two nights earlier he had begged a glass of Wellington's best Port, taken it in
secret to his room, and raised it on behalf of Kate in honor of her nation's
birthday. He had felt a bit like a libertine in church, perhaps the way that Ty
felt all the time.

The diversion had helped pass
another impatient moment waiting for Major Burrell's reply to any one of his
six letters. Each day that ended without word and without Kate stoked an
uneasiness in his gut. In the early days of an occupation, correspondence was
often late, misdirected. Matthew had grown used to it, but admitted now that he
worried in earnest.

He was just pondering how quickly he
could reach Antwerp and what excuse he could give when Ty appeared in his
doorway as if conjured. Getting to his feet, Matthew came around the desk and
embraced his friend. It was good to see him in one piece, minus the ragged line
of black stitches along his right eye.

Stiff and unyielding, Ty stepped
away the moment he let go.

Matthew's gut clenched. “Tyler?”

Pale, shoulders sagging under the
burden of his great-coat, Ty did not meet his eyes. “You should take your seat
Matthew.”

“I'd rather stand.” The words barely
made their way over the drawstring of nerves closing off his throat.

Tyler turned back, closing the door.
“I don't think you would.”

The major planted himself in a chair
before the desk, not looking or speaking until Matthew followed suit. His
throat worked mechanically, lips parting and trembling. “I went to Antwerp,
when I found that no one from the regiment had laid eyes on Kate. Plenty of
people there noticed her, of course. One was a very obliging young clerk in the
harbor master's office who provided me with this.” He laid a rough brown sheet
of ledger paper atop the desk.

Matthew stood and leaned over the
desk, pulling it close to examine the bold heading.

Passenger Manifest – The Union –
June the 18
^th
, 1815 – Set sail at ten o'clock in the morning.

The spine of the page was jagged,
obviously torn from the ledger. Matthew skimmed the different loops and slants
of writing down the page's length until his eyes recognized the neat, elegant
curls of her name. It was handwriting he could never mistake, after reading
hundreds of her requests.

Katherine Abigail Foster – Age 23
– Unaccompanied

Bile churned at the base of his
throat, wondering what Ty wanted him to see and knowing that, whatever it was,
it could not be good. “So she did sail from Antwerp. What was the Union's
destination?” He met Ty's eyes, hoping for some sort of encouragement there.
“What am I meant to gather from this?”

Ty's jaw clenched, eyes swelling
until they were red-rimmed and damp.

Matthew's knees gave way. The chair
came up to meet him, saving him from the floor, though he could not really feel
the seat or anything around him save a chill to the room. His ribs ached,
caging his heart. “How?”