Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (9 page)

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?”

She shook her head, even though
Matthew wasn't looking at her. “He was fine when I arrived. This is something
else, something new.”

The spasms abated, and Miller lay
limp and pale against the dirt, beads of sweat dotting his forehead and chin.
His breathing slowed, but he didn't wake up. She lifted his shirt, pinching at
one of the bandages with dread. She pulled it back, finding nothing. The
lacerations were red, but with no oozing, no stench of infection. The skin
around the sutures seemed healthy. If anything, it was a little dark.

“Porter, get him back on the table.”
Kate stood up, swiping the back of her hand across her brow.

Matthew stood beside her, studying
Miller. He turned, looking her squarely in the eye. “I'll leave you to your
patient. Keep me apprised.”

She nodded to his back, wondering if
he was simply giving her space to work or if he thought her negligent.

“Kate...” Porter's deep voice spun
her around. He jabbed a finger at Miller. A crimson bulls-eye spread along the
tail of his shirt, growing larger as blood and urine saturated the linen.

She watched the stain, paralyzed.
Nothing made sense, and she had no idea where to start.

Porter grabbed the hem, tugging up
Miller's bloody garment. “A blow to the gut, maybe.”

“I thought of it. He has bruises on
the back, but no hardness to his belly and no deficiency in his bowels.” Her
mind grabbed at causes and symptoms, pairing them together for anything that
fit. She listed them off, throwing each failed idea aside in turn. “Kidneys,
spleen, gut, liver –”

As she spoke, Miller began to tremble
again. She would have been relieved, more assured if the tremors were violent.
Instead, it was the weak quivering of a body expending the last of its fight.

Then, he was still. She watched his
chest, waiting. It went down and did not raise up.

“Breathe,” she whispered. “Breathe,
breathe.”

Miller's lips blanched, a dusky
shadow slowly ringing his mouth. The pungent stench of feces struck her. Kate
laid two fingers at his throat.

Private Miller was gone.

*          *          *

Kate stared at her feet, tired of
trying to break into Astley's victory speech. She had lost track of how long he
had been nattering on, something about sending off for a proper nurse and a
poison being purged from the garrison. He didn't matter enough to listen. She
mind was somewhere else, in her hospital tent with Private Miller, churning
through memories of the last six days for what she had missed, what had gone
wrong.

She glanced at Matthew. He was not
listening to Astley either, his eyes piercing her from behind his desk.

Astley took a breath and sneered at
her off his shoulder, sweeping a hand in her direction. “Well, off you go, Miss
Foster. Better luck to you in the future.”