and the Portuguese
regiments showed stern discontent with the misbehavior of everyone else.
Sliding one more envelope from the
stack, he tried to remain optimistic. If he had learned anything during the
war, it was that nothing united a fractious, malcontent bunch soldiers like the
impending charge of several thousand French.
He turned the letter over, then turned
it back. He examined the free-franc stamp, and the funny way in which Lord
Bathurst never completely closed his b 's and a 's.
She was going to barge in, any
moment.
He should just wait. Beginning any
work now was futile, and he would just have to start over when she finally
left. He'd barely set eyes on Miss Foster in a record three days. She was bound
to appear at any time now.
Nothing.
Matthew picked up his quill and
tapped it on the desk, spattering a few dots of ink. He should stretch his
legs, clear his mind.
He paced the tent, five steps down
and four back. She would come, and today he would be prepared.
Was it clouding up outside? Rain would affect the artillery. Probably wise to take a look. He poked his
head through the slit, glancing skyward, and then left and right more than
once, just to be certain. Bodies went about their work up and down the camp,
but blessedly not one was moving toward him with any purpose. Nodding at a
perplexed sentry, he ducked back inside.
Safe, for now. Matthew slid back
into his chair, crossed ankles together and reclined, beginning to read the war
minister's letter.
His concentration had sent a message
out in the cosmos that now was the moment to interrupt. Matthew was sure of it,
when the angry murmur outside erupted into a disagreement.
“...so we're not goin' away,
and that's just that. We're stayin' put right here until the gen'ral hears what
we got to say.”
“Come in here,” he bellowed.
It was not Kate, but Matthew felt in
his heart that somehow, she was involved.
Six men shuffled in, heads bowed and
hats to chests, hair and ears wet in a rushed attempt at presentability.
“Hadley, Flanagan, Boyd.” He
acknowledged the ones he recognized, and all the men saluted.
“What's all this, then?”
Captain Boyd stepped forward, stout
frame proudly wrapped in his Highlander tartan, a sign to any man that if Boyd
had something to say, he was damn well going to say it blunt. “It's Mister
Astley, general.”
Boyd would speak plainly, but not
until he'd been given leave to do so. Matthew leaned back, waving Boyd closer.
“At your ease, captain. What is your rub with him?”
“He's a double-yolked quim, sir.”
The sergeant bit off the accusation, practically spitting it across the desk.
Of all soldiers, the Scots were
authors of the most colorful expressions. 'Double yolked' was their delightful
euphemism for 'pompous windbag'.
Matthew sighed. “He is what we have
at hand. Not one of the lord's humbler instruments, but for the benefit of
decent care, we must overlook his faults.”
“Thas' just it, gen'ral. He don't
ken healing like Miss Foster. Some of us have no got better with Astley, and
there's times his cure's blacker than the ailment.” Boyd hooked a thumb over
his shoulder. “He's done somethin' to Brady's wee Will that's left him sore affected.”
Matthew winced reflexively,
sympathetic at the alleged state of Brady's genitals.
Astley, Matthew reminded himself,
wasn't entirely incompetent. He had read Doctor Addison's reports, and
observed the man a time or two. Poor bedside manner was hardly a crime, and
there were few supplies with which to work. Soldiers were not always gracious
when they could not quickly be made fit for duty.
“The six of you have had similar
experiences, I gather? You would like me to speak to Astley on your behalf?”
Flanagan waved a hand. “Half the
camp, sir.”
“What?”
“Half the camp don't like 'im.
They're refusin' to go.”
Matthew jerked up out of his chair
and began to pace. They were on the edge of battle, a few weeks perhaps, if
Napoleon
regiments showed stern discontent with the misbehavior of everyone else.
Sliding one more envelope from the
stack, he tried to remain optimistic. If he had learned anything during the
war, it was that nothing united a fractious, malcontent bunch soldiers like the
impending charge of several thousand French.
He turned the letter over, then turned
it back. He examined the free-franc stamp, and the funny way in which Lord
Bathurst never completely closed his b 's and a 's.
She was going to barge in, any
moment.
He should just wait. Beginning any
work now was futile, and he would just have to start over when she finally
left. He'd barely set eyes on Miss Foster in a record three days. She was bound
to appear at any time now.
Nothing.
Matthew picked up his quill and
tapped it on the desk, spattering a few dots of ink. He should stretch his
legs, clear his mind.
He paced the tent, five steps down
and four back. She would come, and today he would be prepared.
Was it clouding up outside? Rain would affect the artillery. Probably wise to take a look. He poked his
head through the slit, glancing skyward, and then left and right more than
once, just to be certain. Bodies went about their work up and down the camp,
but blessedly not one was moving toward him with any purpose. Nodding at a
perplexed sentry, he ducked back inside.
Safe, for now. Matthew slid back
into his chair, crossed ankles together and reclined, beginning to read the war
minister's letter.
His concentration had sent a message
out in the cosmos that now was the moment to interrupt. Matthew was sure of it,
when the angry murmur outside erupted into a disagreement.
“...so we're not goin' away,
and that's just that. We're stayin' put right here until the gen'ral hears what
we got to say.”
“Come in here,” he bellowed.
It was not Kate, but Matthew felt in
his heart that somehow, she was involved.
Six men shuffled in, heads bowed and
hats to chests, hair and ears wet in a rushed attempt at presentability.
“Hadley, Flanagan, Boyd.” He
acknowledged the ones he recognized, and all the men saluted.
“What's all this, then?”
Captain Boyd stepped forward, stout
frame proudly wrapped in his Highlander tartan, a sign to any man that if Boyd
had something to say, he was damn well going to say it blunt. “It's Mister
Astley, general.”
Boyd would speak plainly, but not
until he'd been given leave to do so. Matthew leaned back, waving Boyd closer.
“At your ease, captain. What is your rub with him?”
“He's a double-yolked quim, sir.”
The sergeant bit off the accusation, practically spitting it across the desk.
Of all soldiers, the Scots were
authors of the most colorful expressions. 'Double yolked' was their delightful
euphemism for 'pompous windbag'.
Matthew sighed. “He is what we have
at hand. Not one of the lord's humbler instruments, but for the benefit of
decent care, we must overlook his faults.”
“Thas' just it, gen'ral. He don't
ken healing like Miss Foster. Some of us have no got better with Astley, and
there's times his cure's blacker than the ailment.” Boyd hooked a thumb over
his shoulder. “He's done somethin' to Brady's wee Will that's left him sore affected.”
Matthew winced reflexively,
sympathetic at the alleged state of Brady's genitals.
Astley, Matthew reminded himself,
wasn't entirely incompetent. He had read Doctor Addison's reports, and
observed the man a time or two. Poor bedside manner was hardly a crime, and
there were few supplies with which to work. Soldiers were not always gracious
when they could not quickly be made fit for duty.
“The six of you have had similar
experiences, I gather? You would like me to speak to Astley on your behalf?”
Flanagan waved a hand. “Half the
camp, sir.”
“What?”
“Half the camp don't like 'im.
They're refusin' to go.”
Matthew jerked up out of his chair
and began to pace. They were on the edge of battle, a few weeks perhaps, if
Napoleon
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