by Baird Wells
A waxing moon was just rising over her shoulder, bathing the walls. It cast deeper shadows ahead of her and a blue glow out to the horizon. In daylight the land was beautiful, hills swaying with burnished grasses rolling off into a sky a shade of blue Kate didn't believe existed anywhere else. Spring dotted the landscape with rambling wildflowers, adding new green foliage to ancient tree branches. It was time for the world to come alive again, but she did not find much joy in the season.
It wasn't the impending battle that had concerned her for days now. The fighting was left to other hands and she cleaned up after. Her worry was more immediate. The insistent stink of the latrine pits as she crossed the camp had given pause for days. Wood ash normally masked the odor, but the holes had grown too full to be disguised. Constructed in unstable hillside soil, filling them in and digging more would be near impossible.
At least the latrines were near the walls. Midden piles dumped inside the camp had grown putrid, gagging her at times along her daily route. The waste brought flies and rats in warmer weather, and both brought disease. Commander Braddock had discharged his duties poorly on all counts, and camp sanitation was no exception. She caught herself sighing, and realized it was becoming a reflex.
Doctor Addison boasted the second largest tent in the garrison after the officers' mess, a tall pavilion-style arrangement where he saw patients during the day. If they required a saw and the hospital was at capacity, a converted mess tent nearly abutting his living quarters did the job.
The operatory was dark now, but the doctor's tent blazed from inside.
She slid under the flap into a space that, if not for the dirt floor, might have been a gentleman's study in a fine townhouse. Books were everywhere, on shelves and tables or crenelated atop supply trunks. The tables, filled with instruments and vials, were meticulously arranged, and even the clothes in his footlocker were neatly folded. She knew because, like the supplies, she was in charge of putting them away.
Despite her best efforts there was an off-putting sense of clutter which was new to the doctor's quarters. The disarray had been imposed by the recent occupation of an enormous bed. With a frame practically medieval in construction, its wood planks must have been planed from half a grove of trees. It was strung together with enough rope to rig a man'o'war and needed a special wrench for tightening. The appeal of such an obnoxious piece of furniture was its down mattress, made up of the feathers of more geese than France could boast, all stuffed into the blue and white ticking. Major Ford, the only competent officer the garrison could claim at the time, had brought the hulk back from a siege. He made a present of it to the doctor, who had saved his arm. Dr. Addison had declared the bed a necessity, replacing an army cot that had caused unabated misery for old bones when his arthritis worsened during the winter.
He was lying on the bed now, a gaunt line dividing the mattress right down the center, quilts swallowing him on both sides. He smiled weakly at her entrance, and Kate knew immediately that Addison was in grave shape. Only one side of the doctor's thin lips curved up. He reached for her with his left hand instead of his right.
Taking her stool from under the instrument table, she pulled it up to the bedside. She smoothed a hand over what was left of Addison's snowy white hair. “Something has happened.”
“Louisa.” His daughter's name was lightly garbled, as though he had been drinking. “My right arm is cold.”
His mistake dashed the last of Kate's hope. Louisa, a woman old enough to be her mother, had died before the doctor took her on. His left pupil didn't move as he searched her face. Swallowing her worry, she squeezed his shoulder. “It's Kate, sir. You sent for me.”
He seemed not to hear, grimacing with the good half of his face. “Oh, ohhh!” He pawed at his temple with a knobby hand. “My head, Louisa! Get me the willow bark powder at once.”
She jumped to obey, moving entirely on reflex. The brown glass jar was at the back of the first table, on the left. Water pitcher over her right shoulder, tumblers on the bottom shelf of the stand. She tapped the sharp-scented tan powder into the glass, measuring a spoonful of laudanum into the tincture to help him rest.
“Are we in the country?” he slurred. “I don't know this place.”
There was no point upsetting him. “Of course we're in the country. Drink this.”
“What is it? Is this quinine? Oh, we must be in India!” As fast as he perked up, Addison went slack again, eyes half shut. “Oh, my head. Are we in India?”
“That's right! No malaria – drink it all down.” She put the glass in his trembling left hand, slipping an arm under frail shoulders to sit him up. “Take a good long drink, and we'll see if that doesn't fix things.” Tipping the liquid between his slack lips, she used her apron tail to dab at the stream trickling back out. He sputtered, chest wracking weakly, then relaxed into the bend of her elbow, eyes falling closed.
Voices outside the tent gave her seconds' warning, a breath to prepare for the inevitable duel she was about to fight. Astley, the doctor's assistant, tore through the flap, yammering without a breath to whomever he had in tow. His mouth snapped shut when he caught sight of her at the doctor's bedside. Kate felt a little satisfaction that something had shut him up.
Gregory Astley, in another life, would have been stationed on a London street corner, lifting his stovepipe hat to passers-by while extolling the effectiveness of his toad wart liniment. He was small and wiry, dark-eyed, with brown hair exactly like a goat's. His long nose and broad mouth might have been handsome, except they were laced by a perpetual sneer. Usually aimed at her.
Astley's only useful quality, in her estimation, was his willingness to conscript even the smallest task for the possibility of praise. Cold and full of ego, at least he accomplished a lot of work.
The man towering behind him was such a contrast that Kate nearly laughed. He had to hunch more than six feet of lean frame deep under the roof just to get inside. His abandoned hat revealed black hair that was short even by military standards. Dark brows furrowed in perpetual concern. His gray eyes darted everywhere, seeming immediately to glean key bits of intelligence and file them away for later. An attractive symmetry to his bold features held her eye.
Whoever had designed the most recent iteration of the English officer's uniform had probably never envisioned a specimen in existence who could do the cut such justice. Dust-caked black riding boots hinted he had just arrived. Tan thigh-hugging buckskin breeches were practically a scandal in the making, stretched over legs acquainted with physical activity. The wide breast of his red wool coat looked like a lady's pincushion, medals of every shape lined across, leaving her no doubt she was facing the legendary General Webb.
Flustered, Kate realized she had been staring.
He should be old, her mind protested. Shouldn't he be old? Generals were seasoned veterans, tempered by years of conflict, claiming enough decades to still don powdered wigs and knee breeches. General Webb was young by comparison, in his middling thirties if the gentle creases winging his eyes were to be believed. He was not at all what she had imagined. For the first time in a long time, Kate felt unbalanced.
The grim line of General Webb's mouth turned down a little more at seeing her there, while Astley planted both hands stupidly on his hips. “Foster. What are you doing? Why are you in here?”
Just the sound of his voice grated at her. Though she realized her irritation was disproportionate, there was no checking it when Astley bit at her. “He sent for me,” she retorted. “What are you doing here?”
“Caring for him.” The words were hollow and syrupy, and she swore he batted his eyes at the general.
She would choke his weasel neck if given the slightest opportunity. Astley was oily, self-important and forever lifting at some skirt-hem or another. All character flaws she could ignore, except that he was negligent. Steeped in his own ego, she had watched him make decisions about a patient, life and death decisions, without regard for necessity. If she were ever in need of
aid with only Astley available, she prayed fervently for a quick death.
General Webb stepped out from behind Astley, leaning forward to peer down at Addison as though the doctor were an unidentified species. “What ails him?”
“He has fits,” Astley cut in, eager to trump her. “It's nothing. They pass. Just a matter of age.”
She began to sigh, then caught herself. It was intolerable, listening to him speak with authority while completely ignorant. Straightening, she took over. “It is hardly 'nothing'. He's lost movement on his right side, and his faculties have suddenly diminished. This is more than a fit.” Kate pointed to the drool running from Addison's drooping mouth. “He's in a dire state.”
“Female hysteria. What have you given him?” Astley snatched up the glass and sniffed it. “Laudanum? There's no examining him properly now.”
“He's been properly examined,” she shot back.
The general wagged a finger between her and Addison. “Miss Foster, you are the doctor's...?” She might recognize him, but General Webb had no clue who she was. How unsurprising that Astley had forgotten to mention her. At least he had not taken the opportunity of a walk across camp to raze her credibility. That did not mean that whatever he had shared was not damning by omission. She took a breath, squared her shoulders a little and looked Webb in the eye. “I am his nurse, Kate Foster.”
“You're his assistant, “sneered Astley.
Thin decorum torn to shreds, and Kate rolled her eyes. “No, you are his assistant.”
He puffed up. “I am a physician in training.”
“I'm a fully trained nurse,” she hissed.
“Enough!” General Webb bit off the command with practiced force, startling her and causing Astley to flail. Even during the worst of their bickering Doctor Addison had never been as quick with discipline as the general was now.
Webb swept a hand at the doorway. “Miss Foster, step outside with me.”
She didn't want to leave the doctor, but any chance to speak without Astley was a welcomed one. She followed him out past Gregory, who smirked. “Enjoy packing,” he hissed.
Worm. “Shut up.”
General Webb paced outside the tent, hands clasped behind his back, only a silhouette with the moon behind him. They stood in silence for so long, the general striding away and back that she wondered if she had missed a question.
He stopped, an arm's-length away. “What do you think ails the doctor?”
“A brain bleed, sir.” The symptoms were unquestionable.
“Hmm.”
He walked five or six paces away again, seeming to stew over her words, and turned back. A scent tickled her nose on the breeze, foreign against the familiar odors of camp. Cedar and saddle-leather, and something a little sweet. She realized it was coming from the general. Kate immediately wished she had not noticed.
“How long will he need to convalesce?”
His question doused her, bringing her back to attention. “He won't. Slack mouth, paralysis of his right side; he will never recover the movement.” She tried ignoring an ache over her heart. “I'm not confident he'll last the night.”
He was stalking away again, but her dire prediction turned him around. “It cannot be so severe as that. The doctor was awake when Mister Astley presented himself at my quarters.”
She nodded, understanding his confusion. “He knew me when he sent for me, but by the time I was at his side, he thought I was his daughter. We're both auburn-haired, but Louisa has been dead for years now. I believe he's suffering a very significant bleed. It will damage his brain beyond recovery, and he will die.” Her chest throbbed at the idea. It felt as though she had unleashed a bad omen, speaking the words aloud.
General Webb drew up stiff, limbs set at tense angles. “We are on the verge of battle, and you are telling me that I have no doctor, save Mister Astley?”
He was new. “You have no doctor at all.”
General Webb crossed his arms, voice and body both clearly rejecting her news. “For now, he must do. We're a bit in the wild, and Commander Braddock has not left me the budget to get anyone on Dr. Addison's wages.”
She could not in good conscience let the general's answer stand. He had walked in mid-act, and what he did now would affect the fate of the entire regiment. “Respectfully sir, Mister Astley is wanting at his current post. Elevating him would only perpetuate the belief that mediocrity is a requirement if one wishes to be promoted.”
“He's all I can afford.” His narrow tone said that her advice was not welcomed and that the conversation was over.
Kate crossed her arms, defiance bubbling over inside. “I do not believe your men can afford him.”
He closed the distance between them in one swift stride, close enough that she had to lean her head back, bowing her shoulders to meet his eyes. The smell that had teased her before was magnified when the general leaned in, bringing them face to face. “Are you questioning my decision?”
He was not going to intimidate her, not after the reign of Commander Braddock. Kate raised herself up as much as hard-soled boots allowed. “I am.”
He might as well get used to it.
Somehow, he was closer now. “I would advise against it. My command is comprised of military order and military discipline. I will have both.”
She exhaled as he stepped away, resentful that she had shown even a small measure of being intimidated.
“Doctor Addison kept the two of you on for a reason. I expect you and Mister Astley to behave civilly, and to treat the men of this camp until another doctor can be found. Is that clear?”
He would not order her to endure Astley's abuse. She spun away with every intention of going back inside the tent.
The general's arm shot up, catching her square in the belly. “Is that clear?”
She hated the frustrated tears stinging her eyes, how they caused her voice to tremble.
“Perfectly clear. Sir.”
Shoving past, she left him there in the dark.
* * *
Matthew slumped behind his desk in a rare state of confusion. Where should he begin? In a single day, his aide-de-camp Colonel McKinnon had worked administrative magic over the command tent. Still it was a tangle. Matthew was angry at having been pulled away from the division and guilty at staying gone so long.
His predecessor, Major Braddock, had not been much for administration, one flaw on a growing list. It was clear by the poor state of his record keeping that everything the major accomplished was a gift from his benefactor, the Prince Regent. It certainly was not because Braddock completed requisitions and documented matters like everyone else.
Even with the supposed help of his aides, Braddock's meaningful documents were thin in number and organized under a system lost to mankind about the same time as the fall of Rome. It had come as a surprise then, that where Miss Foster was concerned, Braddock maintained an uncomfortable amount of information.
Every request and complaint she submitted, for herself or on Addison's behalf, seemed to be present. Her replies to Braddock's seemingly inconsequential questions were preserved separately from any other paperwork. There were journal pages in Braddock's log, loosely referencing Doctor Addison but mostly detailing Miss Foster's routine and methods.
There was no doubt in his mind why Braddock, famous as an unabashed libertine, had been so thorough where the lady was concerned. Miss Foster was young and comely enough to tempt lust in a minister. Her temper would have spurred Braddock on with the thrill of the chase.
Matthew decided she had certainly raised his hackles during their brief exchange. He was used to pouting and stalemates, but a woman who could battle with wits? That was an unaccustomed challenge. When Astley had mentioned her during his long winded oratory across the garrison, he had imagined...
What had he imagined? Matthew paused mid-shuffle through a stack of letters. He had expected a portly, middle-aged woman in a rag turban, with leather hands and a half-bottle of liver salt in her apro
n. Such a woman would be a fair composite of all his experiences with field nurses. Kate Foster had decidedly skewed the average.
She was not exotic, not in the way most people used the term. She was unique. It had struck him the moment he entered the tent. She was a collection of subtle differences whose sum was disarming. Tall for a woman. He had not appreciated it until they were nose-to-nose outside the tent. And what was that smell she had enveloped him with? Earthy and crisp, a little familiar. The question had nagged at him from time to time all day. Her eyes were a pale shade of blue framed by an ocean of chestnut hair. Eyes that should have felt cold, he reasoned, but that had blazed when she glared at him. Defiance, confidence, anything but coldness. Proud nose, full lips that concealed an ambush of barbs –
Matthew stopped himself there.
He had no time or business devoting so much thought to any aspect of Miss Foster except her obedience. It was easy to grasp how Braddock, a man who imposed less self-discipline, had become fixated.
In one entry the major referred to her ideas of medicine as 'fantastic, uninformed notions; she is endearing in her attempts to play at doctoring the way small boys play at soldiering...'
The opinion gave him pause, and Matthew wondered over last night's exchange in the tent. Was Astley truly as splintery as Miss Foster claimed, or was the man fed up with her overstepping her role? Between Braddock's indulgence and Addison's absent-mindedness, he imagined neither man ever checked her willfulness.
Her temper supported the theory, but fantastic, uninformed? So far every prediction she had made about Doctor Addison had come to pass. She had spoken with too much confidence to be guessing. Unable to reconcile any two accounts of Kate Foster, he sighed and moved on.
