Hero in the Highlands (2 page)

When he finally looked up to notice the sun lowering behind the hills to the west, accompanied by the wailing sound of some Scotsman apparently stepping on his bagpipes, Gabriel made his way across the sprawling encampment to his tent. He ducked inside and lowered himself onto the single, canvas-slung chair. His arm ached, and he ripped open the bloody remains of his shirtsleeve to expose a lead-ball-sized entrance wound … and thankfully a matching exit wound, high on his upper arm.

The tent flap lifted again. “I found your coat, Major,” a gruff voice announced.

Held by two fingers, the formerly red coat with green facings entered the small tent, followed by the short, stout man who gripped it. Gabriel had no idea how his aide-de-camp could know it was his; any rank or insignia had been either torn away or obscured beneath a substantial layering of mud, blood, and horse shit.

“Just bury it with the rest of the casualties, Kelgrove,” he returned. “After you help me bandage this. I'm to be dressed down by our lieutenant general, and I don't want to bleed on his boots.”

“You're to meet with Wellington? In what?” Sergeant Adam Kelgrove responded, dropping the ruined coat into a corner. “Your dress coat, I suppose, little as his lordship approves seeing those out in the field.”

“I doubt my choice of wardrobe will sway him in one direction over another after I told him where he could stash his fucking orders.”

With a snort, Kelgrove walked the two feet over to where Gabriel's battered trunk squatted at the foot of his cot. Abruptly he straightened. “You didn't actually say that.”

“I did. Right before I charged down the hill.”

“I wonder if Captain Newbury needs a new aide,” the sergeant mused.

“He's too prissy for you. Have you seen the shine on his boots?”

“Boots or buttons. It's all the same to me.” Kelgrove lifted the dress coat out of the trunk. “Speaking of which, promise me you won't tear the buttons off this one.”

Gabriel stifled a brief grin. “So the button reference wasn't random. You heard about it.”

“Everyone has. There may be a song about it already.”

Hellfire.
One nickname per war was plenty. “If I become the Beast of Buttons, I'm killing someone.”

“I doubt anyone would dare. Aside from that, the burning munitions wagons at Bussaco were much more spectacular to view than some flying buttons.”

“Tell that to the Frenchies who got hit by my epaulets.”

“Even so, I would appreciate if you didn't make a habit of stripping decorations off your coat.”

“I imagine the odds of me needing to fire off a cannon between here and Wellington's tent to be fairly small, but I can't promise anything,” Gabriel returned.

“Well, I'm pleased as pie this amuses you, Major. Imagine my feelings when I rode up the hill to deliver a report to you, only to see my commander galloping hell-bent through the valley and cutting down Frogs like a lumberjack. When you decide to take on Bonaparte's army single-handedly, I'm supposed to ride with you.”

“Then I wouldn't be lumberjacking single-handedly, would I?” Gabriel handed his aide-de-camp a strip of gauze and set a half-empty bottle of whisky on the table. “The ball went clean through, but take a look, anyway. I may have lost a piece of my shirt in there.”

Sergeant Kelgrove immediately turned up the lamp and pulled over a footstool to sit. “Don't even jest about that.” Frowning, he picked up a magnifying glass. Peering through it, his right green eye enormous and bloodshot, he bent over Gabriel's arm.

Refusing to wince as Kelgrove wrenched the wound about, Gabriel took a swallow of the whisky, instead. They'd all been lucky today, and in more ways than one. They'd lost men, and some of them needlessly, but Salamanca would count as a victory. And with that victory, the push to retake Madrid remained in sight. If the price for him was a musket ball to the arm—or even through his skull—then so be it.

“I don't see anything,” the sergeant finally concluded, setting aside the magnifier to splash whisky on the holes and then bind up the wound. “You can wager I'll be keeping a close eye on it, though. Soldiers wouldn't like it if an officer they bothered to name something ferocious like the Beast of Bussaco drops dead of blood poisoning. Hurts morale.”

Silently Gabriel wondered if having that officer court-martialed for disobeying his commander's orders would have the same effect. “I appreciate your concern, Adam,” he said after a moment. “Henceforth I will try to expire in a more heroic manner.”

The aide-de-camp straightened and brought over the crisp red dress uniform. “See that you do.”

After Gabriel pulled on a fresh shirt he stripped out of his mud-and-blood-caked trousers and boots, then dressed all over again in his heavy, stiff dress uniform. He would have preferred a quick jump into the river first, or at least a bucket of water over his head, but he wasn't about to keep Wellington waiting for him. Not after a written invitation—or order, or whatever the note had been.

Finally Kelgrove stepped back. “You'll do,” the sergeant said, his expression glum. “Still too dashing, which Wellington don't like, but nothing I can do about that but hope you get your nose broken next time, Major. Or a saber cut across the bridge, at least. The one down your cheek just makes you look gallant.”

“I'll add my prayers to yours.”

“Aye,” Kelgrove returned, evidently not hearing the sarcasm. “While you're up the hill I'll see if I can find some spare uniform buttons and let the washerwomen have a go at turning that lump back into a proper coat.”

“And remind damned Humphreys that I want his written account of the battle and his actions by morning. I want him to think it all through again and remember what an idiot he was.”

“I'll do that. I think you'll find him a humbled man, this evening.”

Fitting his black officer's shako over his head, Gabriel ducked out through the tent's flaps. “He'd best be, if he knows what's good for him.”

Even with the sounds of battle practically still ringing through the valley and the village of Salamanca itself, the vast camp of the allied English, Portuguese, and Spanish armies had already settled into its usual state of controlled chaos. He made his way among the tents and wagons and horse paddocks, heading for the slight rise on the northern edge.

“Major Forrester,” one of the lads in a group around a fire called, “I flatten out my buttons to pass them off as English coins. Never thought to use them as cannonballs!”

Amid the laughter, his fellows rose to toast him with their tin cups. “To the Beast of Bussaco, who saved all our arses again today! Huzzah! The Beast!”

Gabriel grinned, nodding. A few drunken toasts, he could manage. The first man who referred to him as Major Buttons, though, was definitely going to get knocked on his arse. “Thank you, lads. And if you have any spare buttons you haven't hammered out yet, Sergeant Kelgrove has need of about eight of them. He'll pay a shilling apiece.”

Wellington had been offered a villa on the far edge of Salamanca for his use, but as usual he kept to his large, plain tent where he could have ready access to his officers and men. The man lived as much on information as he did on beef and bread. When Gabriel reached the lieutenant general's lodgings, a slender young man looking no older than twelve saluted. “Major Forrester.”

Gabriel returned the gesture. “Evans.”

“Lord Wellington is about to sit for dinner, sir.”

Stifling a sigh at how long he was likely to have to wear his heavy wool coat now, Gabriel nodded. “I'll await his convenience, then. Please send me word when he's avail—”

“Lord Wellington asks that you join him, sir.” Taking a step back, Corporal Evans pulled the tent flap aside and gestured him to enter.

Blast it all
. He'd sat for officers' dinners with Wellington before, and had on occasion joined the earl and other officers for drinks—and once, for a painful trio of hours at some local lordling's house to listen to all the young misses in the area sing and play the harp and the pianoforte. There'd always been a distraction, or other, more clever-tongued people to carry on the conversation. This was different. Still, he supposed, it would be more agreeable to be dressed down over dinner than with naught to show for it.

The tent had been partitioned into several sections, to give the appearance that those inside had at least a degree of privacy. In the middle sat a table with room for a dozen or so officers, though at present only two chairs and two settings were visible. A private approached to take his hat and gloves, while another one pulled a chair out from the table.

Perhaps he'd been killed this afternoon, after all; with the candlelit gloom of the command tent and the prospect of carrying on a prolonged conversation with his famously reticent commanding officer, this was shaping nicely into his idea of hell. When the chair-holding private cleared his throat, Gabriel blew out his breath and sat.

In the next heartbeat Wellington stepped into sight, and Gabriel stood again. “General.”

“Major. You are going to remain for the meal, I trust? Not gallop off halfway through the roast mutton to go fling buttons at enemy soldiers?”

Damnation.
Gabriel brushed at the front of his uniform. “My aide-de-camp asked that I not do so, my lord. He worries the army will run short of buttons and we'll look too shabby to ride into Madrid.”

“And I second his very wise request. And his worry. Sit down, Major. Redding, wine.”

One of the privates scurried over to the tent's liquor cabinet and unlocked the large mahogany tantalus. Wellington might scoff at soft beds and other luxuries, but the man knew his liquor. Personally Gabriel would have preferred something stronger than wine, especially if he was about to be reassigned to a desk in the Horse Guards, but he was very clearly in Rome, so to speak. Tonight he would drink wine.

Once Private Redding poured, the tent seemed to empty of all staff. It must have been prearranged, because accustomed as Gabriel was to looking for subtle signs, shifts in the battlefield, he hadn't detected anything at all. The deep red drink was too sweet by far for his taste, but that meant it was likely more expensive than anything he could have afforded on his own, so he sipped at it and tried to look mildly impressed.

“I had a plan for the battle today,” Wellington said into the silence, his own glass sitting untouched. “A feint by my center to lure in the French cavalry, with cannons to smash them to bits while my foot soldiers ground theirs into paste.”

“Yes, sir. I'm aware of that.”

“And you informed your Lieutenant Humphreys of this, as well, I assume?”

“I did.” Gabriel took a breath. The lad didn't deserve defending, but if he had truly learned his lesson today, he had the makings of a competent officer. “The smoke obscured the flags. Humphreys knew if he lagged that he would leave an opening for the cavalry to escape. In his … inexperience, he rushed forward instead of looking for confirmation.”

“So if you'd been there as you'd intended, you would still have all your uniform buttons?” Finally sitting back, the earl lifted his glass and took a long, slow drink.

“In theory, I suppose, though I have no way of knowing in what condition my uniform might have ended.”

“I won't say you single-handedly won the battle of Salamanca,” the lieutenant general mused a moment later, “but I will say that you single-handedly kept us from losing it, Major. If they weren't already praising your actions at Bussaco, you'd be the Savior of Salamanca after today.”

That didn't precisely sound like a drumming-down. Yet, anyway. “I am a soldier, sir. I do what is required to win.”

“Just as well. Nicknames are tricky things to live up to.”

Gabriel nodded. “I don't care what anyone calls me, as long as I'm permitted to do my duty.”

“Mm. Very humble of you. And now that I consider it, rather ironic.”

A frown pulled at Gabriel's face. “Beg pardon? I know you ordered me to the command hill, General, but I have never sought personal glory from the blood of my men. That—”

“A great many officers serve under me, Major Forrester,” Wellington cut in. “Do you imagine that the loss of one from my side—even a competent, capable one—would cause me to surrender?”

“Of course not.” And there was the boot he'd been expecting.

“It irritated me when you galloped off. Not because I required your counsel, but because I know you ride pell-mell into battle, and I had reason to wish you kept from harm.” He reached into one of the pockets of his blue coat and produced a much folded letter, which he set down and slid across the table. “This arrived by special messenger before dawn. A second note is inside, addressed to you.”

Frowning, Gabriel leaned forward and picked up the thick note. “I don't—”

Wellington took a breath. “I have written letters to lords, informing them that their precious thirdborn sons—not as precious as their firstborn sons, of course—have been killed in battle. This one”—and he gestured at the missive—“is out of even my experience. I invited you here tonight because it seems the sort of news one should hear from a sympathetic soul rather than read on one's own in the middle of a foreign country and a damned war.”

“I … Are you certain this is meant for me? My parents are long dead, and I have but one sibling. A younger sister, living in London.” His heart thudded. “Has something happened to Marjorie?”

“No.” Wellington tilted his head. “You have no cousins, either, I presume.”

“No. What—”

“You do have an uncle. A second uncle, rather. Or is it third? I can never keep the distant ones numbered correctly.”

Gabriel opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I remember my mother talking about a great-uncle she detested, and I know there was bad blood in the family…” He cleared his throat. “I wouldn't take up your time with my boyhood recollections, sir. This has something to do with the—my—second or third uncle, I presume? If he's died and left me some debt, I would appreciate if you simply told me. Any creditors will find it difficult to squeeze blood from this turnip.”