Lord John And The Hand Of Devils (Lord John Grey 1.5)

Keegan rubbed a hand on the skirt of his already grubby coat, leaving further streaks, then rubbed it under his nose, sniffing loudly. Grey had an urge to step away from the man. Then he realized, with a small sense of startlement mingled with annoyance, that he was thinking of the Woman. Fraser’s wife. Fraser had spoken of her very little—but that reticence only added to the significance of what he did say.

One late night, in the governor’s quarters at Ardsmuir Prison, they had sat longer than usual over their chess game—a hard-fought draw, in which Grey took more pleasure than he might have taken in victory over a lesser opponent. They usually drank sherry, but not that night; he had a special claret, a present from his mother, and had insisted that Fraser must help him to finish it, as the wine would not last once opened.

It was a strong wine, and between the headiness of it and the stimulation of the game, even Fraser had lost a little of his formidable reserve.

Past midnight, Grey’s orderly had come to take away the dishes from their repast, and stumbling sleepily on the threshold in his leaving, had sprawled full-length, cutting himself badly on a shard of glass. Fraser had leapt up like a cat, snatched the boy up, and pressed a fold of his shirt to the wound to stop the bleeding. But then, when Grey would have sent for a surgeon, Fraser had stopped him, saying tersely that Grey could do so if he wished to kill the lad, but if not, had best allow Fraser to tend him.

This he had done with great skill and gentleness, washing first his hands, and then the wound, with wine, then demanding needle and silk thread—which he had astonished Grey by dipping into the wine, as well, and passing the needle through the flame of a candle.

“My wife would do it so,” he’d said, frowning slightly in concentration. “There are the wee beasties, called germs, d’ye see, and if they—” He set his teeth momentarily into his lip as he made the first stitch, then went on.

“—If they should be getting into a wound, it will suppurate. So ye must wash well before ye tend the wound, and put flame or alcohol to your instruments, to kill them.” He smiled briefly at the orderly, who was white-faced and wobbling on his stool. “Never let a surgeon wi’ dirty hands touch ye, she said. Better to bleed to death quickly than die slow of the pus, aye?”

Grey was as skeptical of the existence of germs as of succubi, but ever afterward had glanced automatically at the hands of any medical man—and it did seem to him that perhaps the more cleanly of the breed tended to lose fewer patients, though he had made no real study of the matter.

In the present instance, though, Mr. Keegan offered no hazard to the late Private Bodger, and in spite of his distaste, Grey made no protest as the surgeon undressed the corpse, making small interested “Tut!” noises in response to the postmortem phenomena thus revealed.

Grey was already aware that the private had died in a state of arousal. This state appeared to be permanent, even though the limbs had begun to relax from their rigor, and was the occasion of a surprised “Tut!” from Mr. Keegan.

“Well, he died happy, at least,” Keegan said, blinking. “Sweet God almighty.”

“Is this a … normal manifestation, do you think?” Grey inquired. He had rather expected Private Bodger’s condition to abate postmortem. If anything, it seemed particularly pronounced, viewed by daylight. Though of course that might be merely an artifact of the color, which was now a virulent dark purple, in stark contrast to the pallid flesh of the body.

Keegan prodded the condition cautiously with a forefinger.

“Stiff as wood,” he said, unnecessarily. “Normal? Don’t know. Mind, what chaps I see here have mostly died of fever or flux, and men what are ill aren’t mostly of a mind to … Hmm.” He relapsed into a thoughtful contemplation of the body.

“What did the woman say?” he asked, shaking himself out of this reverie after a moment or two.

“Who, the woman he was with? Gone. Not that one might blame her.” Always assuming that it had been a woman, he added to himself. Though given Private Bodger’s earlier encounter with the gypsy, one would assume …

“Can you say what caused his death?” Grey inquired, seeing that Keegan had begun to inspect the body as a whole, though his fascinated gaze kept returning to … Color notwithstanding, it really was remarkable.

The assistant surgeon shook his ringlets, absorbed in wrestling off the corpse’s shirt.

“No wound that I can see. Blow to the head, perhaps?” He bent close, squinting at the corpse’s head and face, poking here and there in an exploratory fashion.

A group of men in uniform came toward them at the trot, hastily doing up straps and buttons, hoicking packs and muskets into place, and cursing as they went. Grey removed his hat and placed it strategically abaft the corpse, not wishing to excite public remark—but no one bothered to spare a glance at the tableau by the surgeon’s tent; one dead man was much like another.

Grey reclaimed his hat and watched them go, grumbling like a miniature thunderstorm on the move. Most of the troops were already massed on the parade ground. He could see them in the distance, moving in a slow, disorderly mill that would snap into clean formation at the sergeant-major’s shout.

“I know Colonel Ruysdale by reputation,” Grey said, after a thoughtful pause, “though not personally. I have heard him described as ‘a bit of a Gawd-’elp-us,’ but I have not heard that he is altogether an ass.”

Keegan smiled, keeping his eyes on his work.

“Shouldn’t think he is,” he agreed. “Not altogether.”

Grey kept an inviting silence, to which invitation the surgeon acquiesced within moments.

“He means to wear them out, see. Bring them back so tired they fall asleep in their suppers.”

“Oh, yes?”

“They been a-staying up all night, you see? Nobody wanting to fall asleep, lest the thing—a sucky-bus, is it?—should come round in their dreams. Mind, it’s good for the tavern owners, but not so good for discipline, what with men falling asleep on sentry-go, or in the midst of drill.…”

Keegan glanced up from his inspections, observing Grey with interest.

“Not sleeping so well yourself, Major?” He tapped a dirty finger beneath his eye, indicating the presence of dark rings, and chuckled.

“I kept rather late hours last night, yes,” Grey replied equably. “Owing to the discovery of Private Bodger.”

“Hmm. Yes, I see,” Keegan said, straightening up. “Seems as though the sucky-bus had her fill of him, then.”

br />

Keegan rubbed a hand on the skirt of his already grubby coat, leaving further streaks, then rubbed it under his nose, sniffing loudly. Grey had an urge to step away from the man. Then he realized, with a small sense of startlement mingled with annoyance, that he was thinking of the Woman. Fraser’s wife. Fraser had spoken of her very little—but that reticence only added to the significance of what he did say.

One late night, in the governor’s quarters at Ardsmuir Prison, they had sat longer than usual over their chess game—a hard-fought draw, in which Grey took more pleasure than he might have taken in victory over a lesser opponent. They usually drank sherry, but not that night; he had a special claret, a present from his mother, and had insisted that Fraser must help him to finish it, as the wine would not last once opened.

It was a strong wine, and between the headiness of it and the stimulation of the game, even Fraser had lost a little of his formidable reserve.

Past midnight, Grey’s orderly had come to take away the dishes from their repast, and stumbling sleepily on the threshold in his leaving, had sprawled full-length, cutting himself badly on a shard of glass. Fraser had leapt up like a cat, snatched the boy up, and pressed a fold of his shirt to the wound to stop the bleeding. But then, when Grey would have sent for a surgeon, Fraser had stopped him, saying tersely that Grey could do so if he wished to kill the lad, but if not, had best allow Fraser to tend him.

This he had done with great skill and gentleness, washing first his hands, and then the wound, with wine, then demanding needle and silk thread—which he had astonished Grey by dipping into the wine, as well, and passing the needle through the flame of a candle.

“My wife would do it so,” he’d said, frowning slightly in concentration. “There are the wee beasties, called germs, d’ye see, and if they—” He set his teeth momentarily into his lip as he made the first stitch, then went on.

“—If they should be getting into a wound, it will suppurate. So ye must wash well before ye tend the wound, and put flame or alcohol to your instruments, to kill them.” He smiled briefly at the orderly, who was white-faced and wobbling on his stool. “Never let a surgeon wi’ dirty hands touch ye, she said. Better to bleed to death quickly than die slow of the pus, aye?”

Grey was as skeptical of the existence of germs as of succubi, but ever afterward had glanced automatically at the hands of any medical man—and it did seem to him that perhaps the more cleanly of the breed tended to lose fewer patients, though he had made no real study of the matter.

In the present instance, though, Mr. Keegan offered no hazard to the late Private Bodger, and in spite of his distaste, Grey made no protest as the surgeon undressed the corpse, making small interested “Tut!” noises in response to the postmortem phenomena thus revealed.

Grey was already aware that the private had died in a state of arousal. This state appeared to be permanent, even though the limbs had begun to relax from their rigor, and was the occasion of a surprised “Tut!” from Mr. Keegan.

“Well, he died happy, at least,” Keegan said, blinking. “Sweet God almighty.”

“Is this a … normal manifestation, do you think?” Grey inquired. He had rather expected Private Bodger’s condition to abate postmortem. If anything, it seemed particularly pronounced, viewed by daylight. Though of course that might be merely an artifact of the color, which was now a virulent dark purple, in stark contrast to the pallid flesh of the body.

Keegan prodded the condition cautiously with a forefinger.

“Stiff as wood,” he said, unnecessarily. “Normal? Don’t know. Mind, what chaps I see here have mostly died of fever or flux, and men what are ill aren’t mostly of a mind to … Hmm.” He relapsed into a thoughtful contemplation of the body.

“What did the woman say?” he asked, shaking himself out of this reverie after a moment or two.

“Who, the woman he was with? Gone. Not that one might blame her.” Always assuming that it had been a woman, he added to himself. Though given Private Bodger’s earlier encounter with the gypsy, one would assume …

“Can you say what caused his death?” Grey inquired, seeing that Keegan had begun to inspect the body as a whole, though his fascinated gaze kept returning to … Color notwithstanding, it really was remarkable.

The assistant surgeon shook his ringlets, absorbed in wrestling off the corpse’s shirt.

“No wound that I can see. Blow to the head, perhaps?” He bent close, squinting at the corpse’s head and face, poking here and there in an exploratory fashion.

A group of men in uniform came toward them at the trot, hastily doing up straps and buttons, hoicking packs and muskets into place, and cursing as they went. Grey removed his hat and placed it strategically abaft the corpse, not wishing to excite public remark—but no one bothered to spare a glance at the tableau by the surgeon’s tent; one dead man was much like another.

Grey reclaimed his hat and watched them go, grumbling like a miniature thunderstorm on the move. Most of the troops were already massed on the parade ground. He could see them in the distance, moving in a slow, disorderly mill that would snap into clean formation at the sergeant-major’s shout.

“I know Colonel Ruysdale by reputation,” Grey said, after a thoughtful pause, “though not personally. I have heard him described as ‘a bit of a Gawd-’elp-us,’ but I have not heard that he is altogether an ass.”

Keegan smiled, keeping his eyes on his work.

“Shouldn’t think he is,” he agreed. “Not altogether.”

Grey kept an inviting silence, to which invitation the surgeon acquiesced within moments.

“He means to wear them out, see. Bring them back so tired they fall asleep in their suppers.”

“Oh, yes?”

“They been a-staying up all night, you see? Nobody wanting to fall asleep, lest the thing—a sucky-bus, is it?—should come round in their dreams. Mind, it’s good for the tavern owners, but not so good for discipline, what with men falling asleep on sentry-go, or in the midst of drill.…”

Keegan glanced up from his inspections, observing Grey with interest.

“Not sleeping so well yourself, Major?” He tapped a dirty finger beneath his eye, indicating the presence of dark rings, and chuckled.

“I kept rather late hours last night, yes,” Grey replied equably. “Owing to the discovery of Private Bodger.”

“Hmm. Yes, I see,” Keegan said, straightening up. “Seems as though the sucky-bus had her fill of him, then.”

“So you do know about the rumors of a succubus?” Grey asked, ignoring the attempt at badinage.

“Of course I do.” Keegan looked surprised. “Everybody knows. Aren’t I just telling you?”

Keegan did not know how the rumor had reached the encampment, but it had spread like wildfire, reaching every man in camp within twenty-four hours. Original scoffing had become skeptical attention, and then reluctant belief, as more stories began to circulate of the dreams and torments suffered by men in the town—and had become outright panic, with the news of the Hanoverian soldier’s death.

“I don’t suppose you saw that body?” Grey asked, interested.

The Welshman shook his head. “The word is that the poor bugger was drained of blood—but who’s to know the truth of it? Perhaps it was an apoplexy; I’ve seen ’em taken so, sometimes—the blood comes bursting from the nose, so as to relieve the pressure on the brain. Messy enough to look at.”

“You seem a rational man, sir,” Grey said, in compliment.

Keegan gave a small, huffing sort of laugh, dismissing it, and straightened up, brushing his palms once more against his coat skirts.

“Deal with soldiers for as long as I have, Major, and you get used to wild stories, that’s all I can say. Men in camp, ’specially. Not enough to keep them busy, and a good tale will spread like butter on hot toast. And when it comes to dreams …!” He threw up his hands.

Grey nodded, acknowledging the truth of this. Soldiers put great store in dreams involving Jamie Fraser. A faint warmth in the belly reminded him of one of his own dreams, but he put the memory firmly aside.

“So you can tell me nothing regarding the cause of Private Bodger’s death?”

Keegan shook his head, scratching at a row of fleabites on his neck as he did so.

“Don’t see a thing, sir, I’m sorry to say. Other than the … um … obvious.” He nodded delicately toward the corpse’s mid-region. “And that’s not generally fatal. You might ask the fellow’s friends, though. Just in case.”

This cryptic allusion made Grey glance up in question, and Keegan coughed.

“I did say the men didn’t sleep, sir? Not wanting to give any sucky-bus an invitation, so to speak. Well, some went a bit further than that, and took matters—so to speak—into their own hands.”

A few bold souls, Keegan said, had reasoned that if what the succubus desired was the male essence, safety lay in removing this temptation—“so to speak, sir.” While most of those choosing this expedient had presumably chosen to take their precautions in privacy, the men lived in very close quarters. It was in fact complaints from more than one citizen of gross mass indecency by the soldiers quartered on his premises that had provoked Colonel Ruysdale’s edict.

“Only thinking, sir, as a wet graveyard is maybe not the place I’d choose for romance, was the opportunity to come my way. But I could see, maybe, a group of men thinking they’d face down the sucky-bus on her own ground, perhaps? And if Private … Bodger, you said was his name, sir?… was to have keeled over in the midst of such proceedings … well, I expect his comrades would have buggered off smartly, not hung about to answer questions.”

“You have a very interesting turn of mind, Mr. Keegan,” Grey said. “Highly rational. I don’t suppose it was you who suggested this particular … precaution?”

“Who, me?” Keegan tried—and failed—to exhibit outrage. “The idea, Major!”

“Quite,” Grey said, and took his leave.

In the distance, the troops were departing the parade ground in orderly fashion, each rank setting off in turn, to the clank and rattle of canteens and muskets and the staccato cries of corporals and sergeants. He stopped for a moment to watch them, enjoying the warmth of the autumn sun on his back.

After the fury of the night’s storm, the day had dawned clear and calm, and promised to be mild. Very muddy underfoot, though, he noted, seeing the churned earth of the parade ground and the spray of clods flying off the feet of the runners, spattering their breeches. It would be heavy going, and the devil of a sweat to clean up afterward. Ruysdale might not have intended this exercise principally as punishment, but that’s what it would be.

Artilleryman that he had been, Grey automatically evaluated the quality of the terrain for the passage of caissons. Not a chance. The ground was soft as sodden cheese. Even the mortars would bog down in nothing flat.

He turned, eyeing the distant hills where the French were said to be. If they had cannon, chances were that they were going nowhere for the moment.

The situation still left him with a lingering sense of unease, loath though he was to admit it. Yes, the French likely were intending to move toward the north. No, there was no apparent reason for them to cross the valley; Gundwitz had no strategic importance, nor was it of sufficient size to be worth a detour to loot. Yes, Billman’s troops were between the French and the town. But he looked at the deserted parade ground, and the troops vanishing in the distance, and felt a tickle between the shoulder blades, as though someone stood behind him with a loaded pistol.

I should feel happier if a few more of Ruysdale’s troops were to move to defend the bridge. Hicks’s words echoed in memory. So Sir Peter felt that itch, as well. It was possible, Grey reflected, that Ruysdale was an ass.

Chapter 4

The Gun Crew

It was past midday by the time he reached the river. From a distance, it was a tranquil landscape under a high, pale sun, the river bordered by a thick growth of trees in autumn leaf, their ancient golds and bloody reds a-shimmer, in contrast to the black-and-dun patchwork of fallow fields and meadows gone to seed.

A little closer, though, and the river itself dispelled this impression of pastoral charm. It was a broad, deep stream, turbulent and fast-moving, much swollen by the recent rains. Even at a distance, he could see the tumbling forms of up rooted trees and bushes, and the occasional carcass of a small animal, drowned in the current.

The Prussian artillery were placed upon a small rise of ground, concealed in a copse. Only one ten-pounder, he saw, with a sense of unease, and a small mortar—though there were sufficient stores of shot and powder, and these were commendably well-kept, with a Prussian sense of order, tidily sheltered under canvas against the rain.

The men greeted him with great cordiality; any diversion from the boredom of bridge-guarding was welcome—the more welcome if it came bearing beer, which Grey did, having thoughtfully procured two large ale skins before leaving camp.

“You will with us eat, Major,” said the Hanoverian lieutenant in charge, accepting both beer and dispatches, and waving a gracious hand toward a convenient boulder.

It was a long time since breakfast, and Grey accepted the invitation with pleasure. He took off his coat and spread it over the boulder, rolled up his sleeves, and joined companionably in the hard biscuit, cheese, and beer, accepting with gratitude a few bites of chewy, spicy sausage, as well.

Lieutenant Dietrich, a middle-aged gentleman with a luxuriant beard and eyebrows to match, opened the dispatches and read them while Grey practiced his German with the gun crew. He kept a careful eye upon the lieutenant as he chatted, though, curious to see what the artilleryman would make of von Namtzen’s dispatch.