Chapter 3
A Remedy for Sleeplessness
Regimental headquarters for the 52nd was in Bonz, a small hamlet that stood some ten miles from Gundwitz. Grey found Colonel Ruysdale in the central room of the largest inn, in urgent conference with several other officers, and indisposed to take time to deal with an enlisted body.
“Grey? Oh, yes, know your brother. You found what? Where? Yes, all right. See…um…Sergeant-Major Sapp. Yes, that’s it. Sapp will know who…” The colonel waved a vague hand, indicating that Grey would doubtless find whatever assistance he required elsewhere.
“Yes, sir,” Grey said, settling his bootheels into the sawdust. “I shall do so directly. Am I to understand, though, that there are developments of which our allies should be informed?”
Ruysdale stared at him, eyes cold and upper lip foremost.
“Who told you that, sir?”
As though he needed telling. Troops were being mustered outside the village, drummers beating the call to arms and corporals shouting through the streets, men pouring out from their quarters like an anthill stirred with a stick.
“I am a liaison officer, sir, seconded to Captain von Namtzen’s Hanoverian Foot,” Grey replied, evading the question. “They are at present quartered in Gundwitz; will you require their support?”
Ruysdale looked grossly offended at the notion, but a captain wearing an artillery cockade coughed tactfully.
“Colonel, shall I give Major Grey such particulars of the situation as may seem useful? You have important matters to deal with…” He nodded round at the assembled officers, who seemed attentive, but hardly on the brink of action.
The colonel snorted briefly and made a gesture somewhere between gracious dismissal and the waving-away of some noxious insect, and Grey bowed, murmuring, “Your servant, sir.”
Outside, the clouds of last night’s storm were making a hasty exodus, scudding away on a fresh, cold wind. The artillery captain clapped a hand to his hat, and jerked his head toward a pothouse down the street.
“A bit of warmth, Major?”
Gathering that the village was in no danger of imminent invasion, Grey nodded, and accompanied his new companion into a dark, smoky womb smelling of pigs’ feet and fermented cabbage.
“Benjamin Hiltern,” the captain said, putting back his cloak and holding up two fingers to the barman. “You’ll take a drink, Major?”
“John Grey. I thank you. I collect we shall have time to drink it, before we are quite overrun?”
Hiltern laughed, and sat down across from Grey, rubbing a knuckle under a cold-reddened nose.
“We should have time for our gracious host”—he nodded at the wizened creature fumbling with a jug—“to hunt a boar, roast it, and serve it up with an apple in its mouth, if you should be so inclined.”
“I am obliged, Captain,” Grey said, with a glance at the barman, who upon closer inspection appeared to have only one leg, the other being supported by a stout peg of battered aspect. “Alas, I have breakfasted but recently.”
“Too bad. I haven’t. Bratkartoffeln mit Ruhrei,” Hiltern said to the barman, who nodded and disappeared into some still-more-squalid den to the rear of the house. “Potatoes, fried with eggs and ham,” he explained, taking out a kerchief and tucking it into the neck of his shirt. “Delicious.”
“Quite,” Grey said politely. “One would hope that your troops are fed as well, after the effort I saw being expended.”
“Oh, that.” Hiltern’s cherubic countenance lost a little of its cheerfulness, but not much. “Poor sods. At least it’s stopped raining.”
In answer to Grey’s raised brows, he explained.
“Punishment. There was a game of bowls yesterday, between a party of men from Colonel Bampton-Howard’s lot and our lads—local form of skittles. Ruysdale had a heavy wager on with Bampton-Howard, see?”
“And your lot lost. Yes, I see. So your lads are—”
“Ten mile run to the river and back, in full kit. Keep them fit and out of trouble, at least,” Hiltern said, half-closing his eyes and lifting his nose at the scent of frying potatoes that had begun to waft through the air.
“I see. One assumes that the French have moved, then? Our last intelligence reported them as being a few miles north of the river.”
“Yes, gave us a bit of excitement for a day or two; thought they might come this way. They seem to have sheered off, though—gone round to the west.”
“Why?” Grey felt a prickle of unease go down his spine. There was a bridge at Aschenwald, a logical crossing point—but there was another several miles west, at Gruneberg. The eastern bridge was defended by a company of Prussian artillery; a detachment of grenadiers, under Colonel Bampton-Howard, presumably held the western crossing.
“There’s a mass of Frenchies beyond the river,” Hiltern replied. “We think they have it in mind to join up with that lot.”
That was interesting. It was also information that should have been shared with the Hanoverian and Prussian commanders by official dispatch—not acquired accidentally by the random visit of a liaison officer. Sir Peter Hicks was scrupulous in maintaining communications with the allies; Ruysdale evidently saw no such need.
“Oh!” Hiltern said, divining his thought. “I’m sure we would have let you know, only for things here being in a bit of confusion. And truly, it didn’t seem urgent; scouts just said the French were shining their gear, biffing up the supplies, that sort of thing. After all, they’ve got to go somewhere before the snow comes down.”
He raised one dark brow, smiling in apology—an apology that Grey accepted, with no more than a second’s hesitation. If Ruysdale was going to be erratic about dispatches, it would be as well for Grey to keep himself informed by other means—and Hiltern was obviously well-placed to know what was going on.
They chatted casually until the host came out with Hiltern’s breakfast, but Grey learned no more of interest—save that Hiltern was remarkably uninterested in the death of Private Bodger. He was also vague about the “confusion” to which he had referred, dismissing it with a wave of the hand as a “bit of a muddle in the commissary—damned bore.”
The sound of hooves and wheels, moving slowly, came from the street outside, and Grey heard a loud voice with a distinctly Hanoverian accent, requesting direction “Zum Englanderlager.”
“What is that?” Hiltern asked, turning on his stool.
“I expect that will be Private Bodger coming home,” Grey replied, rising. “I’m obliged to you, sir. Is Sergeant-Major Sapp still in camp, do you know?”
“Mmm…no.” Hiltern spoke thickly, through a mouthful of potatoes and eggs. “Gone to the river.”
That was inconvenient; Grey had no desire to hang about all day, waiting for Sapp’s return in order to hand over the corpse and responsibility for it. Another idea occurred to him, though.
“And the regimental surgeon?”
“Dead. Flux.” Hiltern spooned in more egg, concentrating. “Mmp. Try Keegan. He’s the surgeon’s assistant.”
With most of the men emptying out of camp, it took some time to locate the surgeon’s tent. Once there, Grey had the body deposited on a bench, and at once sent the wagon back to the Schloss. He was taking no chances on being left in custody of Private Bodger.
Keegan proved to be a scrappy Welshman, equipped with rimless spectacles and an incongruous mop of reddish ringlets. Blinking through the spectacles, he bent close to the corpse and poked at it with a smudgy exploratory finger.
“No blood.”
“No.”
“Fever?”
“Probably not. I saw the man several hours before his death, and he seemed in reasonable health then.”
“Hmmm.” Keegan bent and peered keenly up Bodger’s nostrils, as though suspecting the answer to the private’s untimely death might be lurking there.
Grey frowned at the fellow’s grubby knuckles and the thin crust of blood that rimmed his cuff. Nothing out of the way for a surgeon, but the dirt bothered him.
Keegan tried to thumb up one of the eyelids, but it resisted him. Bodger had stiffened during the night, and while the hands and arms had gone limp again, the face, body, and legs were all hard as wood. Keegan sighed and began tugging off the corpse’s stockings. These were greatly the worse for wear, the soles stained with mud; the left one had a hole worn through and Bodger’s great toe poked out like the head of an inquisitive worm.
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.