Or, if he listened to the men hurrying about and sending him salutes and nods as they passed, he was the Beast of Bussaco. Evidently setting fire to French munitions wagons and sending them rolling through the middle of the blue-coats’ advance had made him legendary. All that concerned him was that the Bussaco attack had done what it was supposed to and kept the French from taking Lisbon. Whatever it was that made the difference between a hero and someone doing their duty, he would leave to others to figure out.
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.”
