Muffled Drum (2 page)

Mathias sat by his tent, bone-weary and half-slumped in his canvas chair. Becher, his batman, knelt before him, struggling with the loops on Mathias’s blood-soaked jacket.

“The threads have swollen, sir,” he said. “My fingers…”

Mathias turned his face away from the man’s sour breath. “Cut them.”

“Sir?” Becher looked positively shocked at the suggestion—whether it was for the uniform or for his fingers, Mathias didn’t know.

“Cut the damned things off.” When Becher reached for his knife, Mathias took it from him. “Give it here.” He ripped the frogging apart, gold threads trailing and the brass buttons scattering around his feet. “Now. Get over to Rittmeister von Ratzlaff’s tent and see how his day went.”

“I should wash—”

“You should damned well do as you’re told, Becher, that’s what you should do!” Breathing heavily, Mathias pulled his hat from his head and leaned on his knees, listening to Becher’s footsteps squelching away through the mud. He knew he’d been too harsh, too quick with the man, but his side hurt damnably, and he’d not seen Rudolph once since right at the beginning of the battle, and even then he wasn’t sure that the man he’d picked out—the dark-haired rider galloping on the far side of the copse, riding straight and fierce—had been his lover.

Gingerly he pulled the dolman off and dumped it on the ground next to his pelisse. The blood wasn’t pouring out of him—
or I wouldn’t have made it from the horse lines, I’m sure of it
—but his shirt was wet to the touch.
Cold, though. That has to be a good sign, surely?

Becher had a pan of salted water on the boil, and he’d put some clean rags beside it. Mathias dipped the rags into the water, then waited a moment for them to cool before wiping at the flesh under his shirt. Soldiers—officers and enlisted men—passed him as he worked, but he didn’t look up. Each man had his own concerns after a battle. One kept to oneself until one could present oneself in a better light than bloody and broken.

Damn it. Let Rudolph be alive. Please, God. Let Rudolph be alive.

He hadn’t allowed himself to think what he’d do if the reverse was true—wouldn’t even allow himself to think the words. Death was something he expected for himself, but never for Rudolph. Rudolph was one of those men who would live forever, the type who would grow huge gray moustaches and bore his grandchildren and possibly even great-grandchildren about the battles he’d been in, the charges he’d led.

Mathias knew he wasn’t half the fighter Rudolph was. While his own sword work was passable—certainly as good as most of the Regiment—Rudolph could disarm him without breaking a sweat. No matter how often they sparred, no matter how often Rudolph taught him the trick of it, he had never taken Rudolph’s sword, not once. Their horse-craft was on a par, just, but Rudolph had been born in the saddle—his family had put him on a sturdy little pony in his first months of life, while Mathias had worked hard from enlistment and trained several times a week. He was, along with all the other men, perfectly capable of guiding a horse without saddle or rein—a man didn’t stay with the hussars for long if he couldn’t master a horse by touch and voice alone—but he never achieved that perfect symbiosis that Rudolph did with his mounts.

He paused for a moment at the image of Rudolph as a fond grandfather, with those ridiculous moustaches. He hadn’t been shocked when Rudolph told him he was married. Not shocked exactly. Rudolph had—although Mathias had never met any of them—a large aristocratic family and a fortune which, although Rudolph rarely spoke of it, was something that needed to be managed. There were always letters that required answering, and sometimes—only sometimes—Rudolph would complain about the incompetence of estate managers who couldn’t manage to find their arses with both hands.

“How is it that your family allows you to risk your life the way you do?” Mathias had asked him once. It had been the only time he’d asked a direct question about Rudolph’s family, and he’d deliberately not said “wife.”

“My parents are both dead—oh, I hardly knew them. Brief visits to the drawing room, that kind of thing. They were both dead—typhus—before I was six. I’ve had the inheritance ever since, but other people have always run the place. And my life is my own to dispose of—to do with what I like. I made that very clear. My aunt Gretchen von Ratzlaff took over my upbringing. Her and a gaggle of visiting relations. Aunt Gretchen was a crotchety widow with firm views on many things. One thing she taught me was to speak my mind, so I did. And I have a healthy younger brother. I’m expendable.”

“And you prefer to do
this?
” That Mathias found hard to understand. A choice between luxury and comfort and servants and clean sheets—and life in the army.

“I
prefer
to do
this,
” Rudolph had said, rolling over and putting his hand on Mathias’s cock, which twitched in a vain attempt to recover. “And that’s something I’d find hard to do in Berlin. Or even in the country houses—”

“Hous-
es?
” Mathias had said, aghast. He’d had no idea Rudolph was so wealthy.

Rudolph had rolled him over, working his kisses down his neck and heading toward his navel. “Don’t be impressed, Mathias, for God’s sake. It’s one thing I like about you, that you’ve never cared about my money.”

He hadn’t, but until that moment, he hadn’t really had any hint of the extent of Rudolph’s wealth. He hadn’t realized what Rudolph was putting at risk by taking this course, leaving everything behind and ruining himself.

Mathias was still chanting an internal litany to a God he hardly believed in when Becher’s hands took the cloth from him. Mathias had been too deep in his reverie to hear him return.

His batman started to strip off his shirt. “You’re all in, sir, let’s get you inside.”

“No. Tell me.”

“Von Ratzlaff, sir? He’s all right. Came through it better’n you. Saw him meself. Had a bit of a tumble, that’s all. Right as rain, lying on his bed and joking away.”

Mathias felt himself relax and realized that for longer than he could remember, he’d been holding himself taut like a mantrap, loaded and deadly underfoot.
Safe.
Oh, God. It was all going to happen. He allowed himself to be helped to his feet and let the minutes flow away from him, as Becher tended to the cuts in his side and arms.

“You let ’em too damned close,” Becher grumbled. “This one’s worse than the belly cut, sir. He’s sliced you almost down to the bone.” Finishing with his bandaging, he added, “You’ll have to lift your glass with your left hand for a while. Perhaps you should let the doctor—”

“He’ll have more to deal with than a few scratches.” Mathias let Becher put a sling around his neck, then gritted his teeth as his shirt was replaced. He longed to hear more from Rudolph’s tent, but neither Becher nor Rudolph’s batman knew of their plans—even if they’d guessed of their relationship—so it would be impossible to push for more details. But Mathias burned with concern.
When did he fall? And how? Is he cut? Can he walk? Can he walk to the Generalleutnant’s tent?

The joint resignation had been Mathias’s idea—suggested first almost as a joke, as a way out of their trap—but Rudolph had taken the idea as their only solution if they both wanted to be free, and he’d planned for this moment for weeks now. The war with the Austrians had intervened, delaying matters a little, but despite the added scandal that resigning during an active campaign would cause, Rudolph was steadfast in his resolve.

“No. We won’t let this stop us,” he’d said. “I’ll arrange for the money—for the family—it will leave us with little enough to live on, but it’ll be better this way. Then we leave, and leave together.” Mathias didn’t think for a moment that his friend’s resolve would now weaken.

“Get some rest, sir,” Becher said. “I’ll check on Danzig, make sure he’s not stiffening up, then come back and help you dress.”

“We’ve just left him.” Mathias grunted, the pain searing through his side as he stood up. “I swear you fuss more over that horse than me. Help me dress,
then
go and see to him. Five minutes won’t hurt.”

“Sir.” Becher’s face was pained. “I try my best.”

Mathias felt instantly contrite but was damned if he’d let the man cow him. If Becher got wind of what he was planning, he’d do everything to change his mind. He wouldn’t succeed, but Mathias didn’t want any word of his decision reaching von Tümpling in advance. “You do all right,” he said. “Now get me into this damned thing.”

Becher gently eased Mathias into his dress uniform, painstakingly working the buttons into their gilded keepers. His face was set in a moue of disapproval. “A fine mess you made of your field jacket,” he complained. “That’s going to cost a pretty penny to repair. And you
should
rest. That’s all I meant.”

Mathias decided to make light of it. “A hussar never rests when there is drinking as an alternative.” He couldn’t afford a full-length cheval mirror but he trusted Becher’s ability to ensure he looked smart enough to present himself to his commander in chief. “We won, didn’t we?”

Becher nodded.

“Well, then. That means a celebration.” He let Becher fit the shako onto his head, then paused and looked the man in the eyes, feeling awkward. “You’re the best batman I’ve had, Becher,” he said, feeling sorry for the deception. “I just wanted you to know that.”

Becher’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his fur busby. “Think you should see the sawbones. Sounds like you’re delirious, sir.”

Mathias turned away with a smile, leaving Becher to tidy the tent. He’d known Becher since his induction into the Regiment, and it was going to be as hard to leave him behind as anything else, but the man would soon find another officer all too grateful to take him on.

The walk across the campsite took a while. The sun settled lower in the sky, the air grew colder, and a mist crept over the field until Mathias seemed to be striding through a knee-deep gray cloud. The aftermath of the battle stretched out in a panoramic view of death and misery. Injured and dying men, far too many to be accommodated in the medical tent, were laid in rows. One or two of the nearest men struggled to their feet and saluted or raised their bandaged hands to their foreheads as Mathias strode by. His wounds hurt like hell, but in view of so much pain and sacrifice, he could only stay ramrod straight and accept the homage of the men under his command.

Generalleutnant von Tümpling’s tent was on the top of the rise, sheltered by a band of small trees that allowed it some protection from the chill wind. Mathias announced himself to the guard outside and was ushered in immediately.

His superior officer sat behind a huge desk, which, Rudolph had told him, had taken eight soldiers to get off the wagon and into position. It seemed to Mathias a ridiculous thing to bring on campaign. It probably cost more than Danzig.
At least he’s a bit more useful than something on which to pile papers.

Mathias stood at attention, concentrating minutely on the colors of the regimental flags propped up behind the generalleutnant. Von Tümpling kept him waiting an age, but Mathias was well used to that. If he’d had Rudolph beside him, the old man would have been chatting amiably as he wrote his orders, sealed them and tidied his papers away. Instead, he ignored Mathias entirely and left him standing rigid for what seemed like an hour.

Finally he handed a handful of papers to his orderly, who locked them away in a box and carried them out. Then von Tümpling sat back in his chair and narrowed his eyes, shifting his full and not inconsiderable attention to Mathias.

“Well, Oberleutnant Hofmann?”

“Congratulations, sir.”

“Thank you, Oberleutnant. But I’m sure you didn’t limp all the way over here and stand in pain in front of me all this time just to say congratulations. I’m not a fool, boy, and I can recognize an injury even under attention. The sling’s hardly for show.”

Wincing as he moved, for his cuts had set while he was immobile, Mathias took his prepared letter from the inside of his pelisse and stepped forward sharply, placing it on the desk.

Von Tümpling looked hard at him, but Mathias still didn’t meet his eyes. “What’s this? I had your commander’s report. You’ll be pleased to hear your regiment took the least losses of any.”

“I’m glad to hear that, sir. It’s my resignation, sir,” Mathias said, his stomach sinking with the words, impossible to unsay.

Generalleutnant von Tümpling went entirely still, and Mathias clamped his teeth together, forcing his gaze on the back of the tent. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Hofmann. In fact I’m going to let you take it off the desk and walk right out of here.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Pick it
up,
Oberleutnant.”

“That’s not possible, sir,” Mathias insisted. “I’m serious. I wish to resign my commission with immediate effect.”

“Sorry? I’ll give you sorry, you—” The generalleutnant pushed himself to his feet, his breadth and height seeming to fill all the space behind the desk. His beard and moustache appeared to stand on end, almost taking on lives of their own. “You take this letter back right now, Oberleutnant, before I finish speaking, or by God you’ll find yourself in more trouble than you can imagine. Don’t you realize what you are doing to yourself?”

“I do, sir.”

Von Tümpling snatched the letter up and ripped it open. “By tradition, I should give you overnight to consider this, but your bloody cowardice makes me sick to my stomach. We are in the middle of a war. Your duty—”

Mathias interrupted, aware that he was no longer in the army. “I am aware of what my duty was, sir. Permission to retire, sir.”

“You can go to hell, as far as I’m concerned, Hofmann. If I never see you again, it will be too soon. Get your worthless arse out of my camp.”

Mathias gave a short bow, which von Tümpling ignored, and turned away. It wasn’t until he had marched ten steps in the direction of his tent that he recalled he didn’t need to be marching. The realization sank in that he no longer belonged here, that the very clothes he was wearing no longer had any relevance to his life, and he felt a momentary panic. The army was all he’d really known, all he’d been working toward all his life, and now—