Chapter Text
Spain
In the Weeks after the Battle of Talavera
“Logan!”
At the sound of his name Logan looked across the mess and smiled to see his friend walking towards him.
“Michaels! Who was fool enough to let you out of bed?”
Talavera had been a bloody affair. In comparison with the 23rd Light Dragoons or much of the infantry those members of his own regiment who had fought had been lucky. Michaels, he supposed, could still be considered lucky. Even if he had taken a French sabre to the head, he was both still alive and still with the army, rather than a prisoner of the French.
As Michaels moved towards him, Logan studied his friend. What had once been an open gash across his brow was now a thick line of red puckered skin somewhere between a wound and scar. It seemed Michaels truly was lucky. Sabre wounds were less likely to fester than those from musket balls or cannonballs, but had the sabre been just a touch bit lower it would have taken his eye.
“The wound has healed cleanly?” Logan asked.
“And I have heard from good authority the scar will only add to my looks.” Michaels retorted with a smirk, prompting Logan to make a face.
Michaels sat down heavily next to Logan. Now with the opportunity for closer inspection, it was clear that in spite of his jovial words he was, far more tired from just his walk to the mess than he wished to let on.
“I had actually hoped to ask you favour.” Michaels said with a sigh.
“Barely up and already in trouble?” Logan asked. The chastisement that might have been felt with the words, was somewhat hollow, however, due to the smile Logan could not but keep on his face.
“Quite the opposite of trouble, thank you. I have, in fact, been asked to work on a project of sorts for the QMG.” He said assigning a slightly mocking gravity to the letters. “However, I fear that while my wound is healing well, I am still not quite up to the task. So, I offered you as suitable, if of course far inferior substitute.” Logan again made a face. Michaels again smirked, although the effect was somewhat marred by his slight flinch of pain.
“And what is this project?”
The quartermaster-general and his staff were charged with the planning required in moving an army, from issuing order on movement of troops to organizing lodging. The Depot of Military Knowledge had also been established under its auspices only six years before, and could have been of great benefit to the army. Its stated purpose was to direct confidential correspondence and collect information that could prove useful in current and future campaigns. They had, however, proven less than satisfactory thus far.
“Nothing you would need be ashamed of. I may have only met your lovely intended once, but I already know enough to fear her if I ask of you something of that sort. Or something that got you killed.”
Now Logan smirked. Veronica had been trying to appear amiable during her only dinner with Michaels.
“So, something for the QMD that is safe and dull. Exactly what every soldier hopes for. Tell me the truth, you ran into that sabre on purpose, didn’t you, just to avoid this.”
Michaels snorted, then pulled a sealed letter from one of his pockets and held it out, just out of Logan’s reach.
“Careful. Or I might ask Wilson instead.” The thought prompted an instinctive flinch and mutual sound of disgust. “Just, take this,” Michaels said, thrusting the letter towards Logan,” Give it to Major Cox. He should be near headquarters. He’ll explain what’s needed.”
Logan eyed the letter a moment. But he knew his show of suspicion was hollow. He was not going to refuse Michaels. Not when his friend had come to him when he was still so clearly in pain. Not when this was, it seemed, something he viewed as important enough to justify getting up from his sick bed. And not now that Logan’s curiosity had been piqued.
“Very well.” Logan sighed, taking the paper “But if I end up reading correspondences and assigning billets for the rest of the war, I’ll make sure you only get the worst of the lot.”
****
He would not be assigning billets. That he was fairly sure of even before he had actually discovered someone who knew where Major Cox was to be found.
Cox himself was entering middle -age, with a figure just beginning to grow stout and a moustache that took a turn at his cheeks and bled into his sideburns. He exchanged the usual pleasantries, took Michaels letter, and, after examining the seal, gestured for Logan to sit down across from him.
After a few awkward minutes in which he read and Logan waited, Cox placed the letter down and examined Logan for a few moments before speaking.
“How well can you sketch, Lord Logan?” He asked. “Not people. Landscapes. Buildings. Charts. That sort of thing.”
“I would not say I was an artist.” Logan said, with more than a bit a confusion. “But I’m not worse than most either.” Cox seemed to contemplate this a moment than nodded and looked up again with a smile that seemed calculated to charm.
“I have actually been wishing to speak to you for some time Lord Logan. Your escape from France has gained you a degree of celebrity in certain circles.”
Logan tensed. Uncertain how to respond. He was familiar with notoriety, both from his own actions and even more so his father’s, but positive notice was decidedly new territory. He did not quite trust it.
“Thank you.” He replied, his words coming out with an unintentional hint of a question.
Cox leaned forward against his desk and widened his encouraging smile.
“Now, tell me. I’ve heard such stories about your escape from prison. Did you truly choose to go further into France once you were free, so that Napoleon’s men would not guess your route?”
“Mr. Galway was the one who created the scheme. I simply had the honour of accompanying him.” Logan told him. Cox raised his brown.
“But you did go further in the France?” Cox shook his head as if in disbelief. “And were you really able to pass as a Frenchman?”
Logan’s hands clench reflexively, as if in memory of each time their softness and awkwardness had nearly led to their discovery.
“Because I must tell you,” Cox continued “There is talk that you were able to play one so well, that the smugglers who got you across the channel, and were shocked when you jumped into the English ship along with the cargo rather than go back to France with them!”
“It was not quite so gallant or romantic as that.” Logan told him. He did, however, allow himself a bit of a smirk as he added, “And the smugglers learned who I was from their English contact long before we reached British shores, and charged me accordingly.”
This gained him a laugh.
“Wonderful.” Cox said in such a manner as to leave Logan not entirely clear what was wonderful. Just that he should probably be a mixture of proud and fearful because of it. Cox then continued.
“Michaels tells me you know Spanish as well.”
“Michaels is being generous.” Logan told him after a moment. Logan might be said to be over confident at times, but that was not the case. He was precisely as confident as he had the right to be. And this was not the place to give Cox a false impression of his ability. Not when the situation which would test such a claim might prove fatal. “I did have a wet-nurse and nursemaid that spoke the language but I was not the best of student it seems. When I tried to speak with some of the Spanish Officers during last year’s campaign, I believe the way it was described was that I spoke a slow, poorly accented mutt of Spanish, Italian and at least two other languages they could not name.”
This, however, simply prompted another laugh.
“If that is true you would still know the language better than all but a handful of our officers.” Cox told him with a smile. Cox nodded his head again, as if he had come to some decision, and stood up. He pulled a rolled sheet from one of the improvised shelves surrounding him. Turning back towards Logan he gestured the roll towards Logan as another gentleman would have a cane.
“When Sir Arthur – sorry.” Cox said, then corrected himself. “When Lord Wellington arrived in Portugal, the state of the maps the army had on hand was so bad, he had to ask his brother-in-law to purchase one with his own funds and send it to him. I’m sure you’ve wondered how the quartermaster-general was not able to supple the information needed to stop Soult’s escape at Ponte Nova.”
Logan nodded slowly and Cox shook his head.
“The truth is, we can’t seem to keep men worth having in our depot. No good soldier wants to be behind a desk when there’s a war at hand. What information we do have is often suspect or out of date. The papers get things right more than we do.” Cox let out a long breath. Then looked Logan directly in the eye with a ferocity that belayed his early amusement. “What I’m asking of you is to be a part of a remedy for all that.” Cox then laid out the sheet on the table acting as his desk, spreading it out to reveal a rather crude map.
“We aim to send men out to gather detailed information. About the terrain. About where the enemy is. About what the people in the area know that we and the French do not. “
“Isn’t that already the task of the light division?” Logan asked.
“This will be more thorough and long reaching. You would be gone for longer periods. Often alone or with only one of the guides.” He continued. “Your reports would be expected to be more detailed. With sketches, descriptions and precise calculations. So much so that they could be used to create a precise map of the area. And they would be delivering them directly to headquarters.” Cox paused a moment as if to allow this soak in.
Then he looked up again and flashed Logan a smirk.
“So, what do you say?”