by R A Dodson
One of the attacking men fell with a gurgle at the same instant d’Artagnan recognized the curl of the single feather on the lone swordsman’s hat. Aramis. D’Artagnan bit down on the urge to call out to him, not wanting to distract his friend while he was still outnumbered. The musketeer had a length of fabric wrapped around his left forearm—a cloak or a blanket, perhaps. He was using it as a rough shield to block the second man’s wild swipes while he engaged the first with his rapier. D’Artagnan started toward him, hoping that the fighters would pause long enough that he could call out and identify himself without putting his friend at risk. Otherwise, Aramis might assume that he was one of the enemy in the dark, because he was mounted.
Rosita danced sideways nervously as they approached the pile of dead and dying horseflesh on the ground, and d’Artagnan caught a glint of moonlight on metal from within the tangle of limbs and bodies. His breath caught in his chest as he made out a rider—his leg trapped under his fallen mount—steadying a pistol, aimed at Aramis. Without thought, d’Artagnan scrabbled for one of his own pistols, still hanging loaded at his belt. Steadying Rosita with reins and knees, he sighted along the barrel, exhaled through his nose, and pulled the trigger with a silent prayer.
Chapter 37
Blood sprayed from the would-be gunman’s torso, and he slumped against the dead horse pinning him. One of the two men engaged with Aramis swung around at the noise and Aramis’ blade flashed, catching him across the throat. The final man yelled, enraged, and lunged forward viciously. Aramis twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the blade, and attempted to trap the sword between his blanket-wrapped forearm and his torso. The pair wrestled for control, and d’Artagnan saw three riders approaching them from outside of Aramis’ field of view.
D’Artagnan quickly re-holstered his pistol and took up his sword again. Urging Rosita forward, he threw caution to the wind and shouted, “Aramis! Enemy riders behind you!”
Aramis jerked his head toward the noise, and then around to see the others approaching from behind, grappling for control of the blade all the while. Bringing his sword arm up to wrap around the back of his opponent’s neck, he surged in closer and kneed the other man in the groin. The soldier staggered back and Aramis stepped forward, his left hand reaching up toward d’Artagnan in the moonlight.
Understanding his intent instantly, d’Artagnan urged Rosita forward into a canter. Holding his breath in concentration, he dropped the reins two strides before he reached his friend and stretched his left arm out, feeling the solid slap of flesh on flesh as they grasped each other, hand to wrist. D’Artagnan braced hard against the stirrups, using momentum to help Aramis swing up behind him on the mare’s broad back. The other man overbalanced for a moment; then recovered, wrapping an arm around d’Artagnan’s waist.
“Thank you for that,” Aramis said, sounding as polite and urbane as if he hadn’t single-handedly just fought off three men and nearly been shot by a fourth.
“Don’t mention it,” d’Artagnan said, aware that his own voice was not nearly so steady.
“Company,” Aramis warned as the enemy riders approached. “You defend the left side; I’ve got the right.”
“I should’ve followed Athos’ example and practiced sparring left-handed,” d’Artagnan muttered as he twisted awkwardly in the saddle to slash at a rider crowding close to Rosita’s neck. Rosita squealed and plowed into the man’s horse with her uninjured shoulder, rocking it back onto its haunches.
“Probably,” Aramis agreed as the enemy rider slid sideways to the ground, landing awkwardly but managing to keep his feet. “Ah, well—live and learn. There’s always the next battle.” Busy trading blows with a second rider, d’Artagnan felt Aramis jerk and hiss in pain behind him as the third rider landed a hit on him, but the uninterrupted clang of metal on metal reassured him that it must not have been a serious wound.
“All right?” he asked anyway, as the arm that had been wrapped around his middle disappeared. He felt Aramis twist behind him, steadying his left arm against d’Artagnan’s shoulder blades, and winced at the noise and recoil as the other man fired his pistol from that awkward position. The second rider dropped like a brick.
“Never better,” Aramis said.
“You had a loaded pistol... all that time... and didn’t use it?” d’Artagnan asked between parries and ripostes with his own opponent.
“No,” Aramis said. D’Artagnan felt him twist again, reaching for something else at his belt, and a moment later a second shot felled the man d’Artagnan was fighting. “I had two loaded pistols. Thought I might have more need of them later on. It turns out I was right.”
The man who had been unhorsed earlier had retreated across the open space and was frantically attempting to reload his own pistol.
“D’Artagnan,” Aramis said in his ear.
“I see him,” d’Artagnan replied, and reined Rosita around. He spurred the mare toward the enemy soldier, his sword held at the ready. The man scrambled backward, trying to put more space between them even as he rammed the rod into his pistol’s barrel in a staccato motion, but d’Artagnan ran him down and pierced him through the breast as he raised the gun to aim.
The force of the blow from atop a moving horse jerked d’Artagnan hard to the right, but a strong hand gripped him by the collar and pulled him back upright before he could lose his seat entirely. He reined the mare in and looked around for the next attack, but it appeared the fighting had quieted, or at least moved elsewhere. Only the occasional gunshot could be heard, and seemed to come from a considerable distance away.
“We need to get to a vantage point,” Aramis said. “Find out what’s happening. With whom did you come here?”
“De Tréville,” d’Artagnan said. “We got separated in the fighting, but he was with some of d’Aumont’s troops. The others are still back at the estate, guarding the Queen.”
“It’ll be dawn soon,” Aramis said. “We should head back in the direction of the church and see what we can see.”
Indeed, the sky to the east was shading from black, through indigo, to violet and amethyst at the horizon. D’Artagnan looked around for a moment to get his bearings, and headed up the gentle slope toward the chapel. Before long they were joined by more of d’Aumont’s men, trudging back to their tents in various states of dishabille.
“The attackers that aren’t dead ran off, back toward Illiers-Combray,” said one of them, in response to Aramis’ query about the enemy troops. “We need supplies and help for our own wounded now.”
Aramis agreed to pass on the message, and they continued up the slope to the area behind the church where d’Artagnan had spoken to the blacksmith the evening before. The pair dismounted, and d’Artagnan gasped in surprise as his knees wavered and nearly failed to hold him up. When he raised a hand to brace himself against Rosita’s shoulder, it was shaking. He stared at it blankly in the predawn light.
“Are you hurt?” Aramis asked, peering at him closely.
“No,” d’Artagnan said, “but I feel very strange, suddenly.”
“One of the perils of soldiering, I’m afraid,” Aramis said sympathetically. “It’s merely post-battle nerves. Don’t worry—it will soon pass.”
Remembering himself, d’Artagnan forced himself to straighten. “You’re hurt, though; I felt you flinch. And your mare...”
“Rosita?” Aramis asked, turning immediately to the horse. “What happened?”
“A blade took her over the point of the right shoulder,” d’Artagnan said. “I don’t think it’s too bad, though.”
Aramis was already at the horse’s right side, angling her body to catch the weak morning light as he examined the cut. “It will leave a scar,” he said, “but you’re right; it doesn’t look terribly serious. And it’s not in a place that will interfere with her movement.” He patted the muscular neck fondly, and Rosita twisted around to nudge his hip with her nose.
“What about you, though?” d’Artagnan asked.
Arami
s reached across to pull his shirt out of his breeches and lifted it away from his right side. D’Artagnan could see the stain of blood marring the linen, but Aramis made a dismissive noise as he poked and prodded at the cut underneath with his free hand. “It’s of no import. I’ll wrap it later; no need for stitches.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” d’Artagnan said with relief. He turned his attention to the camp, spread out below them as the first rays of sun broke the horizon. Men were trying to corral the loose horses left behind when the surviving troops fled; others moved around the animals that had fallen, slitting the throats of any that still lived.
“I predict that we will all be dining on horse meat for the foreseeable future,” Aramis said. “Poor beasts.”
A compact, recognizably asymmetrical figure, leading a familiar black horse by the reins, wove his way through the milling men and animals, stopping here and there to speak with various people. D’Artagnan pointed. “Look... it’s de Tréville. He seems all right.”
“Pfft,” Aramis said, “of course he’s all right. De Tréville has seen more battles in his life than you’ve had hot dinners, d’Artagnan. You should go and check in with him, though. I’ll take Rosita back to M. Rougeux’s property and give Her Majesty a report. I’ll also see if I can wrangle some bandages and supplies from the villagers; caring for the wounded will be the next order of business. Are you feeling yourself again, I trust?”
D’Artagnan paused a moment to take stock. His shaking had subsided, though the lack of sleep he’d suffered over the past several days was making his body feel heavy and his mind slow, now that the rush of excitement and danger had faded. “I’m fine,” he said firmly. “I’ll see what I can do to help here at the camp, once I’ve spoken to the Captain.”
Aramis nodded and eased himself up into the saddle, mindful of the cut on his side. “The ugliest part of battle is not the fighting itself, but the aftermath,” he said. “With luck, this time it won’t be too bad.”
IT WAS BAD ENOUGH.
The cries and moaning of injured men grew into an all-pervasive background noise as d’Artagnan made his way back down through the camp. He forced himself not to look too closely at the bodies on the ground as he walked past them, or to be drawn in by the pleas for help before he had made his report to de Tréville and received his orders in return.
“I thought I told you not to let the enemy troops cut you off from your own forces,” was how de Tréville greeted him. The old soldier’s single eye raked over him, searching for injuries.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” d’Artagnan said. “It won’t happen again. I saw Aramis; he was outnumbered and fighting on foot, so I went to help him.”
It wasn’t a lie, exactly, and it sounded better—in d’Artagnan’s mind, at least—than saying that he had fallen behind during the charge and lost the rest of them in the dark.
“Hmm,” de Tréville said noncommittally. “Please tell me you didn’t manage to lose the man’s horse in the course of riding to his rescue.”
“No, sir, Aramis has her. He rode back to M. Rougeux’s property to report the outcome of the battle to the Queen. I stayed to make our report to you, and help in the camp however I can. Aramis said he would try to acquire medical supplies from the villagers.”
“Very well,” said de Tréville. “The camp followers are already beginning to attend to the dead and wounded. Arrange for those who are likely to survive to be taken to the church. Get as accurate a count of the casualties as you can. I must meet with d’Aumont and Patenaude—Tolbert was apparently injured in the attack, though I don’t know how badly. I will be in d’Aumont’s tent should you have need of me.”
“Yes, Captain,” d’Artagnan said.
The sun had risen completely by the time de Tréville took his leave. D’Artagnan looked around, trying to decide how best to approach his assigned duties. The morning light did no favors to the tableau that surrounded him, illuminating a scene perhaps better left to concealing darkness. In addition to the groans of pain and fear, punctuated by shouts and the occasional scream, the smell was rising like the morning mist—blood and piss and the contents of spilled guts. It should have been little different to d’Artagnan’s nose than the slaughtering of cattle and hogs he had known during his rural childhood—yet somehow, it was.
Indeed, some hardy and enterprising souls were already butchering the downed horses for meat, dragging haunches and shoulders off to be sliced and smoked for jerky. The camp had the aspect of a charnel house, for all that their side had won the battle. D’Artagnan clamped down firmly on his churning stomach, reminding himself that if he was not used to death by now—after all he had seen in his short life—then truly there was little hope for him.
Deciding to utilize the same strategy that he had used to survey the camp the previous day, he simply began walking. Aware that he needed some method of tallying the numbers of dead and injured, he stopped to pick up a piece of charred wood from an extinguished campfire. A scrap of leather roughly the length of his arm from wrist to elbow lay crumpled a few feet away, and he picked that up as well. He would make a charcoal mark along the top of the scrap for each person killed, one across the middle for each who was injured and not expected to survive, and one along the bottom for each man likely to recover from his wounds.
With this bare outline of a plan in place, he moved farther into the camp and began his grim task.
Chapter 38
D’Artagnan was roughly two-thirds of the way through his initial circuit of the camp when he came upon the beautiful young woman he’d seen washing clothes in the river the previous evening. She was cradling the upper body of a lad several years younger than d’Artagnan, holding a waterskin carefully to his lips, and glaring up at a grizzled soldier who stood in front of the pair, partly obscuring d’Artagnan’s view.
“Leave off, love,” said the soldier in a condescending tone of voice. “Don’t be wasting water on that one. He’s not long for this world with his guts hanging out of his belly like that. There’s others who might actually live that need you more.”
The wounded boy choked and turned his head away from the water; his cough dissolving into terrified sobs as he tried to look down at himself. The young woman quickly turned her attention to her charge, her angry expression softening into concern. “Hush now, don’t look,” she said. “Here, look at me instead. That’s right. You just concentrate on me now.”
D’Artagnan flinched, close enough now to see the awful wound that had gutted the youngster, his intestines spilling over his hands as he tried futilely to hold them in. The older man was right—the boy had no chance. Flies were already swarming around the mess, sensing death.
“Oh God, it hurts,” said the lad. “It’s like fire... please, I need more water. I need it!”
“I know,” said the woman soothingly, and raised the waterskin again for him to drink. She looked up at the gray-haired man, her eyes and voice turning hard. “If you won’t help, then at least leave him alone.”
D’Artagnan approached just as the soldier made a disgruntled noise. “God preserve us from foolish women,” he said, and reached down as if to bodily pull her away from her charge. “Come away, you silly—”
Without thought, d’Artagnan stepped in and blocked the man with an unyielding hand on his shoulder. “We have an entire river full of water,” he said. “Would you deny one of your comrades whatever comfort he can find after he fought at your side? The lady asked you to leave; I suggest you do so. I will take responsibility for this situation now.”
The man stared at him in surprise for a moment, then turned in disgust and stalked off, grumbling imprecations under his breath. The woman watched warily as he eased himself into a crouch next to the injured boy.
“I’m d’Artagnan,” he said, addressing the lad, and the woman’s expression relaxed, losing its watchful quality. “What’s your name?”
“P-Pascal,” the young man stammered.
“And yours, mademo
iselle?” d’Artagnan asked.
“Constance Bonacieux,” the woman said, “only it’s madame, not mademoiselle.”
“Forgive me,” he said, feeling a slight blush heat his face. He immediately returned his attention to the boy. “Pascal, is there anything else you need? Can I do anything for you?”
Pascal’s eyes were starting to glaze; not surprising given the amount of blood pooling around them. “I want my sister... I want Monique...”
“Is Monique here, at the camp?” d’Artagnan asked. Pascal didn’t seem to hear him, but Mme Bonacieux shook her head.
“He said earlier that he doesn’t have any family here with him,” she said quietly.
Pascal moved restlessly in her lap. “Monique... I’m scared,” he said, growing more agitated. “I don’t want to die! Please, God, please, save me...”
“Shh, shh,” Mme Bonacieux soothed, obviously upset by the boy’s fear and pain. “There, now...”
“Where is Papa?” Pascal cried. D’Artagnan peeled one of Pascal’s hands away from the sticky mess at his abdomen and squeezed it tightly in his own.
“Hold onto me, Pascal,” he said, at a loss as to how to help the dying boy. “Do you feel my hand?”
“Monique... Papa... I’m so scared... please don’t leave me alone!” Pascal said piteously.
“We won’t leave you, Pascal,” Mme Bonacieux said. “You’re not alone. I promise.”
Pascal turned an unseeing gaze toward her voice. “Monique—?” he asked, before his eyes rolled up in his head and his body began to jerk like a puppet on its strings. D’Artagnan and Mme Bonacieux did their best to hold him in place, and after several seconds he fell limp, life having finally fled his abused body.
Mme Bonacieux was pale but composed as she eased the fresh corpse off of her lap and helped d’Artagnan arrange his limbs into a more peaceful pose. A muddy cloak lay discarded nearby, and d’Artagnan draped it over Pascal’s upper body, covering him. Mme Bonacieux accepted d’Artagnan’s offer of a hand up, pulling herself to her feet. Her voice quavered only a little when she said, “That’s the fourth one this morning who has died in my arms.”