by A L Berridge
Don Francisco looked down at Dog with disgust, pointed his pistol and shot him. Dog gave one strangled yelp, then flopped on his side and lay still. Above him, M. Gauthier’s feet half revolved slowly one last time, then came to a final stop.
Stefan Ravel
We’d hanged them the previous night. Marcel fussed about giving them a proper trial, but that was hardly practical, Abbé, our only magistrate being loose in France on a bolting horse, so we just said fuck it, and strung the murdering bastards up on the spot. They were riddled with gunshot wounds anyway, I doubt they’d have kept till morning. No, we didn’t bother with a priest, why the hell should we? They hadn’t given Truyart one, let alone that poor baby. It was Magdeburg Justice, Abbé, and that’s all they deserved.
André didn’t seem concerned. He watched the Pedros dangling for a moment, then simply nodded and said ‘Good.’
I’d hoped for better. I’d hoped for a smile at least, but there didn’t seem to be one in him any more.
I said ‘You broke Fat Pedro’s nose for him, you know.’
He turned away. ‘Doesn’t seem like much now, does it?’
He set off walking back towards the Hermitage, his shoulders hunched and the tatters of that revolting shirt trailing off him like the rags of his little victory. I wondered just how funny that journey of his had really been. Alone in the dark, battered and bruised, no means of defending himself except the horse’s speed, while a faintly pungent smell suggested at least one thing he’d found difficult to do with his hands tied round a horse’s neck. What concerned me most was that he didn’t seem to care. All that bravado had shrivelled out of him as soon as he heard about Gauthier.
I said ‘We’d better get you cleaned up and some fresh clothes on you. There’ll be something in d’Estrada’s baggage.’
He shrugged miserably. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
I grabbed his shoulder and swung him round so fast he nearly fell over.
‘Don’t you give me that, don’t you fucking dare. You did a man’s job yesterday, you took it for all of us, then stuck it to them in front of the whole village by jumping the Wall. Now you’re back, and all right, it’s not what you expected, the dons have been busy and a friend of yours is dead, but look at me and tell me you’re going to just let it go. Look me in the eye and tell me you’re giving up’.
He wrenched himself out of my grip. ‘Get your hands off me.’
‘All right,’ I said, raising my hands in surrender. ‘Whatever. But you can at least get yourself washed, can’t you? I can smell you from here.’
He glared at me a moment, then a shadow of his old grin flickered over his face. ‘You really are a bastard, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But call me one again and I’ll chuck you in that stream myself.’
‘You could try,’ he said, and smiled.
Jacques Gilbert
I don’t really remember walking back to the Hermitage, I just remember arriving. I remember bursting through the door, and seeing André all clean and dressed in new clothes, and coming towards me saying ‘What is it? Are you hurt?’ I’ve planned it all out how to break it to him gently, but suddenly it’s not like that and I can’t speak at all.
Then his arms are round me and he’s sitting me down, and I manage to say ‘M. Gauthier,’ and he looks sad and says ‘I know,’ and I say ‘You don’t, you don’t know,’ and then it all comes pouring out, the gibbet and the dog howling and Don Francisco and the green flies round M. Gauthier’s head, I tell him about Mme Laroque sobbing, and the creaking of the ropes as they haul Pierre’s body up on the gibbet till he’s right off the ground and there’s nothing left on the stones but a little pool of blood from his body, and then a great, disgusting, swollen fly goes and lands on that too.
‘Drink this,’ said Stefan. He shoved his flask against my teeth, and it was brandy, good and fiery, and some of the sickness went away. After a moment my head cleared and I started to take things in properly. There was d’Estrada’s baggage strewn over the straw, stupid, irrelevant things like soap and handkerchiefs and a picture of a Spanish girl looking soulful. There was a dark shape in the corner that was Bernard waiting for sentry duty, and he was staring at me with open mouth and wide, dim eyes.
I said feebly ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No,’ said André. ‘But they will be.’
He gave my shoulders a little squeeze, then took his arm away and stood up. Stefan took back his flask and had a drink himself. He was watching the boy.
Marcel said doubtfully ‘The Spaniards are Catholics too. Surely they’ll …’
‘You think?’ said Stefan. ‘They wouldn’t take the bodies down for the priest.’
André was fastening his baldric over his new shirt. ‘Then we’ll do it ourselves.’
There was a little silence, broken only by a chuckle from Stefan.
‘But can we?’ said Marcel. ‘Is the gibbet guarded?’
I said Don Francisco had only left three guards there, but it was right in front of the Gate, where there were always loads of them, six on the ground and two on the firing step.
‘Ten, eleven, it’s not so many,’ said André. He started pacing backwards and forwards with his arms folded and his head down. ‘Is it in sight of the barracks?’
I thought of the long, downhill slope to the Gate. ‘No. But they could see it from the bottom end of the Square if they went down there.’
André nodded. ‘Suppose we organized a demonstration of some kind, suppose we put a crowd in the way? They’d never see anything then.’
‘They’d hear it,’ said Stefan. ‘They’re not fucking deaf.’
The boy flushed. ‘If we do it without guns. If we use the archers, or get close enough to use blades.’
Stefan sighed. ‘This isn’t an ambush in the forest, you’re talking about the middle of Dax. One shout, one shot, and there’s three, four hundred dons round our necks.’
The boy shook his head in irritation and went back to his pacing. Marcel watched him, and started biting his nails.
I said ‘Can’t we distract them?’
Stefan looked at me. ‘Four hundred? How exactly?’
There was a kind of rumbling from the corner by the door, and I realized Bernard was actually saying something. He said ‘We could blow up the barracks.’
Stefan snorted. ‘Thanks for that, Rouet. Apart from the fact we haven’t enough powder to breach those walls and the dons are rather likely to spot us setting a mine right next to them, that’s really helpful.’
Bernard went scarlet, lowered his head again and cracked his knuckles. I began to see why he didn’t speak much when Stefan was around.
André paused, thought a moment, then walked on. ‘Bernard’s right. That would do it, it’s the only thing that would. Bernard’s right.’
Bernard’s head came cautiously up again, like he suspected a trap.
‘If we didn’t have to breach the walls,’ said André, ‘if we could actually set the mine inside, we’ve enough powder for a good bang, haven’t we?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Stefan calmly. ‘We’ve enough for that. What do you propose, my little general? You want Rousseau to smuggle it in under his apron?’
André had stopped again. He bent down suddenly, and picked up the rags of his old shirt. It was ripped down the back, it was filthy and worn, no good for anything except maybe cleaning the guns, but he looked at it like it was suddenly precious.
‘Maybe there’s another way,’ he said.
Carlos Corvacho
We weren’t having the best of days, Señor, no. The Colonel Don Francisco, he was what you might call a difficult man. A fine soldier, there’s no denying it, wonderful reputation, but just a little … difficult.
Oh yes, he was sympathetic to my Capitán’s position, especially as he wasn’t happy to be exiled here himself. A little question of embezzlement in his case, or so I understood, but the end result was the same: no command in the army this year, and only th
e prospect of a long stay in what he called this pit of lost souls. He used to write poetry, Señor, did you know? A very refined gentleman, our Colonel. I helped his servant unpack his wagon, and there were wonderful ornaments in it, wonderful, he had a real fancy for anything in miniature. He even had toy soldiers, can you believe? Beautifully painted and all quite lifelike, they were really.
Oh no, he wasn’t soft, I wouldn’t want you to think that. We’d hoped he’d stay in the grand house we’d reserved for him, but he insisted on moving into the barracks itself. Quite commendable in its way, Señor, but not really convenient, with my gentleman forced to give up his quarters and move out to this chilly great lumber room, and me taking the whole day to make it nice for him. I did my best, Señor, I put up his tapestry with the hunting scenes and found some nice red poppies for his desk, because he did like flowers about the place, he said it made things cheerful. I showed him in the afternoon, and he put his hand on my shoulder and said ‘You’re a good fellow, Carlos. Take the evening off for a change, have some time for yourself.’ That was just like him, Señor, there never was a more considerate gentleman. I said ‘But what about your supper, you’ll be wanting something brought in,’ but he only shrugged and said he had no appetite.
I knew what that was about, it was that business with the gibbet. All morning he’s been at the Colonel to reconsider, he says it’s enough to drive the local people to rebellion, but the Colonel only laughs and says he thinks not. ‘These are peasants, man,’ he says. ‘Without de Roland they’re just sheep.’
My Capitán’s not so sure. They were singing this new song in the alehouse last night, all about a bird being chased by soldiers, I expect you know it, don’t you, Señor? Well, I don’t know I’d care to repeat it, but the burden seems to be it defecating on the heads of the soldiers and escaping by flying over a wall. Seems a lot of nonsense to me, but my Capitán thinks it’s important. The way he sees it, the Chevalier may have gone, but his reputation’s all the higher for it, and that’s dangerous with superstitious country folk. My gentleman’s really quite fretting over it, he’s pacing up and down so much he’s making me dizzy.
I say ‘If they do make a little demonstration, what does it matter? Ask yourself, Señor, what can they actually do?’
My Capitán stops pacing so suddenly he’s got a leg stuck in mid-air. Then he puts it down and turns round to me, and bless me if he isn’t smiling.
He says ‘You’re quite right, Carlos, of course you are. Now tell me, what would I do in their place?’
That’s easy, Señor, I’ve known him long enough for that. I say ‘You’d try to take the bodies down.’
He laughs. ‘Of course I would. And so will they.’
Jacques Gilbert
We dug the graves at Ancre, in the burial ground for family retainers. The graveyard looked pretty in the evening sun, shaded by the beech trees but with that sea of forget-me-nots crowding all over it in a great froth of blue and white. I thought M. Gauthier would like it there. Georges even dug a little hole on the edge for the dog. I was glad he and Dom were with me, they’d been fond of M. Gauthier too. I remember our walking back to the Hermitage together, our spades over our shoulders. ‘Still shovelling, little Brother,’ said Dom peacefully. ‘Still shovelling.’
As we approached the clearing I heard that grinding whirr getting higher and higher like a wasp getting closer, and knew the whetstone in the weapons outhouse was hard at work. Robert was walking purposefully towards the Hermitage with a great armful of bandoliers, while Jean-Marie sat cross-legged against the wall, stitching red Burgundy crosses on to a pile of dark coats to add to our stock of Spanish soldiers’ dress. We’d collected a fair amount of Dax Company black and red by taking it off soldiers’ bodies, but we were going to need more than that tonight.
The Hermitage itself was packed with men. I could hear them from outside, great loud voices and bursts of raucous laughter. There was something oddly intimidating about it, but this was my home now, so I climbed the steps and pushed open the door.
The place stank of sweat. There seemed to be naked torsos everywhere, as a whole bunch of men changed their clothes for Spanish dress. The first I saw was Bruno Baudet from the mill, and that was revolting, because he was the hairiest man in Dax, he didn’t even look human. I walked past quickly, but now Giles was in my way, stripped to the waist, and swinging a Dax Company coat over his shoulder so violently it slapped me in the face. He turned and said ‘Sorry, soldier,’ and grinned at me with the kind of wildness you get on your second bottle of wine. The others seemed in the same kind of mood. Even Marcel wasn’t his usual calm self. He was already dressed in his Spanish gear, and the black looked wonderful against his fair hair, it made him seem taller, stronger, more like a leader. He was giving instructions to Clement Ansel, who was in charge of the assault on the Gate Guards, he was speaking fast and decisively, his hand jerking his sword in and out his scabbard, swish-click, in and out, all the time he talked. Clement was a bit full of himself usually, but today he was listening attentively, he even started nodding. Behind them old Jacob started to slather black grease on Marcel’s back hair, so the blond wouldn’t show under the helmet.
Stefan was there too, but he didn’t seem bothered with his own Spanish dress, he hadn’t even buttoned the coat, it was just draped round his hairy chest like he was showing himself off. He was briefing the gibbet team, you’d have guessed that from the size of them, there was Colin and Bettremieu and Philippe and Vincent Poulain, there was Roger from the Pagnié farm, Jehan from the Thibault, and that git Pinhead from Verdâme. They were all big men, but somehow Stefan dominated the lot of them, he was the only man I ever knew who could swagger while standing still.
Watching them, listening to them, I suddenly understood what made it all intimidating. The building wasn’t just full of men, it was full of soldiers. These weren’t the farmhands and craftsmen I knew any more, they were soldiers and this was a bloody army. This was what we’d always wanted when we first started the whole thing, only somehow it never had been, it had always in the end been just us. Something had changed, something I didn’t understand.
Then I stepped on to the platform, and saw André. He was sat by himself in the far corner, studying Arnould Rousseau’s plan of the barracks. He didn’t seem troubled by anything, and when there was an especially loud burst of laughter he only glanced up and smiled gently, like this was normal, this was what he’d wanted. When he lifted his head to reach for his pencil, I saw how calm his face was, and how it had a distant kind of glow. He was humming under his breath, and the tune was ‘En passant par la Lorraine’.
Thirteen
Jacques Gilbert
We gathered behind the mill shortly before nine. André brushed down my coat, straightened my helmet, then held out his hands. I tied them together in front of him, then suddenly he was a prisoner again, standing in the rags of his torn shirt and surrounded by a crowd of enemy soldiers.
The two half-Spaniards stood apart from the rest of us because of not really knowing anyone. Giulio wasn’t actually in the army at all, he just translated dispatches from time to time. He was nearly fifty and rather timid with a club foot, but we’d dressed him up in a cabo’s gear, and he looked really imposing, with a red sash and little rosettes at the top of his stockings. The younger one I didn’t know at all, he was a friend of Giulio’s from Verdâme and I think his name was Cristoval. He had a pointed black beard, and looked so Spanish I could hardly believe he was really on our side.
The Dax clock struck nine. Marcel nodded, and Giulio began to lead us round the mill and on to the Backs. That’s that big cobbled area that runs behind the west side of the Square all the way to the Thibault farm, and it was a space I’d known all my life. It was the back way to Colin’s, and we used to play here, him and me and Robert, we played boules and saute-mouton, we played soldiers. Now it was a stretch of grey stone to be crossed, with the rear entrance to the barracks right in front of us. They’d ext
ended the back and stuck up a big iron gate, and there were four guards outside it who brought up their muskets as soon as they saw us.
Giulio was brilliant. His head went up, his shoulders straightened, and he walked towards the guards like they were the ones ought to be scared. The rest of us followed in a huddle.
‘No entry this way,’ said the senior guard. My Spanish wasn’t good back then, but it helps a lot when you’ve already got an idea what people are going to say.
Giulio managed a laugh. ‘I’m not risking this one in the Square.’ He gestured behind him, and that was us, that was me jerking the rope to show the boy on the end like a horse on a halter.
The soldiers gaped, then burst out laughing as they recognized the boy. They all started jabbering, probably congratulating Giulio on his catch, I didn’t really know, what mattered was their muskets were down, they were standing back for us, they weren’t even asking for the password, because André was the only password we were going to need.
Bruno’s men went forward first, they were right next to the soldiers, close enough to touch, then I glimpsed one flash of a knifeblade as Bruno’s fist thrust forward, old Jacob slapped his hand round another’s mouth as he stabbed hard into his neck, and the other two I didn’t see at all, there were too many men between them and us. I heard it though, that hard squelch of a knife going in, like a punch into a damp mattress.
The bodies were dragged into cover behind the mill, and Bruno’s team took their place. They looked all right if a soldier wanted to go in that way, and Bruno spoke enough Spanish to get by. It was hard to believe looking at him, all you’d expect to come out of that hairy mouth was a grunt, but he was actually the best in the army.