I can't believe we're nearly at the end of this tale already - this is the penultimate chapter with an epilogue to round things off. But I have started planning and writing part 2, and humbly hope some of you might be interested in reading it when it's ready. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this one, including the guests I can't reply to directly - I've enjoyed reading your thoughts, especially Debbie's Kodak moment!
I used to be wary of posting reviews, thinking I didn't have anything original to say, but then I realised writers had laboured long over their stories and the least I could do would be to write a couple of words about anything I liked, as a way of saying thank you for entertaining me for a few minutes. So to all of you who read but are nervous about reviewing, please don't be! You don't know how much it encourages writers if you manage to post a few words if you've enjoyed a story, not just to me but to any other writer on here. It's not that we're craving praise (although that is lovely!) but feedback of any kind, just to know people are reading, can really encourage a new writer. Or an old one too, no doubt, although I wouldn't know about that, yet!
Meanwhile, back to the boys to see how they're faring now they're safely back in camp.
Chapter 11 Just remember that you're still alive
Musketeer camp at Saltèguet, mid morning
"Captain? Captain! Where is that bloody man!"
The voice was intrusive, insistent, and far too loud.
"Where is everyone? Friban, get off your bloody horse and find someone. This is intolerable! Bloody place is deserted... Athos! ATHOS!"
d'Artagnan groaned as the strident voice cut through his muddled dreams. A sense of urgency nagged at him. He knew that voice, and it demanded attention. Struggling to rouse himself he started to sit, but stopped immediately as the movement jangled all his battered nerves and cut through the last lethargic blanket of sleep, leaving him gasping in pain, and wide awake but confused. He tried to remember where he was. What was the last thing he remembered? Athos!
His eyes flew open and he winced as brash daylight hammered into his skull. His whole body felt raw and somehow disconnected, a collection of raw nerves held together, precariously, by overstrained muscles and leaden limbs.
The voice was still yelling orders and he sighed, then hauled himself upright and dropped his feet to the ground, succeeding in reaching a more-or-less upright position just as the tent flap was flung noisily aside and the angry voice of General Marche filled the tent.
"Where the bloody hell is your Captain?"
d'Artagnan lifted an unsteady hand to shield his eyes from the light that had followed the General into the tent, and cleared his throat.
"General." His greeting was followed by a bout of coughing that stopped the General in his tracks, an expression of distaste marring his fleshy features as he stared suspiciously at d'Artagnan. With relief, d'Artagnan saw a cup of water next to his cot and grabbed it, spilling half but managing a couple of gulps that soothed his throat enough to speak again. "Sorry, General. Captain Athos is... there." He pointed at the cot next to his, where Athos was lying unnervingly still, his features pale and drawn, the only colour coming from the bruise blossoming under his eye and a thin line of dried blood on his chin where a blade had nicked him.
The General took a step forward before realising Athos was not about to leap up to give a report. There was a momentary pause which d'Artagnan used to look around the tent. Porthos was sleeping soundly just beyond Athos, mouth slightly open, snoring softly. The other cots were all occupied now, and with a jolt he recognised that the figure nearest the entrance was none-other than Lieutenant Jumot. He couldn't tell where or how badly the lieutenant was injured. He also realised there was no one else awake in the tent. Where were Etienne and Julien? Starting to worry, he found the General was speaking again, demanding to know where the other Musketeer officers were.
Wordlessly, d'Artagnan indicated Porthos and Jumot.
"That's preposterous! How can they all be injured... who is in charge here, then?"
Good question, thought d'Artagnan grimly. Carefully, suppressing a small sigh, he shifted the hip that had been propped on his bed and stood up fully, trying not to cry out as his sore ankle took his weight. Clearly his nap hadn't done it much good. How long had he been asleep?
Checking himself out quickly, he realised he was wearing only braes, although the rest of him was mostly covered by a variety of bandages which swept upwards from his waist and around his chest, with more wrapped around his right forearm and ankle, and left wrist. It was with no small sense of surprise that he realised he had slept through everything – wound cleaning, stitching, and bandaging – with, as far as he knew, no pain relief. Clearly sleep deprivation (and perhaps the exhaustion of running however-many-leagues) was vastly under-rated as a method of pain distraction.
Looking up he saw the General was glaring at him, obviously still waiting for an answer.
"Sorry, Sir. I suppose technically that would be Lieutenant Etienne, our medic, but I'm not sure where he..."
d'Artagnan broke off as someone else pushed through the tent flap then stopped dead at the sight of the General pacing around in the centre of the tent, peering at bed-occupants and tutting to himself. With relief, d'Artagnan saw the newcomer was Julien.
"Where is Etienne?" the General demanded of him immediately.
"He's across the river, checking the Spanish wounded, Sir." Julien hesitated then took a visible deep breath and edged politely around the General towards Athos, lifting the sheet covering his chest so he could check the bandage over the wound, and checking his pulse at the same time.
"Right, well I need someone to take me there right away. This is outrageous! That bloody man sends for me in the middle of the night, demands I attend an urgent meeting about Spanish forces gathering at the bridge, then when I get here everyone has bloody well pissed off or ... What Spanish wounded?" he added, belatedly. "You! Do you know what happened?"
d'Artagnan had been distracted by an odd sound coming from Porthos, but found the General pointing imperiously at him and yanked his attention back. Eyeing Porthos' apparently sleeping form suspiciously – the noise had sounded more like a snort than a snore – he gathered his frayed wits and confessed that yes, he did know a bit about recent events.
"Well what are you waiting for then? I haven't got all day, you know!" the General barked, stomping out of the tent again.
d'Artagnan decided there was no point in protesting. Ignoring Julien's objection that d'Artagnan shouldn't be up, let alone walking around, he weaved his way cautiously across the tent, hanging on to cots, tent poles and anything else he could use to stop himself falling flat on his face. He really didn't feel at all steady on his feet.
At the flap he glanced back, wondering again about the odd noise from Porthos. The big man was now snoring quite loudly and d'Artagnan hesitated, eyes narrowing speculatively. Then another shout from the General wiped all other thoughts from his mind and he sighed again. He didn't seem to have a choice.
Outside he saw the General being legged up on to his horse, and his entourage of around ten soldiers mounting hastily. Behind him d'Artagnan spotted Fouchard walking a pair of horses back to the horse lines, and signalled to him to bring one over.
Fouchard looked unsure as he manoeuvred a stallion into place where d'Artagnan stood, hanging on to the door pole of the medic tent for support.
d'Artagnan ignored Fouchard's sideways look and lifted his leg, wincing as the movement pulled on the stitches in the wound on his flank, waiting for the young soldier to give him a leg up.
"d'Artagnan!" Fouchard hissed, urgently. "You shouldn't be riding, or walking for that matter! Etienne will..."
"Is he still across the river?" interrupted d'Artagnan, stifling a hiss of pain as Fouchard, in spite of clear misgivings, hoisted d'Artagnan into the saddle.
"I... yes, he's supervising the loading of the prisoners."
D'Artagnan was too busy gritting his teeth and trying in vain to find a comfortable position in the saddle to respond straight away, but when the General barked the order to move out he grabbed Fouchard's shoulder. "Come with me?" he implored. At least that way if he fell off, there would be someone to pick him up, he thought morosely.
The youngster sighed and mounted the other horse reluctantly as the General and his men wheeled, waiting for d'Artagnan to lead the way.
They moved slowly up the track out of the camp, d'Artagnan deliberately setting a slow pace. He felt distinctly queasy and was pretty sure he would fall off at anything faster than a walk. He squinted at the pathway ahead, the air shimmering in the rising heat of the mid-morning sun, trying to ignore the urgent signals his body was sending him to stop and lie down.
The general rode up alongside him and demanded to know what had been going on.
Hoping he wouldn't throw up as soon as he opened his mouth, d'Artagnan took a shallow breath – anything else would hurt too much – and tried to marshal his thoughts. He knew Athos' message to the General last night had mentioned Porthos and the rescue mission, as well as d'Artagnan's observation of the growing Spanish encampment, so he skipped that part and explained that they'd found Porthos without incident and arrived back at the Spanish side of the river at dawn; that Athos had gone to scout the camp and that he'd been caught between two patrols. He, d'Artagnan, had sent Porthos ahead on the safe route and turned back to help his Captain, but for a reason he didn't yet understand, Porthos had ended up galloping across the camp. This had roused the Spanish but also distracted them, allowing the Musketeers keeping watch on this side of the river the opportunity to get across the bridge, which in turn had kept him and the Captain alive. Athos had been shot and d'Artagnan had brought him back across the river, but after that he didn't know exactly what had happened, other than what Jumot had told him about the Spaniards being in disarray.
Faintly surprised he'd been able to summarise that chaotic hour into so few words, d'Artagnan drew rein at the top of the rise so they could look down on the bridge and the remains of the encampment beyond. The sound of horses whinnying, voices shouting instructions, and equipment being shifted reached their ears languidly above the dust and heat haze hovering over the ruins of the camp. D'Artagnan spotted Etienne supervising the sorting of the Spanish prisoners and pointed him out to the General. The seriously wounded were being loaded into a wagon whilst the rest, hands tied behind their backs, were being placed into sullen rows under close guard. Elsewhere Musketeers were loading weapons and stores onto another couple of wagons, whilst others were carrying the bodies of dead Spaniards to a spot by the river bank where a number of bodies were already laid out.
They watched in silence for a few minutes. The General seemed to have run out of steam, or perhaps he was silenced by the size of the camp and the number of Spaniards. d'Artagnan tried to count them and gave up after sixty. He couldn't believe that fewer than 30 active Musketeers had managed to break across the well-guarded bridge and overwhelm the enemy with so few casualties on their part.
The General cleared his throat and asked where d'Artagnan and Athos had been fighting. d'Artagnan pointed it out, as well as the crossing place below the bridge, and the field cannon, explaining briefly about dampening the gunpowder and stealing the box of fuses during the night. By that time the wagon of injured Spanish was being man-handled across the bridge, and Etienne was stomping ahead of it up to where the General and his men stood watching.
Predictably, his first words were not for the General – in fact he ignored him completely. Instead he came to a halt in front of d'Artagnan, glaring at him. "What the devil do you think you are doing? You are in no condition to be roaring around the countryside on horseback, you idiotic, addle-witted Gascon!"
d'Artagnan resisted the impulse to point out that he hadn't been roaring anywhere, and instead flicked his eyes across to the General, hoping Etienne would realise that he hadn't had much say in the matter. It worked.
"And you? You should know better than to drag this man out of his sick bed. Why didn't you wait for me to get back? Bloody Generals, think the whole world revolves around them... Well now you're here you can make yourself useful. Take that wagon back to your camp with you. I don't have space for them here and they need treatment. You can do what you like with the rest of 'em once they've buried their dead." With that he stomped off towards the Musketeer camp, yelling at d'Artagnan to follow him. "If you've burst any stitches you'll bloody well be doing them yourself this time. I've got better things to do than chase around after hot-heads who think they're invincible..."
D'Artagnan tried to see the General's expression without catching his eye. Looking stunned, the General was staring after Etienne with his mouth slightly open and a deep red flush spreading up his cheeks. Clearly he wasn't used to being spoken to in such a fashion.
Hastily d'Artagnan nudged his mount into a turn, sensing an impending explosion. "Would you like to see anything more, Sir?" he asked politely, noticing Fouchard quickly turning his own mount to keep d'Artagnan between him and the General.
Fortunately at that moment the wagon of wounded reached them and they had to move aside to make way. One of the musketeers accompanying them stopped and asked d'Artagnan if a decision had been made about where to take them. d'Artagnan told him tentatively that they were going back to the main army camp with the General's men, half expecting the General to shout him down, but it seemed words had thoroughly deserted him.
Fouchard nudged closer to d'Artagnan. "You should go back. You're bleeding." He indicated d'Artagnan's hip where blood was starting to seep through his bandages, staining his braes.
d'Artagnan was also aware that his head was reeling and he was desperate for water. "Sir?" he prompted.
The General had finally recovered, and was giving instructions to his second-in-command to escort the Spanish wounded back to the main army camp. Now he turned his attention back to the two young Musketeers.
"I've seen enough. Tell Athos I will see him as soon as he is fit enough to give me a full report." He turned his horse, muttering under his breath about "bloody Musketeers who ask for help then don't bother to wait, dragging me over here for nothing..."
D'Artagnan kept his expression bland as he waited for them to leave, desperate only to return to the prone position which his body craved. However, thinking about his desperate need for sleep made him realise that most of the Musketeer camp would be in the same state as he was, almost everyone having been up all night and involved in the explosive action of the morning. Without giving himself time to chicken out, he called out as the General and his men started after the wagon of wounded prisoners.
"Sir, one moment if you will."
The General raised a hand to halt his men, and turned his horse back to the Musketeers, looking even grumpier than before, if that were possible. "What is it now?" he demanded, as if d'Artagnan had been plaguing him with questions and detaining him for hours already.
"I was wondering... " d'Artagnan trailed off as the General's scowl turned impatient. He didn't know how to phrase this. Putting suggestions to Athos was a breeze compared to this. Oh, just spit it out, he told himself firmly. "We need support from your men, Sir."
Fouchard shot him a startled look as the General frowned. D'Artagnan hurried on. "You've seen that most of our officers are ... recovering from wounds, Sir. And all of our men will need some rest after their efforts this morning. If you could spare some additional men to help us today, we would recover more quickly ..."
Unexpectedly Fouchard joined in at this point, voice trembling at his own temerity in addressing a General. "We also need help to move the unwounded prisoners, Sir... General ...Sir," he vacillated. "Will they be taken to your camp too, Sir?"
Behind the General he noticed several men, all officers more senior than either of the two of them, looking askance at the impudence of the youthful Musketeers in addressing let alone questioning the leader of their joint forces, and his Lieutenant kicked his horse forward as if to challenge them for their lack of propriety. But the General held up a hand to forestall him, eyeing d'Artagnan speculatively. "I see you have balls as well as guts. Very well. I'll leave you half my men, and send more to retrieve the rest of the prisoners. Use them as you wish." And with that he wheeled his horse and set off, waving his men to follow.
The two young Musketeers watched them go in a relieved silence. Then Fouchard nudged his mount forward, looking to make sure d'Artagnan followed. "Was that a compliment?" he asked, in a disbelieving tone.
"What?" d'Artagnan grunted, thinking only of the soft bed awaiting him in the blessed coolness of the medic tent.
"That bit about balls and guts."
d'Artagnan thought back, with an effort, then shrugged. His body was screaming at him to get off the horse and he honestly couldn't care less what the General thought of him, so long as Athos, Porthos and everyone else were safe.
Back at the tent, Fouchard pulled the flap aside for d'Artagnan to enter, but the Gascon suddenly caught Fouchard by the elbow. "Nuit – did you see to her?" he asked urgently. His battered face was creased in self-reproach for not asking after his beloved mare sooner.
"I've cleaned the wound and covered it from the flies, but it hasn't been stitched yet," Fouchard answered, slightly apologetically. "I was waiting for someone ... " He was going to say braver, but changed it to "... more experienced than I to do it."
d'Artagnan's gaze shot over towards the horse lines and he turned as if to head straight over, but Fouchard grabbed his shoulder.
"No, you must get your wound seen to again. Etienne will kill you if he finds you at the horse lines... and me!" he added, wincing at the thought of all the yelling that would follow.
"But the flies – if the wound is not closed properly it will fester. I'll be quick..." He pulled away and started off, chin lifted in determination, ignoring Fouchard's despairing chuff.
"d'Artagnan, wait! You'll need needle and thread. Let me get it at least."
At d'Artagnan's reluctant nod Fouchard disappeared inside the tent and left the Gascon looking vaguely around for something to lean on while he waited.
A moment later he found himself taken by both elbows and turned firmly around before being frog-marched, gently but relentlessly, into the medic tent by Etienne and Julien. Fouchard hovered to the side, whispering an apologetic "sorry" as they passed him. d'Artagnan tried to glare at him but found he didn't have the energy. He did raise a rather pathetic protest of "I have to see to my horse," as they steered him back to his cot, which both medics ignored in favour of stripping him of his braes again and tutting over the state of the bandage covering the long sword wound curling around his ribs and down his flank.
"Pulled three," commented Julien.
"Idiotic dunderhead." Etienne reached for tweezers to pull out the remnants of his careful stitches.
"I didn't seem to have much choice," explained d'Artagnan, tiredly. He stopped watching what the medics were doing and looked around to check on the others.
To his surprise, every single one of the injured Musketeers was awake – even Athos. At first he was relieved to see his Captain eyeing him through half-lidded eyes, but then his previous passing suspicion returned with full force as he realised the depth of duplicity to which he'd been victim.
"You were awake all the time!" he said accusingly, having no trouble finding the energy to glare. His reproachful gaze fell on Porthos, who was sitting up in bed holding the remains of a bowl of stew and looking for all the world as if he'd been awake for hours. "You snorted," d'Artagnan added, sounding less cross now as Porthos' beaming smile infected his own bad humour.
"Sorry, my friend."
"You could have warned me! Were you all in on it?"
"You were asleep! We heard him coming and looked at each other... we didn't plan it, just all had the same idea to lie low. Athos was still out of it, to be fair, and we thought you were too ... It's no-one's fault but your own, if you're stupid enough to answer him!"
"Stupid, am I now?" d'Artagnan couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or amused at the way he'd obediently fallen into the role of General's guide whilst all the rest feigned sleep.
Before anyone could answer, the tent flap was pushed aside and a sub-lieutenant from General Marche's escort poked his head inside tentatively. "Looking for d'Artagnan?" he enquired.
All heads swivelled curiously towards the young Gascon, who answered "here" with a slightly bemused expression.
"The General said to report to you. Where do you want us?"
d'Artagnan was uncomfortably aware of the surprise in his comrades' gazes at the thought of army troops reporting to d'Artagnan rather than to any of the Musketeer officers in the tent, but he didn't have the energy to explain how this turn of events had come about. Besides which, Etienne was just placing the first replacement stitch in his side and he needed to concentrate on not being sick.
"Er... how many ..." He had to pause to stifle a hiss of pain, then hurried on, swallowing: "How many men do you have?"
"Five, and we're sending for more to escort the rest of the prisoners to our headquarters. Do you need help in here?"
Etienne paused in his ministrations and glanced up speculatively. "If you have someone with medical training, I'd appreciate it." Julien looked at him, slightly surprised, but Etienne said quietly: "then you will be free to tend to d'Artagnan's mount, since he frets so much about it." He ignored d'Artagnan's grateful look and went back to his stitching.
The army lieutenant called to one of his men then turned back to d'Artagnan, who'd gathered his wits by now.
"If our men are still clearing up across the river ...?" At the officer's nod, he carried on: "In that case, perhaps you could check their progress and help where necessary? All our officers are in here, either wounded or caring for the wounded. And once our men are back in camp they will need to wash, eat and rest so if some of your men could help prepare water and food, we'd appreciate it." d'Artagnan's tone was respectful – he couldn't issue orders to a higher-ranking soldier, only offer suggestions – but he hoped he'd managed to sound professional rather than pathetically grateful.
The lieutenant looked sharply around the tent at the news that all their officers were here, but nodded his agreement as d'Artagnan finished, and went back out, holding the flap open for his medic who entered at the same time. Etienne set him to checking on the other men, watching him closely until he could be sure of the man's skill, while Julien gathered strong thread and the largest needle, then disappeared with Fouchard to tend to Nuit.
With a relieved sigh, d'Artagnan relaxed back onto the cot and let Etienne mutter away over his stitching. Outside he could hear the sound of Musketeers returning to camp and orders shouted by the army officer to his men to fetch water and stoke the fires. Julien would do a better job on Nuit than he ever could. Inside the tent, all wounds were dressed; Athos was conscious, if not talking; Porthos was eating; and Etienne was grumpy: all was right with the world.