Greetings; many thanks to the regulars and guests for your lovely comments. I haven't got back to people individually as yet but will do so as soon as I can.
CHAPTER 29
Three days – that was how long they had in the end before the English appeared outside the Citadel of Saint-Martin-de-Ré.
In that time, all that was necessary within the fortification had been completed as far as possible. Toiras, Tréville and Bernier – sometimes in the company of other officers – made their rounds several times a day checking on the work, having a quiet word of encouragement with the men and giving further orders before returning for additional discussions and strategic planning.
For two days, Athos and Porthos had ridden out after the morning muster. Several other pairings left with them through the main gate and then they had parted company. Their reconnaissance area was directly east, back the way they had ridden on the day of the battle and they were mindful not to encounter enemy patrols. With no high ground to use to their advantage, they could not approach too closely and had to rely upon a spy glass to scrutinise the English activity. More men had disembarked and the beach which had borne witness to the brunt of the fighting was now a vast camp. Buckingham had most definitely established his beachhead.
Lying on their stomachs at the top of one of the most western dunes, the two musketeers attempted to gauge the number of men swarming on the sand like ants.
"What do you think about numbers?" Porthos whispered.
"It's hard when we're looking down on them but I'd say over six thousand."
Porthos cursed softly. "I'd say it's nearer to seven now."
"Whichever is the closer, it means the same thing. We are heavily outnumbered," Athos said grimly. He turned the spy glass seawards. "The ships are moving, spreading out along the island and round the north-eastern tip." He rolled slightly to look to his right. "I can't be sure from this angle but I think the English have moved round the island to the south-east as well. Do you realise what that means?"
Porthos nodded unhappily. "They've cut us off completely from the mainland."
"We're on our own unless the King and Richelieu act decisively."
"We haven't the ships to take on that lot," Porthos noted and Athos had to agree with him.
It was only in the two years since the second Huguenot rebellion that Richelieu had made the development of a French navy a priority, approaching Dutch shipbuilders and yards for new vessels and expertise in building other ships in France but it would take time and, with an extensive English fleet moored in French waters, it was not going to help them now.
Movement catching his peripheral vision, Athos raised the spy glass in a new direction. Men were working above the high water line amongst the smaller dunes and he watched the goings-on for a while before lowering the glass.
"They're burying the dead, ours included," Athos explained quietly.
Porthos thought about it. "That's good to hear. I did not like the notion of our men just lyin' out there or somethin' worse bein' done to them. Least we know they're bein' treated with some respect."
"They may be the enemy but I doubt that they are monsters," Athos said gently. "Whilst they look to their own, they would have to be utterly heartless to ignore our dead. However, I too am relieved to know that our men are being laid to rest. Tréville will be reassured."
Off duty later that evening, they took time over their meal in the company of Aramis. The marksman was much recovered, the headaches a thing of the past and the cut scabbing over and healing well. He had been occupied in the infirmary, taking stock of what was there and realising that they were seriously short on supplies with little chance of replacing a lot of what was needed. A few more of the patients had recovered sufficiently enough to leave but there were several who had succumbed to fever and were deteriorating fast, amongst them Mordain. Aramis had remained with him for much of the second day, feeding him sips of herbal remedies to fight the fever and pain but, as the hours passed, he had become less lucid.
"I do not have the expertise to help him and nor do the others who are working with me in the infirmary. There are others like him and few will survive without adequate intervention," Aramis said dejectedly as he sampled the simple stew that Serge had managed to throw together from their supplies, having brought cured meat with him.
Cattle, goats, pigs, sheep and chickens had been brought alive into the Citadel during the two days and housed in outbuildings within the western walls along with minimum foodstuffs to keep them alive. A whole scale slaughter was scheduled to begin the following day of the larger animals and would last for nearly a week to give Serge , the other cooks and helpers time to skin and joint carcasses in order to make them easier to salt and smoke for preservation. The chickens were being kept for eggs for as long as possible and then they, too, would be eaten.
The three friends ate contentedly and Athos and Porthos shared what they had seen that day within the English camp. Once that subject was exhausted, they turned their thoughts to life within the Citadel and what it meant for them over the coming days and weeks. There was no doubt about it, life was going to be hard, becoming rapidly unbearable if they did not have relief or support from the mainland and there was no telling how long they would have to wait for that.
"Talking of the injured," Athos began, seemingly disinterested, "how is Delacroix progressing with his shattered foot?" He spooned more stew into his mouth.
"What makes you think bones were shattered?" Aramis asked.
"I am merely depending upon the information I received," Athos answered.
"And who was the source of the information?" Porthos was now curious.
"From Delacroix himself," came the reply.
Aramis choked upon a mouthful of food at the news and Porthos came to his rescue by clapping him soundly upon the back. Athos raised an eyebrow questioningly as he awaited Aramis' explanation for his reaction.
"Firstly, the bones in his foot are not shattered; at least, not according to one of the other soldiers who has been helping to tend the injured."
"You have not seen the wound?" Athos was definitely interested now.
Aramis sipped at his lukewarm ale and shook his head. "He won't let me get anywhere near him and has refused to let me redress his wound." Aramis laid a hand on his heart and adopted an air of mock hurt. "He had the nerve to proclaim loudly that he did not trust me as I was a friend of yours, Athos."
"Seems to me like he's hidin' something'," Porthos surmised.
"What is the nature of the wound then?"
Aramis looked at Athos. "From what I've been told by this same fellow, the ball grazed the outside of the foot and the little toe is broken." His face registered surprise as Athos gave an unexpected snort of derision.
"So if Delacroix' story is to have any credence, he was shot by an Englishman who had to have been lying in his stomach on the ground and successfully shot through or round all the feet and legs of horses and infantry and perhaps miss the wheels of the occasional cart just to catch him on the side of the foot!"
Porthos grinned widely at the prospect, "Wonderful how it creased him along the side of the foot then."
"It would have been had the wound been along the side of the foot and not down the foot," Aramis announced carefully and watched as his words penetrated.
Porthos' jaw dropped, "You tellin' me he shot 'imself in the foot?"
Athos slammed his ale cup down on the table top, making his two brothers jump as the burst of temper was unexpected. "Of course he did but he was too much of a coward to even do that properly."
"He might have done it accidentally and tells the story of the English bullet to save himself from ridicule," Aramis reasoned but as soon Athos turned a withering glare in his direction, he retracted that idea, "or not."
"Why the lily-livered ..." Porthos' hands folded into powerful fists as he ran out of suitable insults for the man's cowardice.
"Well he caused himself unnecessary pain. He didn't want to fight and took the only way out he could think of but the battle was over and now we're in here for a while," Athos said.
"At least he will be stayin' out your way for a while; he'll leave you alone," Porthos said hopefully. "Maybe he'll come out the infirmary a changed man."
Athos shook his head. "I doubt it, he's got a long memory and he is not one for letting things go," and he repeated the rest of the conversation of the previous evening.
"You can't do it, Athos. You know the penalty for duelling and you know how angry Tréville was when you two clashed the other day. He won't be so lenient with you a second time."
...
The third day was very similar to the preceding two and when the fourth day dawned, Aramis returned to the infirmary and Porthos and Athos rode out together on patrol. The weather was fine with the sun shining down on the calm blue sea. The English fleet had not moved and the two musketeers might have been forgiven for assuming a stalemate had been reached.
That was until they reached the first point from which they could see the edges of the enemy camp and they knew immediately that the situation had changed for there was much activity.
Athos and Porthos did not even dismount or attempt to move any closer; there was no need. They needed to return to the Citadel as quickly as possible to raise the alarm for the English were on the move.
By early afternoon, the first of the enemy had arrived outside the fortification and started to set up their new camp. A few hours later, the last of the soldiers marched into view, by which time a tented town had taken shape, curving around the Citadel to the east and south.
The siege had begun.
From the battlements, Toiras and Tréville had watched events unfolding during the afternoon. As night fell and a multitude of fires became visible in the English camp, the Governor straightened and gave the first orders for the following day.
"I want two messages sent tomorrow; I will go down and write them now. The first is to the elders of Saint Martin. They are not to resist when the English attack for they will want to take the town and, under siege, we will not be in a position to protect them. The second will be to the Duke of Buckingham; I gather from his earlier visits to the French court that he prides himself on following some kind of medieval chivalric code. Well, we will see how much of a gentleman he is. Mordain and two of my best officers need treatment that we cannot provide so they need permission to pass to the mainland if they stand any chance of surviving.
"I want some of your musketeers to take those messages first thing in the morning."
A/N
- Documents vary as to whether Buckingham waited 3 or 5 days to march on the Citadel so I've put him arriving on the 4th!
- There were three French noblemen who were injured during the initial battle and a request was made to the English Duke for them to be permitted to go back to the mainland for more appropriate treatment. In the next chapter we'll find out who takes the messages and what the answer is.
