CHAPTER 55
Athos never thought he'd be happy to have a concussion and the associated dizziness. When Porthos burst through the door, it had been his intention to be right on the man's heels. However, his traitorous body betrayed him, fortunately as it turned out, and he stumbled sideways coming through the door. The bullet, which would have hit him square in the chest, instead lightly grazed his upper arm. Recovering quickly, he saw the second guard aiming his gun and he took a lesson from Porthos' and dove at the man's knees, knocking him over backwards.
Porthos had already managed to disarm his opponent, had seized his pistol, and used it to batter its owner's head. The guard dropped like a rock to the cobblestones. Whipping around, the streetfighter scanned the area to see how Athos was faring. He found the swordsman had somehow ended up underneath the guard he had knocked over. While the gun was out of play, the guard, instead, was reaching behind his back for his main gauche to skewer Athos who was trapped underneath him.
"No you don't." Porthos ran over and lifted the man by the back of his uniform off of Athos. A swift fist to the face had man out cold, the knife dropping from his hand to clatter on the ground. The musketeer deposited him in the street near his friend, then began stripping both guards of their weapons.
As soon as the weight was lifted off of him, Athos rolled to his hands and knees, took a few deep breaths, then pushed to his feet. Porthos handed him one of the guard's weapons belts which he accepted, studying what was dangling from it. Powder and a bag of lead balls were clipped to the belt along with a main gauche. The rapier nestled in its scabbard looked serviceable enough. The guard's pistol was lying on the ground and Athos bent and retrieved it. Soon both men were armed with the guards' stolen paraphernalia.
Peering about, Porthos was the first to spot the guards' horses, which had been tethered nearby, and he smiled. "There's our ride home."
Running to the horses, they untied the reins, threw them over the beasts' heads, and swiftly mounted. Pressing their heels to the geldings' flanks, they took off in a clatter of hooves. When they turned the corner, coming around towards the front of the church, a shout rang out. Urging the horses into a canter, they flew through the streets of Dieppe, twisting and turning in hopes of throwing any pursuers off track. Neither man had had a chance to reload their stolen pistols, nor would they risk it while riding unfamiliar horses at a breakneck speed.
The brothers' prayers must have been working because they reached the outskirts of the city without any immediate sign of their pursuers, and they reined in for a moment to debate their next move.
Porthos turned his horse in a tight circle to face Athos. "It's a stretch before we reach the cover of the forest. Sittin' ducks if they come across us and can shoot straight."
Athos, who'd been studying the landscape while Porthos spoke, concurred, but there was no better alternative. "We ride fast. Keep low."
"Let's do this." Spinning his mount around once more, he urged the animal into a dead gallop, heading for the trees, with Athos right behind.
Pulling up right before the tree line, they entered the forest at a less breakneck pace. Perhaps Father Biene's prayers were continuing to assist, because they melted into the forest undetected and with no sign of pursuit. To rest the horses, which were winded from their sprint, they settled into a fast walk, heading down a path that led deeper into the forest. Eventually, Porthos, who was in the lead and anxious to put more distance between them and Dieppe, urged his mount into a trot, somewhat to Athos' dismay, as the jarring motion of the gait aggravate his headache.
Now that they had a feel for their horses' temperaments and weren't galloping, the men felt secure enough to tuck the reins under their legs, letting the horses move forward without guidance. This gave them the opportunity to reload the pistols stolen from the guards. Their preparations were completed none too soon, for when they rounded a bend in the track they came face to face with a party of guards that did not appear very friendly. They were headed into Dieppe, so they couldn't know what had transpired at the church. However, the guards still appeared very suspicious of the two strange men, on horses bearing the markings of their own troop.
"This don't look good," Porthos muttered as he eyed the men blocking the trail.
Athos felt that might be an understatement of their new situation. His green eyes narrowed as he did a quick sweep of them. "We have two shots before a reload."
"We aren't lookin' for trouble," Porthos called out as he halted his horse. "Just wanna continue our journey, peacefully."
The ringing of steel being drawn from the scabbards and the pistols pointed in their direction negated any hopes of avoiding a conflict.
"I think they have made their intentions known. Shall we work on evening the odds?" Athos calmly asked Porthos.
"Yep."
Porthos quickly drew his gun, aimed it at the nearest guard and neatly put a bullet in the man's chest. Athos' shot followed closely thereafter, also finding its mark. The two men, dead, toppled from their horses to the forest floor. Now it was two to four. While the guards returned fire, their shots went wide.
Shoving the spent pistols onto their pilfered belts, they unsheathed the rapiers that they had taken from the guards outside the church. The battle started on horseback, but quickly moved to the ground as Porthos managed to unseat two of the four guards through sheer brute force. The third drove his horse at Athos, unseating them both, and they went tumbling to the dirt. The fourth man was the only one still mounted, and it made him a dangerous opponent as he circled the men fighting on foot. The man on horseback forced Athos and Porthos to have to defend themselves from above and below.
When another thrust from the man on horseback struck too close to home, Athos took drastic action. Hating that he had to do it, but feeling it was vital for their survival, Athos spun and slashed the circling rider's horse across its chest. The horse reared in pain, dumping his rider into the dirt. Taking advantage of the man's momentary vulnerability, Athos thrust his sword into the man's chest, killing him and bringing the count down to three against two.
Porthos was barely keeping ahead of his two lesser-skilled opponents, because his ordeals of the last months had worn down his stamina and reflexes. One of the guards managed to worm his way inside Porthos' guard, and he drove his dagger into the musketeer's thigh. Bellowing like a wounded bull, Porthos spun and delivered a crushing blow to the guard's head causing the man to drop dead on the spot. Because of the force of the blow, Porthos' leg buckled and he collapsed and blood from his wound began soaking into the dirt.
Athos, hearing Porthos cry out, whirled in his direction in time to see the man topple over. His slight inattention caused another shallow gash on his body, courtesy of his opponent. But Athos didn't notice as his focus was solely on the guard who was about to bring his sword up to stab the downed Porthos. In a desperate move, Athos hurled the main gauche he had been using in his left hand at the guard who was about to kill the injured musketeer. The blade flew true, embedding itself in the man's throat, causing him to make gurgling noises as he fell to the earth.
Switching his attention back to his own opponent, who was ready to stab him in the chest, Athos dropped to the ground to avoid the blade's arc and swung his own sword at the guard's legs. The brutal slash sliced through the guard's skin and muscle until the blade was stopped by the man's leg bones. The force of the blow tore the sword from Athos' hand as he rolled sideways, out of the way of the falling body.
Fate, or Father Biene's prayers, were on their side today. As Athos lay on the forest floor weaponless, waiting to be dispatched to hell, he suddenly realized all the guards were dead. As tempting as it was simply to close his eyes and pass out, he fought the urge, forcing his feeble limbs to obey his commands. Painfully crawling on his hands and knees, he made his way over the rough ground to where Porthos was clutching his bloody right leg.
"How bad?" Athos asked, an edge of distress creeping into his voice. Porthos' pants were soaked and the dirt under the limb was turning damp with blood. The swordsman was afraid the artery was severed and the musketeer was bleeding out.
Without asking, he knelt next to the grimacing soldier, reached over and ripped the pants leg open to expose the stab wound. The blade had been driven deep into the thigh, though as he watched the amount of blood welling around the blade, and noted the position, he thought it might have missed the artery.
"Pull it out!" Porthos begged, his pain filled eyes trying to enforce the plea.
"It needs to be removed, but if we can't staunch the blood flow, you'll bleed out and die."
"Then build a fire."
The swordsman was confused. A fire? Make camp here? In the open? Surrounded by dead bodies? His eyes scanned the scene about him, noting the ground was rapidly becoming drenched in blood and suddenly he blanched when he realized what Porthos was asking.
"No. I can't do that," Athos announced, his composure falling to pieces as he stared with disbelief at the musketeer.
Porthos locked his agony filled brown eyes on the man as if willing him to understand. "I've been on the battlefield. I know what will happen if you don't. It has to be done, Athos."
Athos' medical education was limited to what he had read in books, though he knew cauterization was not uncommon for a wound such as the one in Porthos' thigh. However, he also knew the patient was just as likely to die as survive. He desperately tried to recall a book he had read by Ambroise Pare, an army surgeon, who also served as a physician to various French Kings. As a young adult, he had read the book, not so much because he was interested in the field of medicine, but because it annoyed his father.
The book had spoken of a new method of curing wounds caused by harquebus and firearms, which the young soldier wanna-be thought would be useful knowledge. The Comte de la Fére had thought the book was trash, written by a closet Huguenot, pretending to be a Catholic to stay in the good graces of the King. Of course, since his father didn't want him to, Athos had deliberately read the entire tome, struggling through its concepts, which were often graphic and grisly.
If he recalled correctly, one of Pare's main premises in the document was that there was a better, proven way to treat wounds such as this other than cauterization. The damn drums beating in his skull, courtesy of his concussion, weren't aiding in his struggle to dredge up the words from the old text. Three things, he thought, were required. Odd things. Turpentine. The oil of roses. And finally the last thing came to him, egg yolks. Pare had sworn this was most effective in the treatment of serious battlefield wounds.
Athos stared at Porthos exposed leg again, the dagger still lodged in it. If this didn't qualify as a serious battlefield wound, he didn't know what did.
"Cauterization, of which I assume you are speaking, is a methodology for treating a wound such as yours. However, I believe I have a better, less painful, and safer solution."
"You forget to tell me you were a doctor?" Porthos grunted as waves of pain flared in his wounded leg.
Athos' stoic mask was firmly affixed and he gazed at the injured man calmly. "No. But I read a book."
Porthos stared at Athos incredulously. "You read a book?"
"Books can be very informative. Have you never learned something from reading a book?"
"I can't read. Never learned."
Athos paused for a moment, cursing himself for forgetting his upbringing was very different than the majority of France's citizens. "I shall teach you, later. But for now you will simply have to take my word."
Porthos, as had been the case many times during their journey, was puzzled by the behavior of the man kneeling next to him. The swordsman had no problem being ruthless when the situation called for it, yet he was balking at performing this task. "What are you going to do?"
"First, we are going to move you, carefully, to a more out of the way location. Then I am going to ride back to town, procure the required items, return, and treat your leg." Athos explained, as if they were planning for a nice Sunday picnic.
Porthos rolled his eyes. "Anyone ever tell you, you're nuts. We just escaped from Dieppe and now you want us to go back?"
Athos shook his head slightly. "I am going back, surreptitiously, to get what we need. You are waiting here." After he paused slightly, he added, "I believe I might have been told, once or twice, I can be a little temerarious."
Porthos gave him another strange look. "If that means nuts, they were right. It's too dangerous."
"Not treating this wound properly is dangerous. My going back to Dieppe is an acceptable, calculated risk."
"No," Porthos declared firmly.
The street fighter didn't know the depths of Athos' stubbornness, but he was about to get a taste of it. Athos simply ignored him, stood, and went in search of two horses.
"What are you doing?" Porthos yelled after the departing man.
"Getting the two horses, so we can move you to a better location." As if it just dawned on him, and it probably had since his brain was still fuzzy, he asked, "Can you ride?"
Bristling like a boar, Porthos huffed. "Of course I can." The dubious glare he was treated to said otherwise. "I can," he defended himself. "Rode hurt a lot worse than this."
Athos gave a little shrug but didn't debate the subject anymore. Time would tell if Porthos was correct in his assessment of his abilities. Gathering up the two horses they had taken earlier, which luckily had hung about, he led them over to where Porthos lay.
The dubious expression washed over Athos' face once more. "Are you sure...you can ride?"
"Absolutely. Just help me up."
Dropping the reins to the ground and hoping the horses knew what that signaled, he moved to Porthos' side. It took some effort, but between them they got the large man vertical. Mounting the horse was a whole other matter and by the time they finally got him onboard, both men were cursing a blue streak and Porthos' leg was bleeding more heavily.
Athos began to doubt his plan, though he couldn't see a better alternative. Every idea seemed to have a high probability of an unhappy ending. After a last glance up at the injured musketeer, who was awkwardly perched on the horse trying to find a way to place his leg to cause the least amount of damage and pain, Athos hauled his own tired, aching body on top of his own mount and urged him into a walk.
They had travelled down the road for a few miles when Athos thought he heard the sound of running water. Leading them a few yards into the forest, where they couldn't be easily observed from the road, Athos instructed Porthos to wait while he scouted the area. The swordsman had some doubts how much of what he said had even registered with the nearly comatose man, who was only staying on the horse by sheer iron will. With misgivings, he rode off to search for the source of water.
It didn't take him long to find the small stream that was merrily babbling over its rocky bed. It was a decent distance from the road, somewhat secluded, and would offer a good place to hide the injured Porthos while he rode into town to get the supplies to fix the musketeer's horrific wound. Making his way back to where he had left Porthos, he was relieved to find the man there, on his horse, still awake and alive.
Grabbing the other horse's reins, he led the beast through the trees to the stream's edge, finding a spot he thought best to make camp. The streetfighter was so far gone, he didn't even protest being led on his horse as if he were a child. Getting Porthos off the horse was somewhat easy, but painful, for he literally fell off, and in the process, knocked Athos to the ground. Both men lay still in the grass for a moment trying to catch their breath.
Porthos, who through all his pain, managed to keep his sense of humor muttered, "You were in the way."
"I'll keep that in mind, next time," Athos retorted drily as he rolled to his hands and knees.
After a few more deep breaths, and some concentrated effort to dampen the drummer in his head, Athos rose to his feet. Then, he turned to assist Porthos over to a tree surround by a thick cushion of moss, where he could remain partially upright by leaning against the tree's trunk. Once the man was settled, Athos went back over to the horses, remembering that one had saddlebags. Rummaging through them, he found a few items of interest, including a cup, some provisions, and a flint. Bringing his new found treasures over to where Porthos was propped up, he placed them within reach of the musketeer along with both of the reloaded pistols. The cup he took to the stream, rinsed and filled it, and then added it to the pile.
Straightening, he surveyed the makeshift camp, deciding it was the best he could do at this point. His eyes roamed over the blood-soaked pant leg and he decided it didn't look all that much worse than thirty minutes ago.
"Has the bleeding stopped?" he queried the musketeer.
"Oi. For the moment, I think." Porthos eyed the man standing, observing him, noting his own injuries and the fact he was swaying, slightly, on his feet. "Athos, you're in no condition to go back to Dieppe. Let's just cauterize this and I'll take my chances."
"I won't, not when there is a better way."
The two men entered into a staring contest, iron wills clashing. However, Athos' mobility won the battle; he simply turned and walked away, issuing commands over his shoulder as he left. "Drink, eat, but stay vigilant. I'll be back as quickly as I can."
Once at his horse, he mounted and rode off without another word. Porthos' empty threats and curses faded away as he headed for the road that led back to Dieppe.
