A/N My apologies for the delay, but…exams. That is all. Mine are not yet over, but thanks to them this chapter has taken well over a month. Here it is now is all I can say.
Just so you know, there is a little bit of mild swearing in here.
Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Victor Hugo did not have a strong-willed female amnesiac in his original story (he missed a trick there). This is my version of the incredible events he wrote about.
Chapter Thirty-five
Never before could Enjolras remember feeling as tired as he did at this moment. True, he regularly worked ludicrous hours that made his less nocturnal friends wince, but this kind of weariness was different.
They had ridden hard all day, heading north along good roads. Rene led them on his sure-footed mount, the rest of the group strung out behind him. Although Enjolras, and no doubt Courfeyrac too, had spent much of their childhood and youth racing around their parents' estates on ponies, it had been some significant time since he had ridden and in only a few hours his shoulders, back, and thighs were protesting loudly. But he carried on, knowing that in this moment his physical comfort was not of the greatest importance.
The miles flew by, with only the occasional pause to allow the horses to drink and to allow their riders to do the same, and soon the sky was drawing towards dusk, bright blue replaced by hues of rose and gold. Rene glanced at the sunset, not seeing the beauty but only the rapidly dwindling number of hours until dark.
"We'll ride for the woods; spend the night there," he said, his face smeared with dust and sweat and deeply lined with exhaustion.
The wood was in fact only an insignificant coppice of trees that preceded the forest through which the road wound. Still, the ground was carpeted by a deep layer of last year's leaves and a small stream ran through the outer edge to provide both man and beast with water.
Rene quickly set them to work, conscious that they were now racing the light for time to set up camp. Enjolras and Courfeyrac were charged with unsaddling the horses and attaching them to long picket ropes, allowing the animals to graze throughout the night. Bahorel, who seemed to be enjoying the scenario a little too much, helped the former soldier to check the area for any snakes or rabbit snares and scrape an area free of leaves to dig a shallow indent in which to light the fire.
As dusk faded to twilight and then rolled into darkness, the small group ate a meagre meal of bread, hard cheese, and small portions of spiced sausage, sharing a skin a harsh red wine between them, the crude repast having been purchased at an inn some hours before.
"How much farther is there to go?" Enjolras asked, his quiet question punctuated by the snap and crackle of the minimal fire around which they were seated.
"Eight miles or so into the forest, I believe," Rene answered, taking another drink from the skin before offering it to Bahorel on his right. "The guns were transported down from the Normandy coast last week, brought from America before that. Our supplier has been guarding the shipment until such a time as we could come to buy the weapons."
"How will they be transported back to Paris?" Courfeyrac asked, stealing the wineskin from Bahorel in a neat move that spoke of many hours spent drinking together.
"It has been arranged that the weapons are already concealed on carts. If we make good time tomorrow and the weather remains fine we should return to Paris in just over two days' time." Rene motioned for Courfeyrac to pass him the wineskin, which he did. "Now, comrades, I suggest that we sleep. I will sit up for the first watch and then wake Bahorel, who will be replaced by Enjolras, who will be replaced by Courfeyrac, who shall then reawaken me. Sleep now." He turned away from them, a loaded horse pistol held across his knees, eyes searching the darkness.
A few minutes later the three friends were settled close to the fire, wrapped in blankets and using their saddles as pillows. Shutting out the faint crackle of the fire and the scent of horse sweat rising thickly from the saddlecloth, Enjolras attempted to sleep, his final thought before succumbing to his exhaustion: was Aimee thinking of him?
After a cold and uncomfortable two hours on the watch, Enjolras managed to snatch another few hours of blissful sleep before Rene roused them. The fire was stamped out and doused with water for good measure before the indentation was refilled and leaves scraped across the blackened remains to ensure that no trace of their brief presence remained. Rene was taking absolutely no chances of anyone following them.
The road through the woods was wide but rocky meaning that they could go no faster than a cautious trot. All of the men were on edge and their nervousness was picked up by the horses. At one point, Enjolras' horse spooked violently at a deer and shot sideways, careening into Courfeyrac's horse and starling the other riders. The look of poorly concealed annoyance on Rene's face made Enjolras blush hotly under his collar but the good-natured teasing of Courfeyrac, who seemed in far better spirits now than he had been for some time, eased his stung pride somewhat.
The sun hung high over the trees, filtering down to create dappled patterns on the stony road, the lush beauty of the greenery around them glimmering. A light scent of wild garlic and damp earth spun through the air and Enjolras could almost see the foliage growing right before his eyes. He took a deep breath, appreciating the purity of the air. After dwelling in the city for so long, he had forgotten how sweet countryside air tasted. Just then his horse stumbled on a large rock, jolting Enjolras unpleasantly from his calm reverie.
As he righted himself and patted his horse's neck in reassurance, a flash of darker movement caught his eye. Whipping his head up to follow it, he saw another shift in the shadows off to his other side.
"We have arrived," Rene murmured, pulling his horse to a halt and gesturing for them to do the same.
Each of them did as they were bid and followed Rene's lead of dismounting. As soon as they did so several large men materialized from amongst the trees, each of them holding a gun. One of them spoke to Rene quickly in a language that Enjolras thought might be English but was so heavily accented he was uncertain.
Rene replied slowly, obviously uncertain with the language, but his attempts appeared to be satisfactory as one of the men gestured sharply and turned off down an almost invisible track that led further into the woods.
"Do you know what they were speaking?" Enjolras asked Bahorel, who was in front of him, as they walked single file along the leafy path, leading their horses.
"It was English, I think," Courfeyrac commented from behind. "Prouvaire reads out his original Shakespeare sometimes and it sounds the same. I can't quite place the dialect, though."
The track eventually led them into a large clearing, heavily thicketed on all sides. Stood in the centre of the space were two additional men, both of them salient in appearance; tall and well-armed. What surprised Enjolras most was their age, for both men appeared to be well over fifty with greying hair and skin that spoke of much time spent out of doors. One, who must have been a good four inches over six feet, was heavy-set, overweight in fact, with an open jovial face. Pushed into his broad leather belt was a set of pistols and he held a long barrelled gun with the confidence of one who knew how to handle a weapon.
The second man stood behind and slightly to the side, grim faced and scowling. His hair had obviously once been black, but was now faded to a distinguished salt-and-pepper with broad badger's stripes of grey at the temples. His face held a sardonic look, mostly due to the long scar marring his cheek. He too was armed and his unsmiling eyes met Enjolras' unflinchingly.
"So which one of you is Le Faucon?" the first man said, his French rough and broken, mangled once more by that unidentifiable accent.
"I am he," Rene replied, stepping forwards, his hand outstretched. "Monsieur Harper, I presume?"
"Aye, that's me; Patrick Harper of Donegal. That's Ireland, lads," he said, winking at the three younger men. "A truly wonderful country that I'm sure you have a mighty hankering to visit."
"You're so full of shit, Pat," the second man said, his French far more fluent. Although his words were harsh, Enjolras picked up on the hint of humour in the exchange, an exchange that intimated many years of camaraderie.
"Yes, I suppose you're right," Harper sighed dramatically. "It was a wonderful country, until his lot swooped in and spoiled the place, which was a shame. It had been so nice."
"You are English?" Rene questioned Harper's companion, surprise colouring his tone.
The other man shrugged. "Born and bred in the bad part of London, but I've lived in Normandy for the last ten years or more. I was in India for a while, years ago, and then spent most the years after that marching around Portugal and Spain. "
"He married a French girl," Harper commented, "That made her…what, the fourth Mrs Sharpe?"
"Are you here to sell weapons or piss around?" Sharpe asked in a growl.
"Ah, yes, the weapons," Harper said, brightening. He nodded to one of the men who had led them to the clearing, who then promptly exited the area to return a minute later with four guns.
"I thought you might want to test a few of them," Harper said, handing each of them several cartridges. "I suppose you know how to shoot?"
"I can, of course," Rene answered, "but I am unsure as to my comrades' abilities."
"We've practised with a few muskets," Enjolras said, startled when he was abruptly cut off by Harper and Sharpe's sudden barking laughter.
"Sorry, lad," Sharpe said, smiling a little, an action Enjolras noticed completely transformed his face, "but these aren't muskets. These are Baker rifles, one of the best pieces of weaponry to ever be created." He tossed one of the rifles to Bahorel who caught it neatly. "Harper and I have been shooting these things for…oh, thirty years or more now and they are still damn good." His calloused fingers caressed the brass bound wooden stock of his own weapon lovingly. "These were the beauties that helped us kick your Emperor off to St Helena."
"You fought in the ranks?" Courfeyrac asked, beginning to load his rifle, grunting as he forced the bullet down the barrel, the spiralling grooves that gave the weapon its accuracy making the process difficult.
"Started as privates so we did, both of us," Harper confirmed, loading his own weapon with a speed that awed Enjolras. "Richard here got to Lieutenant Colonel."
A look a surprise, followed by respect, appeared on Rene's face. "I understand that progressing through the ranks is not a common occurrence in the British Army," he said, sliding his ramrod back into the barrel hoops.
Sharpe grunted in response. "Aim for the tree boys," he said, "and let's see how bad you are."
"No pressure," Bahorel muttered under his breath, stepping forwards to take aim.
They each fired a round, reloaded, and fired another, all actions scrupulously watched by Sharpe and Harper. Enjolras was rather pleased with how he did, and indeed was proud of how his friends and superior acquitted themselves, though the recoil of the brass bound rifle butt into his shoulder had hurt far more than expected; he was certain it would bruise.
"Not bad," Harper allowed, offering them each a canteen that turned out to contain a very strong liquor.
The harsh taste sent Enjolras into a humiliating coughing fit, unused as he was to the harsh alcohol, earning him a warm laugh and a firm thump on the back from Harper.
"Good, isn't it? It's Calvados – apple brandy – made from the apples at Richard's farm. Now, get your breath back, lad, while Sharpie here shows you Frogs how to really shoot," Harper gave them all a wink to show that the nickname was meant in humour and not spite.
"Shut up, Pat," Sharpe said, hauling back the dog head flint and cocking the weapon. Ensuring they were all stood well clear he pulled the trigger, a gout of sulphurous smoke immediately obscuring his face. The group watched wide-eyed as, before the sound faded, Sharpe lowered the weapon and reloaded without even looking at what his hands were doing.
Courfeyrac surreptitiously pulled out his watch and timed the next three shots. They all came in at just under a minute.
"The key is to keep shooting, no matter what happens," Harper imparted to Enjolras as the last cloud of smoke drifted away. "If you lads want to win then you've got to keep shooting, shooting, shooting. The guy beside you gets shot, keep shooting; when your officer catches one in the gullet, keep shooting; when the enemy advances on you, keep shooting. It was why we were able to beat armies all over Europe; we just kept shooting."
"In the end, it all comes down to which side is pouring the most lead into the other," Sharpe commented, swilling the foul taste of the gunpowder out of his mouth and spitting the grey water out onto the ground.
Rene nodded. "As Voltaire said, 'God is not on the side of the big battalions, but on the side of those who shoot best.' In many ways it is true."
"Sounds ruthless," Courfeyrac said lightly, though the slight sobering of his countenance proved that the words had truly shaken him.
Sharpe shouldered his rifle. "It is ruthless, bloody ruthless, and you're fooling yourselves if you think otherwise."
A heavy silence fell, weighed for the Amis by the realization that this was real and that in a very short time anyone of them was going to have to kill another human being or lose their own lives.
"Stop scaring the lads, Richard," Harper murmured.
"I'm not trying to scare them, Pat," Sharpe said, a sudden shard of anger piercing his voice, "I'm just trying to let them know what they're getting into! I was killing when I was younger than them, but I was born to it! They're schoolboys, Pat! What do they know of fighting?" He turned on Rene. "What do any of your men know of fighting?"
"Their lack of fighting skill will be made up for by their spirit of conviction and a desire for a better future," Rene returned hotly, "and what is it you are doing, Monsieur Sharpe, for the future generations? What are you doing to ensure your children have a better life than their predecessors?"
"Their 'spirit of conviction' isn't going to stop them getting shot, is it?" Sharpe snapped. "You have no idea what you are walking into!"
"And yet you provide us with weapons and ammunition?" Enjolras asked quietly, displeased at the scorn in the old soldier's voice.
Sharpe whipped round to face him, eyes blazing. "I've seen far too many lads like you killed. I've killed too many lads like you, lads who served in the ranks of Napoleon, the leader of your last revolution. People remember how it failed; they remember the blood and the loss and the defeat. Are you really ready to start all of that again?"
"Richard!" Harper's voice thrummed through the space, a voice that had no doubt called men to order across the cacophony of battle.
Enjolras held Sharpe's eyes steadily, but internally his thoughts were whirling. A long time ago he had come to terms with that fact that their ideas may have to be fought for and paid for with the blood of martyrs, but the black and white terms laid out by the older men had shaken something deep within him, not only fear, but a cold realization that good intentions would not win this fight, this war. For it was indeed a war, a war with soldiers and guns and bullets and death…all of which he and his friends would have to face, and very soon.
He risked a look at Bahorel and Courfeyrac out of the corner of his eye as Harper took Sharpe aside and whispered fiercely in his ear. Courfeyrac caught his gaze but gave no response, his eyes solemn. Bahorel was staring pensively into the middle distance, a heavy frown settled on his open features.
The tense atmosphere prompted both parties to culminate the transaction swiftly and soon Rene and Harper shook hands to seal the deal.
"My men will escort you back to Paris and help you smuggle in the guns," Harper said. "I assume you have a…quiet entry point arranged?"
"A small gate in the north wall," Rene assured him. "The guards have been bribed and the traffic in that area is minimal. It will be simple."
"Then I wish you all the best of luck," the large Irishman said, clapping Courfeyrac on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "And if you ever want to come and start a fight in Ireland, well…"
Rene nodded and smiled, the emotion morphing into a haughty scowl as Sharpe stepped forwards. The old soldier ignored the gesture with a blunt carelessness that spoke of a thick skin acquired over many years of insults and nodded his farewell to them.
As the four revolutionaries moved past to retrieve their horses, Enjolras felt the heavy weight of Sharpe's hand land on his shoulder.
"You want to watch him," he murmured, jerking his head in Rene's direction. "Men like that are dangerous."
"He is a man of honour and vision," Enjolras replied coldly, shrugging off the hand, "and I am quite capable of taking the measure of men myself."
A small quirk of his lips showed Sharpe's brief amusement at Enjolras' attempt to recover his dignity. "Men of honour and vision are just as dangerous as power hungry brutes," he said lowly, "and the two are more similar than you would think. He has a vision, as you said, of what he wants and will do anything he can to achieve it. Human life loses meaning to men like that; people become little more than gaming pieces and numbers."
"Fine words coming from a man who has spent his life killing," Enjolras snapped, moving away again.
Sharpe shook his head, a glimmer of old sadness or…regret?...appearing in his eyes. "If you'll listen to nothing else I say, then listen to this. When the fighting starts and men begin to die, don't fight for some grand ideal or an imagined future; fight for the men stood beside you and nothing else. Remember who it is that you're fighting for." He stepped back. "Good luck."
They were led out of the other side of the thicket by Harper's men, one of whom was a native of the area who would return them to Paris in the fastest, most concealed way possible.
The sun was hot on Enjolras neck as they rode back towards Paris, the large farm cart obfuscating the guns lumbering along behind them. Despite the contention of the situation they left behind and the grave words of Sharpe and Harper sitting heavy in his mind, he was happy. Every step his weary horse took was one step closer to Aimee, one step closer to seeing her smile again, and knowing that she was safe and happy.
One of their escorts, the local driving the cart, began to sing quietly. The air hummed with small flies. The leather saddles creaked in time with the horses' steps. And they rode onwards towards Paris.
At that same moment, Aimee was singing. Her clear voice rose and fell sweetly, the notes rolling around the auditorium softly and she allowed herself a flicker of a smile.
Though nervous for her debut performance, she was also ludicrously excited. She had practised and practised, pushing herself with a rigour and force that had earned her the respect of the whole cast and crew. Now, she had many friends in the theatre, a promising career laid out before her, and she felt as if life was as it should be.
With a final soaring note she finished the song, her heart dropping a little as she recalled Enjolras' absence. The sadness was only momentary and she pushed aside all thoughts of blond hair between her fingers and blue eyes smiling down at her softly.
"Well done, Mademoiselle Lyon," Chavenage called from the front row. "You are finished for the day now; you can go." He smiled. "Rest well, drink plenty, and I shall see you tomorrow night."
"Thank you, sir," she curtsied swiftly, flashing him a smile of thanks for allowing her the night off. "Goodbye!"
She exited the stage in a flurry of costume, hurrying along the passageways to her dressing room. Cabruc passed her at the head of the corridor, his head bent as he hurried along. Aimee was not even certain he had noticed her presence.
It was strange not to be greeted by Enjolras, she thought, as she stepped out of the stage door. How different it seemed and he had not yet been gone two days!
With most of the day stretching empty before her, coupled with sudden yearning for human company, Aimee set her steps towards the Musain, catching an omnibus for a good section of the way. When she arrived however, she discovered that her journey had been in vain as none of the Amis, not even Grantaire, were present. The room seemed eerily quiet without their heated debates and raucous laughter. Empty. Ghostly even.
She had a sudden caustic vision of a future with no Amis, a future formed by a failed revolution and phantom shadows haunting her life. Her fingers trailed along the yellowed keyboard, idly playing a few bars* but the chords were so melancholy she stopped immediately.
Thoroughly disquieted she retraced her steps and hurried home, suddenly alert to every sound and flash of movement. The sky was darkening quickly, threatening rain, the unexpected gloom heightening her already shaken nerves.
All at once feeling more exhausted than she had in days, she stumbled up the stairs to the apartment only to find the rooms cold and empty. Wearily she recalled that each of her friends were working and would then no doubt spend the evening, and possibly the night, with their beaus. With a sigh she trudged through the rooms to the kitchen, intent on lighting a fire and making some tea.
As she bent down to rummage through the box of kindling, an unfathomable shudder of fear stood all of her hair on end. She stood quickly, every muscle tense, listening. A creak sounded from out past Eponine and Annette's bedroom. A faint breeze tugged at the wooden shutters. Aimee barely dared to breathe. Her heart hammered in her chest. Terror surged as a clatter came from by the door, followed by too still silence.
Without another thought Aimee reached for the knife that Eponine insisted she always wore in a concealed pocket at the waistband of her dress. The little blade shook in her hand as she released it from the sheath and forced herself to take a step towards the kitchen door. Then another. Then another, her footfalls seemingly thunderous in her straining ears. Taking a quiet bracing breath, she poised herself to dash around the corner, out of the door, and along the landing to hammer on the door of their next door neighbour, Jermaine, a former slave from Africa who now worked down at the docks. She didn't care if he thought she was silly, she just had to get out.
Fear giving her wings she shot around the corner, intent of escape, only to promptly collide with a small bony body directly on the other side of the wall. The force knocked them both back and Aimee felt a flood of relief as she recognized her 'intruder'.
"By the Trinity you scared me, Gav," she panted, dropping onto her back and releasing the knife, her breath coming in huge pants. "I thought I was going to die!"
Gavroche sat up, unperturbed at his sudden decent to the floor. His dirty angular face was grim as he hopped to his feet. "I wouldn't put that knife down just yet," he muttered ominously, heading through into what was Aimee's sleeping space.
Fear washing cold through her Aimee struggled to her feet and reluctantly followed the gamin. He was stood facing the back wall, arms crossed, unmoving.
For the second time in as many minutes, the knife clattered to the ground. For painted across the back wall in lurid red paint were two words. Two words that made her breath freeze in her throat and cause her knees to weaken.
"FOUND YOU."
*I imagine these notes to be the first notes of 'Empty Chairs at Empty Tables'. It seems fitting somehow considering her mood.
A/N To be honest I did not see it ending like that…oh well. I hope some of you out there recognize the stars of my little cameo. Tell me in a review. Hope you enjoyed and that the next update doesn't take quite as long!
Until next time, mes amis!
Libz