So, this "site" has been at it again. Stories have gone missing from my author's page and the general page. I'm currently on the list for access to AO3 - not that I want to move my stories there - but given how unreliable "this site" has been of late, I might not have any other choice. I will keep you posted as we move forward. Feel free to PM me to let me know your experiences with AO3, I would really like to know.
Thank you again for all your support! The story continues... unless of course it's missing... again...
Athos exited the chateau. He untied the borrowed horse from the tie stand and quickly mounted. He looked toward the fields in the chaos that continued as cannons roared, smoke billowed and grew heavy in the valley below, and enveloped the men within its embrace. He nudged the big horse's sides and galloped back toward the battlefield.
Winter had grown heavy with the burden of rain. The days were wet, and the nights even more so as the moisture continued to collect near the roots of trees and within the hollows of each man's footprint. Mud had become a part of their being. Dry clothing was a thing of the past. If they were fortunate enough to dry their blankets with the help of a raging fire, the men did so without complaint. Athos looked at the camps as he rode past. Several men limped and hobbled across the grounds to collect more wood, or get a bowl of watered down soup from Gentry, who continued to do his best with his limited resources.
Supplies were not just foods and ammunition. Footwear, stockings, leggings, blouses, and even armor would need replacement as the months passed, and the men worked hard to keep France protected.
Aramis stepped out of a large tent and tossed a bloodied rag into a cauldron that continued to steam. He nodded to Alex, who fed the fire and worked to clean — as best he could — the much needed bandages and wash rags.
Aramis placed his hands on his hips, looked at Athos, and then stepped forward.
"I thought you were in the field?" Athos said. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the pommel of the saddle.
Aramis shook his head with a wince and took a deep breath. "Four more men are down with winter fever, I've got three men with broken limbs, and one with a severe head injury —"
"Where's the physician?"
Aramis huffed. "Drunk." He looked into the distance as another cannon erupted. "We can't continue like this — we need a reprieve." He looked at Athos, who nodded.
"Do you have any help?"
Aramis nodded and motioned with his thumb toward the tent. "Madame Fontaine and her daughter have been exceptionally helpful. Walnut is keeping us well stocked in wood to keep the men warm and dry, and Monsieur Fontaine is trying to organize the refugees — there are a few who are avid hunters and a barber who is skilled with a blade and suturing wounds." He rubbed his chin and shrugged his shoulders. "The men are hungry, Athos. We are two months in — we should have supplies to last us six months. General Raboin's military is deficient in men, horses, supplies, and…" he closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. "courage. These men look like they've been fighting for years, not weeks — have you seen Porthos?" Aramis raised his eyebrows. "As strong as he is, I've never seen him this thin."
"Raboin has called for his captains to meet at sunset," Athos said. "Perhaps we'll know more regarding supplies and reinforcements."
Aramis stepped forward and placed his hand on the neck of the horse Athos rode. "How much evidence do you need —?"
"The only thing I know for certain, Aramis, is that Raboin is a terrible general." He looked at Aramis and clenched his jaw. "Whatever he has done, or whatever it is he is doing… we need proof."
"Even at the cost of Musketeers lives?"
Athos closed his eyes and pushed himself back. He shifted his wrist, and the reins moved along the horse's neck. "I will not act without evidence," he looked at Aramis. "Where does it end? What happens if the next general is as bad — or worse — at leading than Raboin? And what about the one after that…?" He took a deep breath and looked across the camp and then toward the battlefield. "Eventually," Athos exhaled slowly, "the problem stops being those of questionable character… and becomes a curse to the men deciding their fate."
Slowly, Aramis nodded. He looked toward the field as another soldier was assisted to the medical tent. "I have patients to see."
"You cannot command a company of men, Aramis, and be the regiment's physician," Athos said as he pulled back on the reins.
"You're right," Aramis said over his shoulder as he turned toward the tent, "and you can't win the war while you're toying with the devil, either."
Athos clenched his jaw and pursed his lips as he nudged the horse's sides and galloped back toward the battlefield. The line looked never-ending from his left to his right as the smoke continued to drift and sudden bright flashes of musket fire erupted. He pulled his horse to a stop, dismounted, and tossed the reins over the animal's neck and slapped his rump. The big horse turned and trotted back toward the camp. Athos looked at the scene. It was nothing but chaos. Raboin's army was spread too thin. They were under prepared and lacked sufficient supplies. Athos walked toward the lines. Mud splashed against his legs, bloodied water looked black in the shadows of the sun and smoke. Tree limbs lay broken and bullets pierced the bark of trees. Pieces of torn fabric held strong on the thistles of dead weeds, and spent paper cartridges lay scattered on the ground. Each company was spread throughout the field. What had once been well-organized groups were now reduced to men hiding behind boulders, within the shelter of trenches and ditches, while firing muskets and trying to survive against an enemy that fired cannons.
Raboin had spread his men too thin within the areas of the heaviest fighting, and then blamed the king for failing to supply enough resources. While Generals Vires and Thorell worked to move their men toward the northeastern battlefields east of Verdun, the musketeers and several company captains continued to hold the lines.
The men were tired, hungry, wet and cold, and desperate for a reprieve. Athos stepped through the mud, ducked as another cannon was fired and sent mud and debris across the grounds. The smoke was so thick he could barely see his men as they returned fire and positioned themselves behind the barricades of mud walls, downed trees, and dead horses. He turned suddenly when he heard his name called in the distance.
Young Jacques ran toward Athos, holding the hilt of his sword, and his musket as he dodged obstacles and suddenly pulled himself to a stop and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Captain. Captains Comtois and Pruette are looking for you."
Athos nodded. He took a glance at the line and then slowly turned and walked with Jacques back toward the camp. "Did they say why?"
"No, sir," Jacques said. He worked to catch his breath and struggled to pull his boots free from the confines of mud with each step. "I assumed they want to speak with you — General Raboin has called a meeting with his captains. I hope it's about supplies, sir." He glanced at Athos while they walked. "We'll be needing feed for the horses, shoes, and," he shrugged, "some new saddle pads. There are a few horses I'm temporarily removing from duty with saddle-sores, two with bowed tendons, and several have thrown their shoes."
Athos looked at Jacques and smiled warmly. "I thought you were supposed to see to your duties as a Musketeer — you're no longer the stable hand for the regiment?"
Jacques shrugged. "I like working with the horses, Captain. And," he smiled, "they're familiar with me."
Athos grasped his shoulder and pushed him forward. "Keep me posted on their progress. Where are Captains Pruette and Comtois?"
"Your tent, sir." Jacques stopped, nodded once toward the tent, and then turned and sprinted back toward the lines.
Athos watched Aramis step from the medical tent again, and this time tossed a bloodied limb into a pile near the tent. Their eyes met briefly before Aramis opened the tent flap and slipped back inside. A clap of thunder rolled and then echoed throughout the valley. A sudden gust of wind caused the skeletal branches of the trees to moan as they shifted. Tent flaps fluttered, and fires sparked and wavered.
Gentry tripped, but quickly caught himself as he pulled his foot from the muddied ground with a harsh sucking sound. He groaned, cursed several times, and then stepped forward again. He nodded to Athos and wiped his flour covered hands on his apron.
"Captain," Gentry said. He cleared his throat, shifted his hand to his left hip and leaned forward as he walked in stride with Athos.
"Make it quick, Gentry. I have an obligation."
"We need more food?" Gentry said. He stopped when Athos did and nodded. "I've been stretching it as far as I can for as long as I could, but we've only got a couple of weeks on the rations I've already divided up. The men won't survive long on anything less — not as hard as they're workin'. We've been supportin' the refugees — which has used up some of our rations — not as much as I thought, but enough to cause a dent."
Athos rubbed his face and looked toward his tent. "How long exactly?"
"Fifteen days, Captain."
"Can you make it stretch to twenty?"
Gentry exhaled through puffed cheeks and then winced. "I'll do what I can, Captain." With a stern look, he turned and slowly returned to his cook tent. He shouted several orders to his men and then suddenly the clamoring of tools, cookware, and dishes echoed.
Athos rubbed the back of his neck and glanced toward the sun as it continued to set. The orange glow slowly turned to pinks and reds as the night sky made an appearance. He could hear a group of men shouting in the distance. Horses nickered. Another cannon fired. He pushed open the flap of his tent and entered to find both Captains standing near his desk while quietly talking.
"We're due to speak with the general in just a few minutes," Comtois said. "But we need to find out where the Spanish are getting their supplies." He stepped forward, arms crossed over his broad chest, and he looked hard at Athos. "Here we sit. No shipments in weeks — if not nearly a month and a half. We're in the middle of winter. Our horses need to eat as well as our men, and my men are now running short of ammunition."
Athos walked behind his desk and covered the letter he had written to Treville. "You're not saying anything new, Captain. All of us are short on supplies. We're rationing food for our men and our horses."
"The refugees are a problem," Captain Pruette said. He raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "Admit it, Athos. There are more mouths to feed, more supplies needed for the elderly and the children…"
"The refugees are providing services to our men that are greatly needed at the moment. Not only medical help, but laundry, additional support for our regiments' cooks, even stable hands. I've seen a few refugees chopping wood for the fires our men burn every night to keep warm. You cannot convince me they are the problem."
"They're extra mouths to feed."
"Minister Treville would have sent supplies — several shipments by now —"
"Then where are they?" Pruette said. "I've spoken to the general, who continues to claim that the supplies are on their way."
"General Raboin is lacking the community support the other generals are receiving." Comtois exhaled slowly. "The surrounding nobility have taken a severe disliking to his leadership — and," he shrugged with a shake of his head, "what he did to the Fontaine family has spread like wildfire throughout the region."
Athos rubbed his face and nodded. "How much food do both your regiments have…? Are you rationing, and how long can you make it stretch?"
Pruette puckered his lips and raised his eyebrows. "Thinly rationed… my men are looking at ten days."
"Mine as well," Comtois said. He licked his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue and rubbed his forehead. "Raboin is the problem. Does the king not see it?"
Athos looked toward the entry and frowned as he cocked his head slightly to the left.
"What is it?" Comtois asked and glanced in the direction of the tent flap and then at Pruette, who shrugged.
"The cannons have stopped firing," Athos said. He walked to the entry and flung the tent flap back.
Comtois and Pruette quickly followed.
"Is it a Spanish miracle, perhaps?" Comtois said and chuckled as he exited.
It was the first time in several days that they heard silence. Even those on the battlefield held fast as the silence overwhelmed them.
"We should go," Pruette said. "Before Raboin sends his guards to find us."