II. Dark Night at Saint-Blanceau
July 1627, the beach of Saint-Blanceau, Ile de Ré
"Everybody, take your positions, prepare to fire!"
Athos' command spread through the rows of men gathered behind the dunes. He turned his head to the left, and then to the right, taking notice of the lines of men lying low on the ground, anticipating and waiting.
"It seems like at least the weather is on our side." That was Aramis' voice. The marksman was lying on the ground next to Athos, together with at least twenty other marksmen. He had a musket prepared and ready to fire, his eyes narrowed as he tried to see what was happening on the beach.
Porthos, to Athos' left, drew his weapon and grunted. "Hell, my eyes get all teary due to this damn wind."
Athos sighed. "The wind will make it even harder for them to bring their boats ashore," he stated mildly, his eyes locked on the torch fires in the distance.
It had been over two years since he had joined the regiment of the musketeers, and since he had met Aramis and Porthos on the exact same island where they now waited for the English attack. Deep inside, he had hoped he would never have to go here again, but the situation in La Rochelle had derailed out of the King's control.
They had been sent as reinforcements to join the infantry under the command of Jules Decart in order to protect the island against possible assault by the English. They had valid information that the Duke of Buckingham, having been prevented from landing at the port of La Rochelle with his men, was aiming for this island now.
Following Richelieu's orders, Captain Tréville had sent some of his men to Décart's troops, and he had given Athos, Aramis and Porthos the lead here. The three of them had the authority to take care of the musketeer division, but in the end, they were to follow Commander Decart's orders.
Nobody but Athos had been surprised by this, but the swordsman wasn't sure yet how to handle the responsibility Tréville had put on his shoulders. Aramis and Porthos had agreed that Athos was the most capable of leading the men, so most of the responsibility fell back on him.
Their arrival had been too chaotic, and despite the fact that the musketeer detachment was taking orders from Commander Décart, they formed their own independent battalion. For now, at least.
"That's...oh, merde. Athos?" Aramis called to his friend as he watched the stormy sea with narrowed eyes.
"Yes?" Athos knelt down, trying to look for whatever Aramis' eyes had spotted.
"They're here." Aramis sounded calm and composed, but Athos could see the sheer shock in his eyes as he watched the dark silhouettes of ships in the distance.
Porthos, on Athos' other side, exhaled slowly. "Shit. Those are far more than we thought. At least sixty ships. Probably more."
"Buckingham's fleet," Athos explained carefully, his hand locked around his musket. "We should inform the Commander."
"The Commander has eyes himself, Athos," Porthos grumbled. "We don't need to tell him."
"No," Athos hissed. "But we have to follow his orders." He shot his brothers-in-arms a questioning look, noticing how nobody even tried to take the lead here.
He snorted. "Let me guess, I get to talk to Decart again?"
Porthos merely shrugged. "The man made it very obvious he doesn't have much respect for me."
Aramis didn't divert his gaze from the shore. "I clearly dislike the Commander, and I'm lacking the self-control to hide the fact from him, I'm afraid."
Athos rolled his eyes and propped up on his elbows. It wasn't news to him. Aramis, Porthos and Athos were equal in rank, and all three had been given the lead for reasons only Tréville knew. But for some reason, Athos had become the unofficial spokesman for them.
"Fine," he hissed eventually. "Nobody shoots unless they have orders from either the Commander or me, clear?"
Aramis nodded, not looking up once. "Hurry."
Athos didn't waste another second and crawled backwards, until he was safe to stand up again. The darkness of the night gave them cover, but he preferred to stay safely hidden behind the dunes.
He passed a few lines of French soldiers, those who were under Captain Méchant's command. Méchant was focused on the ships too, and he was quietly giving orders to his marksmen, making wide gestures in the process.
Athos approached from behind, and carefully put a hand on Méchant's arm. The man jerked in surprise and once his gaze fell on Athos, he exhaled slowly and crawled backwards into the cover of the night. He was a tall, lean man, with his black hair tied neatly at his neck.
"What is it, musketeer?"
Méchant, for some reason, didn't think that highly of the musketeer company among the army. Athos knew he was a nobleman from the North, and the fact that he had spent many years with his kind and knew how to talk to them was probably the only reason why he received a little respect from him. Méchant was maybe thirty years old, the second son of a powerful noble, and he was certain that noble blood made a man a better leader and it granted him a higher position in society by nature.
Athos might think differently, but he had learnt not to take the Captain too personally or too seriously. However, Méchant, despite his difficult personality, was a good leader, and he cared about his men. Athos respected that.
"Where's the Commander?" Athos asked straight away.
Méchant furrowed his brow. "Why? We have our orders."
Athos scowled. "We have orders to shoot on sight. Have you seen how many Englishmen plan to come ashore here? Have you seen how many ships there are?"
Méchant sighed. "Yes, I have. Our position is vulnerable, I agree. But the Commander was quite clear about the orders."
"Just tell me where he is," Athos repeated impatiently.
The Captain pointed into the western direction. "Not far, maybe fifty metres. At least last time I saw him. It's a dark night."
Athos just grunted and tipped his hat. "It is."
With those words, he ended the conversation and left to search for the Commander. He headed west, into the cover of the trees, passing yet another regiment of infantry.
He found Commander Décart on horseback among some other high-ranked officers, his eyes narrowed as he worriedly observed the English ships in the distance. He wore a hat, which plunged most of his face in darkness, but Athos felt the stare out of the pale grey eyes even from afar.
"Athos," the man greeted him with an indifferent tone in his voice.
"Sir." Athos tilted his head as a respectful greeting, but didn't waste more time. He knew the Commander valued brevity. "I come to ask for new orders," he said with a determined expression on his face, not diverting his gaze from his superior.
Décart exchanged a look with his neighbours, but bent down over his horse's neck.
"Finally. I was wondering when the first one of you would show up." The Commander's voice was deep and raspy, due to years of yelling orders across a battlefield.
Athos withstood the Commander's powerful look. "I suspect the orders have changed?" he simply asked, choosing to ignore the prior comment.
Décart straightened up again, his eyes roaming over the regiment.
"Shooting on sight would've been a good idea if there had been only a dozen ships or less," he stated slowly. "But with this number of ships, it would only be a waste of bullets."
Athos didn't show any reaction, but he grunted. "I agree, Sir."
"So, how would you think Buckingham approaches? Do you think he'd sacrifice a number of his own men just so he can come ashore and besiege the island?"
The musketeer raised a questioning eyebrow. "What makes you think a man like me knows about the strategic mind of the Duke of Buckingham?"
Décart chuckled. "Don't take me for a fool, Athos. You were with the King when he met with Buckingham and must have formed some opinion of the man." He made a dramatic pause as if that answered the unspoken questions.
Athos sighed, but every muscle in his body was tense. "I was present when the King and Buckingham met one day. If you ask me, the Duke thinks he is a strategic genius and tends to feel superior to his opponent. He probably underestimates you. And since he has us outnumbered, I'm quite confident he plans to send one boat after the other and shoot us off this beach if he has to."
Décart again exchanged meaningful looks with his officers but then, he smiled grimly.
"Very well. Tell your men to hold their fire. We won't shoot at their boats; it has no use to us to waste so many bullets. The weather is on our side for this." As if to underline the statement, the harsh wind blew the Commander's hat off. "But as soon as the English put a foot on this beach, I want to open fire. We will make sure they won't reach the dunes. And if they do, the swordsmen will deal with them." He stared at Athos, as if he could read the man's doubt from his face. "Go back to your men, soldier," Décart said with a strict voice. "You have your orders."
Athos pressed his lips together and took a bow. "Sir."
With that, he turned on his heel and headed back towards the company of the musketeers. They had horses and carts with supplies hidden a short distance away, in case they needed to flee. Athos sincerely hoped it wouldn't come to that. Not that he was particularly excited about shooting every Englishman that dared to put a foot on the island, but he wasn't stupid. He knew that it was going to be kill or be killed tonight
He ducked his head again once he reached the musketeer company and crawled towards his friends, who were both looking at the ships, each of them ready to fire.
"What did Décart say?" Aramis asked once he sensed Athos' presence. He didn't even bother to look up.
"It appears we can just shoot at will once the enemy has landed and hope it doesn't end up in chaos," Athos commented dryly, his eyes still locked on the ships coming closer. In the distance they could see the first men climbing down from the ships into the landing boats, their torches being the only light in the total darkness.
"If we all just shoot on sight, it's going to be a complete waste, absolutely insufficient," Porthos rightfully pointed out. "At least a third of our men can't hit a target at this distance."
Athos furrowed his brow and turned his head to look at Porthos. "What do you suggest?"
"We build teams," Porthos explained with a low voice. "Three people. Two of them shoot, the third continues to reload the weapons. Each of us has at least one, if not two muskets with him. Contrary to the other companies."
Athos bit his lip, but nodded slowly. "It might work," he admitted. "We have the advantage of being better equipped, and better armed. I'll go tell the swordsmen; their job will be to reload the weapons while the other two shoot." He hesitated for a short moment. "Good thinking, Porthos."
Porthos just grunted and pulled out his own long-distance weapon from his belt.
"They're descending onto the boats, Athos," Aramis now pointed out. He already had a musket aimed at the beach. "They'll land on the beach in less than five minutes."
Athos nodded. "As soon as some of them escape the waves and make it on to the beach, you fire, understood?"
Aramis grimaced and shook his head.
"Two hundred feet. It makes no sense to shoot earlier. Tell the others to wait for my signal."
"You want me to tell everyone to hold their fire until you say so, while the other regiments riddle the beach with bullets?" Athos repeated dubiously.
"You should really have more faith in me, mon ami," Aramis commented, sounding slightly insulted, but Athos only growled.
"Do me a favour, and don't get us all killed." With that, he rose from his position, and snuck over to another troop of musketeer infantry, those who couldn't handle a musket.
They were at least ten men, wearing the uniforms of common soldiers but their weapons belts with the attached fleur-de-lis marked them as musketeers. They were all exchanging words quietly, and they looked up once they heard Athos approach.
"Athos, this is madness!" a musketeer called Mathis said. He was still quite young, his face still that of a boy, but he was popular amongst the men. Athos knew he spoke for the others. "There are so many of them. They sent their whole naval fleet against us few. What do you suspect are our chances?"
"We have the high ground here," Athos pointed out coolly. "Numbers don't matter as long as you don't decide to stand around being useless." It was meant facetiously, but the comment sounded sharper than he had intended.
Mathis wasn't impressed. "Then tell us what to do," he demanded.
Athos sighed, but nodded. "Each one of you, you'll assist the marksmen, reload their weapons so they can shoot faster. You wait until Aramis gives the command." He waited a short moment, but nobody felt the need to object.
"Mathis, you come and assist me and Porthos. Arthur, you support Aramis and Eric." The two musketeers just nodded briefly and crouched to their positions. Athos continued to organize the troops and once he was done, he lay down next to Porthos, his musket ready to fire.
He reached for his bag and handed his ammunition over to Mathis, who was already preparing one of the muskets.
"You ready, Athos?" Porthos queried from the side and shot him a quick side-glance. Athos just nodded, his eyes narrowed as he watched the movement on the beach.
His whole body was tense, and he could feel the nervous atmosphere that hung over the musketeers like fog, oppressive and intimidating. A raw voice cut through the dead of the night, and in what felt like one motion, the French soldiers opened fire. The fires lit up the darkness, and the thundering of the weapons being used drowned out the screams of the men being hit.
At least two musketeers used their weapons as well, eliciting an angry hiss from Aramis.
"Not yet!"
Veils of smoke started to form over the dunes, and the English brought more and more boats ashore. The wind blew harshly, and the sheer force of the water knocked some boats over before they reached the shore. The screams of the drowning men could probably be heard for miles, some of them were shot on the spot by Méchant's men, who were a lot closer to the beach than the musketeers.
"But they're already shooting!" Arthur yelled over the noise.
Aramis rolled his eyes and raised his hand.
"Hold your fire..." he commanded, and Athos and Porthos did as they were told without questioning it. Aramis was by far the best marksman among them, and he had served in many battles.
"Wait...," Aramis voice echoed through the rows of musketeers.
They heard cannons from the ships, their balls ripping apart the dunes, dirt and grass flying through the air, raining upon their heads. It was quickly followed by the agonized screams of men and the stunned ringing of the impact as the earth was trembling.
"Aramis!" Athos called tensely, his finger twitching towards the trigger as his concern grew the closer the enemy came.
The screams of the men reached his ears, the yelling of the officers, the deafening gunshots. He heard the blood rushing in his ears, and he could hear Porthos' heavy breathing to his right. The English came closer, knelt down in rows and fired their weapons.
For a moment, everybody held their breath, and Athos could've sworn that for a split second, everything was mute. And then, one single word pierced through the silence and reached Athos' ears.
"Fire!"
*A reference to my story To New Shores, where they meet and bond during the recovery of Ré island.
Many thanks for the positive reception of the Prologue, also to those I couldn't respond to personally.