XXVI. Dead Men's Charge

The following days were long, and every hour that passed dragged itself into eternity. The musketeers were staying inside the fortress, as none of them dared to step outside once more after what had happened during Aramis' rescue. Too threatening were the shadows among the trees, and too uncertain was the situation and fate of the others on Ré Island.

Athos, Aramis and Porthos had tried their best to keep everyone's spirits up, but it was difficult to maintain their own optimism. The civilians were getting ever more uneasy, as they slowly began to realize that the musketeers did not have an escape plan. Just about half of the musketeers that had landed on Ré Island all those weeks ago were still here, and most of them were not even at full strength. They were hungry, they were exhausted, they were injured. And above all, they were scared, even though most would not admit it.

Three of them were seriously wounded, and would be no help should the anticipated battle begin. Arthur was among them. He was still holding on, but everybody knew that they needed to bring him to the mainland. As soon as possible.

The weight of temporary command, and thus the weight of making the decisions nobody wanted to make, had fallen back to Athos, Aramis and Porthos. Not even the cadet Frédéric had protested. For reasons Athos did not understand, the remaining musketeers counted on them to take the lead.

Porthos, still suffering from his stay at Lord Eadmund's and still troubled by his limited eyesight, had spent the days taking care of the needs of the civilians. He had become their contact person, and despite the fact that he liked to use the evening to rant about Lucien or other civilians' ignorance and annoyance, he had treated them all as well as the circumstances allowed. With respect, patience and determination.

Aramis was still limping more than he probably should after all those weeks, and after the ordeal at the farmhouse and everything that went with it, he was far from his best form. The wound in his back had stopped bleeding but was healing slowly. He had taken charge of the medical tent, and treated Arthur and the others with everything he had, but his hands had been shaking badly and Guillaume had stepped in to serve as his assistant.

Athos had tried his best to keep the others busy, to distract them from the lurking English menace outside of the walls, but he also hadn't let down his guard. He too was still hurting. Aramis had treated the wounds on his arm, but the arm was still useless, and the pain had spread up to his neck and down to his wrist. Luckily, at least according to Aramis, his temperature remained only slightly elevated, indicating that the infection was not spreading. After his painful fall from the horse, he was sure he had sustained some major bruising on his ribs and down his knee, but he hadn't allowed Aramis to check and didn't plan on doing so. He was moving around stiffly, yes, but he couldn't allow himself to rest.

Everybody had their tasks to fulfill. Porthos dealt with the innocent civilians, Aramis with the musketeers and those who were injured, and Athos was left to deal with the English and whatever they had planned next. He had used the days to exchange information with the citadel. He had reported the death of General Suard, though he had left out the details.

Commander Décart on the other hand had reported through Captain Méchant that Cardinal Richelieu was sending reinforcements and supplies, and the plan was to land secretly at Fort de la Prée on the eastern shore of Ré Island. Buckingham had ignored the abandoned fort so far, and hadn't bothered to station any surveillance troops there. A welcome trap for Richelieu to set.

Further on, Méchant had said a distraction would be welcome, and Athos knew without the Captain saying so that the musketeers were part of the distraction. As long as they were still here, the English wouldn't bother to check Fort de la Prée. To Commander Décart, the musketeers were expandable, just as they had been to General Suard.

When the eighth day had dawned, Athos had already felt it in his bones that something was changing.

He had spent most of the morning and midday checking their supplies and preparing their weapons, before he had decided to get a little bit of rest.

In the afternoon, Porthos had woken him, anxiously reporting that a naval battle had erupted just about half an hour ago. Athos had been so exhausted that not even the thundering cannons had been able to wake him from the sleep he badly needed.

Athos had hurried towards their lookout spot near the wall, and the distant fire on the open sea accompanied by the muffled bang of cannons underlined Porthos' statement.

It was too misty to make out anything specific, but a tiny piece of Athos' heart clung to the hope that those were French ships trying to break through the English blockade. In the best case, this was Captain Tréville coming to their rescue. In worst case, the musketeers were truly and ultimately surrounded by the enemy. In a weird and twisted way, he was looking forward to it, no matter the outcome. Because at the moment, anything was better than waiting for something to happen.

Athos didn't have too long to think about what was going on at sea. It was what was going on right in front of him that required his attention.

"Hey, over here!" Guillaume suddenly called to nobody in particular, and Athos turned on the spot and looked. Guillaume was standing at the gates and seemed to be reporting something to Aramis. The marksman was focused on the gate but kept casting worrying glances towards the civilians.

Athos, with Porthos right by his side, strode over to join his friend. As soon as Guillaume noticed them, he nodded and left to gather the rest of the soldiers, without saying a single word of explanation.

"Aramis?" Athos asked sharply, but Aramis just stared at the gate, his hand scratching his beard absentmindedly.

"They're here," he reported tonelessly and made a gesture towards the closed gate. "It's the English General. They revealed themselves. We have roughly fifty muskets aimed at us, and we have seen at least two cannons. The Butcher – Lord Eadmund – isn't waiting any longer."

Athos looked at him, just for a moment, and he felt the stares of all the other musketeers on him. Through the silence in the fortress, they heard distant voices and movements, even over the distant turmoil at sea. The Butcher's troops seemed to be here, and they were close.

Knowing that the others waited for orders, or waited for somebody to take charge, Athos just raised his arm and gave a signal. He didn't dare to yell out anything; who knew how close the English really were and how much they understood. The clenched fist in the air was something every musketeer understood immediately – arm yourselves.

All of them hurried towards the tent where they kept the few supplies they had. Porthos, Aramis and Athos stayed where they were. Athos never took off his weapons, and Aramis and Porthos had been up all day and were armed to the teeth.

"This is it, then," Aramis clasped his hands together, tightly. "I guess this is our last stand."

Porthos shook his head. "There's a battle at sea. It could be Treville, hell, I'd even welcome the Cardinal if I have to. We just have to hold on long enough."

"They have cannons," Athos pointed out rightfully. "We are at clear disadvantage." He stated a fact, but made sure that it didn't sound as if it intimidated him.

"Well, what did Porthos say again?" Aramis said with a hint of a smile, clearly regaining his confidence. "When has that stopped us?"

Porthos grunted affirmatively.

"This is the end here," Aramis continued with a steady voice, wincing as he straightened up and jarred his wounds. "This war – at least our war – is lost. All we can do is hold our ground, and try to get those innocent people to safety. But first...," and he turned to see the waiting and armed rows of musketeers surrounding them in a half-circle. The civilians, led by Lucien, were there too, staring at them in anticipation. Fear was written all over their faces.

"Somebody has to say something," Aramis finished with a low voice, so only Athos and Porthos could hear him. Both Porthos and Aramis rested their gazes on Athos.

"Why are you looking at me?" Athos hissed, raising an eyebrow. "You both know I'm no speechmaker."

Aramis sighed. "That's true." His gaze wandered towards Porthos. "And I fear I'm unable to choose the right, encouraging words at the moment."

Porthos shrugged. "Fine, I'll do it." He turned towards the waiting soldiers, Athos and Aramis took their places by his side. "Just…back me up, will you?" he added towards his brothers before he raised his voice. But he stayed cautious and made sure not to yell or shout.

"The English are here. They brought cannons, and they are in attack formation. Our number one priority is to protect the civilians, and to protect our injured comrades. I am not going to lie – we are outnumbered. Heavily outnumbered." He made a short pause. "So we have three options: One, we surrender and beg for our lives."

The reaction was immediate. At least half of the assembled men grimaced sourly and shook their heads, others crossed their arms in front of their chest and looked at Porthos as if he had just insulted both them and God.

Porthos had a contented spark in his eyes. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Two, we run. But we won't get far and at least half of us are going to die, let alone the number of civilians who will be caught in the crossfire."

The reaction was about the same as before. While one or two musketeers looked as if they were seriously considering it, the rest of them stared at Porthos wordlessly, raising questioning eyebrows and they didn't even try to conceal the anger on their faces.

"Right, doesn't sound too appealing to me either," Porthos mumbled before he continued. "Or three, we stay, we fight, and we hope that those ships trying to get through the English blockade are Treville and our brothers-in-arms. We face them, we fight them, and with a bit of luck, we win."

He was rewarded with silence. Athos could hear Aramis shifting nervously from one foot to the other, while he kept throwing glances towards the gate, as if he feared it might explode any second. Which, Athos reminded himself, it could.

"With a bit of luck?" Théo repeated pensively. "It's going to be difficult. We are far from our best form. Hell, many of us can barely stand. How are we supposed to prevail?"

"Together," Porthos answered gruffly. "We are used to fighting side by side. We will cover each others weaknesses, and we will not separate."

"What you are asking here, Porthos," the cadet Frédéric added politely, but skeptically, "is that we trust that nobody here will surrender themselves, that we are all on the same side."

"Aren't we?" Athos cut in sharply, sending a dark glare towards Frédéric. Sowing doubt was the last thing they needed. The cadet raised his arms defensively and took a step back.

"If you are unable to trust the man next to you, behind you…," Aramis explained calmly. "Then you are already a dead man."

"I'm placing my bets on the Captain," Porthos grunted and smiled. "Hope is not lost."

"No it isn't," Athos agreed. The musketeers exchanged some looks, others a few words. Athos grew more and more uneasy the longer they waited. It wasn't as if the Butcher was going to wait for them to finish their deliberations.

"But how are we supposed to do all that?" Guillaume asked, and Athos noticed Lucien nodding along. "How are we supposed to protect them?" He made a wide gesture towards the men, women and children who were mostly staring at Athos, Porthos and Aramis in tense anticipation.

"Just standing between the English and the civilians is a death sentence," Aramis declared and made an unsteady step forward. "I mean, we could, but I guarantee you that the English will riddle this place with cannon balls, and then we're back to one of the less popular options Porthos mentioned. We should at least have some kind of plan."

"If what we're counting on is true, and the Captain is coming for us," Guillaume raised his voice, "then we should make sure that the civilians get to the beach, so they can reach any possible rescue boats first."

"Question is," Aramis countered, "How are they supposed to get to the beach unnoticed? The only way out is the gate." He looked at Athos, as if he had already seen the thought taking shape in Athos' tired mind.

"It is. I have a plan," Athos suggested slowly, and turned around to face all of the men. "But I doubt you will like it."

"Sir, with all due respect, why are we waiting so long to attack?" Captain Harris dutifully looked up at his General. Lord Eadmund was seated on top of a tall, lean horse, which was throwing its head about impatiently. They were at the back of a formation of soldiers, with the muskets aligned in the first row and the swordsmen in the second row.

The General almost looked like he was about to laugh at the question. "You are familiar with the definition of a siege, I hope?"

Captain Harris lowered his gaze, keeping it locked on the fine craftsmanship of the pistol in his hands. "I am, Sir. But the musketeers are outnumbered. They have been outnumbered for days. The cannons have been in place for four days; why have we waited so long to attack them?"

Lord Eadmund just threw his Captain a tolerant look. "The musketeers have proven to be better fighters, and better strategists," he explained patiently. "But they haven't been able to leave their fortress for days. They are hungry, they are sick. Injured. They aren't able to put up much of a fight."

"Neither are we," Captain Harris murmured, and could consider himself lucky the General didn't hear him. The musketeers might have had a harder battle with supplies and wounded, but the situation of the English on Ré Island wasn't much better. With autumn setting in, sickness had reached the English camp and had left many men unable to fight. Not all of the supply ships had made it through to them, and resources were fading quickly. (And it was hard not to mention that on top of it all, they were continuing to fight the French soldiers to the death here. Still, those extra days may have also given the musketeers time to come up with a strategy.

"Then why now?" Harris had learnt that he was allowed to question his orders in front of the General, as long as he still followed them.

The General bent down over his horse's neck. "You hear those cannons?" Eadmund's face was like stone. "The French are trying to get through our blockade, and it seems they have brought many ships. We will attack, now, while we still have the upper hand."

Harris nodded slowly, and while he threw concerned looks towards the distant fires at sea, he raised his hand.

"Cannons!" Harris' order was repeated multiple times down the line, and he could hear the artillery being brought close enough to hit its target. To tear the fortress' walls down.

There it was again. The threatening and choking silence before a battle, where a man was able to hear his neighbour's heartbeat. Where a man was trying to contain his shaking knees, where a man said his prayers before entering the battlefield, giving in to the way of the sword.

But this time, it was not followed by the General's order, nor by an infuriated yell of one of the soldiers to finally begin the battle.

Something unexpected happened. Right before Lord Eadmund was able to say anything or give an order, the gates of the fortress started to open. Harris did not know what he had expected, but the musketeers willingly opening their shelter was not one of the options he had believed possible. The creaking sound of the old, wooden gate could be heard even among the English soldiers, and none of them uttered a word. There was absolute silence as they watched the scene unfold in front of them. The English soldiers all took a step back, as if they feared what would come out of those gates.

The musketeers revealed themselves. One by one, they exited the fortress, and started aligning in one formation in front of the gate. Some firearms in the front, the swordsmen behind them. Far enough away so the English muskets would most likely miss most of their targets, but still, they exposed themselves to a risk.

They were all wearing the same uniform, with no leader among them. Yet, it did not look like they needed one. Slowly, they began to move forward.

They all looked more like ghosts than men, more dead than alive. Even from afar, Harris was able to make out how many of them were limping, others sported bandages around their heads and chests. Some of them had to be supported, and again others had the facial color of fresh snow. And their numbers were far fewer than Eadmund had expected.

Still, those were no common men. They were musketeers, and Harris had no reason to believe that everything that was being told about those elite soldiers was a lie. For the first time, despite the fact that the English were clearly superior in numbers, he did not feel confident. He felt afraid.

The musketeers all shared the same look of grim determination on their faces. It seemed like the men knew that this was their last stand, one way or another. Yet, they chose to face their enemy, and charge with everything they had left. They showed courage without ferocity and it made them dangerous as they kept advancing toward their enemy.

Harris couldn't help but stare. It was intimidating, and even though he had developed a hatred for the musketeers due to the fact that he had lost many comrades to their swords, he felt a deep respect forming in his heart. And fear. Because the sight was terrifying.

Lord Eadmund was the only one who did not seem to be intimidated. He just raised a hand, exchanged one last look with Harris, and gave the signal.

"Fire."

The plan was simple, yet they were putting everything on one card: Treville. The only way out of this seemed to be through it. Athos had not needed to explain very much. The battle was going to happen one way or another, and in the end, it did not matter if they stayed in the fortress or not.

The intention behind Athos' plan had been to do what the English would not expect – face them directly, and give up their shelter. Mostly because their shelter wouldn't have bought them a lot of time with the artillery against them, but also to shake the enemy's morale. Aramis had to admit, it had been good thinking, and he and Porthos had immediately backed Athos up on this.

They had stormed right out of the front gate, revealing themselves and all their weaknesses to the English as they now approached them in the formation of a single line, with all the musketeers that were left. Some might say it was the action of men who had nothing left to lose, but it wasn't true. This way, they forced all of the attention on themselves, and in addition, they shielded the view towards the gate, where the civilians and the wounded, led by Lucien, were sneaking out to run towards the beach.

Athos was quivering with every step he made, and so were the others. They were shaking, with exhaustion, with uncertainty, with nervousness. But not with fear. Near the tree lines, Athos made out the silhouette of a horseman, one that could only be the infamous English General. The English soldiers were aligned to his left, and if Athos was not mistaken, they moved backwards unconsciously. Perhaps, the madness of their plan was not in vain after all. And the dark outlines of the English artillery were aligned behind the wall of soldiers, dark and threatening.

"All for one it is," Aramis murmured to Athos' right, his face a grim mask of determination. Athos took a deep breath.

"And one for all," he answered in unison with Porthos to his left. None of them diverted their gazes from the enemy's front line, none of them slowed down just one bit.

"….one for all." The soft murmur repeated itself through the row of musketeers. Most of them spoke to themselves, others to Athos and his brothers and again others to God. But none of them slowed down. They kept charging into a battle with the odds against them.

Athos felt the presence of Aramis and Porthos by his side, and he realized that should this be their last stand, he was in the best company he could wish for.

Time seemed to slow down. They felt the blood pulsating through their hearts, they felt the cold metal of their swords and pistols against the palms of their hands and they felt the coldness of the wind that blew into their faces.

Near the trees, the first orders were shouted and pierced through the sound of their blood pounding in their ears.

They didn't even look up to face the hail of cannons that would send them straight to hell.

Thank you to Laureleaf and Jmp for your kind comments, I really appreciate them! I'll try my best not to keep you waiting for too long for Part II. Thank you.