CHAPTER 4
After hunting around where the horses were picketed, finally Athos found his saddle bags. Rummaging in the leather satchels, he grabbed Roger's curry comb before moving over to where the black stallion was peacefully standing, his right rear leg cocked with relaxation. Athos reached up with a weary hand and rubbed the velvety black muzzle with affection. The horse gently chuffed on Athos by way of a greeting. As the swordsman began running the comb over the black stallion's coat, the animal half-closed his eyes and grunted in contentment. Methodically, as he tried to clear his mind, Athos worked his way down one side of his mount and then the other. When he got back to Roger's shoulder, he let his arms hang slack and buried his face in the warm animal's coat. The images from today's battle rushed back into his mind, threatening to overwhelm him. He flung his left hand over the horse's withers to help him remain upright. He had killed and wounded so many men today, with no more thought than his own survival, which was what war was all about he supposed. Still, it made him feel uneasy, as if he was wrong somehow.
With his eyes closed, he unintentionally let his mind drift back to that fateful day he had hanged his wife. Upheld the law. Did his duty, but shattered his own hopes and dreams. It had been more than a year and yet it still hurt his heart and soul as if it only happened yesterday. He had thought, maybe hoped, he could banish his old life and silence his memories by renouncing his past and remaking himself over as a soldier. Do some good serving his King and country. Maybe redeem a small piece of his hell-bound soul. But given how he felt after his first battle, he was not so sure now.
Opening his eyes, he pushed off Roger's shoulder, swaying on his feet. God was he tired. He hadn't really slept in days. The gash in his side was throbbing, his stomach was roiled, his head ached and all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and sleep. However, he knew exactly what would happen if he did, the nightmares would begin. He'd be haunted by the past and the new horrors from today and wake screaming and covered in sweat. Not exactly how he wanted to be seen by his already skeptical fellow musketeers. Yes, Aramis, Porthos and, he thought, Treville knew his nights were haunted, but not the rest of the regiment and he'd rather like to keep it that way even if that meant a few more sleepless nights.
His eyes drifted to his saddlebags lying on the ground next to his saddle. Like a siren, it was calling him and he blindly pushed off Roger and made his way over to his bags. Opening the left-hand pouch, his fingers eagerly sought the bottle that was nestled within its depths. Drawing it forth, he removed the cork and guzzled down the golden liquid. It burned like fire when it hit the back of his throat and continued in a fiery lava flow down to his empty stomach where his greedy, dehydrated bloodstream soaked up the alcohol. After taking a second long hit off the bottle, he began to realize the earth was wobbling and the headache he'd been nursing all day had begun throbbing with an alcohol-fueled vengeance.
The words that ran through his mind as he stumbled to his knees would have made a sailor blush. They didn't get any better when his stomach decided to revolt after he hit the bottle for a third time. The alcohol had burned going down and was equally as painful coming back up. He knelt there, retching in the grass, berating himself for being such an idiot. In the last four months, under the gentle coaxing and watchfulness of Aramis and Porthos, he had found less time and need to indulge. Their subtle, yet not so subtle campaign to keep him relatively dry, along with Treville's warnings and conditions when he became a musketeer, had helped him break his addiction, mostly, though he still had his moments; now was one of them.
Furtively glancing around, he was relieved to note it was only the horses watching him make a jackass of himself. Drinking such strong brandy on an empty stomach, while suffering from blood loss and dehydration was simply stupid. However, none of the horses, save Roger, offered any comment on his behavior. Roger, who'd seen him do stupid things like this before, simply shook his head, as if in disgust, though in reality it was probably just to unseat a fly. Wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, Athos unsteadily climbed to his feet, then made his way over to the saddlebags and tucked away the bottle. He supposed a real recovering alcoholic might have the resolve to pour out the bottle of temptation; but he was not that sold on the idea of sobriety.
With a stifled groan, he walked past Roger giving him a quick pat on the rump. The stallion let out a soft whinny as Athos continued heading back towards the encampment. The light breeze carried both the scents of the camp and the battlefield, a combination that didn't sit well with Athos' alcohol-abused stomach. Swinging wide to the right of the camp, he decided to make his way down to the stream that he had seen earlier. The thought of being able to wash off in the crystal-clear cool water held great appeal to his aching head and battle-grimed body.
Unbeknownst to him, his avoidance of the encampment did not go as unnoticed as he had hoped. Treville, who had a six sense of his own for his men, looked up at the right moment to see the retreating musketeer. Slowly, the Captain rose from where he had been eating dinner, handed his plate and cup to those that would be cleaning up and quietly set out after Athos.
Athos was grateful to see that there was no one near the river. Even so, he moved upstream some ways to ensure his privacy. Standing on the edge of the grassy bank, near an outcropping of rocks, he stared at the water as it flowed by his grimy boots. It was clear. Clean. Untainted. With a frustrated moan, he stripped off his gloves, soiled by the events of the day and flung them on the grass in disgust. Quickly dropping to his leather-clad knees next to the flowing water, he reached out and scooped up the icy cold liquid, repeatedly splashing it on his face. However, it still didn't feel as if it were really cleansing, so he bent over and shoved his head under the water.
He knew what he was really trying to cleanse was his tarnished soul, something that his mind would never allow. Holding his head in place under water, he nearly blacked out before he allowed himself to lift it. Giving it a shake, he flung his hair out of his eyes and then groaned again when the motion made his headache worse. Hunching over, he retched pitifully on the grass, bringing up some of the brandy still sloshing around in his fire-torn belly.
Sitting back on his heels, he let the water drip down his overheated body, which made the drops feel like ice chips as they slid over his hot flesh. Running his hand through his sodden locks, he angrily shoved them out of his face. It was then that he realized he was no longer the only one at the river's edge. Glancing upwards, he saw his Captain standing next to him. With as much dignity as he could muster, Athos forced himself to his feet and stood at a quiet attention in front of his commanding officer. The wet musketeer focused his eyes at a distant spot on the horizon over Treville's left shoulder.
Treville silently studied the man standing in front of him struggling to keep his own face neutral. The Captain knew that Athos would not respond well to anything that suggested he was being pitied, even if he, an experienced soldier, still remembered how hard it was after one's first real battle. Unfortunately, it was an experience that engraved itself in one's soul. Great soldiers used it to ensure they remained respectful and felt remorse for their enemies. Bad soldiers used it to fuel their warped minds, allowing them to create even greater atrocities in the name of war. The Captain knew it was his job to teach the young soldier standing in front of him which path to follow. He decided to address the obvious issue first, for he could smell the reek of alcohol.
"Drinking on an empty stomach, while dehydrated, is never a smart move, not to mention I will not have my men drinking while on duty. Technically, on a mission, you are on duty day and night," he sternly lectured Athos in his authoritative Captain's voice.
Without taking his eyes off the fading horizon, Athos gave a quick nod to indicate he received the message.
"Though," Treville continued, softening his tone as he began to walk towards the river, "I can understand why you did it. But let me tell you, from experience, it doesn't make the nightmare of what occurred today, on the battlefield, ever disappear. Only time, and a proper frame of mind, can tame that demon."
Athos rotated his eyes to watch as Treville moved up the river to a group of flattish boulders near the water's edge. The older man settled with a slight groan on one of the grey speckled rocks. "I'm getting old. Come. Sit before you fall down."
Athos didn't realize he had been swaying slightly with exhaustion as he stood there listening. Somewhat sheepishly, he walked over to where Treville sat and, after the Captain gave him a nod, he too settled on a flattish rock.
"Pretty brutal. What happened on the battlefield today," Treville started off in a low-key, conversational manner.
Athos didn't say anything, but watched his Captain guardedly, unsure where this was going and feeling like he was being led down a path he didn't want to traverse. One on one conversations were never his forte and in truth he preferred silence to speech. As a Comte, he was trained in the art of discourse and he actually was quite accomplished in that area, but like many things it made him…uncomfortable.
The Captain glanced over at the young swordsman who was warily watching him. "Would you like me to tell you how you are feeling, Athos?"
Like a fox approaching what he is sure is a trap, the swordsman cautiously replied, "It seems unreasonable for you to believe you know what I am feeling."
Treville stretched a kink out of his back before settling more comfortably on the hard surface of the grey speckled rock. "No. Not really. You're relieved you're alive, mostly, but torn that your very survival depended on the deaths of so many others. You try to see them as 'the enemy' and yet realize that they are men, just like you, fighting to some degree because they were told. You're not sure, when you stare at the stacks of dead bodies, that whatever the battle was about, land, religion, or perceived slight, was worth all those men's lives. And you know what? You are right. It's not."
Athos was now fully staring at his Captain, his usually closed face wearing a look of disbelief that his Captain was on target about how he was feeling. Athos' anxiety level rose a notch for he was a very private man with trust issues and Treville was stepping all over his boundaries.
And Treville wasn't stupid. In fact, he was an astute judge of character. He knew he had walked passed Athos' 'do not trespass' signs and he had done so deliberately. The Captain knew the Comte had major trust issues and, given his limited knowledge of the young man's past, he understood some of the reasons. However, Athos was a musketeer and Treville wanted Athos to trust him, as his leader, as well as Aramis and Porthos to have his back. And if that meant carefully pushing the swordsman's boundaries, so be it.
"But as soldiers, it is what we signed up to do. Protect King and country. To kill men, whose only real crime might be they are doing what they were ordered to do. In single, one-on-one combat, you know your enemy, exactly what they did and why you are fighting them. It is easy to convince yourself that their death is righteous and honorable. But on the battlefield, in many cases, it is a lot harder to convince yourself. So, after the battle, when you are the one left standing by the grace of God, you feel a sense of guilt and remorse."
The fact that Athos suddenly looked away told Treville he had hit the nail on the head. Reaching over, he laid a gentle hand on Athos's forearm. "It's alright. I want you to feel that way."
"Why?" Athos asked in a tightly controlled voice, though he still kept his eyes adverted.
Giving the swordsman's arm a pat before removing his hand, Treville answered, "Because it means you are human and believe it or not, a good man. I'd be more concerned if you, or anyone in my regiment, could kill and walk away feeling nothing. It's not healthy. Life is precious and none of us have the right to arbitrarily end another's."
Athos turned his piercing green eyes on his commander in a challenge. "And yet we do. And some lives are thrown away heedlessly."
Treville sighed, realizing Athos was a highly-educated man and was not inclined to take the easy road on anything. He also felt there was something more going on that he was yet to understand with this man. "Yes, we do kill. But I like to think it is not arbitrary. We are not walking down the streets of Paris killing the baker because he burnt a loaf of bread."
"No. We are walking in a meadow, killing men, because they are in the wrong place at the wrong time," Athos countered with an edge of sarcasm to his tone.
"No, because they were supporting the wrong cause or the perceived wrong cause." Treville sighed wearily, scrubbing his hand over his grim face. "And in the long run, only history will answer that question."
Athos green eyes turned thoughtful. "That is the crux of the matter it seems…perception." His eyes slid towards the creek. "Battles, as portrayed in books, don't begin to do justice to it all. The sounds, the smells, the onslaught, the sheer brutality." Running a hand through his wet hair, he noted it was trembling. He quickly dropped his shaky limb and tucked it under his legs.
The tremors didn't go unnoticed by Treville, though he didn't see any need to make comment on it. This was the young man's first battle and being disturbed in the aftermath of such an event was not uncommon. Athos might have had adventures as the son of one of the oldest families in France, might be an accomplished swordsman and a bright and educated man, but he had never been a real soldier in a real battle. The Captain would have been more worried if Athos had maintained the cool and aloof mannerisms he normally displayed. He knew, of course, that once Athos was back amongst the men of the regiment, his unruffled persona would re-emerge and no one, other than Aramis or Porthos, would ever suspect how shaken the swordsman was by the events of today.
"Athos," Treville started in a gentle, calm voice, "what you are feeling is natural. Nothing to be ashamed of or concerned about. I felt the same way after my first battle." A small grin crept over his face. "My first battle," he sighed. "Seems like a very long time ago, which it was, and yet every time I step on the field, I experience a second or two of remorse." He straightened slightly and looked Athos squarely in the eye. "But it quickly passes and will for you too, with time."
"Roudon has spoken with me." As Treville had predicted earlier, the Lieutenant was not happy with Athos' behavior. "Once again he felt you did not follow his orders even though he was in command of that sector." Athos looked away again, a sure sign he knew exactly the incident being referred to. "I realize your upbringing may have expected you to give, more than then follow, orders. But here, you are a new recruit, bound by oath to obey."
"Even when the orders show a lack of regard for another's life because they are not perceived to be as valuable as oneself?" Athos blurted out in anger, saying way more than he intended.
"What are you trying to say, Athos?" Treville demanded.
The swordsman grew quiet. He felt that many of the nobles in the regiment, such as Roudon, picked on Porthos because of his skin color and his station in life. As a species, Athos knew many humans tended to judge harshly those that were different. But Athos had spent many months with the 'street rat' as Porthos was called behind his back. He knew the musketeer was one of the most trustworthy men he'd ever known. Rough edges, yes, but a heart bigger than all of France and equally as intelligent. But the elitists only saw Porthos' size and skin color and assumed him inferior.
Athos once had a brief conversation with Porthos on the way the regiment treated him and the big man had not denied at times it made him both sad and angry. But Porthos had also told him you can't force people to change their mind. You could talk to them until you were blue in the face, the streetfighter had told him, or even punch them silly, but in the end the only one who could make them change their minds was themselves. So, Porthos had learned to stop trying to defend who he was and just be who he was and let people either accept him or not.
The swordsman had understood what Porthos had told him and fundamentally agreed, but his damn sense of right and wrong, pride and prejudice, wanted him to fight what he perceived was a great injustice being wrought upon a good man. Porthos had told him to leave it alone and yet every now and then Athos still choose to step in to try to right an injustice. Usually, he did it in a manner that made a point, but couldn't really be traced back to him. However, earlier today, when Roudon instructed Porthos to go forth, on his own, Athos was sure he was about to witness the death of his friend. So, he 'convinced' the rest of the troops to charge too, against Roudon's orders. It had been technically insubordination. But out of respect for Porthos, he would admit guilt to Treville, but leave out his reasons for what he had done earlier on the battlefield.
Turning his eyes back upon his commander, Athos admitted, "Though you have warned me, I acted against Lieutenant Roudon's orders today on the battlefield."
Treville remained silent for a while, knowing there was more Athos wanted to say but for some reason was holding back. When it looked as if the young man was going to remain silent, he sighed and then let his voice grow harsh. "You have been warned about this behavioral pattern. An order is an order whether it comes from me or one of my officers."
Rising from the rock, Treville made sure he held on to Athos' attention. "Remember, while we are musketeers, sworn by oath to protect our King and country, we are not the King or the judge. It is not our duty to decide the fate of a person. We do what we are ordered. Sometimes, you are going to be tempted to take justice into your own hands. Be careful of that path for it is rarely the right one. And if you do go down that trail, be prepared for the consequences." Treville took a deep breath, willing his own mind not to go down that path, for he had been tempted in his career to mete out his own justice. "Take some time for yourself here. Work through this. Then I expect you to report to the medical tent and get that wound taken care of." Treville could tell by the subtle signs Athos was displaying that the man was hurt; it was part of being a good Captain to know these things.
A quick round of panic flashed in Athos' eyes and Treville, perceiving it, added, "Or get Aramis to patch you up. He's better than most medics."
The scars that Athos carried from the slave ship made the musketeer uncomfortable and he preferred to keep their existence hidden, even though they were honorably earned. In time they would fade and, perhaps, his aversion would pass, but for the moment, Aramis could patch him up and keep his secrets.
"And Athos, remember," Treville said adding another lecture to the pile he'd already delivered, "hiding wounds does no one any good. You place yourself and your fellow soldiers at risk. No one would have thought less of you today if you had not hauled the dead bodies off the field."
The swordsman lowered his eyes to his stained shirt and nodded. He knew better, yet when Porthos had asked him to help with the dead, he felt it would have been noted unfavorably if he had refused. Porthos would have understood and in fact the streetfighter would now be furious when he saw the wound. However, Athos' odd lack of concern for his own welfare would not allow him to make any other decision. His father had taught him never to shirk his duty and though he didn't like a lot of the 'duties' of a Comte, he took the lesson to heart. Whatever Athos committed to, he did fully, completely and without reservation. It was what made him a great fighter, always completely having the back of those to whom he had sworn alliance. It was also the trait that was most likely to get him killed some day.