CHAPTER 37

"Enter," the Captain called out in response to the knock on his door.

Keeping a neutral expression on his face, Treville studied the disheveled man who was standing before him. Athos, as seemed to be his norm, was standing not quite at attention, staring straight ahead at an imaginary spot on the wall.

"Your assignment, in the end, was successful?" the Captain asked, moving around to stand in front of his desk.

That did illicit a small wince from the usually stoic musketeer. "I suppose it depends on your definition of success. The Spanish are finished. The King got his horses. But the price, in human lives, was too great."

"So, you know? How? Did you come across them? I didn't get the impression that Aramis or Porthos knew," Treville questioned, his tone indicating his great puzzlement.

Now, it was Athos' turn to look confused. "Them?"

As if they were in a canyon, their words echoed off each other.

"The musketeers."

"Musketeers?"

"And the prisoners."

"Prisoners?"

"From the rescue."

"Rescue?"

By now the Captain realized that Athos didn't know what had happened and he really had no choice but to tell him. He knew they were too far down this path to turn back now. Rubbing a weary hand over his eyes, he relayed the tale as best he knew it. "Only Breten made it back to the garrison. And he survived less than a day, long enough to pass on what had happened to his fallen comrades. They were caught in a storm. Lightning struck a tree. It caught on fire and fell, setting the surrounding trees alight." Treville drew a deep breath then finished the story. "But Mother Nature wasn't done and a whirlwind came through on the tail of the first storm. Other than Breten, no one survived. They all died."

Athos' knees began to buckle and he lurched forward to grab the edge of the Captain's desk with both hands to keep from tumbling to the ground. "All died," he echoed, head hung low between his shoulders.

Treville walked over and placed a hand on Athos' trembling shoulder. "Easy, son."

The words, which Treville thought would be of comfort, set off an unexpected, swift chain-reaction in the swordsman. Athos pushed off the desk violently, stalked across the Captain's office and, placing his back to Treville, stood by the one window overlooking the courtyard below. The word 'son' had rattled him, the tone, the sympathy, the implied caring; his own father had never uttered those words in such a manner.

"But you only think you have heard the end of the story. I am here to tell you there is..." Athos swallowed hard, "...more." Taking a deep breath, he paused for a moment as he stared out the window. Shaking his head, he exhaled. "Another escaped that storm. The Spanish Captain, Anton. How, I have no idea. But he did and he made his way back to Comte Vergy's farm. And then..." a shudder ripped through Athos' exhausted frame and he bowed forward a bit. "And then the Comte took the bullet meant for me. The Spanish Captain came back to kill me and instead Jourdain paid my price."

Captain Treville silently walked over to the cabinet where he kept his liquor. He found two mugs and poured a good measure of brandy into each. Grabbing the mugs, he walked over and handed one to Athos who was still by the window. Distractedly, Athos took the mug that was practically forced into his hand.

"To the fallen," Treville offered by a way of a salute to the dead. After they each took a sip he added, "Damn shame." With that, the Captain downed the rest of his drink.

After moving to place his empty cup on his desk, Treville addressed the worn-down musketeer, who still hadn't turned from the window. "You knew Comte Vergy." He said it as a statement of fact, being the only man in the garrison who knew Athos' real past.

"I did. He was a...friend," Athos answered, his tone deep with sadness. "One of the few I had growing up. And," he added with a bitter laugh, "my father approved of him."

"Were you able to keep the others from knowing," Treville asked with curiosity.

"Jourdain was discreet. Though, in his will, he left the Comte de la Fère rights to any horse on the estate and then asked me to deliver the message to him." In one gulp, Athos downed the rest of the brandy before turning, walking over and placing the empty cup in the cabinet. He looked directly at his Captain. "He died because of me."

"He died because the Spanish were illegally in France trying to steal horses," Treville replied firmly. "You were doing your job." He could tell by the look on Athos' face he wasn't buying into it. What the swordsman didn't know was he had even bigger worries. But like Aramis and Porthos earlier, the Captain thought that news could wait for tomorrow, after Athos had had a chance to clean up, eat and rest.

Athos was growing restless and wanted to leave, but knew he couldn't just walk out until he was dismissed. Mentally and physically he was a wreck and he simply needed to get away from everyone. And, a little voice added in his mind, get some wine and drink until he passed out.

Treville sensed the growing restlessness in his musketeer and knew it was only Athos' sense of duty, which he had in abundance, that was keeping him in the office. "Get cleaned up, eat and sleep. We will talk more in the morning after muster."

Treville could practically see the relief in Athos' body when he was dismissed. The musketeer hurried towards the door. As he opened it, Athos heard Treville add a caveat to the dismissal.

"And I expect you to be at muster tomorrow sober, Athos." Treville swore he saw Athos' flinch when his words hit home.

Athos, for all he wanted to slam the Captain's door with frustration, didn't, closing it gently before stumbling his way to the rail over-looking the courtyard below. Bracing both arms against the horizontal wooden rail, he dropped his head low and cursed. Sober. The word echoed through his head. Sober...sober...sober. He was very afraid it was a command he wasn't going to be able to obey tonight.

With a grunt, he pushed off the rail and made his way down the stairs. Pausing, he debated his next move...eat, sleep or cleanse. It only took a slight breeze to stir and drift across his filthy body and clothes to know which had to be done first. As he wasn't in the mood for company, he surreptitiously crossed the yard to the barracks and breathed a sigh of relief when he made it unobserved.

Once inside his room he was tempted simply to flop down on his bed and give in to his exhaustion, but his common, and olfactory, sense won out. Grudgingly, he took off his weapons belt and draped it over the table. His clothes were stripped off and, other than his doublet, which he draped over a chair, went in an untidy heap on the floor. Luckily, he had some clean towels tucked away in an oaken chest which he retrieved, then wrapped one around his waist and draped the second over his shoulders. He was still uncomfortable in public showing the scars he'd garnered on his first adventure with Porthos.

When he opened the door, he peered around to see if the area was still empty and it was, except for a hired hand named George, who helped out about the garrison. It was a fortuitous moment for one of George's tasks was to warm water and fill the tubs for the musketeers. He motioned George over, made his request and the man smiled as he cheerfully lumbered away. George was a good soul, always willing to tackle any task assigned. While not the sharpest tool in the shed, Athos found George's unassuming presence more tolerable than a large portion of the regiment.

Knowing it would take George a while to get things ready, Athos slipped back into his room for a few minutes, desperately hoping to avoid Porthos and, especially, Aramis. He wasn't in the mood to deal with the marksman's exuberance and medical prodding.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Athos dropped his head into his hands. The dark cloud of despair that had been hovering enveloped him. Jourdain's death hit him like a rock taking his breath away. Images of their times together flashed before him, interspaced with scenes of his death. This whole trip had been nothing but death and destruction. Then it hit him. What he had told himself he'd avoid.

Almost as if it wasn't part of his body, his hand reached out, groping and shaking the wine bottles on the little stand by his bed, searching for one that had liquid in it. Finally, after three tries, his fourth yielded results and he guzzled down every drop before letting the bottle fall onto the bed. Rising from the bed, he made his way across the room to a closed cabinet. Reaching out his hand, he almost jerked it open, then stopped and leaned his forehead against the wooden surface instead. Promise, he scolded himself. You made a promise.

Pushing away from the cabinet with resolve, he headed for the door. George probably was done by now and if not, it would still be safer to wait in the wash room. Still preoccupied with the bottle of wine that seemed to be calling his name, Athos flung open the door, stepped outside and nearly collided with Serge, the cook. It was a toss-up who was more startled, though Serge was the first to speak.

"And the third has returned. I saw your two compatriots earlier scarf up dinner like they hadn't eaten in a month of Sundays." Serge ran a critical eye over Athos exposed body. "You look like you ain't seen the feed bag in a while neither."

Athos stood there staring at Serge, the last person he'd expected to run into and also the garrison's biggest gossip. Adjusting the towel on his back to make sure he was covered, he explained, "As a soldier, you know what it is like in the field when it comes to food."

"Aye, I do at that. That's why I make sure I feed you boys well in my garrison. Build up your reserve," the old soldier said with pride. "I may be old but doesn't mean I can't be useful."

"I was on my way to the wash room. I have the grime of ancient civilizations on my person."

Serge gave him a quizzical look.

"I'm dirty," Athos amended drily.

"Understand. The field is a messy place. That's why I keep my kitchen spotless."

Athos wasn't sure he got the connection, but he ignored it and went on with his plea. "I was hoping to take a nice, quiet, bath. Alone," he emphasized in case Serge didn't get it.

But the crafty old cook did. "So, you'll be wanting me to keep your whereabouts quiet, even from your two sidekicks."

"Especially from them. We have been on the road together forever. You know how it is. One needs a break."

Serge gave the young swordsman a toothy grin. He liked this new recruit, even if he was very reserved. But Serge's sixth sense, which had served him well all his years, said Athos was one of the good ones, destined to be even more. Too bad the young man couldn't see his own self-worth. "Nobody's gonna get from me that you're back. Go. Enjoy your soak in peace. I'll even bring ya a little something to eat."

"Please. Don't trouble yourself. I'm fine," Athos replied to Serge's offer.

"No trouble. It's my job. Besides, underneath those cuts, which you might want your friend to look at, I can see your ribs."

Athos couldn't stop the faint blush from creeping over his skin and Serge let out a gruff laugh. "You are an odd one Athos. Boldest man I ever saw with sword. Stone-faced and yet you blush like a maiden bride on her wedding night." Kindly, he patted Athos' arm. "I'm just an old soldier and I've seen it all. If you don't be wanting the rest of the garrison gawking at you, I'd tighten them towels and use the back corridor."

Somehow, while they had been talking, the towels indeed had slipped a bit more than Athos found comfortable. With a nod of thanks and a deepening blush, Athos hurried away.

Serge chuckled to himself as he hurried off to his kitchen. Young men. A lot of bluster but still blushing boys at heart.