I'm running a couple of hours late today! Thank you all for your feedback. Your comments brought a smile to my face.
And so we continue...
The streets of Paris near and around the palace looked and felt like a war zone. The explosions, gunpowder combined with pieces of iron, stone, and oil caused buildings to burn, and shrapnel that struck Parisians, soldiers, horses, and pets. It pierced windows, embedded itself into doors and siding, and hit the sides of carts, carriages, and wagons.
Those that had perished were laid out along the street and covered in blankets, sheets, and cloaks. Musketeers, red guards, and local Parisians lay together on the cold ground as the body count continued to climb. Four explosions in key locations near the palace had sent fear into those who were fortunate enough to survive and whose homes were far enough away not to be harmed. Mothers and children stayed huddled inside their homes. Able-bodied men helped the king's guards dig and search through the rubble, looking for survivors, fighting fires, and euthanizing the animals that suffered.
Names of families and friends were desperately called and echoed throughout the streets most harshly hit.
Puddles of wine, mixed with blood, pooled beneath planks of wood and piles of debris.
Smoke continued to billow, ash fell like snow, and the scent of gunpowder filled the air. Aramis had hastily instructed those willing how to separate those who could be saved from those who could not. The torment of the decision fell only to those strong enough to make the choice.
Churches, taverns, and brothels were used as temporary shelters for the wounded. Tables were cleared for bodies, chairs made available for those wounded but able to walk.
Aramis wiped his brow with the back of his arm. He had tossed his doublet aside with his weapons belt and rolled the sleeves of his blouse to his elbows. Blood spattered his face, his arms, and was caked beneath his fingernails. Aramis tried to compartmentalize his duties, to think about the patient before him and not those waiting to be helped. He could see other physicians, those with medical acumen, working just as hard, just as passionately, but the consequences of time lay at his feet and could not be ignored.
People were dying, bleeding, and desperate for help.
Aramis looked up as Constance held the hand of a young red guard. He lay on his back, his head propped up with a cloak, blood soaked his hair and burns ran along his right side and arm. Constance spoke quietly to him, stroked his brow with the cup of her hand as he breathed his last. She remained strong, focused all of her attention on him, and then slowly lowered his hand onto his chest, and then covered his head with a cloth. She paused for a moment, sitting on her haunches, and looked at the surrounding chaos. Blood had splattered against her cheek, her neck, and her bodice. Like Aramis, she had rolled the sleeves of her blouse upward. Smudges of blood adorned the fabric and her apron.
An old man with white hair, broad bushy eyebrows, and deep-set brown eyes sat on the ground next to his wife. With arthritic hands, he gently tucked his cloak around her shoulders, wiped stray hairs from her peaceful face, and touched her cheek with the back of his crooked fingers. His gentleness reflected the husband he had been. He looked up when Porthos approached. With red-rimmed eyes and tears that threatened to fall, he shook his head and said, "She's gone…" He shrugged. "I just need a few more minutes, son. Allow me a few more minutes… to say goodbye."
Porthos nodded, slowly backed away, and watched him gently raise his wife's hand to his lips and kiss the back of her fingers. Forty years was a long time for some and too short for others. In the blink of an eye, sins were forgiven in death that should have been forgiven in life. Old grievances were pushed aside as life saving hands were applied to bleeding wounds and spoken whispers of hope and encouragement were shared.
Fires continued to burn, the wounded continued to be tended, and men worked in collaboration to find survivors, extinguish flames, reunite families, and support the defeated. Porthos wiped his face, smeared soot and dirt across his cheeks, and looked at Aramis, who tended a child. The girl's mother stood near the end of the cart. She pressed her bloodied hands to her face in worried concern as her daughter lay curled near the end of the wagon while Aramis stitched a long gash across her right shoulder. Aramis spoke words of encouragement, made light of the scar she would forever carry, and then quickly tied off the horsehair thread and moved aside to make room for her mother to embrace. The child cried and pressed her face to her mother's neck while her mother rubbed her back and looked at Aramis in graditute.
Aramis looked at the next patient and wiped his nose and upper lip with the back of his arm, and grabbed his supplies. He didn't hesitate, there wasn't a pause in his actions, just the acknowledgment that musketeers, red guards, and civilians needed him. He would do what he could and then move to the next patient.
Aramis looked toward Dr. Lemay as he removed shards of wood from a man's back. The rows of patients continued to climb. Several barbers had closed their shops and joined in the efforts to suture wounds and treat injuries. Horse doctors and apothecaries also stepped from the shadows to help. The wails of grief sounded when parents learned of the deaths of their children, wives lost their husbands and husbands their wives. Orders for more water echoed as a fire brigade dampened the roofs and siding of nearby buildings. Dead animals were pulled down the streets or tossed into the backs of wagons and removed from the scene.
D'Artagnan helped a red guard take a seat on the ground next to the entry of the garrison. Blood covered half of the man's face. He repeatedly muttered, "Thank you," and relaxed his shoulders and rested in hands on his lap. D'Artagnan looked up in time to see Athos hastily walking toward him. He was stopped by the captain of the red guards. The two spoke briefly, shook hands, and then the captain jogged up the road toward the palace.
"What is it?" d'Artagnan asked. He grasped the hilt of his weapon and looked toward Constance, who helped the old man whose wife had passed away to his feet. He gently patted her hands, said something to her that caused her to look toward d'Artagnan and smile sadly.
"Captain Gaulle is collecting more men," Athos said. "We need a few bands to search the tunnels. I need a count of the wounded, the dead, and I need to know if they are musketeers, red guards, or civilians. Find Porthos. He can help you. And then find Antoine and Renée, and four or five men, to search the east and west side of the city. I need them to look for stockpiles of gunpowder. Anyone who isn't supposed to be there, arrest them until we can verify who they are. As soon as that's completed, I need everyone able bodied back at the garrison." Athos rubbed his face in frustration and looked at those around him. "We have another task to complete in the hours ahead."
"Do I want to ask?" D'Artagnan asked with a hint of regret.
Athos turned and said, "No."