Thank you for all your lovely reviews and encouragement - they are much appreciated! I love to hear your thoughts , and I was very happy that each of you seemed to enjoy a different aspect of the last chapter. d'Artagnan's trying to settle back into camp life but soon he's distracted by a different problem.
Chapter Three: Misery
d'Artagnan was on his first patrol since being captured. When Athos had named him for a routine patrol at that morning's muster, he'd felt a familiar wave of panic creep over him until Athos detailed those he was to patrol with – Fouchard, Guérin and Porthos – and he'd realised that Athos was supporting him yet again by sending him out with people he trusted and enjoyed working with. Athos had met his eyes at the end of muster and given him a nod of encouragement, and d'Artagnan had felt like a young recruit again, remembering the feeling of desperately wanting to please Athos and get that nod. He grinned wryly at himself. He'd come a long way since then, but sometimes he still felt like that wide-eyed 18 year old farm-boy.
It was an early afternoon patrol – another indication of Athos' thoughtfulness. He'd been captured on an evening patrol when the shadows were lengthening, so going out into the tranquil postprandial countryside would feel different.
They mounted up with the usual mixture of chatter and grumbling, and rode out in pairs, with d'Artagnan at the back alongside Porthos, feeling apprehension churning in his gut. Winding their way through the centre of camp towards the guards at the entrance he noticed a number of men looking their way, and caught smiles and waves from many of them as they noticed him. Porthos suddenly leaned over and nudged him. "Everyone's behind you, lad." d'Artagnan nodded, feeling heart-warmed.
He'd been out of camp since being captured, of course, but mostly only to the nearest lake or river, apart from that one disastrous battle which had led to Athos sending him back to Paris to recuperate properly. Then, he'd ridden north in a daze of exhaustion, emotionally shut-down. Now he was riding voluntarily towards the Spanish forces, fully aware that he was heading towards possible danger.
He scanned his surroundings constantly. In fact he literally could not stop looking: as soon as he returned his gaze forwards to the track they were following, the back of his neck would prickle and he would whip his head around again to check behind, above, below, to the side, forwards again... no, something might be there: check behind! After half an hour of this he was feeling dizzy but still couldn't stop himself from doing it.
Eventually Porthos' voice startled him out of his panic. "You're gonna dislocate your bloody neck if you keep doin' that!"
d'Artagnan puffed out a shaky breath and rubbed his hand over his face. He was already sweating in the gentle sun. He gave Porthos a rueful smile, and tried to resist the urge to check behind them again.
"Use your ears, not your 'ead."
"I can't." It was almost a wail. "I didn't hear anything, before. We were riding along a trail just like this one, I was at the back with Patrice and they just appeared from all around, firing on us. We didn't see them, didn't hear anything until it was too late!"
Porthos was silent. It was the first time d'Artagnan had said anything about the patrol and how they'd been captured. He found himself scanning their surroundings a bit more carefully after that, but it made his own head ache. He couldn't imagine how d'Artagnan was feeling with his head constantly revolving: it was making him feel queasy just watching him.
They reached their goal, a gap in the hills from where they could safely survey the main Spanish encampment. d'Artagnan dismounted with mixed feelings - relief at having got off the track without incident, and trepidation at the thought of being on the ground so close to the Spanish troops.
They belly-crawled to the top of the rise and stared down into the camp half a mile or so away in a large valley. They used scopes to check the number of command tents and field cannon and to estimate the number of troops, comparing their findings with the maps drawn by other patrols on previous days.
After 20 minutes of observation Porthos was satisfied that there were few, if any, changes from the previous day's observations and he gave the signal to move out. Once they'd crawled clear of the skyline, they stood up and returned to their horses.
Guérin disappeared behind the nearest bush while the others mounted up, assuming he was taking a leak, but then they all heard the unmistakeable sound of someone throwing up.
He emerged to find the others mounted but looking at him with concern. "Must be something I ate," he muttered, slightly embarrassed, taking his reins from d'Artagnan and mounting quickly. "I'll be fine."
"My stomach's playing up a bit," confided Porthos, patting his belly with a slight wince.
"You probably just ate too much," d'Artagnan teased him, feeling light-headed with relief that he'd managed his first patrol without making a complete fool of himself.
"He did have three helpings at lunchtime," added Fouchard, pretending to duck as Porthos glared at him.
"I'm a growing lad!"
"Yes, growing outwards..." d'Artagnan had to spur Nuit suddenly forward to avoid the swipe from Porthos that would have knocked him from the saddle if it had connected.
As the others joined him in a steady canter homewards, he suddenly realised he'd forgotten to feel nervous.
By the time they reached the hill overlooking their encampment however, he'd forgotten all about nerves in favour of concern. All three of his colleagues had vomited at least once on the way back, and all were looking uncomfortable and sweaty. d'Artagnan himself felt slightly queasy but not nauseous. Was it a bug? Or indeed something they'd eaten...
They were greeted at the gates by a distinctly white-faced guard, Nathaniel.
"Why are you on your own?" asked Porthos sharply, looking around for the second guard. So close to the Spanish force, all guard duty and perimeter patrolling was done in pairs.
"Fabien wasn't feeling well so I sent him to get a replacement. Don't know what's taking him so bloody long."
"Are you feeling okay?" d'Artagnan could see the sheen of sweat on the man's face.
"Bit queasy," he admitted.
d'Artagnan looked at Porthos but realised the Lieutenant was struggling to control his own stomach, swallowing repeatedly, and without even thinking, he found himself taking charge.
"Porthos, go and lie down. I'll find Athos and sort out a replacement guard."
It was a measure of how ill Porthos felt that he didn't even protest as d'Artagnan reached over to take his reins. Dismounting with relief, he felt a sudden stomach cramp and doubled over for a moment, wrapping an arm around his stomach.
"Go on!" d'Artagnan urged him. Porthos nodded, not even raising his head to thank d'Artagnan as he turned and stumbled slowly off in the direction of his tent before suddenly changing direction and veering towards the latrines.
d'Artagnan firmly sent Guérin and Fouchard off as well, before either of them could throw up again. Left with all four horses as the others trudged after Porthos, d'Artagnan headed for the horse lines but didn't stop to tend to them as he usually would, simply whipping their saddles off and tethering them all quickly. Looking around for the duty groom, he was surprised to realise no one was around. Muttering to himself – there were several other horses there which hadn't even been unsaddled, an unforgiveable sin in his book – he headed quickly towards Athos' tent.
Pushing aside the flap he stopped just inside, hearing a groan. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness he saw Athos sitting on the side of his cot, head down, his unruly hair concealing his face.
"Athos?"
Athos raised his head and looked blearily at d'Artagnan through tangled curls. "I'm ill. Unless the Spanish are sitting in our mess tent drinking the last bottle of wine, I don't want to know." The words were whispered slowly, with great effort.
d'Artagnan's face creased in sympathy and he hurried over, plucking up Athos' water bottle en route and plonking down next to him on the bed. Only then did he realise Athos was holding a wooden bucket between his knees, which had clearly been in much use recently.
"Here, have some water." Athos took the bottle gratefully and gulped down some of the cool water, before shoving the bottle quickly back towards d'Artagnan and bending over the bucket again. With barely a retch, d'Artagnan heard the liquid splashing straight back out of Athos' mouth, followed by another groan.
"Oh, Athos!" Feeling completely helpless, d'Artagnan rubbed Athos' back until it was over, then handed him his own handkerchief to wipe his mouth. "How long has this been going on?"
"An hour, maybe," Athos mumbled. "Never felt so ill..."
d'Artagnan made a decision not to tell him just yet that others were ill, knowing he would insist on getting up if he knew. "You lie back. I'll get you a clean bucket and find Etienne. Don't worry about a thing." He persuaded Athos to lie back on his pillow and snatched up the bucket, trying not to retch himself at the stench coming from the offensive contents.
He carried it at arms' length towards the latrines, intending to dump the contents and swill it out, but his steps slowed as he neared, seeing men everywhere doubled over, vomiting into the trenches or behind the tents. Some were being held upright or helped along by comrades who looked little better off than those they were assisting. He realised he was stepping over patches of vomit as he walked. What the hell was happening?
He tipped the contents of the bucket into the nearest trench and hurried back towards the centre of camp where a well had been sunk, always one of the first jobs in any new camp. Normally there was a line of filled buckets there ready to be used for washing and cooking, but now only a couple remained. He rinsed Athos' bucket out, quickly filled another with clean water and jogged back to Athos' tent with both buckets, finding Athos still lying on his back, wheezing with every painful breath. With a reassuring pat on his shoulder d'Artagnan raced off to the medic's tent, thinking he must check on Porthos as soon as he'd talked to Etienne... Sacrebleu!
He stopped dead just inside the medic's tent, the largest in the Musketeer's camp after the mess tent. Normally it held nine or ten cots and, except after a major battle, there were rarely more than one or two patients recovering from injuries or illness. Now it was groaning at the seams – and literally, for it was full of men doubled up in pain, arms wrapped around their stomachs, the sounds of retching all around. There was no sign of either Etienne, their notoriously grumpy medic, or Julien, his assistant. All the cots were full and more men were sitting or lying on the bare earth. And everywhere hung the sour smell of vomit.
His mind reeling and his own stomach roiling, d'Artagnan picked his way with care towards the back of the tent where the workbenches and supplies were kept. Etienne normally slept at the back on a cot behind a curtain, so d'Artagnan was half hoping, half dreading he would find him there. Pulling the curtain to one side he found, to his dismay but not his surprise, Etienne lying on his cot, one arm around his stomach and the other across his eyes, adding his own groan to the general chorus of misery in the tent. Behind his cot, Julien stood frantically grinding herbs in his pestle.
"d'Artagnan! Thank goodness, we need some help in here!"
"I can see that... what's going on?"
"We think it's food poisoning. It started a couple of hours ago but almost everyone seems to be ill now. Etienne checked the stew when we got the first cases and reckons it was that. He ordered Chonfleur to burn the rest of the beef – Chonfleur nearly had a heart attack at the thought – but it stank, d'Artagnan. It has to be that."
d'Artagnan snorted at the thought of their burly cook, Chonfleur, being told to burn his supplies. Speaking of which, they'd been waiting for the supply wagon for several days. No wonder the beef had gone off; the last delivery of food had been more than a week ago.
He himself was still cautious about eating meat: the smell of raw meat too often jerked his mind straight back to memories from his captivity. When they had fresh supplies, Chonfleur would make a vegetable stew for him and anyone else who couldn't stomach meat – such as Julien, a gentle soul who always refused to eat animal flesh. It was all making sense now! He'd only eaten bread, and a little hard cheese, at lunchtime today. His own queasiness must be just reaction to seeing everyone else vomiting rather than a warning of illness to come, as he'd feared.
Feeling happier now he understood what was happening, he watched Julien spooning a little of his concoction into Etienne's mouth. "What's that?"
"Ginger tea – it should help settle the stomach, although to be honest nothing's going to stop them throwing up until their bodies have got rid of all the poisonous meat and toxins."
"What can I do?"
Julien sighed, running a hand over his tousled hair in despair. "There's not much any of us can do! Just wait, and hope everyone is strong enough to survive."
"Survive?" d'Artagnan felt a chill run through him. "Surely this isn't fatal?"
"It can be, if you are already weak. It's hard to keep water down when your body is rejecting everything so violently, but dehydration itself is dangerous – as you know."
d'Artagnan blanched, remembering how close to death he'd been when Athos and Porthos had rescued him from the Spanish hillfort. "Right..." He hesitated, his mind racing. "I'll see if I can find you some help."
Julien nodded his thanks as they both went out to the main tent, Julien to administer his herbal potion and d'Artagnan heading gratefully for the fresher air and sunlight outside.
Sunlight that was rapidly fading, he realised as he emerged. He stopped, looking around at the Musketeer's area of camp with men staggering slowly around or slumped over buckets here and there. He suddenly wondered whether the other regiments were similarly affected. They all shared the same supplies... Full of adrenaline, he ran up the track leading to the next regiment's camp.
Two hours later
"Over there!" d'Artagnan pointed to a corner of the mess tent and the pair staggered in, supporting each other, wheeling unsteadily towards the cot he'd indicated. d'Artagnan looked around, hands on hips, seeing that the tent was nearly full already. He sighed, passing a hand across his forehead and grunting a thank you as Dumard passed him a water-skin.
He'd found the other regiments in equal disarray, with not one officer on their feet. Only a few men were unaffected, mostly those who had missed lunch because of guard duty. Dumard told d'Artagnan he'd taken one sniff of the stew that afternoon and refused to eat it, telling Chonfleur the meat was off, but with no alternative and a tent full of ravenous soldiers Chonfleur had gone on serving it with his fingers crossed. d'Artagnan teased that Dumard would find himself on permanent kitchen duty with such a sensitive nose, but the stark reality was that the whole army was in the same situation. Out of nearly a thousand men barely thirty were unaffected.
d'Artagnan had tentatively suggested a couple of them should go to check the guards on all the entry points and relieve any that were ill, and found everyone else immediately turning to him for orders of their own.
No one seemed to have any idea how to deal with this situation and most of the healthy were rushing aimlessly from one friend to the next, trying to support them but not actually making much impression on the general disorder. So he suggested the rest concentrate on getting water to their comrades, and keeping the ground clean by spreading earth over the piles of vomit or flushing it away with water.
He'd started to do the rounds of the Musketeer tents but quickly realised it would be impossible to keep an eye on everyone, scattered as they were around the camp in individual tents. So he'd gathered Dumard and two others, and they'd cleared everything out of the mess tent before helping anyone who could walk to carry their cots into the space, creating an impromptu field hospital.
He'd found the stack of stinking beef behind the mess tent and dragged it, gagging, to the latrine trenches, deciding it would be easier to bury it than try to set fire to it. Retreating as fast as possible he knew another priority would be to fill them in and start new trenches as soon as possible. But there was also a desperate need for clean buckets, drinking water and help for Julien. And someone should check the perimeter. The next patrol should have gone out to check the Spanish movements. The horses were still un-watered ... And in the morning they would have to send men out to try to find the supply wagon which should have arrived today. What rations were left in camp? There might not be much interest in food at the moment, but those who were still on their feet would be ravenous by morning. Where to start?
Before his thoughts could spiral into panic he'd been interrupted by Raimond, a junior army officer from another regiment, whom he'd encountered in the main camp. "Hey, d'Artagnan! Got any spare buckets?"
d'Artagnan grimaced. "I'll have a look." He led Raimond to the mess tent and poked around, but all the buckets were full of either water or vomit. "I'll wash some of these out. We don't need so many now most people are in one space."
Raimond was looking around with interest. "It's a great idea. I can't believe how quickly you've organised this."
d'Artagnan shrugged, heading back to the latrines with the buckets. "It didn't take long. The main need now is to cover these trenches and get some new ones dug."
Raimond nodded, helping him to wash out the sick buckets. "Thanks. I'm going to pinch your idea and clear out our mess tent – it will save loads of time in the long run. But as soon as I can, I'll send some men over to help with the latrines."
d'Artagnan nodded his thanks, already collecting a pick and shovel and heading to a new area of ground to start the first trench.
By midnight a clean trench had been dug and most of the old one filled in, leaving one end nearest the camp for ongoing use. d'Artagnan insisted that only "regular" deposits were made in the new latrine, and all the sickness and diarrhoea was still deposited in the old trench.
The well was the focus of much activity as water was constantly being drawn and buckets lined up ready for use. d'Artagnan had passed on Julien's worry about dehydration and throughout the camp men were being urged to drink as soon as they could keep it down.
d'Artagnan had dug most of the new trench on his own and was now suffering. The scar tissue on his fingers after his captivity was still pink and tender, and it hadn't been long before he'd developed blisters, which had now burst, leaving him with bloody fingers and weeping skin. He stopped at the well and plunged his hands into a half-bucket of deliciously cool water, relishing the relief to his inflamed skin, then cleaned it and refilled it conscientiously before heading for the medical tent.
Inside he found things just as chaotic as before, and Julien looking exhausted and frazzled. Seeing d'Artagnan he brightened. "What's the news?"
d'Artagnan quickly filled him in on his findings about the numbers affected, and how they were organising themselves. Julien nodding at the idea of using the mess tent as he efficiently cleaned d'Artagnan's hands with alcohol and wrapped them with neat bandages. "Who's looking after them in there?"
"Dumard, at the moment."
"Right. I'll take over some of this tea; it seems to be helping some of them, although others are getting worse and developing fevers."
"I'm sure he'll be glad to see you. I'm going to check on Athos then ride the perimeter and make sure the guards are ok."
"Christ, I hadn't thought of that! What if they're ill too?"
"Most of them were, so we've already sent replacements from the unaffected men, but that was four hours ago and some of them had only recently come off guard duty so I want to make sure they're alright for a bit longer." He didn't know how he could replace them, if they weren't – every able-bodied man was already working flat out to help the afflicted – but he kept that worry to himself.
In Athos' tent he wasn't surprised to find a dark hump huddled on the ground near Athos' cot: Porthos, shivering slightly and hunched over his stomach, rocking back and forth. d'Artagnan crouched beside him, checking his forehead and finding it clammy and sweaty. Porthos groaned at his touch, leaning in to him and resting his aching head on d'Artagnan's night-cool shirt for a moment, until a fresh wave of nausea had him scrabbling for the bucket. d'Artagnan quickly handed him the clean bucket he'd brought with him, then rose to check on Athos, who was similarly hot but was at least dozing.
d'Artagnan dug Athos' spare blanket out of his crate and wrapped it around Porthos' shoulders, leaving him a fresh water bottle and taking the old bucket away to clean. "I'll be back in a bit," he promised as he left. He hated leaving them, but there was too much to do for him to have the luxury of staying with his brothers.
He emptied the bucket with practiced hands and cleaned it out, trying not to think about the smell, and took it into the mess tent. On the way the to horse lines to saddle Nuit he had a sudden thought and detoured to his tent to collect something he hoped might be useful.
At the gate he found Gasnault looking pissed off and no sign of the second guard.
"Are you coming to relieve us?"
d'Artagnan slid off Nuit. "Sorry, no. I was going to ride the perimeter and check on everyone. Are you alright? Where's Faschoux?" Gasnault nodded grimly at the bushes just outside the gate, from where the sound of retching could be heard.
d'Artagnan's heart sank: this was what he'd been dreading. "He was alright earlier, I thought?"
"He was feeling a bit off but he's only just started vomiting. Apparently he had the dregs of the stew when he came off duty this afternoon, before we realised what was causing it."
Damn. "Have you got water?"
"Yes, for now, but – "
"Listen, everyone is either sick, or working flat out to look after the sick. I can swop you around but I don't think anyone will be getting any rest tonight."
Gasnault looked deflated. "I'm alright for a bit longer but I'm worried I'll fall asleep."
The sound of violent retching interrupted him and they both looked at the bushes, then d'Artagnan sighed. "Not much chance of that."
Gasnault looked horrified. "Are you leaving him here?"
d'Artagnan grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "It's either that or stick him in a tent on his own. He'll be better off here with you keeping an eye on him. I'll be back in a couple of hours," and he vaulted onto Nuit's back and headed off before Gasnault could raise any objections.
Everything seemed calm around the perimeter, and although he couldn't relieve any of the guards, at least he was able to reassure everyone that they hadn't been forgotten. Promising them relief after morning muster at 8am, by which time he hoped some of the earliest afflicted men would have recovered, he turned Nuit away from camp and up the track he'd taken some ten hours earlier on patrol.
He was aware of his breathing quickening as he got further into the dark countryside. His tension transmitted itself to Nuit who started to jump sideways at every rustling leaf and snort at every shadow, sidling past suspiciously then trying to break into a canter. In the end d'Artagnan let her have her head, no more keen than she was to be out here alone in the middle of the night. Heading towards the Spanish camp. On his own.
After a few minutes of fast, and mostly sideways, canter involving much tail swishing and dramatic snorting, she settled a bit and he was able to bring her back to a steady, ground-covering trot. Just as earlier that afternoon, d'Artagnan's eyes were everywhere and he kept his pistol in his hand, only too aware that the Spanish might have their own patrols out on this clear half-moon night.
By the time he reached the hillside observation point they'd used earlier, his nerves were stretched to breaking point and he was sweating heavily. He felt like a complete mess but he couldn't help his body's reaction: he was just glad no one was there to witness his nervousness. Terror, if he were honest. He slid out of the saddle on trembling legs and dropped to the ground thankfully, wishing he could just stay there, safely hugging the ground out of sight of the Spanish army.
He suddenly thought about the last time he'd looked down on a Spanish camp on his own by night – when Porthos had been injured and he'd had to travel miles back to the Musketeer camp, only to find a Spanish force gathering in the night to attack the Musketeers*. Then, he'd ended up walking through the camp unobserved – until the last minute – but now he couldn't imagine going one inch closer than this. A wave of sadness passed over him at the contrast. He'd been so confident back then. He laughed bitterly. "Back then!" It had only been a few months ago – but that was before he'd been captured. Now he was just a gibbering mess, cowering on the ground, too frightened to look in case he was caught again.
Three times he willed himself to move and three times he failed, just like as a child when he was dithering on the banks of the icy river which ran through their farm. How had he done it then? Usually by shouting a war cry and jumping in feet first – or being pushed in by his father. Neither of which was an option now. Taking a deep breath he thought of Porthos, Athos and all the others waiting at camp, and finally forced himself onto elbows and toes to crawl forward to the ridge.
Below him all seemed still. A few camp fires flickered, and he could hear one of the guards laughing near the main entrance away to his left. Sound carried far in the still air.
Merde! He was suddenly struck by the difference between the two camps. The Spanish settlement murmured with quiet purpose and organisation; the French camp was chaotic by contrast, with the sounds of groaning and men calling for water surely audible for some distance. And their fires! No one had tended them this evening and they would likely be out by now. If any Spanish patrol were looking down from a distance, unseen by the perimeter guards, they would very quickly realise there was something seriously wrong in the French camp, which made them horribly vulnerable to attack.
Flooded with a new sense of urgency he crawled back towards Nuit and remounted, forcing himself to keep to a walk until they were well out of earshot. Then he pushed Nuit into a fast canter that ate up the distance until within sight of the French camp, where he pulled up and hopped off to listen, trying to view it through a stranger's eyes.
Just as he thought, it would surely be obvious to an onlooker that this was not a well camp. Without the background hum of voices, the crackling of fires or the steady steps of patrolling guards, the sounds of sickness travelled clearly to his ears. He would have to do something about that as soon as he got back.
First however, he took out the items he'd gathered from his tent before setting out: his catapult, a purse containing small round pebbles which he collected wherever he went, and some wire snares. Working quickly, he set the snares on animal trails around the large patch of brambles he'd seen earlier that afternoon teeming with rabbits. Aware of the pre-dawn light changing, he allowed himself ten minutes lying on the bare ground behind the briars, catapult at the ready, and was quickly rewarded as rabbits began to emerge from their holes. It didn't take him long to bag half a dozen rabbits which – with a few root vegetables and some bread to mop it up – would hopefully feed those who could stomach food, especially if he could get back up here to check the snares in a few hours.
Rising to his feet he quickly tied the limp bodies to his saddle and was just about to remount when he heard a sound that made his blood run cold. Low voices, far too close – and talking not French but Spanish.
* That story was told in "Luck Will Travel"