Thanks as always for your comments and follows etc; hope I didn't put anyone off their tea (I probably should have put a warning up!). And to guest Debbie, I love all your comments and predictions. In my defence the men really are very hungry! And I think people were used to eating meat that we would turn up our noses at today, especially when there was no choice. Maybe Chonfleur and the army cooks had access to spices to disguise the flavour. Now though, d'Artagnan has more to worry about than the rancid meat...

Chapter Four: Hope Is Strong

He didn't have time to think. He pulled Nuit down the slope to a small group of olive trees, grabbed his pistol and flitted quickly back up the slope towards the track into camp. He just had time to prostrate himself behind a straggly bush before two horseman rode quietly into view, the pre-dawn light glinting on their drawn pistols.

Damnation! He ducked his head and held his breath, hoping the sudden weakness in his limbs was due to adrenaline, not fear. He waited until they were a few paces past him before rising silently to his feet, checking that his pistol was primed. It was, but as he started to track behind them he knew his chances weren't good: the Spanish soldiers had their own pistols to hand, and even if his first shot was on target, the second man would be able to fire on him before he could reload. He could diver for cover after his shot, but then the survivor would likely take off and he couldn't let that happen. They were already exclaiming quietly about the state of the French camp, spread out in the valley before them. He had to stop them before they could report back!

He had a sudden thought and switched his pistol to his left hand, pulling out his catapult with his right. He'd never used it against a man, or with anything other than pebbles, but a shot ball was heavy enough to do some damage if his aim was true. He fished a ball one-handed out of his ammunition pouch but in his haste he fumbled it. It hit the ground with a slight "chink" and he froze, only too aware he was absolutely visible on the open track if they glanced behind them.

They didn't. Trying to breath quietly through the panic roaring in his veins, he stooped to retrieve the ball and loaded it on the catapult, having to put his pistol down to use both hands and hating it, wanting nothing more than to be able to melt away and leave someone else to deal with this... Breathing out slowly through his nose, he raised the catapult, waited until the rider on the left turned his head towards his companion, then he aimed at the vulnerable part of the skull, below the temple and behind the eye socket, and let go.

Even as he reached for his pistol, he could see his aim was true and he heard the "thwack" as the pebble hit its mark. The Spaniard stopped in mid-word, seemed to sigh, then slowly folded across his saddle and slipped to the ground.

The second man gaped at his companion with no idea what had happened. Before he had time to suspect foul play or look around, d'Artagnan's shot hit him between the shoulder blades and he too hit the ground.

The sound of the shot echoed around the dawn hillside as d'Artagnan raced over to the first man, who was struggling to his feet. He looked woozy but the pistol in his hand was coming to bear on him all the same. With no time to reload, d'Artagnan drew his sword mid-stride and lunged before the Spaniard could line up his shot. One thrust and the dazed man collapsed quietly to the ground, folding over the blade in his stomach with barely a sound.

d'Artagnan pulled his blade free and wiped it automatically with shaking hands, before standing, panting, for a long moment, trying to gather his scattered wits. Everything had happened so fast and it felt like a long time since he'd take a life. He'd almost forgotten that moment of intimacy when you trade a glance with the man who will steal your life if you don't claim his; that moment when all noises recede and time's pulse slows to a whisper; that moment when your lives entwine and your souls meet in perfect understanding; that moment of stillness before one life fades and the other pulls away. It is dislocating, soul-jarring when you step back into real time, return to the madness of your surroundings, and it always left him feeling hollow and shaky.

He was distantly aware of shouts from the camp but he didn't rouse himself until he heard a horse approaching up the track at a flat out gallop. Realising it would be prudent not to be found in the low dawn light with the bodies by whoever was coming to investigate, in case he got shot by one of his own countryman in a panic, he retreated back down the track to collect Nuit.

As he reached the track again, leading Nuit by the reins and with his free hand held out to the side to make it clear he was unarmed, he found Guérin straightening up from the bodies and swinging his pistol around to bear on d'Artagnan's chest.

"It's me! d'Artagnan!"

"Sorry!" Guérin lowered his pistol, looking around. "Is this your work? We only heard one shot."

d'Artagnan nodded, waving his catapult before stuffing it back in his pocket. "My farm upbringing has its uses."

"So I see." Guérin was now staring at the rabbit corpses dangling from d'Artagnan's saddle. "Is that breakfast?" The note of hope in his voice was unmistakeable.

d'Artagnan chuckled as they heaved the Spanish bodies off the track to deal with later. "You're feeling better then?"

"Heaps. I stopped throwing up a few hours ago and got some sleep. I feel ridiculously weak but I've been lucky, I didn't eat much before we set off on patrol."

d'Artagnan squared himself up to mount, thinking it was a long way up to the saddle.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, fine," he answered automatically, mustering the energy to mount. It felt like a long time since he'd last sat down, let alone slept. "How's camp?" he asked, as they gathered the Spanish mounts to lead them back to camp.

"The same. Maybe a bit less vomiting from the ones that started first."

d'Artagnan nodded. "We need to have someone out here on patrol: if those Spaniards had reported back, they'd be launching an attack within hours. We look like a dead camp from here."

Guérin halted his horse, looking around. He hadn't noticed when he'd emerged from his sick bed, but out here, in the early morning silence, it was only too obvious how sick the camp was. "You're right," he breathed. "What can we do?"

"Get the fires lit. Make some noise. Clear up the vomit and straighten things up. The mess tables are piled up everywhere, there are men sleeping on the ground... and we need to set some patrols, back where I found the Spaniards and at the same distance the other side of camp."

Guérin nodded. "I'll round some people up. There are a couple of others who've been sleeping for a few hours; reckon it would do them good to get some fresh air." He grinned, suddenly, and d'Artagnan felt his spirits lift for the first time since all this had begun.

"Good. I'll sort breakfast. Can you spread the word? We'll have muster at 8 o'clock in our camp, unless the army boys want to do their own. Food should be ready by then. I want to see everyone who can actually stand so I can assess our manpower. All the guards will need relieving..." Guérin just smiled to himself, hearing the sense of purpose in d'Artagnan's voice and knowing that the Gascon was thriving, not breaking, under the pressure of this crisis.

They parted at the gate, d'Artagnan promising a weary Gasnault that he would be the first to be relieved.

"Hey, d'Artagnan!" Gasnault called after him as he followed Guérin into camp. d'Artagnan halted Nuit and looked back. "You're doing a great job. For a Gascon."

d'Artagnan snorted and waved a hand in the air, but he had a smile on his face as he moved off again.

After checking on everyone – finding Porthos and Athos both sleeping, to his relief – he headed for the back of the mess tent where Chonfleur kept the supplies. He was shocked at how little food there was left. If that supply wagon didn't arrive today they would be in deep trouble. His rabbits might feed the few dozen who were functioning at the moment, but a whole bloody hillside of rabbits wouldn't feed the rest of the camp for more than a day once they were up and about again!

He worked quickly, finding solace in the familiar action of skinning, gutting and cleaning the small corpses. He found carrots, onions and turnips in a sack and prepared those quickly, adding them to the meat in a couple of large kettles he had first scrubbed very carefully to make sure there were no traces left of the foul meat from yesterday. Adding some wild thyme he'd stuffed in his pocket on the hillside whilst bagging the rabbits, he carried the kettles outside where he found the camp fire was absolutely cold, as he'd feared. It took him ten minutes to rake the ashes, prepare kindling and coax the fire back into life but eventually he had enough of a blaze going to hang the kettles over. He stacked the fire with plenty of wood to keep it going and headed back to make bread.

He'd been taught by his mother when he was a small child, and it had become his job permanently after her death when he was nearly nine. The d'Artagnan farm was too far from any market for them to be able to buy it. When he first joined the Musketeers as a cadet, he'd often helped Serge in the kitchen but once he'd been given his commission Serge had chased him out of the kitchen, saying he had more important things to do now he was a full Musketeer.

He felt an unexpected surge of homesickness, longing to be sitting in the warmth of the garrison mess room now, listening to Serge grumbling in the kitchen and the men's banter as they gathered to break their fast. What would Constance be doing now? Six o'clock: she would be up and perhaps helping Serge to knead the bread, just as he was doing now. He felt a sense of comfort settle over him at that thought and hugged it to him like a fire-warmed stone.

It was half an hour before he managed to fire up the metal ovens Chonfleur used to bake his bread. They were basically two rectangular tins, one inside the other, propped over a fireplace, but they worked well enough and soon the first batch of bread was in.*

He took the opportunity to nip over to the medical tent and found Julien there, mixing up yet another batch of his tea. "Nearly out of ginger," he grunted without preamble as d'Artagnan came in. d'Artagnan reflected that he was sounding more and more like Etienne every day, as he promised Julien that they would make a priority to find more. After beefing up the patrols, cleaning up the camp, and gathering more firewood, he added under his breath. Oh, and finding the supply wagon. Asking Julien to kick anyone out to muster at 8am who hadn't thrown up in the last three hours, he hurried off again to check on the bread.

By 8am there were nearly 40 men gathered in the muster area of the Musketeer camp. That was encouraging, reflected d'Artagnan as he dived into his tent to grab his doublet and buckle it up hastily.

When he emerged, he was taken aback to find Lieutenant Colombe standing in front of the assembled men, shouting at them to line up and stop talking. He hadn't really thought about who would take muster, as those unaffected came from all regiments, but so far he hadn't seen any senior officers up and about so had thought it would be an informal gathering to plan the work until someone more senior took over. It seemed Colombe had other ideas.

He'd seen the lieutenant a few times around the camp since he'd arrived, but had not had cause to speak to him again since their run-in at the gate. But he'd heard a few grumbles from the army men about the inexperience officer who toadied up to his seniors, and ordered his men around as if they were his personal slaves. Nothing he'd heard had contradicted the opinion he'd first formed of the man, as an odious bully.

As d'Artagnan approached Colombe turned on him and barked "You're late!".

In fact it was still a couple of minutes before eight o'clock, but he said nothing, slipping into a place to one side and trying not to laugh as the men went on talking amongst themselves, many of them casting him conspiratorial glances. It seemed that no one, not even the men from Colombe's own Picardy regiment, was in any mood to be shouted at this morning.

"Silence!" screamed Colombe eventually, spittle flying from his lips. That did shut everyone up – for a moment. Then someone tittered, someone else dug him in the ribs and in seconds there was a general hubbub again.

d'Artagnan suddenly saw Athos' tent flap pulled aside and the man himself walk out. Although 'walked' was perhaps an exaggeration: 'tottered' might be more accurate. Athos looked awful. Even at this distance d'Artagnan could see the sheen of sweat on his face and the pinched look around his eyes which suggested he was in pain. His shirt was untucked, his hair plastered to his head in some places and sticking up randomly elsewhere, and overall he looked like he'd just staggered home from the nearest hostelry. But he was up and about, and just the sight of him made d'Artagnan's heart gladden. Before he knew it he was slipping from his place and running over to meet him before Athos could fall over his own feet, something which currently looked eminently possible.

He ignored the shout of outrage from Colombe as he left the ranks, tossing a quick "Sorry Sir! I didn't think we'd started," over his shoulder.

When he reached Athos he hesitated, wondering if the man would want his weakness displayed for everyone to see, but then shrugged and wrapped an arm around his waist anyway. It wasn't like Athos was the only one sick.

Athos grunted, and voluntarily slung his arm gratefully over d'Artagnan's shoulders. "Have you upset that Lieutenant? He looks apoplectic," he observed in a rough voice.

d'Artagnan grinned. "I don't think he likes me," he whispered. "Do you want to take muster?" he added in a louder voice as they neared the muster area, for Colombe's benefit. The loathsome man had temporarily given up trying to get the men to come to attention and was stalking up and down prodding people and berating them for their sloppy appearance.

"No."

d'Artagnan looked at Athos. That was short, even by his standards. He helped him to sit on the side of the well and stood back, waiting to see if he fell over. Athos cocked an eyebrow at him, and d'Artagnan moved off with a grin, retaking his place in the front line.

Athos watched for about 30 seconds as Colombe tried again to restore order, then cleared his throat. "You! Pigeon, is it?"

The Lieutenant reddened still more, if that were possible. "It's Colombe!" he spat.**

"Hm. When did you recover?"

"This morning – I've been ill all night. Why?"

"I thought so. d'Artagnan, you're more au fait with where we stand. Take muster and do the briefing please."

d'Artagnan honestly thought the Lieutenant might self-combust. His face seemed to swell and his skin turned a shade of dark red that d'Artagnan was sure he'd had only seen on plums before.

Stepping cautiously past him, d'Artagnan turned to face the men who were still tittering and gossiping. Sending up a silent prayer that he wasn't going to be shamed in front of everyone, aware that amongst the men now were a couple of other sub-lieutenants and many ordinary soldiers older and more experienced than him, he tried to look them in the eye, then called quietly:

"Gentlemen, hup."

The effect was gratifyingly instant. To a man, it appeared, they had all been watching in spite of their banter, and to a man they stopped talking and came smartly to attention.

The sudden hush was so startling that, for a moment, d'Artagnan couldn't think what to say. He didn't dare look at Lieutenant Colombe who had been trying for five minutes to achieve this. Trying not to grin, and hearing a loud "hmph" from behind which – he hoped – was Athos showing approval – he cleared his throat.

"Thank you. At ease." There was a general shuffling as the men relaxed their stance. d'Artagnan composed himself and tried to prioritise in his head.

"First of all, everyone has worked incredibly hard during the night. You've all done a magnificent job keeping the camp going under extremely difficult circumstances." There was a general murmur of appreciation at his words – apart from Colombe who could be heard muttering to himself as he stomped off.

"However there is a lot still to do. I know we are all tired, but until more men recover, it's down to us." More shuffling, but no objections. d'Artagnan nodded, feeling more confident now Colombe had gone. He ran his eyes over the men before him and spotted several people who'd not been on their feet until this morning. Catching the eye of one man he knew, he called to him. "Maurice, how are you feeling?"

Maurice looked startled to be addressed directly, but answered readily enough. "Like I've been trampled by a bull." There was a ripple of laughter: Maurice, like d'Artagnan, came from a farming background and probably knew exactly this felt. d'Artagnan nodded sympathetically but asked "Can you work?"

"Yes, Sir," came the prompt reply.

"Excellent. The first priority is to relieve the perimeter guards, and send patrols around the outskirts of the camp. You may have heard the shot this morning – that was a Spanish patrol only a few hundred paces from the camp. If they send more, and realise how incapacitated we are, we will be in trouble. So I need a dozen men to relieve the guard and patrol the hills."

He paused, waiting. For a moment there was no response as the men all looked at one another, then Dumard spoke up. "None of us have had any sleep, d'Artagnan. I'm not sure I could stay awake." There was a murmur of agreement.

"And yet we have to," replied d'Artagnan, calmly. "You'll be in pairs and can take it in turns to nap if you need to: one hour on, one hour off, like we do on missions." He looked at the Musketeers amongst them, all of whom were nodding. It was nothing they hadn't done before, and within moments he had his 12 volunteers from different regiments.

"Come to me after muster and we'll assign positions. The rest of you, we need someone to do the horses – " he nodded as several hands went up – "two on water duty, two on latrines, two on firewood..." he went on assigning jobs, making sure everyone was working in pairs so if anyone flagged, there was someone to notice. Eventually everyone had a job, so he finished with the good news. "There's fresh bread and rabbit stew on the fire. Make sure you all have a helping before you set off but leave some for the guards you're relieving. Any questions? No? Then, gentlemen, you are dismissed."

He watched them disperse, those going on patrol coming to him to check exactly where they were needed; the rest heading straight to the fire to get their portion of stew. After agreeing where each pair would patrol, he made for Athos, accepting a bowl someone handed him as he passed the fire. "You hungry?" He held the bowl out to Athos who recoiled, turning his head away quickly.

"Too soon? Try a bit of bread. It's fresh." He tore off a steaming chunk and Athos took it, nibbled a bit cautiously then took a proper bite, looking relieved.

"Is this your work?" Athos waved a hand at the cluster of men around the stew kettles. d'Artagnan nodded, tucking into the stew himself and finding, for once, that he didn't mind the meat, such was his hunger.

"You've done well." Athos caught his eye and d'Artagnan knew he wasn't just talking about the food. "Your first muster."

d'Artagnan couldn't help a shy smile creeping across his face. "It went okay, didn't it?"

Athos snorted. "You certainly put that idiot in his place."

d'Artagnan's face fell. "I know. I can't help thinking I'm going to pay for that."

Athos dismissed the idea. "Rubbish. I delegated muster to you. He had no business trying to run it here, anyway. Let him boss his own men around."

"A lot of them were his own men," pointed out d'Artagnan, reasonably.

"He doesn't deserve his commission if his own men would rather muster with another regiment than with him." Athos' head was thumping and his stomach was still tender, so he had no patience for idiots like Colombe. He finished his bread and pushed himself to his feet. "Think I need to lie down again."

d'Artagnan rose quickly, shovelling down his last mouthful of stew and dumping the bowl so he could help Athos back to his tent. "How's Porthos?"

"Still sleeping and throwing up by turns. Serves him right for eating so much."

The day wore on. Gradually more emerged from their sick beds, although plenty were still incapacitated. d'Artagnan went back to check his traps, bringing in another dozen or more rabbits, This time he handed them over to Maurice to deal with. He was starting to feel a bit grotty himself with stomach cramps and mild diarrhoea. Although he hadn't eaten yesterday's stew, having seen the cramped conditions in which Chonfleur had to work it wouldn't surprise him if the bread dough had been kneaded on the same surface where the beef had been prepared. Apart from those who hadn't eaten at all last evening, it seemed most of those who'd only eaten bread were suffering mild symptoms.

He decided it was a case of mind over matter, and kept going. Several of the army men come over to ask his advice on various decisions and he ended up spending a lot of time elsewhere in the camp, helping organise the clean-up. Soon all the piles of vomit were disappearing under shovelfuls of dirt, new trenches were dug, and fires burning brightly in each part of the camp. The evicted mess tables were set up in the open air which he hoped would add to the general sense of buzz around the camp, in case any Spanish spies did get close enough to observe them. Guards were being rotated more frequently and at last some of the men who'd been up all night had managed to get some sleep.

By evening more men had emerged, including Porthos, and d'Artagnan handed control of the regiment back to Athos, heading off to take a turn on perimeter patrol. Working their way around the hills above the camp, they were startled to hear a ragged cheer drifting up from the camp. Grabbing his scope d'Artagnan saw a supply wagon finally trundling down the track towards the main gate. He and his patrol-partner Guérin exchanged a grin.

"Chonfleur is going to be happy." The portly chef had openly wept, flinging his arms in the air and wringing his hands, when he'd emerged from his sick bed to see his precious mess tent taken over as a field hospital.

"Mm. Don't suppose you can do another rabbit stew? I didn't get much this morning."

d'Artagnan grinned a proper, light-hearted grin. "I'll give Chonfleur the recipe."

*I have no idea if this is how bread was baked "on the hoof" at that time, but I've seen these tin-ovens (and tasted the delicious bread they produce) in a village high in the Andes completely untouched by modern technology; they are simple and portable and I hope plausible for a 17th century French field army. The double tin arrangement traps air which helps to even out spikes in the temperature of the fire, and the bread rests on the inner tin, not directly on the heat, which stops the bread from burning at the base. I think.

** Colombe means "dove" in French; pigeon is the same in both languages. I like to think Athos knew perfectly well what the idiot's real name was.

Next time, they're back to fighting, but of course nothing is straightforward...