CHAPTER FOUR
It was carnage.
It seemed that only Aramis and Porthos were still standing amid the clouds of choking dust churned up by the horse's hooves.
The masked men made one final sweep around the coach and then spurred their horses back the way they had come, leaving their own dead strewn around the coach.
Porthos surged forward and stepped up onto the coach, relieved to see both Treville and Sir Edmund unharmed, the latter crouched on the floor between the seats.
In the deathly quiet that followed, Treville opened the door and threw himself unceremoniously out of the coach, to be grabbed by Porthos as he staggered at the sight around him.
The wounded assassins had all been callously despatched by their own before they had withdrawn the way they had come, leaving no survivors for interrogation.
"Athos..." the Captain gasped, remembering, and pulling himself out of Porthos's grasp.
Crouching down he lay his hand on the boot that protruded from beneath the coach.
Porthos hauled Treville back to his feet and bent to pull Athos out from beneath the coach, taking hold of each ankle.
But he could not be moved.
Porthos bellowed and Aramis ran to the other side and saw that an unconscious Athos still had a tight hold of Loubert's hand.
Aramis prised his brother's fingers away from the dead hand and gently pulled his friend free.
oOo
Later, At the Garrison
Treville sat at his desk with a heavy heart and a weariness he had never felt before. He considered the coming hours. This was unprecedented. Six of his men were dead. Eight badly wounded and, of those eight, four who possibly may also die.
Some of his best men were gone.
Two royal surgeons had been sent to the Garrison; so at least his men were in good hands. A room had been set aside for surgery, with an outer room for those waiting their turn with the surgeons; who would work in shifts throughout the night.
Those waiting their attention were laid in line, depending on the severity of their injuries.
Once passed from one room to the other, their injuries dealt with; they would then be placed in a larger room where eight beds had been set up, four along one wall, and four opposite, forming a ward.
A small room at the back of the Garrison was to be used as a mortuary for the six already dead and others who may follow, either during surgery or in recovery.
Extra staff were brought in from the nearby vicinity for labour in the laundry and the kitchens.
The gravedigger had been alerted, as had the priest.
The men went into surgery in strict rotation.
Athos was fourth in line.
Aramis's job was to strip the waiting patients and wash them in readiness. All of those returning had arrived in a filthy state, their clothes caked in dust and blood. Discarded uniforms were thrown unceremoniously into the corner of the room, to be removed by laundry staff, for repair or destruction.
He had carefully kept his eyes off Athos as he slowly neared the front of the queue.
When it was his turn, Aramis squared his shoulders and prepared his brother, and then asked on the spur of the moment if he could go in with him and help. Once inside, he was confronted by the surgeon in a bloodied apron, standing on an even bloodier floor.
The surgeon was tired already.
He looked up as Aramis approached.
"Go to the top of the table," he said quietly. "We are running low on sleeping draft and he may wake; take hold of his shoulders."
Aramis did as he was bid, stomach clenched against the sight and smell of the room.
The surgeon looked down at Athos and his eyes moved to the newly stitched wound in his neck.
"Who did this?" he asked quietly, his fingers deftly tracing the stitches.
"I did," Aramis replied, "It could not wait."
The surgeon bent closer, and Aramis held his breath.
"Nice work," he said, "Very neat." Looking up, the surgeon met his eyes and gave him a wan smile and Aramis breathed again.
"Let us see if I can replicate your delicacy," he added.
In the end Athos did not stir, as Aramis again watched the surgeon's deft fingers probing quickly for the musket ball buried deep in his flesh. He had to cut wider and go deeper that he had hoped but his touch was sure. When it was over, the surgeon finally took off the ruined apron and reached for a clean one.
"Thank you, you did well," the surgeon offered.
"That was brutal," Aramis whispered, his trembling hands resting on either side of Athos's head.
"Tell me that again in a month when he is walking beside you once more," the surgeon said, tying the clean apron around his waist as he waited for the next patient to be brought in.
Aramis met his eyes.
"Forgive me, I meant no offence," he whispered.
Where other surgeons may have left Athos mutilated or crippled; Aramis knew that this man had not.
oOo
Later, after a brief discussion and update with the surgeons, Treville had walked swiftly across the courtyard and climbed the stairs to his office. The door slammed behind him.
Outside, the moon disappeared behind black clouds, shrouding the Garrison in a dark cloak of brooding melancholy.
Inside the Infirmary, Aramis, exhausted, wanted answers and sought out Treville; crossing the courtyard and taking the steps at a run.
"They were English," he said, standing in the doorway of Treville's office.
"How do you know?" came the older man's weary reply.
"Porthos and I were at the back of the line with Athos. He speaks some English and Porthos said he turned and reacted at the shout. Porthos didn't understand but he remembered the words;
"Death to French scum."
"That's when Athos took off," he added.
"English," Treville murmured.
Aramis left the Captain lost in thought and returned to the Infirmary.
oOo
Later:
As evenings went, this had to be one of the worst ones Porthos had endured.
And he had endured many.
He shook his head once more to fling the sweat out of his eyes, knowing he would have to repeat the action many times in the next few hours. Looking around the Infirmary, he knew that adrenaline and exhaustion had left him on the verge of panic as his eyes swept around the room, now full.
The ambush had come as the light was fading and they were making their way back to the Garrison. SixteenMusketeers, released from duty on the banks of the Seine where the King's carriage had earlier passed to both cheers and derision from his subjects.
Now, those that were injured were all around him, every bed taken. The room was dark, lit by candles and lanterns which hung from brackets on the walls at either end.
He could hear Treville barking orders in the outer room. His ears filled with the cries, screams and groans of his brothers in arms.
Six dead.
Eight wounded; four of those critically.
It had become a mantra.
That left two, relatively unscathed; Aramis and himself, plus their Captain, Treville; who had led them home by any means he had found. Aramis had ridden in the back of someone's cart with his hands clamped firmly on Athos's neck, slippery with the blood that would not cease; until his fingers cramped up and Porthos took over. He stitched the gash quickly as soon as he could before the surgeons came.
The best of the best, Treville had said as he had surveyed the chaos at their arrival back at the Garrison.
Someone had taken Sir Edmund back to the Palace in the coach; the rest of the Regiment were still out, hunting out the perpetrators. But it was close to midnight now and they had not returned. He hoped they were safely camped for the night and would return in the morning. However, he feared that the assassins had long since melted into the night.
In the dim light, he searched for Aramis; last seen across the room, pinning Marchant to his bed as the man writhed in pain, threatening to tear the stitches across his chest.
Aramis was now nowhere to be seen but not far away, he knew.
Aramis's skills had been sorely needed this evening and Porthos knew he would not rest until everything he could do had been done; most of his time spent in the outer room, next to where the two surgeons laboured into the evening. Sent by the King, the surgeons had arrived along with medical supplies, sheets, bandages and extra lanterns.
Porthos himself had spent the past two hours moving around the Infirmary, going where he was needed; lifting, swabbing floors, gathering up linens, fetching, carrying, and praying. He was not a man who usually prayed.
All the time looking toward the far side of the room, watching the still figure, unconscious since leaving the surgeon's care two hours ago. There was nothing he could do, but that did not mean he was not acutely aware of the shallow rise and fall of his brother's chest.
In the distance, Notre Dame chimed the midnight hour. Inside the Garrison, time had no meaning.
But now, he needed Aramis, because Athos was starting to move. Porthos moved quickly over to the bed in the corner, his heart sinking at the fevered sheen now obvious on his brother's face and chest.
He had two wounds, a musket ball to his hip and a rapier cut to his neck, now both heavily bandaged.
Porthos felt justified in scooping him up in his arms and pulling him into his chest to try and stop the thrashing that was beginning.
The room itself was quieter now; most of the patients unconscious or settled, and Porthos looked wildly around, searching for Aramis, but to no avail.
He dare not call out, in fear of disturbing his fellow brothers and there was still activity in the next room, where the surgeons still toiled; so he held his tongue.
Then, as if with second sight, Aramis appeared in the doorway, the light at his back; wiping his bloodied hands on a cloth and looking right at him.
oOo
Athos is floating, and he is content to do so.
He opens his eyes and when he finally focuses, it is Porthos's face he sees, inches away from his own.
Their eyes lock; Porthos is saying something, and because he is repeating it, over and over again, Athos finally catches it.
Athos finds his voice, and thinks he says the right thing because Porthos gives that low laugh of his, followed by his wide smile. Athos can feel his strong arm across his shoulders, holding his upper body up, but his legs are heavy on the mattress, and a wave of pain hits him and he can do nothing but arch backward. When Athos looks up again into his brother's face, Porthos's smile has gone, and he is frowning down at him and Athos is unsure what has caused that.
Porthos tightens his grip.
It does nothing to save him falling away, down a deep well of blackness, watching as Porthos's contorted face grows smaller and smaller, the further down he goes.
There is a roaring in his ears, and he thinks it may be Porthos.
oOo
Standing in the doorway, Aramis locked eyes with Porthos. He saw how Porthos had taken Athos into his arms, like a small child, his face close enough so Athos could hear what he was saying.
Elsewhere, someone screamed, and Porthos finally felt justified in shouting himself; it would not be he who disturbed his brothers after all. He yelled across the room to Aramis to fetch laudanum. Porthos's arm was around Athos's shoulders and he was holding him in a half sitting position, but Aramis could see Athos's head was beginning to fall back.
Too late for laudanum.
Aramis dropped the cloth and crossed the room at a run.
To be continued ...