The Colour Of Fear, Chapter Two
Aug. 18th, 2016 12:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
barefoot_bardTitle: The Colour of Fear
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: The characters Maugan and Paol Kerjean, and Montreuil belong to outis. Jérémie Blanchard and all others are mine. No profit is being made from this story.
Story summary: Suppressing an armed revolt can be a nasty business. St Domingue, 1802.
Author's Note: Any factual or historical errors that occur within are my own and I duly apologise for them.
"Don't drink too much at once, tadpole," Lussier advised him. "It'll only make you ill."
Jérémie grimaced but stoppered his canteen after only the first half-swallow and let it drop back to its place at his hip. It was a little more than half full now, despite his having filled it before Second and Third Companies had gotten on the march that morning. They were winding their way inland, following a road that had obviously not seen a lot of use in recent times. If they were not a wary column of armed men, the scene might almost seem idyllic. After their landing two days ago, though, he knew there was nothing idyllic in the least about this place. They had spent the previous day clearing trees from around the road at the base of the peninsula, thereby opening up fields of fire for the naval guns that had been landed. Outposts had been established around the town and double picquets now manned them.
Then there had been the burial details. Clearing patrols had discovered corpses in many houses and orders had soon come that these were to be buried as far from the town as possible. Second Company had drawn this duty. It had therefore been an awful, interminable day and even Lussier's pliable patience had not borne up to it. Their only respite lay in the fact that the bodies they were burying no longer smelled, but none of them drew any comfort from that. Probably, Jérémie recalled grimly, because almost every body had been mutilated. Merely thinking of it made his stomach clench and he reached instinctively for his canteen. He had not even begun to lift it when Lussier flicked out a hand and slapped him hard against the elbow.
"You'll regret it if you do," he said.
Beside him, Gigot nodded. "He's right. You'll just puke it up again before we've got another two leagues."
Red-faced, Jérémie again let the canteen drop to the length of its sling. Last night he had not eaten. In fact, no sooner had the burial details finished their unenviable work, he had thrown up everything he'd eaten throughout the day. It had hardly stopped until Maugan had offered him a cup of something that smelled terrible and tasted just as bad. Whatever it was had stayed down, though, and had the additional benefit of putting him to sleep. This morning, he had decided against breakfast but had since gulped down half his canteen in a desperate attempt to lessen the dryness in his throat. The prospect of being sick yet again was mortifiying.
Maugan, marching behind Lussier, passed up half a biscuit. "Try nibblin' on that, mate. A little at a time. Should have you feelin' better by time we're stopped."
"Er, thanks." He took the biscuit and wished his face was not burning so. The squad had been remarkably tolerant of him since coming ashore and he was grateful to them for it. Particularly since they had had so little to do with each other on the voyage itself. Perhaps it was simply the pity that veterans felt for stupid and useless conscripts like him. He had done nothing but show his own weakness since they had landed, after all. He wasn't sure what was more humiliating; their well-meant sympathy or the fact that he needed it at all. Suppressing a grimace, Jérémie broke off a small piece of the biscuit and stuck it into his mouth, aware that he should not attempt to chew it until it had softened. That would likely take a while. The rest of the biscuit was shoved into a pocket, where hopefully it would not be crushed to crumbs.
"When, um, when will we stop?" He asked presently, speaking a little awkwardly around the hard lump of biscuit in his cheek.
The rumbling laugh from Lussier behind him made Jérémie's blush darken. "When we're told to, tadpole. Not a second sooner. You can be sure of that. Unless of course we get attacked between now and then, which means we'll stop sharpish."
"Oh." God, let them not be attacked. Not here. Jérémie peered around at the ground around them and had to stop himself imagining that there were enemy behind every tree, fence, and thick stand of brush. If there were, the flank scouts would encounter them first and the column should have time to deploy itself appropriately. His knuckles began to whiten around the butt of his musket all the same. The suddenness of the ambushes after the landings were a warning that the enemy could appear very close by should he choose. If there was another ambush like that...
Gigot's meaty elbow nudged him in the side. "So! Rosy. What was it you were hidin' from us the other night? Eh? I'll bet it's dirty drawings. Not kind of you not to share those, y'know!"
"It... was not. It is not. No. Not anything like drawings. It is my - " he cut himself off, realising that he was babbling like a fool, and clicked his jaw shut, his face burning like a baker's oven. It was not possible for anyone to sound more stupid than he was in that moment, he was convinced. Gigot clearly knew how to make him put that stupidity on display, too. Damn him.
"Your what? C'mon, Rosy, quit bein' bashful. Keeping secrets in this company doesn't work. The lads will always find things out."
Jérémie did not answer, all but biting into his tongue to keep silent. Rising to that bait would only lead to more uncomfortably personal questions. Questions he had no desire to answer, never mind hear asked. The squad had seemed to accept him in but he was not about to assume that meant instant bonds of trust now existed between them. Especially not about the matter Gigot was poking so indelicately at. So he kept his gaze fixed forward on Paol's pack and said nothing. Of course, if he had hoped this might result in the topic being dropped, he did not know the men of the squad.
"It's a Bible, René," Lussier said presently, after the silence had lapsed for some minutes. "A quaint small thing, at that."
"Bible!" Gigot burst out in disbelief.
Christ. Jérémie stopped, spinning hard around toward Lussier, his face a shade of deep scarlet and frozen in an expression of horrified anger. "You've been in - "
The older soldier pushed him roughly back around so he was facing forward. "Walk, tadpole! Be calm. I didn't touch your pack, or any of your things. That's not my way. I did, however, see it under your hand yesterday morning before you woke. Ah, ah, peace, brother. René did warn you there are no secrets in this company. Somebody would've found you out eventually."
The heat was spreading down his neck and up to his ears. Embarrassed was not a strong enough word to describe his feelings. Betrayed fit rather better, though he was sure there had to be a word even more fitting than that even if he did not know it. He didn't trust himself to speak. So he bowed his head, clenched his jaw, and marched in wooden, resentful silence until the order was passed for a brief halt to rest. The others fell out to the roadside, where they sat awkwardly with their packs still on and their muskets in hand. He didn't join them. Instead, he walked stiffly away to a dip on the road's shoulder and lowered himself down to sit with his knees drawn up. Their company was not to be shared if they saw fit to snoop. His self-imposed detachment made the rest of the day's march a silent one, for no one said a word to him, nor he them, after the halt was over.
The two companies halted for the day at a plantation. Hardly a building still stood anywhere on the grounds. The main house, or what had been the main house, was marked by mounds of charred timbers and scattered bricks. The burnt-out hulks of the barn, carriage house, and what must have been a guest residence in the immediate vicinity gave the area an odd, almost ghostly, appearance in the waning light. No one went near any of them after somebody discovered the scorched remains of a person lying in what had been the main house's front doorway. The metal tines of a pitchfork still stood in the corpse's back. Even Capitaine Chéreau seemed content to give that and the other ruins a wide berth. Double picquets were set and the two companies settled down into their bivoauc as best they could, though many, Jérémie included, could not shake the smothering feeling of being watched.
The need to be close to others eventually compelled him to join the squad at their fire. There was safety in that flickering glow. Where there was light, there was protection. Or at least that was how it seemed to him. Paol budged up to give him room and offered him what was left of his wine, since Jérémie had not drawn his, but the latter shook his head. Nobody appeared inclined to conversation and they all had their muskets within easy reach. Everyone's gaze was on the dancing flames. Eventually, perhaps inevitably, though, Gigot spoke up.
"Is it worth reading, Rosy?"
Jérémie looked up from his intensive study of a hunk of wood that had just fallen outside the fire in a crackling shower of sparks. "What?"
"Your Bible. Is there anything good in it?"
His memory flashed back to the evening after the landings and he only just managed to suppress a shudder. "It has some," he replied cautiously. This was not a subject he thought was wise to broach with them. It was something his family had learned to keep to themselves. The Revolution had seen to that. Being pressed on it now seemed close to an interrogation and the last thing Jérémie wanted was trouble.
"Depends on what you view as 'good'," Lussier remarked around the stem of his pipe. "The genius of a book like that is anybody can interpret it however they like."
"Only if that anybody can read it," countered Gigot with a smirk. "You gonna read any of it to us, Rosy?"
The question made his blood run cold. This very clearly was trouble. He wanted to crawl into the ground and disappear. "No." He hugged his knees to his chest, unconsciously trying to make himself as small as possible.
"Why the hell not? It's just a book, really. C'mon. Why have you even got it if you don't read it?"
Lord. Why was Gigot so interested? Couldn't he just leave it? His questions could mean nothing but bad, Jérémie was convinced. Why else would he keep asking? All eyes were on him now too, which did nothing to ease his feeling of being suspiciously studied. It was worse than the feeling of something out there in the dark watching them. Clearly, coming to the fireside had been a mistake. The only reasonable thing to do was leave it -
"I think," Maugan Kerjean interjected, in a slow, thoughtful voice, "that reading a book is not always needed for a man to be comforted by a book. Not if it's something he has taken comfort from carrying with him before."
Jérémie cast the Breton a quick, grateful glance and ignored Gigot's scoff of "Bullshit." It was a relief to know that somebody understood. That seemed to be the end of the discussion as well, for which he was doubly glad. He rested his chin on his knees and tried to ignore the lingering unease stirred up by Gigot's questions and apparent disdain. This was not something he had been confronted with before and it frightened him, if he was honest with himself.
The silence lasted only until Sergeant Leclerc's distinctive stomping gait came toward them. "Kerjeans, Blanchard, and Lussier. Get up. You've got picquet duty."
Picquet duty. In this awful darkness. Jérémie unfolded himself with reluctance, which did not escape Leclerc's notice. The others were more prompt in getting up and gathering their weapons so his lack of haste earned him a sharp, "Get up, Blanchard. Don't make me tell you again."
"C'mon, tadpole," said Lussier, holding a hand out to him. Jérémie reached up for it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Better Lussier, Paol, and Maugan than Gigot, he thought as he accepted his musket from Paol. Both gestures help calm some of his nerves and reassured him that perhaps all might not be bad in the squad. He fell in behind Maugan, pausing only to fix his bayonet with hands that trembled a little, and Leclerc led them off toward the picquet line. Nobody breathed a word until the sergeant had gone, but even then, it didn't seem as though speech was worth any effort. Jérémie gripped his musket in both hands, ready to bring it up and into his shoulder in an instant if anything came charging at him, and stared wide-eyed into the ever-shifting shadows.
The night air was anything but still. There was a slight breeze whispering through the unmown grass of the fields and making the leaves in the few remaining trees rustle. Far in the distance, the dull boom of artillery rumbled and rolled. Some strange sort of insect was chirping somewhere ahead and a dog began howling, his voice thin and scratchy. Silence would have been preferable, Jérémie thought with a shiver. At least then there might be a chance to hear the enemy coming. Maybe. The moon was only half full, though. It didn't offer anything like enough light by which to see what was out there. And since the rebels were dark-skinned men... he shuddered and gripped his musket tighter. That heavy, sinking fear was seeping into him again. Somebody out there was watching. He knew it.
"Sit down. Slowly." Lussier's low-pitched voice seemed surreal, but he was whispering only just loud enough for the three of them to hear. He was sinking very slowly down to his knees even as he spoke. "We stand out just a little with all of our white. Once you're sitting. Do. Not. Move."
One by one, each of them eased carefully down until they were sitting in the grass, their muskets lying ready across their laps. Jérémie was privately glad of the older soldiers' presence. They were men he still only barely knew yet on the whole, he was vastly happier to have them alongside than others in the company. Particularly Lussier. It was obvious he had some experience with revolts and rebellions. He was alert but not nervous, and that helped keep Jérémie's own nerves in check. Mostly. A warbling bird call - or what sounded like a bird - made him start and Lussier hissed an oath at him. The rebuke made his face burn but he said nothing. Not that there was anything he could say.
Time crept along. Lack of motion and conversation made minutes seem like hours. It was hard to tell even if he was still awake. Jérémie blinked and tried to tell himself to not go to sleep. He had to stay alert. Awake. Alert. Looking, seeing, hearing... hearing. Jérémie sraightened up fractionally, drawing his musket just enough toward his shoulder that Maugan gave him a light prod with his shoe. The warning was ignored. Something was out there. Very close. He could hear it. It made him certain danger was creeping up on them from the dark.
"There's something out there," he whispered, inching his musket further toward the pocket of his shoulder. His heart thudded hard against his ribs and surely whoever was out there could hear it. In the partial moonlight, something seemed to flit from shadow to shadow, too quickly for his eyes to focus on. But the rustling of grass wasn't only the wind. Not anymore. It couldn't be. He blinked again, then stared hard into the darkness. He'd eased his musket almost fully to his shoulder, his right thumb pressed hard against the base of the doghead, ready to pull it back.
One of the others brushed a hand against his arm and Lussier's voice grated in his ear, "Be still. Don't move. Keep your eyes on it."
As bidden, Jérémie froze, not quite at the Present but close enough to count. He could not tell if the others had similarly made themselves ready. Surely they must have done, though. It seemed incredible that he was the only one to have heard something. For many long, interminable seconds, he stared toward where he'd seen movement, his musket aimed unwaveringly at the spot. Every instinct in him screamed at him to pull the flint back and fire, to stop whatever was out there before it could attack. If he was more familiar with his surroundings, he might even consider simply running away. Anything to avoid finding a pitchfork in his back, like that poor bastard in the burned-out shell of the plantation's main house.
"Someone is out there. I heard them. I saw them. They're watching us. They're going to kill us. I know it."
"Keep quiet," muttered Paol, somehow, magically, close by his elbow. "If they hear us, they'll come."
Quiet. Still. Don't speak, don't move. In a calmer frame of mind, Jérémie would have seen the sense behind these directions. In that moment, however, he could imagine nothing but the most gruesome of deaths at the hands of a terrible screaming black devil. He felt himself shivering, though whether it was from the barely-suppressed urge to rise to his feet and fire or from simple, raw fear, he couldn't say. Perhaps it didn't matter. His thumb and forefinger curled around the doghead and began to draw it slowly back. This motion only stopped when Paol clapped a hand over his and hissed a single word in Breton, almost directly into Jérémie's ear.
No more than a heartbeat later, there was a shouted challenge from further down the picquet line. Whoever made the challenge did not wait for a response but fired into the night. Almost immediately the darkness was ripped apart by muzzle flashes and the pops of musketry. Jérémie tried to get to his feet but was held down by Paol. The other picquets had clearly seen something as well, so surely a defence of the lines was necessary. Why were they, in their own little post, holding back? Surely the rebels, being so hotly confronted, would make for the quietest part of the line to break through and that very part of the line was theirs. The last thing he wanted to do was fight but if fighting meant staying alive, the choice was easy.
There was shouting from the bivouac behind them as the rest of the lads stood to, scrambling half-blindly for their weapons and trying to get to their alarm posts. Along the picquet line, the firing continued, though he could hear Capitaine Chéreau snapping angrily at them to not waste lead on an enemy they could not see. The noise of movement beside Jérémie would have passed unnoticed had not Lussier suddenly growled a string of curses. He was, Jérémie realised, on his feet. So was Maugan. With his face aflame, he struggled up to his feet too. The sporadic, ill-disciplined firing was petering out as the control of the frightened picquets was regained. Lanterns were bobbing eerily along the line, which drew a further string of colourful words from Lussier.
"What just happened?" Jérémie wanted to know, his musket now held safely at the Port.
"That," snapped Lussier in obvious disgust, "is what you get when fools play at being soldiers. Now, the rebels know our exact positions and will, next time, come in greater force and greater stealth. Fucking sloppy work and men will die because of it."
"But we were not fired at?" Paol ventured uncertainly.
"No? I'd like to know how you can tell!"
Leclerc appeared out of the hazy darkness, squinting a little in the drifitng powder smoke. "What in the hell are your men doing, Lussier? Shooting at phantoms? Christ alive, you're as bad as the rest of these idiots. It makes me think of what you got up to in Porto-Vecchio."
The remarks made Jérémie and Paol both straighten up, their muskets coming to the Port as if about to face another enemy. Perhaps they were, he thought with a frown, remembering the sergeant's actions on the day of the landing. Maugan stood at Lussier's shoulder, his musket held casually before him, the butt firmly planted in the dirt. Leclerc's eyes moved from face to face before coming back to rest on Lussier and Jérémie decided that he did not like the sergeant in the least.
"You should keep moving down the line, Sergeant," Lussier said blandly.
"Sergeant!" Capitaine Chéreau came striding briskly toward them, stopping Leclerc before he could form a reply. "See the men settle down. We can't have any more of this madness tonight. Re-set the picquets and make sure they're all loaded. Bayonets stay fixed and the men will keep calm."
"We should send patrols out, sir," Leclerc said, not appearing to have heard. "The enemy are out there and we can push 'em back a good way, if we get after them now."
All eyes were on Chéreau, who was shaking his head, one hand on his sword. "No. We have a long way to march in the morning and I won't waste the men's energy chasing shadows. Re-set the picquets and make sure they exercise some restraint."
"But sir - "
"You have your orders, Sergeant." Chéreau was already moving on, returning the way he'd come. Leclerc glared at the officer's back but waited until he had gone before turning to glare at Lussier and the others. His gaze rested longest on Jérémie, though he addressed himself to Lussier with a distinct sneer.
"You four will be flank scouts tomorrow. All day."
Even in the dark, there was no mistaking the malevolence on Leclerc's face. What in the name of God was that about? What had any of them done to deserve it? A glance at Lussier offered no hint of answers. Obviously there was a great deal more being said that was not actually being said but he could fathom none of it. Neither could he stop himself from asking, "What just happened?"
"Face your front, Blanchard," Lussier told him, having already turned to stare out into the night.
Jérémie's frown deepened. "But I don't understand. The enemy came at us so we fought them off. Why is Leclerc so - "
"You ask too many questions. Some things aren't for tadpoles to know."
That stung, badly enough that Jérémie held his tongue. He glanced at Paol, who did not meet his eyes. Maugan had already turned to look outward too. Neither, he saw, elected to sit this time. Disappointed without quite knowing why, Jérémie stayed where he was, letting his musket slide silently down through his hands until the butt thudded dully into the dirt. Unlike the others, he found it less easy to face outward to watch the grass gently waving in the midnight breeze. They all knew the enemy lurked out there, had probably in fact just driven off an attack before it could be properly made, yet he kept his eyes directed toward the bivoauc itself, feeling strangely like there were enemies on both sides of the line. The sick sense of dread that this thought gave him meant that, even after the picquets were relieved, he sat by the fire and gazed sightlessly into the flames. Sleep, or indeed any rest at all, did not come.
~
Half the day's march had passed before Jérémie was able to stop thinking about the bodies they'd discovered that morning. Twenty yards from where the picquets had stood, four dead black men lay in the long grass, each of them clutching a long knife. The trampled grass behind and around them suggested there'd been more. The discovery had not done much to improve his spirits. Being proved right should have been a point of pride but he couldn't get past the baffling exchange between Leclerc and Lussier, and the curt treatment he'd gotten after it from the veteran soldier. He'd kept to himself even on the march, though Leclerc having made them flank scouts meant conversation with any of the others bordered on the impossible. Not that anyone had shown much interest in talking with him that morning. Today, that suited him fine.
There was a lot to turn over in his mind anyway. That awful overwhelming fear he'd felt when he thought they were about to be attacked, the sinking heat of confusion and dread when the sergeant had spoken of places and events he knew nothing of, the hurt at being quickly and gruffly snubbed. Above all, there was the sickening feeling that nothing thus far had truly been bad. This was not even quite a feeling, he supposed, but a suspicion he had, a growing notion influenced in no small part by the way the men in the company had begun talking and acting, keeping sharp lookouts even in the column, bayonets always fixed and hands always near their musket locks. No one was easy and as they passed the ruins of another plantation, Jérémie thought he knew why. Plainly visible from the road were the bodies of people. Fire and death had struck that place, just as surely as it had struck the plantation where they had camped the night before.
As much as he wanted to, he could not dig his Bible out. He was flank scout and all his attention had to be on the ground away to his left. Which it was. Mostly. His eyes roved constantly but at the same time he leafed through the pages of his mental Bible, searching through the passages and verses he had always drawn comfort from. After the previous night, he knew he couldn't expect much in the way of comfort or comradeship from the others. That this hurt more deeply than he'd expected made the whole search for spiritual relief that much more pressing. Ironically, he found himself reciting Isaiah, the same book that had given him nothing but anxiety the last time he had turned to it. Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous hand. The words were whispered in his mother's voice, the familiar warmth that he realied he missed so sorely. For I, the Lord your God, will hold your right hand, saying to you, 'Fear not, I will help you'.
His heart lifted gradually as he moved on to Psalms and thence to Corinthians, so when the column got within sight of a town, he felt as close to peaceable as any man on this island could reasonably be. It never quite occurred to him that a peaceable mood was starkly at odds with the need to be lethally alert. He edged a little further away from the column as the road curved to the left, for the first time not thinking about any of the horrors and fears this place had already sprung upon him but instead looking forward to settling down near the squad's fire after the inevitable halt. Companionship wouldn't be offered to him that evening, he was sure, so he expected to spend the evening in his own contemplations. It wasn't until firing broke out ahead that he came back to the present, aware to his red-faced shame that he had not been paying attention to the task at hand.
The forward scouts were falling back to the protection of the column, which pressed doggedly on toward them, enduring the apparently discinplined fire from an unseen enemy. Shouting and the occasional scream punctuated the dry rattle of musketry. Jérémie swept his gaze over the terrain ahead, his grip on his musket white-knuckled and any peaceable mood entirely gone. There was no sign of any rebels near him, it seemed, so they must all be making their attack upon the head of the column. It certainly sounded that way. Why weren't the flank scouts being pulled in to help with the defence? Certainly they could be useful -
"Watch your flank!" Somebody bellowed amid a flurry of shots from ahead and to the left. Jérémie finched and instinctively ducked, which prompted somebody else to shout an oath-laden order to do his job and shoot. The other flank scouts were standing and firing, their shots whipping through the air with an audible buzz. Panic tugged at him, even as he set his feet and leveled his musket at a rebel who had appeared as if from the very earth with a firelock of his own. The rank cloud of powder smoke that erupted when he fired made it impossible to see if he'd hit his mark, but fear narrowed his awareness so sharply that he was only aware of the need to reload and fire again. He'd fired twice more and was ramming down a fourth cartridge when somebody grabbed his pack.
"Move, you useless idiot, we're pushin' into the village!" The hand and voice belonged to Boudet, who had somehow contrived to be in the rearguard. Without a further word, Jérémie found himself being half-dragged along after him, his ramrod nearly slipping out of his fingers as the pair ran for the safety of the column. The firing had become hotter as the column pressed its advance and it seemed like all the resistance was now concentrated on the road the two companies had to follow to reach the village. Or town. Or whatever it was. Jérémie hardly cared. He shoved his ramrod back into its tubes after Boudet finally released him, then looked around to take stock. It seemed that the other flank scouts had been driven in and had rejoined the column, but he couldn't see who was where.
A slight rolling ripple seized the column but he had only just started to wonder about why when the bleeding, groaning body of a man from Third Company came into view. Everyone had stepped over him without a second glance. Jérémie slung his musket and stooped at once to grab at the man's crossbelts, ignoring Boudet's sharp "What are you doing? Christ, leave him, he's done for! Rosy!"
Ignoring him, Jérémie struggled to heft the man's weight enough so he could get his shoulder under him, but the older soldier was too solid and Jérémie too slight. He dropped the poor soul before grabbing his crossbelts and settling for dragging the man backward over the road's uneven surface. With a curse, Boudet slung his own musket and shoved in to help, and between the two of them, they were able to drag the wounded fellow most of the way toward the village. They got no further, for a fresh assault upon the flanks and rear forced them to drop their burden so their hands were free to employ their muskets. The column did not stop but pushed on through the renewed attack, no doubt unintentionally leaving Jérémie and Boudet behind.
The wounded man made a very brief attempt to drag himself after them but this attempt was stopped short by two musket balls fired from the rebels sniping at them from a line of trees fifteen yards away. He sank back to the rutted road with a gurgling sigh, his throat shot through. His fate passed unseen by Boudet, though Jérémie, glancing aside while reloading, felt his stomach turn over. He whipped the ramrod out of the barrel, spun it, and thrust it back into its tubes, then dashed for the dead man. It wasn't easy hooking one arm through the soldier's crossbelts but he managed and with gritted teeth dragged him awkwardly along behind him.
Feet pounded over the road toward him and Gigot cried, "What are you doing, Rosy? Drop that poor sod and run!"
His foot caught in a hole in the road and he went down, brought to earth as much from that as by the weight of the dead man, and Gigot, with Boudet next to him, grabbed at Jérémie's arms. They were more than he could shake off and they were able to haul him along after them toward the safety of a crumbling building some yards away. The rest of the column had reached the village and now was breaking into squads, filtering through the streets and alleys to hunt down any resistance. A soldier near them paused to turn and fire back at the pursuing enemy, and was shot through the stomach for his efforts. This time, the casualty was ignored.
"What was that bullshit about fighting in the open, Olivier?" Gigot shoved the other two toward cover with his usual booming laugh, not appearing to be fazed in the least by the ongoing action. Jérémie ducked as the whizz of lead passed uncomfortably close and found himself elbowed aside by Boudet, who shot dead one rebel who pursued them too closely. The others from the company had not stayed around, but instead had run deeper into the village where there was the nominal safety of numbers, leaving the three of them to fight their way clear on their own.
"Piss off," Boudet returned, shoving his pan shut with a click and swinging his musket butt down to the ground. "I ain't stayin' here without the others. Where the hell are they?"
"Not here!" A cloud of powder smoke billowed around Gigot's head and shoulders as he fired his piece. Jérémie stayed pressed against the wall of the house, blinking and coughing in the powder smoke and trying to gather his scattered sense of awareness. The other two were exchanging barbed remarks as they alternately loaded and fired, both seeming oblivious to Jérémie's inactivity. He could not have said why he kept still, or why his heart was hammering so hard against his ribs, or why it felt he could not even breathe. His musket felt like an impossible weight in his hands but he had enough wits left about him to keep a grip on the weapon.
"Rosy! Watch out!" Boudet lunged past him in a blur, bayonet leading. Surprised, Jérémie staggered sideways, unable to reel backward because of the wall behind him. He barely had time to blink before there was an exchange of shots nearly in the same instant, a bark of pain, and a screamed oath from Gigot, who raced past next with his own bayonet. The pace of events was much too quick for Jérémie to keep up with. It was only after somebody else came running from the direction the column had gone that he began to regain his ability to process what his eyes and ears were telling him.
The late arrival was Maugan, just prising his bayonet from the body of a skinny black man. A second rebel lay on his face nearby, a musket just barely visible under his body. But there were three bodies on the ground, Jérémie realised with a start. Those two and... Boudet. Gigot had dropped to his knees beside him, casting his own musket aside to press his hands to the nasty-looking wound in Boudet's chest. The steady pulse of blood around Gigot's fingers held Jérémie's attention, keeping him immobile with horrified fascination. As before, he could do or say nothing. Whether it was fear or panic, he couldn't say, but he was only clutch at his musket and stare.
Gigot was looking around, his eyes wide and scared but his voice still steady. Just. "Lussier!" His bellow was deep-throated enough to make Jérémie shiver. "Lussier!"
"René. René! C'mon." Maugan had a grip on Gigot's arm and was trying to tug him away. The sound of musketry from the opposite side of the house was growing louder and seemed closer, with the more chilling chorus of chanting and shouting behind it. Getting out of here seemed to be the Breton's line of thinking and it happened to be one Jérémie found himself agreeing with fairly eagerly. Even though he could not drag his gaze off the crimson ribbon of blood snaking down from the corner of Boudet's mouth, which stood out awfully against the chalk-white pallor of his face. He was coughing, the sound thick and wet, and blood came bubbling up with each sputtering hack. His hands scrabbled at the sleeves of Gigot's coat with the desperation of a dying man. The stain in his shirt was enormous, spreading terribly far past the pressure of Gigot's hands. This was something Jérémie had never before seen and it terrified him utterly. Surely there had to be something they could do -
Maugan was insistent, his voice tight and his grip obviously tighter. "We. Have. To. Go. Now."
A musket barked very close by and Jérémie gave a start, becoming aware that Paol had appeared from somewhere, but he didn't know when or from where. Nor did he have the slightest idea what to do. It was only when Paol grabbed him by his pack to drag him into motion did Jérémie finally stir from his stupor. They were heading after the now-dispersed column, Maugan and Gigot in the lead, with Paol hauling Jérémie along behind them. He could not stop himself glancing back and was in time to see howling rebels bounding around both sides of the house they'd just been sheltering behind. There was one last crack from a musket - a musket that Boudet was clutching in blood-stained hands. He still lay on his back and had fired blind. Sunlight glinted on the blades of the bayonets in the rebels' hands as they flashed downward and Jérémie looked away.
~
The village was cleared of all enemy by evening. Daylight was fading when the last shots were fired. There was a lot to do but with night coming down, Capitaine Chéreau and his counterpart from Third Company, Soucy, decided to set night picquets and leave the heavy work until the morning. Personally, Jérémie thought he'd have preferred to lose himself in heavy work. That would have distracted him from the gloom. The squad had claimed a roofless building that obviously once been a shop of some kind. It was a cosy enough billet but after getting a fire going outside in a little courtyard, no one was inclined to talk. Gigot in particular had been quiet, gulping down the contents of his canteen as fast as he could swallow and refusing the offer of the thin soup Maugan had managed to cook. Instead of sitting near them, Jérémie had chosen a spot just within the circle of light cast by the dancing flames, his company limited to his thoughts and the plain printed words in his Bible.
Not that the latter was proving much comfort tonight. His literacy was patchy at the best of times and that evening his brain was much too cluttered to let him concentrate enough on the chore of reading. The effort eventually gave him a headache and he gave up, closing the little book with a sigh and laying back onto his pack. That the others regarded him as a coward was clear to him. He didn't blame them. If he'd kept his head and fought like he was supposed to, there was every chance Boudet wouldn't have needed to die. That he had only stood there throughout the whole thing was sign enough that he was worth nothing as a soldier. His memories of the day were mostly a jumble except for that span of fifteen minutes. The sequence of events had been a blur at the time but in the hours since, all had become clear. He'd just stood there, Boudet had been shot, and they'd left him there to die. Those were the core facts and each was equally damning. He hadn't needed the withering glare from Sergeant Leclerc or the icy resentment of his squad.
Jérémie shoved the Bible back into his pack, then wrapped himself in his blanket. The coarse wool scratched him even through his shirt but he didn't mind. He wasn't sure if sleep would find him tonight, though. His head felt too full and his heart too heavy. Perhaps he should have followed Gigot's example and glutted himself on wine. At least Gigot knew how best to dull grief, uncertainty, and regret. With a sigh, Jérémie curled up unconsciously into a loose ball and was glad his back was to the others. It was easier to pretend they weren't there that way. Even if they weren't able to pretend the same for him, since the heavy footfalls coming toward him meant somebody was about to pull him up for doing nothing, to sneer at him for being a useless coward, to demand to know why Boudet had died and he had not. Whoever it was hesitated before lowering himself slowly to sit near Jérémie's head, taking care to keep an arm's length away. So, he thought dully, it was to be a private piece of verbal abuse. Not that he didn't deserve every word.
"Today was not a good day," said Paol eventually.
If that was not an understatement... "No."
There was another pause, as if the Breton was considering his words. "Boudet was a good man. He never did... he was reliable, yes? He did his share, all the time, if we asked him to or not. It was his way. In Corsica, he was... a good friend to have at your back."
He could attest to that much. If Boudet had not been keeping an eye out, Jérémie would have been shot instead. Maybe he should have looked the other way. The reactions and mood would not be so gloomy then. Why hadn't Boudet spared the squad that? Why hadn't he spared Jérémie that? Surely that would've been better all around.
"I don't think he did me any favours with that," Jérémie muttered.
"Boudet did nothing with any thought of doing favours."
"Obviously."
Paol seemed to flinch at that. "René said he was just unlucky. Sometimes, we are just unlucky. It happens even to good men."
"Only to good men, you mean. Like him. He didn't just stand there. He didn't just do nothing. Boudet wasn't a coward like... like me."
"You aren't - "
"No? I did not do a thing today but cower against a wall. If that is not how a coward behaves..."
There was a silence after that, which was more accusatory than words. Who could argue with the truth? He'd been brave enough to shoot at someone running away but when the time came to trade fire with a living, breathing, furious enemy, his musket butt had not come near his shoulder. He had not even kept a good enough lookout to know when the enemy was close enough to shove a bayonet into.
A sigh hissed quietly from Paol. "I was afraid, my first battle. It was very loud, shouting, a lot of shooting, running in... to... da bep lec'h. Everywhere. It was in trees. The enemy was hard to see. I hid, but Boudet came and pulled me away. If we didn't fight, we'd die. So... we fought. Me, Maugan, Lussier, Gigot, and... him. He said that your first shot is hardest. But it's less hard after it."
Something like a shiver which had nothing to do with the cooling evening went through him. The first shot. "I fired today. More than once."
"At a man?"
"Yes. I think so."
"Then you are not a coward."
That remark, and the cool certainty with which it was spoken, caused Jérémie to look up from his intent study of the ground he was lying on. "No? I certainly was not brave." The two were one and the same in his view. How Paol could view them otherwise baffled him. Or maybe he didn't, since he offered no reply to Jérémie's remark. He did appreciate the Breton's attempt at reassurance but it was misplaced. Somebody was dead because he had failed in his duty. No matter on earth was more simple than that.
"René said you should have this," said Paol eventually. Jérémie was obliged to sit up to see a tin mug being held out to him. He accepted it after a moment's hesitation but didn't drink from it. The mug's contents smelled like wine and he was tempted to sip from it, yet he remembered Gigot's distress when Boudet had gone down. The Bordelais had done what he could to save his comrade and Jérémie had done nothing. It was a natural thought, then, that Gigot might want to get back at him for that. The Lord our God has doomed us, and given us poisoned water to drink, for we have sinned against the Lord.
"What?" Even in the darkness, it was possible to discern Paol's confused frown.
His face flushed hot and dark when he realised he must have spoken that verse aloud. "Nothing. I - I'm not thirsty."
"It isn't poisoned. Or water. Why would you - "
Jérémie shook his head, nearly too embarrassed to speak. "I don't. I didn't. It was just... just a quote."
"A quote. Like from your book?" On seeing Jérémie's nod, Paol hesitated, then asked, "Can you read it?"
"Some," Jérémie admitted after a moment. "A little, anyway. My mother read a lot to us and I learned a few words from it that way." The change of subject had to be deliberate but he was glad for it all the same. Distraction was welcome whatever form it took. Especially since it seemed that Paol, at least, bore him no ill will for his failures earlier. That discovery gave him the first glimmer of hope he'd felt all day.
"Is it hard? To read. It seems like... impossible. Or hard to learn, anyway."
"It is not easy. It gives me a headache after a while. But I have a lot of the book up here." He tapped his temple with a finger. Having passages memorised was a mixed blessing, though. Some of it, like those verses from Isaiah, had a way of worming into the forefront of his thoughts and battering more soothing verses aside. He glanced down at the mug of wine and tried to coax something from Psalms forward, without success. The best he could do was a snippet from Matthew, which after a long moment he recited out loud, albeit in a low voice.
"And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. But rather, be afraid of Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell." Jérémie twitched his shoulders in a shrug. "From the book of Matthew. It is fairly useless stuff, really."
"It isn't useless if you believe in it," Paol told him. "My brother used to say that."
"Maugan?"
The barest of hesitations before Paol's answer told Jérémie that his question was less than welcome. "No."
Colour and heat were both back in his cheeks. He knew well enough - or could guess, rather - what that sudden reticence must mean. "I'm sorry."
"Come back to the fire," said the Breton, as if he hadn't heard the apology. "The others... we all lost a mate today. It wasn't a good day for anyone." So saying, he got to his feet and held a hand out to Jérémie.
Part of him wanted to ignore it. Surely staying here on his own, away from the squad he was still convinced could not want anything to do with him, had to be the better way. At the same time, his unease was calmed a little by Paol having made the effort to tug him back to the fireside. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the other three watching, while somehow seeming to have no eyes but for the little fire. Was there truly no resentment for him? It was hard to believe. All the same... he reached up to grasp the offered hand and allowed Paol to help him stand. Maybe, as Paol had said, today was just unlucky. Horribly and irretrievably so, but still merely unlucky.
Lussier glanced up at the two young soldiers, then nodded at the mug in Jérémie's hand. "If you're not going to drink that, tadpole, better give it back to René. He hates when good wine goes to waste."
As if to emphasise this, Gigot held out his hand. "You owe me anyway, Rosy," he said in a wine-thickened voice. "You're an awful cobbler. I've lost the heel off my shoe again!"
Of all things he could have said, that was the least expected and, oddly, the most reassuring. Despite himself, Jérémie felt a fleeting smile make the corner of his mouth twitch. Perhaps all was not yet lost after all. He made no reply, but let himself sink down near the fire, offering the mug of wine to Gigot after he was settled. A discussion about the questionable merits of army shoemakers came flickering into life, sparked by Gigot's waving his heel-less shoe around, and the glimmer of hope Jérémie had felt a few minutes ago got a little stronger.
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: The characters Maugan and Paol Kerjean, and Montreuil belong to outis. Jérémie Blanchard and all others are mine. No profit is being made from this story.
Story summary: Suppressing an armed revolt can be a nasty business. St Domingue, 1802.
Author's Note: Any factual or historical errors that occur within are my own and I duly apologise for them.
"Don't drink too much at once, tadpole," Lussier advised him. "It'll only make you ill."
Jérémie grimaced but stoppered his canteen after only the first half-swallow and let it drop back to its place at his hip. It was a little more than half full now, despite his having filled it before Second and Third Companies had gotten on the march that morning. They were winding their way inland, following a road that had obviously not seen a lot of use in recent times. If they were not a wary column of armed men, the scene might almost seem idyllic. After their landing two days ago, though, he knew there was nothing idyllic in the least about this place. They had spent the previous day clearing trees from around the road at the base of the peninsula, thereby opening up fields of fire for the naval guns that had been landed. Outposts had been established around the town and double picquets now manned them.
Then there had been the burial details. Clearing patrols had discovered corpses in many houses and orders had soon come that these were to be buried as far from the town as possible. Second Company had drawn this duty. It had therefore been an awful, interminable day and even Lussier's pliable patience had not borne up to it. Their only respite lay in the fact that the bodies they were burying no longer smelled, but none of them drew any comfort from that. Probably, Jérémie recalled grimly, because almost every body had been mutilated. Merely thinking of it made his stomach clench and he reached instinctively for his canteen. He had not even begun to lift it when Lussier flicked out a hand and slapped him hard against the elbow.
"You'll regret it if you do," he said.
Beside him, Gigot nodded. "He's right. You'll just puke it up again before we've got another two leagues."
Red-faced, Jérémie again let the canteen drop to the length of its sling. Last night he had not eaten. In fact, no sooner had the burial details finished their unenviable work, he had thrown up everything he'd eaten throughout the day. It had hardly stopped until Maugan had offered him a cup of something that smelled terrible and tasted just as bad. Whatever it was had stayed down, though, and had the additional benefit of putting him to sleep. This morning, he had decided against breakfast but had since gulped down half his canteen in a desperate attempt to lessen the dryness in his throat. The prospect of being sick yet again was mortifiying.
Maugan, marching behind Lussier, passed up half a biscuit. "Try nibblin' on that, mate. A little at a time. Should have you feelin' better by time we're stopped."
"Er, thanks." He took the biscuit and wished his face was not burning so. The squad had been remarkably tolerant of him since coming ashore and he was grateful to them for it. Particularly since they had had so little to do with each other on the voyage itself. Perhaps it was simply the pity that veterans felt for stupid and useless conscripts like him. He had done nothing but show his own weakness since they had landed, after all. He wasn't sure what was more humiliating; their well-meant sympathy or the fact that he needed it at all. Suppressing a grimace, Jérémie broke off a small piece of the biscuit and stuck it into his mouth, aware that he should not attempt to chew it until it had softened. That would likely take a while. The rest of the biscuit was shoved into a pocket, where hopefully it would not be crushed to crumbs.
"When, um, when will we stop?" He asked presently, speaking a little awkwardly around the hard lump of biscuit in his cheek.
The rumbling laugh from Lussier behind him made Jérémie's blush darken. "When we're told to, tadpole. Not a second sooner. You can be sure of that. Unless of course we get attacked between now and then, which means we'll stop sharpish."
"Oh." God, let them not be attacked. Not here. Jérémie peered around at the ground around them and had to stop himself imagining that there were enemy behind every tree, fence, and thick stand of brush. If there were, the flank scouts would encounter them first and the column should have time to deploy itself appropriately. His knuckles began to whiten around the butt of his musket all the same. The suddenness of the ambushes after the landings were a warning that the enemy could appear very close by should he choose. If there was another ambush like that...
Gigot's meaty elbow nudged him in the side. "So! Rosy. What was it you were hidin' from us the other night? Eh? I'll bet it's dirty drawings. Not kind of you not to share those, y'know!"
"It... was not. It is not. No. Not anything like drawings. It is my - " he cut himself off, realising that he was babbling like a fool, and clicked his jaw shut, his face burning like a baker's oven. It was not possible for anyone to sound more stupid than he was in that moment, he was convinced. Gigot clearly knew how to make him put that stupidity on display, too. Damn him.
"Your what? C'mon, Rosy, quit bein' bashful. Keeping secrets in this company doesn't work. The lads will always find things out."
Jérémie did not answer, all but biting into his tongue to keep silent. Rising to that bait would only lead to more uncomfortably personal questions. Questions he had no desire to answer, never mind hear asked. The squad had seemed to accept him in but he was not about to assume that meant instant bonds of trust now existed between them. Especially not about the matter Gigot was poking so indelicately at. So he kept his gaze fixed forward on Paol's pack and said nothing. Of course, if he had hoped this might result in the topic being dropped, he did not know the men of the squad.
"It's a Bible, René," Lussier said presently, after the silence had lapsed for some minutes. "A quaint small thing, at that."
"Bible!" Gigot burst out in disbelief.
Christ. Jérémie stopped, spinning hard around toward Lussier, his face a shade of deep scarlet and frozen in an expression of horrified anger. "You've been in - "
The older soldier pushed him roughly back around so he was facing forward. "Walk, tadpole! Be calm. I didn't touch your pack, or any of your things. That's not my way. I did, however, see it under your hand yesterday morning before you woke. Ah, ah, peace, brother. René did warn you there are no secrets in this company. Somebody would've found you out eventually."
The heat was spreading down his neck and up to his ears. Embarrassed was not a strong enough word to describe his feelings. Betrayed fit rather better, though he was sure there had to be a word even more fitting than that even if he did not know it. He didn't trust himself to speak. So he bowed his head, clenched his jaw, and marched in wooden, resentful silence until the order was passed for a brief halt to rest. The others fell out to the roadside, where they sat awkwardly with their packs still on and their muskets in hand. He didn't join them. Instead, he walked stiffly away to a dip on the road's shoulder and lowered himself down to sit with his knees drawn up. Their company was not to be shared if they saw fit to snoop. His self-imposed detachment made the rest of the day's march a silent one, for no one said a word to him, nor he them, after the halt was over.
The two companies halted for the day at a plantation. Hardly a building still stood anywhere on the grounds. The main house, or what had been the main house, was marked by mounds of charred timbers and scattered bricks. The burnt-out hulks of the barn, carriage house, and what must have been a guest residence in the immediate vicinity gave the area an odd, almost ghostly, appearance in the waning light. No one went near any of them after somebody discovered the scorched remains of a person lying in what had been the main house's front doorway. The metal tines of a pitchfork still stood in the corpse's back. Even Capitaine Chéreau seemed content to give that and the other ruins a wide berth. Double picquets were set and the two companies settled down into their bivoauc as best they could, though many, Jérémie included, could not shake the smothering feeling of being watched.
The need to be close to others eventually compelled him to join the squad at their fire. There was safety in that flickering glow. Where there was light, there was protection. Or at least that was how it seemed to him. Paol budged up to give him room and offered him what was left of his wine, since Jérémie had not drawn his, but the latter shook his head. Nobody appeared inclined to conversation and they all had their muskets within easy reach. Everyone's gaze was on the dancing flames. Eventually, perhaps inevitably, though, Gigot spoke up.
"Is it worth reading, Rosy?"
Jérémie looked up from his intensive study of a hunk of wood that had just fallen outside the fire in a crackling shower of sparks. "What?"
"Your Bible. Is there anything good in it?"
His memory flashed back to the evening after the landings and he only just managed to suppress a shudder. "It has some," he replied cautiously. This was not a subject he thought was wise to broach with them. It was something his family had learned to keep to themselves. The Revolution had seen to that. Being pressed on it now seemed close to an interrogation and the last thing Jérémie wanted was trouble.
"Depends on what you view as 'good'," Lussier remarked around the stem of his pipe. "The genius of a book like that is anybody can interpret it however they like."
"Only if that anybody can read it," countered Gigot with a smirk. "You gonna read any of it to us, Rosy?"
The question made his blood run cold. This very clearly was trouble. He wanted to crawl into the ground and disappear. "No." He hugged his knees to his chest, unconsciously trying to make himself as small as possible.
"Why the hell not? It's just a book, really. C'mon. Why have you even got it if you don't read it?"
Lord. Why was Gigot so interested? Couldn't he just leave it? His questions could mean nothing but bad, Jérémie was convinced. Why else would he keep asking? All eyes were on him now too, which did nothing to ease his feeling of being suspiciously studied. It was worse than the feeling of something out there in the dark watching them. Clearly, coming to the fireside had been a mistake. The only reasonable thing to do was leave it -
"I think," Maugan Kerjean interjected, in a slow, thoughtful voice, "that reading a book is not always needed for a man to be comforted by a book. Not if it's something he has taken comfort from carrying with him before."
Jérémie cast the Breton a quick, grateful glance and ignored Gigot's scoff of "Bullshit." It was a relief to know that somebody understood. That seemed to be the end of the discussion as well, for which he was doubly glad. He rested his chin on his knees and tried to ignore the lingering unease stirred up by Gigot's questions and apparent disdain. This was not something he had been confronted with before and it frightened him, if he was honest with himself.
The silence lasted only until Sergeant Leclerc's distinctive stomping gait came toward them. "Kerjeans, Blanchard, and Lussier. Get up. You've got picquet duty."
Picquet duty. In this awful darkness. Jérémie unfolded himself with reluctance, which did not escape Leclerc's notice. The others were more prompt in getting up and gathering their weapons so his lack of haste earned him a sharp, "Get up, Blanchard. Don't make me tell you again."
"C'mon, tadpole," said Lussier, holding a hand out to him. Jérémie reached up for it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Better Lussier, Paol, and Maugan than Gigot, he thought as he accepted his musket from Paol. Both gestures help calm some of his nerves and reassured him that perhaps all might not be bad in the squad. He fell in behind Maugan, pausing only to fix his bayonet with hands that trembled a little, and Leclerc led them off toward the picquet line. Nobody breathed a word until the sergeant had gone, but even then, it didn't seem as though speech was worth any effort. Jérémie gripped his musket in both hands, ready to bring it up and into his shoulder in an instant if anything came charging at him, and stared wide-eyed into the ever-shifting shadows.
The night air was anything but still. There was a slight breeze whispering through the unmown grass of the fields and making the leaves in the few remaining trees rustle. Far in the distance, the dull boom of artillery rumbled and rolled. Some strange sort of insect was chirping somewhere ahead and a dog began howling, his voice thin and scratchy. Silence would have been preferable, Jérémie thought with a shiver. At least then there might be a chance to hear the enemy coming. Maybe. The moon was only half full, though. It didn't offer anything like enough light by which to see what was out there. And since the rebels were dark-skinned men... he shuddered and gripped his musket tighter. That heavy, sinking fear was seeping into him again. Somebody out there was watching. He knew it.
"Sit down. Slowly." Lussier's low-pitched voice seemed surreal, but he was whispering only just loud enough for the three of them to hear. He was sinking very slowly down to his knees even as he spoke. "We stand out just a little with all of our white. Once you're sitting. Do. Not. Move."
One by one, each of them eased carefully down until they were sitting in the grass, their muskets lying ready across their laps. Jérémie was privately glad of the older soldiers' presence. They were men he still only barely knew yet on the whole, he was vastly happier to have them alongside than others in the company. Particularly Lussier. It was obvious he had some experience with revolts and rebellions. He was alert but not nervous, and that helped keep Jérémie's own nerves in check. Mostly. A warbling bird call - or what sounded like a bird - made him start and Lussier hissed an oath at him. The rebuke made his face burn but he said nothing. Not that there was anything he could say.
Time crept along. Lack of motion and conversation made minutes seem like hours. It was hard to tell even if he was still awake. Jérémie blinked and tried to tell himself to not go to sleep. He had to stay alert. Awake. Alert. Looking, seeing, hearing... hearing. Jérémie sraightened up fractionally, drawing his musket just enough toward his shoulder that Maugan gave him a light prod with his shoe. The warning was ignored. Something was out there. Very close. He could hear it. It made him certain danger was creeping up on them from the dark.
"There's something out there," he whispered, inching his musket further toward the pocket of his shoulder. His heart thudded hard against his ribs and surely whoever was out there could hear it. In the partial moonlight, something seemed to flit from shadow to shadow, too quickly for his eyes to focus on. But the rustling of grass wasn't only the wind. Not anymore. It couldn't be. He blinked again, then stared hard into the darkness. He'd eased his musket almost fully to his shoulder, his right thumb pressed hard against the base of the doghead, ready to pull it back.
One of the others brushed a hand against his arm and Lussier's voice grated in his ear, "Be still. Don't move. Keep your eyes on it."
As bidden, Jérémie froze, not quite at the Present but close enough to count. He could not tell if the others had similarly made themselves ready. Surely they must have done, though. It seemed incredible that he was the only one to have heard something. For many long, interminable seconds, he stared toward where he'd seen movement, his musket aimed unwaveringly at the spot. Every instinct in him screamed at him to pull the flint back and fire, to stop whatever was out there before it could attack. If he was more familiar with his surroundings, he might even consider simply running away. Anything to avoid finding a pitchfork in his back, like that poor bastard in the burned-out shell of the plantation's main house.
"Someone is out there. I heard them. I saw them. They're watching us. They're going to kill us. I know it."
"Keep quiet," muttered Paol, somehow, magically, close by his elbow. "If they hear us, they'll come."
Quiet. Still. Don't speak, don't move. In a calmer frame of mind, Jérémie would have seen the sense behind these directions. In that moment, however, he could imagine nothing but the most gruesome of deaths at the hands of a terrible screaming black devil. He felt himself shivering, though whether it was from the barely-suppressed urge to rise to his feet and fire or from simple, raw fear, he couldn't say. Perhaps it didn't matter. His thumb and forefinger curled around the doghead and began to draw it slowly back. This motion only stopped when Paol clapped a hand over his and hissed a single word in Breton, almost directly into Jérémie's ear.
No more than a heartbeat later, there was a shouted challenge from further down the picquet line. Whoever made the challenge did not wait for a response but fired into the night. Almost immediately the darkness was ripped apart by muzzle flashes and the pops of musketry. Jérémie tried to get to his feet but was held down by Paol. The other picquets had clearly seen something as well, so surely a defence of the lines was necessary. Why were they, in their own little post, holding back? Surely the rebels, being so hotly confronted, would make for the quietest part of the line to break through and that very part of the line was theirs. The last thing he wanted to do was fight but if fighting meant staying alive, the choice was easy.
There was shouting from the bivouac behind them as the rest of the lads stood to, scrambling half-blindly for their weapons and trying to get to their alarm posts. Along the picquet line, the firing continued, though he could hear Capitaine Chéreau snapping angrily at them to not waste lead on an enemy they could not see. The noise of movement beside Jérémie would have passed unnoticed had not Lussier suddenly growled a string of curses. He was, Jérémie realised, on his feet. So was Maugan. With his face aflame, he struggled up to his feet too. The sporadic, ill-disciplined firing was petering out as the control of the frightened picquets was regained. Lanterns were bobbing eerily along the line, which drew a further string of colourful words from Lussier.
"What just happened?" Jérémie wanted to know, his musket now held safely at the Port.
"That," snapped Lussier in obvious disgust, "is what you get when fools play at being soldiers. Now, the rebels know our exact positions and will, next time, come in greater force and greater stealth. Fucking sloppy work and men will die because of it."
"But we were not fired at?" Paol ventured uncertainly.
"No? I'd like to know how you can tell!"
Leclerc appeared out of the hazy darkness, squinting a little in the drifitng powder smoke. "What in the hell are your men doing, Lussier? Shooting at phantoms? Christ alive, you're as bad as the rest of these idiots. It makes me think of what you got up to in Porto-Vecchio."
The remarks made Jérémie and Paol both straighten up, their muskets coming to the Port as if about to face another enemy. Perhaps they were, he thought with a frown, remembering the sergeant's actions on the day of the landing. Maugan stood at Lussier's shoulder, his musket held casually before him, the butt firmly planted in the dirt. Leclerc's eyes moved from face to face before coming back to rest on Lussier and Jérémie decided that he did not like the sergeant in the least.
"You should keep moving down the line, Sergeant," Lussier said blandly.
"Sergeant!" Capitaine Chéreau came striding briskly toward them, stopping Leclerc before he could form a reply. "See the men settle down. We can't have any more of this madness tonight. Re-set the picquets and make sure they're all loaded. Bayonets stay fixed and the men will keep calm."
"We should send patrols out, sir," Leclerc said, not appearing to have heard. "The enemy are out there and we can push 'em back a good way, if we get after them now."
All eyes were on Chéreau, who was shaking his head, one hand on his sword. "No. We have a long way to march in the morning and I won't waste the men's energy chasing shadows. Re-set the picquets and make sure they exercise some restraint."
"But sir - "
"You have your orders, Sergeant." Chéreau was already moving on, returning the way he'd come. Leclerc glared at the officer's back but waited until he had gone before turning to glare at Lussier and the others. His gaze rested longest on Jérémie, though he addressed himself to Lussier with a distinct sneer.
"You four will be flank scouts tomorrow. All day."
Even in the dark, there was no mistaking the malevolence on Leclerc's face. What in the name of God was that about? What had any of them done to deserve it? A glance at Lussier offered no hint of answers. Obviously there was a great deal more being said that was not actually being said but he could fathom none of it. Neither could he stop himself from asking, "What just happened?"
"Face your front, Blanchard," Lussier told him, having already turned to stare out into the night.
Jérémie's frown deepened. "But I don't understand. The enemy came at us so we fought them off. Why is Leclerc so - "
"You ask too many questions. Some things aren't for tadpoles to know."
That stung, badly enough that Jérémie held his tongue. He glanced at Paol, who did not meet his eyes. Maugan had already turned to look outward too. Neither, he saw, elected to sit this time. Disappointed without quite knowing why, Jérémie stayed where he was, letting his musket slide silently down through his hands until the butt thudded dully into the dirt. Unlike the others, he found it less easy to face outward to watch the grass gently waving in the midnight breeze. They all knew the enemy lurked out there, had probably in fact just driven off an attack before it could be properly made, yet he kept his eyes directed toward the bivoauc itself, feeling strangely like there were enemies on both sides of the line. The sick sense of dread that this thought gave him meant that, even after the picquets were relieved, he sat by the fire and gazed sightlessly into the flames. Sleep, or indeed any rest at all, did not come.
~
Half the day's march had passed before Jérémie was able to stop thinking about the bodies they'd discovered that morning. Twenty yards from where the picquets had stood, four dead black men lay in the long grass, each of them clutching a long knife. The trampled grass behind and around them suggested there'd been more. The discovery had not done much to improve his spirits. Being proved right should have been a point of pride but he couldn't get past the baffling exchange between Leclerc and Lussier, and the curt treatment he'd gotten after it from the veteran soldier. He'd kept to himself even on the march, though Leclerc having made them flank scouts meant conversation with any of the others bordered on the impossible. Not that anyone had shown much interest in talking with him that morning. Today, that suited him fine.
There was a lot to turn over in his mind anyway. That awful overwhelming fear he'd felt when he thought they were about to be attacked, the sinking heat of confusion and dread when the sergeant had spoken of places and events he knew nothing of, the hurt at being quickly and gruffly snubbed. Above all, there was the sickening feeling that nothing thus far had truly been bad. This was not even quite a feeling, he supposed, but a suspicion he had, a growing notion influenced in no small part by the way the men in the company had begun talking and acting, keeping sharp lookouts even in the column, bayonets always fixed and hands always near their musket locks. No one was easy and as they passed the ruins of another plantation, Jérémie thought he knew why. Plainly visible from the road were the bodies of people. Fire and death had struck that place, just as surely as it had struck the plantation where they had camped the night before.
As much as he wanted to, he could not dig his Bible out. He was flank scout and all his attention had to be on the ground away to his left. Which it was. Mostly. His eyes roved constantly but at the same time he leafed through the pages of his mental Bible, searching through the passages and verses he had always drawn comfort from. After the previous night, he knew he couldn't expect much in the way of comfort or comradeship from the others. That this hurt more deeply than he'd expected made the whole search for spiritual relief that much more pressing. Ironically, he found himself reciting Isaiah, the same book that had given him nothing but anxiety the last time he had turned to it. Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous hand. The words were whispered in his mother's voice, the familiar warmth that he realied he missed so sorely. For I, the Lord your God, will hold your right hand, saying to you, 'Fear not, I will help you'.
His heart lifted gradually as he moved on to Psalms and thence to Corinthians, so when the column got within sight of a town, he felt as close to peaceable as any man on this island could reasonably be. It never quite occurred to him that a peaceable mood was starkly at odds with the need to be lethally alert. He edged a little further away from the column as the road curved to the left, for the first time not thinking about any of the horrors and fears this place had already sprung upon him but instead looking forward to settling down near the squad's fire after the inevitable halt. Companionship wouldn't be offered to him that evening, he was sure, so he expected to spend the evening in his own contemplations. It wasn't until firing broke out ahead that he came back to the present, aware to his red-faced shame that he had not been paying attention to the task at hand.
The forward scouts were falling back to the protection of the column, which pressed doggedly on toward them, enduring the apparently discinplined fire from an unseen enemy. Shouting and the occasional scream punctuated the dry rattle of musketry. Jérémie swept his gaze over the terrain ahead, his grip on his musket white-knuckled and any peaceable mood entirely gone. There was no sign of any rebels near him, it seemed, so they must all be making their attack upon the head of the column. It certainly sounded that way. Why weren't the flank scouts being pulled in to help with the defence? Certainly they could be useful -
"Watch your flank!" Somebody bellowed amid a flurry of shots from ahead and to the left. Jérémie finched and instinctively ducked, which prompted somebody else to shout an oath-laden order to do his job and shoot. The other flank scouts were standing and firing, their shots whipping through the air with an audible buzz. Panic tugged at him, even as he set his feet and leveled his musket at a rebel who had appeared as if from the very earth with a firelock of his own. The rank cloud of powder smoke that erupted when he fired made it impossible to see if he'd hit his mark, but fear narrowed his awareness so sharply that he was only aware of the need to reload and fire again. He'd fired twice more and was ramming down a fourth cartridge when somebody grabbed his pack.
"Move, you useless idiot, we're pushin' into the village!" The hand and voice belonged to Boudet, who had somehow contrived to be in the rearguard. Without a further word, Jérémie found himself being half-dragged along after him, his ramrod nearly slipping out of his fingers as the pair ran for the safety of the column. The firing had become hotter as the column pressed its advance and it seemed like all the resistance was now concentrated on the road the two companies had to follow to reach the village. Or town. Or whatever it was. Jérémie hardly cared. He shoved his ramrod back into its tubes after Boudet finally released him, then looked around to take stock. It seemed that the other flank scouts had been driven in and had rejoined the column, but he couldn't see who was where.
A slight rolling ripple seized the column but he had only just started to wonder about why when the bleeding, groaning body of a man from Third Company came into view. Everyone had stepped over him without a second glance. Jérémie slung his musket and stooped at once to grab at the man's crossbelts, ignoring Boudet's sharp "What are you doing? Christ, leave him, he's done for! Rosy!"
Ignoring him, Jérémie struggled to heft the man's weight enough so he could get his shoulder under him, but the older soldier was too solid and Jérémie too slight. He dropped the poor soul before grabbing his crossbelts and settling for dragging the man backward over the road's uneven surface. With a curse, Boudet slung his own musket and shoved in to help, and between the two of them, they were able to drag the wounded fellow most of the way toward the village. They got no further, for a fresh assault upon the flanks and rear forced them to drop their burden so their hands were free to employ their muskets. The column did not stop but pushed on through the renewed attack, no doubt unintentionally leaving Jérémie and Boudet behind.
The wounded man made a very brief attempt to drag himself after them but this attempt was stopped short by two musket balls fired from the rebels sniping at them from a line of trees fifteen yards away. He sank back to the rutted road with a gurgling sigh, his throat shot through. His fate passed unseen by Boudet, though Jérémie, glancing aside while reloading, felt his stomach turn over. He whipped the ramrod out of the barrel, spun it, and thrust it back into its tubes, then dashed for the dead man. It wasn't easy hooking one arm through the soldier's crossbelts but he managed and with gritted teeth dragged him awkwardly along behind him.
Feet pounded over the road toward him and Gigot cried, "What are you doing, Rosy? Drop that poor sod and run!"
His foot caught in a hole in the road and he went down, brought to earth as much from that as by the weight of the dead man, and Gigot, with Boudet next to him, grabbed at Jérémie's arms. They were more than he could shake off and they were able to haul him along after them toward the safety of a crumbling building some yards away. The rest of the column had reached the village and now was breaking into squads, filtering through the streets and alleys to hunt down any resistance. A soldier near them paused to turn and fire back at the pursuing enemy, and was shot through the stomach for his efforts. This time, the casualty was ignored.
"What was that bullshit about fighting in the open, Olivier?" Gigot shoved the other two toward cover with his usual booming laugh, not appearing to be fazed in the least by the ongoing action. Jérémie ducked as the whizz of lead passed uncomfortably close and found himself elbowed aside by Boudet, who shot dead one rebel who pursued them too closely. The others from the company had not stayed around, but instead had run deeper into the village where there was the nominal safety of numbers, leaving the three of them to fight their way clear on their own.
"Piss off," Boudet returned, shoving his pan shut with a click and swinging his musket butt down to the ground. "I ain't stayin' here without the others. Where the hell are they?"
"Not here!" A cloud of powder smoke billowed around Gigot's head and shoulders as he fired his piece. Jérémie stayed pressed against the wall of the house, blinking and coughing in the powder smoke and trying to gather his scattered sense of awareness. The other two were exchanging barbed remarks as they alternately loaded and fired, both seeming oblivious to Jérémie's inactivity. He could not have said why he kept still, or why his heart was hammering so hard against his ribs, or why it felt he could not even breathe. His musket felt like an impossible weight in his hands but he had enough wits left about him to keep a grip on the weapon.
"Rosy! Watch out!" Boudet lunged past him in a blur, bayonet leading. Surprised, Jérémie staggered sideways, unable to reel backward because of the wall behind him. He barely had time to blink before there was an exchange of shots nearly in the same instant, a bark of pain, and a screamed oath from Gigot, who raced past next with his own bayonet. The pace of events was much too quick for Jérémie to keep up with. It was only after somebody else came running from the direction the column had gone that he began to regain his ability to process what his eyes and ears were telling him.
The late arrival was Maugan, just prising his bayonet from the body of a skinny black man. A second rebel lay on his face nearby, a musket just barely visible under his body. But there were three bodies on the ground, Jérémie realised with a start. Those two and... Boudet. Gigot had dropped to his knees beside him, casting his own musket aside to press his hands to the nasty-looking wound in Boudet's chest. The steady pulse of blood around Gigot's fingers held Jérémie's attention, keeping him immobile with horrified fascination. As before, he could do or say nothing. Whether it was fear or panic, he couldn't say, but he was only clutch at his musket and stare.
Gigot was looking around, his eyes wide and scared but his voice still steady. Just. "Lussier!" His bellow was deep-throated enough to make Jérémie shiver. "Lussier!"
"René. René! C'mon." Maugan had a grip on Gigot's arm and was trying to tug him away. The sound of musketry from the opposite side of the house was growing louder and seemed closer, with the more chilling chorus of chanting and shouting behind it. Getting out of here seemed to be the Breton's line of thinking and it happened to be one Jérémie found himself agreeing with fairly eagerly. Even though he could not drag his gaze off the crimson ribbon of blood snaking down from the corner of Boudet's mouth, which stood out awfully against the chalk-white pallor of his face. He was coughing, the sound thick and wet, and blood came bubbling up with each sputtering hack. His hands scrabbled at the sleeves of Gigot's coat with the desperation of a dying man. The stain in his shirt was enormous, spreading terribly far past the pressure of Gigot's hands. This was something Jérémie had never before seen and it terrified him utterly. Surely there had to be something they could do -
Maugan was insistent, his voice tight and his grip obviously tighter. "We. Have. To. Go. Now."
A musket barked very close by and Jérémie gave a start, becoming aware that Paol had appeared from somewhere, but he didn't know when or from where. Nor did he have the slightest idea what to do. It was only when Paol grabbed him by his pack to drag him into motion did Jérémie finally stir from his stupor. They were heading after the now-dispersed column, Maugan and Gigot in the lead, with Paol hauling Jérémie along behind them. He could not stop himself glancing back and was in time to see howling rebels bounding around both sides of the house they'd just been sheltering behind. There was one last crack from a musket - a musket that Boudet was clutching in blood-stained hands. He still lay on his back and had fired blind. Sunlight glinted on the blades of the bayonets in the rebels' hands as they flashed downward and Jérémie looked away.
~
The village was cleared of all enemy by evening. Daylight was fading when the last shots were fired. There was a lot to do but with night coming down, Capitaine Chéreau and his counterpart from Third Company, Soucy, decided to set night picquets and leave the heavy work until the morning. Personally, Jérémie thought he'd have preferred to lose himself in heavy work. That would have distracted him from the gloom. The squad had claimed a roofless building that obviously once been a shop of some kind. It was a cosy enough billet but after getting a fire going outside in a little courtyard, no one was inclined to talk. Gigot in particular had been quiet, gulping down the contents of his canteen as fast as he could swallow and refusing the offer of the thin soup Maugan had managed to cook. Instead of sitting near them, Jérémie had chosen a spot just within the circle of light cast by the dancing flames, his company limited to his thoughts and the plain printed words in his Bible.
Not that the latter was proving much comfort tonight. His literacy was patchy at the best of times and that evening his brain was much too cluttered to let him concentrate enough on the chore of reading. The effort eventually gave him a headache and he gave up, closing the little book with a sigh and laying back onto his pack. That the others regarded him as a coward was clear to him. He didn't blame them. If he'd kept his head and fought like he was supposed to, there was every chance Boudet wouldn't have needed to die. That he had only stood there throughout the whole thing was sign enough that he was worth nothing as a soldier. His memories of the day were mostly a jumble except for that span of fifteen minutes. The sequence of events had been a blur at the time but in the hours since, all had become clear. He'd just stood there, Boudet had been shot, and they'd left him there to die. Those were the core facts and each was equally damning. He hadn't needed the withering glare from Sergeant Leclerc or the icy resentment of his squad.
Jérémie shoved the Bible back into his pack, then wrapped himself in his blanket. The coarse wool scratched him even through his shirt but he didn't mind. He wasn't sure if sleep would find him tonight, though. His head felt too full and his heart too heavy. Perhaps he should have followed Gigot's example and glutted himself on wine. At least Gigot knew how best to dull grief, uncertainty, and regret. With a sigh, Jérémie curled up unconsciously into a loose ball and was glad his back was to the others. It was easier to pretend they weren't there that way. Even if they weren't able to pretend the same for him, since the heavy footfalls coming toward him meant somebody was about to pull him up for doing nothing, to sneer at him for being a useless coward, to demand to know why Boudet had died and he had not. Whoever it was hesitated before lowering himself slowly to sit near Jérémie's head, taking care to keep an arm's length away. So, he thought dully, it was to be a private piece of verbal abuse. Not that he didn't deserve every word.
"Today was not a good day," said Paol eventually.
If that was not an understatement... "No."
There was another pause, as if the Breton was considering his words. "Boudet was a good man. He never did... he was reliable, yes? He did his share, all the time, if we asked him to or not. It was his way. In Corsica, he was... a good friend to have at your back."
He could attest to that much. If Boudet had not been keeping an eye out, Jérémie would have been shot instead. Maybe he should have looked the other way. The reactions and mood would not be so gloomy then. Why hadn't Boudet spared the squad that? Why hadn't he spared Jérémie that? Surely that would've been better all around.
"I don't think he did me any favours with that," Jérémie muttered.
"Boudet did nothing with any thought of doing favours."
"Obviously."
Paol seemed to flinch at that. "René said he was just unlucky. Sometimes, we are just unlucky. It happens even to good men."
"Only to good men, you mean. Like him. He didn't just stand there. He didn't just do nothing. Boudet wasn't a coward like... like me."
"You aren't - "
"No? I did not do a thing today but cower against a wall. If that is not how a coward behaves..."
There was a silence after that, which was more accusatory than words. Who could argue with the truth? He'd been brave enough to shoot at someone running away but when the time came to trade fire with a living, breathing, furious enemy, his musket butt had not come near his shoulder. He had not even kept a good enough lookout to know when the enemy was close enough to shove a bayonet into.
A sigh hissed quietly from Paol. "I was afraid, my first battle. It was very loud, shouting, a lot of shooting, running in... to... da bep lec'h. Everywhere. It was in trees. The enemy was hard to see. I hid, but Boudet came and pulled me away. If we didn't fight, we'd die. So... we fought. Me, Maugan, Lussier, Gigot, and... him. He said that your first shot is hardest. But it's less hard after it."
Something like a shiver which had nothing to do with the cooling evening went through him. The first shot. "I fired today. More than once."
"At a man?"
"Yes. I think so."
"Then you are not a coward."
That remark, and the cool certainty with which it was spoken, caused Jérémie to look up from his intent study of the ground he was lying on. "No? I certainly was not brave." The two were one and the same in his view. How Paol could view them otherwise baffled him. Or maybe he didn't, since he offered no reply to Jérémie's remark. He did appreciate the Breton's attempt at reassurance but it was misplaced. Somebody was dead because he had failed in his duty. No matter on earth was more simple than that.
"René said you should have this," said Paol eventually. Jérémie was obliged to sit up to see a tin mug being held out to him. He accepted it after a moment's hesitation but didn't drink from it. The mug's contents smelled like wine and he was tempted to sip from it, yet he remembered Gigot's distress when Boudet had gone down. The Bordelais had done what he could to save his comrade and Jérémie had done nothing. It was a natural thought, then, that Gigot might want to get back at him for that. The Lord our God has doomed us, and given us poisoned water to drink, for we have sinned against the Lord.
"What?" Even in the darkness, it was possible to discern Paol's confused frown.
His face flushed hot and dark when he realised he must have spoken that verse aloud. "Nothing. I - I'm not thirsty."
"It isn't poisoned. Or water. Why would you - "
Jérémie shook his head, nearly too embarrassed to speak. "I don't. I didn't. It was just... just a quote."
"A quote. Like from your book?" On seeing Jérémie's nod, Paol hesitated, then asked, "Can you read it?"
"Some," Jérémie admitted after a moment. "A little, anyway. My mother read a lot to us and I learned a few words from it that way." The change of subject had to be deliberate but he was glad for it all the same. Distraction was welcome whatever form it took. Especially since it seemed that Paol, at least, bore him no ill will for his failures earlier. That discovery gave him the first glimmer of hope he'd felt all day.
"Is it hard? To read. It seems like... impossible. Or hard to learn, anyway."
"It is not easy. It gives me a headache after a while. But I have a lot of the book up here." He tapped his temple with a finger. Having passages memorised was a mixed blessing, though. Some of it, like those verses from Isaiah, had a way of worming into the forefront of his thoughts and battering more soothing verses aside. He glanced down at the mug of wine and tried to coax something from Psalms forward, without success. The best he could do was a snippet from Matthew, which after a long moment he recited out loud, albeit in a low voice.
"And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. But rather, be afraid of Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell." Jérémie twitched his shoulders in a shrug. "From the book of Matthew. It is fairly useless stuff, really."
"It isn't useless if you believe in it," Paol told him. "My brother used to say that."
"Maugan?"
The barest of hesitations before Paol's answer told Jérémie that his question was less than welcome. "No."
Colour and heat were both back in his cheeks. He knew well enough - or could guess, rather - what that sudden reticence must mean. "I'm sorry."
"Come back to the fire," said the Breton, as if he hadn't heard the apology. "The others... we all lost a mate today. It wasn't a good day for anyone." So saying, he got to his feet and held a hand out to Jérémie.
Part of him wanted to ignore it. Surely staying here on his own, away from the squad he was still convinced could not want anything to do with him, had to be the better way. At the same time, his unease was calmed a little by Paol having made the effort to tug him back to the fireside. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the other three watching, while somehow seeming to have no eyes but for the little fire. Was there truly no resentment for him? It was hard to believe. All the same... he reached up to grasp the offered hand and allowed Paol to help him stand. Maybe, as Paol had said, today was just unlucky. Horribly and irretrievably so, but still merely unlucky.
Lussier glanced up at the two young soldiers, then nodded at the mug in Jérémie's hand. "If you're not going to drink that, tadpole, better give it back to René. He hates when good wine goes to waste."
As if to emphasise this, Gigot held out his hand. "You owe me anyway, Rosy," he said in a wine-thickened voice. "You're an awful cobbler. I've lost the heel off my shoe again!"
Of all things he could have said, that was the least expected and, oddly, the most reassuring. Despite himself, Jérémie felt a fleeting smile make the corner of his mouth twitch. Perhaps all was not yet lost after all. He made no reply, but let himself sink down near the fire, offering the mug of wine to Gigot after he was settled. A discussion about the questionable merits of army shoemakers came flickering into life, sparked by Gigot's waving his heel-less shoe around, and the glimmer of hope Jérémie had felt a few minutes ago got a little stronger.