by A L Berridge
Jacques Gilbert
He wasn’t even running fast, he thought he wasn’t meant to, he was just doggedly limping on, leading them right into the clearing we’d so cheerfully referred to as the killing site. I’d got to let him know he was on his own and must run to save himself.
I kept low and ran through the bracken to head him off. I knew I’d got to stay in cover, the troops were right round the corner, if they saw us now we were dead. The boy came panting round the trees, and I managed to wave to him, abort it, abort, and he saw me, I know he did, I saw him react just as I ducked back into the bracken. He tried to put a spurt on, but the soldiers were already in the clearing and the one in the lead leapt and brought him down.
Stefan Ravel
I’d have maybe risked it if it had only been a handful of troops, but it was a whole fucking column. The first few took the right turn for Dax, but the next glanced left and saw the horses and two of his colleagues waiting by the road, so of course the bastard stopped and all the others turned after him to investigate. That’s soldiers for you, Abbé. Any excuse to take a break.
Thin Pedro and the other escort explained, but the struggle was pretty audible anyway, because of course André was putting up a fight. They’d got him down cleanly enough, but he was kicking and struggling and giving them no end of trouble. Fat Pedro had hold of his legs, but the kid smashed him in the face with his boot, then the escort wrapped an arm round his neck, but had to snatch his hand back fast because André actually bit him. I told you, that kid fought dirty.
He nearly got away then, he was half up and off the ground, but Fat Pedro tripped him, and the escort leapt on him while he was off balance. I couldn’t see a great deal of what happened next, the kid was on the ground and the bracken tall and thick just there, but Fat Pedro’s fist came up and clubbed viciously down, twice, maybe three times, then he and the escort got themselves up again, and there was André being pulled up between them, but his legs were hanging limp and he was dangling uselessly in their arms.
Jean-Marie Mercier
We turned to Stefan in panic, but he was just staring at André, as shocked as we were. I saw his lips moving. He said ‘Christ.’
I reached for a musket, I couldn’t think what else to do. Bettremieu slithered rapidly down the tree in a scattering of leaves, and Robert and Philippe started to climb out of the ditch, but Stefan seemed suddenly to realize what we were doing and hissed at us to stop.
‘You bloody fools,’ he said. ‘You want to get us all killed?’
Robert protested ‘It’s André.’
Stefan turned on him, he was almost spitting in his face. ‘And he’d be first. Don’t you understand?’
Jacques Gilbert
Marcel was pressing my face down, I couldn’t move, I could hardly even breathe. He was whispering desperately in my ear ‘They’ll beat him and let him go, that’s all. He’s just a kid throwing stones. But if they see even one of us they’ll know it was an ambush and he’s an enemy soldier, then they’ll kill him and us too. We’ve just got to stay down.’
I knew he was right, I did understand, but I’m watching the boy being dragged towards a whole troop of enemy soldiers and I’m wondering if he does too. He’s still struggling feebly, he’s hurt and alone, he must know we’re watching and doing nothing to help him, and I’m desperate to know he understands and doesn’t think we’ve abandoned him or don’t care. I’m half expecting him to call for me, and almost wondering why he doesn’t, and if he does call I’ll go, fuck what Marcel says, if he calls me, I’ll go.
Stefan Ravel
There were more soldiers arriving all the time, a whole company from the look of it, fresh in from Flanders to reinforce our poor overworked conquerors.
When the first ones saw the battered state of Fat Pedro and his escort then realized the culprit was this fourteen-year-old boy, they fell about laughing, but they took the kid anyway and marched him on to the road to the others. There were lots now dismounted and standing on the road, some grabbing the chance to swig from their canteens, and others having a leisurely piss by the roadside. It looked as if I was right, and this troop had travelled a long way. They were just about ready for a spot of rest and entertainment, and André had turned up in perfect time to provide both.
Jacques Gilbert
I’m telling myself it’ll be all right, I’ve trained him. Right since that first day I’ve shown him how to deal with something like this.
And it’s not too bad at first. They’re smiling and laughing, and their voices don’t sound unfriendly, though of course I can’t hear properly. They’ve got the boy on his feet, and they’re taking it in turns to push him, quite gently really, like mock-fighting. He’s got his wits about him, he’s doing everything right, standing looking sulky, rocking when they shove him, keeping his head down, he’s even got his hands in his pockets, and I’m really proud. Marcel’s muttering next to me ‘Good boy, André, keep it up.’
The escort with the bitten hand’s protesting, like he doesn’t think his injuries are being taken seriously. He barges in and starts yelling at the boy, shoving his hand in his face, showing it him and shouting. André mumbles something and looks down, but it’s not enough, and the escort yells again and smacks him hard across the face.
For a second there’s a tiny silence, except for the blow echoing in my head like the slam of a door. Then André wrenches his arm free and punches the escort right back.
A great yell goes up, and the soldiers are grabbing at him again, the escort’s red with fury and trying to get at the boy’s face, but he’s struggling, tearing himself away and hitting out, he’s trying to fight the whole bloody lot of them. It’s hopeless, of course, they’re all round him trying to pinion his arms, one’s got his collar, the escort’s cocking his fist, but André twists away and throws himself forward, he’s actually leaping at the escort’s throat. The man backs off, hands up to protect his face, but that’s what André’s been waiting for, he’s reaching for the sword at the escort’s hip, his hand’s on the hilt, he’s jerking it out, it’s halfway out the scabbard before they even see what he’s doing.
Then they’re all going mad with panic and trying to get him off it, the soldier tries to snatch it back, but he’s slicing into the palm of his own hand. Another grabs at the scabbard, but that’s only pulling it further from the blade, and André’s nearly got it, there are three trying to hold him, but his whole mind’s set on getting the sword and nothing’s going to stop him. Then one finally pulls himself together, rips a pistol from a saddle holster, and smashes the butt down hard on the back of the boy’s neck.
For a second I think it hasn’t done anything, then he goes limp, drops the sword and sinks down on his knees. They’re all round him, I can hardly see, there’s just legs, and a great babble of voices as they’re all laughing in relief or yelling at each other in recrimination, because it was a bloody close thing. Then I see something moving between them and know André’s trying to get up. Marcel’s whispering ‘Stay down for God’s sake,’ but he won’t, of course, it’s that business with Stefan all over again. One of them knocks him down again, then someone else kicks him, and I can’t see him at all now, there’s just this great ring of men standing close together, and they’re all kicking at something on the ground, and I can’t see, but I know it’s him, it’s André, it’s the boy. All I can hear is their laughter.
Stefan Ravel
No, it’s never a nice thing having to watch one of your own men get done over, and this was maybe worse because André was so young. You don’t have to be a gentleman to feel bad when nine strong men hide in the bushes and watch the shit kicked out of a kid of fourteen.
Marcel and Jacques didn’t look happy. They’d got themselves back to their original position, and I could see them both clearly behind their brambles. Jacques had the back of his fist pressed against his mouth and I think the poor bugger was actually crying. I wouldn’t have put it past him to do something stupid, and was
just about to crawl up to them when there was a shout from the troop, and a group of riders came trotting up from the other end of the column.
The leader was a well-dressed officer on a smart bay with scarlet hangings, and the size of the escort told me at once who it had to be. It was that friend of the people Capitán d’Estrada himself, and I only hope the bastard enjoyed his holiday.
Jacques Gilbert
It was Tempête. I’d raised that horse from a colt, I’d been wretched when we lost him, but I couldn’t feel any emotion at the sight of him now, I was all used up, like a rag that’s been squeezed dry. I was just praying d’Estrada would do the decent thing and let the boy go.
He dismounted elegantly and strode straight up to the soldiers, snapping some kind of order. They sprang back at once and looked at the boy lying in the dirt like they couldn’t work out how he’d got there. I could see him myself now, curled up on the ground with his arms wrapped round his head to ward off the blows. He looked very small lying like that, and d’Estrada said something pretty scathing to the one in charge. Someone got water and sat the boy up, and I saw he was alive but very groggy. He couldn’t stand, and one of the soldiers had to kneel to support him while they gave him a drink and wiped the blood from his eyes.
D’Estrada folded his arms and watched them sarcastically. He was handsome actually, tall and lean, with black curly hair and his beard neatly trimmed to his jaw. I just hoped he was feeling kind as well.
Carlos Corvacho
Oh now, Señor, not to say a temper, he was just a little put about, and no wonder. Here he’d been to Madrid to beg and plead for a proper command again, but no, he’d got to stay here till the place was docile, and a new governor coming in over his head as well.
So he takes one look at this poor bedraggled creature our lads have been making game with, and gives Cabo Moya a right dressing-down, says he’s made it clear there’s to be no bullying of the locals, and this isn’t the way to get them to co-operate. Then Moya says it’s the child’s own fault, he’s been chucking stones at our troops, not to mention kicking their faces in and biting them, and my Capitán starts to look less sympathetic.
He says to the lad in French ‘You would fight my soldiers?’
The lad mutters sullenly ‘They deserved it, didn’t they?’
My Capitán looks round us all with raised eyebrows, and naturally we laugh.
Then young Benito speaks up, that was his page, Señor, always a little inclined to push himself forward. ‘Perhaps he’s André de Roland, that would explain it.’
The men laugh again, which is understandable, Señor, since the Roland we’re looking for would be firing muskets at us, not throwing stones, but my Capitán looks thoughtful, and I see him taking in the long black hair.
Moya says hesitantly ‘He tried to take a sword to the men, Señor, tried to snatch one clean out of the scabbard.’
‘Did he indeed?’ says my gentleman. He looks the lad up and down, and he’s thinking about it, he really is. ‘Is your name de Roland?’
The lad looks blankly at him, sniffs, and wipes his nose against his sleeve.
My Capitán laughs shortly, and really it’s too ridiculous. This lad had the most vulgar accent, while de Roland had an educated voice, beautifully clean of the patois. No, no, Señor, you misunderstand, or my French was at fault, I mean I remember it now. How could I remember at the time when I’d never heard it?
So now, bless me, Señor, if I haven’t quite forgotten where we’d got to. Ah yes, muchas gracias, yes, my Capitán asks the lad to explain himself, and he does. He tells this whole story of rape and murder and baby-killing, and my Capitán’s face growing darker with every word. He turns on the men who’ve been accused and says in his coldest voice ‘Is this true?’
They shuffle their feet and say nothing. I knew them both, Señor, the big one was Pedro Jiménez, the other was Pedro Sánchez, very nasty pieces of work, not typical of our men at all. Another fellow speaks up and says it’s all true, he was escorting them back to Artois, and he gives my gentleman a letter from Capitán Martínez which he was to hand to the commanding officer at Arras before returning home.
My Capitán reads the letter, then looks at Jiménez and Sánchez as if they’re something nasty he’s asked me to clean off his boot. He snaps his fingers for a pen, and starts to write on the end of the letter.
Moya says ‘Do we let the lad go, Señor?’
My Capitán glances at the boy, opens his mouth, then shuts it again without speaking. It’s the hair he’s looking at, Señor, long and wavy, black as my own gentleman’s, just like the hostages said. He says ‘I haven’t decided yet. I think I’d like him to meet Abanderado de Castilla first.’
I know what he’s at, Señor, he’s still convinced there’s more went on at the Manor than de Castilla’s letting on, and hoping he’d recognize de Roland if he saw him. It’s naive of him perhaps, seeing as de Castilla’s hardly likely to admit any such thing, but that was my gentleman, always inclined to think people more honourable than they really were.
Meanwhile Jiménez and Sánchez are still waiting, so he signs the letter, gives it back to the escort and tells him to get them out of his sight before he hangs them himself. The other escort, that was Galiano, Señor, he begs to be excused on account of an injury to his hand, so Moya details a replacement and we think that’s the end of it, but suddenly our little captive goes wrenching himself away from the men supporting him and actually starts shouting at my Capitán.
He’s yelling ‘So that’s it? You’re just going to send them back to Flanders? You’re going to let them get away with it? That’s it?’
He’s acting like a madman, yelling the same things over and over again, we think he’s lost his mind. My Capitán tells him to calm down, but there’s just no reasoning with him. Straight away he’s off again, saying the Capitán has to hang them, he can’t just let them go back to Flanders, he’s yelling and yelling and no stopping him at all.
Jean-Marie Mercier
Stefan was already handing out muskets to the others. ‘They’re going by the Flanders Road, and they’re going now. Cut through the woods, get them just beyond the bend. This lot will hear the shots, so get the hell out of it fast, run all the way back to base. Warn them André’s taken and they need to prepare for evacuation.’
Robert said ‘Jean-Marie’s the best shot.’
Stefan snapped at him. ‘I need him with me. Durand can use the bow, they’re unarmoured, you’ve enough. Here, take this, that’s five shots.’
He handed Bettremieu his own pistol. Bettremieu nodded and started to run, Colin, Robert and Philippe hard after him. Margot seized her own musket, but Stefan grabbed her arm and said ‘Not you, fifille, you can’t run in those skirts, start back to the Hermitage right now.’
Dear Margot. She hoiked her skirts up over her elbow, showing really quite a quantity of bare leg, said something very rude to Stefan and ran after Bettremieu.
Only Pinhead hesitated. ‘There’s no time, we can’t get there in time.’
Stefan lost his temper. ‘He’s buying you time, you stupid bastard. He’s buying you time with what might be his life, don’t you dare fucking waste it.’
Pinhead took one look at his face, then turned and fled after the others.
Carlos Corvacho
Naturally I understand it now, Señor, but at the time you’ll appreciate we found it rather irritating. When Jiménez made to mount his horse, the lad even took hold of the bridle to stop him riding away.
My Capitán had his limits, Señor, and finally raised his own voice to call for silence. The lad was quiet at last.
‘Release the bridle,’ said my Capitán.
The lad hung his head, but his hand remained firmly on the reins. The Capitán indicated with a jerk of his head I was to deal with the matter, so I’m afraid to say I cuffed him, just a little blow on the side of the head, Señor, perhaps a little box on the ear, just enough to show he must do what the Capitán
said.
The lad reacted as if I’d really hurt him, which I’ll swear I didn’t. He jerked his head and cried out sharp, and if you’ll excuse me, Señor, it’s best I give you his exact words. He said ‘Take your filthy Spanish hands off me.’
It wasn’t just the expression, haughty as it was, but the way he said it. There was no mistaking it now, Señor, this was the voice of an aristocrat.
Jacques Gilbert
It’s no good asking me, I don’t know. To suddenly snap like that, after everything he’d taken already, it didn’t make sense. Maybe it was because it was in front of another gentleman, I don’t know. It didn’t matter anyway, the fact is we were stuffed.
There was total silence, and some of the soldiers actually had their mouths open. D’Estrada flinched, then recovered himself, looked at the boy, and said what sounded like ‘Ah.’ I started wriggling closer to hear better.
André knew he’d screwed up, but there was no going back now. He shook off the servant, stood himself straight, and looked right in d’Estrada’s face, ignoring everything I’d ever taught him. I found myself suddenly remembering his father.
D’Estrada just said ‘A gentleman then.’
André half smiled. I don’t know when I’ve seen an expression so insolent.
