Age Of Unreason - Newton's Cannon Part 45

again.

"I think I should wrap your hand," Crecy said after a moment "Let it be. I don't care."

"Adrienne, let the men kill themselves in foolish heroics. We shall survive, you and I.I will take care of you."

"I love him, Veronique."

"I know. But as I told you once before, if anyone can survive..."

"Can you see it, Veronique? Can you see what happens?"Crecy took her under her arm, stroking her hair with her free hand. "If you wish," she said.

"Doit."

Torcy sat his horse as Nicolas and the sapper planted the charges beneath the bridge.

The morning had broken fine and cool, real autumn at last. The tall trees s.h.i.+vered at

the belated chill, releasing a thousand leaves to become boats on the surface of the river.

"The charge may not be sufficient," the sapper called up, his dark face pinched in

concern.Torcy shrugged. "That is as it must be, then. Do your best." Nicolas stuck his head from under the bridge. "It has to be enough. We have to stop them." Torcy rolled his eyes. "Come here, Nicolas." Nicolas complied, his face set in worried but determined lines.

Torcy regarded him as he approached. "Why didn't you tell me that you had fallen in love with this woman?" he finally asked."It was not your affair.""No, apparently it was your affair. You and I have worked together for several years, Nicolas, and I have never seen your judgment so clouded."

Nicolas waved his hand impatiently. "My judgment is sound," he snapped. "And I have served you well.""You did not kill the king.""It was beyond our ability. Some... thing... protects him.""Very well," Torcy said. "If your judgment is sound, then ride on and leave this business of the bridge to me."

"You need my help to stop them," Nicolas insisted.

"No, you see? This is what I meant about your judgment, Nicolas. If the charge is

powerful enough, the king's men will be stopped. If it is not, they will not. What else can be done?"

Nicolas frowned in sudden understanding. "You don't care if you stop them."Torcy allowed himself a smile. "No, I do not. I do not play 'Horatius on the Bridge' for the benefit of your love, Nicolas, but so that I will be remembered as a man who died well. Do you understand?"

Nicolas licked his lips. "There is no need for you to die at all."

"Bah. Nicolas, I have lived my whole life for the king and for France. I know what the Bastille is like, and I will not retire there. My country and king-whatever else they

think of me- will know my death was honorable. But there is no need for you to stay, my friend.""I've always been loyal to you, Father," Nicolas returned."You've been a good son; d'Artagnan raised you well. I'm proud of you. Now, go!"At that moment a shout went up from Torcy's musketeers across the bridge as they fell into a double line, muskets raised. Good men, those, for he now saw what they faced.

At least a hundred of the Royal Horse thundered toward them. Torcy indulged himself

in a moment of pride; he was a Colbert, still, a man to be reckoned with. He deserved a hundred horse at the very least.

"s.h.i.+t!" Nicolas swore, and raced to his horse and weapons.

"Ride on, Nicolas, I beg you," Torcy shouted.

"The fuse isn't laid."

"It matters not. Ride on, Son." Then he winced as the first fusillade of shots rang, fired

by his own men, eight muskets cracking in near unison. They began reloading as the second row fired.

The response from the Horse was a hailstorm. Three of his men went down, and carbine b.a.l.l.s sang into the woods all around Torcy and Nicolas. Nicolas dropped to his knee, c.o.c.ked his musket, and shot. Torcy shrugged and pulled out one of his own pistols, a wonderful weapon that had been his uncle's-a gift from the king.

Nicolas changed guns; taking up his carbine he fired that, too.

The second volley from the Horse finished Torcy's musketeers. The body of the sapper fell into the river, felled by a marksman or an unlucky bullet. The fuse was still not lit.

"Shoot the charge," Nicolas told him steadily, gesturing right. "If you move that way, you can see it. Shoot it." He leapt up, drawing his kraftpistole and colichemarde, and ran across the bridge.

Torcy watched him go, reflecting that Nicolas did not understand aesthetics. He intended to meet his killers standing squarely on the bridge, pistol c.o.c.ked, defiant to the end.

The Horse had no intention of engaging Nicolas; they had all dismounted, forming a wall of muzzles. When Nicolas was halfway across the bridge, they fired.

Nicolas spun, and Torcy felt something brush one shoulder and something else slap him in the gut. He looked down in astonishment at his swiftly reddening s.h.i.+rt.

"d.a.m.n," he said.

Nicolas fired the kraftpistole, and the reddish bolt jetted out far enough to touch the outer ranks of gunmen. Five of them pitched to the ground. Nicolas shouted something, raising his sword, as Torcy braced for the next volley. Instead, the captain of the Horse stepped from ranks, his own weapon drawn in salute. Nicolas, swaying somewhat, raised his blade to a guard position.

Good for him! He had offended the Horse and bought his love a few more moments. It ruined Torcy's own plan, of course-by the time the Horse came across the bridge he would have lost too much blood to meet them defiantly. He sighed. Nicolas had been a good son. He deserved his father's help.

Torcy staggered to the side of the bridge, squinting so as to see the keg of powder, looking back to follow how Nicolas was doing, an unaccustomed and unwelcome pride swelling in his chest.

Nicolas had no feeling in his left arm, but then, he did not need his left arm. What he needed was more blood in his body to replace what leaked from his several musket wounds.

A man in the uniform of an officer saluted him.

"I am Captain Cleves. Lay down your sword and you will be treated honorably," he promised.

"One captain to another," Nicolas panted. "If you will agree to wait here, with your

troops, for one hour, I will surrender my arms."

"In an hour you will be dead of your wounds," Cleves pointed out. "If you surrender now, I can have a surgeon tend to you.""Give me your bound word, and I will surrender now."Cleves hesitated for an instant, and then said, "I must be truthful. Only your courage and my honor prevents me from having my men cut you down as you stand. You and

your companions attacked the king, Monsieur!""Has the king been so good to you? I know what the household troops think of the king. Those men lying dead there were musketeers, all devoted to France. How many more of you will lay down your lives for a bewitched king?"

"My duty is clear. Your words do not confuse me."

"I, myself, saw the devil that possesses him," Nicolas snapped. He was rewarded by a general murmuring among the men.

"Surrender and you can relate the tale."

Nicolas sighed heavily. "You are a man of honor, sir. You could have had my sword

with a simple lie. The man is rare, these days, who has such scruples.""I prefer to believe you wrong," Cleves replied."En garde," Nicolas replied, "before I bleed to death."Cleves beat a few times at his blade experimentally, nimbly shortening and lengthening the distance between. Nicolas held his ground, treating the feints as what they were, until Cleves suddenly lunged. Nicolas deflected the spearing blade and riposted in a low line toward his opponent's crotch. Cleves dropped his wrist and parried, but Nicolas had already disengaged, ghosting away from the hastily intervened weapon, darting up toward the captain's throat. Cleves stumbled back, and Nicolas bounded forward to follow his advantage. Unfortunately, his left leg was numb, and he went down on one knee. Cleves did not hesitate- everyone in the guards knew that Nicolas had never lost a duel. His point darted down. Nicolas' left arm was numb, but it could yet move. He got it up in time, gratified that the only feeling was a dull shock as the blade buried itself in bone. His own return thrust was merciful, straight into the heart. Cleves sobbed and fell.

Nicolas climbed unsteadily to his feet.

"Next, if you please," he panted.

Across the river, Torcy had decided that it was best to be very close to the charge. A pistol could miss at half a dozen paces, especially when one was shaking as he was, but it would not miss at a foot. He stopped ten paces away because he could still see Nicolas fighting. He watched until the boy had won, nodding his head. Then he took the last few steps and placed the muzzle of his weapon against the wooden cask.

"I commend myself to thee, Lord," he said. "Let you judge me, and no other." He hesitated a second longer. "I loved you, my king," he whispered. "Only because I loved you did I..." Then he tightened his lips. How stupid that death made men maudlin. He squeezed the trigger.

Nicolas didn't really hear the explosion so much as feel it. He surged into motion, running with what little energy remained in him, diving into the river. The water felt good, and he thought for an ecstatic moment that everything would be well. He put all of his will into swimming.

Then he saw the bridge, as he came up for air. Wreathed in black smoke, it still stood.

Then he felt something like goats dancing on his back, and the water closed again over his head. As he sank, he wondered at the red shroud enfolding him, like the cloak of a cardinal.

"He's dead," Crecy said softly.

Adrienne didn't even nod. She had no tears or grief left. Her body throbbed in time to the pulse in her arm. "You say that they didn't destroy the bridge?" she asked Crecy.

"No. It stands."

"They will catch us in a few hours then?"

"Much more quickly than that," Crecy corrected.

"Our driver will go on without us?"

"Yes."

"Well, then," Adrienne said, "we should disembark, and let them chase an empty

carriage for a time. We have traveled in the woods before, you and I."

"You aren't up to it. Your hand..."

"I am not up to a hundred years in the Bastille either," Adrienne replied.

"I can make certain that neither of us suffers that fate," Crecy promised.

"No. I don't want to die. I have things to do."

Crecy's face was always hard to read, but Adrienne thought she saw a certain pride

dawn on her features.

"Very well," she agreed. "We shall walk."

Cannon

Clouds hung against the evening sky like the rotted tatters of a shroud on murky water. Ben gazed miserably at them.

"How will it appear, I wonder?" Vasilisa asked, just a few feet down the rail from him.

"Now you're the philosopher again, observing phenomena, rather than the tyrant," he grunted. "I wonder how you shall feel about the deaths of a million people." "Just as you will, Ben. For most of them I will feel only a sort of abstract horror. When I think of those whom I met and knew-" She raised her hands helplessly."-I will pray or pretend that they were some of the lucky ones Mr. Heath and Voltaire managed to convince to flee. And I will miss London."

"We might have saved it."

"I do not think so," Vasilisa replied. "In your heart, I know that you are grateful for my actions. You have been saved, and the moral burden was shouldered by someone else.