Final chapter, Dear Readers …

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Chapter Twenty Three

When word had spread that Silas had passed away, more veterans had slowly returned to the village, encouraged also by word of the deaths of Raymond and Henri, together with Phillipe's imprisonment.

The spoils of war had kept the village, buying equipment when needed. The villagers had not asked where the money came from, but Silas always came through. It was only small amounts, but it was there when needed.

As promised, Treville had looked into Silas Marchant's military record.

Silas had been modest in his tale to Athos.

He had in fact, held the leprosy hospital almost single handedly; ironic as that turned out to be, as it had cost him his arm. He had held many of the opposing army at bay, firing from a high window. In doing so, he had saved many of his comrade's lives. Reading between the lines, Treville summised that Silas had not asked any of his comrades to accompany him on his mission. To enter such a place probably held more fear for some than the cannons and sabres of battle.

Silas had lost his arm, but he was well thought of and he was pensioned off. His comrades had their own way of thanking him, by giving him some of their own spoils as compensation. There were so many of them, that it added up to a good amount. There were many who were grateful to him not only for saving their lives, but for sharing his food and standing shoulder to shoulder with them. His commanding officer either turned a blind eye, or did not know the extent of it. Silas had returned to his village, and promptly buried it beneath the cart in his barn.

Silas wanted to protect his community from Raymond and his gang in more ways than one. But he also wanted to save Athos, first and foremost.

It was hard for Athos to return to the village.

Porthos had already dealt with his own feelings on his first return. It was equally hard for d'Artagnan and Aramis but it was a journey they would make to fulfil Silas's last wishes.

And so, a contingent of Musketeers had ridden out to start work on restoring the fields to their previous good condition. And also, to unearth a cache of spoils.

Silas had not taken any of the spoils himself. He had used the bounty wisely. A little here, a little there. Returning home from the war, he had put word out that veterans were welcome in the village and as it turned out, they had come.

Some of them knew Silas, some did not, but in post war France, the village became a refuge, where they all shared a common experience and all wanted a peaceful life. Many were disabled, but none were turned away. And so, Silas made good use of the coins, and when they were depleted, he had begun to sell the rings, chains and other pieces given to him. It had taken him several months to actually use the cache once he had buried it but in the end, it was for a good cause. Soldiers helping soldiers. Thus, it would have been a travesty if the Vachons had discovered it. So he had stayed to guard it. It was their future in an uncertain world, for war was ever close. He had always believed that one day, they would all return, if God was on their side. Unfortunately for those who did return, they had not expected Silas to not be there. He had been a stalwart in the village, his loss was unimaginable.

When Porthos, Aramis, d'Artagnan and a small contingent of Musketeers began to dig in the earth of the barn, a group of chosen villagers were curious. When the boxes and sacks were unearthed, they looked at each other in surprise.

"This was how Silas built up the village when he came back from the war," Treville explained to them, men who Treville hoped would form a new village council.

"Where did he get it?" one asked.

"When I searched his military record," Treville said, "There was testament from many of his comrades who had all donated what they had, either earned, been given, or taken by means unknown, to see him on his way. I presume that testament was there as evidence that Silas had not pilfered from the battlefield dead. It was honestly given and honestly received. Though some may wish to dig deeper as to where his comrades got it from in the first place."

It had been a relief to find that evidence. Treville had been in two minds, as had Aramis, as to the legality of the cache that Silas had brought back and had been eking out. It had not only exonerated him, but was proof of the high esteem in which Silas was held.

Athos had told them of the tale of Silas's experience at Arque, but the old man had not gone into great detail as to who had given him the spoils. There was always a question mark in their minds, despite their gratitude to Silas for what he had done for Athos. The law was the law after all, and they were its upholders.

The record was there, for anyone who wanted to see. Treville had closed the record book and left the building with a lighter heart.

Now, they needed to rebuild the village once again. Perhaps even rename it.

Treville had run his idea for a Village Council past Athos and had received his whole-hearted approval. Athos had reached out his hand and had shaken Treville's own; a welcome sign indeed that he was on the mend.

A few days later, they set out to help rebuild the village. Starting with the fields that would need planting quickly if a first crop was to come in before winter descended. It took two days and the Musketeers worked hard. Athos had accompanied them and had done what he could, considering he as not back to full health.

Porthos had found him on the first day standing alone in the middle of the empty barn, staring at the post. He flinched violently when Porthos gently touched his shoulder.

"He was a brave man," Porthos said, softly.

"It took courage to come in here and help me as he did," Athos agreed, side-glancing his friend, grateful for his presence.

"He wasn't the only one who showed courage, I reckon," Porthos said, dropping his hand to the small of Athos's back. "Come outside, now. Got somethin' for you."

Athos gave himself a shake, and smiled.

"Lead on," he murmured.

They walked out into bright sunshine.

Porthos walked to the horses, tethered nearby, and flipped open his saddle bag. Pulling something wrapped in cloth out, he smoothed it down, before turning and handing it to Athos.

Athos looked up at him and took it, a puzzled look on his face.

"What is it?" he murmured, before fully unwrapping it.

"Oh," he whispered, a genuine smile lighting up his face.

Porthos felt a lump in his throat at the sight of his friend, the renovated pauldron now there for him to see.

The leather had been cleaned and oiled, and the gilt-work buffed to a shine.

"Next time, take better care of it," Porthos growled, dropping his hand gently on his friend's shoulder.

Athos looked up at him once more, his eyes shining.

"Rest assured, I will," he said softly, reaching out and placing his palm on Porthos's chest.

"Thank you," he said, simply.

Porthos sniffed. "Get away with you," he grunted, before pushing him ahead, "Come and see what we're doin'"

Athos held the pauldron to his chest and fell in step beside his friend.

Ahead of them, the field was full of people, of all ages. It seemed that once word spread, thev illage was organising itself with not only the Musketeer's help, but with villagers from other hamlets in the area. Villagers who had kept themselves to themselves were, no doubt, glad to have escaped the attention of Raymond and had come along to offer their assistance. No doubt feeling guilty, they were helping the Musketeer patrol clear the field and dig new irrigation ditches.

There were all manner of people working, some women were handing out food, and children were playing on the edges of the field. The old veterans were looking on in amazement. It had taken a tragedy to bring these insular, suspicious folk together. That, and the spirit of an old man in a red, felt hat.

Aramis, in shirt sleeves and with his braces hanging off his shoulders, was showing a young boy how to use a spade. d'Artagnan was handing out food, and Treville was talking animatedly to a group of men; the new council members. Sworn to secrecy, they would ensure the cache was used sparingly but wisely, as Silas had. It also only made those few men respect the old man more. They would also swear, should awkward questions arise in the future, that the Musketeers had only helped them with labour and had not borne witness to the unearthing of the cache, thereby exonerating their part in it.

There was now hope, where there had been despair, as justice had finally prevailed. Raymond and his thugs had been tried, condemned and two of them were dead, the remaining brother incarcerated for life.

There was now, unbeknown to these villagers, but to the new council, funding for future developments. There was no need to eke it out, as Silas had done, in fear of casting one villager against the other, now that a trusted council oversaw it. They would also ensure that Silas would not be forgotten.

Porthos turned and tilted his head toward a copse of oak trees next to the barn. They both left the field and walked toward the clearing beneath the heavy branches. The sun filtered down through the leaves, casting sunlight in pools upon the grasses. A man crouched to the left of one of the wide tree trunks.

"Hugo," Porthos called, and the man straightened and turned.

He smiled in greeting and stepped aside.

Porthos and Athos looked beyond him to a simple wooden cross, surrounded by a circle of stones.

"This was Silas's place," Hugo explained. "We'd often see him sitting in here, back against this tree, smoking his pipe," he said. "He called it his "thinking space."

As Porthos and Athos approached, Hugo continued.

"We don't have him to lay to rest here, so some of us thought we should give him a marker."

"It is a fitting memorial," Athos said, quietly. "His name will live on in the village he loved."

It had concerned him that Treville had been unable to discover where Silas had been laid to rest. If, in fact he had been. It was more than possible that the Red Guard had buried him in the countryside before they reached The Chatelet. All things considered, Athos had deemed that preferable to being interred in the God-awful Chatelet plot of land they called a cemetery; the one that he, himself, may have been consigned to if his brothers had not moved heaven and earth to find the evidence that had exonerated him. This memorial then, truly eased his heart and went some way to right a wrong.

Porthos put his hand on Athos's back and eased him toward the tree.

"Rest 'ere in the shade for a bit, Athos," he said. "You know you and the sun have a poor acquaintance."

It was easier to tell him that than say he looked exhausted.

Athos huffed, but the suggestion was too tempting to resist. Moving into the shade, he removed his hat and slowly eased himself down.

"I'll be back in a bit," Porthos said, looking down at Athos, who had stretched out his legs and was watching Hugo putting the finishing touches to Silas's marker. "I'll try and rustle us up some wine," he added.

As he turned to go, he saw Athos pull Silas's hat from his inside jacket pocket and hand it to Hugo.

Hugo took it reverently and ran his fingers over it.

"The feather?" he asked.

"I have it," Athos replied. "I would like to keep it."

Hugo nodded and turned, placing the red hat on the upright post of the wooden cross.

"No name needed," Hugo said, quietly. "Everyone knew this hat," he smiled.

oOo

Porthos, meanwhile, had found the group he had brought to Paris beginning to fix up the buildings. No-one had encroached on Silas's barn but no doubt they would at some point. One old couple had brought their daughter and two grandchildren to see their home. As Porthos watched the children playing, an old woman approached.

"Silas would have loved to see the children here," Sarah said.

Porthos smiled and reached out, taking both her hands in his, before leaning down and kissing her cheek.

"Did Silas ever marry?" he asked, in response to her statement.

"He had a wife, once," she recalled. "Before he went to war. She died in childbirth. The babe too. When he came back, he said no woman should want to be embraced by only one arm."

She looked at Porthos's questioning expression.

"Silas was no fool," she said, firmly. "But he was in that."

As she walked away, Porthos decided that would be a little too much for Athos to hear.

oOo

The two days passed quickly and before long, it was time for the Musketeers to bid farewell to the men, women and children they had toiled beside. The fields had been cleared and tilled, and the seed would be sewn over the following few days.

In the end, it had not only been cathartic for The Inseparables, but enjoyable, as the barn came alive at night with lanterns strung inside and out, music and dancing, food and laughter. Tales were told, and neighbourly rifts healed. Treville had spent time with the new village council members, promising to return in three months to check their progress and offer any assistance he could.

By the end of the two days, Hugo had been elected Mayor, by unanimous vote. The stalls in the barn held two milking cows, brought along by villagers from the next hamlet. The hens and geese that Porthos had gifted them wandered about outside the barn, and the newly-refurbished stables held the horses that some of the returning veterans had brought with them, together with the horse that Treville had loaned the party who testified against the Vachons, to pull their cart on their return journey from Paris. That horse too, was gifted over to the village. There were plans for the purchase of a bull and a brace of oxen, after the first initial discussions between the new council and the tenants. Treville and his men were in no doubt that the village would soon begin to recover, given the speed of change they were witnessing. Goodwill and renewed friendships decreed it.

The villagers lined up as the Musketeers mounted their horses on the third morning.

Astride his horse, Athos cast a final look toward the glade; Silas's red hat ablaze in a shaft of sunlight.

"Goodbye, my friend," he said, softly.

Porthos eased his horse forward, abreast of him, with Aramis falling in on his other side. Ahead, Treville rode with d'Artagnan, nodding toward the council members, who each raised a hand in farewell.

Back in Paris, Silas would not be forgotten by the Musketeer Garrison.

There was now a feather, nailed to the wall above the door to the Infirmary and for one Musketeer, the memory of an old man with clear blue eyes and a shock of white hair who, though not able-bodied, would not be cowed into submission.

A thriving village not far from Paris was testament to that.

The End

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A/N: And so we come to the end. Many thanks for sticking with it. I'll be returning to Infirmary Talks soon.