every reason to be scared. If we find you we will slit your throat. I have a message for you from Hector. Don’t go back to Sebastian’s camp or you will die. If you value your life you’ll leave this place, leave this country and never come back.That’s not just a warning, Victor. That’s a promise.’
The horses remained still for a moment before trotting away in the direction of Hector’s encampment.
Victor lay where he was for a long time without moving, partly to ensure that the riders had gone and were not trying to trick him but mostly because he simply did not know what to do. The very question he had pondered earlier had been answered for him. His revolution had indeed come to an end.
All those years of fighting and sacrifice were suddenly history. Worse still, he was now an enemy of those he had once fought alongside. He had known it would end one day but not like this. Even his death, which he had contemplated on occasion, would now be meaningless and without glory. He would not see the end of the great struggle. For him, there would be no celebrations, no hugging of comrades, no emotional reunions.
He could, of course, ignore the threat. Sebastian might even give him protection if he ever forgave him for going to Hector’s camp in the first place. But Victor did not think he could live with that threat hanging over him. The constant danger would be too much for him to bear.
An hour or more passed before he eventually crawled out from under the bush and got to his feet. He stood in the middle of the track, bruised and filthy, and looked in the direction of Hector’s camp. His chest hurt like hell, particularly when he took a breath. His faced throbbed where the branch had struck him. But he was alive.
Where he was headed he had no idea. Home was the obvious choice. Back to France and his beautiful Pyrenees. Strangely, the idea did not fill him with joy as it had in the past. Enforced on him by the threat of death, his exit from the rebellion would be made under a shadow. No more the return of a valiant hero. It would be a private homecoming. His story, with its unflattering ending, would not be worth telling to anyone, not when he and any listener were sober, at least.
Victor turned his back on Hector’s camp and walked on into the night.
As the first rays of light broke through the gaps in the straw roof, Louisa awoke in Stratton’s arms. They had made love several times throughout the night, their lust for each other heightened by the knowledge that he would soon leave.
Stratton was on the edge of sleep and his eyes opened as he felt Louisa sit up. He watched her stand and walk to the top of the stairs where she stopped to look back at him. She smiled, sadness in her eyes, and walked down the stairs, her rich black hair cascading down her back.
He sat up. He could hear her getting dressed and when her boots sounded across the floor he went to the balcony to watch her leave. She blew him a kiss before opening the door and then she was gone. It struck him that he might never see her again.
Stratton tried to think how it would be to stay. The obvious question was for how long. Even if the revolution ended that week, what would he do? Follow her around like a puppy, hoping she might have a spare moment for him once in a while? Her path was set, or at least she had a plan and was the type to pursue it vigorously. Her political involvement would require work and dedication and mixing with similarly committed people. Having a soldier in tow, a lover from the fighting days, would be trying to live her life in two different worlds. It wasn’t practical. It had no future. If it was so obvious to him it would be the same for her. Last night had been as much about goodbye as it had been about anything else.
Stratton rooted around the kitchen looking for any food he could take with him. He found some bread, cheese, dried meat and an apple which he distributed around his pockets.
He shouldered his parachute and pack, picked up his rifle, took a last look around and left the cabin.