WHERE ARE THE BLOODY CHICKENS

By Bob French

Jacque Fermanaux stood quite still for several minutes as he stared down towards the low cottage at the far end of the valley and allowed a tired smile to creep across his dirty face.  He had avoided the road through the village and had used instead, the narrow twisting lane with its green hedgerows and sweet smells of the countryside.

As he stood in the late afternoon sunlight, he was conscious of the stillness of the warm air; the firmness of the land beneath his boots and the feeling that he had finally reached home. 

The melodic sound of a Blackbird high in the Poplar trees over to his left started to call out its evening song bringing a smile to his face as he took a slow deep breath.  He always liked sitting down with Monique after a hard day on the farm.  Just sitting there with her and the sound of nature surrounding them.  He always used to tell her it was their reward for working hard and caring for God’s land.

Something flashed way off in the distance and his mind was suddenly cast back to another time; another place, when the heat of the day made him suffer from thirst and the cold bitter nights bit into his bones. The endless miles marching with little direction from his officers or food to endure the endless trudging up and down hills, everyday praying that they would not be attacked by Spanish partisans or the British.

Many of his friends had simply fallen out of formation, or wondered off into the darkness.  He felt sad for Marco and Phillippe, his friends these past six years, who had, like him, been taken by the French Militia to fight in the Spanish War against the British.   They had vanished a few weeks ago and hoped that their deaths had been quick. These thoughts he knew would never leave him until his dying day.

Jacque Fermanaux adjusted his tattered rucksack, re-slung his rifle, gave his faded blue battle dress jacket a good brush, and started to move down the lane, listening to the gentle murmur of bees and the distant bark of some farm dog, as it scurried around after the sheep on the slopes of the valley.

He felt content with himself as he reached the canopy of trees that over the years had grown over to form a gateway to the valley. His valley.

Jacque was aware that the passing of time was different here.  There was no need to hurry here or there or rush to keep pace.  Everything seemed to slow down, the pace of the world cared not for the summons of the bugle or the fast pace and rush of the business of war.

Suddenly a figure appeared from under the eaves of his cottage.  His mind quickly recognized the red jacket and white cross belts of the British.  His instincts were automatic.  He dropped to his knee, cocked his rifle, and took aim. He was about to pull the trigger when from his left, another Red Jacket appeared with a small boy high on his shoulders. Jacque swung his rifle back to the first Red Coat and pulled the trigger.

There was a loud bang and everyone froze.

The Red coat who had stepped out from under the eaves of the cottage stood still, then after a few seconds, laughed.

“God Jacque! I knew you were a lousy shot, but that was ridiculous.  I think you hit one of the cows in yonder field.”

Within seconds, Jacque was joined by Marco and Philipp his two friends who had mysteriously vanished from the Regiment one night some weeks ago.

 

“What are you two doing in British uniforms?”

“It was the only way we could pass through Wellington’s lines and fool the Spanish Partisans.”

Everyone was talking at once until the small boy who had been gently put down by Marco, tugged at Jacque’s trousers.

Marco bend down and lifted the boy up to face Jacque.

“This Dominique, is your Papa. He is a very brave man and like us, has come home from the wars to take care of you and Mama.”

 Jacque, stared into the little boy’s eyes and quietly cursed that day he and his friends had been taken by the Militia at the marketplace.

“Hello son. I see that you have grown up to be the man of the house. Sorry I was not here when you were born, but……”

Suddenly they heard a scream and everyone turned to see Marie, Jacque’s wife, striding towards them.

They quickly parted, thinking she was going to embrace her long lost husband, instead, she stood calmly in front of him, stared into his tired eyes, then slapped his face hard.

“You said that you were going to buy some chickens at the market.  That was six years ago.  So, where are the bloody chickens?”

Copyright Bob French  April 2022