Marcel Foch felt a hand on his shoulder, and wheeled, ready to punch the guy in the face. He relaxed, though, and unclenched his fists when he saw it was a friend from his unit. "Peace, Marcel. Save it," he said. "We're splitting up. Captain's orders. You're to join that group over there." His friend gestured to a small group of soldiers milling about. Marcel nodded understanding and started to walk over to the group, when his friend called out again. "Listen, Marcel, there's a tavern down that road--" here he pointed again "--that somehow remained untouched during the siege. After you're done, meet the rest of us there, we'll have some drinks, okay?"
Foch nodded again and waved. "All right, Andre. I'll see you there," he called. Talking had helped temper his feelings, but now his shame was overpowering again as he reached this new group of people. They were talking amongst themselves, and Foch prayed that none of them had witnessed his dishonor. No one really paid him any mind, save the leader of the group, to whom Foch was just another man to count. Having satisfied himself that he had all the men he was supposed to have, the sergeant cleared his throat for attention.
"All right, men, our orders are to go and secure the southwest wallgate. There are still some pockets of French hiding around in the city, so keep your eyes peeled. We don't want an ambush. Any questions? No? Good, let's move out."
The small troop began to march south. Before going very far, the sergeant looked Foch over again. "Hey, soldier. Where are your weapons?"
Foch, though only wanting to be alone with his thoughts, was nonetheless relieved at this further proof that none of these men had seen him shamed. He shrugged, "They were broken in the battle."
The sergeant grumbled something about uselessness, kicked at a piece of rubble, and turned back to Foch. "Go back to the breach in the wall. Outside there should still be some replacement weapons left. Get some, and double-time it back this way. If you don't catch up to us, keep heading towards the wallgate. And don't die on the way back, all right? You might still be useful as cannon fodder." Scowling, the sergeant wheeled back to his own men, growling, "Let's move!"
Foch turned his back to the receding troops, ears burning. The Breton marched lethargically back north, not really wanting to run into anybody right then. Foch stewed in his disgrace, getting angrier and angrier and working up an almost irrational fury towards Graham Clark. By the time he neared the breach in the wall he was almost unable to think of anything other than revenge.
And lo, who else did Foch spy up upon the walls than the general Clark? Mind racing, Marcel ducked into the shadow of a ruined building. I need a weapon! Damn! he thought. Then, an idea dawned on him. Wait, no I don't... Foch allowed himself a satisfied chuckle and emerged from the shadows, walking towards the wall. Clambering up a ladder, he glanced about. Only two people immediately nearby, both Bretons, and both walking towards him. Foch brushed past them nonchalantly. Now all that remained between him and Clark, some ways along the ramparts, were Clark's two English companions.
Several hundred yards away, at the breach in the wall, Foch spied a large piece of rubble precariously hanging over the main part of the opening. Walking towards Clark, Foch heard a rumble as part of the wall finally gave way and crumbled down into the street below, and Foch heard people cry out faintly.
Clark heard it, too. His head snapping to the left at the first rumble, Clark pointed towards the distant breach. "Argh... go and make sure nothing important was damaged," Foch heard the general growl to his aides, who snapped to attention and tramped off in the direction of the incident.
Marcel Foch could hardly believe his luck, even allowing himself a brief smile as he drew ever closer to the general. The Breton's heart skipped half a dozen beats when Clark, finally noticing someone walking towards him on an otherwise deserted rampart, turned and looked at him. After a few seconds, recognition dawned on the general's face, and he sneered at the Breton before turning back to gaze over the city he had conquered, that same smug look upon his features. Foch, burning anew with shame and fury, covered the last few yards with great speed. Finally, checking once more that the other soldiers had descended from the wall, Foch pushed off with his left leg and buried his shoulder into the back of the Englishman.
At first, nothing happened. Clark simply teetered at the edge of the ramparts. Then, with a grunt that seemed more annoyance than fear or anything else, Graham Ulysses Clark toppled off the walls of Nantes toward the buildings below.
Marcel Foch forced himself to keep walking. He heard a crash, and a quick look behind him saw straw flying into the air where the general had smashed through the thatch roof of a house. Foch kept walking. He had to get out of here, now...
---
There were already a few people from his group of friends in the tavern when Foch arrived. "Ah, Marcel! You yet live, eh?" Andre exclaimed when Foch entered, getting up and pressing a mug of ale into his fellow Breton's hands. Taking a quick swig of the warm liquor, Marcel nearly proclaimed his news for the whole tavern to hear, but thought better of it. He would wait until all his friends had arrived, and just announce it once.
It was nearly an hour and a half before everyone straggled in, the assembled drinking a toast to each successive arrival. The tavern was a busy place: not many of them were left standing, much less still stocked with alcohol. Foch's was not the only group there; there were many other Bretons there and even an Englishman. The French were conspicuously absent--most had fled the city before the siege had even started. A while after Marcel arrived, a couple-three men in dark cloaks slipped into the bar, whom Marcel suspected were French not eager to give away that fact among Bretons but still alcoholic enough to brave their company to get free liquor--the bartender was one of the absent Frenchmen, so each man got his own drinks.
Finally the last of Foch's unit arrived, and was greeted as had been every one before him. "Michel, you yet live! At last, we have all arrived!" Andre shouted again.
The newcomer glanced around, then responded jovially, "Ah, no we haven't, Anton isn't here yet." Another Breton shook his head grimly, all the information Michel needed. "Oh," he muttered, and sank into an open seat. Marcel raised his mug.
"To Anton," he intoned, and his mates echoed him, and drank to their fallen friend's memory. "I daresay, though, that I have better news," Foch continued, now standing up, causing heads to turn around the tavern. Raising his mug on high, he shouted, "Graham Clark is no more!!!" and took a deep drink.
When he brought his mug back down, grinning, Foch scanned the reactions of the men in the tavern. Predictably, the sole Englishman looked shocked, both at the news and at the uproarious reactions from most of the Bretons in the tavern. Odd that the Frenchmen should be so quiet, you'd think that they'd be the happiest, after all, he did invade thei--
It was only then that Foch noticed the straw protruding from the top of the boot of one of the cloak-clad men at the bar.
"Kaoc'h!" Marcel exclaimed in his native tongue, starting to dash for the tavern door. The lead man in black was too quick, however, interdicting his path and blocking his escape. Panicking, the Breton backed up and found himself blocked again by the two other cloaked men.
"Seize him!" the man in the doorway shouted, throwing back the hood of his cloak to reveal the now-battered face of Graham Ulysses Clark. "Arrest them all!!!"
