The Crimson Campaign

The children were huddled together in the narrow space between the bed and the wall. The older siblings embraced the younger ones, shielding them in their arms as best they could. Seven frightened faces stared up at Adamat. One of the twins was crying, no doubt from the crack of the muskets. Silent tears streamed down his chubby cheeks. The other poked his head out timidly from his hiding place beneath the bed.

Adamat breathed a sigh of relief and fell to his knees. They were alive. His children. He felt the tears come unbidden as he was mobbed by small bodies. Tiny hands reached out and touched his face. He threw his arms wide, grabbing as many of them as possible and pulling them closer.

Adamat wiped the tears from his cheeks. It wasn’t seemly to cry in front of the children. He took a great breath to compose himself and said, “I’m here. You’re safe. I’ve come with Field Marshal Tamas’s men.”

Another round of happy sobs and hugs followed before Adamat was able to restore order.

“Where is your mother? Where’s Josep?”

Fanish, his second oldest, helped to shush the other children. “They took Astrit a few weeks ago,” she said, pulling at her long black braid with shaking fingers. “Just last week they came and took Mama and Josep.”

“Astrit is safe,” Adamat said. “Don’t worry. Did they say where they were taking Mama and Josep?”

Fanish shook her head.

Adamat felt his heart fall, but he didn’t let it show on his face. “Did they hurt you? Any of you?” He was most concerned for Fanish. She was fourteen, practically a woman. Her shoulders were bare beneath her thin nightgown. Adamat searched for bruises and breathed a word of thanks there were none.

“No, Papa,” Fanish said. “I heard the men talking. They wanted to, but…”

“But what?”

“A man came when they took away Mama and Josep. I didn’t hear his name, but he was dressed as a gentleman and he spoke very quietly. He told them that if they touched us before he gave them permission, he’d…” She trailed off and her face went pale.

Adamat patted her on the cheek. “You’ve been very brave,” he reassured her gently. Inside, Adamat fumed. Once Adamat was no longer any use to him, Vetas no doubt would have turned those goons loose on the children without a second thought.

“I’m going to find them,” he said. He patted Fanish on the cheek again and stood up. One of the twins grabbed his hand.

“Don’t go,” he begged.

Adamat wiped the little one’s tears. “I’ll be right back. Stay with Fanish.” Adamat wrenched himself away. There was still one more child and his wife to save — more battles to win before they were all safely reunited.

He found Sergeant Oldrich just outside the upstairs bedroom, waiting respectfully with his hat in his hands.

“They took Faye and my oldest son,” Adamat said. “The rest of the children are safe. Are any of those animals alive?”

Oldrich kept his voice low so the children wouldn’t overhear. “One of them took a bullet to the eye. Another, the heart. It was a lucky volley.” He scratched the back of his head. Oldrich wasn’t old by any means, but his hair was already graying just above his ears. His cheeks were flushed from the storm of violence. His voice, though, was even.

“Too lucky,” Adamat said. “I needed one of them alive.”

“One’s alive,” Oldrich said.

When Adamat reached the kitchen, he found Roja sitting in one of the chairs, his hands tied behind his back, bleeding from bullet wounds to the shoulder and hip.

Adamat retrieved a cane from the umbrella stand beside the front door. Roja stared balefully at the floor. He was a boxer, a fighter. He wouldn’t go down easy.

“You’re lucky, Roja,” Adamat said, pointing to the bullet wounds with the tip of his cane. “You might survive these. If you receive medical attention quickly enough.”

“I know you?” Roja said, snorting. Blood speckled his dirty linen shirt.

“No, you don’t. But I know you. I’ve watched you fight. Where’s Vetas?”

Roja turned his neck to the side and popped it. His eyes held a challenge. “Vetas? Don’t know him.”

Beneath the feigned ignorance, Adamat thought he caught a note of recognition in the boxer’s voice.

Adamat placed the tip of his cane against Roja’s shoulder, right next to the bullet wound. “Your employer.”

“Eat shit,” Roja said.

Adamat pressed on his cane. He could feel the ball still in there, up against the bone. Roja squirmed. To his credit, he didn’t make a sound. A bareknuckle boxer, if he was any good, learned to embrace pain.

“Where’s Vetas?”

Roja didn’t respond. Adamat stepped closer. “You want to live through the night, don’t you?”

“He’ll do worse to me than you ever could,” Roja said. “Besides, I don’t know nothin’.”

Adamat stepped away from Roja, turning his back. He heard Oldrich step forward, followed by the heavy thump of a musket butt slamming into Roja’s gut. He let the beating continue for a few moments before turning back and waving Oldrich away.

Roja’s face looked like he’d been through a few rounds with SouSmith. He doubled over, spitting blood.