“Henri,” the tenor voice of my friend shouted over the chaos of the battle, “they’re going to re-attack!” I glanced briefly over the barricade at the French National Guard on the other side. They were clearly regrouping and could not be nearly as desperate for ammunition as we were. They had about a hundred men for each we were left with, and enough bullets to let these men kill us. It was truly a difficult situation we had gotten ourselves into. The red flag of freedom cared not for our trivial mortality, however, so we continued falling apart, fighting to the last man, as it waved innocently above us. Of course, in reality, it was just a piece of red cloth, but as soon as Sebastien had tied it to a pole and stuck it into our barricade, it became much more. But this was a normal occurrence for Bastien. Things had a habit of becoming perfectly inspiring around him.
Even when we were children, it happened. In his backyard in the area south of Paris, we played soldiers like any young boy does, but our wars were always revolutions. And what revolution would be complete without its flag? We always fought – debated – over who would get the honor of tying that red cravat to a stick and swinging it over our fort and, no matter how often I outsmarted him, the debates always ended up being won by Sebastien L’Emutè. I suppose I was always meant to be his second-in-command.
He leaped down from his post and landed gracefully at my feet. “Have you been hit?” I asked the obvious question, to which he just shook his head. I raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Would you tell me if you had been?” He shrugged and laughed lightly. I sighed. Our fearless leader had an awful habit of refusing medical treatment, which shamelessly rivaled my own horrible habit of worrying about him. But most just passed it off as a medical student’s paranoia. I wasn’t sure of that theory.
“How are you on bandages?” He asked me.
“Running critically low. And you on ammunition?” He just shook his head and I adjusted my spectacles intelligently. “We can’t hold much longer.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I, cher? I suggest a retreat. We can analyze what we did incorrectly, build our ranks, hypothesize what can be done better, and try again.”
“This is no science experiment, Citizen Henrique.” Glaring at me gently, he held his position. “Retreat is not an option. You know I plan to fight to the last man.” He glanced above my head at that red banner, fluttering in the breeze as if taunting me about how it held my friend’s heart. He put more faith in that damned red flag than in my logic, and it would more than likely be the death of us all.
“We’ve already lost the majority of our men.” His eyes snapped back to mine, the blazing blue of his colliding with my cool gray ones.
“Luc by bayonet; Augustin taken prisoner; Aurèle and Mattieu shot; Christophe, Rèmy, and 4 others killed in an explosion.”
“And Nicolas?”
“Why Nicolas?”
“Nicolas Cèsario. Is he here?”
“Not that I know of.”
“He said that he’d come.” I shrugged. Nicolas Cèsario was the drunken cynic that frequented our meetings, but refused to share our beliefs. It was a shame, really. The poor boy looked about 17, far too young to have wasted his life so. But, then again, Bastien and I were about to die as well, and we were only 23 and 22 respectively. I was amazed that the Guard would have the morale to shoot down schoolboys. People will do anything if you pay them.
Then, as if repeating his name three times summoned him to us, Monsieur Nicolas Cèsario appeared behind our leader’s blonde head. He was quite a bit shorter than we were and his ever-present hat was secure over his brown hair, which constantly fell into his dark green eyes. His shirt and vest were excessively baggy and his pants were a bit too long. I glanced at Bastien’s fitted red waistcoat and my own well-fitting blue overcoat. Granted, I had papers and pens and books and notes crammed into every pocket of it, but that was for a good reason. My strangest fashion statement was the bandages around my wrists, but even those had a reason. And of course all three of us had our tricolor waist-ties, a necessary revolutionary staple. “Cesario is present, dearest Orsino,” said the drunk, bowing to the blonde. Bastien rolled his eyes at yet another Shakespeare reference, but I stopped for a minute to remember the story of Cesario and Orsino. In one of the comedies, Cesario was a woman that dressed as a man, and then found herself in love with her leader and trusting compatriot - the noble, handsome, glorious count Orsino. I raised an eyebrow at Nicolas and he blushed the slightest bit. As he turned to walk away toward the still-waving flag, I grasped his shoulder, holding him in place.
“Bastien, could you excuse us for a minute?” I asked, giving him a look over my glasses. He nodded in response and disappeared into the fight. In a stroke of panic, I nearly ran after him to keep him from being swallowed up by the aura of the Flag and taken away from me, but there was another matter at hand: a more pressing one. I could feel Nicolas shaking as I pulled him into the privacy of the café. “I can’t believe it took me this long to notice,” I started awkwardly, running a hand through my dark brown hair, “but you are the only one in our group that has failed to be interrogated.” He gulped. “Perhaps you should take off your vest and unbutton your shirt a bit. It is June, and unreasonably warm.” He responded with some awkward twitching. “I do know the play. Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.” As hard as I was trying to keep my mind on the interrogation, it kept drifting back to images of the Flag running off with Bastien’s heart and soul before I could get to him.
“Y-you know the story.” Nicolas choked out. I nodded and gently set a hand on his hat.
“May I?” He looked down and I removed his cap, setting free a mess of greasy brown curls. “Why did you do it?” I asked calmly. Well, my voice was calm. My mind was spinning a web of paranoia around the Flag killing Bastien.
“I love him.” He – she – mumbled, taking another swig from her bottle. “And he hates women. So I became a man.”I nodded slowly, trying not to imagine the gravestone: Here lies Sebastien Maurice L’Emutè, killed by a Flag. There was a brief silence before she spoke again. “What is my punishment?”
“I won’t tell him.” I replied sternly. I was not that cruel. “You will have to do that on your own.” After all, it was her secret, not my business. I smiled a bit to comfort her. “At least tell me your name. I can’t call you Nicolas.”
“Nicolette-Amie.” She responded, replacing her cap. “But Cèsario is fine.” There was a silence, then she let out an uncharacteristic giggle. “But isn’t he beautiful?” I glanced out the window at Bastien, his blonde ponytail coming undone, blue eyes shining, coat torn, rifle in hand, standing under the Flag, and nodded.
“Terribly.” I rushed out of the building and prepared for my duel for my best friend, who ran over and grabbed my hands.
“They’re coming now.” His fear was only betrayed by a slight discoloring of his eyes. “Can I trust you to… if I…?” He glanced over at my Rival, which glared at me as I filled in the blanks in his question.
“Absolutely.” He embraced me quickly, but it didn’t last long before he was startled by the first few shots threatened us. He squeezed my hand, then took off toward the “Stay out of trouble!” I shouted after him as he sprinted at the barricade. “Tell me if you get injured!” A pause. “Stay safe!”
“Perhaps you should just become my wife.” He glanced at me over his shoulder, smirking. I have to say, I was flattered. “You nanny me enough for the job.”
“This is hardly the time for a proposal.” I shot back, smirking as well. He shook his head, laughing, and climbed to his precarious post atop the mass of furniture, perched next to that traitorous Flag as the young woman stood beneath him, staring up at her dream defending his own. She was armed with nothing but a bottle and drunkenness. I retreated to my medical area to set up the bandages and scalpels and chloroform and such under the repetitive soundtrack of Bastien’s shouts of instruction. Just as I was lecturing another (less qualified, might I add) medic on amputation etiquette, there was an awful silence from outside. There were no passionate orders coming from my friend. I rushed out and found the blonde holding a head of homely brown hair under a dirty hat to his chest. My heart wrenched agonizingly as he stared up at me innocently, as a child with a broken toy would look at a parent.
“Henri…” He mumbled at me, a hint of a tear sliding down his face. “Is he…?” I checked the young woman’s pulse and got nothing. I nodded slowly and he grasped my hand. “He was only a boy…”
“No.” I replied and once again removed Nicolas’s cap. “She was only a girl.” His jaw dropped and I nodded slowly. He set the body down and stumbled toward me, then threw his arms around my neck and buried his face in my neck. “Will you retreat now?” He backed up a bit and stared at me and shook his head. I sighed and blinked slowly, but when I opened my eyes, he was gone. I chased him urgently and cried out to him as he ran at the barricade again, ascended it, and tugged at that red Flag, trying to get it out of its containment. “Bastien!” I shouted desperately, but he couldn’t seem to hear me. He waved that Banner mercilessly while it smirked at me from between his thin, pale hands.
Suddenly, the Flag drifted down and my friend swayed ominously as if he was unable to move on his own. His lithe body seemed to fall in slow-motion until I sprinted and caught him just before he hit the ground. I lowered him down onto the street and cradled his head in my lap, giving him a quick examination. The broken tip of a soldier’s bayonet protruded from his chest, stuck somewhere between his thin ribs – probably through a lung. I checked his vitals, unbuttoned his shirt, and realized that there was not much I could do for him.
“Henri, cher, I’m fine.” He moaned, staring into my eyes. If my heart hadn’t already been broken, the dullness in his eyes would have done it. I sighed and folded that murderous Flag and placed it under his head as a pillow, stroking his blonde waves back out of his face. He pushed it away and rested his head against my shoulder instead. “Keep fighting when I’m dead, alright?” I nodded, holding him close against me. I felt awful having his head against my fast heartbeat while his met a slow ritardando. I couldn’t control the tears that dropped from my eyes, but he wiped them away, smiling slightly. He never stopped trying for perfect. He died in my arms, holding one of my hands in one of his and that Flag in the other. Even in his death, he clung to it.
“Vivè libertè, mon ami.” I pressed my lips to his cold forehead and stood slowly. My eyes fell upon that treacherous piece of fabric and I pulled it out of his grasp. Nothing, no matter how inanimate, could get away with taking Henrique Patrie’s beloved compatriot. Even though said object stood for liberty itself. Even though Sebastien L’Emutè had signed up to give his life for it. I carelessly ascended the heap of miscellaneous pieces of furniture and such, just as Bastien had done, and waved it over my head. If it could kill him so mercilessly, should I not do the same with it? It was only logical. As I thought about it, bullets tore through the fabric, leaving holes in it that I could fit a finger through. Searing pain seized my torso, but I kept going until enough of their ammunition pierced me lethally that I fell back onto the barricade, dangling from it by my feet. The offensive flag fluttered down on top of me, covering my body and trapping me as I fell into death, making sure I was unable to reach Bastien’s corpse to grasp my friend by the hand one last time.