“But I’ve upset you with such remembrances. Of course I have. I am sorry,” Kellermann said, his tone softening.
“No need to apologize, sir.” Taking in a slow, measured breath, André tried to steady his shaky voice as he answered: “Thank you, sir.”
“He was a good man,” Kellermann said after a pause, repeating himself.
“He was.”
“But there were two of you, two sons, if I’m not mistaken?”
André nodded. “Yes. My brother, Remy. I’ve just heard from him. He’s here in the artillery encampment with the Thirteenth Regiment. In fact, I thought that I might go and seek him out before final bugle call.”
Kellermann nodded, his light eyes showing the hint of sympathy. “You go and do that. And know that we are happy to have two of de…Valière’s boys in our company. We’ll have great need of your brother and his artillery comrades tomorrow. Their guns might make all the difference.”
André nodded, relieved to turn back to the topic of battle, easy by comparison.
“So this is to be your first taste of combat, Captain Valière?” Kellermann gestured for André to follow, and the two of them walked away from the command tent. The camp was now aglow with nothing but the light of a thin slice of moon and a dozen campfires, eerily silent but for a few soft murmurs of humorless conversation. A horse whinnied from the direction of the cavalry bivouac.
André paused, suddenly self-conscious as he answered: “Yes, sir. I’ve marched and drilled for years, of course. But not yet in sight of the enemy.”
“I’m sure you are impeccably prepared, Captain Valière.” Kellermann looked at André, pausing for a moment. His eyes glassed over as if he were lost in a daydream, and for a moment André was not sure if he should fill the silence with a comment. The general stirred suddenly and leaned forward. “Just remember, Captain, when your imagination begins to fill with visions of horror and your own impending death, your spirit must master it and be the stronger of the two. Otherwise fear will creep in and take root, and you will be unable to act or think. Remember your drills, and tell yourself that victory lies in front of you.”
“Yes, sir,” André said.
With a heartening grin, Kellermann took André by the hand and said, “Good luck. And don’t feel too ashamed if you piss yourself. Though most would never admit it, many who face their first baptism by fire also face baptism by their own piss.” With that, the general turned and stepped into the blackness of the new night, leaving André alone.
There he stood for several moments, his mind digesting the conversation he’d just had. That the general had sought him out, had known of his father and his family. If only Remy could have been here to witness it; but his younger brother would never believe that it had taken place.
“Valière, I believe it was?” A deep voice startled André, pulling him from his reverie. A tall figure with a dark ponytail approached, stepping out of the dim shadows.
“General Murat.” André clipped his heels together and saluted. He made an effort to contain his surprise at having the opportunity to speak personally not only to General Kellermann, but now to Murat as well.
The general returned his salute, and André’s stance eased slightly. “I heard some of your conversation with Kellermann. So, you’re the son of the Good Man de Valière?”
André winced involuntarily, lowering his eyes; so he was not yet finished with this topic. “I was, sir. He no longer lives.” André now resisted the urge to mention that he had renounced his title and embraced the cause of the Revolution. Instead, he let Murat continue.
“Kellermann spoke kindly of your old man. But, then again, Kellermann speaks kindly of mostly everyone. One never knows precisely what is true and what is, well, the charm of his overly generous character.”
André shifted on his feet, but kept silent.
“Did I overhear that you’ve yet to meet the enemy in combat, Captain Valière?”
“That is correct, sir.”
Murat exhaled through his teeth, creating a high-pitched whistle. “Take care not to let the songs and poetry beguile you—these men march and sing the ‘Marseillaise’ with admirable spirit, and yet I wonder, have they seen what a volley of canister shot can do to a man? Battle is not glamorous, nor is it beautiful.”
André nodded, pressing his lips together. He guessed—he hoped—that the quicker he let this general say his piece, the sooner they might part ways and he might go seek out his brother.
“I recall the first engagement I was in. Near Warburg.” Murat’s voice deepened. When he spoke next, he looked André straight in the eyes, the gray of his irises catching a glint of moonlight. “A twelve-pound cannonball ripped through the belly of my horse and I slid between the two halves of his body. I was covered in horse guts and shit.”
André made an instinctive noise, a grunting sound, and Murat looked at him appraisingly. From under his thin mustache, the general’s lips curled upward into a sly, joyless smile. Murat continued. “But then it got even worse. My battalion’s commanding officer had had his brains shot out and I was put in charge of three hundred men attacking a Hanoverian battery.”
André swallowed hard, trying to maintain a mask of cool composure. Murat’s dark eyebrows arched upward now as he leaned closer to André. “The soldiers—they may be simple men, but they have an instinct. They can sense fear. And no man reeks of fear more than the young, untried officer who has never stood before the enemy.”
André threw his shoulders back, looking into the cold seawater of Murat’s eyes. “Well, sir, I will try to show otherwise.”
Murat studied André’s features a moment, pausing awhile before he spoke. “Let’s hope so,” he said eventually, flashing that same smirk he’d shown during the briefing. “Well, get some rest, Captain. Who knows how trying tomorrow shall be.”
“Yes, sir.” André saluted as Murat turned.
Walking away, the commander paused, glancing once more over his shoulder. “Oh, and, Captain?”
“Sir?”
“Don’t piss yourself tomorrow.”
André nodded, saluting one final time before turning in the opposite direction of the general. Once he was certain that enough distance and darkness spread between them, André kicked the dirt at his feet. Clenching his jaw, he breathed through his nose and growled. “Piss myself!” André was so jarred by the exchange, by his superior’s seemingly inexplicable hostility, that he didn’t even see the figure approaching until he’d stumbled into him.
“Mind your step, eh? Clumsy bastard.” The darkness obstructed the face of the man throwing the insult but not the voice. André jolted at the slander, his entire body tensing. The figure had turned his back and was walking away, but André couldn’t allow such insubordination. “Soldier!” André bellowed. “Stand at attention. Do you realize you’ve just insulted an officer?”
He strode toward the man, who now stood still. André was close enough that his eyes lit on the features of his assailant. A flash of recognition hit him and André was unable to prevent a stunned laugh from tripping out. “Remy, you stupid, insubordinate buffoon!” He lifted a hand and gave his brother a playful slap on the cheek. As he recovered from the blow, recognition dawned on the other man’s face, and Remy Valière lunged at his brother, pulling him into a hug that quickly turned into a scuffle, as the two brothers wrestled each other to the ground.
André slid from his younger brother’s arms; Remy may have been the more handsome of the two, but André had always been the superior wrestler. Within several seconds he had Remy in a chokehold, and he held him there for a moment, squeezing tightly enough so as to hold Remy captive but not choke him. “You insulted a captain, Remy. Do you know what I could do to you?”
“I don’t know, sir. You’re about as new to the captain’s uniform as they come. What could you do?”
André released his brother and Remy stood up, smiling as he looked at his older brother.
“Won’t be so in
experienced after tomorrow,” André said, patting down his coat, a tinge of defensiveness in his voice. “We’ll all be a lot more experienced this time tomorrow.”
“And a lot less sober by tomorrow night,” Remy replied.
“If we’re still alive, that is.” André looked at his brother. Although slightly shorter than André, he cut a handsome figure in his uniform. He was ever popular with the ladies; even their mother had favored Remy, André had long ago admitted to himself. Remy shared their mother’s jovial personality and good looks while André resembled their more serious father in temperament and appearance. Though his brother’s hair was a light golden color, André’s hair was a light brown. Remy’s eyes were a clear blue while André had inherited their father’s hazel.
“Remy, I’m serious.”
“You’re always serious.”
“Remy, you can’t walk around camp speaking the way you just did. If you’d addressed any other officer with such language you’d get twenty lashes. Or worse, thrown into a cell back in Paris.”
“Don’t fret, big brother, I knew it was you. Who else would walk around with such a brooding expression, deep in his own worries?”
André sighed, supposing his brother was right. He had been lost in thought following his two unusual conversations with Kellermann and Murat.
“Have you heard from Mother?” Remy changed the topic, his face now stripped of its usual carefree expression.
“No. Have you?”
Remy shook his head, sighing. “Not in several months. She was still safe in London when last I heard. Why do you suppose she has stopped writing?”
André lowered his eyes, picking at a piece of dirt on his white uniform. It was odd, he knew, to have no word from their mother. Even in times of such upheaval, he believed that his mother would be trying frantically to write to her boys. And yet, nothing. No letters for months.
“It’s better for her that way,” André declared, a conjured tone of nonchalance in his voice. “She’s safe in London, waiting for things to settle down here.” Better, as well, for her not to know that her two sons were marching into battle tomorrow, but he didn’t add that.
“If things ever settle down here. Say, did you get my letter, big brother?”
“I did, and I was on my way to come find you. Where are you camped?”
“I’m with the main battery across this field, up by the western ridge line. You should see it, André. It must be the largest assembly of cannons this country’s seen since Joan of Arc.”
“That’s good. From the sounds of it, we’ll need it.”
“Yes, what have you heard?” Remy asked, crossing his arms.
“I was just at the briefing with General Kellermann, Dumouriez, and the others. The Prussians are waiting for us to the west.”
“To the west? Don’t they realize that gives them a clear path to Paris?”
“Seems they want to face us first, to ensure their supply lines are secured before they march on our capital.”
“Look at you, getting all high and mighty with generals’ reports.” Remy smirked, punching his brother playfully on the shoulder. “My brother, attending briefings with General Kellermann himself.”
“By the way,” André said, shrugging off Remy’s punches, “have you ever heard of a General Murat?”
“Nicolai Murat?” Remy nodded. “Of course I have.”
André frowned. “Who is he?”
“A hero.” Remy cocked his head. “General Mustache, the men call him.”
“I may attend the briefings, but you always knew how to find the gossip,” André replied. “What’s his background?”
Remy shrugged his shoulders. “Killed lots of Brits over in America. He’s a count, but no one hates the nobility more than he does.”
“How does that make sense?”
Remy shrugged again. “Does anything make sense these days? These are not exactly days of reason.”
André absorbed his brother’s reply, thinking back to the tent, to his superior’s ink-black mustache, his thin, pinched lips, and the harsh, cold stare he had given him.
“He’s quite popular among these national guardsmen and the revolutionaries,” Remy continued. “Sort of seen as one of them. Dirty humor, too, from what I’ve heard.” Remy flashed a smile.
André smirked. “I did see that.”
A bugle call sounded across camp, a signal to put out the fires and bed down, and the men began to settle onto piles of blankets and pallets.
“I better get back over to the artillery billets before I get lost and end up wandering into the Prussian camp,” Remy said, replacing his tricorn cap on his head.
“Indeed. Will you be all right to find your way?”
“I think,” Remy said. “If you hear a gunshot and some German cursing, you’ll know I’ve stumbled in the wrong direction.”
“I’m more worried about you stumbling away to go find the nearest tavern.”
“A tavern? Me?” Remy gasped, his voice tinged with mock indignation. “I’d never dream of stepping foot in a tavern the night before battle.”
“Good.”
“It’ll be only the brothel for me tonight.”
André let out a short, reluctant laugh, before his features became serious. Putting a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder, he spoke in a low tone. “God be with you tomorrow, Remy.” Pausing, he tried to steady his voice. Now was not the time to say what he truly wanted to say: you are all I have left in this world. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, toneless, “You stay safe.”
Remy threw his head back, his features defiant. “Those Prussian dukes appreciate beauty; they’d never kill someone as lovely as me. You, on the other hand, André, might be in trouble.”
André laughed in spite of himself. “Just promise me you’ll take care.” And then, leaning close, he whispered to his younger brother: “And for the love of God, aim true with those big guns.”
“We will. Our battery is front and center; can’t miss,” Remy said, slapping his brother on the back. “Truth be told, tomorrow our guns will unleash hell on earth. The poor bastards don’t know what’s coming.”
“Just be safe, Remy.”
“You, too, big brother.”
September 1792
Jean-Luc St. Clair looked at the woman seated across from him, hoping that she might soon stop weeping.
“You don’t understand, Monsieur…Citizen St. Clair,” she stammered, causing the toddler in her lap to fuss. “Before you, ten lawyers turned me and the little ones down. Flat rejected us.”
“Please, Citizeness Poitier.” Jean-Luc reached across his desk and offered his handkerchief.
“Thank you, sir.” The woman took the cloth in her hands and began to dab the tears that slid down her dirty cheeks, forging lines like a river running through tracts of dirt.
Giving her a moment to collect herself, Jean-Luc feigned a sudden interest in sorting the papers on his desk. After a pause, he looked up and said, “Citizeness Poitier, I am happy to be of service to you and your children. And I have every faith that, together, we shall see justice done.”
“Oh, monsieur.” The widow looked as if she might recommence weeping.
“If you please, citizeness.” Jean-Luc took up his quill, dipping it in the inkwell. His voice remained strictly professional. “Would you be so kind as to further acquaint me with the specifics of your case?”
As the Widow Poitier blew her nose into his handkerchief, Jean-Luc avoided the gaze of Gavreau from across the room. “Perhaps, citizeness, I might begin with collecting some facts about your family?”
“All right.” She nodded, resting her chin on the top of her child’s bare head.
“You have how many children?”
“Six that are living. Three buried. Like…like their father.” She raised the kerchief once more, sobs racking her body.
“I am sorry to hear that.” Jean-Luc paused his writing, allowing the widow to dab her eyes. “And if you
are able to discuss it, citizeness, the death of your husband occurred when?”
“Poor Ole Jacques, he’s been in the ground three years. Died as I was carrying this one in my belly, right before the storming of that bloody fortress. Oh, I keep thinking, if only he could ’ave held on for a few more months….” And now the widow buried her face in the wet handkerchief, hugging her toddler closer to her bosom.
Jean-Luc fidgeted in his seat, still avoiding his supervisor’s stare from across the crowded office. He pressed on. “I do regret that this interview causes so many terrible remembrances, Citizeness Poitier. But the sooner I collect the facts, the sooner I may begin the work of getting you and the children back in your rightful home.”
Citizeness Poitier nodded, nibbling on a dirty fingernail as she looked up at her lawyer. “And haven’t we waited right long enough, sir?”
Jean-Luc reached behind him and pushed the nearby window ajar, allowing in the hint of a breeze. “If you could, citizeness, please be so kind as to take me through the circumstances of your husband’s death, and the subsequent removal of you and your children from your home.”
The widow lifted her shoulders, as if fortifying herself to recall those odious events. When she spoke, her words were marked with the accent of the working class, but she gave her testimony in a direct and authoritative manner.
“Jacques and my two eldest boys worked the land of the Marquis de Montnoir. My Jacques was a tenant farmer for the lord, like his father ’fore him. We had a cottage on our bit of land. It were nothing fancy-like, but it were ours. Had been in my husband’s family for ages and ages.”
Jean-Luc scribbled furiously as he transcribed the interview. “Go on, please, madame. I mean, citizeness.”
Where the Light Falls Page 5