Where the Light Falls

by Allison Pataki

  The messenger spotted André and strode toward him, leaving his horse to one of the enlisted aides. “Captain Valière?”

  “Yes?” André eyed the messenger and took the note from his outstretched hand. In truth, he was shocked to be receiving any news at all, especially on the eve of a fight. “Thank you.”

  “Very well, sir.” The rider saluted André and returned to his horse. André tore the letter open and read the entirety of its contents in a quick glance. Folding the note back up and tucking it into a pocket of his white coat, he let out a quick grin, muttering to himself: “Remy’s here.”

  “Anything good?” One of his men, a corporal by the name of Gustave Leroux, sat before the fire nearest to André. Leroux had a skin of wine resting precariously on his knee, and judging from the filmy look of his eyes, he had already enjoyed enough of its contents.

  “Not enough to arouse your interest, Leroux.”

  “I don’t know about that, sir. Did she send a picture? That might arouse more than just my interest.” Corporal Leroux chuckled at his own joke.

  André let out a long exhale and scratched the stubble on his neck, stifling the urge to chastise such insubordination. Just years prior a soldier would have been flogged for saying such a thing. But this was a new age—and a new army. Any officer seen to be overbearing or not démocratique enough might face a Revolutionary Tribunal or, worse, a mutiny.

  Still, Gustave Leroux was the one, André had learned, who had taken to calling him “The Marquis” when André was out of earshot. André couldn’t have one of his men regularly calling attention to his noble lineage. The title, though André had renounced it, still constituted an inconvenience, if not an outright danger, these days. André had dropped the “de” that had preceded his last name, the ancient designation of noble lineage, in hopes that the army might overlook his origins. Given the current crisis facing the nation and the need for experienced officers such as he, this was, it seemed, a reasonable hope—but not with one of his men continuously calling him The Marquis.

  If Leroux survived tomorrow’s bloodletting, André decided, he would deal with him then. He tapped the pocket of his coat and answered: “If she did, it’s for my eyes only. The privilege of rank, Leroux.” And with that, André leaned down and swiped the skin of wine from the man’s knee. “You’d better be sober by tomorrow, soldier. If you’re unable to perform your duties, that’s malingering, and you’ll be put on a charge as a deserter. And you know what happens to you then.”

  A distant three-note blast from a trumpet signaled the hour for the commanders’ briefing, so André emptied the confiscated wine and crossed camp toward headquarters.

  As he walked off, André overheard the exchange at the campfire behind him, Leroux’s defiant grunt as he said: “If that rich ponce leads us to slaughter tomorrow, if it takes my last breath, I’ll put a bullet in him myself.”

  “Shut your mouth, Leroux.” One of André’s sergeants, a steady man by the name of Digne, interjected. “You just concern yourself with your own duties. We’ve enough work to do with those Rhineland bastards across the way, without bothering ourselves and fighting one another. Got it?”

  The heat around Paris had broken, and the woods of Valmy were cooler than the city, but still the air inside the tent felt warm and stale. Upon entering, André saw what he had suspected: that he was one of the most junior officers in the gathering. He had been surprised to receive an order this afternoon expressing General Kellermann’s request that he be in attendance.

  “André de Valière.” Another young captain by the name of François LaSalle appeared by his side, a familiar face from the days of the former regime. Like André, LaSalle was dressed in a crisp white coat with sky-blue piping and lapels. Silver buttons traced a smart line down the front of his coat, and he held his tricornered hat in his left hand, revealing black hair that had been pulled back in a ponytail like André’s.

  “LaSalle, how are you?” André gave his friend a firm handshake. And then, leaning closer, he whispered: “It’s just ‘Valière’ these days.”

  LaSalle nodded, understanding. “Well then, Valière, when did you get out here?”

  “We marched in this morning,” André answered. “And you?”

  “Just before midday,” LaSalle replied. He gestured toward the front of the tent. “Did you see them ride into camp?”

  “The scouts?” André nodded. “Yes. I caught a bit of their report, too. Seems they’ve located the Prussians nearby.”

  “Any word from your brother?” LaSalle asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I just received a letter from him. He’s here in camp, somewhere.”

  “Where is General Kellermann?” LaSalle glanced around the tent, and André did the same. At the front stood an oversized desk covered in papers—division rosters, equipment reports, orders from Paris. Two maps hung at the front of the tent, their surfaces large and marked with ink. The larger map was of eastern France out to the Rhine, where they were currently encamped. The other one included all of the surrounding nations and imperial borders, which were shaded in a light reddish color.

  The crowd assembling in the tent that evening was disproportionately dressed in white and sky blue; the few revolutionary officers of the National Guard who were present stood together on the fringes of conversations, tugging on their mustaches, casting skeptical glances toward their stiff-postured colleagues. Perhaps after tomorrow, André mused, once they had all faced the crucible of combat together, the two branches of the French army would be slightly more trustful of each other.

  The cavalry scouts in their green coats stood laughing with one another in the front corner as though they had just returned from a successful hunt in the Bois de Boulogne. Their scout force had done its duty that afternoon, and they felt buoyed by their accomplishment and the fact that they had been first to get a sight of the enemy. Just behind them stood members of the artillery forces—a disproportionately large portion of the crowd, André thought, and he made a note to find Remy after the briefing. In the center stood the officers and noncommissioned officers of the French infantry, all of whom appeared more on edge than their artillery comrades. These were the men whose soldiers would stand face-to-face with the Prussian, Austrian, and Hessian enemy tomorrow. This was André’s group, and the taut lines on their faces seemed to reflet the nerves that he himself was feeling.

  All chatter ceased the moment the tent flap lifted and the small frame of General Charles Dumouriez appeared, flanked by the worn but handsome face of General Christophe Kellermann and a third man, one whom André did not recognize.

  “Who’s that?” André whispered as the commanders cut a line to the front of the tent.

  “The third one? That’s Nicolai Murat, the Comte de Custine. He’s a brigadier general,” LaSalle answered. André nodded, wondering from where LaSalle always gleaned his gossip and wondering why the name—Murat—tugged on some distant corner of his memory. Murat. Had he heard the name before?

  But André’s musings were interrupted as General Kellermann approached, grinning and slapping the shoulders of his surrounding men. As he neared the place where André stood, he nodded and offered a brief smile. “Captain, welcome to camp.”

  André was momentarily taken aback that the general recognized him as a newcomer. He managed to sputter out, “General Kellermann, sir,” before the commander continued on.

  “He’s good,” LaSalle remarked under his breath. “Must know every man in this tent.”

  While Kellermann continued his entry, Dumouriez walked in front of him, a mask of stoic calm spread across his features. He was short, but his heavily starched uniform and alert gaze spoke of a power not in any way diminished by his small physical stature.

  The third commander, Brigadier General Murat, followed behind Kellermann and Dumouriez. His was an unrecognizable face, even if the name rang somehow vaguely familiar to André. The man’s black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, offering a full
view of a broad forehead and a heavily lidded gaze. His eyes were small, two hard marbles the color of cold seawater, but they burned with a formidable intensity. He was tall, taller than Kellermann and certainly taller than Dumouriez, and he used this height to peer down at the men as he passed. When he reached the front of the tent, he turned and caught André watching him. André swallowed uneasily as Murat’s gray eyes held his own for a moment, the hint of a derisive smile pulling on his superior’s lips.

  “Soldiers and citizens of France.” Charles Dumouriez now stood at the front of the tent before the two oversized maps. “Welcome to the Valmy wilderness.” He gave a quick jerk of his chin, which sent the fringe of his gold epaulets quivering on his shoulders. “We meet here, finally, on the eve of battle.”

  The men around André fidgeted; the tent was abuzz with a palpable thrum of nerves and excitement.

  Looking to his right, Dumouriez nodded to his colleague. “General Kellermann, you may begin the briefing.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kellermann stood up straight from where he had been leaning on the desk, clapping his hands together once. His chestnut hair was streaked with the first hints of gray, pulled back in a loose ponytail. Wide-set blue eyes shone bright in a narrow face lined with experience and concentration, if not a particularly advanced age. While the threat of the next day’s battle had seemed to settle like a heavy cloak of anxiety over so many other faces around the tent, Kellermann’s features were alight.

  “Gentlemen,” Kellermann said, raising his arms in a gesture of almost paternal greeting. “It is good to see you all here with us. As you’ve no doubt heard by now, our scouts have just returned to camp. Seems they’ve found the enemy.”

  LaSalle and André shared a glance as Kellermann continued. “As we suspected, we are not alone in these woods. The Duke of Brunswick and his Prussian legions have arrived.”

  A series of whispers fluttered through the tent before Kellermann lifted a hand and the side talk evaporated. “Up until now, our soldiers have shown little but fear and panic in the face of our enemies. Untrained and undisciplined soldiers have broken at the mere sight of the Prussian battle line, often without even firing a shot. Gentlemen”—Kellermann paused, clearing his throat, his gaze suddenly stern—“that ends tomorrow.”

  André and the rest of the men listened attentively while Kellermann conducted the briefing. As André had overheard earlier, the Prussians were, in fact, encamped just a few miles to the west; the French armies had been caught behind the Prussians, so that nothing stood in between the Duke of Brunswick and Paris. The French would make their move the next day, hoping to surround the alliance forces and cut them off from their supply lines and reinforcements before they could march on the capital and strangle the Revolution.

  The day’s fight would begin early, shortly after dawn, with a heavy artillery barrage. As André had suspected, the French commanders had assembled more cannons and gunpowder than they had in any of the previous battles against the Austrians and Prussians. Tomorrow’s battle, Kellermann confided to his gathered officers, was the French army’s last chance to prevent an enemy march on Paris.

  “Tomorrow’s battle will be decisive for our Revolution,” Kellermann told them. “If the Prussians take our capital, there is little doubt that they will put Louis back on the throne.”

  Dumouriez stood by quietly, nodding. Kellermann paused before looking up, catching the eyes of his men as he concluded his remarks. “Not only will every man in this tent be arrested or hanged, but all of the rights and freedoms newly won for the people will vanish as quickly as they have come. It is no exaggeration when I tell you men that not only your lives, but the very existence of the Revolution and the nation, hang in the balance.”

  When Kellermann had finished his report, a tense silence hung over the tent. André looked around, seeing the stony rumination on the faces of the guardsmen and regulars alike. Beside him, LaSalle thrummed his fingertips against his chin in thought. At the front of the tent, Dumouriez cleared his throat.

  “Thank you, Christophe,” Dumouriez said with a nod, no expression or sentiment apparent on his face. Then, turning to the third officer, he asked, “General Murat, do you have anything you wish to add?”

  Murat, who had been absentmindedly stroking the tip of his tight, dark mustache throughout the entirety of Kellermann’s briefing, now unfolded his arms and turned to the bluecoats in the room. When he spoke for the first time, André heard a deep, confident baritone of a voice, perfectly audible throughout the tent.

  “We are fighting against an army of hired guns, mercenaries, and royalist butchers. They may have the better training, but we have justice on our side.” Murat spoke directly to the ragged guardsmen now, those rough militia members who would face their first action tomorrow. “I have no doubt that our men have the heart.”

  These blue-coated volunteers nodded now, proud of this individual attention from a brigadier general.

  And now Murat cracked a smile, his tone lightening. “Soldiers with wet uniforms, dirt on their faces, empty stomachs, fire in their hearts, and pricks longer than their muskets will relish the sight of an overconfident enemy.” The pent-up tension inside the tent broke with a burst of deep belly laughter. General Murat held up his hand for silence, casting his glance across the assembled group, then turned his attention back to Kellermann and Dumouriez. “We are ready to do our duty. Tomorrow our Revolution will spread from the French nation and its people’s army, and be heard across the civilized world.”

  “We will do our duty, Citizen Murat!” called out one of the guardsmen standing toward the front, his tone cocksure.

  Murat nodded. “Good. And I don’t care how often you want to unload your other guns once we beat the Prussians back over the Rhine….you all know what they say about those German women.” Another burst of laughter echoed throughout the tent, even louder than the first.

  André leaned in to LaSalle. “He seems optimistic.”

  “It’s an act,” LaSalle reasoned. “Just trying to bolster their spirits. He knows that, in spite of their big talk, many of the new lads are trembling in their tattered boots.” True, André thought, and perhaps a boost of confidence to wavering hearts was not a bad thing.

  General Kellermann allowed the chatter to continue for a moment before he raised his hands to silence the side conversation and laughter. “Let us take things one at a time, gentlemen. Our enemy has yet to be opposed, much less defeated. Tomorrow’s task will not be an easy one.”

  “Simply trying to lighten the mood, Christophe,” Murat said, his wry smile dissipating. “I do not doubt the commitment of our brave volunteers for even a second.”

  “Nor do I, General Murat,” Kellermann said, looking out across the assembly to the leaders of both groups. “But it is also important that we know the stakes. There is no shame in feeling apprehension or even fear, but as leaders, we must all do everything we can to master it, never revealing it to our men. Some of them are surely nervous. Make sure they get to sleep. And try, as best you can, to keep them away from the wine.”

  As Kellermann wrapped up the meeting, André caught Murat’s steely eyes once more. The general had been smiling, still pleased by his own bawdy joke and the confidence some of the men clearly had in him, but as he met André’s gaze, the cheer fled from his face. André looked away and turned to follow the other officers filing out of the tent. A tremor of instinctual unease passed over him, a shadow of some inexplicable dread.

  Outside once more, he breathed in the cool evening air. All was silent except for a few nervous mutters as the officers filed out. André was preparing to return to his men when he heard his name called out.

  “Valière!”

  André turned and his posture instinctively straightened when he saw General Kellermann approaching. “Sir, General Kellermann.” André saluted.

  “Good to finally meet you, Captain.”

  “And you, sir.” Of course André had seen the general many times,
having served in his legion for close to a year. But he had never expected the general to recognize him in return, much less know his name.

  “Dumouriez tells me you are young and unblooded, but have shown promise. We are lucky to have you among our number.”

  André fought against the flush that threatened to betray his surprise and pleasure; that two generals had ever considered him, much less had a conversation about him, was a flattering thought. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You served before…under the old…” Kellermann paused, his face just briefly losing its signature composure and confidence. “You are a graduate of the military college at Brienne, are you not?”

  “I am, sir.” André stood up a little straighter, surprised at the general’s knowledge of his background. “I completed my training there four years ago.”

  “I am a Brienne man myself. Long live the golden lion.” Kellermann offered the hint of a measured smile. “You are from the north, yes?”

  “Yes, General, my family comes from Normandy.” André left it at that. Kellermann most likely already knew his troubling secret: that André came from landed aristocracy on the northern coast, his lands and title dating back to even before the expulsion of the British from Normandy. But there was no need to advertise the guilt of his birthright. And, besides, Kellermann himself was in a similar situation, having renounced his own lands and title as le Comte de Kellermann at the outbreak of the Revolution.

  “I heard of your…misfortune,” Kellermann continued in a low, barely audible voice. “You know, I had the honor of knowing your father.”

  Despite his efforts to stay impassive, André’s mouth now fell open. “You…you knew him, sir?”

  Kellermann nodded. “Also at Brienne. He was several years ahead of me, but I admired him greatly. If you don’t mind my saying so, he was a good man.”

  André blinked, struggling as the familiar flood of pain and sadness and a strange new feeling, perhaps guilt, ripped through his insides, searing him like a cruel, hot iron. He couldn’t help but see the image of his father’s face the last time he had beheld it. The night that his father had sent their mother away to England, the night he had begged his sons to stay in the army and change their last name, hoping that those two actions might be enough to save his boys from his own damned fate.