André looked out over the sea rolling before them, silenced. The view was an endless expanse of salty blue, and his thoughts teetered back and forth between feelings of his overpowering and unequivocal love for Sophie—and the hatred he carried for her uncle. He also thought of Remy and the last time he had seen him.
“You suffer in silence, which is admirable, but you suffer all the same. And now, I see something has come over you.”
André sighed, trying to redirect the conversation. “And what of you, Ashar? What on earth are you doing on this ship?”
“Tut-tut, no need to be rude with me, my friend. I am simply—”
“No, you misunderstand me.” André turned, taking his eyes off the horizon to look at his companion. “I mean, how in God’s name did you end up here? How is it that an Egyptian philosopher such as yourself is serving in the French navy?”
“Well, that is a good question.” It was Ashar’s turn to be caught in silent reflection. He sighed a slow exhale before answering. “Allah, peace be upon him, has a plan for all of us. I wonder if I did not stray from his plan, displeasing him. My heart is not wicked, my friend, but I have done wicked things. So, I must submit to his will, until my fate is revealed. It is written.”
André stared at his friend for a moment, not sure what to make of this mysterious statement, and decided silence was the best answer. He reflected on his own past, thinking that his heart was not wicked, so how had he earned this fate?
A rough smack on his shoulder brought André out of his gloomy meditations, reminding him to get back to his work scrubbing the quarterdeck. Their conversation would have to wait for another time.
Several weeks later, the crew of l’Esprit de Liberté were granted a week of shore leave in their port of call, Toulon.
All that week, while André strolled the cobblestoned streets, enjoying tasty bowls of fish stew and the easy hospitality of the restaurant and tavern patrons, he had noticed ever more ships docking at port, each morning bringing the arrival of yet more sails.
Each new French ship meant hordes of men pouring into the city, unshaven and rowdy. The streets of Toulon grew so crowded that André had to weave his way through a swarm of bodies simply to make it from his small inn to the harbor for his morning exercise. There were men everywhere—loud, drunk, scruffy men, pent up from months at sea and eager to visit some of the south’s famous taverns and brothels.
It was over dinner on his final night in Toulon that André found his Egyptian friend. André looked up from his garlicky stew into the dark, familiar eyes. “Ashar,” he said, greeting him with a genuine smile and pulling him in for an embrace.
Before André had time to offer him a seat, the Egyptian helped himself to the empty chair opposite him and ordered a second bowl of the fish stew.
André lowered his spoon, wiping his mouth. “How has your week been?”
Ashar looked around the terrace, a swarm of sweaty, loud men drinking wine and beer from mugs, circling the few women who were present. “It was…enlightening,” Ashar said.
André nodded. “Have you heard anything about what we’re doing here?”
The Egyptian lifted his hands as if to gesture for André to look around. “Haven’t you noticed? Every able-bodied man in service is descending on Toulon.”
“I noticed the crowds, yes, but I was unsure of the reason. Do you have news?”
Now it was Ashar’s turn to be incredulous. “You haven’t heard?”
André shook his head, clearing his throat. “No.”
“Why, that mad devil Bonaparte is up to his game again.”
None of this was becoming any clearer to André, as his friend answered with these half riddles. “What game is that?”
The Egyptian paused, pulling a parchment out of his tunic and placing it on the table. “Orders of embarkation.”
André eyed the paper, then glanced at his friend with a quizzical look.
“General Bonaparte’s ambitions are even greater than I had supposed,” Ashar said, leaning close to whisper to André. “I’ve had visits with a minister from the government and an aide to the big man himself. They want me. Need me, in fact.”
“I still don’t quite—”
“Captain Valière, all these men you see, they are not merely flocking to the south for the women and the wine. We are all part of Bonaparte’s mighty flotilla.”
André surveyed the crowded terrace once more, eyeing the mass of sailors in their blue-and-white striped shirts, soldiers smoking pipes and breaking out in impromptu drinking songs. “Flotilla for what?”