Where the Light Falls(105)
“The one that will ferry Bonaparte’s army to their next conquest: my homeland, Egypt.”
Curious onlookers from the surrounding countryside swarmed the jetties and docks of Toulon as General Bonaparte’s army and fleet—a moving fortress of thirty-eight thousand soldiers and sailors, four hundred vessels, and France’s most distinguished scientists, historians, botanists, artists, and writers—boarded their vessels. Sailors scurried about above and belowdecks as the orders were shouted out under a fierce southern sun. The anchors were lifted and the sails billowed, pregnant with the Mediterranean breezes that would sweep the force farther south toward the African continent.
If not for the intelligence Ashar had provided, André would have been as ignorant as any of the others as to the purpose of their mission. From ensigns to admirals, all had been ordered by General Bonaparte to guard the secrecy of this mission with the utmost discretion.
André could guess why. Though Bonaparte had proven himself seemingly invincible on land, the British still maintained their preeminence when it came to naval power. Moving such a massive fleet of French men and ships safely through British-patrolled waters would require speed and, more important, secrecy.
On the third morning of heading in a southeasterly course through the blue-green Mediterranean, André stood alone, mopping a portion of the portside deck. He listened to the familiar sounds of the sea—the groaning ropes, the gentle glug-glug of the waves below that lapped the ship’s hull. And then he heard his name being called. “Valière?”
André turned and, to his surprise, spotted the ship’s first mate walking toward him. He stiffened, placing down the mop. “Yes, sir.”
“Cap’n wants to see you on the quarterdeck.”
A pit formed in André’s stomach—what had he done to attract the ire of his commander? In his time aboard the ship, he had yet to be flogged, but he’d seen enough of it to dread the punishment. The worst punishment, however, would be an order to return to Paris.
“He’s waiting,” the first mate added, his tone tinged with impatience.
“Right away, sir.” André wiped the suds from his hands and headed to the stern of the ship.
Captain Dueys leaned his stocky frame against the ship’s railing, his commander’s cap resting atop a head of white hair. It was a clear day, and a gentle breeze glided over the ship, bringing with it the distinct scent of tangy saltwater and the cries of hungry seagulls. All around them the sapphire waters were crowded with other French frigates and flags. Without looking up, the captain acknowledged André’s approach. “Captain Valière.”
André stood up a little straighter, taken aback at the use of his former rank. “Captain Dueys.”
The captain still leaned on the railing, but now he pulled his eyes from the expanse of rolling sea and stared sideways at André. His white beard and breath smelled of tobacco smoke. “At ease.”
André lowered his hand.
“You were at Valmy.”
André nodded, surprised. “I was, yes. Sir.”
The captain now turned back toward the ocean, pulling his pipe from his pocket, his thick fingers stuffing tobacco into its bowl. Captain Dueys lit the pipe and took a long puff, exhaling a fog of fragrant smoke before looking back toward André. “General Kellermann was a fine man. That business back in Paris was a damned mess, a damned bloody mess and a waste.”
André felt his features tightening. “I agree, sir.”
The captain spoke again, appraising André with his gaze as he did so. “Most of the men on this ship are untested. They’ve spent the past year mopping up seagull shit and fighting over rum rations.”
Not seeing an opening for a response, André remained quiet.
“I need a man with a little hair on his chin, one who has experience leading other men in battle.” The terse captain paused at that, taking another long draw from his pipe. When he exhaled, the smell of smoke blew into André’s face, mingling with the aromas of salt, wood, and a cooking fire from the galley.
“Valière, I know you were a captain. Before you got into”—he waved his weathered hands—“whatever mess it was you got into back there.” Captain Dueys took another puff. “That don’t much concern me. This navy don’t much care for the squabbles of a few lawyers back in Paris.” Another long inhalation of the pipe preceded the captain’s next words.
“Any man who was good enough for Christophe Kellermann is bloody good enough for me. When the shooting starts tomorrow…you’re to stay close and take your orders from me.” And now the captain peeled his eyes from the horizon and looked squarely at André. “Are we clear?”