Where the Light Falls(11)
This latter group sat clothed in whatever mismatching attire they had scrounged up from their own scant wardrobes. Most of them had been issued a dark blue coat with bronze buttons upon enlistment, but the remainder of their uniforms seemed to be patchwork and individualized. Some of them had nothing on their feet but dirty soles and cracked toenails. Formed into the ranks of the new National Guard just months earlier, these men walked about in short breeches, prompting their new nickname of sans-culottes, “men without long pants.” They wore their hair long and unkempt, and cited as heroes the Revolution’s up-and-coming leaders, commoners Maximilien Robespierre and Georges Danton. They had left their lives as craftsmen, laborers, and tenant farmers to answer the call of the Revolution. They were anything but professional soldiers.
On the eve of battle, they sat around their fires, passing around lewd sketches of tavern girls and skins of watered-down wine. They played card games and shouted obscenities in stark contrast to the quiet, more stoic regulars nearby. Many of this latter group had faced the formidable Prussian and Austrian lines before, and knew what the sunrise would bring. It was an uneasy alliance, this new French army, and tomorrow would be its first true test.
As André walked back from the command tent to his own, he noticed a rider trotting up from the same direction as the dragoon scouts. He watched as the horseman dismounted, a letter in his hand.
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?”