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.