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?”