André made to sit up but Dumas put a hand to his shoulder, motioning him to remain as he was.
“From the looks of everything, I take it we’ve won the battle, sir?”
“We did not defeat our enemy, Valière,” General Dumas replied. “We annihilated them. They’ve bolted into the desert with their survivors, abandoning Cairo. Our commander believes that twenty thousand of them perished in the battle. Between us, I think that may be something of an exaggeration. Still, he has already written his report to Paris, trumpeting the glorious miracle of the Battle of the Pyramids.” As he said this, General Dumas appeared tired and somber, not proud like one who had taken a central role in an astonishing victory.
“You do not seem convinced of our success, General.”
Dumas stood in thoughtful silence for a moment. He put a hand through his dark hair and sighed. “We have won the battle, of that I have no doubt, but what follows concerns me. These desert tribes will never yield to our rule. And Admiral Nelson and the British Royal Navy will descend upon us within weeks, even days.”
Dumas glanced at André and smiled weakly. “But you need not concern yourself about any of that now. You have survived a smart little wound and deserve a rest.”
André nodded, his thoughts returning to Murat. “Did we take many casualties? At least, anyone important?”
“Less than a hundred killed. Perhaps two hundred wounded. I suppose we should be thankful for that.” Dumas studied André for a moment before adding: “General Murat was killed. Took a blade to the gut. Seems to have gotten himself entangled in some side skirmish, away from the main fighting.”
André stared at the general, his heart beating sharply in his chest as grisly flashes of memory burst across his mind. A moment that felt like an eternity passed between them. Did Dumas know—could he hear the clamoring of André’s heart?
Dumas nodded once, clasping his hands as a sigh of finality passed his lips. “So, his story is over. He will be mourned in Paris like all the others who have fallen bravely in the service of their country.”
André exhaled, shutting his eyes, feeling as if an enormous weight had been taken from his shoulders. The oppressive cloud of fear, hatred, and death that had plagued him since he walked into that tent in the Valmy woods years before had passed away. He lay back and collapsed onto his cot with a careless crash.
Dumas lingered beside the bed a moment longer. “I suppose there are certain souls who have despaired of this world and are determined to drag down as many as they can. I admire you, Major, for fighting for your own life.”
André’s thoughts drifted back to Paris. “I swore to survive for those whom I’ve lost, and those I will not accept losing.”
“And so you have. And you shall continue to do so.” General Dumas looked at André, an admiring gaze, before nodding and placing his bicorn hat back on his head. He stood tall and arched his back. André sat up and offered him a salute.
Later, André woke from a deep sleep, bolting upright in his cot after being startled by a commotion inside the tent. He looked around and saw a cluster of soldiers standing in the opposite corner. There, in the center, stood one man, slightly apart. André nearly lost his breath when he caught a glimpse of the red sash about his waist, the tricolor cockade. “General Bonaparte, sir.” He saluted, trying to keep his mouth from falling open in dumb shock.
“Major Valière, is it?” General Bonaparte approached the cot, his short-legged stride buoyant and jaunty. “At ease now. You’ve got to heal a bit still.” The high commander stood beside the bed, staring at André with his intense, dark eyes before asking: “Anything we can do for you, Major?”
André, his mouth painfully dry, his brain feeling as if it were filled with cotton, answered with the simple, honest reply that came to him: “Sir, I just wish to go home.”
“Ah, in due time, Major.” Bonaparte’s voice took on a heavy, imperious tone as he stared off to the far corner of the tent. “There are yet more enemies to fight, more battles to be won. The citizens of the Republic will learn of the Battle of the Pyramids a hundred years hence. This Army of the Orient will be remembered as the worthy successor to the soldiers of Alexander and the legionnaires of Rome.”
André stared at his commander, wondering if he was, in fact, serious. He appeared to be. André nodded slightly in deference, suddenly feeling pain and fatigue in every part of his body.
“But you rest now, Major. You’ve earned it. I assure you, our surgeons are the best.” Bonaparte smiled, nodding once, and then suddenly clasped André by the shoulder. As he did so he leaned forward and said quietly: “Courage, Major. Home will always be there, but glory—glory is fleeting and must be seized while it lies before you.”