“General Murat.” André clipped his heels together and saluted. He made an effort to contain his surprise at having the opportunity to speak personally not only to General Kellermann, but now to Murat as well.
The general returned his salute, and André’s stance eased slightly. “I heard some of your conversation with Kellermann. So, you’re the son of the Good Man de Valière?”
André winced involuntarily, lowering his eyes; so he was not yet finished with this topic. “I was, sir. He no longer lives.” André now resisted the urge to mention that he had renounced his title and embraced the cause of the Revolution. Instead, he let Murat continue.
“Kellermann spoke kindly of your old man. But, then again, Kellermann speaks kindly of mostly everyone. One never knows precisely what is true and what is, well, the charm of his overly generous character.”
André shifted on his feet, but kept silent.
“Did I overhear that you’ve yet to meet the enemy in combat, Captain Valière?”
“That is correct, sir.”
Murat exhaled through his teeth, creating a high-pitched whistle. “Take care not to let the songs and poetry beguile you—these men march and sing the ‘Marseillaise’ with admirable spirit, and yet I wonder, have they seen what a volley of canister shot can do to a man? Battle is not glamorous, nor is it beautiful.”
André nodded, pressing his lips together. He guessed—he hoped—that the quicker he let this general say his piece, the sooner they might part ways and he might go seek out his brother.
“I recall the first engagement I was in. Near Warburg.” Murat’s voice deepened. When he spoke next, he looked André straight in the eyes, the gray of his irises catching a glint of moonlight. “A twelve-pound cannonball ripped through the belly of my horse and I slid between the two halves of his body. I was covered in horse guts and shit.”
André made an instinctive noise, a grunting sound, and Murat looked at him appraisingly. From under his thin mustache, the general’s lips curled upward into a sly, joyless smile. Murat continued. “But then it got even worse. My battalion’s commanding officer had had his brains shot out and I was put in charge of three hundred men attacking a Hanoverian battery.”
André swallowed hard, trying to maintain a mask of cool composure. Murat’s dark eyebrows arched upward now as he leaned closer to André. “The soldiers—they may be simple men, but they have an instinct. They can sense fear. And no man reeks of fear more than the young, untried officer who has never stood before the enemy.”
André threw his shoulders back, looking into the cold seawater of Murat’s eyes. “Well, sir, I will try to show otherwise.”
Murat studied André’s features a moment, pausing awhile before he spoke. “Let’s hope so,” he said eventually, flashing that same smirk he’d shown during the briefing. “Well, get some rest, Captain. Who knows how trying tomorrow shall be.”
“Yes, sir.” André saluted as Murat turned.
Walking away, the commander paused, glancing once more over his shoulder. “Oh, and, Captain?”
“Sir?”
“Don’t piss yourself tomorrow.”
André nodded, saluting one final time before turning in the opposite direction of the general. Once he was certain that enough distance and darkness spread between them, André kicked the dirt at his feet. Clenching his jaw, he breathed through his nose and growled. “Piss myself!” André was so jarred by the exchange, by his superior’s seemingly inexplicable hostility, that he didn’t even see the figure approaching until he’d stumbled into him.
“Mind your step, eh? Clumsy bastard.” The darkness obstructed the face of the man throwing the insult but not the voice. André jolted at the slander, his entire body tensing. The figure had turned his back and was walking away, but André couldn’t allow such insubordination. “Soldier!” André bellowed. “Stand at attention. Do you realize you’ve just insulted an officer?”
He strode toward the man, who now stood still. André was close enough that his eyes lit on the features of his assailant. A flash of recognition hit him and André was unable to prevent a stunned laugh from tripping out. “Remy, you stupid, insubordinate buffoon!” He lifted a hand and gave his brother a playful slap on the cheek. As he recovered from the blow, recognition dawned on the other man’s face, and Remy Valière lunged at his brother, pulling him into a hug that quickly turned into a scuffle, as the two brothers wrestled each other to the ground.