Where the Light Falls(17)

André slid from his younger brother’s arms; Remy may have been the more handsome of the two, but André had always been the superior wrestler. Within several seconds he had Remy in a chokehold, and he held him there for a moment, squeezing tightly enough so as to hold Remy captive but not choke him. “You insulted a captain, Remy. Do you know what I could do to you?”

“I don’t know, sir. You’re about as new to the captain’s uniform as they come. What could you do?”

André released his brother and Remy stood up, smiling as he looked at his older brother.

“Won’t be so inexperienced after tomorrow,” André said, patting down his coat, a tinge of defensiveness in his voice. “We’ll all be a lot more experienced this time tomorrow.”

“And a lot less sober by tomorrow night,” Remy replied.

“If we’re still alive, that is.” André looked at his brother. Although slightly shorter than André, he cut a handsome figure in his uniform. He was ever popular with the ladies; even their mother had favored Remy, André had long ago admitted to himself. Remy shared their mother’s jovial personality and good looks while André resembled their more serious father in temperament and appearance. Though his brother’s hair was a light golden color, André’s hair was a light brown. Remy’s eyes were a clear blue while André had inherited their father’s hazel.

“Remy, I’m serious.”

“You’re always serious.”

“Remy, you can’t walk around camp speaking the way you just did. If you’d addressed any other officer with such language you’d get twenty lashes. Or worse, thrown into a cell back in Paris.”

“Don’t fret, big brother, I knew it was you. Who else would walk around with such a brooding expression, deep in his own worries?”

André sighed, supposing his brother was right. He had been lost in thought following his two unusual conversations with Kellermann and Murat.

“Have you heard from Mother?” Remy changed the topic, his face now stripped of its usual carefree expression.

“No. Have you?”

Remy shook his head, sighing. “Not in several months. She was still safe in London when last I heard. Why do you suppose she has stopped writing?”

André lowered his eyes, picking at a piece of dirt on his white uniform. It was odd, he knew, to have no word from their mother. Even in times of such upheaval, he believed that his mother would be trying frantically to write to her boys. And yet, nothing. No letters for months.

“It’s better for her that way,” André declared, a conjured tone of nonchalance in his voice. “She’s safe in London, waiting for things to settle down here.” Better, as well, for her not to know that her two sons were marching into battle tomorrow, but he didn’t add that.

“If things ever settle down here. Say, did you get my letter, big brother?”

“I did, and I was on my way to come find you. Where are you camped?”

“I’m with the main battery across this field, up by the western ridge line. You should see it, André. It must be the largest assembly of cannons this country’s seen since Joan of Arc.”

“That’s good. From the sounds of it, we’ll need it.”

“Yes, what have you heard?” Remy asked, crossing his arms.

“I was just at the briefing with General Kellermann, Dumouriez, and the others. The Prussians are waiting for us to the west.”

“To the west? Don’t they realize that gives them a clear path to Paris?”

“Seems they want to face us first, to ensure their supply lines are secured before they march on our capital.”

“Look at you, getting all high and mighty with generals’ reports.” Remy smirked, punching his brother playfully on the shoulder. “My brother, attending briefings with General Kellermann himself.”

“By the way,” André said, shrugging off Remy’s punches, “have you ever heard of a General Murat?”

“Nicolai Murat?” Remy nodded. “Of course I have.”

André frowned. “Who is he?”

“A hero.” Remy cocked his head. “General Mustache, the men call him.”

“I may attend the briefings, but you always knew how to find the gossip,” André replied. “What’s his background?”

Remy shrugged his shoulders. “Killed lots of Brits over in America. He’s a count, but no one hates the nobility more than he does.”

“How does that make sense?”

Remy shrugged again. “Does anything make sense these days? These are not exactly days of reason.”