André absorbed his brother’s reply, thinking back to the tent, to his superior’s ink-black mustache, his thin, pinched lips, and the harsh, cold stare he had given him.
“He’s quite popular among these national guardsmen and the revolutionaries,” Remy continued. “Sort of seen as one of them. Dirty humor, too, from what I’ve heard.” Remy flashed a smile.
André smirked. “I did see that.”
A bugle call sounded across camp, a signal to put out the fires and bed down, and the men began to settle onto piles of blankets and pallets.
“I better get back over to the artillery billets before I get lost and end up wandering into the Prussian camp,” Remy said, replacing his tricorn cap on his head.
“Indeed. Will you be all right to find your way?”
“I think,” Remy said. “If you hear a gunshot and some German cursing, you’ll know I’ve stumbled in the wrong direction.”
“I’m more worried about you stumbling away to go find the nearest tavern.”
“A tavern? Me?” Remy gasped, his voice tinged with mock indignation. “I’d never dream of stepping foot in a tavern the night before battle.”
“Good.”
“It’ll be only the brothel for me tonight.”
André let out a short, reluctant laugh, before his features became serious. Putting a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder, he spoke in a low tone. “God be with you tomorrow, Remy.” Pausing, he tried to steady his voice. Now was not the time to say what he truly wanted to say: you are all I have left in this world. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, toneless, “You stay safe.”
Remy threw his head back, his features defiant. “Those Prussian dukes appreciate beauty; they’d never kill someone as lovely as me. You, on the other hand, André, might be in trouble.”
André laughed in spite of himself. “Just promise me you’ll take care.” And then, leaning close, he whispered to his younger brother: “And for the love of God, aim true with those big guns.”
“We will. Our battery is front and center; can’t miss,” Remy said, slapping his brother on the back. “Truth be told, tomorrow our guns will unleash hell on earth. The poor bastards don’t know what’s coming.”
“Just be safe, Remy.”
“You, too, big brother.”
September 1792
Jean-Luc St. Clair looked at the woman seated across from him, hoping that she might soon stop weeping.
“You don’t understand, Monsieur…Citizen St. Clair,” she stammered, causing the toddler in her lap to fuss. “Before you, ten lawyers turned me and the little ones down. Flat rejected us.”
“Please, Citizeness Poitier.” Jean-Luc reached across his desk and offered his handkerchief.
“Thank you, sir.” The woman took the cloth in her hands and began to dab the tears that slid down her dirty cheeks, forging lines like a river running through tracts of dirt.
Giving her a moment to collect herself, Jean-Luc feigned a sudden interest in sorting the papers on his desk. After a pause, he looked up and said, “Citizeness Poitier, I am happy to be of service to you and your children. And I have every faith that, together, we shall see justice done.”
“Oh, monsieur.” The widow looked as if she might recommence weeping.
“If you please, citizeness.” Jean-Luc took up his quill, dipping it in the inkwell. His voice remained strictly professional. “Would you be so kind as to further acquaint me with the specifics of your case?”
As the Widow Poitier blew her nose into his handkerchief, Jean-Luc avoided the gaze of Gavreau from across the room. “Perhaps, citizeness, I might begin with collecting some facts about your family?”
“All right.” She nodded, resting her chin on the top of her child’s bare head.
“You have how many children?”
“Six that are living. Three buried. Like…like their father.” She raised the kerchief once more, sobs racking her body.
“I am sorry to hear that.” Jean-Luc paused his writing, allowing the widow to dab her eyes. “And if you are able to discuss it, citizeness, the death of your husband occurred when?”
“Poor Ole Jacques, he’s been in the ground three years. Died as I was carrying this one in my belly, right before the storming of that bloody fortress. Oh, I keep thinking, if only he could ’ave held on for a few more months….” And now the widow buried her face in the wet handkerchief, hugging her toddler closer to her bosom.
Jean-Luc fidgeted in his seat, still avoiding his supervisor’s stare from across the crowded office. He pressed on. “I do regret that this interview causes so many terrible remembrances, Citizeness Poitier. But the sooner I collect the facts, the sooner I may begin the work of getting you and the children back in your rightful home.”