Where the Light Falls(21)

Jean-Luc nodded, lowering his eyes, noting silently that he’d have to tell his fellow lawyers to stop sending such cases his way. And yet he felt oddly satisfied as well, hearing that his colleagues believed him willing to fight for the lowest citizens. Marie would be proud, if he could find a way to relate this to her.

“Well, here we are,” he said, looking back to his new client. “I trust that, with justice on our side, we have a duty to fight.”

“God bless you, kind sir, for trying. And God willing, you shall succeed. Oh, now, I know we aren’t supposed to pray to God anymore and do away with the old superstitions…trust only in reason and the law, and all that. But old habits, you know. In any event, you’ve saved us. Given me hope once more in this cruel country. And who knows…” She rose from her chair, her stout frame appearing rusty with age and hardship. “Perhaps someday I shall be able to save you.”





September 1792

André Valière was shaken from sleep by the bone-thumping roar of a distant cannon. Its jarring announcement silenced the birds that had begun to warble around camp just before sunrise, and he poked his head out of the flap of his tent. Looking to the west, he swore he heard the cannon answered by a few barks of musket fire.

And then an eerie silence settled back over the camp. André saw through the gauzy light of early dawn that his men were beginning to stir. They emerged from under their blankets, hair tousled and faces crinkled from sleep, to huddle around the campfires. He himself had had trouble falling asleep and had drifted off into fretful dozing well past midnight. Now, having heard these first preludes of the coming battle, André knew that remaining in bed was futile, and he dressed.

The camp rose with the sun. A bugler sounded the order to rouse the last few slumbering men. André made quick work of a small square of bread and a cup of watered-down coffee. “Eat whatever you have,” he called out to his men, wiping away the last crumbs of his breakfast. “No point saving your rations now, lads. By nightfall, we’ll be in a new village, where they’ll have fresh meat and ale.” André paused at a campfire where half a dozen of his men were coaxing a fresh flame from last night’s ashes.

“Or we’ll be food for the worms,” Corporal Leroux muttered, loud enough for André to hear, as he poked a stick at the gray heap of cinders before him.

“I have no intention of dying, nor should you, nor any of you,” André answered with a false measure of confidence, remembering Kellermann’s heartening advice from the night before.

“Captain Valière, they’ll keep you alive for the pretty ransom they’ll get on your head.” A young Parisian in his company by the name of Therrien, his cheeks smooth and his hair combed neatly, looked up, smiling in an easy, friendly manner.

“No, not today. Those bastards won’t be taking prisoners,” Leroux said, shaking his head. “Even a marquis would catch the royal treatment.” He swiped a finger across his neck.

André ignored the comment as he walked on, making his way past more of his men clustered around small fires to the southern border of the camp. Here, several of his fellow officers had already begun to gather their companies into marching columns. André greeted them and looked out over the landscape, which was brightening under a strong, determined sun. In the distance, open fields of wheat shone golden in the warm late-summer morning. The dewy sheen across the ground was drying quickly and rising up in a soft veil of mist.

“It’s going to be a hot one today, gentlemen.” An officer standing nearby had his soldiers moving into two crisp lines, as the men bucked and fidgeted like jumpy horses. André turned and was pleased to see his sergeant, the competent man by the name of Digne, inspecting his group’s weapons and kit and growling last-minute instruction to those whose equipment was less than perfect.

Where the army had begun assembling, on the southwest corner of the camp, a line of trees marked the entrance to a small forest. A large tricolor banner was now unfurled and marched to the front, the old fleur-de-lis banners of the monarchy having been replaced, and a small company of drummers and fifes played beneath it. Off to the right, a priest in a black robe and collar held Mass. In most parts of the country, God and Christ had been driven away around the same time the king and queen had been imprisoned, but on a day such as this, a few local priests had convinced the generals to look the other way. A boy no older than twelve, dressed in a green overcoat and overlarge blue pants, fidgeted nervously as he stared down at his drum set.