André watched as the leader of the French skirmishers dropped to his knee, aimed his rifle, and fired. Before his bullet had found its mark, he heaved backward, a scarlet stain seeping outward from below his hip, where a Prussian bullet had torn through his uniform. Two other Frenchmen were at his side in an instant, pulling the wounded man back behind the line. Several other Prussians were hit. A handful of Frenchmen dropped below the tall wheat, their own bodies catching bullets. And then, just as quickly as it had begun, both sets of skirmishers retreated, receding backward like ocean waves obeying the moon and a retreating tide. The prelude was over.
André stood tall, feeling every muscle in his body go rigid. He noticed that while the skirmishers had filled the field with smoke and a few corpses, he had not yet seen the main body of Prussian and Austrian infantry emerge from the far side of the field. Any second now, he expected those lines to appear. Some of his men began to fidget, cursing under their breath as they heard the deep guttural yells of the distant, unseen enemy. Far-off drumbeats signaled the orders of the enemy to begin moving.
André resisted the impulse to say anything to his men, knowing it would simply reveal his own nervousness. And then he saw them: a wall of green and gold. Two flags hemmed in their formation, and André guessed those to be the banners of the Prussian and Austrian kingdoms. The green-clad Prussian infantry cleared the tree line now and marched into the meadow, their heavily booted feet stomping in unison and giving credence to the rumors that these were the most disciplined soldiers on the Continent.
To the rear of André’s formation, the rumble of French drums began to sound, shaking the earth beneath them and signifying that it was time for the French to begin marching as well. Kellermann and Dumouriez, off to the side, leaned their heads toward each other. Murat was beside them, studying a map. Their brief conference concluded, Kellermann spurred his horse, unsheathing his sword as he rode toward the men in the front. All around André now, his men watched their leader, their voices lifting in cheers and shouts.
“Men!” Kellermann rode before the French line, his hat lifted in the air in one hand, his sword raised in the other. André couldn’t hear Kellermann’s voice over the din of his frenzied men. Let them cheer, he thought, looking at faces that betrayed both fear and exhilaration. He strained his ears, barely detecting the closing of Kellermann’s words: “The nation is under attack, but we will not let her be taken. We have answered the call. We here, today, with the whole world watching, fight for liberty, equality, and fraternity!” And then, brandishing his sword high overhead, Kellermann clamored: “Vive la nation!”
André made a fist with his hand and lifted it to join the heady cries of his men, his blood roiling with nervous agitation and pride. “Vaincre ou mourir!” he shouted, echoing the cries of the thousands around him. “Victory or death!” Those were the only two choices before them, and every Frenchman on that field knew it.
Meanwhile, across the field, the Prussian line advanced, impermeable to this sudden upsurge in French spirit. They carpeted the golden meadow with an unnatural tide of green, white, and gold as their numbers kept coming, marching steadily toward André and his men.
The men were looking at him now, and André felt a tightening in his gut when he saw the anxious expressions on their faces. They awaited his cue. Perhaps they sought confidence from his presence, like a group of mischievous children, so long obstinate, now withdrawing behind their father in the face of a menacing stranger. Only Leroux looked ahead, his features implacable, as though he were willfully avoiding André’s gaze.
“All right, lads.” André lifted his sword. “Company, shoulder arms!”
André’s men lifted their rifles, resting the weapons against their shoulders. He nodded. “Forward march!”
All along the line now, his fellow captains were shouting the same orders, and the men obeyed. As if one body, every man took one fluid stride forward, thousands of left feet taking the first step on the march that carried them forward into the unknown.
Behind him, the artillery barrage started up again. This time, the enemy stood in range and the French cannons were firing not to startle and unnerve, but to kill. For the first time that morning, the Prussian artillery answered back, sending a volley of cannons ripping out from the far side of the forest. André flinched, his body’s instinctive response, but he quickly composed himself and resisted the urge to seek protection. The closest cannonball struck wide of André and his company by at least one hundred meters to the right, spewing mud ten feet into the air as it smashed into the damp earth.