Where the Light Falls(73)

At the front of the hall rested a long table draped in red cloth, its surface bare save for a cluster of papers, a quill and inkwell, and a haphazard arrangement of dripping white candles. Five judges sat at this table, facing the room and the prosecution and defense. They wore the traditional black robes, two of them with red caps atop their heads. The judge in the center, appearing senior in both age and authority, wore a large black hat with a red plume jutting out. But, in reality, there was only one true authority in this proceeding; the people would serve as the arbiters, swaying the judges to choose either life or death.

A door at the side of the room opened and in walked Jean-Luc St. Clair, his eyes cast directly in front and his arms full of papers. A loud murmur arose from the hall as he made his entrance. The central judge, who had been writing with his quill, barely looked up to acknowledge the appearance of the defendant’s attorney. The other judges leaned back in their chairs, their eyes tracking the path of the young lawyer.

A few moments later, the whispers of the crowd buzzed louder as the prosecution—Guillaume Lazare and his chief witness, Nicolai Murat—entered from the other side. André’s heart lurched in his chest. He noted that Lazare had two disciples with him, trailing behind the old lawyer into the courtroom. Murat, with his general’s uniform starched and immaculate, took his seat with a loud exhale, casting a glance across the room at the defense’s table. André clenched his fists and couldn’t help but cast a sideways glance toward Sophie, who offered a barely perceptible nod by way of answer.

Several minutes later, the door on the defense’s side of the room opened and General Kellermann appeared, escorted by two thick guards in army uniforms. He looked thinner than the last time André had seen him, but his overall bearing remained strong and commanding. He, too, was dressed in uniform. As Kellermann strode into the courtroom, the whispers and murmurs grew to full-fledged cheers and jeers as the crowds, buzzing with an anticipatory hum a minute earlier, surrendered any final shreds of composure. All five judges looked up at the gallery where the soldiers were on their feet, pounding their fists and cheering. Beside the soldiers, the crowd of red-capped revolutionaries jeered even louder, hissing with narrowed eyes as several children began to cry. Only the Committee members sat quietly, their features pale and unmoving.

“Order! Order, I say!” the central judge barked as guards in the gallery separated a half dozen soldiers and civilians who seemed poised to brawl.

André fidgeted in his seat, turning back to the front of the room to see Kellermann settling into his chair. Beside André, Kellermann’s wife clutched her handkerchief in her hands, twisting it between clenched fingers. André offered her a sideways glance, an encouraging nod, but her eyes were fixed forward on the broad, uniformed back of her husband.

Kellermann, for his part, appeared unmoved by the commotion, even calm. As he turned to glance over his shoulder, André saw on the general’s features a hint of defiance. His eyes lingered for several minutes on his wife’s face before turning briefly to André and then to the rest of the men and women who sat on his side. André gritted his teeth, heartened by Kellermann’s show of composure—whether it was genuine or not. This should not come as a surprise, André realized. A man with General Kellermann’s experience, who had spent his years fighting on the bloody battlefields of Europe, would surely not be cowed by this rabble of red-faced revolutionaries and their shouted threats.

The central judge rang his bell ever louder and continued to call the crowd to order. The guards escorted several of the more vociferous audience members out of the gallery and, after a prolonged attempt, the judge managed to wrangle the packed hall into a manageable quiet.

“This Tribunal Court is convened in the month of Thermidor, in the Year Two of the Republic of France.”

André calculated the date in his head: July of the year 1794. He had still not adjusted to this new and, to his mind, strange way of tracking the months and years.

“On trial is Christophe de Kellermann, known alternatively as le Comte de Kellermann or General Kellermann.” A mixture of cheers and jeers greeted these titles, and the judge cast an ornery glance upward at the gallery before continuing.

“The defense is accused of royalist sympathies and acts taken to undermine the Army of France in their operations on the Rhine. The charges are brought forward by General Nicolai Murat.” Cheers sounded at the pronunciation of this name. The old judge paused to clear his throat, emotionless as he read through these facts, no more than administrative details to a man who had grown accustomed to condemning men and women—even children—to death.