With that, he turned to Jean-Luc and offered a curt bow, then took his seat. The court would adjourn for a thirty-minute recess.
After the break, Jean-Luc reentered the courtroom, his hair disheveled and loose from the ribbon that had previously held it in place. His features appeared strained as he conferred with his client. Across the aisle, Lazare and Murat took their seats and sat, wordless.
In his place behind the defense, André sat feeling as if his stomach were filled with stones. Rather than helping Kellermann, he feared he had helped the prosecution’s case. As he admitted this to himself, he felt despair wash over him, a complete and utter loss of hope. It was a feeling he had felt only one other time in his life: on the day his father had been executed.
And today it was his fault. His inability to respond quickly, to swiftly deflect the charges made by Murat, had allowed doubt to enter the minds of the crowd.
The judges reentered, the central judge rapping his gavel and telling the crowd to take their seats for the closing arguments. “We will hear first from the defense. Citizen St. Clair?” The judge tilted his head toward Kellermann’s side.
Jean-Luc pushed himself back, clearing his throat as he stood. He walked to the center of the room, turning to look up at the gallery. “For the closing of this defense, I call the man himself, General Christophe Kellermann.”
The crowd gasped and murmured, and even André couldn’t help but clutch the side of his chair as he saw Kellermann push himself to stand. Though at the center of the entire day, Kellermann had been observing. Silent. Almost forgotten.
Now all attention shifted to the silent figure, broad and composed, as he walked slowly to the front of the court. Looking out, his face resting briefly on his wife’s, Kellermann smiled. Next he looked to his men, his eyes landing first on André before turning to the rest—LaSalle, Remy, and all of the soldiers who had sat silently all day. Supporting him. He offered a nod, a humble gesture, in their direction. And then he began.
“Citizens.” Now Kellermann looked up at the balcony at the enlisted men, at the zealous revolutionaries who wanted to see him dead, at the Committee members who could propose one hundred legal reasons for why his head was no longer rightfully his own to possess.
“For much of my life, I served King Louis XVI.” Whispers rose up in response to the name uttered aloud, but Kellermann continued on, undaunted. “I saw myself as a soldier. It was not my role to question my orders or commands; I followed the orders of my king, just as I had sworn I would do on the first day I had the privilege of putting on the French uniform.” Kellermann paused, his voice catching on the words. He cleared his throat and jutted his chin out, continuing.
“But when the people of France determined that the citizen living at Versailles was no longer the true and rightful leader of this nation, it was with a free heart that I joined their fight. I was honored to be a part of the effort to gain liberty for the people of France.
“No one values the freedoms and rights that we have won these past years more than I do. I know how perilous a fight it was, how narrow a margin it was by which we won our freedom.” Kellermann paused, his tone laced with emotion, as he stared at the gallery. “I would serve any lawful leader to protect those freedoms, even to the point of death. If this tribunal, and these judges”—Kellermann, without looking, gestured a hand toward the justices—“find me guilty, then that is the law of this land.
“But hear me now. If this Revolution continues to go down this path of brother denouncing brother, neighbor attacking neighbor, then perhaps a day will come when we shall hurl ourselves into an abyss. Not only will there be famine, bloodshed, and war, but indeed our very souls may become lost.”
André shifted in his seat, willing the people in the gallery above to hear this reason. To heed this warning. Kellermann forged onward, striding across the front of the hall.
“Will this terror last forever? I pray that it will not. But how will it end? If we surrender ourselves to mistrust and chaos and denunciations, how will we climb back out as a people? As a nation?” Kellermann paused, and this time, André noticed, he avoided his wife’s gaze, even as her weeping sounded softly from the bench on which she sat near the front of the court.
“On this day, I have been accused of undermining the Revolution. I must confess that I find this accusation to be false.” Kellermann looked at Murat now. “Few have known me longer, or fought beside me on more battlefields, than General Murat. There was a time when we considered ourselves not only close friends but brothers. I would gladly lay down my life for him, as I would for all of my fellow soldiers.” Kellermann paused but kept his eyes on his former friend. Murat’s returning gaze was steady, unwavering.