When Sergeant-Major Augereau burst into the roadside inn—his uniform filthy, his hair unkempt, his boots caked with mud—the laughter, curses, and teasing of some sixty patrons fell dead at once. All eyes turned to the intruder; the once-raucous chatter froze midair.
A drunken brute, half-rising from his chair, tried to block the newcomer. His hand had been on its way toward a courtesan's exposed breast before the sergeant's sudden entrance cut him short.
Without hesitation, Augereau drew a pistol and pressed the muzzle against the man's throat. His voice was as sharp and cold as the iron in his grip.
"If another filthy word crawls out of your mouth," he said, "I'll blow that pig's head of yours into paste."
The drunk's hands shot upward in surrender—but too late. Augereau kicked him hard in the chest, sending him sprawling beneath the table. Plates, bread, and bottles clattered to the floor, yet not a soul dared complain.
The Prussian-born sergeant let his gaze sweep the room, hard and predatory. "Who's the owner here?" he barked.
"Here, sir—me!" stammered a bald, middle-aged man in a greasy apron, hurrying out from behind the bar. He stopped short before the soldier. "Sergeant… how may I serve you?"
"What's your day's earnings?" Augereau demanded, staring him down.
"About eighty livres," the innkeeper blurted—and instantly regretted it. The menace in the sergeant's eyes had stripped the lie from his tongue.
Augereau nodded, fished a small purse from his coat, and tossed it onto the table. "A hundred livres. From now until noon tomorrow, this house, your staff, and your kitchen are requisitioned by the army. Food, wine, and fodder for the horses—immediately. Everyone else, out. If they resist—" he cocked his pistol, "—you can explain it to the undertaker."
At his signal, a squad of armed cavalrymen poured into the inn, driving out the protesting guests—men and women alike. The glint of sabres and the black mouths of muskets silenced any notion of defiance.
Throughout the commotion, André sat calmly astride his horse outside, then dismounted, unfastened a small pouch of oats, and fed his mount by hand. The violence inside—the shouts, the thuds, the terrified shrieks—was to him merely another roadside incident, the ordinary roughness of provincial France at century's end.
Such were the villages of the 18th century: steeped in vice, liquor, and blood. André had read the judicial archives—how in the disorderly provinces of the west and centre, most taverns that sold watered brandy and diseased women were run by gang leaders; how beneath their cellars, in gardens or stables, no fewer than five unmarked graves could be found in eight out of ten establishments.
Before 1789, each parish's hierarchy had included its priest; the countryside, though poor, possessed a sort of stability. After the Revolution, the old order collapsed, and no new one had yet taken hold. In place of clergy rose the sans-culottes—or, more accurately, bandit chieftains—whose only law was submission to a stronger fist.
For André, the "requisition" was nothing but a means to eat in peace and sleep in comfort.
Fifteen minutes later, when he stepped inside, the hall had been scrubbed spotless. The long wooden table—seating sixty—was laden with coarse bread, boiled eggs, cheese, honey, meat stew, and red wine. It was no banquet, but far better than stale rations and cold water by the roadside.
"Take your seats, gentlemen," André said, settling at the head. On his right and left he placed Lieutenant Hoche, Sergeant-Major Augereau, Lieutenant Senarmont, and Corporal Saint-Cyr.
Lieutenant Senarmont, a professional artilleryman and instructor from the École Militaire, had joined the southern expedition as André's military adviser. The prosecutor valued his technical mastery and intended him to give the cavalrymen a few lessons in gunnery—nothing elaborate, just enough to grasp the principles.
When André raised his glass, forty-five troopers followed suit.
"To health!" they cried in unison.
The tension broke. Laughter filled the hall; men ate and drank with abandon, swapping tales from the road, cursing their saddles, and complaining of the "damned piles" brought on by days in the saddle.
After fifteen minutes, Augereau—claiming he was full—took Saint-Cyr to relieve the guards at the door and stables. André watched him go with quiet approval. The man had changed much since his first days of brash insolence; discipline had polished his rough edges.
The din of the soldiers did not drown the officers' quieter talk. At the head of the table, André, Hoche, and Senarmont continued their discussion of artillery—past, present, and future.
"…By 1764," Senarmont was saying, "Gribeauval's reform created the first true system of artillery—a unified design covering all categories of guns: field pieces, siege guns, fortress and coastal defences. Most crucial was the introduction of a shorter, high-trajectory cannon—the howitzer. Flexible, deadly, ideal for rough terrain. The Gribeauval system made France's artillery the finest in Europe. From its success came the science of internal and external ballistics, the design of stronger barrels and more reliable carriages. Industry has since advanced so far that perfection is only a matter of time…"
He paused to sip wine, then continued with growing animation.
"In the future, I see a lighter, deadlier gun—bronze, not iron, strong enough to withstand double charges without bursting. It should fire solid shot, explosive shells, grapeshot—whatever the field demands. Nine- or twelve-pound balls, propelled with precision to fifteen hundred yards at five degrees elevation, two thousand at ten. Two or three horses should draw the entire piece. Then our guns will march with the infantry, not cower behind fixed fortifications. That, gentlemen, will be the future of war."
André listened closely, though he was no expert. He knew enough to recognize the vision before him: the Napoleonic field gun, seventy years ahead of its time, the weapon that would one day thunder across the fields of Europe and later in America's Civil War.
He drew out his blue-covered notebook and carefully noted the concept: 9–12-pound mobile field artillery. Above the word artillery, he inscribed a single capital letter—"N."
That notebook held too many secrets for careless eyes. Its text was a strange hybrid of English and Chinese characters—a cipher no one in this world could read. Unless another traveler someday arrived, its mysteries would remain sealed for centuries.
After twenty minutes, the door opened again. Augereau returned, escorting three strangers.
At their head was a captain of the National Guard—a broad-shouldered veteran whose blue uniform hung perfectly on his frame. He halted smartly before André and saluted.
Beside him stood a grey-haired man in modest provincial dress—clearly a minor official. His right hand nervously crumpled a worn brown hat; his left held that of a dark-haired boy of about twelve, whose eyes darted hungrily toward the laden table.
Augereau stepped forward. "Colonel, these gentlemen request an urgent audience."
André's uniform and rank were, in truth, temporary—yet perfectly legitimate, authorized by General Lafayette himself.
The captain gestured to the older man, who stepped forward, bowing. "Sir," he stammered, producing a folded letter, "I am Lussac, prosecutor and magistrate of this district. I bring a matter of grave importance."
André smiled faintly—not out of camaraderie, but contempt. The man's timidity explained much about the town's chaos. A place ruled by such a trembling official could hardly expect peace or order.