By January 1791, once the specially packed, paper-wrapped cut tobacco came to market, cigarettes gradually became a routine ration for the soldiers at the Bacourt camp. From the outset they were wildly popular—Bordeaux could not meet demand until, three months later, a second rolling line began production in Reims, finally resolving the Champagne Composite Regiment’s supply problem.

  On post, once the risk of fires from cigarette ends was addressed, the gendarmes on duty imposed few limits on smokers. Under the camp’s alcohol restrictions, the ranks—unable to take the edge off their worries with drink—found, alongside a rousing game of football, a near-perfect substitute. After half a year, dependence on tobacco far outstripped dependence on alcohol.

  …

  André stayed in Bacourt ten days before setting out south. He changed out of his colonel’s uniform and prepared to return to Reims as deputy chief provincial prosecutor. Just before departure, however, he ordered his guards to drive west into the town of Bacourt—on a whim, he wanted to see this Thomas Dumas.

  In truth, Thomas Dumas would become, in European armies, the highest-ranked man of color in his time (the New World, notably the United States, excluded), the first to rise to brigadier general—indeed a général de brigade—and the first man of color to command a French army corps. But in 1791, “old” hardly applied. Dumas was not yet a general; he was a sergeant in the town’s National Guard, twenty-nine years of age—prime years.

  By birth, Thomas Dumas was both noble and enslaved—the illegitimate son of the Marquis de La Pailleterie. His father, Antoine Davy, and uncle, Charles Davy, both French officers, came to the colony of Saint-Domingue and, lured by the profits of sugar, left the army to become planters. His mother, the mixed-race slave Marie-Cessette Dumas, had been purchased at a “high price.” They had four mixed-race children. After the mother died, Antoine sold all but the eldest, Dumas, to a Captain at Le Havre.

  In 1775 Antoine brought Alexandre Davy (Thomas) back from Saint-Domingue; in Normandy, he inherited the family’s property and the title Marquis de La Pailleterie. Alexandre Davy was reared as a noble. In autumn 1778, Antoine sold the family estates and moved to a villa at Saint-Germain outside Paris, where Alexandre Davy received a gentleman’s education. His fencing master was the Chevalier de Saint-Georges—later his superior and half-rival.

  From 1777 to 1786, thanks to his father’s wealth and generosity, Alexandre Davy lived at ease and learned the aristocratic way—fine clothes, grand dinners, hunting, riding, dancing, duels, and the society of women. But after Antoine, at seventy-one, married his thirty-three-year-old housekeeper in 1786, the son’s allowance was cut. He resolved to enlist. As a mixed-race man, however, he could not expect a suitable rank or honor; he would have to start as a private. He therefore cast off his father’s noble surname and took his enslaved mother’s—becoming Alexandre Dumas, Thomas Dumas.

  On 2 June 1786, famed for his height and extraordinary strength, Thomas Dumas joined the sixth Regiment of Dragoons of the Bourbon monarchy. The name “Alexandre Dumas” first appeared on that regiment’s rolls—though his troopers knew it was not his birth name. There, he “did the hardest and dirtiest work.”

  Seemingly bent on reforming himself, Dumas cast aside a rake’s habits and became a near-perfect soldier—principled, proud, formidable with the sword, and personally brave. His defiant tongue and challenges to authority, however, exasperated his superiors; over four to five years, he was shuffled among units outside Paris. His first year he spent at Laon in Picardy near the Austrian Netherlands. In August 1789, his new unit was billeted north of Paris. After fighting three duels in a single day—winning all and taking only a scratch—he was promptly posted away from the ?le-de-France to Reims. Early in 1790, now a sergeant, he was flogged ten times over a brawl he had been provoked into, then sent to Bacourt, north of the city, as commander of the local National Guard, where he remained.

  One Captain wrote of the Black sergeant: “Alexandre Dumas is a first-rate soldier—perhaps the most robust in the French army. One of his favorite feats is to set four muskets on the ground, hook a finger in each muzzle, and lift them all to shoulder height at once…”

  André’s purpose in calling on Dumas was not to send him to Saint-Domingue to reinforce Captain Saint-Cyr. In fact, Thomas Dumas had no desire to return to a place of bitter memory; his rashness and insubordination would likely cause Captain Saint-Cyr more trouble than aid against the revolting slaves.

  André had come not to see the future Black general, but the man’s yet more famous son, the novelist Alexandre Dumas. In his previous life André had been a devoted reader—The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo he had read nearly ten times. Plainly, though, he had the dates wrong. At this time Thomas Dumas was unmarried; there was no Alexandre Dumas. That would have to wait until 1801.

  As André’s half-new black four-wheeler rolled into town, the first snow of the new year had fallen through a night and half a day. Bacourt lay in white—a fairy-tale scene.

  The carriage squeaked to a halt at an inn. Children who had been building a snowman ran over laughing, tapping at the door and begging a little New Year’s luck. The guard acting as coachman scattered a handful of coppers into the air, and the children dove across the snow to find the coins.

  The innkeeper was the mayor, Claude Labre. Thomas Dumas had lived here in the town’s only inn for a year. Even if the army never fell behind on pay, a sergeant’s income could not cover one-fifth of such board and lodging.

  It was said that, during the Great Fear, Dumas had chanced to save Mayor Labre’s life; naturally, the family came to treat the dark-skinned Alexandre Dumas as kin. He and the mayor’s daughter—kind, beautiful, a little severe—Mary Louise-élisabeth Labre fell in love and became engaged.

  Hearing his guards’ report, André realized he was ten years early—the “novelist Alexandre Dumas” was not even a tadpole. He was about to tell the coachman to turn back for Reims when a clatter burst from the inn: a burly giant pitched two hefty louts through the door by the scruffs, and they landed face-first in a drift. No doubt the burly man was Thomas Dumas. From his oaths, André gathered the pair had tried to eat at the house.

  Through the clean glass, André saw a 1.9-meter Black giant—curled hair and brows, an oval face, brown skin, thick lips. Impressive, but not handsome; clearly the younger Alexandre Dumas later embellished his father.

  Dumas lifted his head and, with a soldier’s alertness, noticed eyes on him from the carriage. He clenched his fists and came on without fear. The two guards drew cocked pistols and warned that a step more would bring fire.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “Let him come,” André said, low. The guards lowered their weapons, frisked Dumas briefly, and waved him up.

  A gust of cold burst into the carriage; André drew his cloak tight. “As a former noble, you might at least show basic manners,” he said, impatient—Dumas had fussed at the door, as if to spite the man within who sought warmth.

  “You know me?” Dumas asked, wary.

  André smiled inscrutably. “I know all about you—born enslaved in Saint-Domingue, raised to Normandy and Parisian gentility, then your service at Laon, at Reims, and here. In short: the whole story of you, Alexandre Dumas-Davy.”

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Dumas tensed; plainly, the man was a great personage—he knew secrets even Dumas’s officers did not.

  “Take a guess,” André said, amused, testing the sergeant.

  Leaning against the panel, Dumas tilted his head. “Your guards draw like career soldiers. I could floor them, but not before they fired. You—dressed like a lawyer—ride with active soldiers as bodyguards; in Reims, few enjoy such privilege. I noticed fleurs-de-lis leafwork on the carriage—castings from the nearby camp. A senior officer free to come and go in camp who is also a lawyer… in the Champagne Composite Regiment, there is only one. That much is obvious. As for your business with me, I do not know and do not wish to know.”

  He reached for the latch to leave.

  “Not bad—but not enough,” André said softly. “On my word alone, I could bring trouble to you—and to this innkeeper’s whole family, including their lovely daughter.” Kind words failing, he tore off the velvet glove. With men like this, threats had their place.

  “You wouldn’t dare.” The quaver in Dumas’s tone betrayed him. He had had a gentleman’s schooling; he knew the Deputy Chief Provincial Prosecutor of the Marne wielded power enough to do as he pleased. Before such a man, he and the mayor were gnats.

  “I need a close guard. You are well-qualified. I am inclined to take you on. You have twenty-four hours to consider. If you agree, come find me in Reims. My name is André Franck.” He tapped twice; the guard swung the door wide.

  Watching Dumas tramp back toward the inn—each step punching a heavy print—the colonel summoned a guard, handed him a signed order for delivery at camp, and told the coachman to turn for Reims. Moments before, André’s wish to recruit the elder Dumas had been lukewarm; learning he was the mayor’s son-in-law-to-be changed his mind. As with Augereau, a strong man bound to a warm household bore the perfect soft spot for André to press.

  Had another officer shown interest, Dumas might have been glad. But for Colonel André—the Champagne Composite Regiment’s discipline was too severe: rank above rank, strict to the verge of brutality. Rumor had it that incorrigible offenders were flogged to death—never lightly forgiven (an exaggeration). Marquis de Bouillé had earned public odium for cruelty to rebels; Colonel André’s iron discipline won him praise in Paris.

  Back in the inn, the mayor saw at once Dumas’s low spirits. After luncheon, while the women tidied the dining room, Captain Petiet, an old acquaintance, arrived—seeking the fiancé. Colonel André had summoned Alexandre Dumas

  When he learned Dumas had twenty-four hours to report, the mayor changed tack: he told his daughter to pack her fiancé’s kit and ordered the lads to saddle a horse—Dumas was to ride at once to overtake the colonel’s carriage for Reims. Before departure, the future father-in-law told him that his wedding to Mary must be brought forward to Easter—April—plainly intending to anchor the rising officer to the Labre family by bonds of kin.

  …

  On 26 December 1790, Louis XVI signed the Decree on the Clerical Oath. On the twenty-seventh, Father Grégoire, a leader among the radicals, told the Assembly: “The Decree on the Clerical Oath can bring peace to the kingdom and reunite Protestant ministers and Christians.”

  In the greater Paris region, however, only sixty-five of 300 priests swore publicly; of 135 bishops nationwide, only five—including Talleyrand—took the oath. Later, after the Pope’s condemnation, three of those bishops renounced their oaths. This was precisely the confusion André desired: the National Constituent Assembly, with only eight months left, would not be able to seat a new archbishop in Reims.

  The Church soon split into two camps: oath-taking clergy (constitutionalists) and non-juring clergy (resisters). Each had its backers; each called the other heretics or traitors. Regionally, the split was uneven: constitutionalists held the east and south; resisters dominated the west.

  Private greed and loss turned the Catholic Church—amid revolutionary upheaval—into an instrument or an obstacle. While priests made zealots, revolutionaries made convinced unbelievers. As the Church split—as André had wished—so too did the nation, and France would be dragged toward a civil war lasting more than a decade.

  In Reims—the “city of kings”—the Church was strong. With Bishop de Talleyrand and his vicar both bedridden, the clergy were headless and scattered; André and the Reims City Hall thus had time and means to break up the “resisters.”

  In André’s eyes, crisis was a rare chance—especially for a man whose foreknowledge kept him forever a step ahead. To restore France to its former calm? He would vote both hands against it. His present, and the future he wanted, were built on grasping history’s flow. If he ever lost that “peculiar advantage,” he would think first of fleeing abroad with passport and savings.

  Returning from camp to Reims, André’s first act was to visit Reims Cathedral.

  With Father Marey and others, he entered—after two years—like a conqueror. At sunset, the cathedral lay mantled in snow and seemed to bathe in sanctity; rose windows and saints high on the walls were strikingly beautiful. Half an hour before, the New Year’s second minor mass had ended; incense still hung in the air.

  Knowing André’s distaste for the organ’s thunder and the choir’s singing, Father Marey had restored quiet. In the vast nave only André and the priest remained; even the colonel’s aides-de-camp stood outside.

  “Wait,” the priest called, stopping the deputy prosecutor as he stepped forward. Pointing to the stoup, he asked, “André—how long has it been since you last washed in the Church’s water?”

  André turned with a silent smile, went to the stoup, dipped his right middle finger, and traced the great cross—forehead, breast, left shoulder, right—while he and Father Marey said together, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” It honored God, recalled his baptism, and, in its way, cleansed the heart.

  Minutes later, gazing up into the high dome, André asked, “Charles, my friend—do you remember that day in June, fifteen years ago, when we slipped out of the orphanage and, hidden among the crowd, watched the coronation of Louis XVI and his queen?”

  Back then, the two orphans—Charles de Marey and André—were eight or nine, lively and full of fantasies. The church school, especially for orphans, was severe. The Mediterranean-born priests wore stern faces and poured “spiritual food” into children—holy precepts, sacred commandments, hymns—day after day; even hours followed monastic discipline—bells for rising, sleeping, praying. The library’s books were of God alone; all “pagan” thought and writings were shut out.

  André, though not a complainer, inwardly chafed at church rules. He confided to Marey: “What I cannot stand are the bells and the organ—they sound like funerals for the dead.”

  In June 1775, as Louis XVI prepared for his coronation in Reims Cathedral, the school forced the children to study pageantry and paeans to the king seven–eight hours a day. When smallpox spots barred André from the choir and a close view, he and Marey slipped into the cathedral anyway and used their height and nimble bodies to blend into the thousands. To the sound of music, they watched a richly dressed, bewigged, dull-faced fat man enter with a handsome young Austrian woman; the nobles bowed low—saluting King Louis XVI and Queen Marie.

  Note:

  stoup: A small basin, usually near a church entrance, that holds holy water for worshippers to dip their fingers and make the sign of the cross.