A broad, fawn-colored Percheron stood harnessed beside Victor. A shotgun was strapped to the horse’s back-pad alongside the looped-up traces.
André slipped over the wall and whistled.
At the sound, Victor jumped, steadied his glasses, and chattered, “Oh, it’s you at last. La Fumée is beside herself with impatience.”
André interrupted firmly. “I came only to tell you the thought of going toward the coast is an insanity. The fighting has grown intense.”
Victor fanned out his hands. “Then my cart ... you think it is a trifle to be ignored....” His eyes snapped. “Which I have paid for, please recall!”
“But Victor—” André sighed.
“From infancy I have indulged you, because of my love....” Victor chided gently.
He patted the mare’s smooth flank and climbed up on her back. “There will be many Americans down there, I presume. No doubt they will help an old man.”
“Victor, you know I can’t let you go alone,” André exploded. “Pull me up behind you.”
A few moments later, André, clinging to Victor’s ribs, was mounted and jogging around a corner of the farm wall.