The storming of Bastille- an event I’ll never forget. It was my first act of many in the French Revolution. It started me on my adventure for French liberation; its fire burned inside me until that final document was signed.
It began on a chill Tuesday morning. I was hiding in Paris, just down the street from Bastille itself. I was terrified of the rebels racing through the street with torches and flags, chasing one another and laughing gaily. Their laughter wasn’t normal; it sounded malicious and vengeful. I was hiding under the creaky wooden stairs by the front door. Not my best hiding place, I suppose. The curtains were drawn and the doors locked. I intended to wait this rebellion out. I feared death, war, and gunfire. I had absolutely no intention to join the Revolution until a man crashed through my window.
“Marde!” I jumped up and ran to his side. “What are you doing, man!”
The man just smiled, showing missing teeth. “Revolution is great.”
I stepped back from his side and my steps crunched on broken glass. I started toward the door, half a mind to get bandages to nurse his wounds, when he sat up.
“Man, why are you not fighting? Are you not French?” He demanded, his dirty finger pointed at my chest. His eyes were unfocused and glassy.
I puffed my chest out. “I am French. Do not question my honor!”
He smiled. “Then fight, man! Fight! We must win the rights that we deserve! We cannot just wait on the sidelines! These nobles and kings are taking advantage of us. These taxes? Unfair! We cannot just sit and take this! Fight, man! Fight!”
At this he collapsed back onto the floor, smile still on his face. I looked down at his body. His eyes were glazed. The French flag he had wrapped around his shoulders was bloody and torn. Kneeling by his broken figure, I slowly remove the flag and cover his body. In a stroke of passion, I ripped the red corner of the flag and tucked it into my pocket. Steeling myself, I stood.
I treaded toward the door, frowning at the commotion outside. I knew I had to join. I had to do it for the Window Man. I had to do it for France. I am Casimir Delacroix and I am a French rebel.

-

I opened the front door to the smell of fire and gunpowder. Shuddering, I took the first step. A bullet whizzed past my leg and I jumped back. Definitely not a good start.
The street was littered with dead bodies and broken glass. It seemed that my window was not the only one shattered this morning. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of blood. I squinted my eyes to see through the dust. Shouting echoed through the square and gunshots vibrated the ground beneath my feet. I stood trembling. What was the point of this? Why bring terror to such a peaceful village? I understood freedom, and our rights, but storming a village? Why?
“What are you doing, frère? Get moving!” A man shouted at me.
I snapped back to attention. He was right; you can’t stand still in war. I took three slow steps. Then four fast ones. Then I started running. I joined the swarm, hyperventilating with fear, and a dirty musket was shoved into my hand. We were heading straight for Bastille, a huge fortress that contained seven political prisoners and countless military weapons. The Bastille was despised for what it represented: feudal rule. After years of frustration, the French people finally rebelled. And alas, here we were, sprinting towards Bastille with makeshift torches and weapons.
“Now, men, we have three goals today!” A man in a ragged dress shirt shouted among us, “Get the gunpowder, get the weapons, and get revenge!”
The crowd roared and raised their torches higher. I cheered along, fearful. Before long, we ground to a halt before Bastille. I looked up to the roof where soldiers and cannons were waiting patiently, almost begging us to attempt to conquer them. Judging by the attitudes of my fellow rebels, I believed that we were going to be successful. I was terrified. I was only twenty-three; I had barely gotten into adulthood and I was challenging the government.
I stood, gazing up to the roof, when the first explosion erupted to the right of me. People, rebels, flew backwards, arms flailing. I jumped, my ears ringing. Suddenly there was more screaming, more movement. People pushed me forward. I stumbled and fell.
The chaos overwhelmed me. I lost my musket in the pandemonium. Legs surrounded me, trampling my clothing, crushing my fingers. I yelled from below them, begging them to stop moving for a minute- a moment -for me to gain composure to stand. I trembled, adrenaline coursing through my veins, on the dusty ground. Abruptly, an old man appeared out of the dust. The swarm divided around him like Moses parting the Red Sea. He held a grimy hand out to me and grinned.
“Need a hand, friend?”
I stuttered, startled, and took his hand. His grip was strong and reassuring. I grinned nervously at him and straightened my shirt.
“Thanks,” I said quietly.
He leaned down to retrieve my musket.
“I believe you’ll be needing this,” He said, handing me my firearm.
I nodded. I looked behind me to Bastille.
“You know-” I started, turning to face him, but he was gone. Vanished. In his place was the continuing rush of people, thinning now. I blinked, raising my hand to my hair, and gazed around. The mysterious man was gone. Looking back now, I realize I should have tracked him down. He must have been at least ninety years old. I dimly remember him wearing some sort of uniform; torn and ruined, but a uniform nonetheless. Sometimes I wonder if he was God; sometimes, a ghost. I wish I knew who he really was.
The explosions shocked me out of stupor. People shouted at me to shoot the soldiers. I was handed a musket earlier; apparently, I was designated sharpshooter. I was pushed behind a makeshift rampart to kneel and kill. Uneasy, I followed directions and aimed my musket at a man on the roof of Bastille.
I had never shot a gun before. As aforementioned, I was terrified of guns, war, and death; all of which I was being surrounded by. My fingers shook on the trigger. My arm was shaking violently and I was lightheaded. I heard muted encouragements for me to kill the soldats mauvais, but it was all a blur to me. The sun beat down on me but I was cold. The intense fear I felt for myself, and France, and all the men around me was overwhelming. I closed my eyes and tried to calm my breathing.
A clear image of the old man appeared in my head. It went quiet around me.
“Need a hand, friend?” I heard him say. I smiled and opened my eyes. The heat of the sun came back to me. I heard the shots and the yells clearly again. Squinting my eyes, I repositioned the musket. I took a deep breath, steadying myself.
I shot him. Scarlet blossomed across his chest as he collapsed backwards. His fellow soldiers went to catch him and one squinted down at me.
“T'es rien qu'un petit connard.” He muttered, aiming a pistol at my head. I ducked behind the rampart and trembled. I heard the bullet clang against my rampart and I let out a small whimper.
The rest of the rebellion went in a blur. I know I shot an unfathomable number of soldiers. The stress of taking so many lives was a lot for a twenty-three-year-old like myself. I was in a daze for the rest of the rebellion after I shot that first man. When the gates came down, we stormed the fortress. I was the sharpshooter still, so I stayed back and shot the guards rushing out to meet our men.
The first group with bags and boxes of surplus came out about an hour after I made my first kill. More and more groups came out after, surrounding me in crates of stolen goods. Soon a posse of prisoners were dragged out by our men. They were political prisoners; all seven of them. They were left to be free from Bastille; a fortress known before as a symbol of feudal rule, was now an example of what an armée française audacieuse can do. A tall, bloody fortress stained with rebellion and lost naivety was what started the rebellion. It’s where I got my start as a venerated sharpshooter. This stone prison’s transformation is remembered every year on July 14th. Every year, on that day, I take the torn, bloody corner of the French flag I ripped from Window Man into my fingers and pray to God that I will never have to touch a musket again. I pray that that old man, whether he was a lost vieil homme or who I was praying to, would realize how much he helped that scared twenty-three-year-old in a rebellion he never intended to join. I pray that Window Man, whoever he really was, found his place in Heaven, and that he didn’t mind me ripping his flag. I pray that France will retain its roots by remembering the phrase liberté, égalité, fraternité, and that I will always remember how something small could drastically change your life. C’est la vie.