Текст книги "Young bloods"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Chapter 23

Brienne, 1782

Napoleon slowly lowered the letter from his father on to the library reading desk. He was alone in the room on a Sunday morning. From outside the window came the muffled sounds of the other students playing in the courtyard. Snow had fallen overnight and a thick layer of brilliant white covered the bare landscape around Brienne. Even now a fresh flurry of flakes whirled past the window. Napoleon's heart felt leaden with despair.

A month earlier Napoleon had finally had enough of being the butt of practical jokes and the other petty cruelties relentlessly heaped on him by Alexander de Fontaine and his friends. Even though there had been no repeat of that night in the stables, the very thought of it filled Napoleon with dread, disgust and a bitter hatred for the faceless aristocrats responsible for his torment. Shortly before Christmas, Napoleon was finally driven to act.

He had written a long letter to his father. In it he explained the situation as gently as he could, since he did not want to make his father aware of the shame that soured him. It would be the unkindest act of all to make his father think that he was ashamed of his family's social station, even if that was the truth of the matter. So Napoleon tried to express himself in pragmatic terms. He wrote of all the activities he was excluded from by virtue of his financial situation. He explained that the wear and tear of college life exacted a heavy toll on his clothing and that without money he could not replace outworn clothes and so he was reduced to a tramp-like appearance. He was concerned that he did little honour to his family and reflected badly on them. He felt guilty about this. As a consequence Napoleon felt driven to request that his father must either arrange that a far more substantial allowance be paid to him, or that he should be withdrawn from Brienne and educated back at home, where he would fit in and do far more justice to his family's noble traditions.

The reply from Ajaccio was a blunt refusal. His father told him that there was simply no more money to spare. There was more to being a gentleman than money, and if Napoleon would only conduct himself in the proper manner and behave in a way that befitted a gentleman then his father was sure that he would prosper at Brienne. Inside Napoleon cursed his father for not seeing through the careful phrases of his son's letter to the raw agony of the life he had been forced to endure at the school. Perhaps he should have written in a more forthright manner so that his father could understand the depth of his misery. Another letter then? Napoleon considered the idea for a moment before rejecting it.That would only make him look even more weak and pathetic to his father.The opportunity for an effective appeal had been lost.All that was left to Napoleon now was to make the most of the situation.

Impulsively, his fingers closed round his father's reply and crumpled it up, working the paper into a tight ball. Napoleon turned from the reading table and, taking aim on the waste basket, he lobbed the ball of paper over towards it.The missile hit the rim of the basket and dropped to the ground at its base.

'Buona Parte! Pick that up!'

Napoleon jumped in his seat at the sound of the voice, then turned to look over his shoulder. Father Dupuy had just entered the library to supervise the morning borrowers.

'Pick up that paper!'

'Yes, sir!' Napoleon jumped down from his stool. He hurried over towards the crumpled letter, scooped it up and quickly deposited it in the bin.

'I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again.'

Father Dupuy, accustomed to the Coriscan boy's ill humour and bouts of fiery temper, was surprised by his meek response. 'Is anything the matter?'

'No, sir.'

'What was that piece of paper?'

'It was personal, sir.'

'I'll be the judge of that. Let me see it.'

There was no avoiding the order. Napoleon retrieved the tight bundle of paper and placed it on to the teacher's outstretched hand. While the boy stood in front of him the teacher carefully unravelled the paper and read through the contents. When he finished, he returned the letter to Napoleon.

'Sit down.'

Napoleon pulled back the chair with a scrape, and sat, shoulders loose and drooping as he looked dolefully across the table at the teacher. Father Dupuy took the chair opposite and, folding his arms, he returned the boy's gaze.

'I take it that you want to leave us, Buona Parte.'

Napoleon nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

'I see.' Father Dupuy considered the young man for a moment before he continued.'You'd be a fool to leave Brienne, Napoleon. This institution is the only opportunity for advancement for people like you and me.'

'Sir?'

'This.' He waved his hand around. 'The college. It's one of the few places in France where people from our background can prosper. As for the aristos, once they leave Brienne and some relative finds them a nice, secure, well-paid position, they will have the whip hand.' He shrugged. 'That's the way things are here in France. You must get used to it, Buona Parte. Or you will go mad under the burden of the injustice of it all.'

Napoleon bristled. 'But it isn't fair, sir. I'm better than them. Far better than them. Why should I have to suffer being their inferior?'

'Because there is nothing you can do about it.There is nothing I can do about it either.That is the curse of our social class, Buona Parte. Believe me, I know how you feel. Despite wearing the same uniform, eating at the same table and being taught at the same desk, you feel that there is a vast gulf between you and them. It makes itself felt the moment they open their mouths. They talk differently, they think differently and they live differently.You sit there and you wish all they had was yours. And yet you know it can never be. So then, let's accept that the world is unfair. What then do you do?'

Napoleon shrugged. 'Change it.'

'By yourself? That's demanding a lot of one man.'

Napoleon smiled. 'It's been done before, sir. I've read enough history to know. Alexander, Caesar, Augustus – they took the world and reshaped it according to their beliefs.'

'I know. The first died young, the second was betrayed and murdered by men he considered friends and the last turned his republic into a tyranny. Hardly good role models. Besides, they were all aristocrats, Buona Parte. More proof that history is merely the history of their class.' He smiled. 'Or is it that you aspire to their status? You think you might be a man of destiny… well?'

Napoleon blushed. He found this open talk of his most cherished, private ambitions acutely embarrassing. 'It – it's not for me to say, sir. We are the servants of destiny.'

'No, we're not.' Father Dupuy shook his head sadly.'We are the servants of fools like Alexander de Fontaine. It is up to them to make the history. We are simply the raw material used in the process.' He looked at Napoleon closely, waiting for the response.

'I'm not raw material, sir. I'm better than that. I think my academic record proves it.'

'I know it does, Buona Parte. I've been following your progress closely.' He smiled.'I suppose you saw me simply as a teacher.That I am, but I have other interests and I'm keen to promote ability, in whatever social class I find it.You might be surprised to know that there are some aristocrats who feel as you do about this situation.'

Naploeon's eyebrows rose. 'Really? I've yet to meet them.'

'Oh, you shouldn't judge France by this institution. It is, after all, merely an institution. If you want to encounter the great minds of the age you must go to Paris.'

'You think I could achieve something, sir?' Napoleon felt his heart lighten. For the first time since he arrived at Brienne he felt as though he was being taken seriously. He felt as if the potential he had been aware of in himself was at last being recognised.

Father Dupuy nodded. 'I believe so. To be honest, I thought you were a precocious little swine when you arrived at Brienne, but now I know you well enough to realise that you have a first-rate mind. Despite your poor performance in most of my subjects.'

Napoleon laughed. It was true.While he had mastered French, albeit without eliminating his Corsican accent, he was only mediocre at Latin, and abysmal at German – a language that to his ear sounded like someone gargling and spitting gravel. 'I'm sorry, sir. I will try harder.'

'So you should. Fluency in a range of languages is a vital skill. Sometimes more is lost in translation than meaning.'

Napoleon nodded. He thought he understood the point. Perhaps not. The solution was obvious – at some point men would have to be compelled to speak the same language.

'Anyway, Buona Parte, your grasp of history is excellent and you're something of a prodigy at mathematics. But, I must confess, your most impressive attribute is your force of personality. Of course, it is also your greatest flaw. You'd do well to remember that.'

Napoleon frowned. He had not considered himself to be strong-willed. It had not occurred to him to see it in those terms. Rather, he had always been surprised by the feeble-mindedness he found in others. The failure of his peers to grasp a mathematical principle he had put down to laziness or a measure of wilful stupidity so typical of these aristocrats. Equally, he had understood that those people he could browbeat into bowing to his will, did so out of a weakness of character. The idea that he was innately better than others amused him for a moment, before it began to win a measure of conviction in his mind. Maybe he was superior to some people… to most people. It was an attractive proposition and one that implicitly justified the soundness of his views over those of others.

'What do you intend to do with your life?' asked Father Dupuy. 'After you leave Brienne.'

'I haven't decided, sir. My father thought I might join the army.'

'Then you will still need to win a place at the Royal Military School of Paris.'

Napoleon looked at him eagerly. 'When's the earliest I can apply to the military school, sir?'

Father Dupuy pursed his lips in thought. 'The school's inspector makes his assessments in autumn for the next year's intake. Fifteen is the minimum age for admission. That gives you less than two years from now. I doubt you'd be ready by then.'

'I will be, sir. I give you my word.'

'Good. Until then, you must tolerate these aristocrats. You must learn that what you lack in money, you make up for in other riches. You have a potential that no amount of money can buy, Buona Parte.' He leaned across the table and punched the boy lightly on the chest. 'Now, go outside, and enjoy yourself. I don't know about you, but I find there's something about snow that refreshes my soul and makes me feel twice as strong and half as old. So, go on!'

'Yes, sir.' Napoleon pushed back his chair and stood up. Stuffing his father's crumpled letter into his pocket he made for the door. Then he paused, looked back at Father Dupuy and smiled gratefully. 'Thank you, sir.'

'Napoleon, one thing.'

'Sir?'

'If you see Alexander de Fontaine out there, make sure you throw a snowball at him for me.'

Napoleon laughed. 'You can count on it!'

Chapter 24

The snow lay thick on the ground but already the tracks of hundreds of boys had crisscrossed the courtyard. Napoleon wound his scarf around his neck and stuffed the ends into the top of his greatcoat. He pulled on his mittens before striding across towards the boys who were playing in the field beyond, small dark figures on a white and black landscape. As he got closer he could see that a few had gathered in one corner of the field to throw snowballs at each other and their shrill shouts of excitement were deadened by the snow.

'Hey! Napoleon!'

He saw Louis de Bourrienne beckoning to him from the fringes of the snowball fight. Napoleon made his way over towards his friend, the snow crunching softly beneath his boots. The boys in the corner of the field had stopped the fight and now gathered in a circle. The strident voice of Alexander called on them to be quiet as Napoleon reached his friend and nodded a quick greeting.

'What's going on?'

'Alexander wants to organise things. Make a proper battle of this.'

'He wants a battle, does he?' Napoleon mused and edged his way into the crowd until he was standing at the front where none of the taller boys could block his view.There, in an open space in the middle of the group, stood the commanding figure of Alexander de Fontaine.

'We'll have two sides. One either end of the field. Let's give ourselves until the college clock strikes twelve to prepare defences and then the battle begins.'

'How will we know when it's over?' someone asked.

Alexander thought about it for a moment. 'We should have banners.The winner is the first to capture the other side's banner.' He glanced round and reached towards one of the nearest boys. 'Your scarf. Give it to me.'

'But, Alexander, it's cold. I need it.'

'I said give it to me.' He held out his hand. 'Now.'

The other boy quickly unravelled his yellow scarf and handed it to Alexander. The latter smiled. 'Fine. Now we need one more…' His eyes swept round, and stopped on Napoleon. 'Yours. Red is a good colour. I'll have yours.'

'Very well,' Napoleon said. 'Here. On the condition that we are not on the same side.'

Alexander laughed. 'If you think for a moment that I'd fight alongside a Corsican peasant then you're a bigger fool than I thought you were. Of course we'll be on opposite sides. In fact, I'm going to make you general of your side. I'll lead the others.'

Napoleon shrugged. 'Naturally.'

Alexander counted heads and then picked his friends and most of the bigger boys and left the rest to Napoleon. He stepped closer to his enemy and grinned. 'Until noon, Corsican. Then, battle commences and there'll be no mercy.'

'I didn't expect any,' Napoleon replied quietly. 'Nor should you.'

'Brave words. Let's see if you can live up to them.' Alexander shoved the yellow scarf into Napoleon's hands and turned to his followers. 'Come on! Over there!'

As they walked off Napoleon smiled and then faced his own side. There were nearly fifty of them gathered about him. He noted at once the uncertain expression in most of their faces. Some of the boys clearly resented being placed under his command and he realised that he must move quickly to establish his authority.

'Defences. We'll need good defences. Start rolling snow boulders at once. Bring them to the corner of the field. That's where we'll place our fortifications. To work!' Most of them moved off but a few stood and stared back at him in sullen disobedience. Napoleon's eyes flashed angrily as he thrust out his arm. 'Move!'

As they turned away and bent to their task, Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief, then looked for his friend.'Louis! Over here. Help me make the ammunition.'

The two worked quickly, packing the snow together in tight spheres, which they placed along the wall Napoleon had chosen for their base. As the first of his side struggled towards the corner of the field, shoving their snow boulders, Napoleon left Louis to continue making snowballs while he directed the construction of the defences.

The first line of defence was an arc laid across the corner of the field. In front of that Napoleon left a gap and then had his side construct two further lines of snow boulders, broken by two narrow gaps leading into the open space in front of the first wall. As soon as the foundations were laid, more boulders were placed on top and the joints filled in with loose snow, patted down to provide a firm, even surface. Snapping a long, nearly straight branch from one of the trees overhanging the wall, Napoleon knotted the end of the yellow scarf around one end and planted the banner behind the first wall so that it rose high above.

'They'll see that easily enough,' Louis pointed out.

'That's the general idea,' his friend replied quietly. 'Should be hard for them to resist.'

Napoleon glanced up at the college clock tower. 'Quarter of an hour left.We're nearly ready. Just a few more snow boulders to put in place and then I'll give the orders to our men.'

'Men?' Louis looked at him with an amused expression. 'Taking this a bit seriously, aren't you? It's just a game.'

'Game?' Napoleon pursed his lips. 'That's true. But isn't the point of a game that you should try your best to win?'

'I thought the point of a game was to have fun,' Louis rebuked him mildly.

Napoleon flashed him a smile. 'The fun is in the winning. Now get back to work on those snowballs. I want more reserves piled up inside the walls. Come on, Louis.There's not much time.'

As the other boys put the finishing touches to the defences, Napoleon retired behind the first wall and started to make his own special cache of snowballs. Glancing round to ensure that he was not being observed, he picked small loose chunks of masonry from the walls and packed snow tightly about them before arranging them in a line at the foot of the wall just in front of the banner. When he had finished Napoleon hurried round to the clear ground in the middle of his defences, took a deep breath and called his side to him.

He had a rough idea of the tactics he wanted to apply to the coming battle, and as he spoke, he became aware that the other boys, even the ones who had seemed willing to challenge his authority earlier, were listening to him intently and nodding their agreement to his schemes. Inside, Napoleon felt himself swelling with pride and at the same time there was a huge delight at the pleasure of being in command, of exercising his will over others. When he had finished he folded his arms.'You know your orders. Wait for the signals, carry them out precisely and the day is ours. We'll give Alexander de Fontaine a hiding he won't forget in a hurry!'

At that, someone cheered and the cry was taken up by the rest of the boys surrounding the small thin figure in their midst. For an instant Napoleon was tempted to let his joy show, but now that he was a leader he must control his emotions. He must present a mask of composure. So he merely nodded, let them have a moment of shrill cheering, before he raised his arms to quieten them, and then yelled, 'To your positions!'

As the clock struck twelve a brief silence fell across the field. Even those who were not taking part turned to watch proceedings. A handful of the teachers who had seen the boys constructing their fortifications ventured out to witness the event. From the far end of the field a shrill challenge carried across the open ground towards Napoleon. He smiled grimly, then cupped his hands and shouted out his first order.

'Skirmishers!'

A small party of boys, picked for their speed, advanced through the narrow gaps in the outer wall.The swiftest of them carried the banner Napoleon had thrust into his hands as the last peal of bells rang out. They spread out across the field and advanced towards Alexander's side, clutching a handful of snowballs to their chests. As Napoleon examined the other side's defences he shook his head at the simplicity of his enemy. Alexander had done little more than erect a round rampart with one main entrance. Over the wall Napoleon could make out the tiny black heads of Alexander's team. Beyond the wall he could see the thin red line of his scarf tied to the end of a stick, being waved to and fro. Hardly a formidable defence, and a pointless one, as it happened, since Napoleon had no intention, of letting the smaller and weaker boys of his side attempt an assault. Standing on tiptoe, hands braced on the top of the inner wall, he craned his neck to follow the progress of the skirmishers.

They advanced steadily across the field, the yellow banner some distance to the rear of the line.As they closed on Alexander's fortifications the first snowballs arced up from the enemy's defences and fell harmlessly several paces short of their targets. The skirmishers moved closer, hefting their own snowballs in preparation to lob them over the wall. Still, it seemed, the other side had not the range to hit Napoleon's line. Then Alexander sprang his trap.

A sudden flurry of snowballs rained down on the skirmishers who had successfully been lured into striking distance. But Napoleon had anticipated such an obvious trick and could not help smiling. With a dull roar, the other team came pouring out of the distant fortification and sprinted across the snow towards Napoleon's skirmishers. But the latter were already turning and running away, fleeing back towards their own base. As they ran, some stopped to throw their remaining snowballs quickly before turning and sprinting for cover. Others simply dropped their snowballs and fled.The boy with the banner played his part like a professional, running from his pursuers just fast enough to stay ahead, but not so fast that they didn't charge on in the blind hope of capturing the yellow banner and winning the battle at a stroke.

'Here they come!' Napoleon called out. 'Stand to!'

The boys on his team reached for snowballs and raised their throwing arms.The first of the skirmishers were already hurrying through the gaps in the wall, racing across to the ends of the first line of defences and forming up on either side of Napoleon and Louis. The banner carrier was the last to enter and immediately took up position behind Napoleon where he raised the banner high above his head and waved it slowly from side to side to taunt Alexander's team.

Beyond the outer wall a dense mass of boys had drawn up short of the wall and were throwing snowballs at the defenders. As Napoleon had instructed, the defenders started to lob snowballs back, but in a slower and less deliberate fashion that only excited a roar of triumph and contempt from Alexander's followers. Napoleon's sharp eyes quickly picked out their leader as Alexander forced his way to the front and raised the red banner he grasped in one hand. He pointed at the yellow scarf inside the walls of snow, screaming at his boys to charge home and seize it.

With a shrill cry, they ran forward, heading for the two gaps in the outer wall.They surged through and ran into the space behind the wall where they came up against the first wall Napoleon had constructed.

'Hit 'em!' Napoleon shouted, momentarily forgetting himself in the excitement now that the battle was reaching its climax. 'Fire! Fire at them!'

On either side, his companions let loose a hail of snowballs and cried out in delight at each impact. As more of the opposing team pressed into the open space and compacted the ranks of those in front they presented an unmissable target and snowballs crashed into them from all sides at point-blank range. A number of the braver boys did not shelter their faces and tried to hit the boys bobbing up from the walls around them. Napoleon took a breath and peered over the wall. He saw that almost all of Alexander's side was now between his walls and opened his mouth to shout the next order. At once white powdery crystal exploded off his cheek and the numbing impact momentarily shocked him into silence.

Then, drawing a sharp breath, he called out above the shrill din of the snowball fight, 'Boulders, now!'

The boys who had been waiting for the order thrust their shoulders against the large snow boulders that had been positioned either side of the gaps and now rolled them forward to close the gaps and trap the other side between the two walls. Now Alexander and his friends were caught, with no way out and what little snow lay on the slushy ground underfoot was unsuitable for using as ammunition to hurl back at their tormentors.

Beside Napoleon, Louis was laughing with delight as he threw snowball after snowball into the faces of the other side. Napoleon spared him a glance, and saw that his attention was riveted on the action beyond the wall. Bending down, he scooped up several of his special snowballs and, cradling them against his chest, he selected one and looked for Alexander. The other leader was looking about him in dismay, forearm raised above his head. Napoleon took aim and threw.With a muttered curse he saw the snowball strike the head of a boy behind Alexander and there was a sharp cry of pain as the concealed stone gashed his temple. Napoleon snatched up the next, took aim and threw.This time he scored a direct hit and the snowball shattered on the bridge of Alexander's nose. With a cry that Napoleon heard clearly, Alexander slumped down out of sight, his hands clasped to his face. The red scarf dropped into the crowd at his side. At once Napoleon unleashed the rest of his cache, striking and injuring two more boys before he ran out. The screams and cries of those who had been hurt caused the other side to lose heart and they turned and ran, kicking a path through the snow boulders so that they could escape.

Hurrying across the field from the direction of the college buildings came the teachers, alarmed by the shrieks of agony from inside Napoleon's fortifications.

It was clear the fight was over, and Napoleon clambered over the snow wall, carrying away a chunk of it as he tumbled on to the ground on the far side. He scrambled to his feet, then ran over to where Alexander was sitting on his knees, one hand clasped to his nose as bright red blood dripped on to the slush in front of him. His other hand groped for the slender shaft of sapling on which he had tied the red scarf.

'Oh, no you don't!' Napoleon jumped to his side and stamped his boot down on Alexander's fingers. 'That's mine!'

As Alexander snatched his fingers back, Napoleon took up the banner and clutched it tightly to his side. All around him he could hear the cheers of his companions and it was a moment before the full glory of victory washed over him and he was swept along with the joy of winning. He glanced down at Alexander and saw him staring up with undiluted hatred burning in his eyes. All the teasing and the torment that he had suffered at the hands of this young aristocrat dissolved as he looked down at his beaten foe with contempt.

'My victory, I think.'

'I'll get you back, Corsican. It was you who threw the rock at me.'

'Prove it.' Napoleon took the banner, pressed the butt against Alexander's stomach and thrust him back into the slush. Napoleon raised the butt up again and took aim at his enemy's face, but before he could strike his arm was seized.

'Stop!' Louis hissed in his ear.'What do you think you're doing?'

'Vae victis,' Napoleon sneered down at Alexander.'Let go of my arm. He's had this coming to him.'

'No! He's had enough, Napoleon. It's only a game, remember. And you've won. That's all that matters. Now it's over.'

'It's not over,' Napoleon snapped. 'You think this makes up for all that he's done to me?'

Louis frowned. 'Don't do it, Napoleon. Besides, it's too late. Look.'

Louis pointed towards the field and Napoleon saw that a handful of the more nimble teachers were already picking their way across the outer wall. As they clambered into the enclosed space and saw the score of dazed boys and the handful of bloodied victims of Napoleon's special missiles they looked horrified, and then angry.

'What's going on here?'The director's voice carried across the walls. Moments later he stood, gasping from his exertions, his face wreathed in the short-lived tendrils of his rapidly exhaled breath. 'Who is responsible for this bloodbath? Was it you, Buona Parte?'

'Me, sir?' Napoleon shook his head and gestured to Alexander still lying in the mud, winded. 'It was de Fontaine's idea, sir. Ask him.'

The director looked at Napoleon suspiciously for an instant before he transferred his gaze to Alexander. 'Is this true?'

Alexander propped himself up. He was aware of the other boys clustered around him, close enough to hear every word he spoke to the director. There was no choice. He had to admit to the truth. 'Yes, sir.'

'I see. Then you have only yourself to blame for this… carnage. You are gated for the rest of term, and denied special privileges.' The director straightened up and indicated the other injured boys.'The rest of you, get these boys to the sanatorium, as fast as you can.'