Текст книги "Young bloods"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Chapter 25

In the months that followed, Napoleon was no longer picked on by Alexander and his friends. He was still regarded as a social inferior by most of the fee-paying sons of aristocrats, but their snobbishness was tempered by a grudging respect for his victory on the field. Indeed, the victory was so comprehensive that Napoleon was asked to recount it in front of his class by Father Dupuy and it was used as an example in their consideration of ancient siege-craft. Naturally, Alexander suggested a few refinements of his own, to the scarcely concealed contempt of Napoleon who comprehensively demolished his rival's contribution to the debate.

Now that he was no longer being bullied Napoleon was free to concentrate on his education and his teachers were pleased by the improvement in his attitude as well as his performance. All the time Napoleon kept his focus on the coming assessment for a place at the Royal Military School of Paris. He studied the curriculum of the school and revised the appropriate subjects thoroughly. Conscious of his small size, he made efforts to exercise more.With his brilliant but prickly nature he seemed to burn nervous energy, which worked against gaining weight and he was constantly frustrated by his small stature.

As the 1784 autumn assessment drew closer, Napoleon spent long hours in the stuffy heat of the library, reading and memorising as much as he could. He was always mindful of Father Dupuy's advice that for those outside of the aristocracy, the only route to achievement was through the Military School of Paris. The sooner he received his passing-out certificate, and a commission in the service of the French Crown, the sooner he could build a meaningful career for himself.

On the day of the assessment the boys who had been selected for testing waited in the library to be called in turn. Napoleon had never doubted that he would be put forward for this moment and while some of the others fretted and talked nervously, he sat quite still with his arms folded, until at last his name was called.

The visiting Inspector of Military Schools was a veteran officer, Monsieur Keralio. Slender and stiff, he wore a powdered wig and gave Napoleon a long, searching look with sharp blue eyes before he indicated the chair opposite the director's desk. He had a folder open on the desk in front of him containing a sheaf of notes.

'Cadet Buona Parte, isn't it?'

'Yes, sir.'

The inspector tapped the notes in front of him. 'You have an interesting background. A Corsican Frenchman must be something of a rare breed in a place like this.'

Napoleon smiled. 'Yes, sir.'

The inspector looked at him keenly. 'So which are you? Corsican or French?'

'Both, sir.' Napoleon replied directly. 'Just as another man might be a Norman, or French Burgundian.'

'But those regions have long been part of France, unlike Corsica. They have no Paoli to agitate for their independence. Your father fought with Paoli, did he not?'

'Yes, sir.That was many years ago.Today he is in the service of the Comte de Marbeuf in Ajaccio, and a loyal Frenchman. As am I, sir.'

'Good. I am satisfied with that,' the inspector said quietly.'Now then, young man, why do you want to serve in His Majesty's forces?'

The inevitable question Napoleon had been expecting, and like every other aspirant he had worked hard at preparing his answer. 'It's a man's life, sir. A chance for adventure, perhaps some glory, and I love my country well enough to want to protect her with my life.'

'And which country would that be, Cadet Buona Parte? You seem to avoid being specific.'

'Why, France, sir.'

The inspector looked at him a moment before he chuckled. 'Fair enough. A careful answer, Cadet Buona Parte.You have the guile to go far in this world.'

'Guile?' Napoleon coloured.

'Guile, perhaps. But, it seems, not patience nor complete self-control. '

Napoleon bowed his head, ashamed that he had fallen into the trap so easily.

The inspector leaned back and shuffled the papers into a neat stack. 'You may go.'

'Go, sir? Is that all?'

'Yes.'

Napoleon swallowed nervously. Most of the other cadets had had far longer interviews than this. How dare the inspector dismiss him after such a short and superficial interrogation?

'Did I pass the assessment, sir?'

'That is for me to know and for you to find out in due course, Cadet Buona Parte. Please send for the next candidate, Cadet Poilieaux.'

Napoleon returned to the library and, having passed on the summons, he took his seat again and waited for the assessment procedure to be concluded.The last interviewee came back to the library just as the beams of the late afternoon sun angled through the window.

Footsteps approached down the corridor and the door opened as Father Dupuy entered the library.

'Gentlemen, the director will see the following cadets. Boureillon, Pardedieu, Buona Parte, Salicere and Bresson.The rest of you are dismissed.'

While the other cadets filed out of the room Napoleon felt a surge of joy course through his veins. He had been accepted. He must have been. Unless it was those who were quitting the room who had passed and now the director was about to break the bad news to the rejects. Once the five named boys remained, Father Dupuy held the door open and waved the boys out into the corridor.

As he passed by Napoleon whispered, 'Did I pass?'

'All in good time,' Father Dupuy replied flatly. 'The director will inform you of the result.'

They made their way to the director's office in a silence that belied their nervousness. As they approached the door, it swung open and the inspector stepped out into the hall.

'Thank you, once again, sir,' he bowed. 'It is always a pleasure to visit Brienne.'

'The pleasure is ours, Monsieur Keralio,' the director replied from within.

The inspector turned at the sound of footsteps and nodded to them as the cadets took their places on a bench outside the room and Father Dupuy disappeared into the director's study. 'Gentlemen, I look forward to meeting you again some day.'

'Thank you, sir,' Napoleon replied.

The inspector smiled, then turned away and marched down the corridor towards the main entrance. Father Dupuy emerged through the door and looked down at Napoleon. 'You first.'

Napoleon rose quickly, took a deep breath and marched inside. The director looked up as the cadet stood to attention in front of his desk.

'It seems you have made something of an impression upon my friend the inspector.' He lifted a sheet of paper from the desk and began to read. '"Cadet Buona Parte's constitution and health are excellent; his character is obedient, amenable, honest, grateful; his conduct is perfectly regular. He is good academically but his fencing and dancing are very poor."'The director smiled. 'Not all good news then.'

Napoleon shrugged. He'd just have to avoid sword-fighting and social foreplay if he was to have a successful career.

'Of course, the inspector was basing most of his assessment on the reports of your teachers and could not know your, ah, quality as well as I do. So, he has passed you. You have been awarded a place at the Military School of Paris commencing next autumn. That is, assuming you wish to accept the place?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Very well, Cadet Buona Parte. That will be all. You are dismissed.'

Outside the office, as the next cadet entered for his debriefing, Napoleon shook hands with Father Dupuy, a huge smile splitting his thin face.

'I take it you were successful, then?' Father Dupuy teased him. 'I'm proud of you, Buona Parte.You've come a long way. Further than you think.'

Chapter 26

There was further congratulation from Ajaccio and Autun as the news of Napoleon's success reached the rest of the family. Joseph replied first, overwhelmed with joy and pride in his brother's achievement. So much so that he now had his heart set on a military life too. From home, his father wrote to say that he expected great things of his son. Carlos added that he would be paying a visit to a specialist doctor in Montpellier concerning a persistent pain in his stomach. He would visit his sons at the same time.

When he read his father's letter, Napoleon felt a welter of feelings swell up in his breast. It was over five years since he had last seen his father – longer since he had seen the rest of the family in Ajaccio – and all the ties to home and blood that had been suppressed for so long at last overwhelmed him. That night he cried long and hard into his pillow, his bony chest racked with muffled sobs.

The knowledge that his father was visiting Brienne in spring filled Napoleon's mind in the months that followed.Time seemed to pass more slowly than ever.

At long last, spring came. One afternoon, early in May, Napoleon was called from his maths lesson and summoned to the director's study.There, seated opposite the director, was his father.

Carlos rose slowly from his chair and Napoleon was shocked to see how thin and old he looked, but his eyes twinkled in lively disavowal of his frail state and he smiled as he opened his arms. 'My son… Come here.'

Napoleon crossed the room. Then, conscious of the director's gaze upon him, he extended his arm and shook his father's hand, with a polite bow. 'Father. It's good to see you again.'

'Yes.' Carlos frowned, as he contemplated the changes that the years had wrought upon his son. The boy had gone, and in his place was a pale teenager. He already knew from the letters he and Letizia had received that Napoleon was highly intelligent and had developed a breadth of mind that already exceeded his own. Carlos turned to the director.

'Might we be given a moment alone, sir?'

'Of course.' The director gestured towards the window. 'You might wish to have a stroll in the orchard. It's quite beautiful at this time of year.'

Carlos shook his head. 'I'm afraid that I no longer have the strength for such excursions. I don't want to impose on you, but could we remain here?'

The director stared at him for an instant before he nodded. 'Of course, Monsieur Buona Parte. Please be my guest. Although I have some work I need to complete by suppertime. I'm sure you understand.'

Carlos bowed gratefully. 'You're too kind, sir. I'm sure we won't keep you from your work for long.'

'Then I won't disturb you a moment longer,' the director replied.

The door closed and Carlos turned towards his son with a smile, and held out his arms. 'Show an old man, who has travelled a long way, some affection.'

Napoleon laughed and rushed forward into his father's embrace, pressing his cheek into his father's chest. Carlos laughed out loud, and then stopped suddenly, his face twisted with pain.

'What's the matter?' Napoleon asked in alarm. 'Father?'

Carlos held up a hand. 'It's all right. It will pass.'

He sat down in the chair and closed his eyes, breathing calmly as he kept hold of one of his son's hands. Napoleon glanced at the hand and noted the waxy pallor of the skin and the way it hung on the bones like old cheesecloth. Through the skin and wasted muscle he felt a tremor and for the first time sensed the terror of death. His father, whom Napoleon had taken for granted all his life, was perilously mortal. It had never really crossed his mind that his father would die. Death had simply been a fact, at several removes from experience. Until now. The fragile creature that looked up to him still held the essence of Carlos Buona Parte, but now his body was a brittle cage, no longer the solid monument to good and hearty living that it had once been. Napoleon felt sick and afraid.

'You're dying…'

'No. Not yet,' Carlos smiled. 'I'm ill, Napoleon.Very ill. That's why I've come to France for treatment.' He patted his son's hand. 'And to see you, of course. I'm hoping I can be treated and made well again. After all, I'm not yet forty – still young enough to box your ears when I get better!'

Napoleon smiled. 'I'd even look forward to that.'

'Of course, I couldn't do as good a job as your mother.'

'How is she?'

'She's well. The rest of the family is well. But she misses you most of all.'

Napoleon swallowed. 'I'll come back and see her, as soon as I can.'

'Good boy. Now then, I need to talk to you. Sit down.'

Napoleon pulled up a chair and sat close to Carlos, trying not to show the grief he felt for his father's condition. 'What do we need to talk about, Father?'

'It's Joseph.'

'What about him?'

'He says he wants to be a soldier.' Carlos looked into his son's eyes. 'Tell me, do you think he should become a soldier?'

'No,' Napoleon replied at once. 'He hasn't the temperament for it. Father, I love him – he's my big brother – but he's just too gentle, too thoughtful for such a career. I thought he wanted to join the Church.'

'He did. Now I think all the letters you wrote to him have changed his mind.' Carlos smiled. 'He wants to be like you.'

'Like me?' Napoleon was astonished. He had put up with so much hostility from most of the other cadets at Brienne over the years that the thought that anyone should want to be like him was a surprise. He was flattered by the idea that Joseph wanted to emulate him. But his brother would be a disaster as an army officer, Napoleon realised in a cold flash of reason. Joseph must be dissuaded.

'Napoleon, you may not be aware of this, but he has looked up to you from the time you could walk. He adores you, and he has the rare quality of never having resented you for being better than him. We must be careful how we speak to Joseph. I will visit him again in Autun before I go to Montpellier. I ask you to write to him. Persuade him to stay there and study for the Church. Failing that, he can always study law. He could make a success of that, I'm sure of it.'

'Yes, Father.'

Carlos placed a wavering hand on his son's shoulder. 'You're a good boy. But it pleases me that I can speak to you as an adult.'

'Thank you, Father.'

Carlos sagged back into his chair and sighed. 'Now, I'm tired. I need to rest before tomorrow's journey. Would you help an old man to his carriage? I have one waiting in the courtyard.'

'You're leaving?' Napoleon felt a stab of betrayal. 'So soon? I thought you might spend a few days here.'

Carlos looked down into his lap. 'I'm sorry. I can't stay. I must get treatment as soon as possible…'His eyes twinkled at his son. 'But when I have, when I've recovered, I'll come back to Brienne and take you up to Paris myself. Nothing would make me more proud than to watch you, in your fine new uniform, march in through the gates of the Royal Military School.'

'I'll look forward to it.'

'Now, help me up.'

Napoleon supported his father's arm as they walked down the corridor towards the courtyard and the boy felt how light the man had become – little more than a child, it seemed. At the carriage he helped his father up the steps. He slumped on to the seat, breathing heavily and perspiring.

'There! Thank you, son. I'll not keep you from your lessons a moment longer. Off you go.'

'In a moment.' Napoleon closed the door and fastened the catch. 'Let me wave.'

Carlos smiled. 'All right then. Driver! Move on.'

With a crack of the reins and a shout, the driver urged the horses into a walk. The carriage trundled down the side of the stables as Napoleon stood and watched.Then it turned and he saw his father at the window, waving to him. Napoleon quickly raised his arm and waved back, before the coach passed round the end of the stable building and was gone.

Chapter 27

It was late in October when Napoleon and the other four cadets from Brienne arrived at the Royal Military School of Paris. The school was situated in an elegant building off the Champ de Mars. As at Brienne, the student body was a mixture of fee-paying aristocrats and the holders of royal scholarships, living together under the same regime. Napoleon and his companions from Brienne were given a brief interview with the captain-commandant, an elegant man who had recently retired from a long career in the army. He congratulated them on winning places at the school and encouraged them to study hard, earn their commissions in the army and serve their King and country honourably. While they were at the school they would be treated as equals, whatever their origins, the captain-commandant stressed. The school was there to prepare them for life in the army. It was not some fancy gentleman's academy. They would be tested on their ability, and not their pedigree. Napoleon nodded with satisfaction at this. At last he would be able to demonstrate his innate talents and not be held back, or made to feel ashamed of his origins.

Once the interview was over the newcomers were shown to their rooms. After the Spartan furnishings of Brienne, Napoleon was surprised and delighted by the bright, neat room with a large window looking out on to the school's walled gardens. Filled with a heady mix of pride and delight, he threw himself on to the bed and rolled on to his back. He closed his eyes with a smile on his lips. It was almost too good to be true. A place in the most prestigious school in the land, with the prospect of a fine career before him. If only his family could see him now.They would be so proud of him. He would write to them as soon as possible, as soon as he had time to explore the school and, even better still, the great capital city that spread out on all sides around him. Soon, he would be an officer, giving orders and being responsible for the lives of the men under his command. A man in his own right, with his destiny in his own hands.

'Hello.'

Napoleon's eyes snapped open and he sat up in a hurry, swinging his boots off the bed. Leaning against the doorway was a cadet in the uniform of the school. He was a little taller than Napoleon, and broader. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and as he felt himself being quickly assessed by the new arrival he laughed, revealing a good set of teeth.

'Don't worry, I haven't been sent to spy on you. And I don't bite.'

Napoleon blushed, and then, angry that he had been made to feel awkward, his expression instantly switched to a frown. The boy eased himself off the doorframe and stepped into the room, holding out his hand.

'Alexander Des Mazis, at your service.'

Napoleon looked at him warily, before he reached out and shook hands briefly. 'Napoleon Buona Parte.'

'An unusual name. And accent. Where are you from?'

'Corsica.'

'Ah… Corsica. I see.'

'What does that mean?'

The boy shrugged. 'Nothing.'

Des Mazis noted the suspicious expression in the other's face and continued, 'No, really. It's nothing. I've never met a Corsican before. That's all.'

'Well, don't worry. We don't bite. Unless we have to.'

Des Mazis laughed. 'Well said! Come on, Corsican, I'll show you round the school, if you like.'

Napoleon did not reply immediately, still unsure if he liked, let alone trusted, this boy. But what harm could come of it? Besides, it would be good to know his way round the buildings and grounds as soon as possible. He nodded. 'Thank you.'

The school turned out to be even more impressive than had been Napoleon's first impression on walking through the main gate. There was a fine chapel, a library with more books than he had ever seen before, stables, a riding school, parade ground and gardens for recreation. In addition to the fine accommodation the school had the best teachers, and a full complement of cooks, nurses, grooms and other servants. The food, Des Mazis told him, was as good as could be found in any school in France.

'They'll soon feed you up,' Des Mazis smiled. 'Put some meat on your bones.'

'I eat well enough already,' Napoleon replied stiffly. 'I'm here to learn to be a soldier, not a glutton.'

'Maybe. But you can mix ambition with pleasure, you know.'

Des Mazis clapped him on the shoulder and steered the new boy towards a group of students walking down the path towards them.

'Here, let me introduce you to some people.'

The only specifically military aspects of the curriculum provided by the school were fencing and fortifications. Riding, shooting and drilling were taught in the barracks of regiments based in and around Paris.As before, Napoleon's success was mixed. Despite his teachers' best efforts, they failed to eradicate his Corsican accent. After a very poor start at Latin and English, Napoleon was able to give up both subjects and take up more classes in maths and history, in which he impressed his teachers. However, the terrible quality of his handwriting was a source of despair for those who were called upon to mark his work.

Outside of classes Napoleon found that he continued to be the butt of practical jokes. Despite the captain-commandant's fine pieties about the school's ethos, Napoleon soon discovered that most of his fellow students treated him in a condescending, and sometimes contemptuous, manner.

Only Alexander Des Mazis considered himself a friend of Napoleon, and even then there were times when the thin-skinned Corsican blew up over a careless remark about his background, and there would be days of bitter sulking before he recovered from his outburst. On one such occasion the two boys were working in the library, searching for material on the siege of Malta. They had been told to prepare a detailed outline of the siege for presentation to the rest of the class. Alexander had been reading about the tough geography of the island and had been curious about how Malta compared to Corsica.

'I'm not sure that it does,' Napoleon replied. 'From what I've read about Malta, it's largely barren. My country is mountainous, and green. There's snow in the hills in winter and lush pastures in spring…' He gazed out of the window, into the crowded and filthy street below, where carts trundled past and many of the capital's poorest inhabitants wore tattered clothes, their grimy faces pinched with hunger. He felt homesick and, as often before, he had a sudden powerful yearning to go back. To go home and never return to France. He turned from the window and saw Alexander looking at him with an amused expression.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'Then why are you looking at me like that?'

'It's just that you said "my country". I was under the impression that it was a part of France these days.'

'These days,' Napoleon nodded. 'But not for ever. One day we will be free again.'

'Oh! Come on, Napoleon!' Alexander nudged him.'You speak French, you're in a French school in the French capital.Ten years from now, you'll be a captain, or if you're really good, a major in the French Army, and you'll be bound by an oath of loyalty to the French King. How much more French can you get than that?'

Napoleon stared back at him for a moment, eyes wide and unblinking. Then he clenched his fist and struck his chest lightly. 'In here I am Corsican. I always will be.Anyway, I doubt if all your aristocratic friends will ever let me forget it.'

'My aristocratic friends?' Alexander smiled. 'I see. It's your country, because of my friends. Is that it? Listen, Napoleon, you can't do this to yourself.'

'Do what?'

'Cultivate this pig-headed pride in your origins. It's your way of getting back at those who torment you.When you see French aristocrats, you see privilege and riches. Being a Corsican is all you have so you've turned it into some kind of priceless virtue.'

'It is priceless, because it's my identity. Being Corsican is what makes me what I am.'

'Really? It seems to me that not being a French aristocrat is what makes you what you are.' Alexander paused to let his words sink in before he continued. 'The truth is, you can't bear it. You can't bear not having money or a title.'

'Rubbish!' Napoleon sat back in his chair and folded his arms.

'I wonder,' Alexander continued shrewdly. 'I wonder what will happen once you have some money behind you. Money, perhaps a title, and some land. Then you'll finally be as French as the rest of us.'

'No I won't. I am Corsican and that means far more to me than any fortune or title. It means I am better than these fops whose parents pay for them to come here. Corsica will be free again one day. Because of men like me. And what is more, we'll take freedom by ourselves, and have a free country with liberty for all men. It won't be like this,' he swept his arm round to dismiss the world outside, 'a tyranny propped up by parasitic aristocrats lording it over a nation of starving beggars…'

Alexander stared at him. 'My God, you really mean that. Well, as a representative of the parasitic class, I'd just like to know why you have taken advantage of our hospitality these last six years. If Corsica is so fine a country, then why are you here?' He smiled coolly. 'It appears that it takes a parasite to know a parasite.'

Napoleon was still for a moment, caught between the desire to vent his fury on Alexander, and the realisation that much of what he had said was the truth.And the knowledge of the truth was too painful to contemplate.Too painful to apologise for. He let out an explosive exhalation of breath and stormed from the room, down the corridor, out across the courtyard, past the guard on the main gate and into the street.

For some hours he stalked along wide thoroughfares and down small side streets, face fixed in an angry frown as thoughts raced through his mind in a jumble of arguments and justifications for the position he had taken against Alexander. But at every turn he came up against the simple fact that he was taking advantage of a system he claimed to despise. Despite his protestations of loyalty to Corsica, every day he trained at the Military School brought him one day closer to adopting the uniform of the nation that had seized control of Corsica by bayonet and bullet. He was a hypocrite at best, and at worst a traitor.That word stung him into a fresh bout of denial and anger as he turned a corner and blundered into a man pasting a sign to a grimy plaster wall. The small jar of paste spilled down Napoleon's front. The man took one glance at Napoleon's uniform and then he dropped his brush and turned to run away as fast as his legs could carry him.

'Hey!' Napoleon shouted after him.'What about my coat?You come back here!'

The man glanced over his shoulder, then ducked to one side and disappeared into a narrow dark alley.

'Bastard!' Napoleon yelled after him, then became aware that some of the people in the street had turned towards the commotion and were smiling at his misfortune. He scowled at them, then turned to the wall to see what the man had been pasting up. One corner hung limply and Napoleon had to roll it back with a hand before he could read.

Crudely printed, but bold, black letters proclaimed that the people of Paris had suffered enough. The rewards for all their back-breaking toil were starvation wages, slum accommodation and food unfit for consumption.The people could stand for it no longer. They should make their voice heard at a demonstration before the gates of the Tuileries on the following Sunday. Only their strength in numbers would make their masters aware of the dangerous mood of frustration and rebellion swelling up in the hearts of all right-thinking men.

Napoleon shook his head. He had seen posters like this before on the walls of Paris. A handful of agitators were behind them – small, powerless men, fighting for the hopeless cause of better conditions for the masses. The protest, like all before it, would be poorly attended, and easily swept away by a handful of troops, leaving the streets littered with broken bodies and smears of blood, and all would continue as before.These rebels were too few and too diffuse to challenge the State, and as long as the State could back up its position with sufficient deployments of force, nothing would change. It was pointless to resist, Napoleon concluded briefly. The people of Paris were already beaten. They had no one to lead them. All they had were themselves: a stolid mass of down-trodden slum-dwellers.

When he returned to the Military School he found Alexander waiting for him in his room. Napoleon stood in the doorway and cocked his head to one side.

'Come to apologise?'

'No. Not that.' Alexander rose from the chair beneath the window and walked slowly towards his friend. 'I was sent to find you.'

'Who sent you?'

'The captain-commandant.'

Napoleon felt a weary feeling of inevitability settle on him like a great weight. 'Who is complaining about me now? That bastard of a dancing tutor? One of the students?… You?'

'No. It's not that.' Alexander's gaze wavered for an instant.'The captain-commandant has received a letter. From your mother. Since I'm your only real friend here, he thought it would be best if I found you and brought you to his office so he can explain in more detail.'

'Letter?' Napoleon felt an icy sensation of dread creep up his spine. 'What's happened?'

Alexander bit his lip for an instant before replying.'Your father has died.'

'Died?' Napoleon frowned. 'He's dead? How can he be dead? Was there an accident?'

'It was an illness.'

'That's not possible. He was going to see a specialist. He wrote to me afterwards to say the problem was being treated. He wrote to me… What happened? Tell me.'

'Napoleon, that's all I know.' Alexander gently took his arm. 'The captain-commandant will tell you more. Let's go.'

Napoleon stood still for a moment, then gave way and let his friend lead him away to the captain-commandant's office.

He was treated sympathetically enough and, as was the custom in the Military School, he was offered the services of a priest to commiserate the tragic loss. Napoleon shook his head. He was still too uncertain of his feelings to want to unburden them in front of a stranger. His father was dead. Carlos Buona Parte was dead. It did not seem possible. And yet, the last time he had seen his father there had been no doubt about his failing health. But now that death was here, Napoleon could not encompass the reality that his father had gone. Images of his father poured through his mind. All at once Napoleon felt guilty for not having expressed his gratitude to his father for all that he had given to Napoleon in his short life.