Текст книги "Young bloods"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Thirty-eight years.That was the extent of his existence, and he would never see the fruition of all his plans for his family. He would not be there to welcome Napoleon home to Ajaccio, and look proudly upon his son's army uniform. To die with so much still to be fulfilled – how terrible a fate that must be, Napoleon reflected. Now all those plans and dreams had died with his father. They were already long dead and buried, weeks before.There was no point in grieving now, he told himself. He must not let this news unman him. He would use it as proof of his strength of character. Napoleon fought back his grief as he looked up at the captain-commandant.

'Sir, I thank you for the offer of a priest. But I do not need any consolation.'

The captain-commandant smiled kindly. 'There's no shame in grief, Buona Parte. Death is with us always and we need someone there to help and console us.'

'I don't,' Napoleon said firmly. 'May I return to my room now, sir?'

The captain-commandant stared at him with pity, then nodded.'As you wish. But the offer still stands. If you change your mind…'

'Thank you, sir, but I won't. Is there anything else?'

'No… No, you may go.'

Chapter 28

There was no pause for mourning. Napoleon threw himself into his studies with renewed effort and did not mention his father's death again. Those around him, even the students who had tormented him in the past, kept a respectful distance and left him alone. Even Alexander sensed that Napoleon had withdrawn into himself and their friendship cooled until the examination for officer aspirants was held that August of 1785. Even though he had been at the school for less than a year Napoleon insisted on being allowed to sit the examination. The captain-commandant reminded him that most boys took the exam after two, or even three, years of study at the Military School. None the less, Napoleon and Alexander took the exam along with nearly sixty other boys. When the results were read out to the students Napoleon had come in forty-second place and his friend fifty-sixth. Both were awarded the sword of graduates of the Military School and eagerly awaited news of their first postings.

'The Regiment de la Fere,' Napoleon read from the notice board outside the captain-commandant's office. His eyes glanced further down the list and he smiled. 'You too, Alexander. Do you know anything about the unit?'

'Of course!' Alexander's eyes twinkled. 'My brother, Gabriel, is a captain in the regiment.'

'Besides the family connection,' Napoleon said patiently.'What else do you know about the de la fere?'

'It's part of the Royal Corps of Artillery, stationed at Valence.' Alexander punched his arm. 'We're going to be gunners.'

'So it seems.' Napoleon nodded with satisfaction. Although the cavalry was a more glamorous arm than the artillery, the latter had a far greater reputation for professionalism, Napoleon reminded himself. And at least it wasn't a posting to the infantry, the preserve of the social and intellectual detritus of those men who sought an officer's career in the army. An ambitious man could make a name for himself in the artillery, Napoleon reflected, and he would have less need of social rank and an independent income in seeking advancement up the chain of command. He read the final details on the notice board and turned to his friend with a smile.

'We had better prepare. The regiment's expecting us to arrive on the tenth of September.That's less than two weeks from now.'

The Regiment de la Fere, as an artillery unit, had its own purpose-built barracks where the rankers lived and the guns, ammunition and other supplies and equipment were kept. Napoleon and Alexander presented their papers to the sentry at the main gate and were directed to the headquarters building overlooking the artillery park. Leaving their chests in the guardhouse, the new arrivals marched over to the headquarters entrance. Napoleon looked over the guns that they passed with a growing sense of excitement. Very soon he would be serving some of the four– and eight-pounder cannon that stretched out across the artillery park in neatly ordered lines.

The two new officers made their way up the steps, into the headquarters and asked for directions to the adjutant's office.

Napoleon knocked on the door and immediately a gruff voice shouted out to them, 'Don't just stand there! Open the damned door and come in.'

Inside, the room was small, barely big enough for the two cupboards, desk and chair that it contained. Behind the desk a man glanced up with a stern expression.

'Gabriel!' Alexander shouted. 'You rogue! What kind of a way is that to welcome your younger brother?'

'Lieutenant Des Mazis! That is no way to address a superior officer. Stand at attention, damn it! And your little friend too.'

They immediately responded and stood stiffly, eyes fixed straight ahead, until Captain Des Mazis could no longer keep a straight face and began to laugh. 'Enough! At ease, gentlemen.'

As they relaxed Napoleon and Alexander exchanged uncertain looks, not yet sure how to address Alexander's older brother. But Gabriel was already squeezing his large frame round the end of the desk and then he embraced his brother and kissed him on both cheeks.

'When did you get here? You're not expected for another two days.'

'We were keen to take up our duties as soon as possible. So here we are,' Alexander beamed. 'Now introduce us to our men and our guns and we'll take on anyone the King tells us to.'

'Not so fast, Alex.' His brother punched him lightly on the chest. 'This is the artillery; we're proper soldiers, not like that riffraff in the cavalry.You have to earn command here.'

'Earn command?' Napoleon raised an eyebrow. 'What do you mean, sir?'

The captain turned to him with a warm smile of greeting. 'You must be Buona Parte, the touchy Corsican.'

'Yes, sir.' Napoleon tried to hide a frown.

'Don't worry. That's not from official channels. It's what my brother wrote in his letters.'

'I see.' Napoleon glared at his friend and Alexander shifted uncomfortably as his brother continued addressing them.

'Everyone gets a fresh start here. Well, nearly everyone.Young Alex here is going to be under close scrutiny since I recall only too well what a mischievous wretch he was as a child. Imagine what he might do if we entrust a cannon to him, eh?'

'Sir,' Napoleon said evenly, 'you were saying something about earning command.'

'All new officers must serve a probationary period. I expect you already know that, but the Regiment de la Fere goes a bit further. For the first three months you will serve as ordinary gunners, until you learn the ropes. Then, if you satisfy our commanding officer, he might let you take up your duties as lieutenants.'

'Oh, come on,' Alexander laughed. 'You're not serious?'

'But I am.' The captain's expression hardened a little. 'It's a serious business, the artillery. Also a very complicated one, and we're not going to let a couple of new boys loose on our very expensive equipment until they know how to treat it, and the men who operate it, with respect.'

'I see,' Alexander replied. 'Does that mean we have to share rooms with the rankers as well?'

'What? Of course not.' The captain looked scandalised. 'That would be taking things too far. Don't want to give them any egalitarian ideas, do we?' He looked from one to the other.

'No, sir,' Napoleon agreed quietly. 'They shouldn't get ideas above their station.'

Alexander laughed. 'Ignore him. It seems that Corsicans have an insatiable appetite for equality. You'll get used to it after a while.'

The captain stared at Napoleon briefly. 'I'm not sure that I care to. Never mind. I've been ordered to settle you two in. Where are your bags?'

'We left them in the guardhouse.'

'Let's go and get them, then I'll take you to find lodgings in town.'

As with all other regiments, the officers of the Royal Artillery were expected to look to their own resources for accommodation and sustenance. Napoleon rented a small room for ten francs a month in the house of Monsieur Bou, a kindly old man who lived with his daughter and who was fond of the young officers he accommodated. Napoleon took meals at the Three Pigeons inn for another thirty-five francs a month. Together with the repayments on the money he had borrowed to buy his uniform and books there was little left from the ninety francs pay he received each month.

His duties as an ordinary gunner began the morning after his arrival. Each day, he rose before dawn, dressed in the plain blue coat tunic and breeches of the artillery and hurried over to the barracks to join the other men being roused by their corporals, who let fly with the foulest language Napoleon had heard since he had played with the soldiers of the garrison at Ajaccio as a child.

The sergeant responsible for his training was a short, overweight man with a huge moustache. When the company had assembled on the parade ground he strode down the line and stood in front of Napoleon, hands on hips, and sneered.

'What have we got here? Not another new gentleman?'

'Yes, Sergeant.'

'Name?'

'Lieutenant Buona Parte, Sergeant.'

'Fuck that. You're Private Buona Parte until the colonel says otherwise. Got that? Meanwhile, you call me sir, and I call you sir. The difference is, you mean it.'

'Yes, Serg-sir.'

The sergeant cupped a hand to his ear. 'Speak up, sir! Can't hear a word.'

'I said, yes, sir!' Napoleon shouted, reflecting that the stories he had heard about deaf artillerymen were true after all.

'That's better. Now then, sir. I've got a man off sick on "Magdalene" – you're taking his place. That means you are the number two on that gun, the spongeman. Understand? Good. You've come at a good time. Today's gun drill.'

He turned and walked off, to inspect the other men in the company, and left Napoleon none the wiser about his duties.

The company marched over to the artillery park, attached ropes to four of the eight-pounders and began to haul them across to the drill field. Napoleon, at only sixteen years of age, and slightly built, was soon sweating freely from the exertion of hauling on the rope that had been fastened to the right arm of the gun carriage. But the day's trials were only just beginning. As soon as 'Magdalene' was in position, the sergeant thrust a long pole into his hands. At one end was the sponge, a tightly packed wad of sheep's wool. At the other end was a stout plug of wood.

'That's yours. Look after it, sir. You stand there.' He indicated the ground to the right-hand side of the barrel and roughly shoved Napoleon into position. 'You're number two. When I call your number you dip your sponge in that bucket there and thrust it down the barrel, as far as it will go. Twist it both ways and pull the sponge out. Then shout "Clear". Number three, he's the loader, will place a cartridge in the end of the barrel. When he's done, he shouts "Loaded". Then it's over to you again. Stick the wooden end of your rod into the barrel and ram the charge down as far it goes.Then you pull it out, get back to your position and shout "Ready to fire".' He looked closely at Napoleon. 'Got all that, sir?'

'I think so, sir.'

'All right, then. Let's see.'

The sergeant strode back and took up a position well behind the trail of the cannon. 'Standard battle drill. The gun is about to fire… BANG! Recoil… Number two!'

Napoleon stepped up to the barrel and thrust the ramrod in, sponge first.

'Stop!' The sergeant hurried over. 'You haven't dipped it, sir.' He pointed to an empty bucket hanging from the chassis. 'In there.'

'But there's no water in there, sir,' Napoleon pointed out.

'And there's no fucking charge in the gun, neither, sir. Just pretend, for the drill, like.'

'I see.' Napoleon withdrew the rammer and dipped the sponge into the bucket. He looked up at the sergeant and saw that the man was frowning at him. 'Splash, splash?' he ventured.

The sergeant smiled. 'Now you're getting the hang of it, sir. Continue.'

Napoleon sponged out the gun and stood to one side. 'Clear!'

The loader pretended to place a cartridge in the muzzle. 'Loaded!'

Napoleon reversed the rammer and thrust the imaginary charge down and returned to his place. 'Ready to fire!'

'BANG!' roared the sergeant. 'Nice try, sir. But let's give the sponge a nice twist this time.After all, we don't want to blow your arms off the moment we start live firing, do we?'

In addition to firing drills Napoleon was taught to harness and unharness the gun, how to clean and maintain the equipment, how to keep his uniform tidy and make sure that his boots gleamed. Then there was watch-keeping, guard duties, route marches and camp skills. The last proved to be an interesting experience after Napoleon's previous year of fine dining at the Military School. At the end of the day the sergeant major called for the cooking pots to be taken out of the supply wagon. The ingredients for the stew were purchased from local farmers out of the 'frog', a kitty to which all members of the gun crew, including probationary officers, had to contribute. Once the stew was ready, the gunners took their turns at the pot in order of seniority. Since Napoleon was the most recent recruit to the regiment he came last and had the dregs. At first he had considered protesting and pulling rank, but then he realised that he would be leading these men in a matter of months and that he could not afford to earn their ill will. The men soon came to respect him and, as time passed, someone coined an affectionate nickname for the young officer when he moved on to the second stage of his probation and was made an NCO – the 'little corporal'.

At first Napoleon had endured this part of the training, but as he got to know the men and worked alongside them, so he learned his trade in detail. By the end of the year he could have exchanged places with any man in the company and carried out his duties to the same standards of efficiency and effectiveness. Alexander, by contrast, was suffering the probationary period without concealing the distaste he felt for carrying out common duties and having to associate with the rankers. As soon as his duties were concluded for the day he rushed back into town to change clothes and go out drinking with the other officers. Napoleon tended to linger in the barracks, talking with the soldiers and making sure that he fully understood all that he had learned that day. Besides, he did not have enough money to waste on drink and women.

At last, as the new year of 1786 began, the colonel summoned Napoleon to headquarters. A light snow had fallen, dusting the barracks with a fine powdery layer and Napoleon pulled his coat firmly around his thin shoulders as he strode up the steps and exchanged a salute with the sentry, a man he recognised from the company he had served in.

'Cold morning, Gaston.'

'Yes, sir. If I'm not relieved soon they're going to freeze off.'

'Be a shame. Wipe the smile off that miller's girl.'

They both laughed before Napoleon stepped inside and made his way to the commanding officer's office. The door was open and Napoleon rapped on the doorframe. Inside, the colonel was sitting close to his fireplace, warming his hands over the glowing embers. He glanced round.

'Ah, Buona Parte, come in. Pull up a chair.'

When the young man had taken his place and was also enjoying the fire's warmth the colonel smiled at him. 'You've probably guessed by now. The probationary period is over – you have passed with flying colours. From now on you can assume all the duties of lieutenant.'

'Thank you, sir. I won't let you down.'

'Glad to hear it. Unfortunately, that tearaway Des Mazis is going to have to serve another month or so before I can justify ending his probation. He has a rather specialised understanding of the proper conduct of an officer. But we'll knock him into shape soon enough when he sees that you have completed your probation ahead of him.'

'Let's hope so, sir,' Napoleon smiled. 'Des Mazis is a good man at heart. I'm sure he'll be a fine officer.'

'I genuinely hope you're right, my boy. Now then, once your friend has passed his probation, I have a job for a few young officers.There's a live firing trial at the arsenal in Nantes in spring. Some new cannon designs are being tested out and the Minister for War has asked me to send along some observers. I've chosen Captain Des Mazis to lead the party. There are places for four more officers so I will include you and the younger Des Mazis. I haven't yet decided on the last two officers. Interested?'

Napoleon nodded. 'I'm honoured to be chosen, sir.'

'Do you good to see some wider aspects of the trade,' the colonel replied, then clicked his fingers as he recalled some detail. 'Almost forgot! There's an invitation from the director of some military academy in the Anjou region. They offer a little training to young gentlemen from across Europe.The director is keen that they should meet with French officers of their own age to foster a little friendship. He thinks that might go some way to avoiding wars in the future.' The colonel shook his head. 'Precious little hope of that… Still, there's the prospect of good food and wine. You might enjoy it, and you can certainly fit it in on the way down to Nantes.'

'Yes, sir.' Napoleon nodded. 'Where exactly is this academy?'

'One moment…'The colonel twisted round and searched his desk for a moment before turning back with a letter. 'Here you are. The Royal Academy of Equitation at Angers.'

Napoleon frowned. He was finding it hard enough tolerating the sons of the French aristocracy. Now he would have to endure the company of foreign aristocrats and was already dreading this visit to Angers.

Chapter 29

Eton, 1783

As the months passed Arthur settled uneasily into his new school. For the first time since the Wesleys had moved to London he was living away from home and he suspected that his mother was more than happy with the new arrangement. Indeed, the letters he received from home contained little sign of any genuine affection for him, merely an endless litany of complaints about the accommodation that Richard had arranged for her. How was she to cope with so few servants? Already, she said, many of her former society friends were cutting her out of their circles. All of which she blamed on her ungrateful sons and her irresponsible husband.The only hope for her now was that her daughter might marry well, or that her sons, if they studied hard, might one day rise to positions of significant influence and wealth that they could afford to make their mother comfortable in her old age, after a lifetime of toil, hardship and sacrifice. Only once she had run through her list of complaints did Lady Mornington ask after the wellbeing of Arthur and Gerald, how well their studies were progressing, and whether they needed anything. Each time that he read her letters Arthur laid them aside with a heavy heart, and a new resolve to defy her.

While he made every effort to improve his technique on the violin, he neglected his studies with cool deliberation. Even more, he refused to subscribe to the set of values that Eton demanded of its students. While other boys threw themselves into sports, Arthur gazed on with cool detachment and even shouted insults and criticism from off the field, until even the teachers got tired of his wearying presence and sent him away.

At the same time Bobus Smith, one of the older boys, contrived to take every opportunity to make the new boy's life a misery, deliberately excluding him from any game that took place in the dormitory, and making fun of his large nose and delicate-looking features. Even Arthur's prowess at the violin was mocked as the pursuit of an oversensitive and weedy boy. If Arthur had felt that he had a loving home to return to he might have been homesick and yearned for the holidays when he could enjoy the hearth and security of his family. As it was, Lady Mornington refused to permit him to stay with her during the holidays, saying that she did not have room enough for a 'colony' of children. Instead, at the end of term, when Gerald returned to his mother, Arthur's trunk was packed and he was sent to Wales to live in the crumbling isolation of his grandmother's house.

When the holidays were over, it was back to Eton, and the familiar routine of being teased by Bobus and his friends, and failing to excite the admiration of his teachers, who were increasingly inclined to consider him a little backward. Especially when compared to Gerald, who developed a ready grasp of the classics and soon progressed beyond the level of his older brother. So the months dragged on, and with a growing sense that he had been uprooted from his family and abandoned, Arthur sank into a profound lethargy that exasperated all those around him. Peculiarly, he found a perverse sense of satisfaction in failing to meet the expectations of others. Since he was destined to fail and to be unloved and unlovable he might as well be good at that at least.

Two years passed by with little improvement in his attitude or academic ability, except for a good grasp of French. The family's fortunes had not improved in the intervening time. Indeed, the labyrinthine nature of his father's financial affairs consumed most of Richard's time, and so he was exasperated by the tedious lack of progress in Arthur's school reports. He wanted the best for Arthur and he was convinced that Arthur had it in him to achieve some measure of success, even if his mother did not. She took his disappointing performance simply as proof of her judgement that he was destined to fail, as she made clear when her eldest son came to visit her shortly after Christmas, at the modest apartment she was renting in Chelsea.

'Richard, he's quite hopeless. And he's ungrateful. Arthur knows we can hardly afford to keep him at Eton.With the cost of living in London these days it's a miracle that I manage to survive. In fact I've been giving serious thought to moving to Brussels. Apparently it's possible to live well there on a fraction of the cost of London. Until then you and I have to go without in order to keep Gerald and Arthur at Eton. And this is how he repays us.You must speak to him about it.'

'Why? Because you won't?'

'Because I can't. He won't listen to me any more.'

'Can you blame him? When was the last time you saw him, Mother?'

Lady Mornington paused in an effort to recall the last meeting. 'I have it! Easter.We dined at Hills before he went up to Wales for the holiday.'

'That was over six months ago. And yet you spend far more time with Gerald, Anne and Henry.'

'Well, we enjoy each other's company. Arthur's different. He has made it quite clear that he resents me. Although why he should is a complete mystery.'

'No it's not,' Richard said firmly. 'It's clear to me that he feels left out. Ever since the family moved to London he's felt it. You and Father were so busy building up your social contacts that you neglected him.At least Father came to realise that towards the end and tried to make up for it. But you…' He shook his head. 'You've given up on him. And now, it seems, he's even given up on himself. Poor soul. Can you imagine what it must be like to feel so alone? So excluded.'

Lady Mornington raised her hand to her mouth and gently bit her finger. 'Is that true? Is that what he thinks?'

'I think so. Mother, he needs us. Most of all he needs you. Someone must have faith in Arthur or he'll just give up.'

Lady Mornington was thoughtful for a moment, and then nodded. 'Very well, I must make more of an effort to see him. I'll have him to stay with me this Easter.'

'That would be a good start,' Richard replied tactfully. 'And meanwhile, write to him more often, and take an interest in his affairs. Then we might see some kind of improvement.'

'And if we don't?'

Richard looked down at his hands, and for the first time Anne saw him as the man he had become, laden with responsibilities that had forever closed the door of childhood behind him. The clean lines of his face were already marked with creases. Richard glanced up with a sad expression. 'If we don't see any improvement this year, then I'm afraid we will have to take him out of Eton.We'll need every penny to make sure that we can see Gerald through school. He's doing well – very well – and the money would be better spent on him.'

'If you do withdraw Arthur, what will become of him?'

'There's little choice in the matter. If he can't achieve anything at school then it'll have to be the Church, or the army. Believe me, I want something better for him, but we have to be realistic. We can try to save him from himself, but I can't help feeling that it's already too late. The damage is done.'

'I see. So it's all down to his progress this year?'

Richard nodded. 'His last chance.'

It was a week before the end of the Lent Half – a hot day for the time of year and already most of the boys had discarded their coats as they played on the bank of the Thames. The sun shone down on them from a clear turquoise sky as Arthur watched the other schoolboys from the shade of an oak tree. He was leaning against the trunk and had been reading from a poetry collection he had borrowed from the school library. But the plain words on the pages had soon lost their attraction compared to the far greater aesthetic magic worked by the arrival of spring on such a fine day, and his attention slipped from the book and stretched out across the lawn to the easy glide of the river beyond.

For the first time in months Arthur felt a surge of pleasure and contentment flow through his body. In a few days he would be going home to his mother, and would not be exiled to the gloomy hills of Wales for the Easter holidays. Already, he had planned a series of excursions to see the sights of London and attend the best public recitals that the capital had to offer. Arthur was looking forward to being part of the family again, and not just an embarrassment to them.

A splash of white and silver drew his eye to the river and Arthur saw a group of boys had dived in and were racing across to the far bank.Their clothes lay in untidy heaps on this near side of the Thames. For an instant Arthur was sorely tempted to join them.

'Why not?' he said aloud. 'Why shouldn't I?'

Snapping the poetry book shut, he quickly rose to his feet and before he could change his mind he set off for the river bank, in long, purposeful strides. Ahead of him, the boys in the river had reached the far side, and as he approached Arthur recognised them: Bobus Smith and his friends. Before he could change direction and head for a different spot along the river Smith caught sight of him and, cupping his hands to his mouth, he called across the river to Arthur.

'Wesley! Hey, Wesley! Are you coming for a swim?'

Arthur's heart sank. All he wanted was a pleasant swim on his own. Now Bobus Smith had seen him and no doubt would not let him enjoy the moment in peace.Very well, he would just have to find another place to swim, out of sight of the other boys.

'Are you coming in?' Smith called out again.

Arthur shook his head. Then to make sure that he was understood he shouted back, 'No. I've got a book to read.' He raised the volume of poetry as proof of his intention.

'Bookworm!' someone cried out, and at once the others joined in, instinctively co-ordinating into a chant that carried clearly across the river and turned the heads of those on the bank around Arthur. His face burned with embarrassment and anger as he turned away from the river and began to walk along the path, away from his tormentors. He did not get very far when he heard a splashing commotion behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Bobus Smith and his friends were swimming along the river, trying to keep up with him, some of them still calling out as they churned through the current.

'Bookworm! Bookworm!'

Arthur gritted his teeth, and abruptly stopped. It was not that he minded being thought bookish, especially given his poor academic record. Quite the contrary, since it provided an excuse for his refusal to take part in physical games. What angered him now was the knowledge that Smith would not leave him in peace. He would follow him up the river, and if Arthur turned and went in the other direction he knew they would shadow him like jackals. If he turned away from the river and went back to the school it would mark yet another petty victory in their campaign of intimidation.

'Damn you, Smith,' he growled. 'Damn you and all those fools to hell.'

'What did you say, Wesley?' Bobus called out from the river, swimming closer to the bank.'Spit it out! If you are man enough, that is.'

Without thinking, Arthur bent over, snatched up a handful of gravel from the path and hurled it towards his tormentor. A scattershot of small pebbles and pieces of grit thrashed the water around Smith and several stung his face. He cried out, more in surprise than pain, and with a howl of rage swam straight for Arthur.

Arthur's guts turned to ice as he stared towards the river. He had no wish to fight Smith on a day like this, and the prospect of having his good spirits dashed made his heart fill with a simmering anger and resentment.

'All right, then,' he muttered to himself. He dropped his book on to the grass and clenched his fists as Smith's feet scrambled for purchase on the river bottom and then he waded ashore like a rock bursting from the sea. There was no preamble, no studied taking of position, just a mad scramble as Smith, naked and dripping, hurled himself forwards. Arthur crouched to lower his centre of balance, and raised his fists. At the last moment, he ducked to one side and stuck out his foot, hoping to trip his enemy. But the movement was mistimed. Instead of tripping Smith, the shoe stamped down on his toes with a loud crack and Smith pitched forward on to the ground with a howl of agony. For an instant Arthur was too shocked by his mistake to act. His fists relaxed and he was about to apologise when he saw the merciless look of hatred in Smith's expression.Any hesitation now would be fatal. Arthur tightened his fists again and closed in on Smith. He swung his foot back and kicked the boy in the knee, causing a fresh cry of pain, then in the knee again, before stamping on his other foot.When Smith, screaming now, reached for his toes Arthur moved round and slammed several blows against the side of Smith's head, and finally, and with all the strength he could muster, threw his fist straight at Smith's pug nose. When his knuckles connected Arthur felt the blow jar his arm all the way up to the shoulder. Smith's head jerked backwards and he fell flat on the grass and lay still.