Текст книги "Young bloods"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Chapter 38

The brig entered the gulf of Ajaccio late in the afternoon and the vessel's master bellowed the order to reduce sail. The sailors unhurriedly climbed up the ratlines of the two masts and then spread out along the mainyards. When they were in place the bosun gave the word and the sailors began to haul up the mainsails, furling the heavily weathered cloth to the yard and tying each sail off securely. Napoleon was standing at the bows gazing back down the length of the brig. His keen eyes watched every aspect of the ship's operation and already he had a good grasp of the function of each sail and the names and purposes of most of the sheets that controlled the sails. The voyage from Toulon had taken only three days and with his books stowed away in the hold there had been little for Napoleon to do but stay on deck and absorb the minutiae of life at sea.

He turned round and felt his pulse quicken as he caught sight of the low stone mass of the citadel jutting out into the gulf. To the left a thin strip of yellow revealed the beach that stretched down from the jumble of pale buildings with red-tiled roofs of Ajaccio. In there, a few minutes' walk from the sea, was the home where he had grown up from an infant into the small boy. That was many years ago, he reflected with rising emotion. The brig's approach to the port was a journey he had done many times in fishing boats, but now it seemed unfamiliar so that he might have been approaching a strange land. He suddenly felt the loss of all those years he might have had in Ajaccio. Time he could have spent with his father, who would not have died almost a stranger to his son.

With only the triangular driver set, the ship ghosted across the still water of the harbour, heading towards an empty stretch of the quay. Several fishermen were sitting cross-legged on the cobbles, tending to their nets, and some of them paused in their work to watch the approach of the brig.

The porters lounging in the shade of the customs house stirred and made their way over to the quay to take the mooring ropes that the brig's crew had made ready to cast ashore. The cables snaked across the narrow gap of open water, were caught, looped round a bollard, and then the men drew the brig into the quay until it nudged up against the hessian sack stuffed with cork. Napoleon had asked that his chest and valise be brought up when they had entered the gulf, and now he sat on the chest and waited impatiently for the crew to complete the mooring and lower the gangway so he could go ashore. After a short delay the master called out the order and the men ran the narrow ramp out, over the side, and on to the quay, then securely lashed down the end on the ship. Napoleon beckoned to one of the porters.

'Get me a handcart.'

'Yes, sir.'

While he waited for the man to unload his luggage, Napoleon crossed the gangway and set foot on the quay. He felt a wave of happiness at the firm touch of his homeland once again. He strolled slowly down the quay towards the nearest of the fishermen. The face was familiar, and he made the connection in an instant. This was the man whose foot Napoleon had stamped on years before. The fisherman glanced up at the thin youngster in a French uniform. Napoleon smiled and greeted the man in the local dialect.

'Does Pedro still work the fishing boats?'

'Pedro?' The man frowned.

'Pedro Calca,' Napoleon explained. 'I'm certain that was his name.'

'No. He died four years ago. Drowned.'

'Oh…' Napoleon was saddened. He had briefly hoped to impress the old man with his smart uniform.

The fisherman was looking at him closely. 'Do I know you? Your face seems familiar.You don't speak like a Frenchman.'

'We met before, but it was a long time ago.'

The man stared at Napoleon a moment longer, then shook his head. 'I'm sorry. I don't remember.'

Napoleon waved a hand. 'It doesn't matter. Another time, maybe.'

He glanced back towards the brig and saw that the porter, helped by one of the sailors, was struggling ashore with the chest. When they reached the quay they heaved the chest into the handcart and set it down with a loud thud as Napoleon strode towards them.

'What's in that one, sir?' The porter's chest was heaving from the strain of lifting the chest. 'Gold?'

'Of a kind. Poor man's gold.' Napoleon laughed. 'Books. Just books.'

'Books?'The porter shook his head.'What would a young man want a chest of books for?'

'To read them, perhaps.'

The porter shrugged, not quite sure of the sanity of the young army officer. 'So where are you lodging, sir?'

'I'm not lodging. I'm going home.'

The valise on the cart, they set off, Napoleon leading the way. The sun was low in the sky and the streets were filled with shadows beneath the harsh light that silhouetted the tiled rooflines. From the harbour front they climbed the gentle slope that led into the heart of the old town, nestling by the massive irregular star shape of the citadel. Napoleon knew these streets and alleys intimately, but it seemed to him he was seeing them as a stranger might.

The handcart's iron-rimmed wheels clattered along the cobbles as they approached the corner of his home. Outside the house, Napoleon gently lifted the latch on the front door, and helped the porter unload the chests and carry them into the hall on the ground floor.Then he paid the man off and quietly closed the door behind him. There was an unfamiliar odour. He smiled as he realised that this was how it had always smelled, but that he had never noticed it before. The sound of voices came from the floor above and he recognised his mother's, sharp and authoritative. Then there was Joseph's voice – low enough that his words were indistinct. The other voices were strange to him.

Napoleon took a deep breath, removed his bicorn hat and placed it on the couch by the door. Then he mounted the stairs, treading as softly as he could until he reached the landing on the first floor.The sounds of his family were just the other side of the door that opened on to the large salon in which he had played as a child. Placing a hand on the latch, he lifted it and pushed the door open. Inside, the large windows that ran along one wall were open and the last of the sunlight streamed in, bathing the interior in a warm orange glow. Running down the centre of the room were two large tables, end to end. Around the nearest table sat the family. His mother had her back to the door.To her left sat Joseph, Lucien and a young boy he did not recognise but he knew must be Louis.To his mother's right sat two girls, either side of an infant boy: his sisters, Pauline and Caroline, and his youngest brother, Jerome.

The older girl looked up and saw Napoleon in the doorway. Her eyes widened in alarm.

'Mama!' She pointed. 'There's a soldier!'

'Pauline!' His mother lashed out with a wooden spoon and caught the girl a sharp blow on the knuckles. 'For the last time, none of your stupid games at the table!'

Joseph was looking towards the door now, his spoon poised over a bowl of stew. His look of surprise hardened into an expression of shock.

'Napoleon?' he murmured.

Napoleon saw his mother's back stiffen for an instant, then she quickly turned and looked over her shoulder, wide-eyed. She stared, then there was a clatter as the wooden spoon dropped from the hand that she had clamped over her mouth. Then the chair scraped across the floor and fell back as she rose up and rushed towards him with a rustle of her black skirts. Napoleon's face split into a wide smile of delight and he opened his arms as she rushed into his embrace. Slight as she was, there was strength in her arms and he felt himself crushed in her embrace. Then she thrust herself back and held him at arm's length, drinking in the sight of him as her lips trembled.

'Naboleone… What are you doing here?'

'I applied for leave, Mother.'

'Leave?' Her expression became anxious. 'How long have you got?'

'A fine welcome that is!' Napoleon teased her. 'Hardly here a minute before you ask me when I'm leaving.'

'Oh! I didn't mean-'

'It's all right, Mother.' He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. 'Only joking.'

'You go away for eight years, and still you haven't grown up. How long are you staying?'

'Until April next year.'

Her tension drained away at his reply. 'Seven months. That's good.Very good… What am I saying?' She turned round to the others still at the table. 'This is your brother Naboleone, who Father took to France nearly eight years ago. Come, Naboleone or, as you call yourself these days, Napoleon.'

He smiled. 'In my heart I will always be Naboleone.'

She led him to the table, picking up her chair. 'Sit down.'

As he lowered himself into her place, Joseph set his spoon down and grasped Napoleon's hand in both of his. 'I can't believe my eyes. It is you. After so many years. When you left Autun, I didn't know when I would see you again. I never thought it would be for as long as this. God! It's good to see you!'

'And you, Joseph.' He smiled fondly. 'You have no idea how much I have missed you.' He looked round at the other faces watching him intently. 'Lucien's almost a man already. Louis was only a baby when I left. Now look at him! Almost as old as I was when I left for France. But you three – Pauline and Caroline, and Jerome there – you have only existed in letters… Have you no kisses for your brother?'

He opened his arms, but the girls blushed and felt too unsure of Napoleon to approach him. With an impatient click of her tongue his mother scurried round the table and pressed them towards their brother.They were still nervous and clung to her as Napoleon reached for their hands. He frowned, hurt and a little angry at their reticence, but it was only natural, he realised. They didn't know him. He would have to give them time to grow accustomed to him.At the moment his heart filled with an aching sadness at the lost years. It seemed there were some sacrifices for the sake of a career that could never be justified. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. Napoleon cuffed them away and suddenly leaned forward to ruffle the girls' hair, with a forced cheerfulness.

'Never mind! We'll soon get to know each other.Then there's so many tales I can tell you about France!'

Chapter 39

Later, when the children had gone to bed, Napoleon sat with his mother and Joseph at the end of the table. Letizia had closed the shutters and the room was lit by a pair of candles that left the large space around them in deep shadow. She had brought up a bottle of wine from the cellar and filled three glasses.

'Your father and I were saving this one to celebrate your becoming an officer.' She smiled sadly, then lifted her chin. 'To you, Lieutenant Napoleon Buona Parte.'

'No,' Napoleon shook his head, 'let's not toast me. To Father.' He and the others raised their glasses together and then sipped the fine wine. Napoleon slid the stem of his glass between his fingers and cradled the bowl in the palm of his hand.'Has it been difficult since Father died?'

Letizia shrugged. 'We barely manage.'

'Did he leave much money?'

'Leave money? All he left me was his debts.'

'It wasn't really his fault,' Joseph interrupted. 'He was cheated.'

'What happened?' asked Napoleon. 'Who cheated him?'

'The government. Four years ago Father signed a contract with some officials sent from Paris to find ways of expanding the economy in Corsica.They said they had the power to subsidise all sort of agricultural projects, one of which involved our family. Father bought a mulberry plantation, with a view to growing the trees for sale in the fifth year. The officials gave a guarantee that the mature trees would be bought by the government for a premium price.'

Letizia shook her head. 'I can hear him now. "How can we lose?"Well, we found out in the end exactly how we could lose.'

Napoleon nodded towards his brother. 'So what happened next?'

'Two years ago, when the first subsidy payment was due, the government cancelled the contract without any warning. Father just received notification that the trees were no longer required. He tried to find another buyer but there's no market for mulberry at the moment – at least no market that will pay enough to cover the costs of setting up the plantation. Until his death he was trying to get the government to pay compensation, but nothing has come of it. Meanwhile we couldn't afford to employ the men who were tending the trees. Since then no one has been maintaining the plantation.When Father died, the bank in Genoa, who loaned him the money to set up the plantation, called for the loan to be repaid.'

'Which we can't do,' Letizia added with a shrug. 'There's no money.The rent we get from uncle Luciano isn't even enough to feed the family and see that they get some proper schooling. If it wasn't for the small gifts of money given to us by Luciano, we'd have to sell the house, sell our land and sell that wretched plantation. Even then, I doubt it would raise enough to pay off the bank loan.'

'Can't we just sell the land?' Napoleon suggested. 'Pay back some of the money and ask them to give us time to repay the balance?'

'No.' Joseph smiled faintly. 'That's the catch. In order for us to contest the government's refusal to pay the subsidy we have to be in possession of the land to which the contract applies. We're caught between the government and the bank. The only hope I have is that the market recovers and we find buyers for those trees.'

'Is it likely to recover?'

'Impossible to say,' Joseph replied.'But if we don't start looking after the plantation soon it'll be worthless.'

'I see.' Napoleon brooded silently for a moment. He looked up at his brother.'Then we must put that plantation to rights, Joseph. You and me. Where is it?'

'Not far from here. Near Mother's house at Mellili.'

'Good! We could live there while we restore the plantation.'

'The house is almost derelict.'

'Fine.Then we'll make repairs to the house as well. Come on, Joseph! You're not afraid of a little hard work?'

'Of course not. But I can't stay here for much longer. I need to get back to my legal training.'

'Fair enough, but let's do what we can before you leave. What do you say, brother?'

Joseph glanced at his mother but Letizia was staring at her hands and saying nothing. Joseph's gaze flickered back towards his brother.'Why not? Let's do it. Maybe the market will recover after all.'

'That's the spirit!' Napoleon laughed and refilled both their glasses. 'To the Buona Parte Brothers – sons of the soil.'

Joseph laughed back and tapped his glass against his brother's. 'Death to bankers!'

'Death to the French Government!' Napoleon replied and drained his glass as his mother and brother looked at him in surprise.

Joseph cleared his throat. 'That's hardly the sort of toast one expects from an officer of His Most Catholic Majesty, King Louis.'

'French officer on the outside, Corsican loyalist on the inside – right to the core,' Napoleon smiled. 'Don't be fooled by the uniform.'

'I might not be, but there are others who will take it at face value.'

Letizia placed a hand on his arm. 'You should be careful, Naboleone. There are many people in Corsica who have not accepted French rule.'

'Including me.'

'I doubt that will carry much weight if you are caught in that uniform even a small distance from Ajaccio.Things have changed a great deal in the last eight years. The Paolists have been stirring things up. It seems that some foreign power is providing them with gold to keep the spirit of resistance alive. The French may control the towns and the roads, but they have lost power in much of the heart of the island.Their troops and their officials are afraid to venture too far from the coast. And that's given the rebels some confidence. There have even been ambushes of French patrols within earshot of Ajaccio. So, please, for me, take that uniform off while you are here.'

Napoleon hid his anger. Despite his avowed support for Corsican independence, he was proud of his uniform. Now more than ever he was convinced that he had been born to be a soldier and he wore the dark blue coat with red trimming as if it was a second skin.Yet he could see that his mother was concerned and he needed to put her mind at ease.

'I have some spare clothes in my valise. I'll wear those.'

Letizia relaxed a little and some of the strain left her face. 'Thank you. I know it means a lot to you, but there's your safety to consider, and ours. Please stay out of trouble.'

Napoleon nodded. The island's tradition of vendetta meant that the dishonour of the individual extended to the entire family. The irony was that Napoleon felt a burning desire in his heart for Corsican independence. But any rebel hiding in view of a mountain road to ambush one of the occupiers would certainly shoot him long before Napoleon had a chance to explain himself.

'Don't worry, Mother. I'll keep to myself. Besides, I have in mind a few tasks that I must begin. I want to write a history of Corsica. That should keep me busy.'

'A history?' Letizia arched her eyebrows and muttered, 'What is the point of that?'

Joseph stared at his younger brother for a moment and then laughed.

'What?' Napoleon frowned. 'What is it?'

'Nothing really. It's just that I haven't seen you for so long, not since you were an ill-tempered little brat. Now you are, as you say, a man. And a serious-minded and driven one at that. It's just taking me a little time to adjust to the changes in you.'

'Joseph's right,' Letizia nodded. 'You have changed. It seems I've lost my little boy for ever.'

She stood up suddenly and walked hurriedly towards the door. Only when she was outside the room did she begin to cry.

The next day, after the children had been sent to school, Joseph helped his brother to unpack the luggage. When the lid of the chest was lifted he gasped in surprise to see that it contained little else but books and a small writing set. As the books were taken out and found a home in an old crockery cupboard, Joseph marvelled at the range of his brother's reading.

'You can't have read all of these, surely?'

'All of them. I've only kept the books that interested me.That's one of the advantages of living in France,' Napoleon smiled. 'You have the chance to read all that there is to read, and sort out what knowledge is worth retaining and what isn't. This,' he patted the chest, 'this is the good stuff.'

'One day, your history of Corisca will be in a chest just like this.'

Napoleon laughed. 'I hope so. It would be nice to leave some kind of a mark on the world. How about you, Joseph? What is your ambition?'

'Me? I haven't really thought about it. At the moment I'm studying to become a lawyer, but what do I want to do?' He thought for a moment. 'I suppose my ambition is to have a wife, children and a comfortable home.'

'That's it?'

'Yes.'

Napoleon shook his head, partly in disbelief and partly in pity. Not that he would have said so to his brother. Joseph might not have much drive to achieve things, but beneath it all he was an innately good man; a quality that Napoleon recognised and valued.

He selected a few books and placed them into a large knapsack, along with a change of clothes.Then he looked up at Joseph, who was still unpacking the books.

'Well, if your ambition is to be realised, we have to pay off Father's debts. Once I've settled in I'm going to Mellili for a few days, to see what needs to be done to restore the place. I don't like having to leave home so soon, but we need some income. If we're in luck it might be possible to rent the farm out.While I'm there I'll have a look at the plantation.'

'I'd come with you, but I have to study for an exam.' Joseph smiled at his brother. 'As soon as it's over, I'll join you.'

Chapter 40

The approach of autumn was immediately evident as Napoleon strode up the road that led out of Ajaccio and into the hills. The air was cooler and the leaves on the trees were starting to turn rusty brown and yellow. But for Napoleon, the experience of walking into the hills he had not seen since childhood filled him with a pure joy he had not felt for years, and every sense drank in the details of the landscape about him. When he came to a bend in the road round a steep hill he stopped, sat on a flat slab of rock and gazed back down the slope to Ajaccio and the sparkling blue sea beyond. After Paris the town of his birth seemed small and provincial.

For the first time he appreciated how his father must have felt. If he had allowed his boys to be educated in Ajaccio they would never have the chance to amount to much. Although the town was a nice quiet backwater in which to raise a family, it could become a trap if they were allowed to stay. But as he gazed down on the red-tiled roofs clustered around the harbour, in the shadow of the thick walls of the citadel, Napoleon could not help feeling that he belonged here, that his father had been wrong to send them away. Perhaps a quiet life of pastoral charm and beauty could be fulfilling enough.

He stood up and took a last look down at Ajaccio, and his gaze fixed on the citadel, where the Bourbon flag gleamed in the clear sunlight. Tiny figures in white uniforms patrolled the walls. Napoleon frowned as he noted the artillery pieces evenly dispersed around the inner wall.They should have been mounted on the outer bastions where they could enfilade any attackers. He stopped that line of thinking with an amused smile. He was on leave. Military matters need not concern him for many months to come. Let the garrison commander place his guns where he liked. For the moment the world was at peace and there were no attackers to beware of. And certainly, there were better things to occupy Napoleon's mind than textbook deployments of artillery pieces.

With Ajaccio lost from sight behind the mass of the hillside, Napoleon strolled happily past small farms and olive groves he remembered from childhood. He exchanged greetings with the few people he met along the road, but whereas the child Naboleone had been known to most of them, the thin young man with long dark hair and peculiarly attractive grey eyes was not, and they responded to his smiles with typical Corsican reserve.

It was just after noon before the road reached the junction with the track that led to the village of Alata. A short distance beyond stood the pillars at the entrance to the small estate that had been owned by his family for generations. Beyond the pillars the track leading up to the house was overgrown with weeds and grass, and was only defined by the line of poplars that grew alongside as the track wound up a hill of abandoned olive tree terraces. When he reached the top of the hill Napoleon could at last see the house, a low stone structure with outbuildings to one side.There was no sign of life as he approached and he noted the missing tiles on the roof, the cracks in the plaster on the walls and the faded and peeling paint on the window shutters. Clearly a great deal of work would be needed to make the place habitable enough for a tenant.

Climbing up the short flight of stairs to the front door, he lifted the latch and pushed the heavy door open. Inside smelled damp and earthy, and there was a faint rustling on the tiled floor as a large lizard scurried for cover. Napoleon set his haversack down on a table and explored the house, opening the shutters as he went from room to room. Tiles were missing above most rooms and rain had leaked in and stained the floor. In one bedroom, a section of the roof had collapsed and crushed the child's cot beneath. Ivy had grown across some of the windows and tough tendrils had even begun to force their way inside and spread along the walls.

Outside, the courtyard was overgrown and the flowerbeds had all but vanished back into the wilderness.

It would take time, but the estate could be brought back into decent enough condition to let.The house was the place to start, he decided, and went back inside.

He began by breaking up some of the ruined pieces of furniture for firewood. By the end of the day he had swept most of the rooms clear of dirt, cut the ivy away from the windows and cleared the debris from the room in which the roof had collapsed. As darkness fell outside he lit the fire and took the sausage, bread and wineskin from his haversack. As he ate and drank by the wavering glare from the grate, the shrilling of the cicadas outside in the olive groves made him smile. As a boy he used to complain that they kept him awake. Now, they just seemed to be welcoming him home.

For the next week Napoleon worked steadily and methodically, clearing room after room, replacing the missing tiles, repairing damaged shutters and doors. On the third day, as he was eating his evening meal by a small fire as dusk closed in outside, there was a loud knock on the door. Napoleon flinched at the noise. There had been no sound of approaching footsteps on the stony path or up the steps to the door. Putting his bread and sausage down on the small table, he wiped his hands, walked softly to the front door and opened it.

Outside in the wan glow of the failing light stood a tall man in the greased wool cape of a sheepherder. Except that he wore soft leather boots and he carried a musket. It was no fowling piece, but a soldier's weapon. Napoleon took all this in before he concentrated on the man's face. He must have been in his mid-thirties, with dark curly hair and bright blue eyes.

Disconcertingly he greeted Napoleon with a broad smile as he inclined his head and asked, 'Signor Naboleone Buona Parte?'

'Yes, that's me. How can I be of service, Signor…?'

'People know me as Benito.' He emphasised the name as if to imply that Napoleon should be familiar with it. 'May I come in?'

'Why?' Napoleon felt his heart begin to beat faster. 'It is late.'

'Alas, it is not easy for me to move around in daylight.' Benito smiled again. 'Let us say that my existence is not appreciated by the French. Besides, I cannot allow my business with you to wait.'

Napoleon stared at him a moment, and realised that the man was far bigger than him, and armed.

'Very well, then. Please come in.'

In the kitchen he turned to face Benito and indicated the table.

'Sit down there. I'll get another chair. Help yourself to some food, if you wish.'

'Thank you, Signor. I am hungry. The nature of my duties means that I go without food for days sometimes.'

'I see.' Napoleon fetched a stool and sat down opposite the man. Benito carefully leaned the musket against the wall behind him and flicked the cape back across his broad shoulders. From his belt he drew a long straight dagger and, keeping his eyes on Napoleon, he cut himself a length of sausage and gnawed a chunk off the end.

Napoleon cleared his throat. 'You said you had some business with me.'

Benito nodded, chewing then swallowing the sausagemeat. 'I was told that there was a man working here.When they got your name down in the village I had some enquiries made about you in Ajaccio.'

'So?'

'So it seems that you are a French artillery officer, supposedly here on leave.'

'If your spy's information was any good, you'll also know that I am a son of Carlos Buona Parte, who fought with General Paoli at Ponte Nuovo.'

'I'm aware of that. I knew your father,' Benito smiled. 'That is why you are still alive. For the moment.'

Both men tensed up for a moment, and Napoleon's heart was beating fast as he tried to think of some way of overwhelming the man. Benito laughed suddenly and cut himself another piece of sausage.

'Relax, Lieutenant. I'm just interested in finding out more about the son of a Corsican patriot who has put on the uniform of our enemy.'

'I am no traitor, nor a spy, if that's what you are implying.' Napoleon responded angrily. 'I am a soldier on leave. I'm trying to help my family survive a crisis thrust on them by the French Government, as it happens. So I'll thank you not to question my motives, nor my patriotism. And you?' Napoleon stared back at him, as he recalled something his mother had said after his return. 'I assume you are one of Paoli's men.'

'Of course.'

'Then you will know that the general is being backed by a foreign power.'

Benito pursed his lips. 'That's true.'

'Do you know which foreign power?'

'No.'

'You claim to be a patriot, and yet you could be working for someone who might well turn out to be an enemy of Corsican independence. I can think of a few countries that might want to get the Corsican people to throw off French rule just so that they can have the island for themselves.' He nodded at Benito. 'I'd say that makes us about the same.'

'Not the same… but near enough. Very well, Naboleone, I accept that you're a patriot, but what would happen if you were called upon by the French to fight Corsicans?'

Napoleon was silent for a moment. 'I pray that day never comes.'

'It may well do, sooner than you think.'

'Maybe. But in the meantime I will continue to persuade every Frenchman I meet to support Corsican independence. If they only give us that, then we would be their staunchest ally.'

Benito laughed. 'We will just have to keep working on the French.You keep on trying to talk them round and I'll just keep on killing the ones who won't listen. Between us we should get what we want in the end.' Then the amusement faded from his face like a candle being snuffed out. 'But if I ever see you in uniform leading troops against us, I'll kill you and I'll kill your family. Do you understand?'

Napoleon nodded.

Benito picked up the wineskin.'A toast then, to Corsica, proud and free.' He removed the stopper and took a large mouthful, before holding the wineskin out to Napoleon.

'Corisca, proud and free,' Napoleon repeated and took a swig.

'There! Now I'm tired. I have to go.'

Napoleon showed him out of the kitchen and back to the front door. As he opened the door he was aware of movement in the shadows outside. A short distance from the house, bathed in moonlight, stood four men armed with muskets. Napoleon's eyebrows rose at the sight and Benito laughed heartily.'You didn't really expect me to put myself at your mercy? I just needed to put you to the test, that's all. No point in risking my life into the bargain. I'll see you again one day. Meanwhile, consider yourself warned. As long as you are here to see your family you are safe. But if you ever return to Corsica as a serving French officer, then I'll gut you without a single regret.'