Текст книги "Young bloods"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Chapter 4

In the years that followed Carlos Buona Parte had not been able to believe his good fortune. Not only had his amnesty been confirmed by the government in Paris, but he had secured a position as a court assistant in Ajaccio on a salary of nine hundred livres. No fortune by any stretch of the imagination but it allowed him to feed and clothe his family and maintain the large house he had inherited in the heart of the town.With another child on the way, Carlos needed the money.The new governor of Corsica, the Compte de Marbeuf, had taken to the charming young lawyer and was now acting as Carlos's patron, as part of his mission to cement relations between France and her newly acquired province. Not only had Marbeuf secured the court appointment for Carlos, but he had also promised to support Carlos's petition to the French Court to acknowledge his claim for the title of nobility held by his father. At present there were many such petitions as the Corsican aristocracy attempted to have their traditions included within the French system. But now his petition was being delayed, and each time that Carlos raised the matter with Marbeuf, the old man gently patted his hand and smiled thinly as he assured his young protege that it would be dealt with in good time.

Why the delay? Carlos asked himself. Only days before, the lawyer Emilio Bagnioli had had his petition approved, despite it being lodged a good six months after that of Carlos. With heavy heart he returned to his house one afternoon and made for the stairs to the first floor. Letizia's uncle, Luciano, the Archdeacon of Ajaccio, lived on the ground floor. He rarely left the house any more, claiming he was too infirm. But the real reason, the family knew, was that he did not dare part from the money chest he had hidden in his room. Carlos had little time for the dour man and merely nodded a greeting as he passed the archdeacon, leaning against the doorpost. Carlos hurried up the creaking steps to the first floor and entered his family's rooms, quickly closing the door behind him. From the kitchen, down the corridor, he heard the sounds of his children at the dinner table, together with the scrape and clatter of plates and cutlery as Letizia prepared the settings.

Letizia looked up with a warm smile, which faded as she saw his weary expression.

'Carlos? What's wrong?'

'There's still no news about my petition,' Carlos replied as he pulled out a chair and sat down.

'I'm sure it'll be dealt with soon enough.' She moved behind him and stroked his neck. 'Be patient.'

He did not answer her, but turned his attention to his children, who stared at him with their mother's intense eyes. Then, as Giuseppe continued to gaze at his father, the younger boy deftly removed a thick slice of sausage from Giuseppe's plate. As soon as Giuseppe noticed the theft, he snatched at the meat. Naboleone was too quick for him and smashed his fist down on Giuseppe's fingers before they reached his plate. His older brother yelped and jumped up in his chair, upsetting his cup of water so that the contents spilled across the table. Carlos felt his temper snap and he slammed his fists down on the table.

'Go to your room!' he ordered. 'Both of you.'

'But, Father,' the younger boy cried out indignantly,'it's dinner time. I'm hungry!'

'Silence, Naboleone! Do as you are told!'

Letizia set down the bowl she was holding and hurried over to her sons. 'Don't argue with your father. Go. You will be sent for when we have spoken.'

'But I'm hungry!' Naboleone protested and crossed his arms. His mother hissed angrily and slapped him across the face, hard. 'You'll do as you are told! Now go!'

Giuseppe was already out of his chair and nervously crept past his father in the doorway, then ran down the corridor towards the room shared by the boys. His brother had been stunned by the blow, and had started to cry, then bit back on his tears and, with eyes blazing, scraped his chair away and rose to his feet. He shot a defiant look at each parent before striding from the room on his short legs. As he marched away, the door was closed behind him, but not before he heard his father say in a low voice,'One day that brat must be taught some lessons…'Then his voice dropped and only muted discussion issued unintelligibly from the kitchen.

Naboleone quickly got bored of trying to eavesdrop and padded softly away. But instead of joining Giuseppe in their room, he crept downstairs and out of the house.The sun was low in the west, casting long shadows over the street, and the boy turned towards it and made for the harbour front of Ajaccio. With a swagger that did not sit well on his small, skinny frame, he strolled down the cobbled avenue, thumbs tucked into his culottes, whistling happily to himself.

Emerging on to the road that passed along the harbour, Naboleone made for the cluster of fishermen squatting over their nets as they carefully checked them for signs of wear before folding them up ready for the next morning's fishing. The smells of the sea and rotting fish guts assaulted the young boy's nostrils but he had long since grown used to the stench and nodded a greeting as he strode up and stood in the middle of the group of men.

'What's the news?' he piped up.

An old man, Pedro, looked up and cracked a nearly toothless smile. 'Naboleone! On the run from that mother of yours again?'

The boy nodded, and flashed a brilliant grin as he approached the fisherman.

Pedro shook his head. 'What is it today? Skipping chores? Stealing cakes? Bullying that poor brother of yours?'

Naboleone grinned and squatted down beside the old man.

'Pedro. Tell me a story.'

'A story? Haven't I told you enough stories?'

'Hey! Small fry!' One of the younger men winked at Naboleone. 'Some of those stories have even been true!'The man laughed, and the others joined in good-naturedly.

'As long as they have nothing to do with the size of his catch!' someone added.

'Quiet!' Pedro shouted. 'Young fools! What do you know?'

'Enough not to believe you, old man. Small fry, don't be taken in by his tall stories.'

Naboleone glowered at the speaker. 'I'll believe what I choose to believe. Don't you dare make fun of him. Or I'll-'

'You'll what?' The fisherman regarded him with surprise. 'What will you do to me, small fry? Knock me down? Care to give it a try?'

He stood up and strode towards the small boy. Naboleone looked him over, squinting as the bulk of the man was rimmed by a bright orange hue from the setting sun. He looked formidable enough: a wide chest, thick sinewy arms and legs… and bare feet.The boy smiled as he squared up to the fisherman and raised his tiny fists.The other fishermen roared with laughter and as the man grinned at his friends Naboleone darted forward and stamped the heel of his shoe down as hard as he could on the man's toes.

'Owww!' The man recoiled in pain, snatching back his foot and hopping on his other leg. 'You little bastard!'

Naboleone stepped forward, reached up with his hands and gave a hearty shove to the top of the man's head, overbalancing him and sending him toppling backwards into a basket of fish.The wharf exploded in laughter as the other fishermen enjoyed their comrade's misfortune.

Pedro rested a hand on Naboleone's shoulder. 'Well done, lad! You may be small,' he tapped the boy's bony chest,'but you've got heart.'

The man was struggling up from the basket, brushing the fish scales from his breeches and shirt. 'Little bastard,' he muttered through clenched teeth. 'Needs a lesson.'

'Better make yourself scarce.' Pedro pushed Naboleone away and the boy hopped over the nets and ran for the opening of the nearest alley, little legs pumping away as the fisherman started after him. But he reached the alley before his pursuer could clear the nets, and before he disappeared from view he stuck his tongue out defiantly. Not wanting to take the risk that the man had given up his pursuit, Naboleone ran on, cut down a side alley, and re-emerged on the wharf some distance beyond the fishermen. There would be no going back there this evening.

At the end of the wharf stood the entrance to the citadel, where the Compte de Marbeuf had his official residence.

A group of French soldiers sat in the shade of a tree by the gateway. As they saw the boy they waved and shouted a greeting at the child who had become something of a mascot to them. Naboleone smiled back and joined their circle. Although he understood little French and spoke only a Corsican dialect of Italian, a few of the soldiers spoke some Italian and could more or less conduct a conversation with him. He, in turn, had picked up a few words of French, which included the kinds of curses that soldiers are inclined to teach children for the amusement it afforded them.

It seemed that they had been looking out for him and they gestured to him to sit down on a stool beside them, while one of the soldiers entered the citadel and ran across to the barracks block. Naboleone glanced round at the Frenchmen and saw them watching him with amusement and expectation. One was carving thick slices off a sausage and the boy called out to him, indicated the sausage and then pointed to his mouth. The man smiled and handed him a few slices, together with a chunk of bread torn from a freshly baked loaf. Naboleone muttered his thanks and started to cram the food into his mouth. Nailed boots clattered across cobblestones and the soldier who had gone to the barracks returned with some cloth carefully folded under one arm. In the other he held a wooden sword. Squatting down in front of the boy he laid the toy sword beside him and gently unfolded the cloth to reveal a small uniform and a child's tricorn hat.The soldier pointed to his own uniform.

'There,' he spoke in Italian, with a heavy French accent. 'The same thing.'

Naboleone's eyes widened with excitement. He set the remaining food down hurriedly and then chewed and swallowed what was left in his mouth. Standing up, he reached out for the white coat with its neatly stitched blue facings and polished brass buttons. He slid his arms into the sleeves and let the soldier do the buttons up for him, then fastened a small belt about his waist. When he had finished the man started to button a pair of black gaiters that rose up to the hem of the coat. Another soldier carefully placed the tricorn on Naboleone's head and then all stood round him to inspect the results.The boy reached down for the sword and stuffed it into his belt, before he stiffened his back and saluted them.

The Frenchmen roared with laughter and clapped him affectionately on the shoulder.

One of those who spoke Italian leaned over him. 'You're a proper soldier now. Except that you must take the oath.' He straightened up and raised his right hand. 'Monsieur Buona Parte, please raise your hand.'

For a moment Naboleone hesitated. These were Frenchmen, after all, and despite his mother's friendship with the governor, she was prone to utter dark sentiments about the new rulers of Corsica. But Naboleone looked down at his beautiful uniform, with the gilt-painted handle of the sword sticking out of his belt. Then he looked up into the smiling faces of the men gathered around him and felt a keen desire to belong amongst them. He raised his hand.

'Bravo!' someone cried out.

'Now, little Corsican, repeat after me. I swear undying obedience to His Most Catholic Majesty, King Louis…'

Naboleone echoed the words thoughtlessly as he revelled in the joy of becoming a soldier and the thought of all the adventures he might have; of all the wars he might fight in; of how he would be a hero, leading his men in a gallant charge against terrible odds, and triumphing to the resounding cheers of his friends and family.

'There! That's it, young man,' the French soldier was saying. 'You are one of us now.'

But Naboleone's thoughts remained with his family. As he glanced back towards the harbour the first lamps were already being lit along the street and in the windows of the houses.

'I have to go,' he muttered, gesturing in the direction of his home.

'Oh!' the soldier laughed. 'Deserting already!'

Naboleone started to undo his buttons, but the soldier stayed his hand. 'No. The uniform's for you. Keep it. Anyway, you're a King's man now, and we'll be expecting to see you on duty again soon.'

Naboleone surveyed the coat with a look of disbelief. 'It's mine? To keep?'

'But, of course! Now run along.'

The boy's eyes met the soldier's. 'Thank you,' he said softly, little fingers closing around the hilt of the toy sword.'Thank you.'

As he moved towards the edge of the small group of soldiers they parted before him, as if he were a general and when he turned back someone shouted an order and they all shuffled to attention with wide grins and saluted. Naboleone, stern-faced, returned the salute, then turned about and marched down the street towards his home, feeling as tall as a man and as grand as any king.

Behind him the Frenchmen settled back to their evening ration of sausage, bread and wine. The soldier who had dressed Naboleone watched the little boy strutting down the road and he smiled in satisfaction before he rejoined his comrades.

Chapter 5

By the time he had reached his home, night had fallen and Naboleone's bravado had seeped away as he faced the prospect of sneaking back into his room without being caught. He waited in the entrance hall for a moment, ears straining to pick up any sounds in the house. From the first floor came the voices of Naboleone's parents. He crept towards the stairs and then, keeping as close to the wall as possible to minimise any creaking of the boards, the boy stole upstairs. His heart was pounding at the tension in his body as he reached the top, squeezed through the door to his family's rooms and started down the darkened corridor to the room he shared with Giuseppe. He never made it.The toy sword, jammed into his belt, suddenly scraped across a skirtingboard.

Before the boy could dive the last few feet to his room, the door to the kitchen was wrenched open and a dim glow spilled into the corridor.

'Where on earth…?' his father began, then there was a beat before his anger gave way to surprise. 'What are you wearing? Come here, boy!'

Naboleone warily made his way to the kitchen door, paused to remove his tricorn and look up at his father towering over him, then entered the room. His mother sat at the table. Her lips tightened as she saw the uniform.

'Where did you get that?'

'It – it was a present.'

'Who from?'

'The soldiers at the citadel.'

Letizia stood up and stabbed a finger at her son. 'Take it off! How dare you wear that?'

Naboleone was shocked by the venom in her voice. He hurriedly undid the belt and buttons, shuffled his arms out of the coat and laid it on the table. The gaiters followed, together with the tricorn and toy sword. All the time his parents stared at him. At length his father broke the silence.

'Tell me you did not walk through the streets wearing that uniform.'

'I did.'

Carlos rolled his eyes and clapped a hand to his forehead.

'Did anyone see you?' Letizia snapped. 'Speak up! The truth, mind.'

Naboleone thought back. 'It was growing dark. I passed a few people.'

'Did they recognise you?'

'Yes.'

'Well, then,' Letizia said bitterly, 'word will get round that our son has been seen in French uniform. That's an end to any reputation our family once held in this town. It's bad enough your father is employed by the French, Naboleone. And now our own son marches round the town in a French uniform. The Paolists will drag our family name through the gutters for this.'

Carlos stepped up to the table and examined the tiny uniform. 'You exaggerate, Letizia. This is a toy, that's all. Dressing-up clothes. They made them for him as a joke.'

'They were a gift,' Naboleone piped up. 'They're mine.'

'Quiet, you little idiot,' Letizia said coldly. 'Can't you understand what you've done? What fools you have made of us?'

The little boy shook his head, bewildered by her rage.

'Well, try to understand, before you ruin our reputation any further. Do you know, there are still bands of Corsican patriots out there in the maquis, still fighting the French? Do you know what they do to any collaborators they capture?'

Naboleone shook his head.

'They cut their throats and leave the bodies where others can see them, as a warning. Do you want that to happen to us?'

'N-no, Mother.'

'Stop it!' Carlos raised his hand. 'Letizia, you're scaring the child.'

'Good! He needs to be scared. For his own sake, as well as ours.'

'But we're not in the maquis. We're in the town. The garrison is here to protect us. To restore order. The Paolists are little more than brigands. They'll be finished off before the year's out. The French are here to stay and the sooner people accept that, the better. I have.'

She sneered. 'Don't think I haven't noticed. Don't think it hasn't disgusted me that we have had to sell our birthright as Corsicans to safeguard the future of our family.'

Naboleone watched the confrontation between his parents anxiously and now he almost choked as he interrupted their exchange. 'Mother, I was only playing with them.'

'Well, don't! Never again, you understand?'

He nodded.

'As for these,' she bundled the uniform and hat up, 'they must be disposed of.'

'But, Mother!'

'Quiet! They must go. And you must never mention this to anyone.'

The boy seethed inside, but he knew he must accept her word or face a beating he would not forget in a long time. He nodded.

'In any case,' Carlos said in a calming tone, 'you've spent too long running around the town.You're almost feral. Look at you. Your hair needs a comb. No, better still, a cut.You need a cleanup and some discipline. It's time you started school.'

Naboleone's heart sank into the pit of his stomach. School? That was as bad as being sent to prison.

'Your mother and I have talked this over. You need an education. Tomorrow I will speak with Abbot Rocco about admitting you and Giuseppe to his school. It'll mean we have less money in the house but, given tonight's events, I don't think we can afford not to send you there.'

Chapter 6

Ireland, 1773

Anne poured herself a fresh cup of tea and gazed out through the doors of the orangery to where her children were playing on the lawn. The two older boys, Richard and William, were once again commanding Anne and Arthur about as they arranged a collection of drying racks and sheets into the outline of a ship. A book on pirates had gone round the nursery, being avidly devoured by each child in turn, and for the last few weeks of the summer they had played nothing else. As ever, the quiet Arthur, now four years old, said little but did as he was bid and carried out his orders with focused intensity. Anne watched him with a keen sense of pity. He had developed a sensitive face. His nose had a faint downward curve and his eyes were a brilliant light blue, the whole fringed by long fair hair that wafted in the gentle breeze as he went about his work.

Anne raised her cup and sipped delicately from the rim. On the floor beside her slept her youngest son, Gerald, born a year after Arthur, and she was expecting yet another, who was to be named Henry, if it turned out to be a boy.

On the other side of the table Garrett sat with a folio of sheet music spread across the table. He was working on a new composition and every now and then he would raise his violin and pluck at the strings as he tried out a new arrangement. Then he would suddenly lower the instrument, snatch up a quill and start scribbling alterations to the notes marked on the staves.

Anne coughed lightly. 'Garrett, what do you think will become of him?'

'Eh?' Her husband grunted, frowning. He dipped his nib and irritably scratched out several notes.

'Arthur.'

Garrett glanced up, frowning. 'What about him?'

'Please lower that quill before we continue this conversation.'

'What? Oh, very well. There.' He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together with a smile. 'I'm all yours.'

'Thank you. I was wondering what you thought about Arthur.'

'What I think of him?' Garrett turned to gaze at the children playing in the garden, as if he had only just realised they were there at all. 'Oh, he'll do well enough.'

'Really? And just what kind of future do you think he might have?'

'Oh, I don't know. Something in the clergy, I should think.'

'The clergy?'

'Yes. After all, he's displayed no signs of any intellectual mettle. Not like Richard and William. Even young Gerald there seems to have a more lively grasp of numbers and letters than Arthur.We'll do our best for him, of course, but I dare say he'll never go up to Oxford, or Cambridge.'

'Well, yes. Quite.'

Just then their conversation was interrupted by a piercing cry from the garden and their heads snapped round. Arthur had fallen to his knees and was clutching his head. A wooden sword lay on the ground beside him and William was staring at his younger brother angrily.

'Oh, for heaven's sake, Arthur! It was just a tap. Anyway, I told you to defend yourself.'

Garrett shook his head and glanced down at his music. Then he looked up again, struck by a sudden notion. 'Arthur! Come here, my boy.' As Arthur toddled in from the garden Garrett smiled. 'I think it's time you learned to play a musical instrument. And what better than the violin? Come here, child. Let me show you.'

As Anne watched, her husband carefully handed his full-size violin to the young boy, and named each string for him.Then he reached for the bow and began to play some notes. In a few minutes Arthur had forgotten about his sore head, and his bright eyes eagerly soaked up every detail of the instrument as he concentrated on his father's instructions. At length Garrett drew up a chair and let the boy sit down with the violin in his lap and Arthur sawed happily away in a series of blood-curdling screeches and scrapes. Gerald was duly disturbed from his sleep on the cushions and rose quickly, alarmed by the discordant noise.

Anne smiled. 'Time for supper, I think. Run along, boys. Arthur, put that down and get along to the kitchen. Your father and I will follow directly.'

'Yes, Mother.'

Garrett held out his hands for the instrument. 'Thank you. Do you want me to teach you how to play this instrument properly?'

The boy's eyes sparkled. 'Oh yes, Father! I should like that.'

Garrett laughed. 'Good. And one day we shall compose music together.'

Arthur smiled brilliantly, then hurried round the table to help his brother up from the cushions. The two of them walked towards the kitchen with stiff little steps, still holding hands. Both parents watched their progress and then turned to each other and smiled.

'A musician, I think,' said Garrett.

'God help us,' Anne muttered. 'Your charity concerts will be the ruin of us yet.'

'Shame on you! We can afford it. Besides, it's my Christian duty to spread culture to the less advantaged.'

'I'd have thought your first Christian duty was to the wellbeing of your family.'

'It is, my dear.' He stared at her intently. 'Now, we were talking about young Arthur. Seriously, though, I think he might be suited to a musical career.'

'How wonderful,' Anne replied with acid-laced irony.

'Yes, well… Meanwhile we must find him a school. I have one in mind.'

'Oh, yes?'

Garrett nodded. 'The Diocesian School at Trim.You know the place. St Mary's Abbey.'

Anne stared after her son. 'Do you think he's old enough?'

'My dear, if we don't start preparing him for life now, when will we begin? If he is not to fall behind the achievements of Richard and William we must work him hard.'

'You're right, of course. It's just that he seems so… vulnerable. I fear for him.'

'He'll do well enough,' Garrett said comfortingly.