Текст книги "Young bloods"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Chapter 56

'Of course, you'll be sitting with us on the Tory benches,' Charles Fitzroy motioned towards the seating closest to the Speaker's chair. Arthur mumbled his assent but he was looking upwards, his gaze fixed by the cupola curving over his head far above. Fitzroy noted the look and smiled.

'Impressive, isn't it? When the debates start to get tedious, I often find myself stretching back and staring up there. Makes a man forget his surroundings for a moment, which is always a good thing.'

Arthur smiled. He had been in the building before, sometimes to watch his brother William speaking, sometimes because the nature of the debate took his interest. But now he was there as a member, not a guest, and Arthur felt the thrill of exclusivity that all new members of parliament experience.

'As one of the new boys,' Fitzroy continued, 'you'll find the rules are simple. Keep quiet, unless you're cheering one of our side on, or shouting down the opposition.' He paused and looked at Arthur. 'I'm afraid that doesn't happen as often as you might think. Most of the debates would do good service in purgatory. I sometimes wonder if that's the true origin of our party's sobriquet.'

Arthur laughed politely. Fitzroy's son, Richard, had been a contemporary of Arthur's at Angers and he had met Fitzroy on only a few occasions in recent years. So Arthur was pleased when the MP's invitation to introduce him to the parliament had arrived at his lodgings. Charles Fitzroy was a tall thin man in his late fifties. He was gracious, in word and action, and had sat for the borough of Kinkelly for over thirty years. His taste in clothes was refined, if dated, but somehow the powdered wig suited him and the overall effect very much reminded Arthur of Marcel de Pignerolle. He felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought of the director of the academy at Angers. If the revolution in France was determined to tear down every last bastion of the nobility, then the unrepentant de Pignerolle would perish with the system he so admired. Arthur's heart felt heavy with dread at such a prospect and it showed in the pained expression that briefly crossed his face.

'Are you all right, young Wesley?' Fitzroy took his arm gently.

'Yes, I'm fine. Just thinking about something else.'

'Oh?'

'It's nothing. I was just reminded of my time in France. Someone I knew.'

'Ah, France.' Fitzroy shook his head. 'A sad business, this crude egalitarianism they are so intent on establishing. No good will come of it, you can be sure of that. If God had intended us to live in a democracy he would have made us all aristocrats or peasants. And where would be the fun in that?'

'Quite.'

'And the wretched thing about it is that some of our own people are becoming infected by their notions.'

Arthur nodded. 'I know. I had the pleasure of Mr Grattan's company while I was campaigning in Trim.'

'Oh, don't you worry about Henry Grattan.' Fitzroy waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. 'He talks about reform, but he has a patriotic heart. And he's wealthy enough to imagine the personal sacrifices implied by a more egalitarian society. He won't cause us any real problems as long as he is fed a diet of petty reforms to dangle before his followers.' Fitzroy smiled cynically. 'Bread and circuses, dear boy. Well, in this instance, potatoes and poteen. As long as they're fed and drunk there'll be no threat to our class.'

'I'm not so sure,'Arthur replied after a moment's reflection.'All it takes is a few inspired men and anything can happen. God help us if the Irish ever find a Mirabeau or a Bailly to speak for them.'

'That presumes a degree of similarity in sophistication between the French and the Irish, which simply doesn't exist.The Irish were born to serve, Wesley. It's in their blood. Revolution simply wouldn't occur to them.'

Arthur shrugged. 'I hope you are right.'

'Of course I am, my boy.' Fitzroy slapped him on the back. 'Now come and meet some of my friends.'

Arthur soon discovered that being on the back benches of the Tory faction was a frustrating experience. As Fitzroy had said, the duties of a new member of parliament were limited to voting along party lines and spending the rest of the time waiting for a chance to join the chorus of cheering or jeering, as the situation required. There were proposals for further measures of Catholic and Presbyterian relief, budget presentations, arguments over taxation and tax exemption, and all the time the spectre of the revolution in France became a touchstone for those resisting change, as well as serving as a rallying point for reformers.

It soon became difficult to combine his parliamentary duties with those of an officer on the staff at Dublin Castle. Arthur took his role seriously, unlike a number of members of parliament, who hardly ever attended a debate and could only be persuaded to vote by an offer of a bribe, usually in the form of a sinecure or pension at the public expense. And while Arthur enjoyed the political manoeuvring of the Tories and Whigs he found the endless corruption and dishonesty profoundly depressing at times. There was some relief to be found in the social life at the castle. Particularly now that Kitty Pakenham was old enough to take a regular position in the crowd of youngsters who filled out the ballrooms, the dining salons and the endless succession of summer picnics.

After their first meeting Arthur had been dismayed when, so soon afterwards, Kitty had returned to her home in Castlepollard. But just before Christmas, Kitty and her brother Tom moved into the family's house in Rutland Square in Dublin, and Kitty soon became something of a fixture at the court in Dublin Castle, to Arthur's secret delight. His pleasure was tempered by the attention paid to Kitty by many of the other young gentlemen who quickly fell under her charm and competed vigorously for her attention. For some months Arthur found it difficult to penetrate her cordon of admirers in order to have a private conversation. A few snatched sentences were all that was possible before some beau, or chirpy young female acquaintance, intervened to request a dance, or to direct the conversation towards more frivolous territory. At such moments Arthur would seethe inside and put on an expression of polite interest while he endured proceedings, all the time praying that the witless interloper in question would disappear, or have some kind of horribly debilitating fit. But they never did and on each occasion Arthur found himself stewing in frustration, only to have to return to his lodgings afterwards in a miserable mood of self-recrimination for not having the nerve to be more forthright in his attempts to win Kitty's affection. If things continued as they were, he chided himself, then before long someone with a more confident approach would steal her away before she ever became aware of Arthur's feelings towards her.

Meanwhile he was tantalised every time their eyes met across a crowded dance floor or along a dining table, and she seemed to smile with some kind of special significance that made him certain that she regarded him as more than just a face in the crowd. At such moments he felt his heart soar with hope… before it came crashing down again as Kitty turned her gaze on another young man and engaged him in close conversation.Then Arthur would watch in growing frustration at each smile or laugh that was elicited from her.

When he was out of her company he attempted to rationalise his feelings. She was, after all, just a girl, three years younger than him. There were plenty of other desirable young ladies at court and many more years in which to secure one of them for a wife. His feelings for Kitty were a passing obsession, he told himself, all too understandable in someone of his age. But whenever he saw her, all the logic that could be brought to bear on the situation simply melted away as his passion flared into being once more. He was being foolish and, worse still, he ran the risk of making himself look foolish in front of his peers if his feelings for Kitty became known.Yet if he did nothing to let her know how he felt, then how could she begin to reciprocate his affection – assuming she even wanted to?

Chapter 57

Corsica, 1789

When Napoleon landed in Ajaccio late in September he was astonished to find the island almost as he had left it over a year earlier, before the momentous events that had followed the summoning of the Estates General by King Louis. Among the sailors and townspeople on the harbour quay were soldiers from the garrison, still wearing the white cockade of the Bourbons in their hats when the rest of the French Army had adopted the red and blue cockade of Paris. As he walked up the streets to the family house Napoleon stared about his surroundings curiously. There were no posters on street corners proclaiming the latest news from the National Assembly, no impassioned debates outside the cafes and drinking holes of the town, no sense that the world was rapidly changing and that the vestiges of an old regime were being swept aside to clear the way for the new France.

Entering the house, he found his mother upstairs in the laundry room, standing by the window as she pulled the cord that stretched the dripping clothes along the line that hung across the courtyard at the back of the house. She turned and saw him. Napoleon set his hat down on a stool and went to embrace her.

'When you wrote to say the army had taken you back, I feared I wouldn't be seeing you for years.' She stroked his cheek. 'How long will you stay this time, Naboleone?'

He smiled. 'I really don't know. It could be many more months.'

'Good.That's good. Giuseppe came home from Italy last week. He's down at the court watching a trial today. He's missed you. So have I. I'll have you all together under one roof. Just as well, the way things are going.' She looked at him sharply. 'So what exactly is happening in Paris?'

'You must have heard the news, Mother. The whole world must have heard the news by now.'

'It's different here.You have the royalists saying that the King is biding his time, waiting for the chance to seize back his power. Then there's those hothead radicals at the Jacobin Club telling us that the old order is gone and we live in a democracy. And there's Paoli's followers claiming that the chaos in France is the best chance we'll have to win independence for Corsica.' She shrugged. 'But most people don't really care. Life goes on.'

'So I noticed.'

That evening, after dinner when all the younger siblings had been sent to bed with a promise that they would have Napoleon's attention the next day, he sat with his older brother and opened a bottle of wine.

'Well?' Joseph filled their glasses. 'What are you really doing back in Corsica?'

'Besides enjoying the company of my family and dear brother?'

Joseph smiled. 'Besides that.'

'France does not want my services at present. So it's time I took a more active role in Corsica.You've been here for a while. What is the feeling among the people?'

Joseph looked at his brother shrewdly.'You mean, what are the chances of the Paolists? It's hard to say. In the National Assembly the deputy chosen to represent Corsica's nobles is Buttafuoco. He says the French Government can keep the island by bribing some Corsicans and having no mercy on the rest. The deputies for the third estate are Antoine Cristoforo Saliceti and Cesari Rocca. They want nothing to do with Corsican independence and argue that Corsica's best interests are served by staying with France. So you see, there's no one to present the case for Corsican liberty in Paris.'

Napoleon thought for a moment before he spoke. 'Then it must be decided here.'

His brother chuckled. 'That's what I thought you'd say.'

The Jacobin Club met in one of the inns on the streets dominated by the walls of the citadel.The members were delighted to recruit Napoleon. If the King's officers had become interested in radical politics then there was no hope of returning to the dark days of the old regime. The club subscribed to as many of the Paris newspapers as they could afford.The most avid attention was paid to the reports of the proceedings of the Jacobin Club in Paris. Napoleon read these items with as keen an eye as the other members and was particularly taken by the arguments put forward by a deputy called Robespierre, formerly a lawyer from Arras. There was something familiar about his rhetorical style, though Napoleon could not place it.

When the members were not reading the Paris papers they were engaged in heated debate around the tables of the inn, whose owner looked on benignly as he grew steadily wealthier from the massively increased trade. Napoleon soon became one of the most outspoken members of the club. At last there was a vehicle for all the reading and note-taking and essay writing that had occupied much of the lonely life he had led in his off-duty hours. The long rehearsed arguments that he had nurtured in his breast now gushed out in a torrent of irresistible logic and moral principle, and his audience followed him with an intensity that was only relieved by their roars of approval and thunderous applause.

Early in the new year his local reputation had become so established that he was elected as an officer of Ajaccio's newly formed unit of the National Guard. The French authorities, still only partially accommodated to the new regime that was establishing itself in Paris, viewed the links between the fiery members of the Jacobin Club and the volunteers of the National Guard unit with growing concern, and in the spring they made their move.The Swiss troops garrisoning the citadel disarmed and disbanded the volunteers and closed down the Jacobin Club.

From the long table in the salon of his mother's home, Napoleon penned a bitter letter of complaint about this suppression to deputies Saliceti and Rocca in Paris. While he waited for a reply he travelled north to Bastia and distributed revolutionary cockades to people in the streets, even as he established links with local patriots and tried to determine if the French garrison might be incited to mutiny.

There was bad news when he returned to Ajaccio. The papers reported that Saliceti was trying to persuade the National Assembly to press on with the integration of Corsica into the French state, and declare the island to be one of the new departments that France had been divided into. Napoleon's mood was black. The liberation of his homeland seemed more unlikely than ever with the Corsican deputies working so assiduously to bind the island into the French nation. Everything now depended on Paoli and building up support for the overthrow of French rule by force.

Chapter 58

Pasquale Paoli made his triumphant return from exile in the spring of 1790. Joseph and Napoleon were amongst the delegation from Corsica that met the great man in Marseilles. At sixty-six he still stood tall and erect, and had the remains of the commanding features that had so inspired his countrymen in earlier years. Even Napoleon sensed the spell of the man when he was introduced. Paoli held him by the shoulders and gazed into his eyes.

'Citizen Buona Parte, I had the privilege of knowing your father. Carlos was a good man. I grieved when I heard of his death, far too early for a young man of his promise. At least he has good sons to carry on his work.'

Napoleon bowed his head in gratitude and replied, 'Yes, sir. We will not rest until Corsica has won its freedom.'

'Freedom…' Paoli's brow tightened slightly as he continued to stare in Napoleon's eyes. 'Yes, we will enjoy all the freedoms that the new France has to offer.'

He squeezed Napoleon's shoulder and moved on to the next member of the delegation.

A huge crowd had gathered to greet Paoli as he stepped ashore in Bastia. A path had been cleared for him by the Swiss mercenaries of the Bastia garrison. He descended from the gangway, and raised his hat in salute to the cheering people. A large revolutionary cockade was pinned to the crown of the hat and Paoli waved it slowly from side to side as he strode along the quay, followed by the men of the delegation who smiled and waved to the crowd.

The Buona Parte brothers accompanied Paoli as far as Corte, the ancient capital in the centre of the island. There Joseph remained, having been promised a minor post in Paoli's new administration. Napoleon made it known that he would be honoured to accept any military command under Paoli before he returned to Ajaccio alone. He reflected upon the delicacy of his situation.The Paolists wanted independence. Most of the Jacobins wanted radical democracy, and Napoleon wanted both. In pursuing that aim, he risked enmity from both sides.

In the late summer he returned to the newly reopened Jacobin Club and began to speak again. This time he kept his arguments focused on events in Corsica, rather than putting the case for the broader philosophical themes of the revolution. He argued that any true revolutionary would start the revolution where he stood. They should not wait on the politicians in Paris a moment longer. The Jacobins of Ajaccio should work towards seizing the citadel that loomed over the town and turn Ajaccio into a revolutionary commune. Napoleon added that the Catholic Church must be deprived of its tax rights and legal privileges. Even as he argued this, he knew that the Paolists would disapprove. They were nationalists, not atheists, and sure enough several members of the audience sprang to their feet to denounce Napoleon and condemn his heresies. He recognised one of them as Pozzo di Borgo, a former friend from his childhood. Napoleon pointed to him.

'By what right does the Church enforce these taxes?'

'By divine right!' di Borgo shouted back.'It is the Will of God.'

'And where exactly is this Will of God set down? Not in the Bible. Not in any of the Scriptures.The truth is, men made those taxes. And men can unmake them without offending the Almighty.'

Di Borgo glared back at him. 'The Church is the embodiment of God's Will. If the Church requires taxes, it is because God requires taxes.'

'God requires taxes?' Napoleon laughed.'What does God need taxes for? Are there bills to be paid in Heaven?'

Several of the younger members laughed with him, but di Borgo flushed with anger.'Be careful, Buona Parte, or you will be judged sooner than you think.' With that he turned and left the room, followed by several others and the jeers of the more radical amongst the Jacobins.

When Napoleon left the club late that night, a handful of the younger members walked home with him, in order to continue discussing some of the points made by that evening's speakers. As the party turned into the street that led towards Napoleon's home, several shadowy figures emerged from a side alley and quickly spread out across the road. Each carried a club.

'What's this?' one of Napoleon's companions laughed nervously.'There aren't this many thieves in the whole of Ajaccio.'

'Quiet!' Napoleon snapped. The thud of boots from behind made him turn and he saw more dark shapes emerge from the direction of the Jacobin Club to close the trap. 'Shit…'

For a moment, all was still in the street. Napoleon crouched down and clenched his fists. He drew a breath and cried out at the top of his voice, 'Follow me!'

He threw himself towards the men blocking the street ahead, as his comrades came after him. Gritting his teeth, he ran into one of their attackers before the man could swing his club. They tumbled on to the cobblestones, Napoleon's knee driving the wind from the man's lungs as they landed. He smashed his fists into the man's face, hearing the soft crunch of the nose breaking as the man gasped in pain. Napoleon glanced round, and saw a tangle of dark shapes fighting. It was impossible to tell who was on which side, just as he had hoped when he launched his attack. He felt the shaft of a club and he wrenched it from the man's loose hand. Staying low, he backed towards the wall of a building facing the street. Before him the fight continued in a heaving mass of shadows accompanied by grunts and cries of pain. Suddenly a figure confronted him, club raised.

'Come on,' Napoleon growled. 'Let's get the bastards!'

'Right!' The man laughed and turned back towards the fight. At once Napoleon swung the club he had taken in a scything arc and smashed it into the other man's knee with a loud crack. A shrill cry of agony split the air and the man sprawled to the ground. Napoleon filled his lungs and shouted. 'Jacobins! With me!' He turned and ran up the street towards his house. 'Follow me!'

Footsteps scraped over the cobblestones and thudded after him as Napoleon ran on. Ahead he saw the dull glow of the lantern his mother had lit above the front door for his late return and he glanced back over his shoulder. The street behind him was filled with figures running in the same direction.

'Come on! This way!'

He reached the door, lifted the latch and threw himself inside. Right behind him came two of his comrades, then another, blood gushing from his scalp. Napoleon wrenched open the cupboard where his father had kept his fowling piece. He grabbed the gun, drawing back the flintlock as he crossed back to the door and stood on the threshold. The first of the attackers came running up: a tall man with a scarf tied across his mouth and nose to conceal his identity.As he saw the muzzle of the gun he scrambled to a halt.

'Get out of here!' Napoleon yelled. 'All of you! Or I swear I'll shoot the first man to come a step nearer my house!'

'Stand your ground!' a voice called out from further down the street. Napoleon recognised it instantly.

'Di Borgo! Tell your men to go, or I swear to God I'll shoot.'

There was a tense moment of silence, before Napoleon heard a chuckle from the darkness.

'So this is what it takes to make you a believer… There must be no more disrespect for the Church.You've had your warning, Buona Parte.There won't be another. Come on, men, leave them.'

The shadows drew off and Napoleon waited until they were some distance away from the door before he lowered the gun and closed the door to the street. He glanced round at his companions and saw that they were all with him. Besides the youth with the head wound, one was nursing his jaw and another was clutching a broken wrist to his chest.All were panting and looked wild-eyed with excitement and fear. Napoleon saw that his own hands were trembling as they clutched the gun.

'Hey,' one of his comrades muttered, 'would you really have shot at them?'

Napoleon smiled and raised the barrel towards the ceiling. 'I don't think anyone's loaded it in years.'

He pulled the trigger. At once there was a fizz and a deafening explosion as a chunk of plaster exploded from the ceiling. The others jumped back in alarm and then stared at Napoleon in shock.

Moments later a door was wrenched open, feet pattered across the landing and his mother screamed out,'What on earth is going on? Who's firing guns in my house at this time of night?'

Napoleon exchanged an anxious glance with his comrades, before they dissolved into laughter.

Napoleon took the warning seriously enough to make sure that he never entered the streets of Ajaccio alone. For the protection of himself and his family, he persuaded the members of the Jacobin Club to elect him lieutenant colonel of the town's volunteer battalion of the National Guard. It was easily arranged, since he was one of the few men in Ajaccio with professional military training, and as autumn arrived Napoleon took up the post. Since the commander of the unit, Colonel Quenza, was an ageing merchant, another member of the Jacobin Club who had never fired a weapon in anger, let alone taken part in any training exercises, this left Napoleon in effective command of the unit. With a force of five hundred men behind him he had no further trouble from di Borgo and his Paolist friends. Napoleon was free to continue developing his political base in Ajaccio. At the same time he trained the men of the National Guard as thoroughly as possible, under the amused eyes of the off-duty soldiers of the garrison, who were inclined to neglect their training drills in this generally quiet backwater.

The only excitement the following summer was the news of the royal family's attempt to escape from Paris and join up with an army of emigres and foreign mercenaries to seize power back from the National Assembly. Napoleon joined the other members in the Jacobin Club as they crowded round the copies of the Moniteur and the Mercure to read the first accounts of the King's arrest at Varennes. No one was in any doubt that he was little more than a prisoner of the new regime in Paris. The very last vestige of his authority had dissolved in his failed escape attempt.

'It's over then,' Napoleon decided as he finished reading the reports.

'What's over?' one of the younger members of the club asked.

'The monarchy. It's finished.' Napoleon tapped the newspaper with his finger. 'The King and that fool of a Queen have been caught out.They've been pretending to go along with the reforms ever since the Estates General first met. And all the time they have been plotting against the French people. Now they'll be seen for what they are – traitors.'

Several faces turned in Napoleon's direction and he was aware that he had said too much. Even now, even here in the Jacobin Club, there were some who clung to a tradition of respect for the Crown. France was not quite ready to dispense with the monarchy, at least not without causing bitter divisions. But given that there was no longer any way of hiding from the venality of King Louis, the National Assembly would be forced to act, to save France as much as to save itself. Napoleon reflected a moment. If the King was deposed, and that led to a breakdown in order and maybe even civil war, then it was imperative that Corsica did not get embroiled.The island had suffered enough already in its thirst for freedom.