Текст книги "Young bloods"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Chapter 15

The military college was on the outskirts of the small market town of Brienne. The college was comprised of functional buildings neatly laid out around a quadrangle. It was designed, Carlos told his son, to accommodate one hundred and twenty cadets, half of whom were scholarship boys like Napoleon. So he should not feel unduly out of place.As the cart passed through the quadrangle and made for the coach house and stables at the rear of the main building, Napoleon stared keenly about him.

While one of the college grooms took charge of the cart, a porter scurried over to unload Napoleon's trunk, then led Carlos and his son to the administrative section at the heart of the college. Inside, a hall stretched the length of the building and the varnished parquet gleamed in the light slanting through tall shuttered windows that stretched along the side of the hall opposite the offices.The tang of polish filled the air and the sound of their shoes echoed off smooth plastered walls.

'Over here, sir.' The porter indicated a door to one side. A neatly painted sign indicated that this was the office of the director of the institution. A plain bench ran along the wall beyond the door.

Carlos bowed his head. 'Thank you.'

'I'll take the young gentleman's trunk to his cell, sir.'

'Very well.'

As the porter, burdened down by the luggage, tramped off down the corridor, Carlos and his son exchanged brief looks. Carlos flashed a quick smile and whispered, 'Well, here we are, Napoleon.'

He raised his hand to knock on the polished wooden panel, paused to take a deep breath, then rapped sharply.

There was a muffled cough from inside and then a thin, reedy voice called out, 'Enter!'

Carlos pressed the handle down and pushed the door open. It was heavier than he expected and resisted his efforts with a faint squeak from the hinges before it gave. Inside was a large office, lined with bookcases along which gleamed the gilded spines of books so regimented that it seemed that they were rarely, if ever, taken from their places.The office was bathed in light from a large window that looked out over the quadrangle. In front of the window was a modest walnut desk. Sitting behind it was a thin man in a plain black frock coat and powdered wig. He wore a pair of glasses that made his eyes look far larger than they really were, and Napoleon felt them bore into him as the man subjected him to intense scrutiny. There was a moment's stillness before Carlos coughed nervously and gently pressed his son forward.

'Carlos Buona Parte, at your service.' He raised his eyebrows slightly. 'You must be the director, sir?'

The man slowly swivelled his gaze away from Napoleon towards his father. He made a thin smile and replied in his weak strained tone, 'Yes, I believe that's what the sign outside the door says, Signor Buona Parte.' His eyes flickered back to Napoleon. 'And this is the new boy.'

Carlos's expression was frigid at being addressed in the Italian fashion, but he bit back on his irritation and bowed his head.'Yes, sir. My son, Napoleon.'

'We were expecting you two days ago.'

'I was delayed in Bastia, by a storm. I made up some of the time before I could fetch my son from Autun. I apologise.'

The director nodded his head briefly, as if to indicate that he could barely tolerate the apology.'Very well, sir. I think it only fair to tell you that the boy's entry in the college is allowed under sufferance.'

'Sufferance, sir? What do you mean?'

'Only that it is our custom to extend places to the sons of French nobility. This is our first application from Corsica.'

'Which is now French, as you well know, sir.'

The director shrugged his bony shoulders. 'So it would seem. In any event, I would rather not dilute the quality of our student body by admitting someone from outside of France.' He paused and smiled. 'Mainland France, at any rate.'

'Dilute?' Carlos felt his chest tighten in rage. 'Did you say, "dilute"?'

'I did, sir. But I intend no slur on your island, nor your son, naturally. I am sure that in time the inhabitants of Corsica will acclimatise to their new nationality.To their new culture. Until such time, it is my opinion that the mixing of our respective cultures can only confuse the educational ethos of the college. It is as much a concern for the wellbeing of your son as it is for the rest of the students here. And were it not for the well-meaning but misplaced representations of the Comte de Marbeuf to the Royal Court, I would be able to prevent this unfortunate state of affairs.As it is…' He shrugged again and opened out his pale white hands.

Carlos placed a hand on Napoleon's shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze as he responded to the director.'But as it is, you have been instructed to accept my son into this establishment.'

'Yes, sir. I am sure you understand the sensitivity of the situation.'

Carlos stared at the director a moment before he replied, 'I understand.'

The director smiled in relief. 'I am certain that the boy Napoleon will find that the continuation of his studies at Autun will be for the best.'

'The boy stays here,' Carlos said firmly. 'He has been awarded a royal scholarship.You will educate him, as arranged.'

'I see. Well, if you are adamant that you wish him to be educated here…'

'I am.'

A sudden look of inspiration flickered across the director's face. 'And how does he feel about the situation, I wonder.' He leaned forward, over the edge of the desk and fixed Napoleon with an intense stare. 'Well, boy? Do you wish to stay here? Or return to your friends back in Autun?'

'P-please, sir. I don't know.'

'Napoleon,' his father said sternly, pulling him round so that their eyes met. 'You will be educated here. It is your right. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Do you understand me?'

Napoleon felt his insides churn with a mixture of injured pride and a desire to quit this place and be back with his brother. But he would not let his father down. He would not back away from this arrogant Frenchman. Napoleon swallowed nervously and nodded his head. 'I understand, Father.'

'Good.' Carlos patted his shoulder, and turned back to the director. 'It is settled, then.'

'Very well.' The director said in a resigned tone. 'Now, I imagine you have a long journey to make back to your home in Corsica. Please don't let me detain you a moment longer. I'll see that your son' – he made a thin smile at the boy – 'I'll see that young Napoleon here is taken care of.'

Carlos stared at him for a moment, then nodded his head. 'Then I'll take my leave of you. With thanks for taking him into Brienne. I'm sure he will prove himself a worthy student.'

'He looks like a determined enough boy. I'm sure he will try to prove himself. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll have to complete his enrolment records. If you'll be so kind as to take him to the quartermaster's stores at the end of the hall he can be fitted with his uniform. Good day to you, sir.'

Carlos steered his son towards the door and back into the corridor outside. As the heavy door closed behind them with a faint squeal from the hinges, father and son looked at each other in silence. Carlos still felt the anger surging through his veins, but the injured look in the eyes of his son pricked him with guilt.

'Father, do I have to stay here?'

'Yes. I know it will be difficult. But it is the best chance of a future you will ever get. Have courage, Napoleon.'

Courage, the boy thought. Yes, courage. That's all that would protect him now. For the first time he would be cut off from all his family. He would be alone. A Corsican amongst the haughty sons of French aristocrats. Only courage would save him.

'Come now,' his father smiled. 'Let's find the quartermaster. I can't wait to see you in that fine new uniform!'

'There!' Carlos straightened up and took two paces back. 'You're quite the young gentleman.'

Napoleon stiffened his back and smiled at his father. The uniform felt good on him. It made him feel older and wiser, and somehow a little braver. In this coat he was not so different from the other students who were passing in the hall outside the quartermaster's door now that morning lessons had finished. At least, he would not look so different. But that, Napoleon knew, was where the similarity would end. As soon as he opened his mouth his origins would be painfully apparent. What then?

His father was still examining him with a pleased expression. 'It suits you. I'm sure you will be a fine soldier some day. One I can be proud of.'

Napoleon felt his throat tighten and he could not trust himself to reply immediately, but nodded with a vague mumble that he would do his best.

'I'm sure you will.' The smile faded from Carlos's lips. 'Now, I must go.'

He stared down at his son, and for a moment saw only the smooth-featured child whose birth seemed only a little while ago. So short a time. Perhaps too short a time, he reflected guiltily, and for an instant he felt the urge to bundle the boy into his arms and bear him back home to his family. Then he tried to dismiss the feeling. He could not shield the boy from this world for ever. It was better that Napoleon became acquainted with its challenges as soon as possible. And what better opportunity than a scholarship in one of the most prestigious colleges in France? Carlos had done everything in his power to secure advancement for his sons. It was all for them, he told himself, and this parting was just one of the many sacrifices he had made. Carlos extended his hand formally.

'I'll give your love to your mother. Be good and work hard.'

Napoleon hesitated a moment before he reached out and pressed his hand into the palm of his father's, feeling the warmth that briefly passed between their connected flesh, before his father loosened his grip.

Napoleon swallowed. 'When will I see you again?'

Carlos frowned. He had not considered this, but he must reassure his son. 'Soon. I'll come and visit the moment the family affairs are in order.'

'When will that be?'

'Soon, Napoleon. Then I'll see you and Joseph again. Perhaps your mother will come with me.'

'I'd like that,' Napoleon said quietly, wanting to commit his father to a definite time, but knowing it was impossible. 'You will write to me?'

'Of course I will! As often as possible.' Carlos flashed one of his brilliant smiles.'And I expect you to respond in kind, young man.'

'I will. I promise.'

'Very well… Then I must go.'

'Yes.'

Carlos patted his son on the shoulder one last time and turned away towards the large doorway at the end of the hall that gave out on to the stables courtyard. As his father strode stiffly away Napoleon felt a desperate urge to reach out to him and his hand lifted from his side instinctively. But as soon as he was aware of the gesture he burned with shame and furiously forced the hand into a gap between the buttons of his uniform coat, trapping it against his stomach where it could not betray him.

Ten paces away his father paused and turned back. With a reassuring nod of his head he called out, 'Remember, Napoleon. Courage!'

Napoleon nodded. Then his father strode off, amid the scurrying ranks of the other students.

The boy watched until Carlos had passed through the doorway and out of sight. Part of him wanted to run down the hall, to catch one glimpse of his father, but then he became aware that some of the boys in the hall were watching him curiously. Napoleon took a deep breath, turned round and walked, unhurriedly, to his cell.

Chapter 16

Napoleon turned over in his bed and drew his knees up to his chest in an effort to keep warm. Even though it was June, the nights had been cold the last few days and the single blanket that cadets were permitted, all year round, was hardly enough to make sleep possible.The bed on which he lay was a crude affair: a straw-filled mattress resting on simple bedstraps that had sagged with the years and made the whole feel more like a hammock than a proper bed. Around the bed the plain plaster walls of the cell rose up to rafters, angling down from the tiled roof-pitch above. A single, narrow window high on the outside wall provided illumination during the day, and now, as the sun rose, a faint grey finger picked its way into the room, illuminating a slow swirl of dust motes.

With a muttered curse he jerked up from the mattress and heaved his bolster back against the wall. Then, reaching into the small locker beside the bed, he fumbled for the copy of Livy he had rented from the local subscription library. He had too little grasp of Latin to attempt to read it in the original and had opted for a recent translation into French. He had come to speak and write the language quite fluently, even though he had not managed to shed, or hide, his Corsican accent. Indeed, it was something he was beginning to affect some pride in, as part of the identity that made him different from the sons of the French aristocracy.

Settling back against the bolster, he opened the covers of the book, flicked to the chapter he had marked with an old slip of parchment and began to read. Ever since he had first attended school in Ajaccio and been made aware of the history of the ancients, Napoleon had a fervent enthusiasm for the subject. Something he had in common with another boy – Louis de Bourrienne – who was the closest thing that Napoleon had to a friend. Louis was happy to share his collection of books with the young Corsican. Napoleon spent long hours poring over the campaigns of Hannibal, Caesar and Alexander. And so, covered by his blanket, he read on, immersing himself in the war between Carthage and Rome, until the dull, booming thud of the drum beat out its summons.

Napoleon set the book down on the locker and jumped out of bed. His stockings, breeches and shirt were already on, as he had worn them against the chill of the previous night. In any case, they gave him an advantage when the drum called the cadets to morning assembly. He pulled on his boots, tied the laces and stood up, glancing over his clothes. They were badly creased in places and he hurriedly rubbed his hands over the worst spots to try to ease out the creases.Then he snatched up his coat, thrust his arms down the sleeves and grabbed his hat before quitting the cell and joining the last of the cadets hurrying down to the quadrangle.

By the time he emerged from the building almost all the other boys had lined up and were standing silently. Napoleon scrambled across the cobbled stones, acutely conscious that he would be the last one in place. He reached his position, at the end of the front line in his class by virtue of his small stature, and quickly straightened his back, stiffened his spine and stared straight ahead.

'Cadet Buona Parte!' Father Bertillon, the duty teacher, bellowed across the quadrangle. 'Last man on parade. One demerit!'

'Yes, sir!' Napoleon shouted back in acknowledgement.

To the side he was aware that some of the boys in his class were casting angry glances at him, and a voice whispered from behind, 'That's one demerit too many, Napoleon.You'll pay for that.'

Napoleon's lips curled into a mirthless smile. He knew the voice well enough. Alexander de Fontaine, the tall, fair-haired son of a landed aristocrat in Picardy. From the moment of Napoleon's arrival at Brienne, Alexander had made his contempt for the Coriscan quite clear. At first it had been by quiet slights and sneering judgements about the new boy's poverty. Alexander had been delighted to discover a ready target for his bullying who never failed to respond to the bait with incandescent explosions of rage that left everyone who witnessed them in fits of laughter. Blows had been exchanged between them, the kind of half-hearted fights that provided plenty of scope for others to intervene and stop them, but both boys knew that there must be a full reckoning some day. One that Alexander was bound to win, since he was by far the bigger of the two, and fit and strong besides. Napoleon knew that he was facing a beating, but it was better to fight and be beaten than to be branded a coward.

The director emerged from the administration building and strode across to the cadets. He nodded a greeting to Father Bertillon and, without any preamble, began his inspection of the first class, proceeding slowly down the ranks, picking fault wherever he could. A demerit for a missing coat button. And another for a grass stain on a cadet's breeches. He passed on to Napoleon's class and worked his way up from the rear. Napoleon heard him award a demerit for a tear in the collar on one boy's coat, then nothing more apart from the scrape of the old man's boots across the cobbles.

'Cadet de Fontaine.'

'Yes, Director!'

'Immaculately turned out, as usual. One merit awarded.'

'Thank you, Director.'

Napoleon could not help a bitter little smile. Alexander's uniform had, as ever, been cleaned by one of the kitchen boys and quietly delivered to his cell last thing at night as the young aristocrat slept. The service cost good money, and wasn't strictly permitted by the college. But then Alexander came from a class that was above the rules that applied to many of the other cadets.

The director was passing down the first line and Napoleon stood as still as he could, fixing his eyes on one of the chimney stacks on the far side of the quadrangle so as not to let his gaze waver a fraction under the director's inspection.

'Ah, and here we have my favourite little adversary,' the director chuckled. 'Monsieur Buona Parte, how are we today?'

'I am well, Director.'

'Are you? Are you indeed?'The director came to stand directly in front of the smallest boy in his class, and leaned forward a little, staring through his thick lenses at Napoleon. 'You may be well, sir, but alas, your clothes are in an appalling condition. It looks like you have been sleeping in them. Well, have you?'

'Have I what, sir?'

'Don't get cheeky with me, boy. Have you slept in these clothes?'

'No, sir.'

'So they became abominably creased all by themselves, did they? Fairly cringing from contact with your rough Corsican skin.'

Napoleon bit back on his anger. 'Evidently, sir.'

'I see.' The director straightened up and called over his shoulder to the duty teacher,'Cadet Buona Parte, one demerit for untidiness… and another for dishonesty.'

He turned away and moved on to inspect the next class. Napoleon could sense the hostility of his classmates and for an instant cursed himself for adopting that insubordinate tone with the director.Two demerits would mean that his class would be in the bottom position of the merit table. It was close to the end of the month, and if the position remained the same then the class would be confined to the college while the other cadets were permitted to spend a day in the town – a crude but effective reward system and one that was unforgiving of those who failed to perform according to the college's standards.

The inspection came to an end as the director mounted the steps to a small wooden podium and offered morning prayers. As ever, Napoleon's mind blanked out the sense of the words echoing across the quadrangle. He had little time for religion, considering it to be one of the greatest inefficiencies afflicting mankind. Imagine, he mused, how many more shoes a cobbler could make, how many more pages an historian could write, how many more miles an army could march, if they were only spared the hours demanded of them by the Church. Life was brief enough as it was, and a man should make the best use of the time he was given.

The prayers ended, and as soon as the director has disappeared back into the administration building, Father Bertillon dismissed the cadets to breakfast. They streamed back into the hall below their cells and silently went to their places at the two rows of long wooden tables. Once all were present, Father Bertillon said a brief grace and gave the word that they could sit. A deafening shuffle of boots and scraping of benches filled the hall. The cadets began to speak – quietly at first, then growing in volume until it echoed off the walls.

The door to the kitchen swung open and several sweating boys entered the hall carrying steaming pots of porridge. They heaved the pots up in front of the senior cadet at the head of each table. At Napoleon's table, that was Alexander de Fontaine, and Napoleon sat several places down from him. On the table in front of each cadet was a wooden bowl, spoon and cup. A jug of watered beer stood in the centre of the table, and as the porridge arrived this was passed round to fill the cups. As yet, no one had spoken to Napoleon but the atmosphere amongst his comrades was hostile and there was little of the usual carefree chatter. That did not bode well, and Napoleon wondered what kind of retribution they would impose on him for placing their class at the bottom of the merit table.

'Pass your bowls!' Alexander called out, standing over the pot, and stirring its contents with the ladle, releasing a fresh swirl of steam. The cadets shoved their bowls up towards him and each was filled in turn before being passed back, starting with those closest to the head of the table. Napoleon, still considered to be the new boy, was last in line and as Alexander reached for his bowl he looked down the table and his lips parted in a malicious grin. He raised the ladle so that all could see what was happening, and then poured a far smaller portion into Napoleon's bowl than had been given to the other cadets.Then he leaned over the bowl and spat into it.

'A little something in return for the demerits you so kindly provided for us.'

Napoleon clenched his hands into fists on his lap, and lips compressed into a tight line. He felt his heart seethe with hurt and hatred.Then, as the bowl was passed down the table towards him, each cadet spat in turn into the bowl. The last cadet glanced at Napoleon, curled his lip and spat before shoving the bowl sideways. Napoleon glared up the table at Alexander, then, not trusting himself to control his feelings, he glanced down at the bowl.The porridge lay in a small congealed lump at the centre of the bowl. Glistening over it was a slick of white bubbly sputum. He felt sick, and close to throwing up.

Alexander laughed. 'Eat up, Buona Parte! Or you'll never be more than a common Corsican runt.'

Napoleon's hands flew up from beneath the table and seized the bowl. At the same time he felt a blow to his shin; a sharp and violent kick. He gasped in pain and his eyes flashed across the table to where Louis de Bourrienne was shaking his head at Napoleon.

'Don't do it, Napoleon!' he hissed. 'You'll get us another demerit. At least.'

Napoleon glared back, hands still gripping his bowl, his face chalk white with seething rage. Around the table the other cadets paused over their breakfasts, watching in eager anticipation for the storm to break.

Napoleon closed his eyes tightly, and breathed in deeply through his nostrils as he fought to control a wave of emotion that felt far too big for his body. Slowly, it seemed, he fought for, and won, control over his rage and pain and began to think logically again. Louis was right. Now was not the time to react. To fight now, against overwhelming odds, was foolish. To do it in front of Father Bertillon would be rank stupidity.This was a battle best avoided, however much his heart compelled him to action. As his mind cleared Napoleon focused on the pain in his shin. Louis was right. Napoleon opened his eyes, looked across at his friend and nodded. His fingers relaxed, he let go of the bowl and returned his hands to his lap.

'What? Not hungry?' Alexander called out. 'I might have known you'd have no stomach for it.'

A ripple of laughter flowed amongst the other cadets and for an instant Napoleon felt the rage returning as he reacted to the accusation of cowardice. But then he knew what he must do. He would show these contemptible French aristocrats that he was better than them. That he had the courage to confront and overcome their attempt to intimidate him. Steeling himself, he drew a deep breath, picked up his spoon and scooped up a lump of porridge and spit. He glanced towards Alexander and smiled. Again, the other cadets tensed up, waiting for Napoleon to explode. Instead, he opened his mouth, raised the spoon and closed his lips over it. His tongue recoiled in disgust, but Napoleon forced himself to eat the porridge, slowly and steadily, and then return the spoon for some more.

'Disgusting…' He heard someone mutter.

He continued eating until the porridge was finished, and quietly set down his spoon. As he looked up he saw that most of the other cadets were looking at him with expressions of horror and disbelief. Some had not eaten their porridge, he noticed with delight. At the head of the table, Alexander glared at him, eyes filled with hatred, his neat fingers balled into a fist around his spoon. As their eyes met, a means of revenge occurred to Napoleon. A revenge that would be most appropriate indeed.