by Emil Ludwig
The enemies of the family raided the Buonaparte mansion, looted the place, and would have made short work of the inmates had not these already taken refuge with the commission.
Perhaps Buonaparte had wanted events to take this course. He had given the authorities in Paris plain proof that he was a staunch revolutionist. Certainly, they were now ready to show their trust in him. He, who a year before had led the Corsican volunteers against the French governmental artillery, was now made commander of this same artillery against the Corsican volunteers. Big guns ! True, the others occupy the best positions, but at length he has power, ample power, with orders to protect the coast. Now then, Paoli, for our last duel!
But the old man, enjoying the full tide of popular favour, has also the best of it as a soldier. He holds the citadel. When Napoleon, acting this time as a Frenchman, makes his second
Banishment
attempt to storm that stronghold, he succeeds no better than before. A last endeavour is made to take the fortress from the islands. It is fruitless !
There is no longer a place for him and his in Corsica. They are banished by popular decree and declared outlaws. The mother, so proud of her descent; her two sons, her two daughters, and her brother—all have been rendered shelterless by Napoleon's unsuccessful attack on Paoli. They must escape from the island at a few hours' notice. Through the silent woods, in whose recesses twenty-four years earlier she had found safety from the French, Letizia has now to flee towards the coast under the protection of the French. All her possessions are in the hands of her enemies. Nothing is left to her beyond the clothes she wears.
The artillery officer, twenty-three years of age, stands on the deck of the sailing ship that is bearing him to Toulon. Throughout the long June evening, he watches the coast recede ; every cape, every ridge, is familiar to him. Thrice he has tried to conquer the island, as its liberator. Now he has been driven out by the Corsicans as a Frenchman. He is full of rage and of a thirst for revenge. The victories of France will strengthen him, and in days to come he will, after all, be master of Corsica !
But as he sails westward, and as the French coast draws near, our adventurer enjoys the sense of freedom that comes to him who is everywhere at home. Such is the happy lot of the man who has no country.
X
" How shabby their dresses are ! " thinks Letizia Buonaparte, when her two half-grown girls come home from the market with their poor purchases. The refugees are living on the fourth floor of a confiscated house in Marseilles (the owner, a nobleman, has been guillotined). The mother is in the early forties. The three children with her are earning bread for the family as best
In Southern France
they can; the two youngest are still in Corsica, cared for by relatives. Since the Buonapartes are " persecuted patriots," they receive a part of their rations from the commandant. Letizia, who is proud as ever, makes no complaints.
Soon Napoleon, who is travelling, has the chance of putting some lucrative opportunities in his brother's way, affairs connected with the supply of munitions of war. Maternal Uncle Fesch lays aside the priestly habit and becomes a man of business, in the silk trade. Then Joseph, who is of fashionable exterior, resembling his father in appearance, and, as the eldest, following the father's example in styling himself Count Buonaparte,—wins the hand of one of the two heiresses of a Marseilles silk merchant. Napoleon entertains thoughts of marrying his sister-in-law Desiree, the late silk merchant's other daughter.
He is on the move throughout this summer ; now at Nice, with his regiment; now on the Rhone ; now at Toulon. All the time, his soldier's eyes are on the look out; his artillerist's brain is noting the actual and the potential fortifications along this strip of coast. Soon he will make good use of the knowledge now acquired. Meanwhile he writes political dialogues. One of them in conversational form, appears as a pamphlet, printed at the public expense.
In this conversation, the manufacturer is of a familiar type. The well-to-do folk of Toulon, like their brethren in Marseilles, are, in fact, under Robespierre's rule, afraid of losing their heads or even their property. Concern for their money-bags tends to make them ever more solicitous for the welfare of the sometime royal house, now in exile. At length, in the hope of saving their capital, they call the enemies of France to their aid, handing over the remnants of the navy to the English, who in return promise them protection.
This is a fearful blow for the young republic. On all fronts, France is at grips with the forces of reaction. Belgium has been lost; the Spaniards are advancing over the mountains ; in
Siege of Toulon
Vendee, the Bourbon cause is gaining ground. Then comes the crowning disaster of Toulon. The republic calls up its last man for active service, enlists women, transforms the whole of France into an armed camp. Experts are doubly welcome.
Before Toulon, preparations are being made to drive out the English. As to how this is to be done, the Convention leaves that to the commander of the forces, originally a painter of pictures, in whom revolutionary enthusiasm is to make up for the lack of technical knowledge of the art of war.
Then it came to pass that young Captain Buonaparte, returning from Avignon whither he had been sent for a consignment of gunpowder, paid a visit to his fellow-countryman Saliceti, who introduced the young artillerist to the painter-general. After dinner, the dilettantes went for a stroll, and happened upon a 24-pounder, several miles from the sea. They began to boast of all that the gun would do. The expert assured them that, in its present position, it would be useless. He fired four shots to show them that the sea was quite out of range. Dumbfounded, they kept Buonaparte at Toulon, and set him to work.
" At last, one end of the rope is in my hands. Grip and hold fast! " thinks the lonely man with the strong will. With amazing activity, our captain has heavy guns brought from all possible places along the coast. In six weeks, he has more than a hundred pieces of ordnance at his disposal.
Now he will give a display of his talents as military commander. What is his plan ? He will mount batteries on the tongue of land which divides the bay into twin harbours, and will thus cut off the hostile fleet from access to the sea. The British commander will not stay to be shot at in a mousehole with no outlet. He will set light to the arsenal and withdraw his forces from the town.
" Fantastical nonsense ! " say the amateurs, mockingly. But Buonaparte, who has friends in the Convention, has a complaint lodged there against his chief. He also sends to Paris his
Time Is Everything!
scheme for the bombardment of Toulon, many pages of manuscript, containing, in addition, counsel of a more general nature : " Our fire must always be concentrated. If we can breach the wall, the balance will incline to our side, resistance will be fruitless, the place will be won. To live, we must divide ; to strike, we must unite. Victory is impossible without unity of command. Time is everything! " Thus does a captain of twenty-four write to the central authorities.
He has a powerful ally in Paris, the younger Robespierre, who has the reputation of a man of talent, and is not completely overshadowed by his all-powerful brother. " Should you ever need a man of iron for street fighting," said Joseph Robespierre to Maximilien, " a young man, a new man—then it must be this Buonaparte." Indeed, the Corsican adventurer had already been asked whether he would become military guardian of the terrorists, but considerations of caution had led him to decline. Now his plan was approved, and the painter-general was recalled. Who would replace him ?
Buonaparte gnashes his teeth. Another dilettante! The new general is a medical man. He spends his time nosing out conspiracies hatched by the nobility—and meanwhile the enemy occupies the precious tongue of land. From Paris there had come State carriages filled with " men of genius," clad in brilliant uniforms, and resolved to end the siege of Toulon, to take the place out of hand. Buonaparte led them to an unprotected battery. When the enemy opened fire, and they looked round vainly for cover, their guide said gravely : " We do without cover,
nowadays; we have patriotism instead." This young man with blue-grey eyes is more interested in actions than in intentions. Further complaints, and a new change in command. This time the chief is a tried warrior, who is prompt to appoint Napoleon battalion commander, and to adopt the young artillerist's plan for driving the enemy from the tongue of land.
When, finally, Toulon is stormed (still in accordance with Buonaparte's designs), his horse is shot under him; and he is
The First Victory
wounded in the calf by an English lance—this being his first and almost his last wound. Moreover, it is his first
victory,although he is not the official commander; and it is a victory over England. The enemy retreats to the ships, fires the arsenal, and withdraws, all in one night, just as Napoleon had foretold.
Conflagration and death, battle and the terrors of a naval port in which thousands of treasonable burghers are trying to escape the avengers ; amid all the fierce passions of this December night, through the reek and the cries, across heaps of corpses, and to the accompaniment of the agonised curses of drowning civilians and the exultant shouts of looting soldiers, a new star rises in the firmament—Napoleon's fame.
XI
The popular festival held in Paris to celebrate the liberation of Toulon and fresh victories on the northern and eastern fronts, spreads Napoleon's name among the masses. He is raised to the rank of brigadier-general, and his chief, sending in a report in which the subordinate is given due credit as the originator of the plan of siege, adds (betwixt fear and admiration) the amazing sentence : " Even though the Convention were to slight him, he would still force his way to the front." But five other young officers are likewise mentioned in despatches, and when for the first time Napoleon sees his own name in the " Moniteur " there can be no doubt that he is vexed at being merely one among so many. How hard it is to climb !
Already, however, there are some young fellows who have noted the rising of the new star. Marmont and Junot, unknown officers, want to join their fortunes to his. He appoints them his adjutants; Brother Louis, too, now sixteen years of age. He has a group !
Big guns ! The Convention commissions him to fortify the whole stretch of coast from Toulon to Nice. Is not Genoa, Corsica's ancient enemy, farther along the coast ? He who takes
Prison
Genoa, has the island in his hands. Is not Genoa full of diplomats and agents ? This is the place for weather-among the neutrals ; here, any one with sharp eyes and keen ears can learn a great deal, and keep his information to himself. He gets himself appointed people's commissary, which gives him precedence over the chiefs in Genoa. Ostensibly the appointment is made that he may help in the settlement of frontier questions.
In reality, this is the first step of Buonaparte the diplomatist. He intrigues with agents of various kinds, while taking note whether the representatives of France in that part of the world are genuinely revolutionary or only making a pretence of revolutionary fervour. At the same time, he keeps his eyes open to see where the cannons are. He comes back to Nice to write his report, and, without warning, he is arrested.
For, meanwhile, Robespierre had fallen, and had perished by the guillotine. There is a general movement of repudiation. Every one wishes to make out that only under compulsion did he hold converse with the tyrant. Those who wish to prove themselves guiltless, look round for victims. The best victims will be those who are not in Paris to make a fight for it. Quick, quick, lest we should be suspected of having belonged to Robespierre's faction ! General Buonaparte ! He has just been on a secret mission to hostile Genoa. Lay the traitor by the heels ! He was colloguing with Robespierre to bring about the destruction of our southern army. Hale him to Paris for trial!
Napoleon is in Fort Carree near Nice. All his papers have been seized. It is his birthday. " To-day I am twenty-five," he thinks, as he glances seaward through the grating. If he could lean out of the window, he would catch a glimpse of Corsica. How many attempts he has made there, only to be defeated! Was the destiny of a young aspiring soul ever before built upon such a series of catastrophes ? What has Plutarch to say on this matter ? Cashiered, banished, outlawed—as far as Corsica is concerned. Now, after all his plans, he is a prisoner of
Strike Off My Chains!
France. Next week, perhaps, he will be standing in the barrack yard, with his back against the wall, awaiting a score of bullets. What is to be done ?
His faithful followers advise him to flee. He answers in an impassioned tone such as we rarely encounter in the sixty thousand of Napoleon's letters. He thanks them for their friendly counsel, but says : " Men may treat me unjustly ; no matter, so long as I am innocent. My conscience is the tribunal before which I judge my own conduct, and my conscience is untroubled. Do nothing, for you would only compromise me." The one genuine phrase in this letter wherein he poses as a martyr, is the last. To Junot, the enthusiastic admirer, he speaks of motives which Junot will understand. In reality, since he knows that there is not a jot of evidence of complicity with Robespierre, he does not wish to compromise himself. Flight would be an admission of guilt.
Writing from prison to an influential diplomat, he says : " I am somewhat affected by the tragical death of the younger Robespierre, for I loved the man and believed him genuine. Nevertheless, had he been my own father I would have stabbed him had he wished to become a tyrant." Is not that spoken like a true Roman ? With even more circumspection, he writes to the Convention : " Although innocent of the charge, I shall never make any complaint against the committee, whatever it may decide. . But now hear me! Strike off my chains, and restore to me the respect of patriots! An hour afterwards, if the wicked clamour for my corpse, I shall be ready. I hold my life at little account, for I have risked it in the trenches too often. Nothing but the thought that I can serve my country enables me to endure my burdens cheerfully."
A week later, he is free. Saliceti, his fellow-countryman in the Convention, had been his accuser. Now, when the Corsican deputy has got over his first fright and feels that his own neck is safe, he pledges his word that Buonaparte is innocent. But at the close of his statement, he adds a phrase which is an unconscious
'' We Need Him in the Army "
prediction of the young officer's triumphs : " Besides, we need him in the army."
XII
How he is shunned ! Powerful friends, to whom he sends letter after letter, long epistles, make no answer. He writes beseechingly for little things, such as " a good surveying outfit for the army," when he wishes to force an influential comrade to reply. All at once comes a signal from the island. Old Paoli has summoned the English to his aid. Corsica must be saved for France! Back to Paris, in order to fan the flames. The expedition is actually decided on, and he eagerly hopes to secure the command. In a fortnight the fleet is back at Toulon, having sustained a reverse. Fresh disappointment! Why did they not put him in charge ? Had he not conquered Toulon, fortified the coast—all with an eye towards the campaign against Corsica ?
Reaction is in full swing. Napoleon is suspect. The authorities offer him high command in Vendee, for this will separate him from his adherents. At the same time he is transferred to the infantry, as a " supernumerary." How mortifying to a highly skilled artillerist!
The pale young man grew paler than ever, for he had made up his mind to refuse. He expostulated with the People's Commissary for War, who, in reply, twitted him with his youth. Napoleon looked the commissary, who knew little of active service, straight in the eyes, and said : " A man matures quickly on the battle-field, and it is from the battle-field that I come." Refusal to obey orders; expectation of dire consequences; just as it had been three years before.
What had I better do ? Report sick ? Apply for leave ? The out-of-work general turns the possibilities over in his mind. Better stay where I am. Paris is the world's navel. True, Marmont and Junot, who have joined him without leave, are
From the " Corpus Imaginum " of the Photographic Society,
Charlo
ttenburg.)
General Bonaparte in 1797. After a painting by Jean Guerin.
Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris.
Gloom
also penniless. What's Bourrienne doing ? Well, I can try that too, but assignats are falling. How badly you staged the last affair. Did you think you could make a coup d'etat without cannon ? But to Saliceti, who in his turn has had serious charges brought against him, and is being sheltered by a fellow-countrywoman, he writes : " You see, I might have paid you back in your own coin. . . . Who has played the better part, you or I ? I might have taken vengeance on you, but have not done so. ... Go in peace, to seek a refuge where you can, and meditate upon your country to better advantage. My lips will always be sealed about you. Take counsel with yourself, appreciate my motives . . . they are noble and magnanimous."
During these summer weeks, the flood of life is obscurely murmuring, is heavily pulsing against the shores. He is profoundly moved by Ossian, the book of melancholy passion ; and he is stirred by the tragical end of plays he witnesses, hastening from the theatre that his mood may not be jarred by the sub sequent farce. " How preposterous, in this new opera, to give a happy ending to Paul and Virginie by having the girl rescued ! " —" But what is happiness ? " asks the lady to whom he says this.
" Happiness ? " answers Buonaparte. " The highest possible development of my talents."
Just now they are lying fallow, that is what troubles him. He is a prey to increasing dejection and dumb rancour. When a comedy is being played (the wife of one of his friends reports this), every one else is laughing, but Buonaparte sits there in frozen silence. Sometimes he vanishes, to reappear with gloomy aspect at the other side of the stalls. Often enough his lips are twisted in an unsuccessful attempt to smile. He is an irresistible raconteur of campaign stories, but his laughter on these occasions is rough. He is often to be seen wandering through the streets, short in the leg, thin, sallow, sickly, irritable of mien, " awkward, hesitant, wearing an old round hat, from
