Young bloods r-1

by Simon Scarrow

Anne and Garrett kept his birth a close secret, not wishing to have endless visits from concerned friends and relatives. They did not even send word back to their home in Dangan to let their other children know about their new brother.

  Then, on the fourth day after his birth, an excited Anne burst into her husband's study to tell him that Arthur was feeding properly at last. And slowly, as he continued to feed, he gained weight and colour and began to wriggle and writhe as infants should. Until at last it was clear that he would live. Only then, on the first of May, over three weeks after his birth did the parents announce the birth of Arthur Wesley, third son of the Earl of Mornington, in the Dublin papers.

  Chapter 3

  Corsica, 1769

  Archdeacon Luciano had just begun the blessing when Letizia's waters broke. She had been standing in a pool of light cast by a bright sun shining fully through the high arched window behind the altar of the Cathedral in Ajaccio. It was a hot August day and the light carried a searing heat with it, so that she felt warm and prickly beneath the dark folds of her best clothes, the ones she wore only for mass. Letizia felt perspiration trickle under her arms, cool enough to make her shiver. And, as if in response, the child inside the grossly swollen lump of her stomach lashed out with its limbs.

  Letizia smiled. So different from her first child. Giuseppe had lain in her womb so still that she had feared another stillborn baby. But he was a fine healthy little boy now. Meek as a lamb. Not like the one inside her, who even now seemed to be struggling to burst upon the world. Perhaps it was due to the nature of his conception and the life that she and Carlos had been forced to lead during her pregnancy. For over a year they had been fighting the French: long months of trekking across the craggy mountains and hidden valleys of Corsica as they set ambushes for French patrols, or attacked one of their outposts, killing its garrison, then fleeing into the interior before the inevitable column of infantry arrived to hunt them down. Months of hiding in caves, in the company of the rough band of peasants that Carlos commanded. Patriots, hunted down like animals.

  It was in such a cave, she recalled, that the child had been conceived. On a bitter winter evening, shortly before Christmas, as she and Carlos lay on a bed of pine branches, covered in worn and soiled blankets. Around them, their followers had slept on, or pretended to, as their leader and his young wife moved quietly beneath their coverings. She had felt no shame over it. Not when the next day might bring death for either, or both of them, leaving Giuseppe an orphan in the house of his grandparents.

  They had fought the invaders through the winter, into the first flushes of spring, and all the while Letizia felt the life growing inside her.With the early successes of the rebellion, Carlos and the other patriots had been so sure of victory that General Paoli abandoned his small war of ceaseless skirmishes and led his forces into battle at Ponte Nuovo. There they had been roundly beaten by the ordered ranks and massed volleys of professional soldiers. Hundreds of men cut down; their passion for Corsican independence no defence against the lead musket balls that whirled through their ranks. A waste of fine men, thought Letizia. Paoli had squandered their lives for nothing. After Ponte Nuovo the surviving patriots were driven into the mountains, there to remain until Paoli fled from the island and the triumphant French offered an amnesty to the men deserted by their general.

  Letizia had been with child for seven months by that time, and Carlos, fearing for her health, and by no means content to spend any more time living like a savage, had accepted the enemy's offer. Within a week they had returned to their home in Ajaccio. The struggle was over. Corsica, so long the property of Genoa, had a fleeting taste of independence and was now the possession of France. And so the child inside her would be born French.

  Without warning Letizia felt an explosion of fluids between her thighs and gasped in surprise as she snatched a hand to her mouth in an instant of confusion and fear.

  Carlos turned to her quickly. 'Letizia?'

  She stared back, wide-eyed. 'I must leave.'

  Faces nearby turned towards them with disapproving expressions. Carlos tried to ignore them. 'Leave?'

  'The child,' she whispered. 'It's coming. Now.'

  Carlos nodded, slipped an arm round her thin shoulders and with a quick bow of his head towards the huge gold cross on the altar, he led his wife down the aisle towards the entrance to the cathedral. Letizia gritted her teeth and waddled slightly as she made for the doors. Outside in the dazzling sunshine, Carlos shouted at the bearers of a nearby sedan chair. At first they didn't move, but then stirred when they saw that the woman was in pain. Carlos gently handed her inside and gave curt directions to their house.The bearers raised the sedan from the ground and set off. Carlos trotted alongside, casting anxious glances at his wife as she sat on the narrow seat, clenching her teeth and gripping the window frames tightly. The bearers grunted under their load and soon their breaths came in sharp gasps as their footsteps echoed off the sun-bleached houses crowding the narrow streets of Ajaccio.

  A sharp cry drew Carlos closer and he looked on in terror at his wife's tightly clenched face.

  'Letizia,' he panted, and forced himself to smile as she glanced sidelong at him. 'Not far, my love.'

  Letizia lowered her head and groaned. 'It's coming!'

  'Faster!' Carlos shouted at the bearers. 'For pity's sake. Faster!'

  The sedan lurched round a corner, and there ahead of them lay the house, a large, plain building on three floors.

  'There!' Carlos pointed. 'That one!'

  The bearers set the sedan down heavily, causing its passenger to cry out once more, and Carlos cursed them, even as he wrenched the flimsy door open and lifted his wife out. He threw a few coins to the bearers, fumbled for the key in the fob of his waistcoat, rattling it into the iron lock, then thrusting the door open.

  Inside the house the air was cool and musty. Letizia panted in quick sharp breaths and desperately stared round the dark interior.

  'That chair.' She nodded to a low, worn couch in the corner. 'Help me down.'

  As soon as she lay back against the arm of the couch Letizia reached for the hem of her skirts. Then she paused and looked at her husband. His expression was riddled with fear and anxiety, and she knew he would not cope with what was to come. He had been witness to only one of her deliveries, a stillborn child, and had been consumed by helpless anguish as he had stared down at the pale, lifeless bundle of bloodied flesh. She would have to do this without him. She would do it without any help. The house was empty; everyone was at mass.

  'Go!' Letizia nodded towards the door. 'Fetch Dr Franzetti.'

  After the briefest of hesitation Carlos turned for the door. He pulled it to behind him and Letizia heard his boots echoing down the street as he went for help.Then all thought of Carlos was gone as the muscles of her stomach turned hard as iron, gripping her in a crucible of agony. She hissed through clenched teeth, then opened her mouth in a silent scream as the pain seemed to endure for an age before it at last relented and slowly relaxed its grasp. She gasped for breath, and felt a terrible straining in her groin. Her hands wrenched the hems of her skirts up and bunched the folds over the stretched smooth skin of her stomach.

  Then another contraction seized her and Letizia cried out loud, and as it reached its climax she strained her stomach muscles and with a superhuman effort forced the child from her womb. For a moment nothing happened, just waves and waves of pain, and with a last reserve of strength Letizia pressed down.

  With a slick rush of sound the strain disappeared and she felt hollow.At once euphoria flushed through her body as she reached down between her thighs and gently closed her fingers round the sticky body of the infant that lay there. It flinched at her touch, and with tears of relief and joy Letizia raised the baby up towards her chest, trailing its pasty grey umbilical cord.

  A boy.

  He opened his mouth a fraction and a bubble of spittle grew on his lips before bursting. Tiny fingers twitched and clenched into small fist
s as Letizia hurriedly untied the straps that held the top of her dress together. Her breasts were swollen far beyond their normal size and, cupping her hand round her pallid flesh, she offered the nipple up to the boy. At once his lips puckered, began to make smacking noises and then closed round the nipple. She smiled.

  'Clever boy.'

  When Carlos and Dr Franzetti hurried into the room a short while later Letizia smiled up at them. 'He's fine. See Carlos, a fine healthy boy.'

  Her husband nodded as the doctor hurried over and set his bag down beside the couch. He gave the baby a quick examination and nodded his satisfaction before turning back to his bag. From inside he brought out a steel clip and carefully attached it to the umbilical cord close to the child's stomach before he produced a pair of scissors and cut through the tough sinewy fibre of the cord. When all was done Dr Franzetti eased himself up and stared down at the child, its mother and the father. Carlos beamed proudly at his new son as he held his wife round the shoulders. The infant, even though it had drunk its fill of breast-milk wriggled restlessly in the crook of Letizia's arm.

  'He's a lively one,' Dr Franzetti smiled. His smile faltered as he recalled Letizia's two previous babies who had not survived into this world. 'He's strong and healthy. He'll do well enough now and should cause you no problems. I will go.'

  Carlos drew his arm away from his wife and rose to his feet. 'Thank you, Doctor!'

  'Pah! I did little. It was Letizia there. She did all the hard work. A brave wife you have there, Carlos.'

  Carlos glanced down at her and smiled. 'I know.'

  Dr Franzetti picked up his bag and turned towards the door. He paused at the threshold and turned back, staring at the woman and her child on the couch.

  'Have you decided on a name?'

  'Yes.' Letizia looked up. 'He's to be named after my uncle.'

  'Oh?'

  'Naboleone.'

  Dr Franzetti placed his cap on his head and nodded in farewell. 'I'll call in a few days from now to see how the child's faring. Until then, I bid you good day, Carlos, Letizia.' His gaze flickered down to the lively baby and he chuckled. 'And you too, of course, young Naboleone Buona Parte.'

  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.