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 bu
t 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.
Chapter 17
‘Be seated.’
The class pulled out their benches and sat down, in silence, waiting for Father Dupuy to begin the lesson. The teacher folded his hands together, stared down at the ranks of faces and began in his customary manner.
‘Where did we end last lesson?’ he asked. His eyes passed over the students, who were trying their best to be invisible, in their customary manner. Then Father Dupuy nodded at a boy on the back row. ‘Alexander de Fontaine.’
‘Yes, sir?’
Father Dupuy smiled. ‘If you would be so good as to remind me of the point we had reached.’
‘Yes, sir.You were talking about the siege of Jerusalem.’
‘Indeed. And remind me whose work I was citing in describing the siege . . .’ his eyes turned to another cadet, ‘Buona Parte.’
‘Josephus, sir.’
‘Josephus, precisely.’ Father Dupuy picked up the first notebook and flicked it open.‘Which leaves me slightly perplexed by de Fontaine’s prep from last night in which he quotes, at some length, from Suetonius’ eye-witness account of the siege.’
Alexander de Fontaine had some idea of what was coming and shifted uncomfortably on his bench as Father Dupuy paused for dramatic effect.
‘Clearly, Suetonius was blessed with a most precocious talent, since he would have been all of one year of age at the time of the siege of Jerusalem. Unless, of course, you are referring to a previously undiscovered historian whose translated works have only just become available in Brienne.’
Alexander blushed. ‘No, sir.’
‘I see.You are in error, then?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘In which case it is only fair that I award you one demerit. I suggest that you pay attention in my lessons from now on.’ He picked up a pen, dipped it in his inkwell, and made a note against Alexander’s name in the class record book, before looking up again. ‘Come and collect your workbook.’
Alexander scraped his end of the bench back and walked stiffly to the front of the class, mounted the podium to receive the book Father Dupuy held out to him, then turned and made his way back. From his desk Napoleon was delighted to see the attempt Alexander was making to hide his shame. Father Dupuy coughed.
‘In contrast to de Fontaine’s entertaining but inaccurate effort, I am delighted to say that at least some students have managed to write thorough accounts of the siege. Notably Louis de Bourrienne, who has a fine style; clear and succinct and neatly written. For which he is awarded a merit. Here.’ He raised the next workbook and held it out. Louis beamed at Napoleon, then rose from his seat and hurried forward to fetch his workbook.
‘And now we come to another cadet’s work. Like de Fontaine, he seems to have had some difficulty in listening to instructions. Rather than relating the events of the siege this cadet decided instead to offer a critique of the defenders of Jerusalem.’ Even though he spoke without meeting Napoleon’s gaze, the latter shrank back a little behind his desk. Father Dupuy lifted the next book in the pile and weighed it in his hand as he continued. ‘Of course, I had to struggle with the handwriting, which would do shame to even the youngest infant ever to hold a pen. But once I had deciphered the scrawl I am bound to admit that the analysis of the defence of Jerusalem was most sagacious for a cadet of his age. The prose style was not perfect, inclining as it did to a rather hectoring tone, but the argument was compelling.’ Now he fixed his eyes on Napoleon. ‘Cadet Buona Parte, you will make a fine staff officer one day, assuming you learn to write legibly. I award you two merits for your essay, but deduct one for your presentation. Please collect your book.’
Napoleon had fully expected a tirade of criticism for his wilful departure from the task the class had been set. It took him a moment to accept that his work had been admired instead. Not only that, but he h
ad won a merit. That would go some way towards rescinding the bad feeling he had caused at the morning parade. He stood up and made himself walk at a sedate pace to retrieve his workbook from Father Dupuy. On the way back to his desk he passed close by Alexander and their eyes met in a mutual glare of hostility. Napoleon realised that at least one of his fellow cadets bore him even more ill will than before. Alexander and his aristocratic cronies were going to make life very difficult indeed.
That night, as Napoleon lay on his bed, he reflected on the months since he had arrived at Brienne. Not a day had passed without his thinking about Joseph and the rest of the family. Far from becoming used to his new life, as his father had promised he would, he had become steadily more miserable, yearning for what now seemed the carefree existence he had lived back in Ajaccio. He was far from the comfortable familiarities of home, in an alien world, surrounded by people who looked down on him as a crude provincial and treated him with haughty contempt. Only one friend, and one teacher, stood between him and a terrible isolation.
Napoleon felt his heart harden. Alexander de Fontaine needed to be taught a lesson. He needed to be knocked from that self-satisfied pedestal from which he looked down on the rest of the world. Napoleon had decided on his plan earlier in the day and refined the details in the hours since he had gone to bed, and now he waited for the tower clock to strike two, the very depth of night when all in the college would be still. Under the bedclothes he wore the garments he had brought with him from Corsica. For the task he had in mind he could not risk sullying any part of his Brienne uniform. So he lay still, his mind racing - partly from his restless temperament, and partly in order not to let sleep creep up on him. Then, as the clock struck two, he rose from his bed, carefully eased open the door to his cell and crept out into the still, silent shadows of the college.
Young Bloods Page 9
