Young Bloods

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Yes . . . yes, I imagine they do.’

  ‘You might suggest that to General Paoli when you next write to him, sir.’ Napoleon shrugged.‘I’m sure he’d jump at the chance to have at least one Corsican town defended by Corsicans.’

  ‘You’re right!’ Quenza’s eyes gleamed. ‘He’d be delighted by the idea! I know he would.’

  When Paoli’s response arrived, it was unequivocal. Quenza immediately sought out his subordinate in the Jacobin Club and thrust the letter in his hand.

  ‘There! Read that!’

  Napoleon took the letter and scanned the contents as Quenza stood impatiently bobbing up and down on his toes. ‘Don’t take all day, Buona Parte!’

  Napoleon finished the letter and handed it back, forcing himself not to smile with satisfaction that Paoli had taken the bait. ‘It seems the general doesn’t think much of the idea.’

  ‘Doesn’t think much?’ Quenza puffed with indignation, and he thrust a fat finger at the letter. ‘Did you actually read it? He as good as accuses me of treason. And there! Look! He says that our men lack the competence to do the job properly . . . How dare he say that? The scoundrel. Selling us out to the French. My God, they’re not even French, they’re bloody Swiss! It’s an outrage!’

  Other members had gathered round to see what the shouting was about and now Quenza turned to them, brandishing the letter. ‘An outrage, I tell you!’

  The members looked back at him in confusion and incomprehension.

  Napoleon gently took his sleeve. ‘Sir, perhaps you had better explain. Or let me.’

  ‘What?’ Quenza glared at Napoleon and for an instant Napoleon feared that Quenza would speak for himself. But the man was so choked with rage that he merely nodded, and thrust Napoleon towards the rostrum.‘Tell ’em.You tell ’em everything.’

  With a show of reluctance Napoleon did as he was bid. The room was quickly filling up with an audience eager to hear what the charismatic young officer had to announce and he waited until the area in front of him was packed.

  ‘Colonel Quenza has just received a letter from Pasquale Paoli. It seems that Citizen Paoli has no faith in the volunteer battalion of Ajaccio. He would prefer to trust the lives of our women and children to a mob of Swiss mercenaries. He thinks we are not competent enough, not brave enough, to defend our families.’ Napoleon paused to let this sink in. As he had anticipated, the insult to the honour of Ajaccio’s men produced expressions of outrage. He raised his arms to calm the audience. ‘Will we let this man heap such shame upon us?’

  The crowd roared out their defiance.

  ‘Will we take this insult like cowards and curs?’

  ‘NO! NEVER!’

  ‘A true Corsican would die rather than suffer such an insult! We must protect our honour! We must avenge the great injustice done to Colonel Quenza and the fine men of the volunteer battalion!’

  Quenza stiffened and tried to look like a hero as the members cheered him. Napoleon seized on the defiant mood and called for calm again.

  ‘Only one action will suffice to save our honour.We must take the citadel into our own hands! We must take it now and prove that Corsicans can look after themselves! Officers of the battalion - summon your men! If Paoli is too afraid to liberate us from France, then we’ll do the job ourselves!’

  The room echoed with the cheers of the members of the Jacobin Club, and already the officers and men of the volunteer battalion were hurrying from the room to assemble their men. A few members who had remained silent during the debate slipped away with anxious expressions. Napoleon felt someone tugging at his sleeve and turned to see Quenza looking up at him with an anxious expression.

  ‘I-I didn’t mean for this to happen.’

  ‘But, sir, he insulted you. He insulted every man in Ajaccio.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘It’s too late now, sir. We must see this through or be branded cowards before the eyes of the whole of Corsica.’

  Quenza winced, then bit his lip and glanced round the room. He nodded to himself and turned back to Napoleon, drawing himself up in an effort to look brave and soldierly. ‘Come on, then, Buona Parte. To battle!’

  Chapter 60

  In the pale gloom of the last hour before sunrise the streets of Ajaccio were cold. As the men of the volunteer battalion marched towards the citadel in silence their wispy breaths plumed into the air amongst the hard metallic ripple of fixed bayonets. Napoleon was pleased to see that the discipline he had drilled into them for months was paying off. Not a man spoke as they trudged past, faces grim with intent to do their duty. Napoleon had made sure that every officer had impressed upon his men that the action was necessary to redeem their honour and free Corsica from foreign occupation. Colonel Quenza had been only too happy to entrust the assault to his subordinate. He was waiting for news of the victory back in the Jacobin Club, which he had commandeered for his headquarters.

  The battlements of the citadel were visible above the rooftops of the buildings ahead.Above the citadel hung the white and blue flag of the Bourbons, gleaming in the first rays of the sun as they crested the mountains. Napoleon motioned to one of his sergeants.

  ‘Bring the assault party forward.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Forty men, the best of the volunteers, stripped down to the bare uniform with just cartridge belts across their shoulders, advanced beyond the head of the column. They would seize the entrance to the citadel, and the moment Napoleon gave the order the rest would follow. The men looked to their young lieutenant colonel with eager eyes and he waved them on.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  The party moved forward, along the shadows on one side of the street. At the end, the street turned sharply to the left and led onto the wide boulevard that ran alongside the citadel walls. Directly opposite lay the fortified entrance to the citadel, covered by two projecting bastions. As they approached the bend in the street Napoleon motioned to his men to stop. He crept forward and peered around the corner. Forty paces away a pair of sentries stood in front of the open gateway.They were leaning against the wall of one of the bastions and appeared to be talking. Napoleon smiled. This was going to be easy. A quick glance along the walls either side of the gate satisfied him that they were not manned, or at least that the sentries on the wall were as lazy as their companions on the gate. Napoleon fell back to the assault squad.

  ‘Remember, no noise. When we make for the gate run as fast as you can. Don’t stop for anything. It all depends on speed. Understand?’

  Several men nodded back, some grinned. The sergeant stood at the street corner, ready to convey Napoleon’s signal for the rest of the battalion to charge forward.

  ‘Very well. Let’s go.’

  Napoleon turned back to the citadel, easing his sword out of its scabbard. He took a deep breath and launched himself into a trot. The rest of the squad followed immediately behind him. They turned the corner and immediately burst into a flat run across the open ground.

  The two sentries saw them almost at once, but failed to react for a few seconds, startled by the sight of the armed men racing towards them in silence. Then the spell was broken. The sentries unslung their muskets, thumbed back the hammers, took hurried aim and fired.

  One ball passed close by Napoleon with a sharp whup. The second hit a man to his left with a sound like a stick striking wet leather. The man spun round and pitched forward on to the boulevard with a groan. His comrades, true to their orders, ran past or jumped over him, and continued towards the gates. Ahead, the two sentries turned and fled for the safety of the citadel. The assault squad rushed on, passing between the flanking bastions, and with a stab of joy Napoleon realised they were going to succeed.

  There was no point in keeping silent any longer. He filled his lungs and cried out, ‘Come on! The gates are ours!’

  The men gave a roar of triumph and charged home. Just before they reached the gate, Napoleon hung back ready to give the signal for the rest of the battalion to fo
llow them in. Suddenly there was a harsh shout of command from inside the gate and the men hurrying past Napoleon stopped in their tracks.

  ‘Fire!’ someone bellowed. The shattering crash of a volley of muskets rang out in a deafening roar that echoed off the walls of the flanking bastions. Several of Napoleon’s men were flung to the ground, others flinched and then clutched at wounds.

  ‘Advance!’ came the order, and Napoleon heard the tramp of boots approaching. At once he knew it was a trap. Someone had warned the garrison - one of those cowards at the Jacobin Club who had slunk out of the meeting after Napoleon had roused the rest to arms.

  ‘Back!’ Napoleon called out to his men. ‘Fall back!’

  He ran a few paces from the gate before stopping to turn to look. His men were fleeing.Then the first of the red jackets of the Swiss soldiers was visible through the gunpowder smoke that billowed through the opening. More followed, and Napoleon ran for the cover of the street they had emerged from only moments before. The survivors of the assault party ran for their lives, and some threw down their weapons in blind panic as they made for the nearest shelter.

  When Napoleon had reached the corner of the street, he flattened himself against the wall and gasped for breath for a moment, before risking a look back towards the gateway. Nearly a company of the Swiss soldiers had emerged from the citadel and as he watched he saw two of them bayonet one of the wounded volunteers.The latter raised his hand and screamed for mercy, but his cries were cut short as the spiked bayonets plunged into his throat and tore it open.

  From the other end of the street came the tramp of the rest of the battalion. There was still a chance, Napoleon thought desperately. He straightened up and waited for the column to march up towards him.

  ‘The battalion will form line!’ he shouted out, indicating the boulevard opposite the citadel.

  The officers acknowledged and relayed the order, and Napoleon felt a surge of pride as they marched out into the open and began to form up either side of the end of the street. The officer commanding the detachment of Swiss soldiers watched anxiously before he gave the order to recall his men. More of the garrison had appeared on the battlements, where they had clearly been waiting. Puffs of smoke blossomed along the wall, as the irregular crackle of musketry echoed across the open space. Here and there, fragments of stone exploded from the cobbled street and a few more of the volunteers were struck down.

  ‘Raise muskets!’ Napoleon called out.

  All along the line, the long barrels extended towards the enemy.The officer by the gate was still forming his men into line ready to return fire when Napoleon swept his arm down.

  ‘Fire!’

  For a second Napoleon was deafened by the volley that flashed out from the muskets of the blue-coated volunteers and a thick pall of gunpowder smoke blotted out all sight of the citadel and the men opposite. Slowly the cloud thinned as the volunteers hurriedly reloaded. By the gate four bodies in red jackets lay sprawled amongst the dead of the assault party. The rest had already withdrawn through the gate and, as Napoleon watched, the studded timbers thudded into position as the defenders sealed the entrance.

  Now Napoleon saw that the defenders on the wall were taking a steady toll of the volunteers and he knew he must get them under cover as soon as possible.

  ‘Battalion! Withdraw to cover! Withdraw!’

  The men needed no encouragement, and forced their way into the houses opposite the walls of the citadel. Napoleon made his way inside a tall building belonging to one of the wealthier merchants of Ajaccio and, ignoring the screams of protest from the man’s wife, he climbed the stairs up to the attic and cautiously peered out of the small window that jutted over the roof tiles. Glancing to both sides he saw that his men and the defenders were busy exchanging shots. Napoleon was content to let this continue for a while yet. It would do the men good to have the experience of being under fire, albeit under the secure cover of stone buildings. He let them have a quarter of an hour before he left orders for the men to cease fire and made for the Jacobin Club.

  Colonel Quenza leaped up from his desk as Napoleon entered the room and thrust out his finger towards his subordinate. ‘What the hell is going on, Buona Parte? I’m hearing reports that my men have been massacred out there!’

  ‘There have been some casualties,’ Napoleon admitted coolly. ‘But we knew there would be.’

  ‘Have we taken the citadel?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Napoleon inclined his head towards the window through which the spasmodic fire from the defenders sounded. ‘As you can hear. Someone warned them that we were coming. The garrison has closed the gates and our men have the entrance to the citadel surrounded.’

  ‘Surrounded?’ Quenza blinked rapidly and folded his hands together. ‘So what happens now, eh?’

  ‘For the time being, nothing, sir.’ Napoleon quickly thought through the options. ‘We can wait until tonight and try another assault. That’s risky. We could try to starve them out, or we could try to negotiate a surrender.’

  Quenza leaped on the last suggestion. ‘Negotiate. That’s what we’ll do. Perhaps that’s the best way out of the mess you’ve created.’

  Napoleon felt the anger tighten his throat, but fought it back. ‘Very well, sir. I’ll send a man forward with a flag of truce.’

  ‘See to it then.’

  Both men suddenly felt the building shudder beneath their feet, and an instant later there was a loud crash and masonry tumbled past the window as a deep boom sounded across the town. Quenza leaped back from the window.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Artillery,’ Napoleon replied evenly.‘They must have brought a gun up on to one of the bastions. It seems that they already know the Jacobin Club was behind the attack.’

  ‘They’re firing on us?’ Quenza stared at Napoleon, eyes wide with fright. ‘On me? I have to get out of here. I have to find somewhere safe.’

  Quenza snatched up his hat and hurried towards the door, just as another shot smashed into the roof. He winced, and glanced back at Napoleon. ‘You see to the negotiations. I’m setting up a new command post in the cathedral.They wouldn’t dare fire on that!’

  ‘No, sir. I imagine not.’

  Napoleon followed the colonel out of the building and returned to the battalion.True to his orders they had not fired on the walls, and only the occasional shot from the citadel, punctuated by the deep boom of the artillery piece, echoed across the open ground. Unwinding the white scarf from his neck Napoleon tied the end of it around the tip of his sword. He took a deep breath, stepped out on to the boulevard and waved the sword aloft to attract attention. A voice shouted something from the citadel walls and at once several puffs of smoke appeared. Shots whipped overhead and two more struck the cobbles close to his feet.

  Napoleon ducked back into cover as fast as he could.‘So much for negotiation . . .’

  After he sent report of the failed attempt to the colonel, Napoleon returned to the attic of the merchant’s house where a sergeant was keeping watch on the citadel.

  ‘Any developments?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Shortly after you went to see the colonel a boat put out from the citadel.’

  ‘What course?’

  ‘North, sir. Towards Bastia, I’m thinking. They’ve gone for reinforcements.’

  Napoleon nodded. It was what he had feared would happen. The garrison commander, forewarned of the attack, must have had the boat ready to send off at first light - just as the ill-fated assault party had rushed for the gates.With a good wind the boat could reach Bastia by nightfall. Allowing a day to organise a relief force and another for the return journey, Napoleon realised that there was no chance of starving the garrison out. Nor would the men of the volunteer battalion be in any mood to attempt a direct assault. The casualties would be horrific and Napoleon balked at the idea of so much bloodshed.This was supposed to have been a swift coup, but now he could see nothing in the situation but humiliation and failure.

  Over t
he next three days Napoleon made several more attempts to negotiate, but the garrison fired on anyone who dared show his face in front of the citadel walls. The artillery piece mounted on the north bastion ceased fire once it had ruined the topmost floor of the Jacobin Club, and then an uneasy stillness and silence hung over the quarter of the town closest to the citadel. Elsewhere, the people of Ajaccio ventured warily on to the streets and bought only what was necessary before hurrying back to the shelter of their homes. It was soon clear to Napoleon that there was little support for the battalion’s attempt to seize the citadel. Once the bombardment of the Jacobin Club had ceased a small crowd of townspeople had gathered to shout abuse at those still inside, and hurl stones at any face that appeared at one of the already shattered windows.

  Then on the evening of the third day, several warships were sighted entering the Gulf of Ajaccio. On the final tack into the harbour the gunports opened and the ships anchored, with their muzzles trained on the town. Under the cover of the ships’ batteries, boats began to ferry soldiers ashore and as dusk closed in around Ajaccio the men of a regular line regiment marched into the boulevard and halted in front of the gates of the citadel.

  Colonel Quenza had emerged from the cathedral as soon as he had word of the approach of the warships and had gone to find his subordinate. Now both officers warily advanced towards the officer in command of the relief force. He was a regular army major. He strode forward to confront the commanders of the volunteer battalion.

  ‘Colonel Quenza?’ He saluted, and turned towards Napoleon. ‘And you must be Lieutenant Colonel Buona Parte?’

  Napoleon nodded, and the major turned his attention back to Quenza. ‘I have instructions to order your men to lay down their arms immediately and return to their homes. The battalion is dissolved by authority of the Governor of Corsica. Failure to comply with the order will be met with force. Sir, unless you are prepared to have the blood of hundreds of your countrymen on your hands I suggest you do exactly as I request.’