Young Bloods

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, at the moment.’ Saliceti sat himself up, reached for some paper and took up his pen. ‘I’ll see what I can do for you, Lieutenant Buona Parte. Now I must ask you to leave. I have to return to the Assembly shortly. Leave your address with my clerk and I’ll be in touch with you when I have any news.’

  Napoleon rose from his chair and went to the door. He paused.‘Do you really think you can help me escape the charges?’

  ‘Well, if I can’t then nobody can.’

  Chapter 62

  One afternoon towards the end of June, Napoleon was lying on his bed underneath the open window staring up into a clear blue sky, when he became aware of the sound of a crowd some distance off. At first he ignored it, but the sound grew in volume and even though it was impossible to make out any distinct cries or chants, there was no mistaking the anger that filled the hearts of those in the crowd. Rising from his bed, Napoleon reached for his hat, descended the staircase and left the house. Outside there were people in the street, drawn, like him, towards the source of the noise, and as they all headed towards the heart of the city the noise grew in volume and passion until it was deafening as he approached the Rue Saint-Honoré. The route ahead of him was filled with a dense crowd as far as the eye could see - thousands of men and women armed with hatchets, swords, wooden stakes and some muskets, marching towards the royal apartments of the Tuileries.

  Napoleon grasped the arm of a young woman at the rear of the crowd. ‘Citizen, what’s going on?’

  She glanced at his uniform and gave him an unfriendly look before she replied. ‘There’s a petition for the King. To tell the bastard to approve the Assembly’s decree to penalise those priests who won’t swear allegiance to the constitution. He wouldn’t listen to the deputies, but he’s going to listen to us - or there’ll be trouble.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  She did not elaborate, but pulled away from Napoleon, surged forward into the crowd and took up the chant of the revolutionary song, ‘Ça Ira’ that was echoing back off the buildings lining the boulevard. With a growing sense of excitement and curiosity Napoleon quickened his pace to keep up with the crowd.

  The mob poured out of the boulevard and spilled into the Place du Carousel. The chant was deafening now, but Napoleon could not see what was happening over towards the royal apartments of the Tuileries. He hurried to a building on one side of the square and climbed up on to a window sill for a better view. The foremost ranks of the crowd had fastened ropes to the iron bars of the gates and with a rhythmic roar they now strained on the ropes, aiming to tear the gates down.There was a cheer as one of the great gates began to buckle. Napoleon saw that an officer was hurriedly marching the Swiss Guards back to the barracks on the far side of the courtyard. A handful remained to close up the doors of the central pavilion that provided access to the vast staircase inside the entrance hall.

  Napoleon muttered his disapproval. While he could understand that no one in the palace wanted to provoke the mob, the crowd had to be dispersed before it gained access to the courtyard. But it was already too late. There was a wrenching crash as the gate was pulled from its hinges and toppled into the square. A huge roar of triumph filled the air and the crowd surged through the gap, across the courtyard towards the palace. When they reached the doors at the top of the steps leading up from the courtyard, they battered at the timbers with axes and hammers.To no avail. The doors were solid and had been reinforced in recent months to guard against such an assault.

  Suddenly there were several puffs of smoke and then the flat crack of musket fire. On the second and third floors of the palace, windows shattered, showering those nearest in the mob with shards of glass; victims of their foolhardy companions with firearms.The shooting continued for nearly a quarter of an hour, shattering every window and pockmarking the façade of the palace. Then a white sheet fluttered at one of the windows and the shooting gradually stopped. A figure appeared on one of the balconies and gestured down to the crowd. Those closest to the palace roared out a reply, and moments later the doors of the palace opened and the mob began to surge inside.

  Was this it, Napoleon wondered: the moment when the Bourbon dynasty fell, torn to pieces by the Paris mob? He felt a great sense of regret and disgust well up inside him at the thought that France now belonged to these animals. It was too horrible to contemplate, but a morbid fascination kept him standing there on the window sill, straining his eyes towards the distant entrance to the palace. Shortly afterwards he saw the tall doors open behind a balcony overlooking the courtyard and several figures shuffled out into the full view of the mob. There was a cheer. In amongst the figures stood a man and woman in powdered wigs.The King and Queen, Napoleon realised, his blood going cold with dread. But it was soon clear they were not in mortal danger. A man stepped up beside Louis and placed a red bonnet on his head. The crowd cheered and Louis made no effort to remove it. Instead he raised a glass, made some kind of toast and then took a swig as the crowd cheered again.

  ‘Lieutenant Buona Parte?’

  Napoleon looked down and saw Monsieur Perronet with a companion on the edge of the square below him. He waved a greeting and climbed down to join his landlord.

  ‘A sad business,’ Perronet said quietly after making sure no one was close enough to overhear.

  ‘Indeed,’ Napoleon replied.

  Perronet turned to indicate his companion. ‘My friend Monsieur Lavaux, a lawyer.’

  ‘A lawyer?’ Napoleon smiled. ‘It seems that your profession may soon be out of business. A few more days of this and there won’t be any law at all.’

  Lavaux nodded. ‘It’s an outrage. How dare those animals treat the King and his family like that? It’s an outrage!’ he repeated through clenched teeth.

  ‘You must forgive Monsieur Lavaux,’ Perronet smiled. ‘He is something of a royalist.’

  Napoleon shrugged. ‘You don’t need to be a royalist to be offended by such a spectacle.’ He stared at the distant figures on the balcony, being displayed before the mob. ‘I tell you, if I was in charge of the royal bodyguard such things would not be tolerated.’

  Perronet exchanged a quick look of surprise with his friend, before he turned back to Napoleon. ‘And what would you do to prevent such an event, Lieutenant?’

  Napoleon glanced at the mob and narrowed his eyes. ‘They’re nothing more than a rabble. A quick blast of grapeshot and they’d bolt like rabbits. That’s what I’d do.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lavaux conceded.‘But they’d be back, sooner or later.’

  ‘Then I’d have the guns loaded and ready,’ Napoleon replied. ‘And sooner or later, they’d realise the futility of opposing me.’

  ‘Er, quite.’ Lavaux shuffled uncomfortably, and then smiled at his friend Perronet.‘We must go, or we’ll be late for our meeting.’

  ‘Eh?’ Perronet looked confused, then grasped the point. ‘Of course. Please excuse us, Lieutenant. We must go. If I may, I’d advise you to get off the streets.’

  Napoleon tore his gaze away from the distant balcony and smiled. ‘Later. I want to see how this ends.’

  ‘Be careful, then.’ Perronet waved a farewell and made off with his friend.

  When they were out of earshot, Lavaux turned back for one last look at the young artillery officer bearing witness to the public humiliation of the royal family. He nudged Perronet and whispered, ‘What on earth do you make of that - “If I was in charge . . .”?’ For a moment he chuckled at the young man’s astonishing hubris, and then idly wondered if he would ever hear of the name Buona Parte again.

  Chapter 63

  King Louis had played his hand well, Napoleon conceded in the days that followed. What could have turned into a violent overthrow of the monarchy ended in a public party that continued well into the evening. By ordering his troops back to barracks, wearing the red bonnet and toasting France with the crowd massing before the palace, Louis had won them over and they had cheered him to the heavens.
But, as the euphoria quickly wore off, it was soon clear that a decisive confrontation between the King and his people had merely been delayed. The gate was repaired, the broken windows boarded up, and as the capital basked in ever hotter weather the palace was steadily fortified and its garrison strengthened by royalist volunteers who took up residence in the rooms on the ground floor. They were determined never to permit a repeat of the earlier outrage and steadily built up enough supplies of food, powder and weapons to withstand a siege.

  Over at the National Assembly, Napoleon regularly listened to debates where deputy after deputy stood up to denounce the King’s refusal to dismiss his palace guard. Robespierre was foremost amongst them, and where he led the Jacobins followed, broadcasting their views in increasingly fervent tones designed to stir up the anger of the Paris mob.

  Amid all the growing tension, Napoleon almost ceased to care about the ongoing investigation into his role in the affair at Ajaccio. Then, on 10 July, a message from the War Office arrived at his lodgings. As he held the letter all the dread for his future rushed back and for a moment he dared not break the seal. Then with a grim expression he opened the letter, unfolded the paper and began to read.

  From the Office of Citizen Lajard, Minister of War Dated 9 July in the Fourth Year of Liberty

  To Lieutenant Buona Parte of the Régiment de la Fère Copy to Citizen Antoine Saliceti, deputy for Corsica.

  Citizen, following representations by Citizen Saliceti, the Ministry of Justice yesterday rejected the charges brought against you and Colonel Quenza with respect to the assault on the garrison at Ajaccio earlier this year. Consequent to this the Artillery Committee at the Ministry of War has reported in favour of your rehabilitation as a serving officer. Further to this, the Committee has recommended that, due to the exigencies of the military situation, you be appointed to the rank of captain, effective 1 September. You are requested to remain in Paris pending appointment to your existing regiment, or such another as may require your services.

  Yours respectfully, Citizen Rocard, secretary to the Minister of War

  Napoleon felt a wave of relief wash through his body, and he quickly reread the letter. His career had been saved. Better than saved. He had been promoted to captain. Clearly the war was going badly enough to require the services of every able-bodied officer, no matter what sins they may have committed. Napoleon smiled at the irony of it all. That he had survived the serious charges brought against him was entirely due to France’s defeats on the battlefield. Thank God for the war against Austria. He couldn’t help smiling. And thank God for Antoine Saliceti.

  He decided to send a note to Saliceti expressing his gratitude.

  Napoleon delivered the note in person to Saliceti’s clerk and received a brief acknowledgement from the deputy the following day. Saliceti affected to have had only a marginal influence on the judgement but informed Napoleon to stay in Paris and be ready to carry out a special task. There would be more details later, when Saliceti would brief him in person. But first there was a crisis to be resolved and Napoleon was advised to stay away from the Tuileries complex during August. Saliceti would give no more details at present.

  The warning was clear enough, and ominous, and when Napoleon attended the fête to celebrate the anniversary of the fall of the Bastille it was clear to him that the public mood had now swung wholly against the King. For several days the streets were filled with delegations from across the country who had travelled to Paris to join the celebrations. Amongst the crowds were thousands of National Guard volunteers, most of whom were destined to join the armies at the front. However, as the month drew to an end and the last of the official events was concluded, several thousand of the volunteers remained, billeted close to the heart of the city. Napoleon had no doubt that their presence was part of some wider plot as the King and Assembly edged ever closer to open confrontation.

  In the first days of August the newspaper-sellers’ voices filled the streets with cries about an extraordinary document issued by the commander of the Prussian armies, the Duke of Brunswick. The Prussians were invading France to end the anarchy and restore authority to the King. Any civilian who opposed the army would be executed on the spot and if the people of Paris made any more attacks on the Tuileries, or threatened the King or Queen, then the Duke of Brunswick would order the annihilation of the city.

  ‘Anyone would think that the King is on the side of the enemy,’ Napoleon protested to Monsieur Perronet the day after news of Brunswick’s document had arrived in Paris. They were sitting in the engineer’s salon, reading a selection of the morning’s papers.

  ‘Perhaps he is. Who could blame him? The enemy offer him the only chance of regaining control of France.’

  ‘That’s absurd.’ Napoleon shook his head. ‘If his authority was based on foreign soldiers, he would simply be commanding an army of occupation. The people would never stand for it. Never.’

  ‘Unless King Louis took your advice from the other day, and crushed the rabble.’ Perronet sighed. ‘It seems that the King must become a tyrant, if he is not to be destroyed.’

  Napoleon thought about that for a moment, then nodded. ‘You’re right. It has come to that. Before the war with Prussia and Austria can be won, there must be a war between the King and the people.’

  Chapter 64

  10th August

  Napoleon was woken from his sleep by a distant volley of musket fire. By the time he reached the street and began running towards the sound, the firing was continuous. He passed a clock-maker’s window and saw that the time was just after eight.The gunfire had started to draw other people outside too, and they hurried toward the sound.Then, a small group of men emerged from the Rue des Petits-Champs, running against the flow. In their midst a man held a pike aloft. A head had been jammed on to the top of the pike and blood trickled down the wooden shaft. Napoleon slowed to a halt and stared at the sight in horror as the men came down the street, crying out. ‘Long live France! Long live the nation!’

  Then one of the group saw Napoleon’s uniform and thrust out his arm. ‘Citizens! Look there! A soldier!’

  The mob swerved from its course and approached and surrounded Napoleon. The man who had spotted him stepped forward. In one hand he carried a bloodied hatchet and he raised it towards Napoleon.

  ‘You! You’re an army officer. A regular.’

  Napoleon nodded, forcing himself not to look at the head swaying from side to side above the group of men. ‘Lieutenant Buona Parte.’ He tried to sound like he had some authority. ‘What’s the meaning of this? What’s going on here?’

  ‘Quiet!’ The man thrust the axe towards his face, spattering blood on Napoleon’s jacket. ‘You’re a royalist! I can see it in your eyes!’

  The man seemed to have surrendered his senses to the madness of the mob and Napoleon knew that he was moments away from death unless he could steer the confrontation.To try to use reason would be suicidal. Only madness could confront madness. He slapped the head of the axe aside, and thrust his finger into the man’s breast. ‘How dare you call me a royalist! I’m a Jacobin! A Jacobin, d’you hear!’

  The man’s mad gaze flickered and he faltered for a moment, before he tried to regain the upper hand. ‘All right, citizen. Then tell me, who are you for? King, or country?’

  ‘Long live the nation!’ Napoleon thrust his fist into the air. ‘Long live the nation!’

  The others took up the cry, and their leader stared at Napoleon a moment before nodding in satisfaction. He raised his axe and pointed back up the street. ‘Come on, boys. That way!’

  Napoleon stood still as the group of men rushed past him, against the flow of the crowd streaming towards the Tuileries Palace. They were soon lost in the mob; only their gory trophy marked their progress as they spread word of the battle taking place in the heart of the city.

  Napoleon continued forward, his heart pounding. When he reached the Place du Carousel he saw that the iron railings had been torn down and beyond, in
the royal courtyard, a bank of gunpowder smoke wafted in the air. Within the smoke bright orange stabs of flame flickered, briefly illuminating the pikes and bayonets of the mob surging towards the entrance to the palace. Napoleon hurried across the square and saw the first bodies stretched out on the cobbles: a handful of National Guardsmen, a civilian and the mutilated corpse of one of the Swiss Guards. On the corner of the square was a furniture shop with a sign in the window saying that it was closed for business. But the mob had already smashed the door in and looted the contents. Shards of broken glass crunched under his boots as Napoleon stepped inside. He crossed the floor and climbed the stairs at the back of the shop.When he reached the second floor he found a storeroom and went to the window. As he had hoped, the window gave him a clear view towards the palace.

  The Swiss Guards had formed a line four deep across the entrance to the palace, and even as Napoleon watched they fired a volley into the dense mass of people in the courtyard. As the crash of musket fire carried across the square there was a deep groan from the mob, which instantly transformed into a cry of rage, and they swept forward once again. Another ripple of fire darted out from the red-coated ranks of the Swiss Guards and then they were fighting hand to hand with the mob. Against such odds there could only be one outcome and the Swiss were forced back up the steps and into the palace. Instinctively Napoleon glanced up at the balcony of the royal apartments where the King had appeared a few weeks earlier. If the royal family were still in there, they would surely be slaughtered without mercy this time.

  Napoleon hurried back down into the square. He paused a moment, fearful that his uniform might attract unwanted attention again. Then he saw a revolutionary cockade in the hat of one of the National Guardsmen who had fallen in the square. Removing his bicorn, he went over, wrenched the cockade free, jammed it into the crown of his hat and ran across towards the entrance to the palace. By the time he reached the tangled ruin of the main gate most of the mob had entered the building and were rampaging through the royal apartments. The muffled thud of musket fire told of the desperate resistance that was still being mounted inside the Tuileries.