Young Bloods

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Good evening.’

  Napoleon glanced up from the paper and saw Alessi standing over him. Alessi gestured to the empty chair beside Napoleon. ‘May I?’

  Napoleon nodded, as he closed the paper and slid it to one side. ‘Are you here for the meeting?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled.‘Haven’t heard a decent debate in weeks.Then I saw your name on the list just now.’

  ‘I’m putting a proposal before the club.’ Napoleon lowered his voice. ‘Concerning my friend Paoli and that débâcle at Maddalena.’

  Alessi raised his eyebrows in surprise.‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

  ‘It’s time someone exposed him for what he is.’

  Both men looked up as the club secretary rang the bell to announce the start of the meeting. Napoleon and Alessi rose from their seats and joined the crowd pressing through the door into the meeting room, a large hall filled with benches. At the far end was the lectern on a raised platform for the speakers. Napoleon and Alessi pushed forward and took seats in the first row. As the other members entered the room and sat down, the secretary set up a small table to one side of the lectern and prepared his agenda for the night. While the final seats were filled up and more members stood at the rear of the hall, Napoleon went over to the secretary and asked if he could speak first, since his proposal was most pressing, and the man duly altered the order of speakers.

  Napoleon returned to his seat. Inside, his stomach felt light and his heart beat quickly. Napoleon wondered if he should proceed with his plan.

  The secretary stood up and rapped his gavel on the table to quieten the Jacobin audience. When all was still he declared the meeting open, read through the minutes of the previous meeting and then nodded to Napoleon.

  Taking a deep breath, Napoleon moved round behind the lectern. The light cast by the dozens of wavering flames in the chandeliers suspended from the ceiling gave everyone’s face a florid, orange glow that made them look hot and angry. For a moment Napoleon said nothing, his tongue stilled by the knowledge that his future, perhaps even his life, hung in the balance. He cleared his throat and began.

  ‘Like all of you, I had regarded Paoli to be a patriot and a true Corsican hero.Throughout all the years he spent in exile we told ourselves that the day he returned to our land was the day we would be free again. And happy was that day when I first met him in Marseilles, held his hand and looked into his eyes and knew that my prayers had been answered. Here was our Paoli, our liberator.’

  Napoleon looked over the faces in the audience and saw many nod their heads as they recalled their exhilaration at the return of Paoli to his homeland. Fortunately, a number of faces were stonily inexpressive as some members refused to indulge in the euphoria. Napoleon raised his hands to silence the muttering.

  ‘I can see we all remember the moment as if it were only yesterday. If only it were yesterday, so that we could be spared what has happened since then . . . It has taken many months, but General Paoli has broken my heart. All the hopes I had for our future have been stolen and twisted into lies and deceit. General Paoli has bestowed on his followers all the favours and positions that were in his power to give, and then those that were not, by virtue of force, of bribery, of corruption and dishonesty. He treats Corsica as if we were his subjects and he our king!’

  This time the audience was clearly and vocally divided in its response and while some applauded Napoleon, still more shouted angrily, ‘Shame! Shame!’ Some waved their fists at Napoleon and he felt the thrill of danger as he calmly called for quiet so that he might continue.

  ‘And now, it seems, Paoli intends to betray the friendship of France, to betray the principles of the revolution that have made us into free citizens, no longer to suffer the humiliation of being mere subjects of a pampered and venal king. At present we are a part of France and our affairs are governed by the will of the common people. But what if Paoli sells us into an alliance with the enemies of France? What will guarantee our liberty then?’

  ‘Enough!’ one of the members shouted, jumping to his feet and thrusting his finger at Napoleon. ‘Shut your mouth, traitor! How dare you insult the hero of Corsica?’

  ‘He is no longer our hero!’ Napoleon shouted back. ‘He is the victim of his own vanity! Paoli is no more a hero than King Louis, and I call upon all here to demand his arrest and trial as we demanded that of Louis!’

  More of the club’s members stood up to denounce Napoleon, and he tried to call for order, but in vain. The meeting room was in an uproar, with members shouting angrily at him, and also amongst themselves. The secretary of the club took hold of Napoleon’s arm.

  ‘I think you have said enough, Buona Parte.’

  ‘I have not finished.’

  ‘Yes you have,’ the secretary replied firmly. ‘Return to your seat!’

  ‘No!’

  The secretary clenched his teeth and thrust Napoleon away from the lectern, and was rewarded with a loud cheer but also catcalls from the audience. For an instant, Napoleon turned on the man, ready to fight him for possession of the stage, but then he was aware of the rage directed against him from the audience, some of whom were already starting towards the stage, ready to assist the secretary.

  ‘This is an outrage!’ Napoleon shouted at the secretary above the din. ‘By what authority do you deny me the right to address these citizens? Does Paoli already rule Ajaccio?’

  ‘Sit down!’ shouted the secretary. ‘Now!’

  Hands grabbed at Napoleon, and before he could react, he was hauled off the platform and bodily thrust back into his seat. Immediately, he made to get up but Alessi held his arm. ‘Don’t! Not yet.Wait until hot heads have cooled down.Then you can try and repair the damage.’

  Napoleon glared at him, but before he could respond, the next speaker, Pozzo di Borgo, had taken the lectern and was waving his arms to calm the audience down so that he could be heard. As the noise died away the new speaker looked at Napoleon and called out. ‘I wish to place a new proposal in front of the club. That Napoleon Buona Parte be stripped of his rank in the Ajaccio volunteers!’

  The hall erupted in a loud cheer of approval. Pozzo di Borgo smiled and then continued, ‘Furthermore, that his membership of this club be revoked.’

  Again more cheers, until a voice from the back of the hall called out, ‘On what grounds? You cannot make such proposals without just cause.’

  Many in the audience jeered and hissed, and the secretary banged his gavel. ‘The citizen is right. There must be a full and proper debate of any proposal that censures a member of this club so severely. Is that acceptable to the proposer?’

  Pozzo di Borgo grinned. ‘Why not? I’m happy to give people a chance to speak. Before we dispose of Citizen Buona Parte!’

  Napoleon clamped his mouth shut and stared back at the man, daring him to look away first. He was beyond anger. He was surprised at how calm he was.This fight was lost and he knew it. There was no point in continuing. What mattered now was surviving until he could exact his revenge, as the Corsican code of honour demanded.

  Napoleon turned to Alessi. ‘I’m leaving. I’ll be back at my house.’

  The shouts and cries of the members died away as Napoleon rose to his feet. They looked at him expectantly and then he bowed to them and said, as calmly as he could, ‘Good night, gentlemen.’ Then he walked steadily between the rows of chairs to the door and out into the reading room.

  ‘Coward!’ someone shouted, and others joined in with jeers and catcalls until the secretary’s frantic hammering brought quiet again. As he made for the door leading into the street Napoleon heard the secretary calling out to the crowd in the meeting room.

  ‘Citizens! We have a proposal before the house. Let us deal with it in a manner worthy of the Jacobin party!’

  Chapter 69

  When he reached the house, the absence of his family and the unaccustomed silence of its walls made him more determined than ever. He could not stay in Ajaccio. The rumour that the Paolists wante
d to assassinate him was bad enough, but once the Jacobin Club turned on him Napoleon would be torn apart the moment he showed his face on the streets. He had arranged for a good horse to be saddled and ready to leave that night. It was tethered in the storage shed at the back of the house. All that remained was to pack essentials and go. Joseph had left a hundred gold louis from Uncle Luciano’s chest and Napoleon shoved the leather purses in his saddlebag, on top of a few clothes, and his notebooks.

  Just then he heard the front door crash open and footsteps thudded into the hall.

  ‘Napoleon! Napoleon! Where are you!’

  He recognised the voice with a wave of relief. ‘Alessi! Just a moment!’

  Napoleon quickly heaved the saddlebag onto his shoulder and hurried to the door. Alessi rushed to him and grabbed his arms. ‘You have to go! Get out of Ajaccio tonight.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They passed the proposal, then someone added a clause to condemn the Buona Parte family to perpetual execration and infamy - that was the phrase.You know what it means.They mean to kill you, and your family if they lay their hands on them.’

  There were shouts in the street and the sound of footsteps echoing off the sides of buildings. Alessi started at the noise. ‘They’re already here!’

  ‘Come! This way.’ Napoleon grabbed Alessi and thrust him towards the cellar door. Napoleon closed it behind him and ran down the steep stairs. At the bottom he carefully took the candle and directed Alessi over to a small wooden door at the far end of the cellar. On the ground floor the front door burst open and several men entered the house, their footsteps pounding across the floorboards as they shouted for Napoleon in harsh, angry tones that left no doubt about their intentions. As Napoleon and Alessi hurried over the damp cellar floor, the candle flickered and went out.

  ‘Keep going!’ Napoleon whispered. ‘It’s straight ahead.’

  Alessi stumbled on with Napoleon grasping his coat-tails to stay in touch. Just before he calculated they must be approaching the door Alessi suddenly pitched forward and something glass shattered on the floor.

  ‘Hear that?’ a muffled voice called out. ‘Over here!’

  The cellar door was wrenched open as Napoleon picked Alessi up and reached round him, fingers groping through the air until they made contact with the rough surface of the door. Footsteps thudded down on the creaking cellar stairs.

  ‘It’s pitch-black down here. Get some light!’

  Napoleon’s fingers slid down the wood to the latch and he lifted it.The metal was old and there was a protesting squeak from the hinges as the door swung inwards.

  ‘There’s someone in here!’

  Beyond the door the ground rose steeply into the yard behind the house and Napoleon scrambled up after Alessi until they stood on the flagstones in the faint light of the stars. Napoleon pulled the other man across the yard to where an arch opened on to the street beyond. ‘Go home.You’ve risked enough already.’

  Alessi nodded and grasped Napoleon’s hand. ‘Good luck!’

  Then he was gone, running off into the dark shadows of the street. Napoleon turned the other way, feeling his way along the wall. He smelled the horse and heard it champing before he found the bolt. Not wanting to give himself away again, he eased it aside and gently opened the door. The horse stirred uneasily in the darkness as Napoleon groped for the reins, undid them and led the horse out into the street. His first thought was to mount the animal and ride like the devil. But if the horse lost his footing on the street cobbles it could fall and injure itself, or, worse still, injure him.

  The shouts and thuds from inside the house were punctuated by loud crashes as the men looking for him began to search for loot. But now there were more voices in the street, rushing to join the hunt for the man who had denounced Paoli. Leading the horse as quickly as they could go Napoleon headed into the tangled streets of the old town before heading east to find a quiet lane leading out of Ajaccio.

  The sounds of his pursuers slowly faded behind him. Once, close to the edge of town he had to wait in the shadows as a party of men clattered past the end of the street, armed with muskets and swords, some in the uniform of the volunteer battalion. Only a few weeks before they had been fighting alongside him in the assault on the fort at Maddelena; now they were his enemies.

  When they had passed by, and their footsteps had faded, Napoleon continued towards the fringe of town. There, a track curved up through the olive trees towards the main route heading north along the base of the mountains. Napoleon continued on foot until he was some distance from the last building and then mounted the horse. There was just enough light to see the track, and with a click of his tongue he urged the horse forward. The trees on either side blocked the view of the town and it was not until the track reached the crest of a hill that Napoleon was able to rein in, and gaze back at Ajaccio. The black bulk of the citadel loomed over the dense mass of town houses, illuminated here and there by lanterns and lights visible in windows. The delicate tracery of masts and rigging were just discernible in the harbour, beyond which the sea was a dark grey sheen stretching out towards the horizon. Above, the stars looked down on the scene in pinpoints of unblinking brilliance.

  Napoleon felt a sudden, exhausting sadness overwhelm him. This had been his home. Even through all the years he had spent in France, he had carried Ajaccio, and Corsica, in his heart. He had been certain that he was destined to achieve something lasting here on this island. Now all that was gone. The house, whose every stone and nook and cranny were as familiar to him as his own body. The wharf where he had played as a child and listened to the tall stories of fishermen and sailors. The citadel where he had befriended the soldiers of the garrison, and later tried to seize it from them. All the places and people he had grown up with, all of that was lost to him.

  ‘What now?’ he asked softly and the horse’s long ears twitched at the sound. Napoleon leaned forward to give his mount a gentle reassuring pat on the neck. ‘Easy there.’

  Now? Now there was nothing but making his escape from this place. A long, hard ride to Calvi to join the rest of his family, and then they would take the first ship to France. The Buona Partes would arrive refugees, in a strange land torn by revolution, war and insurrection. No matter what fate had in store for them, one thing was certain, Napoleon reflected. All his ambitions for Corsica were a thing of the past. From now on, whether he liked it or not, his destiny was irrevocably bound to that of France.

  Chapter 70

  Dublin, 1791

  One morning in March, nearly a year after he had begun his campaign to win the seat for Trim, Arthur was wandering down Connaught Street, moving from shop window to shop window as he looked for a pair of riding boots. In the afternoon he had an appointment with the family’s land agent, John Page, and Arthur hoped to have a quiet lunch in the dining room at Carlton’s, where the windows looked directly on to the Liffey, and the distant roofs and towers of Dublin Castle rose up above the buildings on the opposite bank. His meetings with Page were never enjoyable since Arthur had little interest in the financial details of the family’s holdings. More aggravating still was the fact that he owed the man thirty guineas from two years before and Page rarely passed up the chance to remind Arthur of the debt, in a manner of finely honed deference. Now, to cap it all, Arthur had need of more money, to pay off an outstanding mess bill and to purchase a new pair of riding boots. Page was the best source of a small loan since the only interest he charged was the pained look of disapproval he affected when discussing Arthur’s financial situation.

  So ran Arthur’s thoughts as he gazed into the bay window of one of the gentlemen’s shoemakers. Before him stood a fine pair of boots, the dark brown leather gleaming like varnished wood. He imagined himself arriving at the hunt on Sunday in those boots and drawing admiring glances. But were they really worth twelve guineas? He stood back a few paces into the street to see how the boots looked from a less intimate distance and once again pondered the justific
ation for such an expensive luxury.

  ‘Why don’t you just go in there and try them on?’

  Arthur started, and turned towards the voice. Standing a short distance away Kitty Pakenham laughed at his surprised expression. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump.’

  Arthur blushed and struggled to recover his composure, quite unsure of how to react to the sudden discovery of Kitty smiling at him in the middle of a Dublin street.

  ‘Ah, hmm,’ he managed, and then bowed his head formally. ‘Miss Pakenham, a pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘You make it sound like we have not attended the same party for months on end. Why it was only last Tuesday that we conversed over a light supper at Lady Tremayne’s soirée. Am I so forgettable that you do not recall the event, Mr Wesley?’

  ‘Forgettable? No, ma’am. Not at all. I think of you all the time. I...’ Arthur frowned. ‘Forgive me, what I meant to say was—’

  ‘That you think of me none of the time?’ Kitty teased. ‘Oh, pardon me. That doesn’t sound terribly grammatical. Or syntactical. ’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Whatever the dreadful expression might be, it doesn’t sound it. Oh dear. Nor did that.’

  Arthur laughed, and after a moment Kitty joined him.

  Once they had recovered from their amusement Arthur smiled and said, ‘Shall we start again, Miss Pakenham?’

  ‘Yes. And let’s begin by calling me Kitty. Otherwise I shall think that you really don’t like me at all.’

  ‘Very well, Kitty it is.’ Arthur relished the sound as his tongue moved from his palate and its tip pressed against the back of his teeth. Kitty. Here in the street and all to himself. He felt his heart lift as he realised this was the very opportunity that he had been waiting for. Then there was a rush of anxiety as he feared that he was not ready for it and that he might make a complete mess of this chance - surely his only chance - to make a favourable impression. Already he had let slip that she was on his mind and he cringed at having exposed his true feelings so clumsily. He must guard against that in future. Looking into her clear eyes, he continued, ‘And you must call me, Arthur. Well, that is, I’d like you to call me Arthur, if that’s not an imposition?’