A Battle Won

by Sean Thomas Russell

  At that moment, dinner was announced, and they made their way down to the refectory. The fare was simple but flavourful, as though the food that grew upon the parched island had its essence concentrated, and was not diluted by an overabundance of moisture.

  The general begged their indulgence and retired soon after the meal’s end, saying that his ageing body must have its sleep. Convent cells were prepared for the visitors and they found themselves with the luxury of separate beds, even if there were two to a room.

  Moore sat upon his cot, face warmly illuminated by candlelight. ‘The general appears much broken since last I saw him,’ the soldier observed. ‘Leonati told me that he had an attack upon his chest but a few months ago, and that learning what has transpired in Paris has reduced his health even more. That, as much as anything, led him to turn against the French. Let us hope he lives to see his people free.’

  Hayden hung his jacket upon a wooden peg in the wall. ‘Yes, I should like to see that as well. It appears to me that the Corsicans have a strong case for wanting their independence but have not the strength militarily of achieving, or at least maintaining, it in the long term.’ Hayden paused, the earlier conversation repeating itself in his mind. ‘I did not think Sir Gilbert and Paoli were in sentiment with one another…’

  This appeared to distress Moore a little. ‘I thought the same. Let us hope they soon pass beyond the difficulties of their first meeting. Paoli clearly felt that Lord Hood had done him some injury but it is the responsibility of Lord Hood to first consider the interests of Britain – not Corsica, however worthy her people might be.’ He folded his jacket and laid it on a chair and then began to pace the three steps allowed by the small room. ‘I hope tomorrow we might begin to reconnoitre the French positions. I am not well-suited to diplomatic missions.’

  ‘Nor am I,’ Hayden agreed. ‘I should rather be on blockade, and that is saying a great deal.’

  The conversation appeared to be at an end, prompting Hayden to wish the soldier a good night of rest, when Moore spoke again.

  ‘I do apologize, Captain, for the lieutenant-major’s incivility… It is an attitude much ingrained in our service – and regrettably so. Kochler is, I believe, an excellent officer, and I do hope that, in not too short a time, he will have his opinions of the Navy altered by mere observation of your service’s zeal and capabilities.’

  ‘There is no cause for you to apologize,’ Hayden replied. ‘I am well aware that the same attitude perseveres in the Navy. Jealousy and mislike of your service are ever two of the sentiments that bind sailors together. A regrettable state of affairs, I believe.’

  Moore had stretched out on his bed, and laid, staring up at the ceiling, thick hands locked behind his head. ‘I do despair, at times, for our race. It is as though we are ever trapped in adolescence and never reach our majority. How do we make a world when we are forever children?’

  Hayden was surprised to find Moore sounding positively melancholy – perhaps it happened only at day’s end when fatigue overcame him.

  ‘I do know what you mean,’ Hayden said. ‘Perhaps some of us never even reach our lieutenant-majority.’

  ‘Oh, Hayden, you have no shame.’ The colonel laughed. ‘Even for a sailor.’

  Hayden woke early and slipped out of his room before dawn. Descending the stairs, Hayden intended to walk out into the soft, morning air. Instead, he found General Paoli, sitting at a candlelit table, eating bread and cheese and drinking warmed milk.

  ‘It is, as you English would say, salubrious’ – a crease appeared between heavy brows – ‘from the Latin salubris. It is one of the great advantages of the English language – adapting words from every tongue without distinction.’ He smiled, perhaps a bit embarrassed. ‘My stomach is not so hardy as once it was,’ he explained, and invited Hayden to join him. A jam made of figs was being applied to bits of cheese with a spoon, and at the general’s behest Hayden soon found himself doing the same.

  ‘What ship is it you command, Captain?’ Paoli asked.

  Hayden was quite certain that the general had spent enough time in English society to realize his visitor did not wear a post captain’s uniform.

  ‘I hold the rank of master and commander, only,’ Hayden answered, ‘and am in temporary command of a thirty-two-gun frigate – the Themis.’

  Paoli nodded. ‘The goddess of order,’ he observed. ‘What will become of you when the Admiralty appoints a captain to take your place?’

  ‘Lord Hood was to do that when I arrived here from England but he has chosen to leave me in place instead.’

  Hayden thought the old man’s face darkened a little at the mention of the admiral, but he did not show it in his voice.

  ‘Perhaps his lordship will decide to confirm your command of this ship. Would the Admiralty not support his decision?’

  It was more than Hayden would allow himself to hope. As commander in chief, Lord Hood could appoint him post captain and grant him command of the Themis, or any other vessel for that matter. In such situations, the Admiralty almost invariably confirmed the admiral’s choice – though Hayden knew of exceptions.

  ‘Perhaps they would, but I am no favourite of the Admiralty, I must tell you.’

  ‘Ah. I have been told that your recent service has been exemplary.’

  Apparently the general had been uncovering information about the men Hood had sent to treat with him. Hayden did not think Paoli had survived in politics to this age by being obtuse.

  ‘I do my duty to the best of my ability.’ Uncomfortable speaking of his own accomplishments, Hayden chose to change the subject. ‘How strong a resistance do you believe the French will mount, General?’

  The old man spread a little jam on his cheese with unsteady hands. ‘One can say many things about the French,’ Paoli observed softly, ‘but one cannot call them cowards. Even so, no man likes to give his life in a cause that is lost. Corsica is lost to the Jacobins unless they can carry an army here, and presently your navy prevents that. French courage will not fail, but I believe their commitment will falter a little more as one fortification after another falls. It is akin to pushing a cart lodged in the mud; difficult at first but once it begins to roll it grows easier. I am content to see it take as long as it takes. It is one of the great benefits of age; life teaches many lessons but patience it reminds us of most often. Almost all of my life I have struggled to see my people and my homeland free from foreign domination; I can wait a little longer. Twenty years the French have been here. Before that we enjoyed ten years of freedom, of self-government. The Americans are so proud of their republic and their democracy, as though they invented these things. No, we, a simple people on a small island, achieved these things before them. All we had to do was spend three hundred years driving out the Genoese! But in sixty-nine the Bourbons sent their armies and we could not stand against them – they were too great – and our experiment in self-government was brought to an end. That is why we need to ally ourselves with England. Corsica is not strong enough to stand alone. That is our tragedy. But it is the other great lesson of age – compromise. We are not great enough to stand alone, so we must ally ourselves with the country most likely to respect our independence – your nation, Captain, where I spent twenty long years in exile.’

  Hayden did not know quite what to say, and so stammered, ‘Perhaps your long-held dream of independence can yet be achieved, guaranteed by Britain.’

  Paoli shrugged. ‘Before I die, I should like very much to see the fate of my country settled. Let the next generation of Corsicans spend their days pursuing the common pleasures of this life – love, children, the scent of maquis on the morning air – instead of constantly being called out to fight one enemy after another. For so many years we have struggled that now we ask little of life. We do not want wealth or empire or military glory. Just peace and to decide our own affairs… and some more fig jam,’ he said, scraping the last dollop out of the jar. But then he paused and regarded Hayden, his manner
sombre. ‘That is enough for my people.’

  ‘It should be enough for anyone, I believe,’ Hayden responded, touched by the sincerity of this man.

  Suppressing a charming smile, Paoli touched Hayden’s arm with a large hand – a stonemason’s hand. ‘Then let me find us more of this jam, Captain.’ He rose stiffly and went to a cupboard, moving things about inside and muttering. ‘Ah!’ he said, snatching up a jar with not a little triumph. Returning to the table, he sat heavily in his chair, as though at the last instant his legs betrayed him. ‘Do you have children, Captain?’

  ‘I do not, General, though I hope to one day.’

  ‘To most I say, “do not hurry” but to military men I say, “now is not too soon”. It is a life of great uncertainty, the one we have chosen. I myself have been most fortunate to have survived so long when many of my comrades have given their lives for our cause. A priest once told me that God preserved my life so that I might bring independence to my people. I do not believe that God is so concerned with the fate of Paoli, or that another man could not do what I have done or might yet do. No, Paoli is not so important that God has taken notice.’ He lifted his cup, but before it reached his mouth he paused, meeting Hayden’s eye. ‘Is this not pleasant to be alone without a crowd always pressing? I rise so early for this and this alone – a few moments of peace.’

  ‘I hope I have not interrupted your… solitude, General.’

  ‘Not at all. It is a pleasure to speak English with an Englishman. I will tell you in the greatest privacy, that there are times when I wish my own people were as practical and – what is the word? – pragmatic as yours. But no: Corsicans are passionate and impulsive people, very quick to take offence and to anger. That is our curse, Captain. But it is a greater curse to be without passion, I think.’

  Hayden was not allowed to respond to this observation, which he thought might have been levelled at his father’s people, for the other visitors came downstairs then, and followers of Paoli appeared bearing food. Clearly they had been staying quietly away from the general for some time. Breakfast quickly became a social event, attended by many of the general’s followers. Hayden found himself feeling a little sorry for the old Corsican, who bore the burden of his people’s aspirations upon ageing shoulders.

  Perhaps Sir Gilbert had sensed the growing impatience of his young companions, for once he had them alone he proposed an alteration in plans. ‘I think it best,’ he told them, ‘that I spend today in private conversation with General Paoli. I have asked and received permission for you, Colonel, Major Kochler and Captain Hayden to visit the area of San Fiorenzo where the French hold several prominent positions. One of the general’s people will accompany you.’

  ‘Am I not to go with them?’ Wickham asked, disappointment clear in his voice.

  ‘You, young Lord Arthur, are to be taken shooting this day; the general arranged it himself.’

  ‘Shooting!’ Wickham responded in dismay.

  ‘Exactly so,’ Sir Gilbert said, and then very quietly, ‘but do not let the Corsicans hear you respond in this manner. The general is showing you great favour and that means everything to his people.’

  ‘I am not ungrateful,’ Wickham answered, chastised, ‘I only hoped to assist the other officers in any way I could.’

  ‘Today you may assist them by going shooting. And you may assist me later by returning for supper and telling the tale of your day to the general, who believes you are to be a great admiral one day.’

  The military men did not linger over their preparations but quickly gathered together what effects they might need and went down to the courtyard. Here they were met by the young man whom Paoli had appointed as their guide and interpreter, Pozzo di Borgo.

  Di Borgo had, at the commencement of the revolution, been elected a deputy to the National Assembly in Paris, there to represent his people, and he had much to say of what he had witnessed during his time in that city – which had been the first occasion of his life to leave the island.

  As they rode out, di Borgo told them of all the recent events that had led the general to break with republican France. ‘It was distressing enough that Jacobins ruled in Paris, but the Committee of Public Safety… that was a different madness. What dismayed the general most was that Corsicans, primarily Saliceti, had conspired against him, blackening his name before the Convention and accusing him of treason. The general was then invited to the mainland to ‘discuss’ the situation in Corsica, but he had no delusions about the Convention’s intent. Very wisely, he did not refuse the Jacobins’ invitation but simply wrote to say that his health would not allow such a journey. The situation on our island grew ever more fractious, several factions vying for control, all to their own ends. Only General Paoli put Corsica first. The break with Jacobin France was inevitable.’

  As they rode and talked, Hayden noticed that their escort occupied the peaks ahead and abreast, companies constantly being sent out before, leapfrogging one another, to maintain their vigil.

  ‘You have known the general a long time?’ Moore asked.

  ‘Not so long as I would like. Even in exile he was an inspiration to our people. It is sad to see him finally return, so broken in health.’ He shook his head. ‘But now, perhaps, with the aid of your nation, he can see our people free and retire from active life, as I know he wishes to do. All of our people wish him happiness and rest. No one deserves it more.’

  Hayden thought di Borgo was rather too ardent – perhaps eager – in his desire to see the general retiring, despite his tone of respectful sorrow. It was not something new to find young lions standing by, impatiently, when the old lion showed signs of failing. Paoli had been the leader of the Corsicans’ revolt for so long that younger men of ability had, for decades, been thwarted in their ambitions.

  ‘We learned,’ observed Moore, ‘after the evacuation of Toulon, that the general there had been a Corsican.’

  ‘Bonaparte.’ Di Borgo said this as though he spat out dirt.

  ‘You’ve heard of him?’

  ‘He is well known among my people. Once he was a lieutenant-colonel of the Corsican Volunteers but his intemperance and arrogance led to a near insurrection in Ajaccio. Bonaparte’s father had once been General Paoli’s secretary; the general introduced him to the woman who became his wife – Letitia. But the brothers Bonaparte… they will intrigue as long as they can draw breath. It is no secret that the general thought Napoleon Bonaparte unprincipled and ambitious. General Paoli has always put Corsica before any aspirations of his own and he looks for men of like character. Thwarted here, Bonaparte offered his services to the Jacobins. He is now seen as a man the French might send to invade our nation and imprison the general. I am ashamed to say that the Bonapartes have their supporters here, but people who love Corsica know them for what they are – a family of opportunists.’

  They had ridden perhaps three leagues when musket fire began on the hill above them. Di Borgo tried to turn his charges round and herd them back, but as soon as cries of ‘The French! The French!’ and ‘Jacobins!’ were heard, both Moore and Kochler dropped from their mules, and, muskets in hand, began toiling directly up the rugged slope. Hayden took up his own firearm and went in pursuit. The hill was a litter of large, broken blocks of stone and low bramble, making progress difficult. As the army men were not commonly confined to ships for months on end, they were not so easily winded and quickly put distance between themselves and Hayden. By the time he reached the crest, Hayden worried the skirmish would be over, but in fact, the firing grew hotter the higher he climbed.

  As he mounted the hilltop, Hayden found the army men crouched behind a table-sized stone, both reloading their muskets. Around them the Corsicans kept up an erratic fire.

  ‘Kind of you to join us, Hayden,’ Kochler remarked, earning him a dark look from Moore.

  Under the circumstances, Hayden chose to let the remark pass, though it stung him more than he knew it should. Below, in a narrow valley – almost a ravine �
� a company of French soldiers advanced from rock to rock, a disciplined fire being returned first from the right, as soldiers advanced on the left, and then reversing so that the right might advance. The scattered Corsican militiamen fired as the desire struck, often not at the men who advanced but those who had gone to ground.

  ‘This will never do,’ Moore announced, and sliding back a few steps so as to be out of the line of fire, began exhorting the Corsicans to concentrate their fire and not waste it. Leonati lent his voice to Moore’s, and in a few moments, under the colonel’s direction, the French were sent retreating down the slopes. The Corsicans would have jumped up and given chase – some did leap up to do just that – but Moore managed to put a stop to this, and instead moved his force down the slope in a concentrated, ordered manner, not letting them get spread out so that the quick could range too far ahead and become isolated from their fellows.

  For nearly an hour they chased the fleeing French until, finally, the enemy managed to outdistance the militiamen. A single wounded man was the only Corsican casualty and the British escaped all injuries but for scratches and bruises inflicted by the island of Corsica on the unsuspecting visitors.

  Moore was examining a bloody gash across the back of his hand as Hayden joined him.

  ‘The inhabitants do not seem to have suffered as we have,’ Hayden observed, inspecting his own small injuries.

  ‘Apparently they know which bushes bear thorns. Look at what I have done…’ Moore held up his hand. ‘A bayonet could not inflict such injury.’

  Twenty feet off, the Corsicans were stripping a dead French soldier of his valuables – including his uniform. As most of the locals bore only fowling pieces, the dead soldier’s musket was a great prize, claimed, unfortunately, by more than one. Di Borgo was forced to step in and confiscate the musket until it could be properly decided where it should be bestowed (several claimed to have fired the fatal shot).

  Upon the instant that this small dispute had begun, the Corsicans had assembled into two distinct parties, each supporting a claimant, and the discussion grew, quickly, heated.