As a faint pink glow silhouetted the edge of the roof tiles, the cadets spilled out into the quadrangle to form up for the morning parade. From the end of the line Napoleon stood stiffly, trying hard to give the appearance of a model cadet. He had learned the lesson of yesterday and made sure that his uniform was clean and pressed for this morning. Beneath the cloth he felt his skin tingle with anxious anticipation and his pulse had quickened as he casually glanced at the last few cadets emerging from their quarters. So far no one had noticed anything unusual and Napoleon forced himself to keep still, and stop staring at the last of the cadets trotting across the quadrangle.
‘Where’s Alexander?’ he heard someone mutter.
‘No idea. Haven’t seen him. He’s cutting it fine. He’ll be the last - there he is . . .’
‘Good God, what’s happened to his uniform?’
As the muttering increased around Napoleon, he thought it was safe to turn and stare along with the other cadets. Crossing the quadrangle towards them was Alexander. His face was a mask of cold fury, and his uniform was covered with dark stains and smears of what looked like mud, but as he approached his classmates and the smell hit them, it was clear that his uniform had been covered with something far more distasteful. A particularly pungent application of pig-shit, as Napoleon well knew. Not that there were any traces on him. He had scraped the filthy ordure from the sty belonging to a local farmer and brought it back in a wooden bucket, in which he had thrust Alexander’s neatly folded uniform and stirred it around, before creeping to the water trough in the college stables by moonlight to clean the bucket and make sure that his old clothes were clear of any stains. Only when he was satisfied that no marks would betray him did Napoleon return to his cell and climb back into bed, excited and terrified by the deed he had just carried out, so that he only fell asleep a scant hour before the morning drum beat out its summons.
Around Napoleon the astonishment of the cadets was turning into a growing wave of laughter and muttered ridicule. Alexander’s expression crumbled and tears glinted in the corners of his eyes as he rounded on his classmates.
‘Stop laughing!’ he shrieked. ‘Stop it!’
But the laughter only increased in intensity and with a convulsive shudder of his chest, Napoleon joined in, for once on the side of the majority. So this was what it felt like to be part of the crowd. He winked at one of the other boys and nodded in Alexander’s direction.The boy, who had exchanged no more than a few words with Napoleon since he had arrived at Brienne, nodded and smiled back.
‘Who did this?’ Alexander shouted, whirling round as his eyes swept over the other cadets, wildly searching out his enemy.‘Who did this to me?’
Alexander stopped and thrust out his arm towards Napoleon. ‘You! You did this! It must have been you!’
‘Silence!’ the duty teacher shouted as he hurried across the quadrangle towards their class. ‘Get in line there! Hurry up!’
For a moment Napoleon watched as Alexander’s hands closed into tight fists and he seemed on the verge of charging at him. Then the larger boy became aware of the duty teacher’s approach and, taking control of his anger, he went to his position. Before the duty teacher could reach them the director emerged from his office.
‘Get in line there!’ the duty teacher yelled. ‘All of you! Form up!’
The last of the cadets’ laughter died away and they hastily moved to their positions as the director strode across the quadrangle towards them, an angry expression on his face.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he shouted. ‘What is this? A formal parade or a damned fishwives’ market? Silence there! Stand still for inspection.’
When all stood stiffly to attention, staring straight ahead, the director nodded grimly and began the familiar routine of striding down the ranks of each class, scrutinising the appearance of every cadet. When he reached Napoleon’s class he had taken no more than half a dozen paces before he stopped dead and grimaced.
‘What is that stench? Which one of you is responsible?’ He continued along the rank until he came to Alexander, and abruptly stopped.
‘Cadet de Fontaine, what on earth are you doing in that state?’
‘Sir, I - I,’ Alexander stammered. ‘I didn’t—’
‘You smell like shit!’The director’s tone changed from anger to astonishment as he continued, ‘My God! It is shit.You’re covered in shit. What is the meaning of this, Cadet? Looks like you’ve been rolling in it. How dare you present yourself on parade in this condition? Are you a gentleman or a common swine? Well?’
Alexander opened his mouth to reply, then closed it and shook his head, as he stared straight ahead.
‘Very well,’ the director continued harshly. ‘Three demerits for Cadet de Fontaine. And two months confined to college.’
He swept on, continuing the inspection, and Napoleon struggled to keep his face expressionless as the director turned the end of the line and strode towards him, pausing every so often for a closer glance at one of the cadets. When he reached Napoleon he paused, stared hard at the small Coriscan boy and nodded grudgingly. ‘Much better, Cadet Buona Parte. It seems that you are learning the ways of your betters at long last. Keep it up.’
‘Yes, sir.’
As soon as morning prayers were over and the cadets had been dismissed, Napoleon started towards his classroom, but a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him round. Napoleon stared into the white face of Alexander de Fontaine.
‘You little bastard!’ Alexander hissed. ‘I don’t know how you did this.’
‘Me?’
‘I know it was you. Don’t pretend it wasn’t.’
Napoleon smiled sweetly. ‘Prove it.’
‘I don’t have to.Who else would stoop to something like this?’
‘I don’t know,’ Napoleon scratched his chin, as if considering the question seriously.Then his eyes lit up.‘Someone just like you perhaps?’
The other boy’s lips parted in a snarl and he started to raise his fist to strike Napoleon, in full view of the duty teacher. In a moment of pure delight Napoleon waited for his enemy to strike, a blow that would result in far greater punishment than he had received a moment earlier. But at the last instant one of Alexander’s friends caught his arm and held him back.
‘Not now! Not here.’ He glanced at Napoleon and continued softly. ‘Later, when there are no witnesses. Come on, Alexander.’
De Fontaine allowed himself to be firmly steered away and he made himself smile at Napoleon. ‘Later then, Corsican.’
‘Of course.’ Napoleon shrugged. ‘If you are man enough.’
‘Man enough?’ Alexander chuckled. ‘Oh, yes. I’ll be man enough. The question is, will you?’
‘I’ll be ready.’
Napoleon woke from his sleep with a start. Just for an instant he registered the presence of several dark shapes surrounding his bed. Then something dark was thrust over his head and before he could attempt to snatch it off, hands grasped his body and a fist slammed into his stomach, driving the breath from his body. As he groaned he was rolled on to his stomach and held down while someone roughly tied his hands behind his back.
Then a voice whispered close to his ear, ‘Keep your tongue still, if you don’t want it cut out.’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Napoleon gasped.
‘Quiet! Not another word from you. Or else.’
Napoleon felt something jab into the small of his back, sharp enough to puncture his skin. He yelped and was rewarded with a hard slap to his covered head.
‘Next time you make a sound the blade goes in all the way.’
Then he was lifted on to his feet, dragged to the door of his cell and outside into the corridor. They moved quickly and quietly and he guessed they must be barefoot. Down the corridor they went, to the top of the stairs and then down them at speed, Napoleon’s feet scraping painfully on the edge of each step. A door opened and he felt a faint rush of chilly air. They were outside and heading along the side of the
college buildings, then across some open grass.
‘Inside with him,’ a voice hissed, and a door squeaked faintly on old hinges. Napoleon brushed against a rough doorpost and then he was thrown to the ground. The tang of horseflesh and manure filled his nostrils. He must be in a stable. There was the sound of a flint being struck, then the faint crackle of kindling before the flame was transferred to a candle whose wan illumination was just visible through the coarse material of his hood. Napoleon felt his heart pounding in his chest, and his ears had to strain to pick up the sounds around him. He was terrified. For the first time since he had been wrenched from his bed he feared for his life. Who would hear him out in this stable, even if he did scream for help?
‘You’re to be taught a lesson tonight.You breathe one word of what happens and you’ll pay for it. Do you understand?’
‘Let me go.’
‘In good time. After we’ve had our fun. Get him up, over that bench.’
He was seized again, dragged across the floor of the stable and thrust face first over a low bench. Hands held his shoulders down while someone raised the hem of his nightshirt and threw it up over his back to expose his buttocks. Napoleon kicked out his legs and felt his foot strike home.
‘Ouch! Why, you little shit!’ A moment later there was a sharp blow to the side of his head and the world went bright white for an instant. As he winced at the pain, Napoleon’s chest convulsed.
‘Tears won’t save you now, Buona Parte . . . Shall we get started, gentlemen?’
‘Wait. He’s not here yet.’
‘Too bad.’
‘Someone’s gone to wake him. He’ll be here. He won’t want to miss the entertainment.’
For a while no one else spoke and the only sound was the heavy breathing of the young Corsican. Then the door scraped open behind him.
‘At last. I was about to give up on you.You going to join in?’
‘No,’ said the newcomer, and Napoleon recognised the voice instantly. Alexander de Fontaine. ‘I’ll just watch.’
‘As you will. Pass me that cane.’
Napoleon heard someone approach behind him. There was a swishing sound and an instant later he felt the first blow strike his buttocks with a searing pain that stung like a burn as the cane was drawn back for the first of many more blows. As the second stroke whipped down, Napoleon screamed.
Chapter 18
London, 1779
Early in spring Arthur and his brothers landed in Bristol and took a coach to London.When they reached Windsor they saw ahead a thick grimy haze hanging over the landscape like some sick bloom. As the coach drew ever closer to the capital they began to make out the silhouettes of St Paul’s and Westminster amid the trails of smoke filtering up into still sky.The countryside gave way to the first paved streets and the boys began to get a sense of the true scale of the city and marvelled at its vastness, completely dwarfing the pretensions of Dublin. Then the buildings rose in height on either side and blocked the view as the coach weaved through increasingly heavy traffic. The noise of wheels and hoofs on the paved roads, and the confusion of shouts from pedestrians and street-criers assaulted the boys’ ears. But these did nothing to diminish their excitement and their keenly anticipated reunion with the rest of the family.
At length the coach turned into a large yard close to King’s Cross, where several other coaches already stood, some recently arrived and others making ready to depart. Piles of manure littered the yard, the odour mixed with the bitter tang of smoke and soot as the boys climbed down from the coach.
‘Master Richard! Sir!’ A voice cut through the air, and Arthur caught sight of O’Shea, waving his hand to attract their attention as he ran across the yard, weaving through the heaps of manure. He drew up, panting and then coughing in the acrid atmosphere. ‘I’ve come to fetch you to the house. How was the journey, young masters?’
‘Fine, thank you,’ Richard smiled. ‘It’s good to see you again. Who else is at the house?’
‘Oh, just misself, from old Dangan, sir. Rest of the staff was taken on in London. On a better wage than I’ve ever had, so it is.’
O’Shea called over some porters to take the boys’ school trunks to a small cab, drawn by a single horse, and then they set off through the streets towards the address their father had leased in Knightsbridge. As the sun set there was only a gradual diminution of the light in the haze that hung over the city, and by the time they reached the steps leading up to the front door a profound gloom had closed in about them, illuminated only by the wan glow of lamps and candles in the windows of the buildings they passed. Only a few flickering streetlamps provided further lighting in some of the wider thoroughfares.
‘Here we are, young masters!’ O’Shea announced, pausing before a flight of steps leading up to a pillared portico. ‘Your new home.’
He led the way up the steps, knocked on the door and then stepped respectfully to one side as they waited for it to be opened. With an unfamiliar clatter of a bolt the door swung inwards and a sallow-faced footman inspected them.
‘Yes, sir?’ He addressed Richard, before catching sight of O’Shea and the porters. ‘Ah, you must be the sons of His Lordship.’
‘Indeed we are!’ said Richard, leading his brothers inside. O’Shea nodded to the porters and they left the trunks in the hall, waited for the fee and tugged the brims of their caps in acknowledgement before returning to the street.The door closed behind them.
Richard looked around the attractively panelled and papered entrance hall. ‘Very nice. Please inform my parents that we have arrived.’
The footman bowed his head a fraction. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Lord and Lady Mornington are not at home. They are attending a function.They left instructions that you were to be fed when you arrived and a cold buffet has been prepared in the dining room.’
‘When are they coming back?’ asked Arthur with a concerned expression.
‘Not until much later, sir. Now, if you’d allow me to take your coats, I will show you through to the dining room.’
‘Cheer up, Arthur!’ Richard gently squeezed his arm. ‘We’ll wait up for them.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir,’ the footman called over his shoulder as he hung the coats on pegs in a shallow cupboard by the front door. ‘Her Ladyship said that you would be tired from your long journey and should get a good night’s sleep as soon as dinner was over.They look forward to seeing you at breakfast, sir.’
‘I see. And where are Anne, Gerald and Henry?’
‘They have already been sent to bed, sir.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘Is that all, sir? May I take you through to the dining room now, sir?’
‘Yes . . . I suppose so.’
Although the boys ate heartily, there was a peculiar sense of despondency hanging over the table, and as soon as the footman had served their cuts of meat and retired from the room William leaned closer to his brothers and whispered, ‘They might have stayed in for us. After all, they haven’t seen us for absolutely ages.’
‘Bad timing,’ Richard shrugged.‘It happens. Besides, it has been a long journey, and I, for one, am utterly exhausted. Good night’s sleep will do me wonders and I’ll be fresh for the parents first thing tomorrow.’
‘I suppose so,’ William muttered. ‘But all the same . . .’
Arthur felt too tired to eat more than a few slices of pork and then he placed his knife and fork together and sat back and waited for his brothers to finish eating. Glancing over the room, he saw that it was comfortable enough and well maintained, but it was a fraction of the scale of Dangan. Then his gaze switched to the window. The dining room was on the first floor and overlooked the street. Outside, in the gloom a solitary hackney cab trotted past like a grey fish in a dirty aquarium through the stained and pitted glass.
After dinner he was shown up to a narrow room off a short corridor on the fourth floor of the house. A brass bed lay beneath a sash window. The clothes from his trunk had already
been unpacked and neatly folded away in a large wardrobe. He undressed, slipped on his nightshirt and then climbed under the covers and lay down. For a while, sleep would not come and he sat listening for any sound of his parents’ return. But the house was quiet and the only sounds were the occasional muffled clop and clatter of a carriage in the street below. Far away a distant bell chimed the passing of another hour.
Arthur woke to find a pale beam of light shining directly on to his face. For a moment he was startled and confused by the setting.Then the previous night’s arrival came back to him and he threw back the covers and hurriedly dressed. He had no precise idea of the time and feared that the rest of the family was already at breakfast.The prospect of being reunited with his parents filled his heart with a warm glow, and as soon as he had laced up his boots he ran downstairs in a cascade of thuds. On the first floor he slid to a halt and changed direction towards the dining room. The door was slightly ajar and he wrenched it open and ran in, breathless and smiling.
‘Morning, Arthur,’ Richard said quietly. He was the only person in the room. The table was laid for breakfast but none of the settings had been disturbed.
Arthur frowned. ‘Where is everybody?’
‘Still in bed.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘You might as well join me. I’ve sent for tea and some lamb chops.’
Arthur crossed the room and pulled out a chair opposite his eldest brother. ‘What time is it?’
‘Half-past seven. Or it was when I asked a little white ago.’
‘Half-past seven!’ Arthur could not hide his astonishment. Back in Dangan, everyone would have finished breakfast long ago. ‘Do you think they’re all ill?’
‘William’s a heavy sleeper, but the others . . . ?’ Richard shrugged.
An elderly maid entered the dining room from a small service door in one corner. She carried a tray to the table and quietly set it down beside Richard. She removed the cover from a plate to reveal some lamb chops still steaming.
‘Will there be anything else, sir?’
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