Napoleon stared back at him for a moment, eyes wide and unblinking. Then he clenched his fist and struck his chest lightly. ‘In here I am Corsican. I always will be.Anyway, I doubt if all your aristocratic friends will ever let me forget it.’
‘My aristocratic friends?’ Alexander smiled. ‘I see. It’s your country, because of my friends. Is that it? Listen, Napoleon, you can’t do this to yourself.’
‘Do what?’
‘Cultivate this pig-headed pride in your origins. It’s your way of getting back at those who torment you.When you see French aristocrats, you see privilege and riches. Being a Corsican is all you have so you’ve turned it into some kind of priceless virtue.’
‘It is priceless, because it’s my identity. Being Corsican is what makes me what I am.’
‘Really? It seems to me that not being a French aristocrat is what makes you what you are.’ Alexander paused to let his words sink in before he continued. ‘The truth is, you can’t bear it. You can’t bear not having money or a title.’
‘Rubbish!’ Napoleon sat back in his chair and folded his arms.
‘I wonder,’ Alexander continued shrewdly. ‘I wonder what will happen once you have some money behind you. Money, perhaps a title, and some land. Then you’ll finally be as French as the rest of us.’
‘No I won’t. I am Corsican and that means far more to me than any fortune or title. It means I am better than these fops whose parents pay for them to come here. Corsica will be free again one day. Because of men like me. And what is more, we’ll take freedom by ourselves, and have a free country with liberty for all men. It won’t be like this,’ he swept his arm round to dismiss the world outside, ‘a tyranny propped up by parasitic aristocrats lording it over a nation of starving beggars . . .’
Alexander stared at him. ‘My God, you really mean that. Well, as a representative of the parasitic class, I’d just like to know why you have taken advantage of our hospitality these last six years. If Corsica is so fine a country, then why are you here?’ He smiled coolly. ‘It appears that it takes a parasite to know a parasite.’
Napoleon was still for a moment, caught between the desire to vent his fury on Alexander, and the realisation that much of what he had said was the truth.And the knowledge of the truth was too painful to contemplate.Too painful to apologise for. He let out an explosive exhalation of breath and stormed from the room, down the corridor, out across the courtyard, past the guard on the main gate and into the street.
For some hours he stalked along wide thoroughfares and down small side streets, face fixed in an angry frown as thoughts raced through his mind in a jumble of arguments and justifications for the position he had taken against Alexander. But at every turn he came up against the simple fact that he was taking advantage of a system he claimed to despise. Despite his protestations of loyalty to Corsica, every day he trained at the Military School brought him one day closer to adopting the uniform of the nation that had seized control of Corsica by bayonet and bullet. He was a hypocrite at best, and at worst a traitor.That word stung him into a fresh bout of denial and anger as he turned a corner and blundered into a man pasting a sign to a grimy plaster wall. The small jar of paste spilled down Napoleon’s front. The man took one glance at Napoleon’s uniform and then he dropped his brush and turned to run away as fast as his legs could carry him.
‘Hey!’ Napoleon shouted after him.‘What about my coat?You come back here!’
The man glanced over his shoulder, then ducked to one side and disappeared into a narrow dark alley.
‘Bastard!’ Napoleon yelled after him, then became aware that some of the people in the street had turned towards the commotion and were smiling at his misfortune. He scowled at them, then turned to the wall to see what the man had been pasting up. One corner hung limply and Napoleon had to roll it back with a hand before he could read.
Crudely printed, but bold, black letters proclaimed that the people of Paris had suffered enough. The rewards for all their back-breaking toil were starvation wages, slum accommodation and food unfit for consumption.The people could stand for it no longer. They should make their voice heard at a demonstration before the gates of the Tuileries on the following Sunday. Only their strength in numbers would make their masters aware of the dangerous mood of frustration and rebellion swelling up in the hearts of all right-thinking men.
Napoleon shook his head. He had seen posters like this before on the walls of Paris. A handful of agitators were behind them - small, powerless men, fighting for the hopeless cause of better conditions for the masses. The protest, like all before it, would be poorly attended, and easily swept away by a handful of troops, leaving the streets littered with broken bodies and smears of blood, and all would continue as before.These rebels were too few and too diffuse to challenge the State, and as long as the State could back up its position with sufficient deployments of force, nothing would change. It was pointless to resist, Napoleon concluded briefly. The people of Paris were already beaten. They had no one to lead them. All they had were themselves: a stolid mass of down-trodden slum-dwellers.
When he returned to the Military School he found Alexander waiting for him in his room. Napoleon stood in the doorway and cocked his head to one side.
‘Come to apologise?’
‘No. Not that.’ Alexander rose from the chair beneath the window and walked slowly towards his friend. ‘I was sent to find you.’
‘Who sent you?’
‘The captain-commandant.’
Napoleon felt a weary feeling of inevitability settle on him like a great weight. ‘Who is complaining about me now? That bastard of a dancing tutor? One of the students? . . . You?’
‘No. It’s not that.’ Alexander’s gaze wavered for an instant.‘The captain-commandant has received a letter. From your mother. Since I’m your only real friend here, he thought it would be best if I found you and brought you to his office so he can explain in more detail.’
‘Letter?’ Napoleon felt an icy sensation of dread creep up his spine. ‘What’s happened?’
Alexander bit his lip for an instant before replying.‘Your father has died.’
‘Died?’ Napoleon frowned. ‘He’s dead? How can he be dead? Was there an accident?’
‘It was an illness.’
‘That’s not possible. He was going to see a specialist. He wrote to me afterwards to say the problem was being treated. He wrote to me . . . What happened? Tell me.’
‘Napoleon, that’s all I know.’ Alexander gently took his arm. ‘The captain-commandant will tell you more. Let’s go.’
Napoleon stood still for a moment, then gave way and let his friend lead him away to the captain-commandant’s office.
He was treated sympathetically enough and, as was the custom in the Military School, he was offered the services of a priest to commiserate the tragic loss. Napoleon shook his head. He was still too uncertain of his feelings to want to unburden them in front of a stranger. His father was dead. Carlos Buona Parte was dead. It did not seem possible. And yet, the last time he had seen his father there had been no doubt about his failing health. But now that death was here, Napoleon could not encompass the reality that his father had gone. Images of his father poured through his mind. All at once Napoleon felt guilty for not having expressed his gratitude to his father for all that he had given to Napoleon in his short life.
Thirty-eight years.That was the extent of his existence, and he would never see the fruition of all his plans for his family. He would not be there to welcome Napoleon home to Ajaccio, and look proudly upon his son’s army uniform. To die with so much still to be fulfilled - how terrible a fate that must be, Napoleon reflected. Now all those plans and dreams had died with his father. They were already long dead and buried, weeks before.There was no point in grieving now, he told himself. He must not let this news unman him. He would use it as proof of his strength of character. Napoleon fought back his grief as he looked up at the captain-commandant.
‘Sir, I thank you for the offer of a priest. But I do not need any consolation.’
The captain-commandant smiled kindly. ‘There’s no shame in grief, Buona Parte. Death is with us always and we need someone there to help and console us.’
‘I don’t,’ Napoleon said firmly. ‘May I return to my room now, sir?’
The captain-commandant stared at him with pity, then nodded.‘As you wish. But the offer still stands. If you change your mind . . .’
‘Thank you, sir, but I won’t. Is there anything else?’
‘No . . . No, you may go.’
Chapter 28
There was no pause for mourning. Napoleon threw himself into his studies with renewed effort and did not mention his father’s death again. Those around him, even the students who had tormented him in the past, kept a respectful distance and left him alone. Even Alexander sensed that Napoleon had withdrawn into himself and their friendship cooled until the examination for officer aspirants was held that August of 1785. Even though he had been at the school for less than a year Napoleon insisted on being allowed to sit the examination. The captain-commandant reminded him that most boys took the exam after two, or even three, years of study at the Military School. None the less, Napoleon and Alexander took the exam along with nearly sixty other boys. When the results were read out to the students Napoleon had come in forty-second place and his friend fifty-sixth. Both were awarded the sword of graduates of the Military School and eagerly awaited news of their first postings.
‘The Régiment de la Fère,’ Napoleon read from the notice board outside the captain-commandant’s office. His eyes glanced further down the list and he smiled. ‘You too, Alexander. Do you know anything about the unit?’
‘Of course!’ Alexander’s eyes twinkled. ‘My brother, Gabriel, is a captain in the regiment.’
‘Besides the family connection,’ Napoleon said patiently.‘What else do you know about the de la fère?’
‘It’s part of the Royal Corps of Artillery, stationed at Valence.’ Alexander punched his arm. ‘We’re going to be gunners.’
‘So it seems.’ Napoleon nodded with satisfaction. Although the cavalry was a more glamorous arm than the artillery, the latter had a far greater reputation for professionalism, Napoleon reminded himself. And at least it wasn’t a posting to the infantry, the preserve of the social and intellectual detritus of those men who sought an officer’s career in the army. An ambitious man could make a name for himself in the artillery, Napoleon reflected, and he would have less need of social rank and an independent income in seeking advancement up the chain of command. He read the final details on the notice board and turned to his friend with a smile.
‘We had better prepare. The regiment’s expecting us to arrive on the tenth of September.That’s less than two weeks from now.’
The Régiment de la Fère, as an artillery unit, had its own purpose-built barracks where the rankers lived and the guns, ammunition and other supplies and equipment were kept. Napoleon and Alexander presented their papers to the sentry at the main gate and were directed to the headquarters building overlooking the artillery park. Leaving their chests in the guardhouse, the new arrivals marched over to the headquarters entrance. Napoleon looked over the guns that they passed with a growing sense of excitement. Very soon he would be serving some of the four- and eight-pounder cannon that stretched out across the artillery park in neatly ordered lines.
The two new officers made their way up the steps, into the headquarters and asked for directions to the adjutant’s office.
Napoleon knocked on the door and immediately a gruff voice shouted out to them, ‘Don’t just stand there! Open the damned door and come in.’
Inside, the room was small, barely big enough for the two cupboards, desk and chair that it contained. Behind the desk a man glanced up with a stern expression.
‘Gabriel!’ Alexander shouted. ‘You rogue! What kind of a way is that to welcome your younger brother?’
‘Lieutenant Des Mazis! That is no way to address a superior officer. Stand at attention, damn it! And your little friend too.’
They immediately responded and stood stiffly, eyes fixed straight ahead, until Captain Des Mazis could no longer keep a straight face and began to laugh. ‘Enough! At ease, gentlemen.’
As they relaxed Napoleon and Alexander exchanged uncertain looks, not yet sure how to address Alexander’s older brother. But Gabriel was already squeezing his large frame round the end of the desk and then he embraced his brother and kissed him on both cheeks.
‘When did you get here? You’re not expected for another two days.’
‘We were keen to take up our duties as soon as possible. So here we are,’ Alexander beamed. ‘Now introduce us to our men and our guns and we’ll take on anyone the King tells us to.’
‘Not so fast, Alex.’ His brother punched him lightly on the chest. ‘This is the artillery; we’re proper soldiers, not like that riffraff in the cavalry.You have to earn command here.’
‘Earn command?’ Napoleon raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean, sir?’
The captain turned to him with a warm smile of greeting. ‘You must be Buona Parte, the touchy Corsican.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Napoleon tried to hide a frown.
‘Don’t worry. That’s not from official channels. It’s what my brother wrote in his letters.’
‘I see.’ Napoleon glared at his friend and Alexander shifted uncomfortably as his brother continued addressing them.
‘Everyone gets a fresh start here. Well, nearly everyone.Young Alex here is going to be under close scrutiny since I recall only too well what a mischievous wretch he was as a child. Imagine what he might do if we entrust a cannon to him, eh?’
‘Sir,’ Napoleon said evenly, ‘you were saying something about earning command.’
‘All new officers must serve a probationary period. I expect you already know that, but the Régiment de la Fère goes a bit further. For the first three months you will serve as ordinary gunners, until you learn the ropes. Then, if you satisfy our commanding officer, he might let you take up your duties as lieutenants.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Alexander laughed. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘But I am.’ The captain’s expression hardened a little. ‘It’s a serious business, the artillery. Also a very complicated one, and we’re not going to let a couple of new boys loose on our very expensive equipment until they know how to treat it, and the men who operate it, with respect.’
‘I see,’ Alexander replied. ‘Does that mean we have to share rooms with the rankers as well?’
‘What? Of course not.’ The captain looked scandalised. ‘That would be taking things too far. Don’t want to give them any egalitarian ideas, do we?’ He looked from one to the other.
‘No, sir,’ Napoleon agreed quietly. ‘They shouldn’t get ideas above their station.’
Alexander laughed. ‘Ignore him. It seems that Corsicans have an insatiable appetite for equality. You’ll get used to it after a while.’
The captain stared at Napoleon briefly. ‘I’m not sure that I care to. Never mind. I’ve been ordered to settle you two in. Where are your bags?’
‘We left them in the guardhouse.’
‘Let’s go and get them, then I’ll take you to find lodgings in town.’
As with all other regiments, the officers of the Royal Artillery were expected to look to their own resources for accommodation and sustenance. Napoleon rented a small room for ten francs a month in the house of Monsieur Bou, a kindly old man who lived with his daughter and who was fond of the young officers he accommodated. Napoleon took meals at the Three Pigeons inn for another thirty-five francs a month. Together with the repayments on the money he had borrowed to buy his uniform and books there was little left from the ninety francs pay he received each month.
His duties as an ordinary gunner began the morning after his arrival. Each day, he rose before dawn, dressed in the plain blue coat tunic and breeches of the
artillery and hurried over to the barracks to join the other men being roused by their corporals, who let fly with the foulest language Napoleon had heard since he had played with the soldiers of the garrison at Ajaccio as a child.
The sergeant responsible for his training was a short, overweight man with a huge moustache. When the company had assembled on the parade ground he strode down the line and stood in front of Napoleon, hands on hips, and sneered.
‘What have we got here? Not another new gentleman?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘Name?’
‘Lieutenant Buona Parte, Sergeant.’
‘Fuck that. You’re Private Buona Parte until the colonel says otherwise. Got that? Meanwhile, you call me sir, and I call you sir. The difference is, you mean it.’
‘Yes, Serg—sir.’
The sergeant cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Speak up, sir! Can’t hear a word.’
‘I said, yes, sir!’ Napoleon shouted, reflecting that the stories he had heard about deaf artillerymen were true after all.
‘That’s better. Now then, sir. I’ve got a man off sick on “Magdalene” - you’re taking his place. That means you are the number two on that gun, the spongeman. Understand? Good. You’ve come at a good time. Today’s gun drill.’
He turned and walked off, to inspect the other men in the company, and left Napoleon none the wiser about his duties.
The company marched over to the artillery park, attached ropes to four of the eight-pounders and began to haul them across to the drill field. Napoleon, at only sixteen years of age, and slightly built, was soon sweating freely from the exertion of hauling on the rope that had been fastened to the right arm of the gun carriage. But the day’s trials were only just beginning. As soon as ‘Magdalene’ was in position, the sergeant thrust a long pole into his hands. At one end was the sponge, a tightly packed wad of sheep’s wool. At the other end was a stout plug of wood.
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