Napoleon sensed another lawyer and as he looked from Schiller to Duman he was struck again by their similarity of appearance and manner.
Schiller turned his gaze back to Napoleon. ‘Citizen Buona Parte is right.’
The other men stirred uncomfortably and one started to speak before Schiller raised his hand to silence him.
‘He is right, up to a point. The people will require leadership in the early years of the new order. Until they are fully politicised and educated they cannot hope to know what is in their best interest.They will be vulnerable to the rhetoric of those men who are cynical and self-interested. It will be down to men like us to lead them through this difficult and dangerous period.’
‘Dangerous?’ Napoleon queried. ‘In what way?’
‘Any change in society, of the magnitude that we envisage, will not come peacefully. We can expect the old regime to fight to hold on to their power and privileges. Blood will be shed.That is the price that must be paid; a harsh, but necessary reality that has to be faced. Wouldn’t you agree, Citizen Buona Parte?’
It seemed a realistic enough proposition. ‘If there is violence, the question that concerns me is can such a loss of life justify the ends?’ Napoleon asked.
‘That is a question for philosophers, Citizen Buona Parte. We are concerned with pragmatics.Who will remember the dead fifty years after the establishment of a new order? Their deaths will make possible everlasting prosperity for generation after generation of their heirs. The manifold miseries of our age will perish with them. Is that not a sacrifice worth making?’
‘I think that is a question for the people you are calling on to make the sacrifice,’ Napoleon replied. ‘As for me, I am a soldier, not a civilian. Death is an inevitable part of the profession. A soldier’s sacrifice is expected of him.’
Schiller jabbed a finger towards him. ‘Which is why you must be ready when the time comes. We will need men like you, who are prepared to kill and be killed to achieve our aims. Of course, the choice of which side you fight on will be yours. Old regime, or new order. I think you are no mindless drone, citizen.You are a thinker as well as a soldier, and once you’ve considered what I have said there can be only one logical outcome.’
Napoleon shook his head and rose from his seat. ‘I’m sorry, Citizen Schiller. I cannot make that choice. Now, I must leave before I hear anything that might endanger you further.’
Duman slowly rose from his seat and eased himself off to the left, and Napoleon suddenly realised he might have taken a step too far. This was not a meeting one could leave without having signed up to the cause. He glanced at Duman, then turned back to Schiller.
‘You have my word that I will breathe no word of tonight. My sympathies are not with the government, as you must know. But I can not make the choice you demand of me. I must leave.’
Schiller stared at him for a moment. The atmosphere in the room was thick with tension and Napoleon felt afraid. He should have known better. He should have left Cardin’s shop and never returned. It was too late for that now. His life was in the hands of the man at the end of the table. Schiller pursed his lips briefly before he spoke again. ‘Very well. I trust you.You may go.’
Napoleon backed away towards the door, watched closely by everyone in the room.As he reached the door and turned to open it he fully expected a pistol shot, or a knife blade to crash home into his spine. But there was nothing, and he took his first step on to the stairs.
‘Lieutenant Buona Parte,’ Schiller called after him, ‘one last thing. Old regime or new order. You will have to make that choice, sooner than you think.’
Napoleon gave a faint nod and turned to descend the stairs, not daring to look back as he heard Duman walk to the door behind him. The door was closed, throwing the narrow staircase into darkness.
When he returned to the Pays Normandie there was a letter under his door. For a second he thought it might be from Annabelle and his mind raced with images of her deserting her man to come to him. Then, as he pushed the door open, he saw that it was an official message. His name was inscribed in a fair round hand and the seal on the back bore the crest of the War Ministry. Napoleon closed the door behind him, took off his coat and hat and sat down at his table. There was just enough light from the night sky filtering through the window to see the candle and his tinderbox. He lit the candle and sat down to break the seal and open the letter. Inside there was a brief formal note from a clerk of the War Ministry.
The War Minister acknowledges receipt of your letter requesting a further extension to your leave. It is his opinion that your presence in Paris is proof of your return to full health, and ability to continue your service with the army of His Most Catholic Majesty. Therefore the request is denied. Furthermore, you are requested and required to return to your regiment at the earliest possible date, and no later than the start of March. Failure to comply with this instruction will imply a desire to cease holding the King’s commission and you will be discharged from his service.
I am your obedient servant, J. Corbouton, secretary to the Minister.
‘Shit . . .’ Napoleon muttered as he set down the letter. There would be no chance to settle the claim for compensation now. Once he returned to duty the army would be certain not to let him take any more leave for years. And with that his family, back home in Corsica, faced the prospect of certain ruin.
Chapter 45
Ireland, 1788
A fall of snow the night before had given Dublin a clean and fresh appearance, and thick white mantles clung to the pitched roofs of the capital. Almost every house had a fire lit and smoke billowed from thousands of chimneys into the brown haze that covered the city. Arthur pulled up the collar of his greatcoat as he made his way up Eustace Street to the castle. He had rented a room from a bootmaker on Ormonde Quay, ten minutes’ walk from the Cork Hill gate into the castle. It was still early enough that not many people were abroad. The snow had not yet turned to slush and crunched softly under his boots.
It was the middle of February and he had been in Dublin for over ten days, spending the first few with old friends of the family while he had found comfortable and affordable accommodation of his own. He was wearing his best uniform and hat to create what he hoped would be a pleasing impression. Arthur was well aware that his tall figure, light brown curls and elegant manner would complement the uniform perfectly.
As Arthur approached the Cork Hill gate a sentry stepped into his path and saluted. ‘Good morning, sir. What is your business here?’
‘I’m taking up a position as aide-de-camp at the castle.’
‘Your name, sir?’
‘Lieutenant Arthur Wesley.’
‘Very well, sir. If you’d follow me . . .’ The sentry turned away and marched through the gate leaving Arthur hurrying to keep up.They passed into the Great Courtyard and turned immediately towards the entrance to Bedford Tower.The sentry held the door open for him and then marched back to the gate. A sergeant rose from behind a desk.
‘Sir, can I help?’
‘I have an appointment to see Captain Wilmott at half-past eight.’
‘Captain’s not here yet, sir. I’ll take you up to his office.You can wait there, sir.’
Arthur followed the sergeant up some stairs and through a door into a long corridor lit by a handful of skylights.There were offices on either side and many bore signs indicating that they belonged to other aides, but only a handful were occupied.
‘I thought the court returned to the castle yesterday afternoon.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ the sergeant nodded.‘But the vicereine threw a party last night. Went on into the wee hours. I expect many of the young gentlemen are sleeping it off.’
‘Including Captain Wilmott?’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘I imagine so, sir. The captain likes his Tokay. Here we are, sir.’ The sergeant indicated a row of chairs lining the end of the corridor. ‘You can sit here. That’s the captain’s office directly opposite.’
After half an hour had passed and there was still no sign of Captain Wilmott, Arthur stood up, went back down the corridor and found an occupied office.The room was large and had a high ceiling. Long windows looked out over the roofs of Dublin towards the Liffey. There were two desks in the room and an officer in a red tunic sat behind one of them. Arthur tapped on the doorframe.The officer looked up from his desk where a book lay open.There was nothing else on the desk and, glancing round the office, Arthur saw that, apart from the furniture, there was little sign of paperwork or record books.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the officer, a lieutenant, like Arthur.
‘Look, I’m supposed to have an appointment with Captain Wilmott. Half an hour ago. Do you have any idea where he’s got to?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Arthur Wesley, just been appointed aide-de-camp.’
‘Ah, another recruit to the awkward squad.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘The awkward squad. That’s what the vicereine calls us - the aides that is. Sorry, I’m being terribly rude. Comes from being a bit hungover.’ He stood up and offered his hand to Arthur. ‘Buck Whaley’s the name.’
‘Buck?’
‘It’s what they call me here,’ he smiled.‘My real name is simply too hideous to repeat. How do you do?’
‘Fine, thanks. Rather better than most of the officers on the staff, I suspect.’
‘You heard about last night then?’ Whaley laughed out loud, then winced and clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Damn!’
‘Does this sort of thing go on all the time?’ asked Arthur.
‘You can’t imagine. I tell you, Wesley, this place is far more dangerous than being on active service. If the drink doesn’t get you then the creditors will. We lost two aides last year.’
‘Accidents?’ Arthur ventured.
‘No.They just drank themselves to death.We lost four aides in accidents.’
‘Oh.’
The sound of shouting echoed down the corridor and Whaley nodded his head in that direction. ‘There’s the captain now. I imagine he’s got a bit of a head on him so watch your step,Wesley.’
‘Right. I’ll see you later.’
Arthur hurried back to his chair and sat down.
A man burst in through the door at the end of the corridor, bellowing back over his shoulder, ‘I don’t care where he’s got to, Sergeant! Just make sure that coffee is on my desk, piping hot, in less than ten minutes. If it’s not I’ll have you broken back to private and shovelling shit from the stables before the day is out. D’you hear?’
Grumbling, he stamped down the corridor towards Wesley. His jacket was hanging half open and with a curse he tried to button it up as he stamped along. Not an easy task since Captain Wilmott was exceedingly overweight and the waistband of his breeches cut into the rolls of fat beneath, straining buttons above and below what might once have been his waistline. He walked up to his office, glanced at Wesley as the latter stood up and saluted.Wilmott lurched inside. There was a short pause and a curse and then his head appeared round the doorframe.
‘And who the hell are you?’
‘Lieutenant Wesley, sir.’
‘Not the new aide-de-camp?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re bloody early, man. I’m not ready to see you yet.’
Arthur composed himself. ‘Yes, sir. I like to be prompt.’
‘Prompt? Prompt is just on time, Wesley. Not bloody hours ahead of time.’
‘Hours, sir?’
‘Well, as good as. Still, you’re here. Might as well see you now. Come on, Wesley. Come in. Don’t dawdle. I’m a busy man. Have to see my tailor as soon as possible.’
He ducked back inside and Arthur picked up his coat and entered his office. The captain waved towards a chair on the near side of his desk. ‘Sit there.’
Arthur sat down and the captain continued struggling with his buttons, all the while growing steadily more frustrated and angry so that his blotchy face turned quite red. At length he succeeded and sat heavily in his chair on the other side of the desk. He thrust out his hand.
‘Your papers. Let’s have ’em.’
Arthur handed them over and sat back in his chair as the captain glanced through the documents and then tossed them to one side.
‘Well, they seem to be in order. I’ll have the sergeant prepare an office for you. Have you found adequate lodgings?’
‘Yes, sir. On Ormonde Quay.’
‘Good. That’s good. Well then, don’t let me keep you.’
‘Sir?’
Captain Wilmott fixed him with the same stare that a man might bestow on a village idiot, before he gestured towards the door. ‘Go.’
‘Sir, I had made an appointment to see you so that you might explain my duties as an aide-de-camp.’
‘Duties?’The captain laughed.‘There are no duties here, sir. No real duties.You may be called upon to run the occasional errand for the viceroy or the vicereine. Beyond that your only duty is to make sure that you make up the numbers in the ballroom during the winter season and the picnics when the summer comes, if it ever does in this benighted little island. Have you ever been to Ireland before, Wesley?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Arthur replied quietly. ‘I was born here. My family have an estate in Meath.’
‘Oh, really?’The captain replied as if this was the most boring piece of information he had heard in many years. ‘Well, you’ll know what a damp, nasty pile of peat Ireland is then.’
Arthur shrugged. ‘If you say so, sir.’
‘I do and it is. Now where’s that bloody coffee?’
As if on cue the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. A moment later the sergeant entered the room with a tray on which a pot and a cup and saucer were balanced.
‘About time!’ the captain grumbled.
The sergeant, chest heaving, glanced at the other officer. ‘Would you like me to get another cup, sir?’
‘What? No, I wouldn’t. The lieutenant is just leaving.’
Chapter 46
Arthur soon discovered it was as Captain Wilmott had said.There were no real duties at the castle for the aides. There were plenty of petty tasks, though, such as hand-delivering engraved invitations to balls to the finest households in Dublin. Or overseeing the order in which coaches were permitted to enter the castle, since the social order was even more rigidly enforced here than back in England. Perhaps the most onerous aspect of the posting was having to attend every social event organised by the vicereine - everything from quiet but intense afternoons at whist to raucous balls where the resident German band played loud music into the small hours. Lady Buckingham delighted in being surrounded by the band of young officers attached to her husband’s office. At balls Arthur and the others were compelled to attend to her for the first few hours, after which they were used as a pool of dancing partners for all the young and not so young ladies that had been invited. As the weeks passed Arthur sometimes felt that he was little more than a glorified male escort.
Outside of these duties the aides’ time was their own and as young gentlemen will, they squandered it in an orgy of drinking, gambling, duelling and whoring. The latter was a pleasure Arthur had discovered as a member of the officers’ mess in Chelsea.
Over the last hundred years Dublin had expanded at an astonishing rate, quickly spilling out into the surrounding countryside even as the slums filled to overflowing. With the establishment of an Irish parliament in Dublin, the city had drawn all those seeking
political favours and sinecures, all of which were in the power of the viceroy to grant. It had also attracted swarms of lawyers, doctors, builders, brothel keepers and any manner of other professions that could smell money like hounds smell a fox. There was no pleasure, luxury or vice that could not be bought somewhere in the city if you had the right connections. The officers serving at Dublin Castle were well connected in that respect, and within a matter of weeks Arthur was familiar with the best clubs and brothels. The problem for Arthur was that these pursuits came at a price that far exceeded the modest income of a lieutenant of infantry.The reserve that he had hoarded from the gifts of money given to him by members of the family before he left for Ireland was soon eaten up.
That was when he discovered his first true weakness in life. With the arrival of spring the racing season began again and the rattlers, dashers and rompers - as the officers like to style themselves - descended on the racecourse to watch the horses, look over the women and place their bets. One day, early in May, Arthur shared a carriage to the racecourse with Buck Whaley and two other aides, Piers Henderson and Dancing Jack Courtney. The sun, for once, was shining down from a clear blue sky and the good weather seemed to have lifted the spirits of the crowds streaming along the lanes to the racecourse. The officers descended from the carriage and, wielding their canes, forced their way through the crowds and into the main enclosure. The air was filled with the cries of hawkers and bookies, struggling to be heard above the excited hubbub of the racegoers.
Whaley nudged Arthur towards one of the bookies. ‘That’s O’Hara. He’s the man for us. Gives decent odds and pays winnings out promptly. I’ve got an excellent tip for the first race. Come on.’
They pushed through the crowd towards O’Hara: a tall, broad-shouldered man with the build of a prizefighter and the scars to match. He stood on a box, while beside him crouched a young urchin, bent over a book, recording the bets as they were taken and handing receipts out to the punters.
Young Bloods Page 29