Napoleon: Guillotine: Bayonets of Liberty

By Benno Schlicker

King Louis is imprisoned. The Republican faction in Paris is growing stronger as the beat of the snare begins to ring in the ears of Europe. To quell the seething discontent of threats inside and outside of France, Napoleon is dragged into supporting a regime that has thrown away any pretence of Liberty in its quest to cover the globe. All the while Napoleon is forced to challenge his own traditions and overcome the pain of betrayal and exile from his home, to continually prove loyalty to a country that spurns him still. As the blade rasps down and the cruelty of those he serves becomes even more difficult to justify, Napoleon must strive to preserve his exiled family and navigate the unconscionable. As France struggles to survive the onslaught of foreign invasion, Napoleon must conquer an inner turmoil so raw and powerful that it drove him to the siege of Toulon and the beginning of greatness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781528965651

Benno Schlicker

Benno Schlicker lives in Adelaide, South Australia. He went to Concordia College Secondary School, and then on to study History at the University of Adelaide, where he completed an honours thesis on the Dutch Revolt, particularly, on the impact of the religious iconoclasm in the towns of the Low Countries and Walloon Flanders, 1555–1566. His knowledge has, to some degree, shaped the cultural and economic background of this series on Napoleon, set a few centuries later.

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About the Author

Benno Schlicker is a practicing Lutheran, who taught History and English in Adelaide, South Australia. He studied at Adelaide University, achieving an honours degree in History; his thesis on the Calvinist Iconoclasm in the Dutch Revolt resides in the Barr Smith Library. He currently works as a forklift driver and lives with his family in Adelaide.

About the Book

King Louis is imprisoned. The Republican faction in Paris is growing stronger as the beat of the snare begins to ring in the ears of Europe. To quell the seething discontent of threats inside and outside of France, Napoleon is dragged into supporting a regime that has thrown away any pretence of Liberty in its quest to cover the globe. All the while Napoleon is forced to challenge his own traditions and overcome the pain of betrayal and exile from his home, to continually prove loyalty to a country that spurns him still. As the blade rasps down and the cruelty of those he serves becomes even more difficult to justify, Napoleon must strive to preserve his exiled family and navigate the unconscionable. As France struggles to survive the onslaught of foreign invasion, Napoleon must conquer an inner turmoil so raw and powerful that it drove him to the siege of Toulon and the beginning of greatness.

Dedication

To all who served their country, in the past and present, whichever country that may be; and to my family for all their support.

Copyright Information

Copyright © Benno Schlicker (2019)

The right of Benno Schlicker to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528928861 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528928878 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781528965651 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

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Acknowledgement

Thanks to the Editorial, Production, Graphics and Marketing teams at Austin Macauley. I would like to thank Connor Browne, Anna Cooper, Catherine Borges, David Easton, Vinh Tran, Joseph Lee and Glen Agars for all their help and support.

I am also grateful to my family and Hampstead Lutheran Church.

Part One

Prologue

Island of St Helena

South Atlantic, 1825

The sound of the crackling fire soothed Napoleon, as Antoine poured him another glass of wine. Napoleon glanced at the room around him that had become his prison since his defeat at Waterloo. They were in the salon, and had adjourned there after having eaten some rabbit stew, hastily prepared by the resident cook, who had not expected a visit from Napoleon’s closest childhood friend. The salon was sparsely decorated compared with the rooms of his previous residences, when he was Emperor of France. The furniture was not lavish, and consisted of simple wooden chairs and tables. The chandelier above them was small, and missing a number of lights; giving a faint glow, rather than the splendid radiant light Napoleon could remember from greater days. The solitary painting in the room was a simple landscape, tranquil, yet tedious. But the residence at Longwood was adequate at keeping out the biting cold that swept through the barren, volcanic island; a small haven of relief on an uncomfortable and isolated piece of rock off of the coast of West Africa.

‘How’s the wine my old friend?’ Antoine asked as he took a seat around the small oval-shaped table in the centre of the room.

‘Terrible!’ Napoleon complained, after having taken his first sip, and placing it once more on the table before him. ‘It tastes like sullied dishwater. I suspect the servants have replaced my vintage with it,’ he said while chuckling. In truth, the servants were quite reasonable in the circumstances. He was allowed to bring a small staff with him to the island. They still called him General; a title that was both uplifting and wretched at the same time. It was a memory of his glorious past, and a reminder of his ultimate failure.

‘Well if you don’t like it, I’ll happily take it off your hands,’ Antoine remarked while forcing a smile for his old friend, ever playing the role of the cheerful joker; though his smile was imbued with the slightest sadness.

‘No, I’ve come to enjoy dishwater lately,’ Napoleon remarked cheerily, which brought a more genuine smile from his companion.

‘There’s your signature prickliness I’ve come to know and love,’ Antoine observed while taking a sip of his wine. ‘It tastes fine to me.’

‘Well, what do you know,’ Napoleon snapped back. The moment’s joviality curbed slightly. ‘Why have you come, Antoine?’ Napoleon said, the bitterness still clinging to his voice. It seeped out of him like an unpleasant odour; tainting the atmosphere with its distastefulness.

‘As I said, I’ve come to help you write your memoires,’ Antoine responded as he placed the glass back down on the table.

‘Why would I want to write about defeat?’ Napoleon asked despondently, his face full of misery, and his brow once again furrowed. He looked away at a small rat that had scurried towards the fireplace. Napoleon picked the inkpot on the table and flung it at the animal; sending the quill tumbling through the air and its black ink splattering all over the hearth. He had missed the rat, which ran to its hiding place within the walls. ‘Damned rodents!’ he cursed.

Antoine ignored the outburst and continued. ‘Did you not tell me once that you can learn more from a defeat than a victory?’ Antoine asked with a raised eyebrow, his spectacles moving up his nose as he spoke.

‘That sounds like something I would have said,’ Napoleon acknowledged. ‘When I was young and stupid.’ He took solace once more in the wine glass. Antoine ignored the comment and continued regardless. He had seen many a tantrum from the once great man.

‘I have here some old journals kept of your youthful adventures,’ Antoine said soothingly, as he reached into a brown leather bag by his side. He noticed the smallest glint of pride for the briefest of seconds as he pulled out five leatherbound books. The bindings were worn, and the pages were a pale yellow. Antoine handed the first journal to his aged friend, who opened it. The musky smell of the old paper was comforting. Napoleon recognised his neat handwriting. He read the pages as Antoine sat in silence, glad to have brought some cheer.

‘I remember this. This was when I was a child in Ajaccio. Before I left for Brienne. Before I met you,’ Napoleon said with joy clear on his face.

‘Will you tell of everything?’ Antoine asked politely.

‘I will not dirty my name or reputation,’ Napoleon stated emphatically. ‘It has cost me too much. For all I have achieved, I hope to be granted at least a semblance of respect.’

Napoleon drained his glass. Some of the wine dribbled onto his chin and he wiped it with his sleeve, though most of it still remained. Antoine could not help but feel pity for his first friend.

‘You were not all bad,’ he said as his oldest friend flung a clean napkin at the dishevelled figure before him, which landed in his lap. Napoleon picked up the napkin and wiped his chin.

Chapter One

Valence, June 1791

The warm summer sun illuminated the room in which Napoleon was tutoring his youngest brother, Luigi, one bright afternoon. The room was on the third floor of a man’s house by the name of Mle Bou. The old man had previously allowed Napoleon and other artillery officers of the nearby regiment to reside in his home. Le Fѐre regiment had undergone changes since last Napoleon had stationed with it. The storming of the Bastille had changed much throughout France, especially the army. His regiment had mutinied, as had much of the Royal forces two years prior, and had been disbanded, and then renamed. It was now called First Artillery Regiment, and the flag fluttering in the near distance on the training ground, displayed the two crossed cannons, in dazzling blue and red.

Napoleon gazed out of the window down onto the street. There, on the corner, a few soldiers staggered from the Hotel des Trois Pigeons, where Napoleon could remember drinking with the De Mazis’ brothers. Alex, who had graduated with Napoleon from the military academy in Paris, was drilling his company by the bridge, and Napoleon could hear the cannon fire floating on the breeze. He could see the powder smoke rising from that direction, as it slowly evaporated to reveal the dark olive-coloured hills in the background, and a cloudless blue sky.

‘Sir,’ Luigi winged behind him, as Napoleon turned to see his twelve-year-old brother looking at him from his studies, with a bewildered expression on his face. Napoleon did not trust the education spouted at military colleges such as Brienne, where he himself had lived and studied, and had been tormented by the sons of wealthy nobles. He could still remember with bitterness one of his former oppressors, a blonde haired boy by the name of Alexandre, who orchestrated constant beatings on him and his friend Antoine. The last he had heard of Alexandre was that he was stationed with the newly formed French Guard, under the command of the Marquis de Grancey, the man’s father. That was the way of the aristocracy; nepotism ensured that important postings remained in privileged hands. But the fall of the Bastille had started to open the way for men of talent and ambition. Napoleon smiled at the thought. Since King Louis’ failed escape to Varennes, all officers in the French military had to swear an oath of loyalty, not to the King, but to the new National Assembly that had now imprisoned the King in the Tuileries. He who controlled the King, could influence proceedings, and now he was in the hands of the merchants and burghers of the common people. Yet, the King was not without support, and many officers in the army had chosen not to swear the new oath, and had emigrated, leaving the path to career advancement with fewer obstacles. Napoleon relished the thought, though was wary of the feeling amongst the many remaining loyalists within France.

‘Yes, Lucien?’ Napoleon asked with the critical tone of the tutor, as he clasped his hands behind his back and began walking towards his pupil.

‘I was having trouble with this trigonometry,’ Luigi asked puzzled, turning his page over to show Napoleon. ‘And do you have to call me Lucien?’

‘It is the French equivalent,’ Napoleon answered. ‘As a member of the French military it would be better if you adopted that name while on these shores.’

‘Fine,’ Luigi said with reluctance.

‘What in particular are you having trouble with?’

‘Sines and cosines,’ Luigi responded with a slight dejectedness, lowering his head to fix his gaze on the ink pot in front of him. ‘I don’t even know why I need to understand this?’

‘Come now, Lucien, you have taken the first step; to recognise that you do not understand. Can you remember what Socrates says of learning?’ Napoleon asked with patience, a trait he did not usually possess, except when dealing with the select few people he was fond of, and he was very fond of Luigi.

‘Yes,’ replied Luigi with a slight whine to his voice that put Napoleon on edge somewhat. ‘Socrates said that All I know is that I know nothing.’

‘And what does that mean?’ asked Napoleon as he inclined his head with the question.

‘That it is wise to accept when you do not understand something,’ answered Luigi, feeling slightly more at ease with his ignorance.

‘Good, then let’s have a look at this question. You are asked to find the degree of inclination in a right-angled triangle, are you not?’ Napoleon asked while stroking his chin.

‘Yes.’

‘Have you written down the formula?’

‘Not as of yet,’ apologised Luigi, as his cheeks flushed with slight embarrassment.

‘That would be your first step,’ Napoleon suggested gruffly. ‘What is the formula?’

‘The sine of an angle is equal to the side adjacent to the right-angle divided by the hypotenuse,’ responded Luigi uncertainly.

‘Are you sure?’ Napoleon asked.

‘Not entirely,’ admitted Luigi.

‘Lucien, you are either sure or unsure. Any other state of mind leaves you indecisive, and indecision can kill as surely as a bayonet.’

‘Then I am unsure,’ conceded the young student.

‘That is a wise response. You were in fact quite wrong, the sine of an angle is equal to the side opposite to that angle, divided by the hypotenuse,’ Napoleon corrected, as Luigi quickly scribbled down the formula. The sound of the quill scratching on the course parchment was somehow soothing to Napoleon’s ears.

‘So I was close, I just got the sides confused,’ Luigi said with relief. Napoleon once again looked reproachfully at his pupil. He was about to say that in the artillery, being close enough was not good enough, but thought twice about it. Luigi needed some encouragement.

‘Yes, you were on the right track,’ Napoleon said encouragingly. ‘Now draw a right-angled triangle, and label it as I have shown you before,’ Napoleon instructed. His patience was wearing thin in the warm, stuffy room.

‘You still did not answer my question,’ Luigi postulated. ‘Why do I need to know this?’

‘As an artillery officer you will need to calculate the correct angle from which to fire your cannon so that it hits your target; at various distances, of course. As such you need to understand sines and cosines. And the weight of different shot as well as the velocity of powder charges,’ Napoleon explained mechanically as he saw his brother’s growing perplexing expression. ‘But that can wait for now,’ he reassured his pupil before once again moving toward the open window. A slight breeze wafted into the room; the cool sensation of the gentle breeze caressed his sweat-lathered and neck. ‘Now continue with your problems, Lucien.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Luigi dutifully with a tired and reluctant obedience in his voice which indicated a desire to be elsewhere that fine afternoon; particularly as the sound of children playing in the street below could be heard. Yet, he set his quill once more to work; the sound grating in his ears compared with the joyful laughter. The relentless ticking of the brass rimmed clock on the mantel; mocking his boredom.

After another hour, there came a rigorous tapping at the door, which drew their attention. ‘Who is it?’ Napoleon asked slightly irritated by the disruption.

‘It is Monsieur Bou with some refreshments,’ said a friendly old voice; still spritely despite its aged rasping quality.

‘Do come in, Monsieur Bou. Most considerate of you,’ said Napoleon invitingly, as the door opened to reveal an aged man with white wispy hair and wrinkled features. The man was in his fifties, and carried a limp, which was caused by an old shrapnel wound. The aged soldier still had bright eyes, and a hard sinewy frame from a lifetime in the army; all be it now slightly more lined and creased with age. Napoleon knew the type of man the old sergeant was. He commanded many just like him; small and wiry but with strength, stamina, and a certain hardiness that made the backbone of a soldier. Napoleon watched as Monsieur Bou carried the tray with one hand whilst steadying his balance with a cane in the other.

‘Here let me take that,’ Napoleon asked as he motioned to move toward the old soldier.

‘Not on your life, lad,’ Monsieur Bou replied bringing a chuckle from Luigi, which was quickly silenced by a dark glare from Napoleon. If anyone else had spoken to him like that, Napoleon would have berated the man, but he was an old friend.

‘Fine, then I’ll let you carry the damn thing!’ Napoleon growled with barely veiled annoyance.

‘I may be old, but I’m not useless,’ he stated tersely as he placed the tray on the table with steady hands before looking in the direction of Luigi and shaking his head. ‘Now look what you’ve got the poor boy doing on this fine afternoon,’ Monsieur Bou said as he winked sympathetically at Luigi.

‘He is learning the knowledge that will make him a fine officer one day,’ Napoleon spouted, slightly flustered. ‘I wouldn’t expect a man from the ranks like yourself to understand, you old war dog.’

‘Oh I don’t pretend to know much about the kinds of learning from books,’ the old soldier replied. ‘But books can’t teach you how to keep your feet dry on a two-day march in winter. Nor can a book tell you how to forage for food in an enemy country, while your belly rumbles. I’ll wager he could learn plenty from watching the artillery practice by the bridge,’ Monsieur Bou gave another wink to Luigi, who was now smiling a wide grin, and looking at Napoleon with pleading eyes. He would struggle to keep Luigi focused now, Napoleon thought to himself, slightly frustrated with Mlle’s interference. More infuriating was the fact that the old man was not entirely wrong either. Napoleon hated being out-manoeuvred, even in a matter so trivial.

‘And there is another lesson for you, Lucien. Do not discount the wisdom of men under your command. They can often see things that you do not,’ Napoleon said sternly, trying to salvage some authority back. ‘So I suppose a small field trip for the rest of the day is not such a terrible idea.’ Napoleon saw a light flicker in Luigi’s eyes, as the boy excitedly closed his books, sprung from his chair and ran eagerly from the room. ‘Now look what you’ve done. I don’t know how I’ll get him back to studying,’ Napoleon remarked.

‘You should know yourself that the mind and body need a rest every now and then,’ Mlle replied, as a darker countenance passed over Napoleon. ‘Do you still suffer from those fevers?’ Napoleon shot the man a dark expression. He hated to feel weak. ‘I only ask because I care. You told me they started when your father died.’

‘I have not had a fever since Governor Barrin was removed from power, and Corsica has become a part of the new France, rather than the colonial plaything for the King and his ministers,’ Napoleon replied with a certain spite. ‘Under Barrin, my family was impoverished, but since the uprising that saw him removed, my family’s influence in Corsica has improved, as you know.’

‘I heard you had something to do with that uprising?’ Mlle insinuated raising his eyebrows as he asked the question.

‘I am not sure I take your meaning, Sir?’ Napoleon said sarcastically. The previous year Napoleon had sown the seeds of revolt in his homeland, in order to take down the petty tyrants and corrupt French officials who had grown rich from impoverishing the people of Corsica. He had even supplied arms and trained a Corsican militia in the uprising, which was treasonous given his commission in the French military that occupied his homeland. But Corsica was now free, and prospering under new leadership.

‘Very well, I know when not to pry. How is your older brother?’ Mlle asked.

‘Giuseppe is a magistrate in Ajaccio, and was elected to be a member of the newly created department of Corsica in the meeting in Orezza,’ explained Napoleon with a hint of frustration.

‘I take it he was not made a deputy then?’ Mlle asked probingly.

‘No. That position went to a man named Pozzo di Borgo,’ answered Napoleon. ‘Di Borgo was a man I could trust, and had been an ally during the uprising in Corsica.’

‘So he is an enemy then?’ Mlle asked probingly.

‘Not an enemy, but an obstacle. He is receiving Paoli’s favour more than my family is,’ Napoleon said with a sour look.

‘You must be patient, Napoleon,’ Mlle responded with hint of paternal concern. He had seen this mood in Napoleon before and wondered how such a brilliant man could be at times so childish. ‘If I know men of power, they like to have subordinates who act with their approval. From what you’ve told me, you have been acting on your own initiative, rather than consulting the new Governor, and that includes your denunciation of Buttafuoco.’

‘Buttafuoco collaborated with the French. He was a traitor!’ Napoleon replied angrily. ‘But I was expecting praise from Paoli, not a reprimand.’

‘Some would have said the same of your father,’ Mlle answered as he fiddled with the lid of the small ceramic pot.

‘Careful now,’ Napoleon warned.

‘Napoleon, can I say this with all honesty,’ Mlle ventured to broach the subject. ‘You can be impetuous.’

Napoleon scoffed at the words, but an inner voice told him that the old man was right. Did he write the pamphlet against Buttafuoco to try to expunge the guilt he felt for his own father having collaborated with French many years ago? As a child, he had seen his father as a traitor to Corsica, and Poali as the hero of the rebellion. Yet, his father had collaborated to ensure that Napoleon and his brother could be educated in France. Without that collaboration, Napoleon would never have advanced in the military as he had. It was an irony that Napoleon could not reconcile. He was a product of the aristocracy, yet advocated for revolution.

‘Perhaps, I do idealise Poali too much,’ Napoleon said finally.

‘Perhaps you envy him and his power,’ Mlle replied before he abruptly turned and left the room before Napoleon could respond; leaving the accusation floating there, like a spectre.

‘Perhaps, I do,’ Napoleon muttered to himself under his breath as Luigi finally entered the room, dressed in some more suitable clothes for their excursion. Yet, his brother’s gleeful smile, reminded him of why he pursued his ambitions. He must advance for the benefit of those he loved.

‘Ready?’ Napoleon asked.

‘Yes,’ Luigi exclaimed gleefully, his excitement at seeing the artillery practice clear on his face, as the two began to make their way downstairs.

The late afternoon sun still gleamed down on them as they walked through the streets of Valence. They passed the Cathѐdrale Saint-Apollinaire on their way. Napoleon explained how it was the oldest building in Valence and built in 1095 under the watchful eye of Pope Urban II. They walked past the eastern end of the cathedral, which was composed of rounded apses that projected from the building in the Romanesque style. From the outside, the many large arched stain glass windows appeared black against the white stone; their beauty reserved only for those inside the church, where the light could illuminate their various religious scenes. ‘Humph,’ Napoleon muttered underneath his breath. It stood out as yet another symbol of opulence for the disgruntled masses to venge their spite upon, and though the deacons and archbishops and priests did not know it yet, but they too would be targeted.

They continued on, past the western façade, with its single tower, looming above them and partially blocking out the sun for a brief moment. Sitting in its shadow were a number of beggars in rags; hands outstretched for any coins that would prevent their starvation. The doors to the Cathedral were shut to them and their concerns. Napoleon flicked some coins on the ground, and they began fighting over the shinning pieces of metal, with every fibre of their being. Victory meant life or death to the poor wretches. Napoleon walked on without another thought, as Luigi looked back with concerned eyes.

‘Why did you do that?’ Luigi asked with judgement.

‘Those coins were all I had on me. How could I have chosen one beggar over another?’ Napoleon asked. ‘Should I have just walked on by and ignored them?’

‘It would have prevented them from that ugly fight,’ Luigi replied slightly shocked. ‘One of them was knocked unconscious.’

‘How do you think they would have viewed it? Would they have rather sat and starved, or had the opportunity to fight for the chance to live a few more days?’ Napoleon said sternly. ‘The truth is that unless you are born to privilege, you are forced to fight for your life. In many ways, it is what forces those men of merit to rise to the top. Do you think it is any different if you pursue a career in the military or in politics?’

‘But it’s barbaric.’ Luigi replied.

‘Yes, it is. You wanted an excursion into the world, and so here it is.’ Napoleon replied while avoiding the boy’s gaze. He did not wish to see the innocence flee from his brother’s face.

Luigi was quiet for some time as they continued onward, through the streets toward the marshalling on the southern side of the town; the cannon fire growing louder and louder as they came closer to the field. The street took a bend in the road, and as they came around the bend, the buildings opened out to reveal the training ground which made Luigi’s eyes open wide in amazement.

Artillery pieces were arrayed in a line all the way up to the bridge, and were firing at targets some nine hundred yards away to the south. Gunners wearing the new uniform, in navy blue with red cuffs, and black boots, and were busily running out, loading and firing the cannons, with relentless efficiency. It was hard to distinguish the officers, as they wore the similar navy colour, although they wore the black felt bicorn hats on their heads; the corners parallel with the shoulders. The bright red collars and epaulettes at their shoulders did mark them as officers, as did the swords with brass hilts that glinted in the sun. The captains were even more distinguished with their bronze epaulettes. The officers could be faintly heard shouting their orders in between the thunderous blasts of the cannon.

‘So do you have any questions?’ Napoleon asked his young protégé, who was looking with awe at the scene.

‘I thought the soldiers wore white?’ Luigi asked, the only thing that his slightly stunned mind could come up with.

‘They used to, when this regiment was called Le Fare,’ informed Napoleon. ’But since the Bastille and the mutiny, changes have been made, uniforms being one of them, to incorporate the red and blue of the new national colours.’ Luigi’s eyes soaked in the dazzling array of colours and sounds of the spectacle, as Napoleon continued. ‘The regiments are now numbered, and this is called First Artillery Regiment.’ The sappers and bombardiers have been removed, and all are now referred to as gunners, either first class or second class. Each artillery company now comprises of two Captains, two Lieutenants, five Sergeants, Thirty Gunners First Class, and Forty Gunners Second Class. Every man is both capable of marching and firing as infantry, and has a station during the artillery firing procedure. This makes them the best trained and most versatile soldiers in the world.’ Napoleon looked at the companies with pride, as they trained with unrelenting precision.

‘How many artillery pieces does a company have?’ Luigi asked, his mind having cleared from the first few moments of nervous excitement.

‘There are six guns per company; two 6-inch howitzers and four 8-pounders,’ Napoleon explained. ‘See the gun there with the shorter muzzle,’ Napoleon said as he pointed to one of the nearest guns. ‘That’s a howitzer.’ Luigi looked on as it fired, and the gun and its carriage was thrown back with the force of the explosion. Immediately the gun crew ran back to the gun, and hauled it back into position. It looked like exhausting work. After some moments, all along the line, trumpets sounded, and one by one the cannons became silent.

‘Right on time,’ Napoleon said looking at his watch. Luigi could hear sergeants barking orders, as the artillery-men began to limber the guns, and carry the unused munitions to the caissons. Luigi watched as a large artilleryman carried a cannonball and its sabot of canvas, which acted as its measured powder charge, and imagined the dark silt like substance that could propel a heavy ball with such great force. It was a wonder for his young eyes to behold. The artilleryman packed each one of the sabots into the iron re-enforced timber compartments of the dark green caissons that were like small and slender wagons, designed to be easily manoeuvred for the field.

‘It looks like the practice is at an end. Do you want to meet one of the lieutenants?’ Napoleon asked, as Luigi quickly nodded his head in enthusiastic agreement. ‘Good, I think I know where Lieutenant Alex De Mazis is stationed today.’

Napoleon then led Luigi toward the practice range. It was not long before he had found Lieutenant De Mazis busily giving orders for the artillery pieces of his company to be hitched up to the awaiting horse teams, as well as loading the unused ammunition. Napoleon and Luigi waited patiently until Lieutenant De Mazis had finally dismissed the men to their barracks, before making their way toward him. Some of the men recognised Napoleon, and he was met with a prompt salute, even though he was not on duty. Luigi looked with pride at his older brother, who had managed to command the respect of other men, and only wished that one day, he too could command such respect.

‘Lieutenant De Mazis,’ Napoleon called out warmly to an officer who was talking with two other officers, who appeared to be sergeants, judging by the gold stripes they each had on their left arms, which were edged with red above the cuff facings.

‘Lieutenant Bonaparte,’ the officer exclaimed with restrained joy. He had an open, welcoming face, which seemed to indicate a trusting personality. His young face was bright and neatly shaved, as were all the artillerymen that Luigi could see. His dark brown hair was neatly combed into a well-ordered ponytail, which was evident when the officer took off his hat to greet his fellow officer.

‘That’s First Lieutenant Bonaparte now. I’ve been promoted,’ Napoleon corrected with mock offence, as the two shook hands more like old friends than cordial officers. ‘I see you’ve turned this rabble into something of a reasonable company.’

‘And I have you to thank for that. Transferring sergeants, Rueben Chevalier and Rolland De Villenueve, to the company has made it that much more professional,’ Lieutenant De Mazis said with gratitude. Napoleon could still remember the two recruits from Lyon. They had been part of a riot of silk-weavers that Napoleon had put down, but recognising their courage, had them saved from a hanging, and recruited into his artillery company. They had then saved his life when the whole regiment had mutinied following the turbulent days after the fall of the Bastille. They were men from the lowest places in French society, but had proved themselves effective leaders.

‘Rueben and Rolland. Thick as thieves those two,’ Napoleon said with a heartened expression. ‘I’m glad they could be of help. How much longer do you need them?’ Napoleon asked.

‘I would say another month of them training my gun crews and the new recruits will be up to speed. Rueben is quite clever, he could even be promoted to a Lieutenant,’ Alex suggested.

‘Well I’ll talk to Inspector-General Baron Du Teil. I do not want to ask him for too many favours at the moment. He still needs to grant my leave for Corsica by September,’ Napoleon explained.

‘Ahhh yes, you were telling me. You want to try and get your brother elected to the new Assembly in Corsica again,’ Alex said, recalling a previous conversation. It was a sore point they had discussed many times in the last six months, and Alex was quite tired of the conversation.

‘Not only that, but I heard that the Minister for War, Narbonne, has just called for volunteer battalions of the National Guard to be formed in each department,’ replied Napoleon.

‘Oh I see where this is going. You want to command one of those battalions in Corsica,’ responded Alex. ‘What will happen to your company here?’

‘Well, I was hoping that you could step in as Lieutenant, whilst I was away,’ Napoleon asked.

‘Naturally,’ Alex answered whilst blowing air out of his mouth, which caused some of the few unrestrained strands of hair before his eyes to float above his head. ‘You don’t half-ask for much. It’s demanding being your friend you know that.’

‘Just remember who helped you pass your exams at the academy. Also you owe me for lending you my best two sergeants to sort out your mess of a company. If we get Ruben promoted to Lieutenant to command your company, then we have no problem,’ Napoleon said unconcerned.

‘You’ll have to talk to Campagnol, our regimental commander,’ Alex said hesitantly.

‘That royalist fop will be easy to sway. If not, then I’ll just go over his head to Du Teil,’ Napoleon gloated

‘It’s a good thing you’re so brilliant. I have never heard of an officer receiving as much leave as you,’ Alex said wistfully.

‘Listen, this could benefit us all, particularly if I come back a Lieutenant-Colonel, and hold two commissions,’ Napoleon said confidently.

‘Very well,’ Alex said with an air of exasperation. It was impossible to sway Napoleon when he had made his mind up. ‘Who is this young fellow?’ Alex said, indicating Luigi as he changed the subject.

‘This is Lucien Bonaparte, my brother,’ Napoleon said as Luigi came forward and shook hands with Lieutenant De Mazis. Luigi looked at Alex’s sword and uniform, and felt immediately intimidated by the prestige and status it represented.

‘Pleasure to meet you, Lucien,’ Alex said kindly while smiling at the young boy. ‘If you are half as intelligent as your brother, then I may be saluting you one day.’ Luigi blushed at the complement.

‘I hope not to disappoint you,’ Luigi answered with humility, as he fidgeted with the contents of his coat pocket, before he quickly withdrew his hand under his brother’s reproachful stare.

‘He is a Bonaparte,’ Napoleon remarked emphatically. ‘He will excel at whatever he pursues.’ Napoleon looked at De Mazis and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘So should we have a drink at the Three Pigeons?’

‘A splendid idea, Bernard will surely be there to catch up with you,’ said Alex.

‘Excellent. How is your brother? I heard he is now Captain Bernard, of Sixth Company?’ Napoleon asked with interest.

‘That he is. But I’ll let him tell you of the extra work he must perform with his new rank,’ Alex said, as the three of them began to make their way back toward the town. They travelled underneath the old Roman gate, the masonry of which was crumbling in places due to a lack of funds to maintain its once strong walls. It was a clear sign of a nation that was bankrupt. What hope was there if there were not even funds for the most important fortifications? He quickly banished such thoughts, and imagined the ale that would soon quench his thirst, and the warmth of a fire and friendship in the nearby tavern.

Chapter Two

Paris, March 1792

King Louis XVI peered down at the dwindling crowd, the remnants of which were still milling around the Palace, in an agitated malaise. The grey clouds made the streets dull and lifeless, the sheen of the afternoon sun stifled by the conditions. The burnt out buildings, and the few motionless bodies dispersed wantonly in the streets, documented the past few days of unrest. He felt a morbid relief at the sight of some loyal troops of the Swiss Guard patrolling the streets to disband any remaining groups; lest they were to grow larger and more threatening. Louis felt some small measure of perverse pleasure at seeing the effects of the riot, because it was directed against the very National Assembly that had stripped him of his power and imprisoned him in the Tuileries. Now he was King in name only, he thought sourly.

He wrung his hands together from the cold, it was warmer in Versailles. He despised being the Assembly’s puppet; forced to go along with every ridiculous reform created by lesser men. The most ludicrous reform saw the lands of the clergy confiscated as revenue to pay for the growing debt of the State. The attack on the Church was dividing the nation. The Church had been a pillar of support for the King. The pulpit could be a powerful weapon, whoever mastered it, and now it was spreading its vitriol against the National Assembly and inflaming the populace in the countryside, because of the Assembly’s attack on a highly venerated institution. The public discontent was rife and spreading. ‘They will not find France an easy land to control,’ he thought to himself, as a spiteful smile moved across his face.

There came a resounding tapping at the door which dragged the King’s attention away from the window, and he hastily readjusted his large uncomfortable wig; the white curls of which flowed down onto his slender shoulders. He hated wearing the thing, which hurt his scalp, but traditions had to be endured, at times with some discomfort, he thought wistfully. He walked towards his chair and sat down, noticing how his golden breeches were less tight and constrictive. He had lost weight. ‘Restraint starts at the table,’ he could recall a lavishly dressed merchant spout in the National Assembly, and he had witnessed his large banquets diminish with every passing day. At least, they allowed him some refinements, as he eyed the remains of a tureen still lingering before him. Even the servants were mocking his impotence in their tardiness and the smell was starting to irritate his delicate nostrils. He sniffed and quickly gulped down a glass of wine to dull the sensation.

‘Enter,’ the King commanded angrily, as the dark wooden door opened to reveal one of his servants ushering in his wife, Marie Antoinette or ‘Madame Deficit’ as she had become known. She wore a rustic gaulle, a layered muslin dress, in cream and gold, which the King found more tasteful than the gaudy wide-hooped panniers which made the dress grotesquely balloon outward. ‘If only her spending was as understated as her new-found taste in fashion,’ the King thought. It rustled slightly as she approached him. The King could almost resent her if she had not borne him children. Yet, he was willing to indulge her expensive whims, because he relied on her advice more often than he liked to admit. She had a shrewdness which he himself lacked. ‘Clean up this mess!’ he yelled at the servant, who quickly weaselled over to the table and began hastily fumbling with the silver platter. It felt good to yell at someone he still had power over. In his haste, and under the King’s baleful stare, the servant clumsily dropped a fork and knife which clattered onto the floor. ‘You incompetent fool,’ the King rumbled like a seismic tremor. ‘Be gone at once!’ he shouted as the servant quickly picked up the fallen utensils and hurriedly backed away, bowing all the while until he had left the King’s menacing sight.

His feelings of majesty slightly more restored, he looked to Antoinette. ‘My Queen,’ the King replied more meekly as she crossed the room to curtsy before him. The King saw the swell of her bosom, which still aroused him, even after the many years of marriage; though she would rarely receive him in her chambers these days. If he had been his father or grandfather, he would have barged in and demanded his marital right as a husband and a King, but that was just it, he did not possess his predecessor’s vigour or forcefulness.

‘My King,’ the Queen replied dutifully as she stood up straight once more. Her face looked tired now that she had decided not to use the lavish white powder to adorn her complexion. A trend in court she was once again trying to change in order to portray the austerity they did not practice in private.

‘What news of Austria?’ the King asked with pleading eyes, eager for some tolerable morsel of good tidings. He had asked his Queen because he was not sure of his ministers’ trustworthiness. The National Assembly had eyes and ears on him all the time now that he was in their grips. He also needed her diplomatic ties now more than ever. The King saw his wife’s eyes sparkle at the mention of her homeland.

‘I convinced my brother, Leopold II of Austria to meet with the King of Prussia in Pillnitz. They have threatened war if your person is harmed,’ the Queen replied.

‘Threatening war is not enough. I need them to sweep aside these upstarts,’ the King bellowed with desperate anger. ‘If only I had made it to Varennes. I would have been with loyal forces and safely behind its fortress’ walls, and we could have crushed these pretenders.’ The King looked into the distance, regret etched on his tallowed face. Eventually, the Queen coughed and the King looked once more in her direction. ‘Have you heard from my brother, Charles, the Duke of Artois?’

‘He writes to me often from Koblenz on our border, at the Rhine,’ the Queen replied with a slightly flushed face. The King could see that his wife fancied his more heroic brother, but never had the courage to confront her about it. ‘He is forming an army paid for by various German princes. They have some three thousand French emigres, most of them officers. I am trying to convince my brother and the King of Prussia to join them, but they are hesitant, particularly Austria, as they are at war with the Ottoman Empire in the East. And Prussia and Russia are busy dividing up Poland, so they are also preoccupied.’

‘So we are on our own,’ the King said despondently. ‘Soon the rebels will attack my brother at Koblenz, leaving us isolated.’

‘There is an alternative my King,’ the Queen ventured to say. ‘If you declare war on Austria and Prussia you would involve them in the war regardless and they could join your brother on the border and descend on Paris in a matter of a year. If we win the war, your position would be strengthened, perhaps enough to reclaim power from the Assembly. If you lose the war, my brother would do away with the rebels and install you back to your rightful position.’ The King seemed to waver slightly with indecision. The Queen spoke before he retreated away. ‘It is terrible the indignities you have had to suffer my King,’ the Queen said with a soothing voice, full of preening tenderness.

‘Austria and Prussia are still enemies of France. Why would they expel the rebels and put me back on the thrown?’ the King asked bewildered.

‘The royal houses of Europe are terrified of what has been unleashed here in France. They are afraid the ideas will spread into their lands. You may be an enemy to them, but you are less threatening than the revolutionaries,’ the Queen said with clear blue eyes underneath fluttering lashes. The King felt arousal grow in him once more for her, easily manipulated as he was.

‘I like the idea,’ the King said, suddenly animated with energy that had not been there before. ‘Let my enemies dash themselves to pieces upon one other,’ the King said grinning malevolently. ‘France will be mine once more.’ The King stood from his seat and moved toward his wife and gently kissed her on the cheek. ‘My clever Queen,’ the King said beaming brightly. But he could not help seeing the forced smile on his wife’s face. ‘Will you come to my chambers tonight?’ the King asked meekly.

‘I’m sorry, my King,’ the Queen replied, causing the King to wince slightly as if hit from an unseen blow. He hated how those he loved called him by his title, he dearly desired to hear the name Louis uttered from her lips. ‘I must see to some ambassadors on your behalf and then to the children’s new tutors,’ she said with another polite curtsy and then took a step back, indicating her desire to be dismissed.

‘You may go then,’ the King said as his shoulders seemed to slump. It was very trying to be loathed by everyone, most of all one’s wife. He felt the despair descend once more upon his frame. He was alone again. He walked towards the window and peered out once more. He looked in the direction of the Bastille. The indignity of having lost that fortress still burned deep within him, even though it was three years hence. He was not sure if it was the anger he felt, or the yearning for a wife that spurned his affections, or the wine that was going to his head, but his cheeks flushed and an uncomfortable heat coursed through him. He shook his head to clear his swarming thoughts and muttered to himself. ‘War will solve my problems,’ he said with resolve. ‘Even if half my realm will starve to death, I will have my Crown back.’

***

The quail carcass was all that remained of the entrée, as Alexandre picked his teeth with one of the small bird’s bones. There was no need for any ceremonious pretence or politeness here at his father’s table. His father would go to no special effort to impress his eldest son with manners, so why should he do otherwise. There was a certain freedom in not having to pretend etiquette in amongst family, yet Alexandre could not help the unintended slight that he was not worth the best ceramic or glass from Venice, as his father slurped his wine with the vulgar boastfulness of a drunken peasant. ‘Am I to consider that we have foregone our aristocratic airs when we decided to side with the revolutionaries?’ Alexandre asked, unable to hide the slight distain in his voice.

‘If there are no longer any gentlemen in France, then it stands to reason that there is no need to act like one,’ his father replied sternly. The former title of his father was the Marquis de Grancy but that no longer carried as much weight as his new position of Colonel in the Nation Guard. His father was now second in charge to the famed La Fayette; Commander of the French National Guard and hero of the war in the Americas against the British red-coats. ‘Being a traitor payed handsomely,’ Alexandre thought to himself, yet not courageous enough to utter the words. The thought of their betrayal rankled under his skin, like a pestilent itch.

‘There are no gentry in France because they have all left,’ Alexandre indicated, fingering the rim of his wine glass as he spoke. ‘Something we should do as well.’

Marquis de Grancy stopped picking his teeth and looked at his son with something akin to