The Ox Is Slow

By Robert Putt

The Ox Is Slow

This is a tale of two families and it is here where the similarity ends.

From the 15th and 16th centuries, the Belmont family culture had been based on military leadership, with its aristocratic identity conventions.

In 1830, Pierre Belmont was acting as a military advisor to the French court of King Louis Phillippe. Satisfied with their lifestyles, he could envisage no serious alteration to his and his family’s way of life.

At that time, John Marshall and his wife Caroline were living in England, near a small Norfolk village named Walpole St. Peter. Born into poverty, John was an itinerant farm labourer, unable to read or write, with only a basic understanding of arithmetic.

He, like Pierre Belmont, could see no reasons for his or Caroline’s existence to change or improve.

But, eleven centuries before, an ancient Phoenician proverb began to sew the threads of a human fabric that would have been beyond the imagination of both these men.

It was known as the Y Aphorism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781528938457

Robert Putt

Born in Poplar, London, in 1929, Robert Putt was evacuated from there in September 1939 and in his absence his family home was destroyed by enemy bombing in August 1940. Returning to London in September 1940, he rejoined his family in South Woodford, where, in July 1944, a V1 flying bomb found them again. Thankfully, the family survived these ordeals. From the ages of 11 to 14, he attended a Secondary School at Woodford Green until December 1943, when he became employed by a London Stockbroker as a junior clerk/messenger. At the age of 18, he was called into the British Army under the National Service Act in 1947 and served most of this time in Trieste, Italy, returning to the UK in 1950. In May of that year, he found the girl of his dreams and they were married December 1952. They celebrated their 70th Wedding Anniversary in December 2022. He spent most of his working life with a U.S. multinational telecommunications company, retiring from this in September 1991 at the age of 62. Since then, he carried out voluntary work for local charities and civil/government organisations over a period of ten years, but is now fully retired, finding comfort and satisfaction from the company of his wife and the added pleasures of gardening and DIY activities, eventually leading to an interest in writing children’s short stories and poetry, directed mainly at his grandchildren. This eventually leading to more ambitious undertakings, the latest of these being The Ox Is Slow. With no professional or scholarly education to fall back on, his efforts are purely related to a love of the English language. This venture took four years to put together and it is his wish that the story delivers some satisfaction with anyone who decides to read it. In Robert’s words, writing it has provided him with an experience that has been quite like no other, touching almost every sensation his lifetime has given him.

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About the Author

Born in Poplar, London, in 1929, Robert Putt was evacuated from there in September 1939 and in his absence his family home was destroyed by enemy bombing in August 1940. Returning to London in September 1940, he rejoined his family in South Woodford, where, in July 1944, a V1 flying bomb found them again. Thankfully, the family survived these ordeals.

From the ages of 11 to 14, he attended a Secondary School at Woodford Green until December 1943, when he became employed by a London Stockbroker as a junior clerk/messenger. At the age of 18, he was called into the British Army under the National Service Act in 1947 and served most of this time in Trieste, Italy, returning to the UK in 1950. In May of that year, he found the girl of his dreams and they were married December 1952. They celebrated their 70th Wedding Anniversary in December 2022.

He spent most of his working life with a U.S. multinational telecommunications company, retiring from this in September 1991 at the age of 62. Since then, he carried out voluntary work for local charities and civil/government organisations over a period of ten years, but is now fully retired, finding comfort and satisfaction from the company of his wife and the added pleasures of gardening and DIY activities, eventually leading to an interest in writing children’s short stories and poetry, directed mainly at his grandchildren. This eventually leading to more ambitious undertakings, the latest of these being The Ox Is Slow.

With no professional or scholarly education to fall back on, his efforts are purely related to a love of the English language. This venture took four years to put together and it is his wish that the story delivers some satisfaction with anyone who decides to read it. In Robert’s words, writing it has provided him with an experience that has been quite like no other, touching almost every sensation his lifetime has given him.

Copyright Information ©

Robert Putt 2024

The right of Robert Putt to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 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.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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

ISBN 9781528938440 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528938457 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

To my dear wife Pearl, for her love and unstinted support and patience.

To Mr. Wilkinson, my English Tutor at St. Barnabas Road Secondary and Modern School at Woodford Green for 3.25 years.

Also, to my children, Emma, Jeffrey and Stuart, for returning my love for them and putting up with my erratic ways.

Foreword

In 70 B.C., Phoenician philosophers and other prominent academics were studying their inherited Sumeric language and alphabet and seeking to apply meanings and messages to its characters, with their main point of interest being directed at the letter Y. Defined by two left and right-leaning prongs at the top of the structure, these were drawn down to meet at the top of its central pillar and from this point, down to its base, the two became one, bonded in unison.

To the minds of these early scholars, the Y’s characteristics were totally unlike the rounded shapes of the alphabet’s other hieroglyphics. Its two upright arms, stretched upwards and outwards, suggested connections to the sky and from this viewpoint, could be seen as binary pointers to the sun and moon; at that time imagined to be orbital satellites that were generally seen to have a life-supporting connection to Earth.

Eventually believed to represent cosmic contact with Earth, their interest in the single lower stem of the Y delivered further hypotheses of inter-related stellar connections at three distinct points, indicating a place where the power of the two celestial binary pointers would come to rest, thereby providing conditions that would allow continuous rebirth of the rich array of life that exists on Earth’s abundant eco-surface.

It seemed to these early philosophers and other learned men of the time that the Y represented everything that was known being destined to come together to exist and unify, before being delivered to its natural environment, and the more they dwelt on these varying factors, the closer they came to certainty. From this, these ancient scholars eventually derived a theory of eternal reproduction and survival of Earth’s uniquely diverse species.

Centuries later, in the cities and villages that sat below the snow-covered peaks of the Nepalese Himalayas, an aphorism, or proverb, emerged. It demonstrated the connection between time, life and ultimate destiny, an unalterable universal design where everything that is connected to earthly existence has a planned beginning and an absolute end.

This, supporting the hypotheses and theories that had gone before, produced an aphorism that was simply put, but demonstrably precise;

The Ox Is Slow, but the Earth Is Patient.

‘Y’ was its symbol.

Prologue

On a warm December morning in 2002, David Colville walked steadily along Worthing beach on the island of Barbados. Drawing interested glances from other early risers due to his distinctive stature, he approached a crop of rocks before removing his sandals. Stepping into the breaking surf that rounded the outcrop before meeting the sandy beach on the other side, he continued to head west, away from St Lawrence Gap and in the direction of Bridgetown.

A tall man, almost two metres in height, he walked with an erect measured stride; his white hair ruffled by the warm southerly breeze. An observer might place him to be in his mid-sixties, a fair athlete in his younger days and judged from his upright bearing, possibly someone with a military past. Arriving on the island of Barbados two weeks before, he had resolved to apply his energies to the task he was there for and with this satisfactorily completed, he was now free to spend his third and final week in a more relaxed way, beginning with a morning beach walk.

Directing his gaze along the curvature of the bay, he was aware of a point jutting out to sea about two kilometres away, where a small promontory blocked a further view of Bridgetown, the island’s capital. Absorbing the scenic view that now faced him, he drew in his breath with pleasure. He would savour these last days on the island.

On this first morning, as he walked on the soft, powdery sand under his bare feet, he decided it had a good feeling. It was of a light beige colour, almost white. His eyes took in the colour variations, the Atlantic Ocean folding over the flour-like sands in pale-blue clarity which, about fifty metres out, graduated to a mint green; this in the forefront of white surf breaking on flat sand reefs about half a kilometre further out. Beyond the reefs he marvelled at the rich-azure blue of the deeper Atlantic, joining a cloudless blue sky and accentuating the natural contrasts.

Behind the beach, where the ground rose up to show grassy coverings, the bay held an array of various buildings, a few small two-storey hotels and single level bungalows of varying styles that overlooked the sands and foreshore. Some modern, others of quasi-colonial aspect, most of them sporting extensive ocean-view verandas.

Carrying on until he was a good half-an-hour into his exercise, he stopped briefly to negotiate the final rock outcrop as his eyes took in the banana shape of the bay as it slewed round to the promontory, his intended objective before turning back. Other early risers passed him, nodding or exchanging a good morning without disturbing their regular routines.

Resuming his walk, with his eyes firmly directed at the scene in front of him, his attention was soon taken by the movement of two people, they were descending a flight of steps from one of the bungalows that was situated about half-way along the beach and he watched them as they walked down to the water’s edge and paddled their feet in the surf. He could see they were both laughing and seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Drawing nearer to them, he guessed their ages to be around the mid-eighties and by the time he arrived at a point to pass them they had returned to their villa to sit on its veranda, their beach loungers placed to face the ocean. Looking up as he passed, the woman smiled and greeted him. ‘Bonjour,’ she said, smiling. Returning this gesture with a slight bow, David smiled up at them.

‘Bonjour madame,’ he said. ‘Bonjour m’sieu,’ he added, looking up to acknowledge the presence of the man standing on the veranda. From this brief exchange, he assumed they were a French couple who seemed to be quite friendly, thereby adding another dimension to his pleasure.

Twenty minutes later, he reached the promontory and stood to look at the white-painted and seemingly top-heavy cruise liners that were docked in Bridgetown’s harbour. He smiled; the city’s population would be swelled by the ship’s passengers today.

Turning to retrace his steps back to the hotel, his gaze took in a view that swept back along the bay and he could now see that the beach was beginning to become more populated, it was past eight o’clock and the early dawn was becoming a distant, but pleasant memory. Walking past the veranda the French couple occupied, he could see it was now deserted, apart from two coffee cups that sat on a small patio table.

Returning to his hotel, he showered, dressed and had breakfast. After this, he boarded a bus that took him into Bridgetown and he spent the rest of the afternoon in the National Library on Coleridge Street, thankful that this establishment was not a high priority for the tourists. Returning for dinner at six p.m., he was in bed by eleven and looking forward to the next day and another pleasant walk along the beach.

The following morning, almost precisely at the same time as the day before, he arrived on the beach at St Lawrence Gap to begin the second of his pre-breakfast exercises. Still aware of the splendid scenery that surrounded him, his thoughts moved to contemplate his activities over the past two weeks. There was much to interest him in the Bajan people, it was for this purpose he was here. He had enjoyed researching and writing about them. His contacts with the local people up to now had been cordial and friendly and he found most of them to be welcoming, open and possessing a forward-looking identity. In general, they were a happy people and despite some hardships, seemed to be satisfied with their lives.

With these reflections running through his mind, by the time he rounded the last group of rocks to find himself looking out at the long banana shaped bay that held so much of yesterday’s interest, he was slightly disappointed to notice the absence of the French couple. Slightly annoyed with himself for thinking of such things, he strode briskly out to the promontory where, turning to retrace his steps, he saw the woman emerge from her bungalow and move gingerly down the wooden slats that brought her to the beach. Entering the shallow sea water, she splashed it with her feet and then swivelled her head in his direction, watching him approach.

‘Bonjour madame,’ he greeted her with a smile.

’Bonjour m’siu, je t’ai vu passer,’ she replied.

With this, not quite knowing what else to add to these greetings, David was about to continue walking when he heard the man, presumably the lady’s husband, call down to her from the veranda.

He was telling her their coffee had been made and was ready to serve and to David’s surprise, he was speaking in English.

Turning to face him, the woman spoke again. ‘Perhaps you would like to join us?’ she asked, also in English.

Slightly confused by their change of languages, David’s interest was aroused and he immediately accepted the invitation. ‘Merci,’ he answered, smiling at her. ‘It will give me a brief rest from my efforts.’

Mounting the wooden steps, he was greeted by the man as he added another cup and saucer to the two sets of crockery already placed on small round patio table. As the three of them sat down and not knowing quite where to begin, David, stating the obvious, addressed the woman. ‘Vous et Francais?’ he asked.

‘Oui, vous et Anglais?’ They all laughed. A pause, and then she spoke again. ‘Do you know France?’ she asked, in English.

Nodding his head, David replied in the same manner. ‘I was employed by the British Legation in Paris for several years before I retired,’ he answered, the smile still on his face.

The woman nodded her head. ’On the Rue d’Anjou?’ she replied, almost immediately.

Once more, David’s face registered surprise, caused by her prompt and accurate response. He smiled in agreement. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘I had many happy times there and was sorry to leave.’

With this, her eyes turned again to look out at the ocean. ‘Paris is not France, m’sieu. It was at one time, but not anymore.’

David nodded. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘London is not England, despite what some tourists believe.’

With this, David turned to face the man. ‘May we introduce ourselves?’ he said quietly. ‘After yesterday, and your kind invitation to join you for coffee this morning, I feel this is necessary.’ The man nodded his head, quickly acknowledging the request. ‘We are Alex and Marianne Marshall,’ he said, smiling. ‘You are quite right about Marianne’s nationality,’ he added. ‘She is French, but as you can tell by my name and accent, I am English.’

David nodded his head; the mystery was solved. ‘David Colville,’ he answered solemnly. ‘Up to the time I retired I was a civil servant and served her Majesty’s government in the Foreign Office.’ He smiled and once more, his eyes found Marianne’s. ‘Most of it spent on the Rue d’Anjou.’

Alex was laughing. ‘And now you are on holiday in Barbados?’ he asked.

David shook his head. ‘Not really, that would fit my appearance, but I have been engaged on a project for the Home Office, researching the island’s history, from its slavery beginnings to the present day.’ He smiled. ‘The Bajans are fascinating, interesting and they are different. For me, it has been a voyage of discovery and one I have thoroughly enjoyed.’ He shrugged his shoulders, ‘I have covered everything I can think of now and will return to London next week.’

A slightly wistful smile crossed his face. ‘The surroundings there will be quite different to those I have been enjoying here,’ he added.

While he had been talking, Marianne had been studying him. ‘I see you wear a wedding ring,’ she said softly. ‘Is your wife with you here?’

A short silence followed this, until David spoke again, his voice quietly sombre. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I am on my own now. I had always planned to retire at the age of sixty and this is what I did,’ he said slowly. ‘My wife and I were looking forward to a time in our lives when we could be free from discipline and orders and when we returned to England, we began to put our plans into operation.’ He paused and dropped his head, seemingly studying the boards under his feet. ‘But a year after we came home, she died from a brain tumour. It was four weeks from the time of its discovery to the time of her death. It was no time at all.’

Marianne reached out a hand to touch his arm, saying nothing. Accepting this show of sympathy, David knew he had little to add and retaining his composure, he carried on.

‘I was an only child and lost both my parents in a hiking accident when I was ten years old and after this, I was sent to live with a paternal uncle who lived in London. He was older than my father and had retired, having worked for most of his life in the civil service. He was an amazing man and a great storyteller,’ he continued with a wry smile and at this, he paused in thought and a softness came into his eyes as he continued to speak. ‘During my holidays from boarding school, I listened to his reminiscences about the places where he had lived and worked and the people he had met, all from widely different backgrounds. For me, every story or event he spoke of held a magic about them that fully captured my boyish ideas of adventure and it was from his fascinating memories that I first began to form ambitions in following his lead. The experience left its mark on me because I followed him into this branch of government.’

He looked up and as his eyes found theirs, a flicker of a smile crossed his face.

‘It’s good to have someone to talk to about these things and if you are prepared to listen then I am quite happy to talk about them,’ he added.

Receiving their nods of heads in mute reply, his brow puckered in thought and he continued to speak, picking up from where he had left off. ‘Accepted into the University College in London, by then I knew exactly what I wanted to do and during my time there one of my fellow students took my attention and eventually became my wife. We graduated together and built our careers as global wanderers,’ he continued. ‘We served in various governments in almost every aspect of diplomacy in the countries we were assigned to.’

‘We had no children, which, particularly for my wife, was a great disappointment,’ he added bleakly. ‘My plans for retirement ceased to exist when I lost her and for the next three years I lived in the London apartment that my uncle had left to me, with very little contact with the outside. These were times I would not like to live through again, but as the time passed, I began to find some release from my solitary existence by writing. Words and languages have always interested me and I found some consolation in simply putting imaginary scenarios together on my word-processor. They were mainly small fictional stories that were based on fact and this finally brought me out of the shadows. I knew my wife would approve.’

Watching their faces, he carried on, ‘Feeling I could do more; I began to visit local libraries to search through old records. Long forgotten newspaper reports, defunct police records, historical military conflict, that sort of thing. From this beginning, I found I could build fictional stories around them while staying with the truth, as it was stated in the records.’

‘Through this I finished up with a publisher and it was he who persuaded me to try my hand at writing a full-sized novel. I had been carrying some ideas in my head and following his advice I spent the next six months in putting these together.’

At this point, he stopped and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Reading through the finished manuscript I had the feeling it was amateurish and wasn’t satisfied with it.’ His eyes moved between the two of them. ‘I felt it had been a waste of time and put it away without showing it to anyone.’ With this, he fell silent for a few moments before continuing. ‘The work gathered dust for over a year,’ he went on. ‘But one day I took it out and began to read through it again and I think the gap in time made me see things differently. I thought I could now see where I had gone wrong, so with new ideas and a revised plot I kept the original characters and rewrote the whole thing. The finished book was nothing like the first one but I had enough of my first ideas in it to make it feel that I had kept faith with the original.’ He turned to look at them, as a smile of satisfaction began to cross his face. ‘It sold just over thirty thousand copies,’ he said. ‘I commemorated it to my wife. She would have been ecstatic.’

Alex nodded his head in approval. ‘Good for you, David,’ he said softly. ‘I am sure she would.’

‘What about you two?’ David asked, now smiling and fully recovered from his seldom-expressed emotional memories. ‘Have you always lived in Barbados?’

Alex shook his head. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘We came here about five years ago, after we both retired.’

David considered the remark. ‘I don’t mean to be presumptuous,’ he said quietly. ‘But at your ages, you must have been involved in Hitler’s war. Were you married then?’

Alex and Marianne exchanged glances. ‘You are right about us being involved,’ Alex replied. ‘We were married on the day the war in Europe ended.’

‘We met in Paris two months before that, although we had been aware of each other’s existence for quite a long time, in nineteen thirty-six to be precise.’

Hearing this, David frowned. ‘Obviously the war would have interrupted things,’ he said, smiling. ‘But that does seem to be a long gap for a courtship. Why did it take so long?’

Marianne, noticing the expression on his face, immediately reacted. ‘I think I can see your mind working David,’ she said, laughing. ‘You have told us you are a successful writer and you are sensing a plot, but we can assure you there is no storybook in our lives.’

His coffee forgotten; David lifted his hands in mock defence. ‘Apart from assignments such as the one I am engaged in now,’ he said, ‘I write as a pastime. My civil service pension is quite sufficient for me to manage a reasonably comfortable lifestyle and I have no wish to enter into another career.’ He paused, his eyes moving between the two of them. ‘Writing is something I can pick up or leave whenever I choose,’ he said quietly. ‘I decided to accept the Bajan Home Office project because it caught my interest and offered me a chance to visit Barbados for the first time, but I must admit, there are occasions when I see or hear of anything that appeals to my sense of importance. Some of these stay in my mind and although many of them never see the light of day, the pleasure I feel comes simply in the act of putting words together.’

‘Seeking the right ones can be rewarding, frustrating, time consuming and sometimes totally satisfying and if I have these feelings when I am reading the final proofs, then I feel I have achieved my purpose. I do not write for profit,’ he added. ‘Only for personal gratification. It’s rather like lifting up a large stone, just to see what is going on underneath.’ With this, he paused again, his eyes moving from Alex and then back to Marianne and, hearing no responses, he carried on.

‘Apart from editing the finished product, there is little left for me to do here now and whatever is required can be done in London. I have finished what I came here to do and have less than a week left before returning to England. But over the next couple of days, if you have no other plans, I would like you to tell me something of your past. The war years must have been testing and you have told me enough to stir my interest, but, as of today, this is all it is.’

Falling silent, he waited for their reaction as he watched them exchange glances.

Alex was the first to speak. ‘If you are planning to take another walk along the beach tomorrow morning, call in to see us,’ he said, slowly. ‘We will let you know then how we feel about this. But, as Marianne has told you, there is very little about our lives that is different to thousands of others of our generation.’

David Colville leaned forward in his chair. ‘I have an unwritten rule that I practice at all times and I promise this applies to both of you,’ he said earnestly. ‘Anything you tell me will be kept fully confidential and strictly between ourselves. I practise this in all my professional and private arrangements and will do nothing without your approval and permission.’ Seeing the intensity in his face, Alex stood and extended his hand. Their coffee cups were empty.

‘Tomorrow, David,’ he said firmly. ‘Give us until tomorrow. We will give you our answer then.’

Part One

The Belmonts

1811–1939

Belmont Family Lineage

Pierre Belmont b.1809

Married

Aurelie Desplat b.1812

Henri Belmont b.1835

Married

Sophie Caron b.1838

Matthieu Belmont b.1859

Married

Gabrielle Dubois b.1860

Marianne Belmont b.1919

1

Brought up within a military family that had strong links with the French monarchy, Pierre Belmont’s father, a military strategist, had risen in the ranks and at the time of Pierre’s birth he was one of King Louis XVI’s trusted army generals.

Pierre, born in 1811, followed his father into the French army at the age of fourteen. He had little choice in the matter, from an early age he had been fully aware of his future from listening to what amounted to lectures from his father and both his grandfathers. In the young boy’s mind, the seeds were planted to inspire his belief that every one of the Belmont’s had a life-long duty to serve France as military guardians. As far as he was aware, his male ancestors had been put in place in order to provide constant reminders of their presence and his heritage.

To ensure this, when his primary lessons at a local Ecole Maternelle ended, his secondary and tertiary education was undertaken in selected military academies.

Entering the French Army in 1825, he served in several campaigns and moved steadily through the ranks, with military honours emanating from most of the campaigns he was involved in. By 1830, the country’s ruling monarch was now King Louis Philippe and the army’s allegiances had been transferred to him and his ministers. By this time, at the relatively young age of twenty-nine, Pierre held the rank of Colonel.

In 1834, he married a girl whose father was another of the King’s high-ranking generals. Her name was Aurelie Desplat and in 1835 she gave birth to a son, who they named Henri, which was the forename of her father. At the time of Henri’s birth, Pierre and Aurelie were billeted on the island of Corsica, as Pierre followed varied commands of active service. Accustomed to long periods of her husband’s absences, Henri’s arrival brought Aurelie much comfort and stability.

In 1847, when Henri was twelve years old, Pierre was transferred to Paris. Now holding the rank of Major General, he had been reassigned to join other army units now deployed to the French capital, where public unrest was threatening revolution against a regime that was visibly corrupt and a political system that was out of touch with the country’s working-class reality. Concerned for his wife and son’s safety, Pierre, through the various channels open to him, found a small house in the industrial town of Nevers, situated about 170 kilometres from Paris and far enough away from the troubled areas in the north to satisfy him.

‘You cannot be with me in Paris, Aurelie,’ Pierre had said. ‘The way things are there make it far too dangerous a place for you and Henri. You will both be safe here and I will come to see you whenever I can.’ Submitting to his wishes, Aurelie obeyed and in a short period of time, found her new surroundings to be pleasantly agreeable. The river Seine flowed through the town and the house occupied a pleasant position on the south side of it. Under normal circumstances, Aurelie would have been pleased and contented to live there with her husband and son, but this was not to be.

By the middle of that year, the revolution had erupted into full-scale urban warfare, as Frenchman fought Frenchman on the streets and boulevards of Paris, something that Pierre had no liking for. In his view, bearing arms against his own countrymen was not what he had been trained to do. But throughout the rest of the year the struggle for superiority continued in ever-widening ferocity and the high death rate on both sides showed no signs of slackening.

Pierre, his heart not fully into his task, continued to drive and supervise his battalion’s role as demanded by his superiors, until the third day of January 1848, when he was commanding a unit on the Boulevard de la Villette.

Directing operations from a raised vantage point, a revolutionary’s musket ball found its mark just above Pierre’s right ear. Failing to penetrate further, the ball held enough power to shatter the right side of his skull and many needle-sharp fragments of bone burst into his brain. Dead before his limp body crumpled to the ground, Pierre’s existence ended in a way he would not have wanted. He was a soldier, one of a family of distinguished military officers. If he had to die, it should have been on a field of battle, not as a result of conflict with his fellow Frenchmen.

This was how Henri Belmont came to understand the loss of his father.

Told of the death of her husband, Aurelie was distraught and faced a long period of black despair. In the absence of any other support, she turned to Henri and together, with a widow of a serving officer’s financial patronage, she managed to maintain a modest lifestyle, but two years later, she came to know that this advantage had its drawbacks. As the son of an officer killed in action, the continuance of Henri’s education was now the responsibility of the French army and as was their practice, this was fully centred upon the continuance of a military career for bereaved sons.

In February 1848, a month after Pierre’s untimely death, the revolution succeeded and King Louis Philippe was deposed and exiled to Britain. Napoleon III was now the country’s new Emperor of the Second Republic, with the full support of the military. Within weeks of this change, to Aurelie’s dismay, she was told Henri was to be enrolled into a military academy that was situated in a town named Brienne, in North-West France, a place that both he and his mother knew little of, only that it was roughly 200 kilometres to the southwest of their home in Nevers.

Taught to accept difficult decisions, Henri suffered in silence at this new and unexpected decree that would lead to a separation from his mother and Aurelie, now without the presence and comfort of her husband and son, took to her bed.

With little contact with the world beyond her home, her mind became disoriented and she became more desolate than ever.

2

At the age of twelve, Henri’s first weeks at the Brienne academy were confusing and difficult to understand, but his natural disposition soon emerged and his friendships with other boys of his age soon began to develop and flourish. As the weeks merged into months and the winter moved into a welcoming springtime, he began to look forward to being reunited with his mother at the end of term, but on a warm July day that he remembered for the rest of his life and a week before he was due to return to Nevers for the summer break, he was informed by one of the Academy’s senior officers that his mother had died of malnutrition and eventual heart failure.

At the age of thirteen, Henri was now facing a future of almost total uncertainty, the only issue that confronted him was the pursuit of his military-structured education, in the strict confines of the French army. Putting aside his pain, he resolved to make this his life.

He was a Belmont, and was born into a tradition.

After many days and weeks spent in seeking adjustment to this drastic and demanding lesson in life, Henri finally emerged from the loss of his parents to accept the vocation that had been selected for him. Although his summer and Christmas breaks were now spent in Brienne while his fellow cadets were visiting their homes, he eventually settled into the harsh and sometimes confusing disciplines that were embraced forcibly by the French Officer Corps. In his favour, he had an astute and studious mind which was coupled with an easy manner and above average intelligence. These attributes, assisted by a quick grasp of military strategy and leadership skills, had been aptly demonstrated at the end of his first term at Brienne and in this, he was helped by another boy who attended the college.

His name was Gerard Marchand and he was two years older than Henri, but when Gerard discovered Henri was born in Corsica, he sought him out to tell him that he had lived on the island from the time of his birth, before being sent to Brienne. Previously unknown to both of them, the two boys had attended the same Ecole Maternelle.

From this, the fact that they were born in the same place gave them a unique and special relationship that eventually led them to share similar ambitions.

In 1852, when he was twenty years old, Gerard graduated from the college and Henri followed him two years later. At the end of the following year, both of them were serving in the French Army’s Artillery and stationed at Versailles. In this welcome change of environment, the two of them settled into a social life that was quite varied and because of their positions in the military, they were both invited to many social gatherings that were usually made up of Versailles leading citizens, visitors from Paris and other army officers.

It was at one of these functions when Henri met a girl who was introduced to him as Sophie Caron and, almost at first glance, he was completely entranced. Her eyes and radiant smile matched her natural beauty and the effect of this combination wafted over him like a soothing wave. With the loss of his mother’s love at an early age and the disciplined lifestyle of the military academy, meeting Sophie brought him into another world, one of softness and incredible wonder. Gazing at her with feelings of surprise and astonishment, his first reactions were of entering a world of attachment and mystery.

Fully captivated, in the matter of those first hours in her company his mind travelled between ecstasy and depths of despair. Beautiful girls attracted much attention from young men such as he and there were too many of them for him to be confident in gaining her trust and love. His mind in turmoil, his heightened emotions were forcing him to believe he could never succeed in winning her. But, as the evening progressed, to Henri’s surprise and great pleasure, Sophie made no obvious signs of moving away or mingling with other guests and with this, his resolve strengthened and his self-assurance grew. Sophie, for her part, had no intentions of doing this. The tall, athletic army officer, with his open smile, blond hair and incredibly luminous grey eyes was an image she had carried in her mind from the time she was twelve years old. If Sophie, in those magical few hours, experienced any doubts about Henri, they were short-lived. She had met the man of her dreams.

Introducing her to Gerard, they both discovered her home was in Lyon and she was living in Paris with an aunt and uncle. Her father was the French Consul to Austria who, with her mother, were now ensconced in the French consulate in Vienna.

A week later, when they were given the news of their daughter’s new suitor, the two of them immediately made arrangements to return to the capital, such was their concern for their daughter’s well-being and future. They were both fully aware that Sophie, at nineteen, had many admirers.

Meeting her parents for the first time, with his intentions regarding Sophie being seen as quite obvious, her mother was at first intrigued and then, to Henri and Sophie’s relief, won over. Experiencing doubtful reservations about most of her daughter’s suitors, Henri’s sudden appearance in their lives fitted almost seamlessly into her ideas of a son-in-law. But her husband was a different proposition. Over-protective, as fathers often are, whenever the opportunity presented itself, he questioned Henri on almost every aspect of his parental and educational background, his future prospects and probably more important, his intentions. Following these early meetings, he also conducted enquiries through friends in the military, of which he had many.

Henri, open and honest in every way, was totally unaware of this reason for her father’s interest. His eyes, mind and the whole of his being was fully centred on Sophie and he was oblivious to almost everything else. But Sophie, fully aware of her father’s concerns from the age of fifteen, nervously awaited the outcome, which fortunately proved to be groundless when, after two weeks of uncertainty, both her parents gave her their permission to continue her contact with the man of her choice and on the 25th of September 1855, Henri Belmont and Sophie Caron were married in the Paris church of La Sainte-Chapelle.

Learning and understanding the detail of Henri’s past life and his future prospects, Sophie’s father was satisfied with his daughter’s choice of a husband and a year later, to his obvious pleasure and gratification, Sophie presented him with a grandson, whom they had named Matthieu.

3

In 1857, civil unrest in the French African colonies resulted in both Gerard and Henri being sent there on active service. Their tour of duty lasting a full year, they returned to France and Henri was reunited with his wife and two-year old son. But this period in their lives was destined to be a short one when, in 1861, their Artillery regiment was sent to Mexico in an expedition to support Maximillian von Habsburg, who Louis Napoleon III had previously installed as the country’s Emperor. Strongly opposed and rejected by the Mexican people, they rose in revolt and, supported by the United States, defeated the seriously under-manned French expeditionary forces. Following orders from Paris, the mission was abandoned, with severe losses being felt in all participating French forces.

But, although they were almost constantly involved in defensive action, Gerard and Henri managed to escape unharmed, with their honour intact. Repatriated back to France with a rather depleted regiment, the two men were recognised by their generals as an effective unit, sharing their duties and being responsible for the lowest battalion casualty rates. Brought to the attention of Louis Napoleon’s ministers, in 1862 they were promoted on their return to France, when Gerard rose to the rank of Lieutenant General and Capitaine Henri Belmont, at the age of twenty-nine, now wore a Colonel’s insignia.

Returning and embarking on a programme of re-establishing the regiment’s numbers and training newly-recruited personnel, Henri, Sophie and the young Matthieu settled into a calm existence that lasted until 1870, when Louis Napoleon III declared war on Prussia, who had been making claims on territories that were previously a part of the Prussian Empire before it was defeated by a coalition of European states in 1815.

Many of these had been ceded to France by the coalition in reward for their participation and this had always been a bone of contention with the Prussian state and its people. By this time, Gerard had been promoted to the rank of Major General, with all the advantages that this position entailed.

Henri, now thirty-eight and still content to follow his friend and commander, was now a Lieutenant General, assuming the rank relinquished by Gerard.

The campaign began favourably, with many minor skirmishes being won by the French, but, on one fateful morning in August of that year, when Henri was assessing the existing situation on the Rue Colbert in the city of Sedan, a Prussian cannon released its rounded cast-iron projectile to send it through a five-metre-high barricade. Emerging from the other side of the barrier the ball carried on to a point where Henri was standing, surrounded by other officers who were briefing him. Only partially checked by its impact with the barrier, the ball carried enough velocity to continue and it struck Henri’s right leg with enough power to separate it from his body. Lying where he fell, and losing much blood, he was quickly carried to a makeshift hospital that was stretched under canvas from one side of the Boulevard to the other. For three days, he hovered between life and death until, on the fourth day, the efforts of his doctors began to indicate signs of recovery. His right leg had been amputated above the knee and when he was told, in a few words, the seriousness of his injury, in those brief and traumatic minutes he realised that all his future plans and career prospects were now consigned to history.

With painful clarity, he knew his injury would terminate his military career and leave him and Sophie with little idea of their future, one that had been accepted from the time they were married.

Meanwhile, the war had turned to favour the Prussian army and in what came to be known as the Battle of Sedan, it inflicted a massive defeat on the French forces and Louis Napoleon III was taken prisoner and subsequently exiled to Britain, allowing the introduction of the new Third Estate to replace the Second Republic. But for Henri, this encounter signalled the end of his military career.

Now a prisoner of war but barely aware of it, he continued to be treated by his French doctors.

When Louis Napoleon was exiled to England, Major General Gerard Marchand and Lieutenant General Henri Belmont were, by their rank, members of his inner circle of military advisers and Gerard had been included in the emperor’s retinue, now in exile. But this life of enforced idleness did not sit well with Gerard and as soon as he could, he used his contacts in the new Third Estate to return to Paris with his army career still intact.

After re-establishing his own position within the military, he contacted Sophie to enquire about Henri’s whereabouts. The last news he had received of his friend was that he was a prisoner of war and had been seriously wounded. Now, speaking to Sophie, he came to know that Henri had survived his wounds and had been repatriated to a military hospital in Dijon. This was all she knew. Due to army restrictions and the distance involved, she had not been able to visit and had no clear idea of his condition.

A week later, Gerard was sitting at the side of Henri’s hospital cot in Dijon and shocked by his friend’s situation, he offered his advice, whilst knowing the absence of his long-time companion would bring great changes to his own life. They had carried out their responsibilities as one and Gerard was finding it difficult to come to terms with the thought of managing his army career without his friend by his side. ‘Thanks to people like you,’ he said, ‘the defeat could have been far worse, we were totally out-classed and our troops were not experienced enough to turn things around. The Mexican adventure proved to be our undoing.’

Listening intently, Henri had other things on his mind. ‘I am more concerned for the future, Gerard,’ he said. ‘With Louis Napoleon exiled to Britain, my position is tenuous to say the least. I have a wife and child and can see no way to take care of them.’

His eyes reflecting sympathy, Gerard reached over the sides of the metal framed cot to seek Henri’s hand. ‘I can set your mind at rest in this respect,’ he responded, ‘I am told that all officers of our ranks who were taken prisoner will still receive their normal financial benefits, which means you can afford to spend as much time as you need on your recovery.’ Henri, his eyes moist, seemed to take time to acknowledge this statement until his head cleared.

Gripping Gerard’s hand, he could find no words to describe his feelings, but Gerard was still speaking and if he saw the emotion that Henri’s face was clearly demonstrating, he gave no sign of it. ‘With regard to your long-term future,’ he was saying. ‘You can rest assured I will act on your behalf and when the doctors are satisfied with your well-being and you can return to Versailles, I will come to see you again. By that time I hope to be satisfied with a solution, but you must put your trust in me until then.’

Leaving the hospital, Gerard then returned to his regiment’s base and at his first opportunity he called on Sophie, who by now, had vacated the house in Nevers to return to Versailles. Gerard, feeling that he had a duty to inform her of her husband’s injury, had volunteered to be the one to tell her of it.

Giving her the distressing news and consoling her as best he could, he rose to leave. Stepping out to a view of the Boulevard de la Seine, its buildings glinting in the glow of a full moon, he delivered his final words. ‘I understand your father will be returning to France shortly,’ he said.

Sophie, surprised, raised her face in question. ‘I haven’t been told of this,’ she said. ‘But I would not expect to be.’

Gerard took her hand in his. ‘Contact him as soon as you can,’ he said earnestly. ‘If he has heard what has happened, he will probably come to you. I know this will take time but from what I have seen and been told by Henri’s doctors, he has a long way to go before he can leave Dijon and by then you and he must be in a position to face a future that is as secure as possible.’

‘I will do what I can, but any assistance from people like your father can be beneficial. His position as Consul means he has no political bias and for us, this is fortunate. The new government’s advisors will listen to him and he will know what to say. Louis-Napoleon may be in England, but to most of them he is still the Emperor of France.’

Beginning his long journey to fitness and health within Dijon’s bracing sea air, after two months of treatment and care Henri’s wounds eventually healed and with this, his health, strength and energies gradually improved. A week before Christmas, 1870, he was discharged and ready to join his wife and son in Versailles.

He was now walking with the aid of a hard-wood crutch that sat under his right shoulder and, seeing her husband growing stronger by the day, Sophie was content. But with no word from Gerard, Henri was becoming anxious as he waited for news, which eventually arrived on a late January day in 1871.

Hearing a light knock on the front door of the house, Sophie opened it to find her husband’s former