The Corsican (64 page)

“You have not lost him,” Auguste said. “He loves you very much.” Auguste unfolded the letter. He reached out and touched Buonaparte's arm. “Here, in the letter, he writes to tell us that he and Molly have been married. They went to America to visit Madeleine and Matt, then on to Corsica, Buonaparte. They were married there. Married in the same village as you and your wife.”

Buonaparte turned to his friend. “The same village?” His mind seemed to wander for the moment. “I remember that village, Auguste. What a wedding that was! Everyone was drunk and dancing. And I was so frightened I could hardly speak.”

“You see,” Auguste said. “Pierre does not forget you. He does not forget his heritage. Perhaps he will live there.”

Buonaparte looked at him; there was a flicker of hope in his eyes. “He told me he could not live here, or in America again. But he did not say where he would go.” He shook his head slowly. “But no. Even if he goes there, he still does not want to be part of us. He is a good boy, a good grandson. But he will not be part of our thing together. He has chosen his own path. I hoped it would be different, but it could not be.” He began to cough, then turned his face toward Auguste. “You must take the medallion now, my friend. And then someday you must find someone who can carry on for our
milieu
.”

“It will go to a Sartene,” Auguste said.

Buonaparte stared at him. There was hope in his eyes again, then it faded. “No, not a Sartene.” He waved his hand weakly, then closed his eyes. “I must sleep, my friend. Now I must sleep.”

Buonaparte dreamed he was strolling along the path that circled the garden. He was with Auguste, and their pace was slow, deliberate and relaxed.

“Buonaparte?” Auguste began after a time. “What of the medallion?”

“It is still in my desk, old friend. Pierre still has much to learn, but one day soon, I think, it will be offered to him. Then, if he chooses, it will be his.”

Auguste looked out across the pond and smiled. Tears slowly formed in his eyes, and he kept his head turned as he brushed them away. “That's good, Buonaparte,” he said. “That's very good.”

The two men walked together down the path, Sartene's arm still draped around Auguste's shoulder. He was taller than his friend, and it made it seem as though Auguste was supporting him as they walked. Buonaparte knew it had been that way many times. He also knew it was how men survived. It was the only way they could survive in this world.

Epilogue

The study was dimly lit; only the desk lamp at the opposite end of the room kept everything from total darkness. The faint light played against the room itself, the bust of Napoleon, the rows of books that lined three walls, the heroic military paintings. Even the toy soldiers on the table seemed affected, appearing at times to move, to advance position in their mock battle.

Auguste sat in the leather club chair watching it all, as he had many times before. It had been a year since Buonaparte's death, but he seemed very much alive in this room. Not the same room as before, Auguste told himself, but the same objects that were so much a part of the man.

He thought of their days together. So many days. Much of it so long ago. The French prison at Marseille. The years of fighting. Mount Ventoux, Carpentras. And that small farmhouse outside Bellegarde where he saved you. Auguste rubbed the old wound on his chest. But you couldn't save him in the end. Save him from the pain he knew.

He shook his head slowly. He had not expected to outlive the man. Buonaparte had seemed so indestructible. Even when he lost, he seemed to gain more strength. But in the end there was no strength left. Only enough to endure the last bit of suffering, the final feeling of failure.

And you could offer him nothing then. Only promises. Promises that still must be kept.

The distant sound brought him back, erasing thoughts of the past. He rose quickly from his chair and hurried out of the study. He walked rapidly down the hall, then up the stairs that led to the second floor. Anyone watching him would think he was observing a much younger man. His movements were too spry, too fast for a man his age.

Outside the bedroom he eased the door open. The child's cries filled the room, and he crossed to the cradle and reached down and began stroking its small heaving chest.

“My God, what lungs you have,” he cooed. “Everyone will think we are beating you.”

He picked up the child and cradled it in his arms, rocking slowly, then lifting it higher so he could kiss the soft down atop its head. He crossed slowly to the window, still rocking the infant.

The door opened behind him, and Auguste turned to the sound. Pierre's large frame filled the doorway, and he looked severely at the older man and began shaking his head.

“You are going to spoil my son,” he said, his voice as severe as his look.

The child stopped crying. Auguste looked from Pierre to the child, then back at Pierre. “I don't think he agrees with you,” he said. “Besides, life will not spoil him. A little spoiling now can't hurt.”

“Since when did you become an expert on children?” Pierre asked.

Auguste snorted. “I admit I failed with you. But a smart man learns from his failures. Now why don't you get out of here and leave us alone.”

Pierre shook his head, struggling to drive away the smile that was forming on his lips. He turned to leave.

“Pierre,” Auguste called softly, stopping him. Pierre turned, questioning Auguste with his eyes.

“It is good what you have done,” Auguste said.

“What, Uncle?”

Auguste held the child away from his body and stared down at it, then looked up at Pierre and smiled. “Calling the boy Buonaparte. It was a good thing.”

Pierre could see the tears that had begun to form in Auguste's eyes. He nodded his head. “I hope somehow he knows.”

Auguste smiled again. “He knows, Pierre. He knows.”

Auguste turned back to the window and began rocking the child again. The door closed behind him. Pierre is learning, he told himself. And he has begun running his own businesses, just as Buonaparte did. And now he has all of Buonaparte's belongings. All, except one. And soon he will have that as well.

He raised the child again and kissed it. “And after him, it will be yours,” he whispered.

The child let out a slight whimper, then was quiet again.

“I know. I know,” Auguste whispered. “First there is much for you to learn. But Uncle Auguste is here to teach you. And after me there will be others. And it is a good place for you to learn.”

He rocked the child slowly and gazed out the window. Below, the sea crashed against the rocky Corsican coast, the beauty, violence and power seeming to blend together. From the beach below, anyone looking up at the house would see only an old man, holding a small child. In no way could that watcher know what the vision truly held.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank Alfred W. McCoy, who together with Cathleen B. Reed and Leonard P. Adams wrote
The Politics of Heroin in Southeast Asia
, a masterwork of journalism that saved me much research time. I would also like to acknowledge the support and help of Martin Poll, Herman Gollob, Linda Grey, Lawrence S. Freundlich, and, as always, Gloria Loomis-Miller.

A special thanks to Russell Bintliff, whose past military and intelligence work in Southeast Asia were the basis for portions of this novel.

About the Author

William Heffernan began his career as a reporter for the New York
Daily News
and was nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize for his work there. He also received the Robert F. Kennedy Journalism Award. Since his leap to novels, Heffernan has written eighteen books, including the Edgar Award–winning
Tarnished Blue
in the Paul Devlin series. Heffernan lives on the Florida Suncoast.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1983 by William Heffernan

Cover design by Drew Padrutt

ISBN: 978-1-4804-1737-3

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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