Young Bloods (26 page)

In January he would travel to Angers and begin his life as a soldier.

Chapter 31

Angers, 1786

As the carriage passed through the gatehouse, Napoleon shifted himself to the side and looked eagerly out of the window. The iron-shod hoofs of the horses clattered on the cobbles of the courtyard that opened out into a vast space before the main entrance to the academy. A troop of riders was being instructed in the centre of the courtyard. Napoleon regarded them closely. They were, no doubt, the sons of various Prussian, Austrian and British aristocrats, dilettantes in their scarlet coats with yellow buttons and light blue facings. Not real soldiers. Not professionals like himself, trained by the finest military minds in Europe. Even though he had received his commission and completed his probation there would be further training to undertake in the months to come before he could consider himself a fully fledged officer of artillery. And when he was off duty there would be manuals to digest and histories to read, aside from the works on philosophy and literature that he read for pleasure. Against that experience Napoleon was inclined to look upon this fashionable academy as no more than a finishing school, run by the cultivated Marcel de Pignerolle and his wife.

The director’s invitation to Napoleon, and the four officers who shared the carriage, had been written in a fine hand. At first Napoleon had been tempted to reconsider the invitation. He was tired of being looked down upon by the sons of French nobles because of his Corsican birth. To become an object of curiosity for the nobles of other nations was even more of a burden. The colonel, who had taken something of a shine to his brilliant but awkward lieutenant, patiently advised him to join his comrades and visit Angers for no other reason than it would be useful to meet the men he might one day have to fight in battle. Find out what kind of men they were. Discern the strengths and weaknesses of their national character. It was a compelling argument, and at length Napoleon, with a small show of reluctance, gave his assent to the invitation, to the quiet amusement of his colonel.

‘Now, Buona Parte, remember what I said, and keep a close eye on your hosts,’ the colonel had concluded. ‘You may learn something. At the same time, be mindful that you are a gentleman amongst gentlemen. It is not treasonable to enjoy yourself. Control that fiery streak of Coriscan pride and you may find you enjoy the experience. A man can use all the contacts he can make in this world.’

Napoleon smiled at the memory, and felt a stab of embarrassment at the image of churlish youth he must have presented to his colonel. Well, he was here now, and there was no escaping the situation. He’d have to watch himself and make sure that he said nothing foolish. Whatever provocation might be offered.

The carriage drew up outside the main entrance to the academy and a footman ran forward with a footstool and opened the door for the young artillery officers. Napoleon ducked his head and was the first to emerge from the carriage, jumping down to one side of the footstool. He straightened up and quickly adjusted his uniform, easing out the creases that had gathered in the cloth during the journey. In front of him stood an imposing classical façade: the polished wooden doors leading into the hall were surrounded by a lofty colonnade that reached up to the neat tiles of a handsome mansard roof. The academy was more like a palace than a military establishment and radiated an exclusivity born of two hundred years of training young gentlemen in the basic arts of war.

Alexander Des Mazis craned his head back to take in the decorative tops of the columns framing the entrance. ‘Quite something, eh, Napoleon?’

The sound of heavy boots echoed through the entrance hall and then a young man strode out of the building and greeted them with an amiable smile. He was tall, with a broad face, dark hair tied back and brilliant blue eyes. He wore a cadet’s uniform and bowed gracefully as he stood before the artillery officers. When he spoke the accent was unmistakably British, but with a peculiar lilting quality.

‘Gentlemen, Madame de Pignerolle has sent me to bid you welcome, and convey you to our reception rooms. My name is Richard Fitzroy.’

Captain Des Mazis stepped forward, bowed his head and extended his hand. ‘Captain Gabriel Des Mazis of the Régiment de la Fère. May I introduce lieutenants Alexander Des Mazis, François Duquesne, Philippe Foy and Napoleon Buona Parte.’

‘Delighted,’ Fitzroy smiled as he shook the hand of each man. ‘If you would follow me, gentlemen …’

He turned and led them inside the academy. The floor had been laid with marble and, while polished, it bore the marks of the passage of tens of thousands of cadets over the centuries. The hall was painted blue, picked out with gold leaf on the architrave. At regular intervals the walls were hung with large portraits of distinguished-looking men in uniform and, looking on these paintings, Napoleon felt a twinge of jealousy amid the burning ambition that filled his heart. One day a painting of Napoleon might adorn the wall of the Royal Military School of Paris, and all men who saw it would think twice about laughing down their sleeves at Corsica.

At the far end of the entrance hall the cadet led them up a wide staircase on to a gallery. Several rooms opened off it, and as the small party strode by, Napoleon saw that they were social rooms, each containing fine furnishings. In one he saw a tall, slender cadet who looked to be his own age reclining on a couch. The cadet, who had mousy brown hair, was reading a newspaper. A figure emerged from the last door along the gallery and, glancing up, Napoleon saw a slender woman of advanced years smiling at them as she gracefully stood aside and waved them forward.

The artillery officers instantly halted and bowed in the fashion that they had been taught by the Military School’s dancing tutor. The lady inclined her head in acknowledgement, before turning to the cadet.

‘Mr Fitzroy, be so good as to show these men inside. The formal introductions can be made when the director returns from the stables. I’ve organised some refreshments while they wait.’

‘Yes, Madame.’

Madame de Pignerolle turned back to the artillery officers. ‘Now, I regret I must attend to my wardrobe, gentlemen. Mr Fitzroy will look after you.’

Napoleon bowed again. ‘Very well, Madame.’

As she glided away along the gallery, Fitzroy stood to one side to let his guests enter the room. Napoleon’s boots fell softly on a thick blue carpet with an ornate fleur-de-lis pattern in white. A hatstand stood to one side and he slipped his cocked hat on to one of the smoothly worn pegs.The room was large, with a high ceiling, and long windows that overlooked yet another vast courtyard. Around the sides of the room were arranged small clusters of upholstered chairs and ornate drinks tables. Beyond the hatstand was a long table covered with a buffet. Behind the table two footmen stood stiffly, waiting to serve the guests.

‘Gentlemen,’ Fitzroy waved a hand towards the buffet, ‘please help yourselves while I fetch the cadets who will make up the rest of our party.’ He bowed, and left the room.

As the cadet’s footsteps tapped back along the gallery, Napoleon and the other officers feasted their eyes on the buffet. The food at the Military School was by far the best cuisine the young Corsican had ever tasted, but the display spread across the table here put it to shame. There were large platters of finely cut meats; chilled slices of salmon; plates of cheese, and of cured sausage sliced as finely as sheets of paper; small, shaped loaves of bread, and cold pies with representations of sabres, muskets and cannon on the glazed pastry crusts. At the far end of the table stood several decanters of various wines and spirits.

‘No desserts?’ Napoleon commented drily, as he shot a quick wink at Des Mazis. He moved round and stood in front of the nearest footman. ‘Well?’

‘Sir, Madame de Pignerolle has arranged for a formal dinner to be served later on.’ The tone was correct enough, but there was just a hint of disdain for an officer who had the bad grace to consider complaining about the service provided by his host.

‘I see.’ Napoleon raised his chin and looked down his nose at the footman. ‘Well, in that case we’ll have to wait for a proper meal. Meanwhile you may serve me a selection of meats for now.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The footman deftly picked up a pair of silver tongs and, taking up a heavily patterned plate, he began to cover it with a selection of the meats. Napoleon took the plate, picked up a fork and walked slowly towards the long windows on the far side of the room. Behind him the other artillery officers waited for their helpings. Through the glass Napoleon looked down on the second courtyard where scores of young cadets were being taken through fencing drills. They wore padded white tunics and were armed with slender rapiers. In long lines they stood poised before their instructors and then mirrored his movements; advancing, withdrawing, lunging forward, advancing and then dashing to make a flèche attack. Napoleon watched it all with a degree of bemusement as he worked his way through some delicious slices of smoked sausage. He had never excelled with the sword, a deficiency that had been noted in his reports at the Military School. Napoleon felt no need to try to master the art. Not in this day and age. He sensed a presence at his shoulder and Alexander joined him by the window.

Napoleon nodded down at the courtyard. ‘Who do they think they’re fooling?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Fencing lessons … What use is a rapier on the battlefield? All that expensive training will stand for nothing when they come up against a musket.’

‘Napoleon, mastering the sword is nothing to do with the battlefield. It is simply a requirement of being an officer and a gentleman,’ Alexander said wearily. ‘We’ve talked about this.’

‘I still believe that if a man is trained for war, then he should be trained for war. This … this armed ballet is simply an affectation. It is out of date and serves no purpose.’

‘Serves no purpose?’ Alexander raised his eyebrows. ‘Why, of course it does. It is one of the arts that marks us out from the common rabble.’

‘Us?’ Napoleon’s dark eyes fixed on his. ‘Does that include me?’

‘Of course,’ Alexander replied quickly, but not convincingly. ‘You’re an officer.’

‘But not quite one of the gentry. Not the son of a count, like you and the others.’

Alexander stared at him for a moment, fighting back his irritation. ‘When do you propose to desist with that line of thought, Napoleon? You cannot bear a grudge against the world you live in for ever. You have to change. Don’t be so … sensitive.’

‘Why should I change? Why can’t the world change and let men of talent flourish? Regardless of their origins. I tell you, Alexander, the old order is strangling those with ability, while it hands out all the rewards to the witless sons of inbred aristocrats.’ Napoleon stopped himself and forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’

‘Inbred aristocrats like me?’ Alexander stood back a pace and lowered his plate on to a drinks table. ‘Is that it?’

‘Of course not, Alexander,’ Napoleon laughed. ‘Do you really think I would befriend an idiot?’

‘No,’ Alexander replied quietly. ‘That would be beneath you.’

The two men stared at each other in strained silence, before Napoleon’s lips curled into a faint smile. ‘Now who’s being sensitive?’

‘Gentlemen!’

They turned and saw Fitzroy striding soundlessly across the carpet towards them. Behind him followed a dozen more cadets, including the languid youth with the newspaper that Napoleon had seen earlier. Fitzroy sensed the tension between the two artillery officers and a look of concern flickered on to his face.

‘Gentlemen, I trust there’s no problem. The food … ?’

‘The food is excellent,’ Des Mazis smiled.

‘Then?’

‘We were watching your colleagues fencing and merely had a difference of opinion, that’s all. Now, if we may be acquainted with your companions?’

‘But of course.’

The artillery officers and the cadets faced each other and bowed as Fitzroy introduced each man. Napoleon’s lips tightened as his surname was mispronounced. If he was to live the rest of his life amongst Frenchmen then he might have to change that; perhaps alter the spelling to render it easier for others to get their tongues round. The moment of preoccupation meant that he did not catch the names of his hosts and he cursed himself for the lapse of attention.

Once the introductions were over the cadets hurried over to the buffet and began to have their plates filled by the two footmen. Only the cadet with the newspaper remained, and he looked at Napoleon with a curious expression, then extended his spare hand.

‘Lieutenant Buona Parte, wasn’t it?’

Napoleon nodded and shook hands.

‘Buona Parte,’ the English cadet repeated the name accurately, then continued, ‘An unusual name, sir. It’s not French?’

‘Corsican,’ Napoleon smiled. ‘But since I was born after the island was purchased by France, then I find I am French after all.’

‘Quite. Though I dare say some narrow-minded people are inclined to use that as an excuse to look down on you,’ the cadet responded with feeling.

Napoleon was surprised that there was only the faintest trace of an accent in the cadet’s French. That, and the last comment sparked his curiosity. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.’

‘It’s Wesley, sir. Arthur Wesley. Of Dangan Castle in Meath.’

Chapter 32

‘Meath?’ Napoleon frowned.

‘It’s in Ireland, sir.’

‘Ah, I think I understand your sensitivity to my origins now.’ Napoleon smiled warmly.‘You have to suffer the same assumption of superiority from mainlanders.’

The cadet stiffened and tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘That’s their mistake. One day they’ll see.’

Napoleon laughed and, reaching forward, he clapped the other on the shoulder.‘You’re a man after my own spirit. Good for you.’