Young Bloods (19 page)

 
As the clock struck twelve a brief silence fell across the field. Even those who were not taking part turned to watch proceedings. A handful of the teachers who had seen the boys constructing their fortifications ventured out to witness the event. From the far end of the field a shrill challenge carried across the open ground towards Napoleon. He smiled grimly, then cupped his hands and shouted out his first order.

‘Skirmishers!’

A small party of boys, picked for their speed, advanced through the narrow gaps in the outer wall.The swiftest of them carried the banner Napoleon had thrust into his hands as the last peal of bells rang out. They spread out across the field and advanced towards Alexander’s side, clutching a handful of snowballs to their chests. As Napoleon examined the other side’s defences he shook his head at the simplicity of his enemy. Alexander had done little more than erect a round rampart with one main entrance. Over the wall Napoleon could make out the tiny black heads of Alexander’s team. Beyond the wall he could see the thin red line of his scarf tied to the end of a stick, being waved to and fro. Hardly a formidable defence, and a pointless one, as it happened, since Napoleon had no intention, of letting the smaller and weaker boys of his side attempt an assault. Standing on tiptoe, hands braced on the top of the inner wall, he craned his neck to follow the progress of the skirmishers.

They advanced steadily across the field, the yellow banner some distance to the rear of the line.As they closed on Alexander’s fortifications the first snowballs arced up from the enemy’s defences and fell harmlessly several paces short of their targets. The skirmishers moved closer, hefting their own snowballs in preparation to lob them over the wall. Still, it seemed, the other side had not the range to hit Napoleon’s line. Then Alexander sprang his trap.

A sudden flurry of snowballs rained down on the skirmishers who had successfully been lured into striking distance. But Napoleon had anticipated such an obvious trick and could not help smiling. With a dull roar, the other team came pouring out of the distant fortification and sprinted across the snow towards Napoleon’s skirmishers. But the latter were already turning and running away, fleeing back towards their own base. As they ran, some stopped to throw their remaining snowballs quickly before turning and sprinting for cover. Others simply dropped their snowballs and fled.The boy with the banner played his part like a professional, running from his pursuers just fast enough to stay ahead, but not so fast that they didn’t charge on in the blind hope of capturing the yellow banner and winning the battle at a stroke.

‘Here they come!’ Napoleon called out. ‘Stand to!’

The boys on his team reached for snowballs and raised their throwing arms.The first of the skirmishers were already hurrying through the gaps in the wall, racing across to the ends of the first line of defences and forming up on either side of Napoleon and Louis. The banner carrier was the last to enter and immediately took up position behind Napoleon where he raised the banner high above his head and waved it slowly from side to side to taunt Alexander’s team.

Beyond the outer wall a dense mass of boys had drawn up short of the wall and were throwing snowballs at the defenders. As Napoleon had instructed, the defenders started to lob snowballs back, but in a slower and less deliberate fashion that only excited a roar of triumph and contempt from Alexander’s followers. Napoleon’s sharp eyes quickly picked out their leader as Alexander forced his way to the front and raised the red banner he grasped in one hand. He pointed at the yellow scarf inside the walls of snow, screaming at his boys to charge home and seize it.

With a shrill cry, they ran forward, heading for the two gaps in the outer wall.They surged through and ran into the space behind the wall where they came up against the first wall Napoleon had constructed.

‘Hit ’em!’ Napoleon shouted, momentarily forgetting himself in the excitement now that the battle was reaching its climax. ‘Fire! Fire at them!’

On either side, his companions let loose a hail of snowballs and cried out in delight at each impact. As more of the opposing team pressed into the open space and compacted the ranks of those in front they presented an unmissable target and snowballs crashed into them from all sides at point-blank range. A number of the braver boys did not shelter their faces and tried to hit the boys bobbing up from the walls around them. Napoleon took a breath and peered over the wall. He saw that almost all of Alexander’s side was now between his walls and opened his mouth to shout the next order. At once white powdery crystal exploded off his cheek and the numbing impact momentarily shocked him into silence.

Then, drawing a sharp breath, he called out above the shrill din of the snowball fight, ‘Boulders, now!’

The boys who had been waiting for the order thrust their shoulders against the large snow boulders that had been positioned either side of the gaps and now rolled them forward to close the gaps and trap the other side between the two walls. Now Alexander and his friends were caught, with no way out and what little snow lay on the slushy ground underfoot was unsuitable for using as ammunition to hurl back at their tormentors.

Beside Napoleon, Louis was laughing with delight as he threw snowball after snowball into the faces of the other side. Napoleon spared him a glance, and saw that his attention was riveted on the action beyond the wall. Bending down, he scooped up several of his special snowballs and, cradling them against his chest, he selected one and looked for Alexander. The other leader was looking about him in dismay, forearm raised above his head. Napoleon took aim and threw.With a muttered curse he saw the snowball strike the head of a boy behind Alexander and there was a sharp cry of pain as the concealed stone gashed his temple. Napoleon snatched up the next, took aim and threw.This time he scored a direct hit and the snowball shattered on the bridge of Alexander’s nose. With a cry that Napoleon heard clearly, Alexander slumped down out of sight, his hands clasped to his face. The red scarf dropped into the crowd at his side. At once Napoleon unleashed the rest of his cache, striking and injuring two more boys before he ran out. The screams and cries of those who had been hurt caused the other side to lose heart and they turned and ran, kicking a path through the snow boulders so that they could escape.

Hurrying across the field from the direction of the college buildings came the teachers, alarmed by the shrieks of agony from inside Napoleon’s fortifications.

It was clear the fight was over, and Napoleon clambered over the snow wall, carrying away a chunk of it as he tumbled on to the ground on the far side. He scrambled to his feet, then ran over to where Alexander was sitting on his knees, one hand clasped to his nose as bright red blood dripped on to the slush in front of him. His other hand groped for the slender shaft of sapling on which he had tied the red scarf.

‘Oh, no you don’t!’ Napoleon jumped to his side and stamped his boot down on Alexander’s fingers. ‘That’s mine!’

As Alexander snatched his fingers back, Napoleon took up the banner and clutched it tightly to his side. All around him he could hear the cheers of his companions and it was a moment before the full glory of victory washed over him and he was swept along with the joy of winning. He glanced down at Alexander and saw him staring up with undiluted hatred burning in his eyes. All the teasing and the torment that he had suffered at the hands of this young aristocrat dissolved as he looked down at his beaten foe with contempt.

‘My victory, I think.’

‘I’ll get you back, Corsican. It was you who threw the rock at me.’

‘Prove it.’ Napoleon took the banner, pressed the butt against Alexander’s stomach and thrust him back into the slush. Napoleon raised the butt up again and took aim at his enemy’s face, but before he could strike his arm was seized.

‘Stop!’ Louis hissed in his ear.‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘
Vae victis
,’ Napoleon sneered down at Alexander.‘Let go of my arm. He’s had this coming to him.’

‘No! He’s had enough, Napoleon. It’s only a game, remember. And you’ve won. That’s all that matters. Now it’s over.’

‘It’s not over,’ Napoleon snapped. ‘You think this makes up for all that he’s done to me?’

Louis frowned. ‘Don’t do it, Napoleon. Besides, it’s too late. Look.’

Louis pointed towards the field and Napoleon saw that a handful of the more nimble teachers were already picking their way across the outer wall. As they clambered into the enclosed space and saw the score of dazed boys and the handful of bloodied victims of Napoleon’s special missiles they looked horrified, and then angry.

‘What’s going on here?’The director’s voice carried across the walls. Moments later he stood, gasping from his exertions, his face wreathed in the short-lived tendrils of his rapidly exhaled breath. ‘Who is responsible for this bloodbath? Was it you, Buona Parte?’

‘Me, sir?’ Napoleon shook his head and gestured to Alexander still lying in the mud, winded. ‘It was de Fontaine’s idea, sir. Ask him.’

The director looked at Napoleon suspiciously for an instant before he transferred his gaze to Alexander. ‘Is this true?’

Alexander propped himself up. He was aware of the other boys clustered around him, close enough to hear every word he spoke to the director. There was no choice. He had to admit to the truth. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘I see. Then you have only yourself to blame for this … carnage. You are gated for the rest of term, and denied special privileges.’ The director straightened up and indicated the other injured boys.‘The rest of you, get these boys to the sanatorium, as fast as you can.’

Chapter 25

In the months that followed, Napoleon was no longer picked on by Alexander and his friends. He was still regarded as a social inferior by most of the fee-paying sons of aristocrats, but their snobbishness was tempered by a grudging respect for his victory on the field. Indeed, the victory was so comprehensive that Napoleon was asked to recount it in front of his class by Father Dupuy and it was used as an example in their consideration of ancient siege-craft. Naturally, Alexander suggested a few refinements of his own, to the scarcely concealed contempt of Napoleon who comprehensively demolished his rival’s contribution to the debate.

Now that he was no longer being bullied Napoleon was free to concentrate on his education and his teachers were pleased by the improvement in his attitude as well as his performance. All the time Napoleon kept his focus on the coming assessment for a place at the Royal Military School of Paris. He studied the curriculum of the school and revised the appropriate subjects thoroughly. Conscious of his small size, he made efforts to exercise more.With his brilliant but prickly nature he seemed to burn nervous energy, which worked against gaining weight and he was constantly frustrated by his small stature.

As the 1784 autumn assessment drew closer, Napoleon spent long hours in the stuffy heat of the library, reading and memorising as much as he could. He was always mindful of Father Dupuy’s advice that for those outside of the aristocracy, the only route to achievement was through the Military School of Paris. The sooner he received his passing-out certificate, and a commission in the service of the French Crown, the sooner he could build a meaningful career for himself.

On the day of the assessment the boys who had been selected for testing waited in the library to be called in turn. Napoleon had never doubted that he would be put forward for this moment and while some of the others fretted and talked nervously, he sat quite still with his arms folded, until at last his name was called.

The visiting Inspector of Military Schools was a veteran officer, Monsieur Keralio. Slender and stiff, he wore a powdered wig and gave Napoleon a long, searching look with sharp blue eyes before he indicated the chair opposite the director’s desk. He had a folder open on the desk in front of him containing a sheaf of notes.

‘Cadet Buona Parte, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The inspector tapped the notes in front of him. ‘You have an interesting background. A Corsican Frenchman must be something of a rare breed in a place like this.’

Napoleon smiled. ‘Yes, sir.’

The inspector looked at him keenly. ‘So which are you? Corsican or French?’

‘Both, sir.’ Napoleon replied directly. ‘Just as another man might be a Norman, or French Burgundian.’

‘But those regions have long been part of France, unlike Corsica. They have no Paoli to agitate for their independence. Your father fought with Paoli, did he not?’

‘Yes, sir.That was many years ago.Today he is in the service of the Comte de Marbeuf in Ajaccio, and a loyal Frenchman. As am I, sir.’

‘Good. I am satisfied with that,’ the inspector said quietly.‘Now then, young man, why do you want to serve in His Majesty’s forces?’

The inevitable question Napoleon had been expecting, and like every other aspirant he had worked hard at preparing his answer. ‘It’s a man’s life, sir. A chance for adventure, perhaps some glory, and I love my country well enough to want to protect her with my life.’

‘And which country would that be, Cadet Buona Parte? You seem to avoid being specific.’

‘Why, France, sir.’

The inspector looked at him a moment before he chuckled. ‘Fair enough. A careful answer, Cadet Buona Parte.You have the guile to go far in this world.’

‘Guile?’ Napoleon coloured.

‘Guile, perhaps. But, it seems, not patience nor complete self-control. ’

Napoleon bowed his head, ashamed that he had fallen into the trap so easily.

The inspector leaned back and shuffled the papers into a neat stack. ‘You may go.’

‘Go, sir? Is that all?’

‘Yes.’

Napoleon swallowed nervously. Most of the other cadets had had far longer interviews than this. How dare the inspector dismiss him after such a short and superficial interrogation?