Young Bloods (31 page)

 
The battalion left Valence as dawn was breaking. Captain Des Mazis came out of headquarters to bid his brother farewell, and to exact a promise from Napoleon to look after him. Then the column marched from the barracks in silence, since the colonel did not want to risk attracting attention to their departure. If word of the purpose of their mission leaked out on to the streets ofValence, it was possible that there were enough radical hotheads in the city to follow the example of the rioters in Lyons.

It took three days to march up the Rhône valley to Lyons, and as they approached the line of the city walls the men of the Régiment de la Fère could see thin trails of smoky haze drifting up from several locations inside the city.They were met at the city gate by a captain of the 34th, who looked tired and was pleased to see the reinforcements as he presented himself to the colonel.

‘Sir, your men are to deploy immediately. My regiment is clearing the streets on the other side of the Saône, but there’s been trouble on this bank.There’s a mob sacking the merchant district. The mayor wants you to deal with it.’

‘Very well,’ the colonel acknowledged. ‘My compliments to the mayor. Tell him we’ll move against the mob immediately.’

The captain saluted and turned away to hurry back to his regiment.The colonel called his officers forward to give his orders as the rest of the men set down their packs and prepared for action, carefully loading their muskets. There was no time for a detailed plan and the colonel simply told his officers to go in hard against any of the townspeople who dared to oppose them.

With bayonets fixed, the men of the La Fère regiment marched into the town. The street ahead of them was almost deserted. Only a few individuals dared to venture out of their homes, and they scuttled back inside at the sound of the nailed boots tramping down the cobbled streets. Napoleon glimpsed faces at windows snatching glances at the soldiers as the column passed by. As they reached the wealthier neighbourhood down by the river, the houses became grander and more impressive, and from some distance ahead came the sound of many people shouting in anger. Napoleon instinctively reached for the handle of his sword and was aware that his throat had gone quite dry.

Then the column emerged from the houses into a large square with a small park at the centre. The windows of every building that faced on to the square were shattered and most of the doors had been beaten in. Hundreds of people were cheerfully carrying off furniture, crockery, pans and bundles of clothing. Here and there a few of the braver, or more foolish, of the householders were struggling to retrieve their property, only to be beaten to the ground by the mob. The body of an overweight man in fine clothes hung from the branch of a tree in the centre of the park. As the mob became aware of the arrival of the soldiers they melted back towards the far end of the square. The colonel deployed his men in a line facing the crowd and took up position behind the centre company. A tense silence filled the air, until the colonel’s blade rasped from its scabbard and he thrust the tip towards the mob.

‘Advance!’

As the line tramped forward the spell was broken and a chorus of enraged shouts rose up from the dense mass of the townspeople. Napoleon, marching at the end of his company, gritted his teeth and drew his sword. As the soldiers advanced, they trampled over the spoils that had been left in the street. Amongst the ruined clothes and broken furniture lay a handful of bodies and many injured, but Napoleon could not stop to help them. A man sitting on a battered chest glanced up as the soldiers edged round him. His face was bruised and there were scratches across his cheek from where one of the rioters had gouged him. He stared blankly at Napoleon for an instant and then the line of soldiers had passed on.

Something clattered close by and Napoleon saw a chunk of stone rebound from the cobbles before it glanced off his boot. Then more missiles were flying as the soldiers came within range of the mob. Cobblestones, bottles and pieces of wood arced through the air. A small jar shattered against the face of a man close to Napoleon and with a cry of pain the soldier drew up, grounding his musket and clutching his spare hand to his face as blood coursed from a large tear across his forehead. As the soldiers closed in on the mob the shouting rose to a terrible din and more missiles found their targets, knocking some of the soldiers down and leaving small gaps in the line, which were quickly filled by men in the following ranks.

‘Halt!’ the colonel bellowed. ‘Halt!’

The line drew up as the order was swiftly relayed. The mob jeered and continued bombarding the soldiers.

‘Advance muskets!’

The tips of the bayonets swept down towards the mob and the rioters suddenly realised the danger they were in.Those closest to the soldiers edged away, pushing back into the crowd.

‘Prepare to fire!’

The soldiers raised the muskets and stared straight down the barrels at the faces of the crowd in front of them. There was a deathly hush for an instant, broken by the terrified wail of a woman somewhere just in front of Napoleon.

‘Fire!’

The volley exploded from the muzzles in a dense swirl of smoke and myriad stabs of flame. Napoleon flinched as the roar of hundreds of muskets rang in his ears and echoed back off the buildings lining the square. The colonel did not wait to see the effects of the volley but immediately cried the order to charge and his men lowered their weapons and ran forward through the bank of smoke. The volley had been fired at point-blank range into a dense mass of humanity and scarcely a shot had missed. Bodies lay crumpled and writhing along the edge of the crowd - men, women and children. But there was no time to reflect on the carnage as Napoleon and his men scrambled over the dead and injured and plunged into the crowd. All thought of defiance had been swept away by the volley and the people ran for their lives, pushing each other aside and trampling over the fallen. The soldiers thrust their bayonets into the mob with total abandon, cutting down scores of the rioters as they tried to escape. Napoleon slowly stepped over the bodies, sword raised, ready to defend himself. He was still in the grip of the first flush of horror at the carnage surrounding him and could only look on as the other soldiers continued their slaughter.

It did not last long, and within minutes the mob had fled, leaving the square to the men of Napoleon’s regiment, and the dead and dying of the Lyons mob.The soldiers stood amongst the bodies, wide-eyed with excitement, as the blood dripped from their bayonets. A sergeant, standing near to Napoleon shook his head, as if to clear it of a red mist, and stared at the tangle of limbs and splashes of blood at his feet.

‘My God,’ he muttered. ‘My God, what have we done?’

 
The disorder was over the moment word of what had happened spread through the streets of Lyons. The mayor imposed a strict curfew on the working-class districts while parties of troops searched house to house looking for ringleaders They had the names, since there was always someone willing to sell out his neighbours for a small reward, and so order was restored to the city.

Only when the mayor was satisfied that the lesson had been learned did he permit the battalion to return to Valence.The men were glad to quit the place and breathed more easily once they had passed out of the city gates and left the unhappy people of Lyons far behind. Napoleon was aware of a subdued mood in his company that lasted throughout the march back to Valence, and even after they had returned to the comfortably familiar surroundings of the barracks. As soon as the men were settled, Napoleon hurried back to his quarters.

There was a letter waiting for him, the address penned with his mother’s familiar uneven handwriting. He held the letter in his hands a moment before tearing it open and reading the contents.

The next day Napoleon asked the colonel for a leave of absence. He told him about the letter and explained that since the death of his father the family’s finances had suffered greatly. His family needed him urgently.

‘How long has it been since you were last home, Lieutenant?’

‘Over seven years, sir.’

The colonel looked at the officer and realised that he had been no more than a child at the time. So many years away from his home. Away from his family. He had not seen the sisters and brothers that had been born after he had left Corsica as a child. The colonel was human enough to guess at the personal consequences of such a long absence and immediately gave his permission.

‘I’ll give you until March next year. Will that suffice?’

‘That’s very generous, sir. Thank you.’

‘Be sure to make the most of it, Buona Parte. After that business in Lyons I rather fear that our services are going to be required far more often in the years to come.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘When will you go?’

‘As soon as possible, sir, if I may.’

‘I don’t see why not. There’s a new probationer joining the battalion tomorrow. He can take up your position.You can leave as soon as you wish.You might as well go and pack.’

Back at his lodgings, Napoleon surveyed the meagre possessions that he had accrued in the years he had spent in France.There was his uniform, some spare clothes, most of which were threadbare; two pairs of boots, one second-hand pair of dancing shoes and his graduation sword from the Royal Military School of Paris. Over on the bookshelves were the only things he really prized: scores of technical volumes, histories, scientific studies, and philosophical tracts, none of which he could bear to be parted with. So they went into his trunk first, and filled it to capacity so that all the other possessions had to be squeezed into a small valise.

There were several barges preparing to head down the Rhône towards Marseilles and he booked passage on the first to leave. As the crew eased the vessel away from the wharf and into the current Napoleon climbed up on to the cabin roof and sat down. He stared back at Valence as it receded into the distance, and felt a peculiar hollowness inside. He would be returning to the regiment in a few months’ time. But he had the strange feeling that he was leaving something behind for good. He was leaving behind the years that had turned him from a boy into a man. He was going home, and yet nothing there would be the same as the memory of it he had carried in his mind all this time.

And there was some other sentiment plaguing him. He tried to pin it down as the barge followed the course of the river towards the distant sea. At last he grasped it, the source of his profound melancholy. The truth of it, he realised, was that he felt himself to be defined by negatives. He was neither the boy he once was nor the man he desired to be, he was neither French nor Corsican, he was neither aristocrat nor worker.The world had yet to find a place for him. Until then, he would try to find some comfort in the arms of his family, at his home in Corsica.

Chapter 38

The brig entered the gulf of Ajaccio late in the afternoon and the vessel’s master bellowed the order to reduce sail. The sailors unhurriedly climbed up the ratlines of the two masts and then spread out along the mainyards. When they were in place the bosun gave the word and the sailors began to haul up the mainsails, furling the heavily weathered cloth to the yard and tying each sail off securely. Napoleon was standing at the bows gazing back down the length of the brig. His keen eyes watched every aspect of the ship’s operation and already he had a good grasp of the function of each sail and the names and purposes of most of the sheets that controlled the sails. The voyage from Toulon had taken only three days and with his books stowed away in the hold there had been little for Napoleon to do but stay on deck and absorb the minutiae of life at sea.

He turned round and felt his pulse quicken as he caught sight of the low stone mass of the citadel jutting out into the gulf. To the left a thin strip of yellow revealed the beach that stretched down from the jumble of pale buildings with red-tiled roofs of Ajaccio. In there, a few minutes’ walk from the sea, was the home where he had grown up from an infant into the small boy. That was many years ago, he reflected with rising emotion. The brig’s approach to the port was a journey he had done many times in fishing boats, but now it seemed unfamiliar so that he might have been approaching a strange land. He suddenly felt the loss of all those years he might have had in Ajaccio. Time he could have spent with his father, who would not have died almost a stranger to his son.

With only the triangular driver set, the ship ghosted across the still water of the harbour, heading towards an empty stretch of the quay. Several fishermen were sitting cross-legged on the cobbles, tending to their nets, and some of them paused in their work to watch the approach of the brig.

The porters lounging in the shade of the customs house stirred and made their way over to the quay to take the mooring ropes that the brig’s crew had made ready to cast ashore. The cables snaked across the narrow gap of open water, were caught, looped round a bollard, and then the men drew the brig into the quay until it nudged up against the hessian sack stuffed with cork. Napoleon had asked that his chest and valise be brought up when they had entered the gulf, and now he sat on the chest and waited impatiently for the crew to complete the mooring and lower the gangway so he could go ashore. After a short delay the master called out the order and the men ran the narrow ramp out, over the side, and on to the quay, then securely lashed down the end on the ship. Napoleon beckoned to one of the porters.

‘Get me a handcart.’

‘Yes, sir.’

While he waited for the man to unload his luggage, Napoleon crossed the gangway and set foot on the quay. He felt a wave of happiness at the firm touch of his homeland once again. He strolled slowly down the quay towards the nearest of the fishermen. The face was familiar, and he made the connection in an instant. This was the man whose foot Napoleon had stamped on years before. The fisherman glanced up at the thin youngster in a French uniform. Napoleon smiled and greeted the man in the local dialect.