Young Bloods (46 page)

‘Congratulations, young Wesley.You have the makings of a fine politician.’

Arthur smiled.‘Men have been challenged to a duel for milder insults, sir.’

‘True.’ Grattan forced himself to smile back. ‘So it’s just as well for you that you will not win the election here in Trim.’

‘I wouldn’t place too much money on Mr O’Farrell winning the election if I were you, sir.’

Grattan stared at him for a moment longer, then abruptly turned away and strode out of the room.

 
The seeing-off of Henry Grattan resulted in an immediate rise in Arthur’s support amongst the electorate of Trim, and in the last weeks before polling day Arthur spent all his time touring the borough and speaking to crowds lured out by the promise of roast meats, cheap claret and barrels of ale. Such public meetings often dissolved into drunken riots as rival supporters fought it out on the village streets and country lanes of the borough. Connor O’Farrell continued to play to the voters’ liberal sentiments but while the poorest people took some comfort from the example of the French radicals, they did not qualify for a vote and so Arthur reaped the anxiety that was growing in the minds of those with property who feared the lurid stories of mob violence on the streets of Paris.

The polls opened on the last day of April and by the time the poll closed it was clear from the voter tallies that Arthur had won and was duly presented to the public as the freely elected member of parliament for the borough of Trim.

As he travelled back to Dublin, Arthur stretched out across the seats of the coach and luxuriated in the sweet taste of success. At last he had done something that his family might be proud of. Better still, his new status as a member of parliament might well go some way towards impressing a more important audience that had been preying on his thoughts for some time now. He resolved to write to Kitty Pakenham as soon as he arrived back in Dublin.

Chapter 56

‘Of course, you’ll be sitting with us on the Tory benches,’ Charles Fitzroy motioned towards the seating closest to the Speaker’s chair. Arthur mumbled his assent but he was looking upwards, his gaze fixed by the cupola curving over his head far above. Fitzroy noted the look and smiled.

‘Impressive, isn’t it? When the debates start to get tedious, I often find myself stretching back and staring up there. Makes a man forget his surroundings for a moment, which is always a good thing.’

Arthur smiled. He had been in the building before, sometimes to watch his brother William speaking, sometimes because the nature of the debate took his interest. But now he was there as a member, not a guest, and Arthur felt the thrill of exclusivity that all new members of parliament experience.

‘As one of the new boys,’ Fitzroy continued, ‘you’ll find the rules are simple. Keep quiet, unless you’re cheering one of our side on, or shouting down the opposition.’ He paused and looked at Arthur. ‘I’m afraid that doesn’t happen as often as you might think. Most of the debates would do good service in purgatory. I sometimes wonder if that’s the true origin of our party’s sobriquet.’

Arthur laughed politely. Fitzroy’s son, Richard, had been a contemporary of Arthur’s at Angers and he had met Fitzroy on only a few occasions in recent years. So Arthur was pleased when the MP’s invitation to introduce him to the parliament had arrived at his lodgings. Charles Fitzroy was a tall thin man in his late fifties. He was gracious, in word and action, and had sat for the borough of Kinkelly for over thirty years. His taste in clothes was refined, if dated, but somehow the powdered wig suited him and the overall effect very much reminded Arthur of Marcel de Pignerolle. He felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought of the director of the academy at Angers. If the revolution in France was determined to tear down every last bastion of the nobility, then the unrepentant de Pignerolle would perish with the system he so admired. Arthur’s heart felt heavy with dread at such a prospect and it showed in the pained expression that briefly crossed his face.

‘Are you all right, young Wesley?’ Fitzroy took his arm gently.

‘Yes, I’m fine. Just thinking about something else.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s nothing. I was just reminded of my time in France. Someone I knew.’

‘Ah, France.’ Fitzroy shook his head. ‘A sad business, this crude egalitarianism they are so intent on establishing. No good will come of it, you can be sure of that. If God had intended us to live in a democracy he would have made us all aristocrats or peasants. And where would be the fun in that?’

‘Quite.’

‘And the wretched thing about it is that some of our own people are becoming infected by their notions.’

Arthur nodded. ‘I know. I had the pleasure of Mr Grattan’s company while I was campaigning in Trim.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry about Henry Grattan.’ Fitzroy waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘He talks about reform, but he has a patriotic heart. And he’s wealthy enough to imagine the personal sacrifices implied by a more egalitarian society. He won’t cause us any real problems as long as he is fed a diet of petty reforms to dangle before his followers.’ Fitzroy smiled cynically. ‘Bread and circuses, dear boy. Well, in this instance, potatoes and poteen. As long as they’re fed and drunk there’ll be no threat to our class.’

‘I’m not so sure,’Arthur replied after a moment’s reflection.‘All it takes is a few inspired men and anything can happen. God help us if the Irish ever find a Mirabeau or a Bailly to speak for them.’

‘That presumes a degree of similarity in sophistication between the French and the Irish, which simply doesn’t exist.The Irish were born to serve, Wesley. It’s in their blood. Revolution simply wouldn’t occur to them.’

Arthur shrugged. ‘I hope you are right.’

‘Of course I am, my boy.’ Fitzroy slapped him on the back. ‘Now come and meet some of my friends.’

 
Arthur soon discovered that being on the back benches of the Tory faction was a frustrating experience. As Fitzroy had said, the duties of a new member of parliament were limited to voting along party lines and spending the rest of the time waiting for a chance to join the chorus of cheering or jeering, as the situation required. There were proposals for further measures of Catholic and Presbyterian relief, budget presentations, arguments over taxation and tax exemption, and all the time the spectre of the revolution in France became a touchstone for those resisting change, as well as serving as a rallying point for reformers.

It soon became difficult to combine his parliamentary duties with those of an officer on the staff at Dublin Castle. Arthur took his role seriously, unlike a number of members of parliament, who hardly ever attended a debate and could only be persuaded to vote by an offer of a bribe, usually in the form of a sinecure or pension at the public expense. And while Arthur enjoyed the political manoeuvring of the Tories and Whigs he found the endless corruption and dishonesty profoundly depressing at times. There was some relief to be found in the social life at the castle. Particularly now that Kitty Pakenham was old enough to take a regular position in the crowd of youngsters who filled out the ballrooms, the dining salons and the endless succession of summer picnics.

 
After their first meeting Arthur had been dismayed when, so soon afterwards, Kitty had returned to her home in Castlepollard. But just before Christmas, Kitty and her brother Tom moved into the family’s house in Rutland Square in Dublin, and Kitty soon became something of a fixture at the court in Dublin Castle, to Arthur’s secret delight. His pleasure was tempered by the attention paid to Kitty by many of the other young gentlemen who quickly fell under her charm and competed vigorously for her attention. For some months Arthur found it difficult to penetrate her cordon of admirers in order to have a private conversation. A few snatched sentences were all that was possible before some beau, or chirpy young female acquaintance, intervened to request a dance, or to direct the conversation towards more frivolous territory. At such moments Arthur would seethe inside and put on an expression of polite interest while he endured proceedings, all the time praying that the witless interloper in question would disappear, or have some kind of horribly debilitating fit. But they never did and on each occasion Arthur found himself stewing in frustration, only to have to return to his lodgings afterwards in a miserable mood of self-recrimination for not having the nerve to be more forthright in his attempts to win Kitty’s affection. If things continued as they were, he chided himself, then before long someone with a more confident approach would steal her away before she ever became aware of Arthur’s feelings towards her.

Meanwhile he was tantalised every time their eyes met across a crowded dance floor or along a dining table, and she seemed to smile with some kind of special significance that made him certain that she regarded him as more than just a face in the crowd. At such moments he felt his heart soar with hope … before it came crashing down again as Kitty turned her gaze on another young man and engaged him in close conversation.Then Arthur would watch in growing frustration at each smile or laugh that was elicited from her.

When he was out of her company he attempted to rationalise his feelings. She was, after all, just a girl, three years younger than him. There were plenty of other desirable young ladies at court and many more years in which to secure one of them for a wife. His feelings for Kitty were a passing obsession, he told himself, all too understandable in someone of his age. But whenever he saw her, all the logic that could be brought to bear on the situation simply melted away as his passion flared into being once more. He was being foolish and, worse still, he ran the risk of making himself look foolish in front of his peers if his feelings for Kitty became known.Yet if he did nothing to let her know how he felt, then how could she begin to reciprocate his affection - assuming she even wanted to?

Chapter 57

Corsica, 1789

When Napoleon landed in Ajaccio late in September he was astonished to find the island almost as he had left it over a year earlier, before the momentous events that had followed the summoning of the Estates General by King Louis. Among the sailors and townspeople on the harbour quay were soldiers from the garrison, still wearing the white cockade of the Bourbons in their hats when the rest of the French Army had adopted the red and blue cockade of Paris. As he walked up the streets to the family house Napoleon stared about his surroundings curiously. There were no posters on street corners proclaiming the latest news from the National Assembly, no impassioned debates outside the cafés and drinking holes of the town, no sense that the world was rapidly changing and that the vestiges of an old regime were being swept aside to clear the way for the new France.

Entering the house, he found his mother upstairs in the laundry room, standing by the window as she pulled the cord that stretched the dripping clothes along the line that hung across the courtyard at the back of the house. She turned and saw him. Napoleon set his hat down on a stool and went to embrace her.

‘When you wrote to say the army had taken you back, I feared I wouldn’t be seeing you for years.’ She stroked his cheek. ‘How long will you stay this time, Naboleone?’

He smiled. ‘I really don’t know. It could be many more months.’

‘Good.That’s good. Giuseppe came home from Italy last week. He’s down at the court watching a trial today. He’s missed you. So have I. I’ll have you all together under one roof. Just as well, the way things are going.’ She looked at him sharply. ‘So what exactly is happening in Paris?’

‘You must have heard the news, Mother. The whole world must have heard the news by now.’

‘It’s different here.You have the royalists saying that the King is biding his time, waiting for the chance to seize back his power. Then there’s those hothead radicals at the Jacobin Club telling us that the old order is gone and we live in a democracy. And there’s Paoli’s followers claiming that the chaos in France is the best chance we’ll have to win independence for Corsica.’ She shrugged. ‘But most people don’t really care. Life goes on.’

‘So I noticed.’

 
That evening, after dinner when all the younger siblings had been sent to bed with a promise that they would have Napoleon’s attention the next day, he sat with his older brother and opened a bottle of wine.

‘Well?’ Joseph filled their glasses. ‘What are you
really
doing back in Corsica?’

‘Besides enjoying the company of my family and dear brother?’

Joseph smiled. ‘Besides that.’

‘France does not want my services at present. So it’s time I took a more active role in Corsica.You’ve been here for a while. What is the feeling among the people?’

Joseph looked at his brother shrewdly.‘You mean, what are the chances of the Paolists? It’s hard to say. In the National Assembly the deputy chosen to represent Corsica’s nobles is Buttafuoco. He says the French Government can keep the island by bribing some Corsicans and having no mercy on the rest. The deputies for the third estate are Antoine Cristoforo Saliceti and Cesari Rocca. They want nothing to do with Corsican independence and argue that Corsica’s best interests are served by staying with France. So you see, there’s no one to present the case for Corsican liberty in Paris.’

Napoleon thought for a moment before he spoke. ‘Then it must be decided here.’

His brother chuckled. ‘That’s what I thought you’d say.’

 
The Jacobin Club met in one of the inns on the streets dominated by the walls of the citadel.The members were delighted to recruit Napoleon. If the King’s officers had become interested in radical politics then there was no hope of returning to the dark days of the old regime. The club subscribed to as many of the Paris newspapers as they could afford.The most avid attention was paid to the reports of the proceedings of the Jacobin Club in Paris. Napoleon read these items with as keen an eye as the other members and was particularly taken by the arguments put forward by a deputy called Robespierre, formerly a lawyer from Arras. There was something familiar about his rhetorical style, though Napoleon could not place it.