Young Bloods Part 2

Giuseppe was already out of his chair and nervously crept past his father in the doorway, then ran down the corridor towards the room shared by the boys. His brother had been stunned by the blow, and had started to cry, then bit back on his tears and, with eyes blazing, sc.r.a.ped his chair away and rose to his feet. He shot a defiant look at each parent before striding from the room on his short legs. As he marched away, the door was closed behind him, but not before he heard his father say in a low voice,'One day that brat must be taught some lessons . . .'Then his voice dropped and only muted discussion issued unintelligibly from the kitchen.

Naboleone quickly got bored of trying to eavesdrop and padded softly away. But instead of joining Giuseppe in their room, he crept downstairs and out of the house.The sun was low in the west, casting long shadows over the street, and the boy turned towards it and made for the harbour front of Ajaccio. With a swagger that did not sit well on his small, skinny frame, he strolled down the cobbled avenue, thumbs tucked into his culottes, whistling happily to himself.

Emerging on to the road that pa.s.sed along the harbour, Naboleone made for the cl.u.s.ter of fishermen squatting over their nets as they carefully checked them for signs of wear before folding them up ready for the next morning's fis.h.i.+ng. The smells of the sea and rotting fish guts a.s.saulted the young boy's nostrils but he had long since grown used to the stench and nodded a greeting as he strode up and stood in the middle of the group of men.

'What's the news?' he piped up.

An old man, Pedro, looked up and cracked a nearly toothless smile. 'Naboleone! On the run from that mother of yours again?'

The boy nodded, and flashed a brilliant grin as he approached the fisherman.

Pedro shook his head. 'What is it today? Skipping ch.o.r.es? Stealing cakes? Bullying that poor brother of yours?'

Naboleone grinned and squatted down beside the old man.

'Pedro. Tell me a story.'

'A story? Haven't I told you enough stories?'

'Hey! Small fry!' One of the younger men winked at Naboleone. 'Some of those stories have even been true!'The man laughed, and the others joined in good-naturedly.

'As long as they have nothing to do with the size of his catch!' someone added.

'Quiet!' Pedro shouted. 'Young fools! What do you know?'

'Enough not to believe you, old man. Small fry, don't be taken in by his tall stories.'

Naboleone glowered at the speaker. 'I'll believe what I choose to believe. Don't you dare make fun of him. Or I'll-'

'You'll what?' The fisherman regarded him with surprise. 'What will you do to me, small fry? Knock me down? Care to give it a try?'

He stood up and strode towards the small boy. Naboleone looked him over, squinting as the bulk of the man was rimmed by a bright orange hue from the setting sun. He looked formidable enough: a wide chest, thick sinewy arms and legs . . . and bare feet.The boy smiled as he squared up to the fisherman and raised his tiny fists.The other fishermen roared with laughter and as the man grinned at his friends Naboleone darted forward and stamped the heel of his shoe down as hard as he could on the man's toes.

'Owww!' The man recoiled in pain, s.n.a.t.c.hing back his foot and hopping on his other leg. 'You little b.a.s.t.a.r.d!'

Naboleone stepped forward, reached up with his hands and gave a hearty shove to the top of the man's head, overbalancing him and sending him toppling backwards into a basket of fish.The wharf exploded in laughter as the other fishermen enjoyed their comrade's misfortune.

Pedro rested a hand on Naboleone's shoulder. 'Well done, lad! You may be small,' he tapped the boy's bony chest,'but you've got heart.'

The man was struggling up from the basket, brus.h.i.+ng the fish scales from his breeches and s.h.i.+rt. 'Little b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' he muttered through clenched teeth. 'Needs a lesson.'

'Better make yourself scarce.' Pedro pushed Naboleone away and the boy hopped over the nets and ran for the opening of the nearest alley, little legs pumping away as the fisherman started after him. But he reached the alley before his pursuer could clear the nets, and before he disappeared from view he stuck his tongue out defiantly. Not wanting to take the risk that the man had given up his pursuit, Naboleone ran on, cut down a side alley, and re-emerged on the wharf some distance beyond the fishermen. There would be no going back there this evening.

At the end of the wharf stood the entrance to the citadel, where the Compte de Marbeuf had his official residence.

A group of French soldiers sat in the shade of a tree by the gateway. As they saw the boy they waved and shouted a greeting at the child who had become something of a mascot to them. Naboleone smiled back and joined their circle. Although he understood little French and spoke only a Corsican dialect of Italian, a few of the soldiers spoke some Italian and could more or less conduct a conversation with him. He, in turn, had picked up a few words of French, which included the kinds of curses that soldiers are inclined to teach children for the amus.e.m.e.nt it afforded them.

It seemed that they had been looking out for him and they gestured to him to sit down on a stool beside them, while one of the soldiers entered the citadel and ran across to the barracks block. Naboleone glanced round at the Frenchmen and saw them watching him with amus.e.m.e.nt and expectation. One was carving thick slices off a sausage and the boy called out to him, indicated the sausage and then pointed to his mouth. The man smiled and handed him a few slices, together with a chunk of bread torn from a freshly baked loaf. Naboleone muttered his thanks and started to cram the food into his mouth. Nailed boots clattered across cobblestones and the soldier who had gone to the barracks returned with some cloth carefully folded under one arm. In the other he held a wooden sword. Squatting down in front of the boy he laid the toy sword beside him and gently unfolded the cloth to reveal a small uniform and a child's tricorn hat.The soldier pointed to his own uniform.

'There,' he spoke in Italian, with a heavy French accent. 'The same thing.'

Naboleone's eyes widened with excitement. He set the remaining food down hurriedly and then chewed and swallowed what was left in his mouth. Standing up, he reached out for the white coat with its neatly st.i.tched blue facings and polished bra.s.s b.u.t.tons. He slid his arms into the sleeves and let the soldier do the b.u.t.tons up for him, then fastened a small belt about his waist. When he had finished the man started to b.u.t.ton a pair of black gaiters that rose up to the hem of the coat. Another soldier carefully placed the tricorn on Naboleone's head and then all stood round him to inspect the results.The boy reached down for the sword and stuffed it into his belt, before he stiffened his back and saluted them.

The Frenchmen roared with laughter and clapped him affectionately on the shoulder.

One of those who spoke Italian leaned over him. 'You're a proper soldier now. Except that you must take the oath.' He straightened up and raised his right hand. 'Monsieur Buona Parte, please raise your hand.'

For a moment Naboleone hesitated. These were Frenchmen, after all, and despite his mother's friends.h.i.+p with the governor, she was p.r.o.ne to utter dark sentiments about the new rulers of Corsica. But Naboleone looked down at his beautiful uniform, with the gilt-painted handle of the sword sticking out of his belt. Then he looked up into the smiling faces of the men gathered around him and felt a keen desire to belong amongst them. He raised his hand.

'Bravo!' someone cried out.

'Now, little Corsican, repeat after me. I swear undying obedience to His Most Catholic Majesty, King Louis . . .'

Naboleone echoed the words thoughtlessly as he revelled in the joy of becoming a soldier and the thought of all the adventures he might have; of all the wars he might fight in; of how he would be a hero, leading his men in a gallant charge against terrible odds, and triumphing to the resounding cheers of his friends and family.

'There! That's it, young man,' the French soldier was saying. 'You are one of us now.'

But Naboleone's thoughts remained with his family. As he glanced back towards the harbour the first lamps were already being lit along the street and in the windows of the houses.

'I have to go,' he muttered, gesturing in the direction of his home.

'Oh!' the soldier laughed. 'Deserting already!'

Naboleone started to undo his b.u.t.tons, but the soldier stayed his hand. 'No. The uniform's for you. Keep it. Anyway, you're a King's man now, and we'll be expecting to see you on duty again soon.'

Naboleone surveyed the coat with a look of disbelief. 'It's mine? To keep?'

'But, of course! Now run along.'

The boy's eyes met the soldier's. 'Thank you,' he said softly, little fingers closing around the hilt of the toy sword.'Thank you.'

As he moved towards the edge of the small group of soldiers they parted before him, as if he were a general and when he turned back someone shouted an order and they all shuffled to attention with wide grins and saluted. Naboleone, stern-faced, returned the salute, then turned about and marched down the street towards his home, feeling as tall as a man and as grand as any king.

Behind him the Frenchmen settled back to their evening ration of sausage, bread and wine. The soldier who had dressed Naboleone watched the little boy strutting down the road and he smiled in satisfaction before he rejoined his comrades.

Chapter 5.

By the time he had reached his home, night had fallen and Naboleone's bravado had seeped away as he faced the prospect of sneaking back into his room without being caught. He waited in the entrance hall for a moment, ears straining to pick up any sounds in the house. From the first floor came the voices of Naboleone's parents. He crept towards the stairs and then, keeping as close to the wall as possible to minimise any creaking of the boards, the boy stole upstairs. His heart was pounding at the tension in his body as he reached the top, squeezed through the door to his family's rooms and started down the darkened corridor to the room he shared with Giuseppe. He never made it.The toy sword, jammed into his belt, suddenly sc.r.a.ped across a skirtingboard.

Before the boy could dive the last few feet to his room, the door to the kitchen was wrenched open and a dim glow spilled into the corridor.

'Where on earth . . . ?' his father began, then there was a beat before his anger gave way to surprise. 'What are you wearing? Come here, boy!'

Naboleone warily made his way to the kitchen door, paused to remove his tricorn and look up at his father towering over him, then entered the room. His mother sat at the table. Her lips tightened as she saw the uniform.

'Where did you get that?'

'It - it was a present.'

'Who from?'

'The soldiers at the citadel.'

Letizia stood up and stabbed a finger at her son. 'Take it off ! How dare you wear that?'

Naboleone was shocked by the venom in her voice. He hurriedly undid the belt and b.u.t.tons, shuffled his arms out of the coat and laid it on the table. The gaiters followed, together with the tricorn and toy sword. All the time his parents stared at him. At length his father broke the silence.

'Tell me you did not walk through the streets wearing that uniform.'

'I did.'

Carlos rolled his eyes and clapped a hand to his forehead.

'Did anyone see you?' Letizia snapped. 'Speak up! The truth, mind.'

Naboleone thought back. 'It was growing dark. I pa.s.sed a few people.'

'Did they recognise you?'

'Yes.'

'Well, then,' Letizia said bitterly, 'word will get round that our son has been seen in French uniform. That's an end to any reputation our family once held in this town. It's bad enough your father is employed by the French, Naboleone. And now our own son marches round the town in a French uniform. The Paolists will drag our family name through the gutters for this.'

Carlos stepped up to the table and examined the tiny uniform. 'You exaggerate, Letizia. This is a toy, that's all. Dressing-up clothes. They made them for him as a joke.'

'They were a gift,' Naboleone piped up. 'They're mine.'

'Quiet, you little idiot,' Letizia said coldly. 'Can't you understand what you've done? What fools you have made of us?'

The little boy shook his head, bewildered by her rage.

'Well, try to understand, before you ruin our reputation any further. Do you know, there are still bands of Corsican patriots out there in the maquis, still fighting the French? Do you know what they do to any collaborators they capture?'

Naboleone shook his head.

'They cut their throats and leave the bodies where others can see them, as a warning. Do you want that to happen to us?'

'N-no, Mother.'

'Stop it!' Carlos raised his hand. 'Letizia, you're scaring the child.'

'Good! He needs to be scared. For his own sake, as well as ours.'

'But we're not in the maquis. We're in the town. The garrison is here to protect us. To restore order. The Paolists are little more than brigands. They'll be finished off before the year's out. The French are here to stay and the sooner people accept that, the better. I have.'

She sneered. 'Don't think I haven't noticed. Don't think it hasn't disgusted me that we have had to sell our birthright as Corsicans to safeguard the future of our family.'

Naboleone watched the confrontation between his parents anxiously and now he almost choked as he interrupted their exchange. 'Mother, I was only playing with them.'

'Well, don't! Never again, you understand?'

He nodded.

'As for these,' she bundled the uniform and hat up, 'they must be disposed of.'

'But, Mother!'

'Quiet! They must go. And you must never mention this to anyone.'

The boy seethed inside, but he knew he must accept her word or face a beating he would not forget in a long time. He nodded.

'In any case,' Carlos said in a calming tone, 'you've spent too long running around the town.You're almost feral. Look at you. Your hair needs a comb. No, better still, a cut.You need a cleanup and some discipline. It's time you started school.'

Naboleone's heart sank into the pit of his stomach. School? That was as bad as being sent to prison.

'Your mother and I have talked this over. You need an education. Tomorrow I will speak with Abbot Rocco about admitting you and Giuseppe to his school. It'll mean we have less money in the house but, given tonight's events, I don't think we can afford not to send you there.'

Chapter 6.

Ireland, 1773 Anne poured herself a fresh cup of tea and gazed out through the doors of the orangery to where her children were playing on the lawn. The two older boys, Richard and William, were once again commanding Anne and Arthur about as they arranged a collection of drying racks and sheets into the outline of a s.h.i.+p. A book on pirates had gone round the nursery, being avidly devoured by each child in turn, and for the last few weeks of the summer they had played nothing else. As ever, the quiet Arthur, now four years old, said little but did as he was bid and carried out his orders with focused intensity. Anne watched him with a keen sense of pity. He had developed a sensitive face. His nose had a faint downward curve and his eyes were a brilliant light blue, the whole fringed by long fair hair that wafted in the gentle breeze as he went about his work.

Anne raised her cup and sipped delicately from the rim. On the floor beside her slept her youngest son, Gerald, born a year after Arthur, and she was expecting yet another, who was to be named Henry, if it turned out to be a boy.

On the other side of the table Garrett sat with a folio of sheet music spread across the table. He was working on a new composition and every now and then he would raise his violin and pluck at the strings as he tried out a new arrangement. Then he would suddenly lower the instrument, s.n.a.t.c.h up a quill and start scribbling alterations to the notes marked on the staves.

Anne coughed lightly. 'Garrett, what do you think will become of him?'

'Eh?' Her husband grunted, frowning. He dipped his nib and irritably scratched out several notes.

'Arthur.'

Garrett glanced up, frowning. 'What about him?'

'Please lower that quill before we continue this conversation.'

'What? Oh, very well. There.' He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together with a smile. 'I'm all yours.'