Young bloods - Scarrow Simon (читать книги полностью без сокращений txt) 📗

'Hey!' Napoleon shouted after him.'What about my coat?You come back here!'

The man glanced over his shoulder, then ducked to one side and disappeared into a narrow dark alley.

'Bastard!' Napoleon yelled after him, then became aware that some of the people in the street had turned towards the commotion and were smiling at his misfortune. He scowled at them, then turned to the wall to see what the man had been pasting up. One corner hung limply and Napoleon had to roll it back with a hand before he could read.

Crudely printed, but bold, black letters proclaimed that the people of Paris had suffered enough. The rewards for all their back-breaking toil were starvation wages, slum accommodation and food unfit for consumption.The people could stand for it no longer. They should make their voice heard at a demonstration before the gates of the Tuileries on the following Sunday. Only their strength in numbers would make their masters aware of the dangerous mood of frustration and rebellion swelling up in the hearts of all right-thinking men.

Napoleon shook his head. He had seen posters like this before on the walls of Paris. A handful of agitators were behind them – small, powerless men, fighting for the hopeless cause of better conditions for the masses. The protest, like all before it, would be poorly attended, and easily swept away by a handful of troops, leaving the streets littered with broken bodies and smears of blood, and all would continue as before.These rebels were too few and too diffuse to challenge the State, and as long as the State could back up its position with sufficient deployments of force, nothing would change. It was pointless to resist, Napoleon concluded briefly. The people of Paris were already beaten. They had no one to lead them. All they had were themselves: a stolid mass of down-trodden slum-dwellers.

When he returned to the Military School he found Alexander waiting for him in his room. Napoleon stood in the doorway and cocked his head to one side.

'Come to apologise?'

'No. Not that.' Alexander rose from the chair beneath the window and walked slowly towards his friend. 'I was sent to find you.'

'Who sent you?'

'The captain-commandant.'

Napoleon felt a weary feeling of inevitability settle on him like a great weight. 'Who is complaining about me now? That bastard of a dancing tutor? One of the students?… You?'

'No. It's not that.' Alexander's gaze wavered for an instant.'The captain-commandant has received a letter. From your mother. Since I'm your only real friend here, he thought it would be best if I found you and brought you to his office so he can explain in more detail.'

'Letter?' Napoleon felt an icy sensation of dread creep up his spine. 'What's happened?'

Alexander bit his lip for an instant before replying.'Your father has died.'

'Died?' Napoleon frowned. 'He's dead? How can he be dead? Was there an accident?'

'It was an illness.'

'That's not possible. He was going to see a specialist. He wrote to me afterwards to say the problem was being treated. He wrote to me… What happened? Tell me.'

'Napoleon, that's all I know.' Alexander gently took his arm. 'The captain-commandant will tell you more. Let's go.'

Napoleon stood still for a moment, then gave way and let his friend lead him away to the captain-commandant's office.

He was treated sympathetically enough and, as was the custom in the Military School, he was offered the services of a priest to commiserate the tragic loss. Napoleon shook his head. He was still too uncertain of his feelings to want to unburden them in front of a stranger. His father was dead. Carlos Buona Parte was dead. It did not seem possible. And yet, the last time he had seen his father there had been no doubt about his failing health. But now that death was here, Napoleon could not encompass the reality that his father had gone. Images of his father poured through his mind. All at once Napoleon felt guilty for not having expressed his gratitude to his father for all that he had given to Napoleon in his short life.

Thirty-eight years.That was the extent of his existence, and he would never see the fruition of all his plans for his family. He would not be there to welcome Napoleon home to Ajaccio, and look proudly upon his son's army uniform. To die with so much still to be fulfilled – how terrible a fate that must be, Napoleon reflected. Now all those plans and dreams had died with his father. They were already long dead and buried, weeks before.There was no point in grieving now, he told himself. He must not let this news unman him. He would use it as proof of his strength of character. Napoleon fought back his grief as he looked up at the captain-commandant.

'Sir, I thank you for the offer of a priest. But I do not need any consolation.'

The captain-commandant smiled kindly. 'There's no shame in grief, Buona Parte. Death is with us always and we need someone there to help and console us.'

'I don't,' Napoleon said firmly. 'May I return to my room now, sir?'

The captain-commandant stared at him with pity, then nodded.'As you wish. But the offer still stands. If you change your mind…'

'Thank you, sir, but I won't. Is there anything else?'

'No… No, you may go.'

Chapter 28

There was no pause for mourning. Napoleon threw himself into his studies with renewed effort and did not mention his father's death again. Those around him, even the students who had tormented him in the past, kept a respectful distance and left him alone. Even Alexander sensed that Napoleon had withdrawn into himself and their friendship cooled until the examination for officer aspirants was held that August of 1785. Even though he had been at the school for less than a year Napoleon insisted on being allowed to sit the examination. The captain-commandant reminded him that most boys took the exam after two, or even three, years of study at the Military School. None the less, Napoleon and Alexander took the exam along with nearly sixty other boys. When the results were read out to the students Napoleon had come in forty-second place and his friend fifty-sixth. Both were awarded the sword of graduates of the Military School and eagerly awaited news of their first postings.

'The Regiment de la Fere,' Napoleon read from the notice board outside the captain-commandant's office. His eyes glanced further down the list and he smiled. 'You too, Alexander. Do you know anything about the unit?'

'Of course!' Alexander's eyes twinkled. 'My brother, Gabriel, is a captain in the regiment.'

'Besides the family connection,' Napoleon said patiently.'What else do you know about the de la fere?'

'It's part of the Royal Corps of Artillery, stationed at Valence.' Alexander punched his arm. 'We're going to be gunners.'

'So it seems.' Napoleon nodded with satisfaction. Although the cavalry was a more glamorous arm than the artillery, the latter had a far greater reputation for professionalism, Napoleon reminded himself. And at least it wasn't a posting to the infantry, the preserve of the social and intellectual detritus of those men who sought an officer's career in the army. An ambitious man could make a name for himself in the artillery, Napoleon reflected, and he would have less need of social rank and an independent income in seeking advancement up the chain of command. He read the final details on the notice board and turned to his friend with a smile.

'We had better prepare. The regiment's expecting us to arrive on the tenth of September.That's less than two weeks from now.'

The Regiment de la Fere, as an artillery unit, had its own purpose-built barracks where the rankers lived and the guns, ammunition and other supplies and equipment were kept. Napoleon and Alexander presented their papers to the sentry at the main gate and were directed to the headquarters building overlooking the artillery park. Leaving their chests in the guardhouse, the new arrivals marched over to the headquarters entrance. Napoleon looked over the guns that they passed with a growing sense of excitement. Very soon he would be serving some of the four- and eight-pounder cannon that stretched out across the artillery park in neatly ordered lines.