Chapter 4
In the years that followed Carlos Buona Parte had
not been able to believe his good fortune. Not only had his amnesty
been confirmed by the government in Paris, but he had secured a
position as a court assistant in Ajaccio on a salary of nine
hundred livres. No fortune by any stretch of the imagination but it
allowed him to feed and clothe his family and maintain the large
house he had inherited in the heart of the town.With another child
on the way, Carlos needed the money.The new governor of Corsica,
the Compte de Marbeuf, had taken to the charming young lawyer and
was now acting as Carlos’s patron, as part of his mission to cement
relations between France and her newly acquired province. Not only
had Marbeuf secured the court appointment for Carlos, but he had
also promised to support Carlos’s petition to the French Court to
acknowledge his claim for the title of nobility held by his father.
At present there were many such petitions as the Corsican
aristocracy attempted to have their traditions included within the
French system. But now his petition was being delayed, and each
time that Carlos raised the matter with Marbeuf, the old man gently
patted his hand and smiled thinly as he assured his young protégé
that it would be dealt with in good time.
Why the delay? Carlos asked himself. Only days
before, the lawyer Emilio Bagnioli had had his petition approved,
despite it being lodged a good six months after that of Carlos.
With heavy heart he returned to his house one afternoon and made
for the stairs to the first floor. Letizia’s uncle, Luciano, the
Archdeacon of Ajaccio, lived on the ground floor. He rarely left
the house any more, claiming he was too infirm. But the real
reason, the family knew, was that he did not dare part from the
money chest he had hidden in his room. Carlos had little time for
the dour man and merely nodded a greeting as he passed the
archdeacon, leaning against the doorpost. Carlos hurried up the
creaking steps to the first floor and entered his family’s rooms,
quickly closing the door behind him. From the kitchen, down the
corridor, he heard the sounds of his children at the dinner table,
together with the scrape and clatter of plates and cutlery as
Letizia prepared the settings.
Letizia looked up with a warm smile, which faded as
she saw his weary expression.
‘Carlos? What’s wrong?’
‘There’s still no news about my petition,’ Carlos
replied as he pulled out a chair and sat down.
‘I’m sure it’ll be dealt with soon enough.’ She
moved behind him and stroked his neck. ‘Be patient.’
He did not answer her, but turned his attention to
his children, who stared at him with their mother’s intense eyes.
Then, as Giuseppe continued to gaze at his father, the younger boy
deftly removed a thick slice of sausage from Giuseppe’s plate. As
soon as Giuseppe noticed the theft, he snatched at the meat.
Naboleone was too quick for him and smashed his fist down on
Giuseppe’s fingers before they reached his plate. His older brother
yelped and jumped up in his chair, upsetting his cup of water so
that the contents spilled across the table. Carlos felt his temper
snap and he slammed his fists down on the table.
‘Go to your room!’ he ordered. ‘Both of you.’
‘But, Father,’ the younger boy cried out
indignantly,‘it’s dinner time. I’m hungry!’
‘Silence, Naboleone! Do as you are told!’
Letizia set down the bowl she was holding and
hurried over to her sons. ‘Don’t argue with your father. Go. You
will be sent for when we have spoken.’
‘But I’m hungry!’ Naboleone protested and crossed
his arms. His mother hissed angrily and slapped him across the
face, hard. ‘You’ll do as you are told! Now go!’
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, scraped 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 passed along the
harbour, Naboleone made for the cluster 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 fishing. The smells of
the sea and rotting fish guts assaulted 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
chores? 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, snatching back
his foot and hopping on his other leg. ‘You little bastard!’
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, brushing
the fish scales from his breeches and shirt. ‘Little bastard,’ 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 amusement 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 amusement 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 stitched blue facings and polished brass
buttons. He slid his arms into the sleeves and let the soldier do
the buttons up for him, then fastened a small belt about his waist.
When he had finished the man started to button 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 friendship with the
governor, she was prone 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 buttons, 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.