Young bloods

Chapter 36

France, 1786

The cannon trials at the arsenal at Nantes proved to be an interesting diversion for Napoleon. Nearly every other country in Europe was equipped with heavier calibre guns. One of the generals at the Ministry of War had decided that the army needed to investigate the possibility of re-equipping the artillery to match the wider standard. Of course, such an undertaking was expensive and a number of foundries had been asked to submit cannon for testing. For nearly two weeks Napoleon and over a hundred other officers of various ranks from across the army observed the submitted weapons being put through their paces.

The sampled weapons performed well enough, particularly a gun designed to be drawn by a team of horses for swift deployment on the battlefield. Napoleon was immediately intrigued by the possibilities of such a weapon. Even though the artillery officers were impressed by the weapons on offer, the cavalry and infantry officers were not. Any programme to replace the existing weapons would be bound to result in less expenditure on the other elements of the army.With no agreement possible, the trials were concluded and everyone returned to his unit.

Napoleon quickly grew accustomed to life in the garrison town of Valence. The daily round of duties became less onerous as he became more efficient in his dealings with the men and equipment.When he was off duty, the lack of any private income was a constant source of frustration. He simply could not afford to spend every evening drinking with Alexander and the other officers. This became something of a contentious issue between them, particularly following the promotion of an officer in another battalion. The man in question had no obvious military talent, but made up for it with an unparalleled pedigree that saw him rise to the rank of lieutenant colonel at an indecently young age.

'That's how it is,' Alexander shrugged, as they sat in the officers' mess of the regimental headquarters. 'There's no point in getting angry and bitter about it.'

'Why not?' Napoleon snapped back. 'It's absurd. And it's wrong.'

'Wrong?'

'Yes.' Napoleon leaned forward in his chair. 'And this is not about jealousy, before you throw that into the argument. It's about simple justice and – more importantly – it's about what's good for the army.'

'Really? Would Lieutenant Buona Parte care to explain why his judgement is superior to that of all the generals and ministers of His Majesty?'

Some of the officers in the mess were looking round at them and Napoleon was tempted to end the discussion there and then. But some devil within prompted him to continue, 'Mark my words, Alexander. This cannot be allowed to go on. And not just in the army. One day the aristocrats will have to renounce all their advantages and give other Frenchmen a chance to prove themselves.'

'And if they don't?'

'Then their powers will have to be taken from them.'

'Really?' Alexander laughed. 'Who by? The peasants? The factory owners? Or will it all come down to one Corsican with a particular zeal for reform, I wonder.'

Napoleon forced himself not to respond to the slight and returned to his original point. 'All I am saying is that the current situation is intolerable. It can't, and won't, continue. You have as much chance to read the news from Paris as I have. The people have had enough. All that matters for us is to decide which side we are on.'

'Side?' Alexander laughed.'You make it sound like this is going to lead to war.'

'It might.'

'In which case, which side will you take, Napoleon?'

It was a good question, and now that it had been asked Napoleon was not sure.True, his sympathies were with the people who aimed to modernise France; through them the dream of an independent Corsica might one day come true. On the other hand, he had sworn an oath to the King of France and saw that any fundamental change in the way France was governed might descend into chaos – or worse, the civil war that Alexander alluded to.

'Well, Napoleon?'

He shifted in his chair. 'I don't know. I'd have to wait and see what was at stake before I took sides.'

Alexander laughed again, and this time some of the other officers joined in.

'The regimental hothead has wilted!' someone called out, and the laughter intensified while a few others jeered. Napoleon flushed angrily. A year ago, he would have flown at them with clenched fists, but such behaviour was not tolerated in adult company. Besides, the risks of such a confrontation were far higher now. If he caused enough offence it was possible that one of the other officers might call him out. Napoleon was realistic enough to know that his chances of winning a duel by sword or pistol were not good. So he bit back on his anger, rose from his chair and thrust out his hand to Alexander.

'I have to go. I have work to do. I bid you good night, Alexander.'

His friend stared back at him for a moment before he stood and shook his hand. 'Good night, Buona Parte.'

The other officers fell silent as he strode through the mess towards the door. Napoleon felt their gaze fix on him like needles and had to resist the urge to walk even faster.Then he was out of the room, and descending the steps into the hall of the building, then out into the cool evening air. Behind him the sound of voices in the mess slowly rose to its former level as he made his way back to his room at the house of Mademoiselle Bou, who had inherited her late husband's home.

Much of Napoleon's spare time was spent reading. Histories were his favourite passion, but more recently he had become interested in political theory and philosophy. Rousseau's works appeared on his shelves alongside the works of Pliny, Tacitus and Herodotus. There was even room for some books on English history, and Napoleon was fascinated by the way in which the English parliament had secured its ascendancy over the throne. If it could be done in an intellectually backward nation like England, then why not France? When Napoleon was not reading he penned essays on artillery tactics, ripostes to Plato and, once he had discovered a copy of Boswell's history of Corsica, he began to plan his own history of the island.

He wrote quickly, in his spidery scrawl, well into the night by the light of a single candle, which was all he could afford. Occasionally he was disturbed by the raucous cries of the drinkers at the Cafe Corde next door, and felt pangs of anger and despair whenever he recognised the voices of the other young officers of the regiment.