‘Yes, sir.’ Arthur felt he had let the man down.
‘And now our time is up. Pack up your instrument.’
Arthur placed it back in its case in silence as Dr Buckleby retrieved the new piece from the stand and stood by the door. He escorted Arthur from the room and then held the front door open. Arthur stepped outside of the cottage, then hesitantly turned round and offered Dr Buckleby his hand.
‘Farewell then, sir.’
‘Goodbye, young Wesley.’ The teacher pumped his hand. ‘Remember, keep your back straight and your scroll up.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And, er, this is for you.’ Dr Buckleby’s heavy cheeks coloured as he held the new piece of music out to his student. Arthur received it with a nod of thanks.
‘You’re very kind. May I ask who composed it, sir?’
‘I did.’ Dr Buckleby smiled. ‘I wrote it for you. Perhaps one day, when you have mastered it, you might come and play it for me.’
Arthur’s heart ached with gratitude for the man’s kindness. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Then I’ll bid you good day, sir. I must prepare for my next student.’
Both knew it was a deceit.There were no other students today. Arthur took his leave and turned down the path, hearing the door close gently behind him.
Chapter 13
France, 1779
The school at Autun was a far larger institution than Abbot Rocco’s establishment in Ajaccio, and Giuseppe and Naboleone regarded it with a mixture of awe and fear as they walked through the gateway, followed by a porter carrying their trunks. He directed them to the staff room to one side of the imposing entrance hall.
Naboleone stepped up to the door and rapped sharply on the gleaming varnish. The door opened and the boy was confronted by a tall, severe-looking man in a dark suit and stockings.
‘Yes?’
‘I am Naboleone Buona Parte,’ Naboleone said in his best French. ‘This is my brother Giuseppe.’
The man frowned at the grating accent. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Naboleone repeated his introduction and the man seemed to understand a bit better on the second attempt. He turned back into the staff room.‘Monsieur Chardon? I think these must be the two boys you were expecting. From Corsica?’
‘Yes,’ Naboleone nodded. ‘From Corsica.’
The man stood aside and a moment later a stocky man in a cassock was smiling down at them.‘Welcome to Autun. My name is Abbot Chardon.’ He glanced from boy to boy and nodded at the smaller, darker-featured one. ‘You must be, let me think … yes, I have it, Napoleone.’
‘Naboleone, sir.’
‘Yes, well, since your father was so adamant that the first priority was to get you speaking French like a Frenchman, we might as well start now, with the French version of your names. Giuseppe will be Joseph, and you, young man, have caused me a bit of a problem.’ He smiled kindly.‘The best approximation I can do is Napoleon.’
‘Napoleon?’The boy repeated. He was not sure he cared for a French version of his name, but the first teacher had evidently struggled with the Corsican name and so, inevitably, would everyone else at the school. He already felt like enough of an outsider. He looked up at the abbot and shrugged. ‘As you wish, sir. I shall be Napoleon.’
‘Good! Then that’s settled. Let me take you to your dormitory.’
He led them towards a staircase at the rear of the hall and they climbed three flights to reach a corridor that stretched out under the eaves on both sides. Napoleon saw that it was lined with beds with a chest at the foot of each.
‘There’s no one about at the moment,’ the abbot explained. ‘The rest of the boys will be in lessons until supper.You will have a chance to meet them then. Since the first task is to improve your French we’ve decided to put you at opposite ends of the dormitory, beside a proper French boy, so you can correct your accent, which is still a bit thick, if I may say so.’
Napoleon coloured the moment he heard this, but his brother took his hand and when Napoleon glanced sidelong at him Joseph shook his head in warning.
The abbot wafted a hand. ‘As soon as your trunks arrive please unpack then, and then return to the staff room. I’ll take you to your teachers and introduce you to your classmates.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Joseph replied. ‘Thank you, sir.’
The abbot smiled quickly, turned away and strode back down the corridor.
When they were alone again Joseph turned to his younger brother. ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Seems comfortable enough.’
‘I wasn’t talking about that. Napoleon - well? Makes you sound like a real Frenchman.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he replied unhappily. ‘Napoleon … and Joseph. What would Mother say if she could hear me now?’
Chapter 14
Abbot Chardon was standing in his study overlooking the courtyard of the school at Autun. It was morning break and outside the boys were playing in the snow. Wrapped in coats, scarves and mittens, they were indulging in snowball fights as usual, shrill shrieks of excitement and surprise filling the air, and clearly audible even this side of the glass in the window.Then his attention fixed on a figure standing at the school gate and his smile faded.The stiff posture of the distant boy was unmistakable. Little Napoleon Buona Parte on his own once again.
It was over a month since the two Corsican boys had joined the school, and while Joseph had begun to settle in and make some friends, the younger child resolutely held himself apart and only associated with his brother, and only then when the latter was not playing with his new friends. It surprised Chardon that the older brother seemed so timid and obviously in awe of Napoleon. But then the young boy had a fierce and forceful personality, such as the abbot had never before encountered. Despite coming to Autun to learn French and benefit from perhaps the best education that Europe had to offer, the boy was defiantly Corsican and was more than willing to resort to a shouted tirade, or fists, if anyone impugned his native land.Which, of course, had made him the prime target for all those boys predisposed to tease or bully any of their peers who stood out from the rest.
Napoleon crossed his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits to keep them warm. He had been still long enough for his toes to start feeling numb, and now he began to slowly pace up and down in front of the gateway. He hated this numbing cold, and the clinging damp on his face and bedclothes when he rose each morning. In Corsica at this time of year the air would be cool but dry, and the winds blowing off the Mediterranean kept the skies above Ajaccio clear and blue. Thoughts of home were never far from his mind, and they tormented him terribly, especially that last moment before the ship had set sail from Bastia. He could almost smell his mother, feel her touch and the warmth of her breath on his ear as she had whispered her final word of farewell.
He clenched his hands and stiffened his lips. He would not give in to this homesickness. He would not be seen to be as weak and self-indulgent as other people.
A snowball struck him on the back of his head and a chorus of cheers filled the air. They died instantly as Napoleon whirled round, eyes blazing and gloved fists snatched out from under his arms.
‘Who did that?’ he screamed. ‘Who did that?’
Someone giggled at his fierce expression and then like a current it flowed through those boys who were staring at him until laughter rang in his ears.
‘Who did it?’ he shouted.‘Tell me! Tell me or I’ll fight you all!’
But the laughing continued, so Napoleon charged forward towards the nearest knot of boys. At once, they broke up and ran away, still laughing nervously. Kicking spurts of snow up behind him Napoleon ran after them, but he was too small and too slow, and they kept their distance easily. After a few more steps he gave up and stopped, breathing heavily as he shouted after them, ‘Come back and fight! Cowards! Cowards! Cowards …’
‘Napoleon!’
He glanced round and saw his brother warily approaching. Joseph held up his hand, a concerned expression on his face. ‘Napoleon. Calm down … Calm yourself.’
Napoleon continued breathing deeply as he lowered his fists and felt the tight tension in his chest begin to ease, flowing out of his body like a poison and leaving him feeling cold and weary. Joseph stepped up to his side and put an arm around his brother’s shoulders.
‘You’re shivering. Come inside. We’ll go to the boot room - there’s a fire there where we can warm up. Come.’
He steered his brother towards the outbuildings behind the school, away from the boys in the courtyard. Some still jeered, hoping to provoke another explosion of rage, but quickly lost interest as Napoleon allowed himself to be led away.They entered the boot room and Joseph shut the door. Wooden boot racks stretched down one side of the room, each one numbered for one of the pupils. On the other side, flanking the fireplace, were rows of pegs. This was where wet footware and coats could be dried and the atmosphere was warm and humid, and smelled musty. Joseph pulled up a pair of stools, positioned them in front of the glowing grate and eased his brother down.
‘You missed breakfast. You must be hungry. Here.’ Joseph pulled a hunk of bread out of one pocket and a small lump of hard cheese from the other. He smiled. ‘I saved these for you.’
Napoleon looked at the offerings for a moment before he reluctantly accepted them with a nod of thanks. He began to eat, and soon appetite got the better of him and he gnawed hungrily on the cheese. Joseph watched him for a moment, and then reached for another log from the woodpile and placed it over the glowing embers in the grate.
‘Feeling better?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘What are brothers for?’ Joseph grinned. ‘I’m supposed to look after you.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘Yes. I noticed.You were doing a fine job …’
Napoleon glared at him, and his brother could not help laughing as he wagged a finger at him. ‘Now don’t you start that again! I was just joking.’
For a moment the familiar wild expression burned in Napoleon’s eyes. Then he relented and turned his gaze towards the fire as Joseph continued, ‘You really must stop reacting like a madman every time someone says something.You have to control that temper. I thought you wanted to be a soldier.’
‘I do.’
‘Well, you can’t go mad in the middle of a battle.You have to have a cool head, especially if you want to be an officer.’
Napoleon considered this, and reluctantly nodded his agreement. ‘I will learn to control my feelings one day.’
‘You’d better learn sooner than that,’ Joseph said quietly.
His brother looked at him curiously. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because you’ll be leaving Autun next month.’ Joseph forced himself to smile.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Father has sent us a letter. I found it on my bed at the start of break. That’s why I came to find you outside. Just in time, it seems.’
Napoleon stiffened his back and held out his hand.‘Let me see the letter.’
Joseph’s cold fingers fumbled inside his coat for a moment, before emerging with a folded sheet of paper bearing a broken wafer seal. He passed it to Napoleon and the young boy opened the letter out and began to read, his eyes eagerly scanning the spidery lines of his father’s script.
‘Brienne.’ He looked round at Joseph and smiled. ‘A military college.’
‘Just what you wanted.’
‘Yes …’ Napoleon’s smile faded as he glanced back at the letter and read it again, quickly. ‘He doesn’t mention you.’
‘No.’ Joseph’s voice wavered. ‘It seems I’m to stay here.’
‘We’re not going together? There must be some mistake.They can’t separate us.’ Napoleon gripped his brother’s hand. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’ The sudden thought of being so far from his home and his family, and even then denied the reassuring presence of his brother’s company, filled Napoleon with dread. ‘I don’t want to be alone,’ he repeated softly.
Joseph opened his mouth to reply, but no words came at first. What comfort was there to offer? He tried to make himself sound persuasive. ‘I don’t want you to leave me either. But this is for the best. Father wants to give you a chance to become a soldier. Brienne’s the place for you. I … I’ll stay here and study for the Church.’
Napoleon felt a lump in his throat as he refolded the letter and handed it back to his brother. He coughed and then tried to speak steadily. ‘You will write to me?’
‘Of course!’ Joseph put his arm round his brother’s shoulder again, and this time he felt Napoleon lean in towards him. Soon, Napoleon realised, there would be no human comfort for either of them to ease the pain of homesickness. Each would be forced to endure life as an outsider in an unfamiliar culture. He felt a surge of fondness for his older brother and reached for his hand.
‘I want to go home.’
‘I know. Me too.’
‘Do you think, if we wrote to Father, that we could persuade him to take us home?’
Joseph was Corsican enough to wince at the prospect of being thought of as weak-spirited. ‘No. He won’t stand for it.’
Napoleon struggled to hold back the tears. He knew his brother spoke the truth and he felt torn by hatred for his father’s cold determination and by the bitter contempt he felt for himself for being prey to such unworthy emotions. If only they had never left Ajaccio.
‘Joseph? What is to become of us?’
‘I have no idea,’ the older boy replied miserably. ‘I just don’t know.’
Napoleon shut his eyes tightly and murmured, ‘I’m afraid.’
Carlos Buona Parte came to visit his sons at the end of April. At first father and sons had been overjoyed to see each other again. Then, as it quickly became apparent how miserable Joseph and Napoleon were and how much they wanted to return home, Carlos’s manner towards them cooled, and became dismissive and angry. They were ungrateful, he said. Ungrateful of all the sacrifices that he and Letizia had made in order to make sure that the two boys had futures the family could be proud of. Given all that had been done for them, the least that Joseph and Napoleon could do was make something of the opportunities that they had been given.