but he must reassure his son. ‘Soon. I’ll come and visit the moment the family affairs are in order.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Soon, Napoleon. Then I’ll see you and Joseph again. Perhaps your mother will come with me.’
‘I’d like that,’ Napoleon said quietly, wanting to commit his father to a definite time, but knowing it was impossible. ‘You will write to me?’
‘Of course I will! As often as possible.’ Carlos flashed one of his brilliant smiles.‘And I expect you to respond in kind, young man.’
‘I will. I promise.’
‘Very well … Then I must go.’
‘Yes.’
Carlos patted his son on the shoulder one last time and turned away towards the large doorway at the end of the hall that gave out on to the stables courtyard. As his father strode stiffly away Napoleon felt a desperate urge to reach out to him and his hand lifted from his side instinctively. But as soon as he was aware of the gesture he burned with shame and furiously forced the hand into a gap between the buttons of his uniform coat, trapping it against his stomach where it could not betray him.
Ten paces away his father paused and turned back. With a reassuring nod of his head he called out, ‘Remember, Napoleon. Courage!’
Napoleon nodded. Then his father strode off, amid the scurrying ranks of the other students.
The boy watched until Carlos had passed through the doorway and out of sight. Part of him wanted to run down the hall, to catch one glimpse of his father, but then he became aware that some of the boys in the hall were watching him curiously. Napoleon took a deep breath, turned round and walked, unhurriedly, to his cell.
Chapter 16
Napoleon turned over in his bed and drew his knees up to his chest in an effort to keep warm. Even though it was June, the nights had been cold the last few days and the single blanket that cadets were permitted, all year round, was hardly enough to make sleep possible.The bed on which he lay was a crude affair: a straw-filled mattress resting on simple bedstraps that had sagged with the years and made the whole feel more like a hammock than a proper bed. Around the bed the plain plaster walls of the cell rose up to rafters, angling down from the tiled roof-pitch above. A single, narrow window high on the outside wall provided illumination during the day, and now, as the sun rose, a faint grey finger picked its way into the room, illuminating a slow swirl of dust motes.
With a muttered curse he jerked up from the mattress and heaved his bolster back against the wall. Then, reaching into the small locker beside the bed, he fumbled for the copy of Livy he had rented from the local subscription library. He had too little grasp of Latin to attempt to read it in the original and had opted for a recent translation into French. He had come to speak and write the language quite fluently, even though he had not managed to shed, or hide, his Corsican accent. Indeed, it was something he was beginning to affect some pride in, as part of the identity that made him different from the sons of the French aristocracy.
Settling back against the bolster, he opened the covers of the book, flicked to the chapter he had marked with an old slip of parchment and began to read. Ever since he had first attended school in Ajaccio and been made aware of the history of the ancients, Napoleon had a fervent enthusiasm for the subject. Something he had in common with another boy - Louis de Bourrienne - who was the closest thing that Napoleon had to a friend. Louis was happy to share his collection of books with the young Corsican. Napoleon spent long hours poring over the campaigns of Hannibal, Caesar and Alexander. And so, covered by his blanket, he read on, immersing himself in the war between Carthage and Rome, until the dull, booming thud of the drum beat out its summons.
Napoleon set the book down on the locker and jumped out of bed. His stockings, breeches and shirt were already on, as he had worn them
‘When will that be?’
‘Soon, Napoleon. Then I’ll see you and Joseph again. Perhaps your mother will come with me.’
‘I’d like that,’ Napoleon said quietly, wanting to commit his father to a definite time, but knowing it was impossible. ‘You will write to me?’
‘Of course I will! As often as possible.’ Carlos flashed one of his brilliant smiles.‘And I expect you to respond in kind, young man.’
‘I will. I promise.’
‘Very well … Then I must go.’
‘Yes.’
Carlos patted his son on the shoulder one last time and turned away towards the large doorway at the end of the hall that gave out on to the stables courtyard. As his father strode stiffly away Napoleon felt a desperate urge to reach out to him and his hand lifted from his side instinctively. But as soon as he was aware of the gesture he burned with shame and furiously forced the hand into a gap between the buttons of his uniform coat, trapping it against his stomach where it could not betray him.
Ten paces away his father paused and turned back. With a reassuring nod of his head he called out, ‘Remember, Napoleon. Courage!’
Napoleon nodded. Then his father strode off, amid the scurrying ranks of the other students.
The boy watched until Carlos had passed through the doorway and out of sight. Part of him wanted to run down the hall, to catch one glimpse of his father, but then he became aware that some of the boys in the hall were watching him curiously. Napoleon took a deep breath, turned round and walked, unhurriedly, to his cell.
Chapter 16
Napoleon turned over in his bed and drew his knees up to his chest in an effort to keep warm. Even though it was June, the nights had been cold the last few days and the single blanket that cadets were permitted, all year round, was hardly enough to make sleep possible.The bed on which he lay was a crude affair: a straw-filled mattress resting on simple bedstraps that had sagged with the years and made the whole feel more like a hammock than a proper bed. Around the bed the plain plaster walls of the cell rose up to rafters, angling down from the tiled roof-pitch above. A single, narrow window high on the outside wall provided illumination during the day, and now, as the sun rose, a faint grey finger picked its way into the room, illuminating a slow swirl of dust motes.
With a muttered curse he jerked up from the mattress and heaved his bolster back against the wall. Then, reaching into the small locker beside the bed, he fumbled for the copy of Livy he had rented from the local subscription library. He had too little grasp of Latin to attempt to read it in the original and had opted for a recent translation into French. He had come to speak and write the language quite fluently, even though he had not managed to shed, or hide, his Corsican accent. Indeed, it was something he was beginning to affect some pride in, as part of the identity that made him different from the sons of the French aristocracy.
Settling back against the bolster, he opened the covers of the book, flicked to the chapter he had marked with an old slip of parchment and began to read. Ever since he had first attended school in Ajaccio and been made aware of the history of the ancients, Napoleon had a fervent enthusiasm for the subject. Something he had in common with another boy - Louis de Bourrienne - who was the closest thing that Napoleon had to a friend. Louis was happy to share his collection of books with the young Corsican. Napoleon spent long hours poring over the campaigns of Hannibal, Caesar and Alexander. And so, covered by his blanket, he read on, immersing himself in the war between Carthage and Rome, until the dull, booming thud of the drum beat out its summons.
Napoleon set the book down on the locker and jumped out of bed. His stockings, breeches and shirt were already on, as he had worn them
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