The blow drove the man back with an explosive grunt and his head struck the ground as he tumbled, knocking him cold.
‘Marmont! Take his club!’
Now that two of them were armed, they made for the next target, a short distance off in the gathering gloom. Napoleon feinted at him and as the man moved to block the blow Marmont charged forward and felled him with a vicious strike to the head. As Junot seized the man’s weapon Napoleon turned to shout over his shoulder.
‘Citizens! Citizens, hear me! Are you cowards or patriots?’
A few faces turned to look and Napoleon seized the moment, charging towards the middle of the body of men fighting their way towards the meeting’s speaker. He filled his lungs and shouted, ‘Death to tyranny!’
Marmont and Junot raced after him, adding their cries to his. An instant later they were amongst the royalists, slashing out with their clubs. Since they were soldiers and more accustomed to the madness of battle, and the need to strike hard and fast, they had an advantage over the casual bullies who had been expecting an unarmed crowd and not this fierce counter-attack. Napoleon thrust out again with his crutch, and struck a man’s shoulder.The blow was not disabling and the man at once swung his club at Napoleon’s head. Napoleon snatched the crutch back and up into the path of the club and there was a sharp crack, the force of the blow jarring his hands. Marmont abruptly swung his boot into the man’s crotch, hard enough to lift the royalist off his feet, and the man tumbled back with a deep groan and rolled on the ground vomiting. Marmont hissed at Napoleon, ‘Hold the other bloody end, you fool! Use it like a club.’
As he reversed his hold Napoleon heard the speaker shout out to his bodyguards. ‘Help those men! Help them!’
Napoleon, Marmont and Junot stood back to back in a loose triangle, swinging their makeshift weapons at the men about them, trying to keep them at a distance. Marmont growled, ‘Come on then, you bastards! If you have the stomach for it.’
‘Girondin scum!’ someone shouted back.
‘Girondin? Girondin!’ Marmont roared. ‘I’m a Jacobin, you bastard! And you’re dead!’
He hurled himself into their midst, knocking two of the royalists to the ground, and then he was laying about him in great sweeping arcs with his club, shattering bones, battering muscles into nerveless jelly and driving the breath from his enemies with his blows.
Junot edged closer to Napoleon. ‘They really shouldn’t have called him a Girondin. I almost feel sorry for them.’
‘No time for that,’ Napoleon replied.Taking a deep breath he moved off in Marmont’s wake. The speaker and his bodyguards joined the fight and as the royalists were forced to stop and defend themselves the crowd stopped fleeing. Some edged towards the fight and then the first of them walked, then ran, back to the melee. ‘Death to tyrants!’ he called out, then again, his voice strengthening. Others joined in, emboldened by his confidence.
Napoleon glanced back and felt his heart lift. ‘Citizens! Help us!’
Some heeded his call, and charged into the fight, throwing themselves on to the royalists. But some were struck down by the royalists’ clubs and brutally beaten to the ground. Edging round a crumpled body, Napoleon raised the crutch and looked for another opponent. But in the growing darkness, the civilians around him all looked the same, until he saw a face half hidden by a scarf, and at once smashed his crutch down on the man’s head. The blow never landed. Suddenly the dusk exploded in a blinding flash of light and Napoleon reeled back. He shook his head, trying to disperse the fading white flashes that obscured his sight.
‘Run for it!’ a voice shouted. ‘Royalists! On me!’
Several figures turned and bolted, running back for the dark shadows beneath the colonnade. The crowd pursued them for a moment and then gave up, jeering and shouting insults after the defeated enemy. Even though he was aware of a searing pain high on his forehead Napoleon felt awash with elation. Finding Marmont, he gave his friend a hearty slap on the back.
‘Auguste Marmont, I swear you are half man, half wild animal.’
‘Bastards had it coming to them,’ Marmont muttered.‘Call me a Girondin, would they?’Then he caught sight of the dark smear streaming down Napoleon’s temple. ‘Sir, you’re bleeding.’
Napoleon drew out his handkerchief and clasped it to his head with a wince.Then he looked down at the crutch still in his hands, and turned to find its owner. The old man was sitting up, nursing a tear in his scalp.
‘My thanks, citizen.’ Napoleon helped the man up and returned his crutch to him.
The man nodded his gratitude.‘Just wish I’d been able to help you out, sir.’
‘You made your contribution.’ Napoleon smiled and patted the crutch. ‘Which is more than can be said for most of the people here tonight.’
Junot emerged from the gloom, a thin-faced man at his side, whom Napoleon recognised as the speaker who had been addressing the meeting before it had been broken up. He approached the three officers, glanced over them and turned to Marmont.
‘I must thank you, and your friends, sir.’
Marmont looked embarrassed, and nodded towards Napoleon. ‘Don’t thank me. Our brigadier led us into the fight. I just followed.’
The speaker stared at Napoleon more closely with his hooded eyes and Napoleon sensed that he was not impressed by what he saw. ‘Brigadier?’ He recovered from his surprise and proffered his hand. ‘Joseph Fouché at your service.’
Napoleon took the hand and felt the man’s cold skin. He nodded. ‘Brigadier Napoleon Bonaparte, at yours.’
‘Well, it seems I must thank you for saving my skin. Though not without some cost to yourself.’
‘A scratch,’ Napoleon replied. ‘We were glad to help you. I’ll not let any royalists drive our people off the streets. Not whilst I live.’
‘I see.’ Fouché’s lips flickered into a thin smile. ‘I like your spirit. The republic needs more men like you. Especially now. Paris seems to be infested by nests of royalist sympathisers. It is time that good men recognised the growing threat and stood up to them. Before it’s too late.’
Napoleon laughed. ‘Come now, they were no more than a gang of thugs. A rabble.’
‘You think so? Then look here.’ Fouché squatted down over one of the men who had attacked the crowd, now lying senseless on the cobblestones. Fouché pulled the scarf away from his face, and then flicked open the dark coat. Underneath it the man was wearing a smartly tailored jacket and waistcoat. Fouché stood up.
‘A common thug? I think not. He’s an aristo.’ Fouché swung his foot into the side of the man’s head. ‘An aristo and a traitor. And there are many more like him out there, scheming and plotting to place a Bourbon back on the throne. Mark my words, Brigadier Bonaparte, we have to watch our backs.The revolution is not quite as safe as our government would like us to think.’ He smiled. ‘Now I must go. I have another speech to make, in the Place Vendôme.’ Fouché suddenly looked tired and anxious. ‘The people have to be convinced to vote for the new constitution. If it fails to win their support then all is lost . . .Anyway, I hope we meet again, sir.’
Napoleon nodded faintly, not relishing the prospect.
As Fouché and his bodyguards strode away towards the Rue Saint-Honoré Napoleon glanced round at the people in the Palais-Royal. Now that the excitement was over, most were drifting back to their earlier entertainments. Only a small proportion of them had come to Fouché’s aid. As for the rest, Napoleon could not say where their loyalties lay. Perhaps Fouché was right, Napoleon conceded. Perhaps the situation in Paris was more dangerous than he had supposed.