Young bloods

The days passed slowly as the convoy trundled through the countryside baking in the bright glare of late summer sunshine. Each night Napoleon oversaw the feeding of the mules and the posting of sentries before lying down on his bedroll and fretting for long hours as he stared up into the star-strewn universe while his men chattered contentedly around the campfires. In the mornings he roused his men early, ignored their grumbled complaints, and got the convoy back on the road while the air was still cool and fresh. After reaching Marseilles the wagons turned east, towards Toulon, where they would deliver some of the gunpowder to the army of General Carteaux before continuing to Nice.

At the end of the second day after leaving Marseilles the convoy drew into the village of Beausset, a short distance from Toulon. As soon as he had given his orders for the settling down of the convoy for the night Napoleon set off for the mayor's office. The iron wheel rim on one of the wagons was coming loose and Napoleon needed to arrange for a blacksmith to undertake the repair.

The mayor's office was a small, undistinguished building, in keeping with the village it administered, and there was only one clerk still at work there when Napoleon arrived. The clerk, a young man with dark features, had stripped down to a fine linen shirt as he toiled away at a pile of paperwork in the stifling room.

The new arrival coughed to get his attention. 'Excuse me.'

'Yes?' The clerk lowered his pen and glanced up.

'I'm Captain Buona Parte, commanding an ammunition convoy. We're stopping the night in Beausset, and I need a blacksmith.'

The clerk shook his head. 'Can't help you, Captain. Both the blacksmith and his mate were drafted into the National Guard when General Carteaux's army came through. Like most of the able-bodied men in Beausset.'

'But not you.'

'No.' The clerk nodded down. 'Club foot. First time it's been any use to me.'

'I see.' Napoleon frowned. 'Then where's the nearest blacksmith?'

'There was one at Ollioules, but he was taken into the army as well.You could try General Carteaux's headquarters.They'll know where our blacksmith is. Last I heard the army was camped close to Ollioules.'

'How far's that?'

'An hour's ride down the road towards Toulon.'

'Damn!' Napoleon clenched his fist. It had been a long tiring day and the prospect of spending several hours organising the repair to the wagon wheel made him angry.

The clerk watched him for a moment, then added, 'You could try the inn on the other side of the square.'

'Oh?'

'There should be a few of Carteaux's staff officers there. They might be able to give you directions and the authority to use the blacksmith. That is, if they're not too busy toadying up to the representatives.'

Napoleon's eyebrows rose. 'What representatives?'

'From the Committee of Public Safety. They've been sent down here to make sure that Carteaux does a thorough job on those royalist bastards down in Toulon.'

Napoleon's pulse quickened. The representatives of the Committee were the driving force behind France's armies. It was the representatives who had the power to promote successful officers and dismiss those who failed to perform diligently enough, or who even seemed to be tarred by bad luck. He stared at the clerk.

'Who are they?'

'Freron and Saliceti.'

'Saliceti?' Napoleon shook his head in surprise. The last time he had seen the man was back in Paris, when Saliceti had tasked him with spying on Paoli. And now he was a representative. For a moment Napoleon wondered if it might be better to avoid Saliceti, given the way things had turned out in Corsica. But then he reasoned that it was not his fault. He had done all that Saliceti had asked of him. In fact, it was Saliceti who was in Napoleon's debt, something that Napoleon might be able to exploit. Not that great men were inclined to think well of those who reminded them of such debts, Napoleon mused. Still… unless he dared to face the man he would never know if he had passed up just the kind of opportunity he so desperately needed right now. He glanced at the clerk again. 'This Freron – what's he like?'

The clerk shrugged and replied cautiously.'I couldn't really say. I've hardly met the man…'

'And?' Napoleon prompted.

'All I know is that he used to publish a Jacobin newspaper in Paris. So he's got powerful connections. The kind of man who would make you very careful of what you say in front of him, if you get my meaning, Captain.'

'I understand.' Napoleon nodded. 'Very well. Thank you, citizen.'

The clerk dipped his head in acknowledgement and then returned to his paperwork as the artillery captain left the office and strode across the small village square to the inn on the far side. Two National Guardsmen were lounging on a bench beside the entrance and they rose to their feet and reached for their muskets at Napoleon's approach. One raised his arm to prevent Napoleon entering the inn.

'Excuse me, sir. What's your business?'

'Business?' Napoleon glared back at the man. 'My business is my own, soldier. Now let me pass.'

The man shook his head. 'Sorry, Captain. This building has been requisitioned by the representatives. It's off limits to everyone but staff officers.'

'I'm here to see Citizen Saliceti,' Napoleon replied firmly. 'He is a friend of mine.'

'A friend?' the guard repeated with a faint mocking tone.

'Yes, a friend,' said Napoleon. 'If you will not let me pass, then tell him Captain Buona Parte would be pleased to have the chance to speak with him.'

For a moment the National Guardsman hesitated, then he turned to his comrade. 'You keep watch while I'm gone.'

He stepped inside and swung the door to behind him, and Napoleon heard his footsteps echo off the wooden floor as the man crossed the room beyond. There was a muttered exchange, then the door opened again and the National Guardsman waved Napoleon inside. 'Citizen Saliceti will see you.'

It was gloomy inside, though rosy fingers of light shone through the open shutters on the far wall. Two men in unbuttoned gold-laced jackets were sitting at a table, hunched over some maps spread out between them. The scraps of a generous meal rested on two large plates to one side. One man was stocky and balding and wore spectacles. He stared at Napoleon with an irritable expression as he approached the table.The other man rose to his feet and stretched out his hand in greeting.

'Buona Parte! Haven't seen you for months. Well, not since…'

'Not since Paris, citizen. When you asked me to return to Corsica.'

'Ah yes,' Saliceti smiled awkwardly. 'An unfortunate outcome, my friend.You were lucky to escape with your life.'

Napoleon shrugged. 'You might say that, but that is all that my family did escape with. We lost everything when we were forced to leave.'

The other representative, Freron, sniffed. 'The revolution has meant sacrifices for us all, young man.'

Napoleon's gaze flickered towards the remains of their meal as he replied, 'Evidently.'

Freron hissed,'It would be wise to show me the respect due to a representative of the Convention, Captain.'

Saliceti intervened with a chuckle. 'Peace, Citizen Freron. My young friend meant no offence. Besides, he is a professional soldier, and they are inclined to express themselves bluntly.'

'A soldier?' Freron looked over the slight young man standing before them and obviously did not much approve of what he saw. 'If this boy is typical of the officers who are leading our armies then our cause is as good as lost.'

Napoleon felt his blood chill in his veins as he fought to hold back his anger. He glared at Freron, but kept his lips pressed together. Freron smiled at his expression before he turned back to Saliceti. 'Officers… Pah! If our officers are so good then why are the enemies of France driving us back on every front? We should shoot a few more of 'em to make sure the rest perform their duties properly.'

Saliceti raised a hand to calm his companion down. 'Yes, yes. You've explained your ideas about motivating our men many times, citizen. And, in part, I agree with you. But Captain Buona Parte here has the makings of a fine officer, and he's a good Jacobin – one of us – so please, cast no aspersions on his loyalty to the revolution.'