'My God,' he muttered. 'My God, what have we done?'
The disorder was over the moment word of what had happened spread through the streets of Lyons. The mayor imposed a strict curfew on the working-class districts while parties of troops searched house to house looking for ringleaders They had the names, since there was always someone willing to sell out his neighbours for a small reward, and so order was restored to the city.
Only when the mayor was satisfied that the lesson had been learned did he permit the battalion to return to Valence.The men were glad to quit the place and breathed more easily once they had passed out of the city gates and left the unhappy people of Lyons far behind. Napoleon was aware of a subdued mood in his company that lasted throughout the march back to Valence, and even after they had returned to the comfortably familiar surroundings of the barracks. As soon as the men were settled, Napoleon hurried back to his quarters.
There was a letter waiting for him, the address penned with his mother's familiar uneven handwriting. He held the letter in his hands a moment before tearing it open and reading the contents.
The next day Napoleon asked the colonel for a leave of absence. He told him about the letter and explained that since the death of his father the family's finances had suffered greatly. His family needed him urgently.
'How long has it been since you were last home, Lieutenant?'
'Over seven years, sir.'
The colonel looked at the officer and realised that he had been no more than a child at the time. So many years away from his home. Away from his family. He had not seen the sisters and brothers that had been born after he had left Corsica as a child. The colonel was human enough to guess at the personal consequences of such a long absence and immediately gave his permission.
'I'll give you until March next year. Will that suffice?'
'That's very generous, sir. Thank you.'
'Be sure to make the most of it, Buona Parte. After that business in Lyons I rather fear that our services are going to be required far more often in the years to come.'
'Yes, sir.'
'When will you go?'
'As soon as possible, sir, if I may.'
'I don't see why not. There's a new probationer joining the battalion tomorrow. He can take up your position.You can leave as soon as you wish.You might as well go and pack.'
Back at his lodgings, Napoleon surveyed the meagre possessions that he had accrued in the years he had spent in France.There was his uniform, some spare clothes, most of which were threadbare; two pairs of boots, one second-hand pair of dancing shoes and his graduation sword from the Royal Military School of Paris. Over on the bookshelves were the only things he really prized: scores of technical volumes, histories, scientific studies, and philosophical tracts, none of which he could bear to be parted with. So they went into his trunk first, and filled it to capacity so that all the other possessions had to be squeezed into a small valise.
There were several barges preparing to head down the Rhone towards Marseilles and he booked passage on the first to leave. As the crew eased the vessel away from the wharf and into the current Napoleon climbed up on to the cabin roof and sat down. He stared back at Valence as it receded into the distance, and felt a peculiar hollowness inside. He would be returning to the regiment in a few months' time. But he had the strange feeling that he was leaving something behind for good. He was leaving behind the years that had turned him from a boy into a man. He was going home, and yet nothing there would be the same as the memory of it he had carried in his mind all this time.
And there was some other sentiment plaguing him. He tried to pin it down as the barge followed the course of the river towards the distant sea. At last he grasped it, the source of his profound melancholy. The truth of it, he realised, was that he felt himself to be defined by negatives. He was neither the boy he once was nor the man he desired to be, he was neither French nor Corsican, he was neither aristocrat nor worker.The world had yet to find a place for him. Until then, he would try to find some comfort in the arms of his family, at his home in Corsica.
Chapter 38
The brig entered the gulf of Ajaccio late in the afternoon and the vessel's master bellowed the order to reduce sail. The sailors unhurriedly climbed up the ratlines of the two masts and then spread out along the mainyards. When they were in place the bosun gave the word and the sailors began to haul up the mainsails, furling the heavily weathered cloth to the yard and tying each sail off securely. Napoleon was standing at the bows gazing back down the length of the brig. His keen eyes watched every aspect of the ship's operation and already he had a good grasp of the function of each sail and the names and purposes of most of the sheets that controlled the sails. The voyage from Toulon had taken only three days and with his books stowed away in the hold there had been little for Napoleon to do but stay on deck and absorb the minutiae of life at sea.
He turned round and felt his pulse quicken as he caught sight of the low stone mass of the citadel jutting out into the gulf. To the left a thin strip of yellow revealed the beach that stretched down from the jumble of pale buildings with red-tiled roofs of Ajaccio. In there, a few minutes' walk from the sea, was the home where he had grown up from an infant into the small boy. That was many years ago, he reflected with rising emotion. The brig's approach to the port was a journey he had done many times in fishing boats, but now it seemed unfamiliar so that he might have been approaching a strange land. He suddenly felt the loss of all those years he might have had in Ajaccio. Time he could have spent with his father, who would not have died almost a stranger to his son.
With only the triangular driver set, the ship ghosted across the still water of the harbour, heading towards an empty stretch of the quay. Several fishermen were sitting cross-legged on the cobbles, tending to their nets, and some of them paused in their work to watch the approach of the brig.
The porters lounging in the shade of the customs house stirred and made their way over to the quay to take the mooring ropes that the brig's crew had made ready to cast ashore. The cables snaked across the narrow gap of open water, were caught, looped round a bollard, and then the men drew the brig into the quay until it nudged up against the hessian sack stuffed with cork. Napoleon had asked that his chest and valise be brought up when they had entered the gulf, and now he sat on the chest and waited impatiently for the crew to complete the mooring and lower the gangway so he could go ashore. After a short delay the master called out the order and the men ran the narrow ramp out, over the side, and on to the quay, then securely lashed down the end on the ship. Napoleon beckoned to one of the porters.
'Get me a handcart.'
'Yes, sir.'
While he waited for the man to unload his luggage, Napoleon crossed the gangway and set foot on the quay. He felt a wave of happiness at the firm touch of his homeland once again. He strolled slowly down the quay towards the nearest of the fishermen. The face was familiar, and he made the connection in an instant. This was the man whose foot Napoleon had stamped on years before. The fisherman glanced up at the thin youngster in a French uniform. Napoleon smiled and greeted the man in the local dialect.
'Does Pedro still work the fishing boats?'
'Pedro?' The man frowned.
'Pedro Calca,' Napoleon explained. 'I'm certain that was his name.'
'No. He died four years ago. Drowned.'
'Oh…' Napoleon was saddened. He had briefly hoped to impress the old man with his smart uniform.