Young bloods

At first Napoleon had felt little sympathy for these people who were so prepared to return to the terrible despotism of the old regime. His feelings had turned to anger with the news that his family had been driven from Toulon when the people there decided to challenge the authority of the Convention in Paris. Having fled from Corsica they were refugees once again. His mother had written to say they had found shelter in a village near Marseilles, but Napoleon was still plagued by anxiety for them. His anger towards the rebels had been swiftly quenched after Napoleon witnessed the the brutal revenge that Paris had taken on the people of Lyons, Avignon and Marseilles, and he found himself questioning the harsh policy of his fellow Jacobins towards the people drawn into the uprisings. They were mostly from the same strait-laced stock as the peasants Napoleon had known in Corsica. It had been easy for priests and royalist sympathisers to stir them up against the Convention. It made no sense to punish them so harshly: such repression only thrust home the wedge that was dividing France. What these people needed was an idea, a dream, a destiny.Yes, he reflected, a common sense of destiny. One that would unite all of France and make her the greatest power in Europe.

Napoleon smiled at the thought. A few months earlier he had been an ardent Corsican nationalist. But Paoli and his followers had stolen that dream from him. Only his family mattered now. That, and a need to satisfy his own burning ambition. If he could not be a great man of Corsica, then – like it or not – he would carve out a fortune for himself here in France, as a Frenchman. A new nation was being forged and that meant opportunities were there for those bold enough to seize them. There were dangers too, Napoleon reminded himself. Only the other day General Brunet had been arrested for being too slow in sending reinforcements to the army encircling Toulon. Brunet was already marked for death and his fellow officers had disowned the man with distasteful celerity. That was the fate of those who failed to serve the new regime with the required fervour, Napoleon realised. If his chance came he must immediately prove himself worthy of promotion and advancement.

The wagon pitched to one side and Napoleon scrabbled for a handhold to avoid being thrown from his bench. He muttered a curse and the driver sitting beside him gri

'How long have you been working on this route?' Napoleon asked.

'Twelve years, Captain.'

'Is the road as bad as this all the way to Nice?'

'Bad?' The driver raised an eyebrow and gave a dry chuckle. 'This is the good stretch, sir. After Marseilles it gets worse. A lot worse. In places we'll need every man we have to help haul the wagons up some of the hills.'

The driver tore off another mouthful of bread and chewed quickly as he spied another stretch of potholes a short distance ahead. Napoleon's thoughts gloomily returned to his prospects for promotion. As long as he was tasked with organising artillery supply convoys there was no chance of wi

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 i

'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 co

'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 i