Young bloods

The director emerged from the administration building and strode across to the cadets. He nodded a greeting to Father Bertillon and, without any preamble, began his inspection of the first class, proceeding slowly down the ranks, picking fault wherever he could. A demerit for a missing coat button. And another for a grass stain on a cadet's breeches. He passed on to Napoleon's class and worked his way up from the rear. Napoleon heard him award a demerit for a tear in the collar on one boy's coat, then nothing more apart from the scrape of the old man's boots across the cobbles.

'Cadet de Fontaine.'

'Yes, Director!'

'Immaculately turned out, as usual. One merit awarded.'

'Thank you, Director.'

Napoleon could not help a bitter little smile. Alexander's uniform had, as ever, been cleaned by one of the kitchen boys and quietly delivered to his cell last thing at night as the young aristocrat slept. The service cost good money, and wasn't strictly permitted by the college. But then Alexander came from a class that was above the rules that applied to many of the other cadets.

The director was passing down the first line and Napoleon stood as still as he could, fixing his eyes on one of the chimney stacks on the far side of the quadrangle so as not to let his gaze waver a fraction under the director's inspection.

'Ah, and here we have my favourite little adversary,' the director chuckled. 'Monsieur Buona Parte, how are we today?'

'I am well, Director.'

'Are you? Are you indeed?'The director came to stand directly in front of the smallest boy in his class, and leaned forward a little, staring through his thick lenses at Napoleon. 'You may be well, sir, but alas, your clothes are in an appalling condition. It looks like you have been sleeping in them. Well, have you?'

'Have I what, sir?'

'Don't get cheeky with me, boy. Have you slept in these clothes?'

'No, sir.'

'So they became abominably creased all by themselves, did they? Fairly cringing from contact with your rough Corsican skin.'

Napoleon bit back on his anger. 'Evidently, sir.'

'I see.' The director straightened up and called over his shoulder to the duty teacher,'Cadet Buona Parte, one demerit for untidiness… and another for dishonesty.'

He turned away and moved on to inspect the next class. Napoleon could sense the hostility of his classmates and for an instant cursed himself for adopting that insubordinate tone with the director.Two demerits would mean that his class would be in the bottom position of the merit table. It was close to the end of the month, and if the position remained the same then the class would be confined to the college while the other cadets were permitted to spend a day in the town – a crude but effective reward system and one that was unforgiving of those who failed to perform according to the college's standards.

The inspection came to an end as the director mounted the steps to a small wooden podium and offered morning prayers. As ever, Napoleon's mind blanked out the sense of the words echoing across the quadrangle. He had little time for religion, considering it to be one of the greatest inefficiencies afflicting mankind. Imagine, he mused, how many more shoes a cobbler could make, how many more pages an historian could write, how many more miles an army could march, if they were only spared the hours demanded of them by the Church. Life was brief enough as it was, and a man should make the best use of the time he was given.

The prayers ended, and as soon as the director has disappeared back into the administration building, Father Bertillon dismissed the cadets to breakfast. They streamed back into the hall below their cells and silently went to their places at the two rows of long wooden tables. Once all were present, Father Bertillon said a brief grace and gave the word that they could sit. A deafening shuffle of boots and scraping of benches filled the hall. The cadets began to speak – quietly at first, then growing in volume until it echoed off the walls.

The door to the kitchen swung open and several sweating boys entered the hall carrying steaming pots of porridge. They heaved the pots up in front of the senior cadet at the head of each table. At Napoleon's table, that was Alexander de Fontaine, and Napoleon sat several places down from him. On the table in front of each cadet was a wooden bowl, spoon and cup. A jug of watered beer stood in the centre of the table, and as the porridge arrived this was passed round to fill the cups. As yet, no one had spoken to Napoleon but the atmosphere amongst his comrades was hostile and there was little of the usual carefree chatter. That did not bode well, and Napoleon wondered what kind of retribution they would impose on him for placing their class at the bottom of the merit table.

'Pass your bowls!' Alexander called out, standing over the pot, and stirring its contents with the ladle, releasing a fresh swirl of steam. The cadets shoved their bowls up towards him and each was filled in turn before being passed back, starting with those closest to the head of the table. Napoleon, still considered to be the new boy, was last in line and as Alexander reached for his bowl he looked down the table and his lips parted in a malicious grin. He raised the ladle so that all could see what was happening, and then poured a far smaller portion into Napoleon's bowl than had been given to the other cadets.Then he leaned over the bowl and spat into it.

'A little something in return for the demerits you so kindly provided for us.'

Napoleon clenched his hands into fists on his lap, and lips compressed into a tight line. He felt his heart seethe with hurt and hatred.Then, as the bowl was passed down the table towards him, each cadet spat in turn into the bowl. The last cadet glanced at Napoleon, curled his lip and spat before shoving the bowl sideways. Napoleon glared up the table at Alexander, then, not trusting himself to control his feelings, he glanced down at the bowl.The porridge lay in a small congealed lump at the centre of the bowl. Glistening over it was a slick of white bubbly sputum. He felt sick, and close to throwing up.

Alexander laughed. 'Eat up, Buona Parte! Or you'll never be more than a common Corsican runt.'

Napoleon's hands flew up from beneath the table and seized the bowl. At the same time he felt a blow to his shin; a sharp and violent kick. He gasped in pain and his eyes flashed across the table to where Louis de Bourrie

'Don't do it, Napoleon!' he hissed. 'You'll get us another demerit. At least.'

Napoleon glared back, hands still gripping his bowl, his face chalk white with seething rage. Around the table the other cadets paused over their breakfasts, watching in eager anticipation for the storm to break.

Napoleon closed his eyes tightly, and breathed in deeply through his nostrils as he fought to control a wave of emotion that felt far too big for his body. Slowly, it seemed, he fought for, and won, control over his rage and pain and began to think logically again. Louis was right. Now was not the time to react. To fight now, against overwhelming odds, was foolish. To do it in front of Father Bertillon would be rank stupidity.This was a battle best avoided, however much his heart compelled him to action. As his mind cleared Napoleon focused on the pain in his shin. Louis was right. Napoleon opened his eyes, looked across at his friend and nodded. His fingers relaxed, he let go of the bowl and returned his hands to his lap.

'What? Not hungry?' Alexander called out. 'I might have known you'd have no stomach for it.'

A ripple of laughter flowed amongst the other cadets and for an instant Napoleon felt the rage returning as he reacted to the accusation of cowardice. But then he knew what he must do. He would show these contemptible French aristocrats that he was better than them. That he had the courage to confront and overcome their attempt to intimidate him. Steeling himself, he drew a deep breath, picked up his spoon and scooped up a lump of porridge and spit. He glanced towards Alexander and smiled. Again, the other cadets tensed up, waiting for Napoleon to explode. Instead, he opened his mouth, raised the spoon and closed his lips over it. His tongue recoiled in disgust, but Napoleon forced himself to eat the porridge, slowly and steadily, and then return the spoon for some more.