'I had thought of it, Father.'
Letizia nodded. 'A good career. You have the temperament for it.'
'Do I?'
'Oh, yes.'
As Giuseppe smiled at her, Carlos turned to his younger son. 'And you, Naboleone, what do you want to be when you grow up?'
'A soldier,' he said without an instant's hesitation.
Carlos smiled. 'That's an admirable aim, my son. I think you might make an excellent soldier, although you must realise that you will have to obey orders.'
'But, Father, I want to give orders, not obey them.'
'Well then, you must be prepared to do both if you are to be a good soldier.'
'Oh…'
Letizia began to serve up the evening meal: a rich stew of goat and stewed hazelnuts – a favourite recipe of the family. When every bowl was filled she took her place and the children fell silent, closed their eyes and pressed their hands together as Carlos said grace. As the children started eating she looked down the table at her husband.
'Has there been any word on the boys' scholarships?'
'No. I've heard nothing from the academy at Montpellier. It looks as if they'll be going to Autun after all.'
Letizia frowned. 'Autun?'
'Autun will do to start with,' Carlos said.'They have good links with some of the military schools. If Naboleone wants to join the army it would be a good start for him until I can find a better opening. I sent an application to Brienne this morning.'
'That's all very well,' Letizia said quietly, 'but even if the boys do get the scholarships, how can we afford to pay the balance of the fees?'
'We might not have to,' Carlos continued. 'The governor has promised to pay our share of the fees.'
Letizia froze for a moment, then shook her head. 'To think we have sunk so low as to accept common charity.'
'It's not charity, my dear,' Carlos said, forcing himself to keep his tone even. 'He places great value on our service to France.'
'Oh, I'm sure he does.'
'Besides, he can easily afford it and we can't. It would not be very gracious to refuse his offer.'
'Huh!'
Letizia continued eating for a while before she addressed her husband again. 'Do you really think it's for the best?'
'Yes. Their future is in France. That's their best hope for advancement. So, that's where they must be educated.'
'But they'll leave home. When will we see them again?'
'I don't know,' Carlos replied. 'When we can afford it, we can have the boys home for holidays, or travel to see them.'
'And how will they cope without me?'
'Ask them,' he said firmly. 'See what they think. Naboleone!'
'Father?'
'Do you want to go to school in France?'
The boy glanced quickly at his mother. 'If I must…'
Carlos looked at him, and smiled. 'Bravo! See, Letizia, he understands.'
'But I don't.' She shook her head sadly. 'I don't understand what I have done that my children should want to leave me before they have even grown up. Leave home and forget me.'
'Mother,' Naboleone spoke earnestly, 'I shall never forget you. I will come back as often as I can. I swear it. Giuseppe too.' He turned to his older brother. 'Swear it!'
'I promise, Mother.'
She shrugged her thin shoulders. 'We'll see.'
Chapter 9
The letter arrived in November. Giuseppe and Naboleone had been awarded places at the school in Autun in the new year, with generous scholarships from the French Government. The days passed in a state of nervous anticipation for Naboleone. He was eight years old, and despite his independent spirit and taste for adventure, he became more and more anxious about leaving his home.There would be no familiar shell to return to at the end of the day with the comfort of his family around him. Despite having a good command of French, his accent, he knew, would mark him as an outsider.
They set off early one morning in the middle of December. The entire family rose to bid the two boys farewell. Even Uncle Luciano, bedridden with gout, painfully made his way outside into the street and pressed a few coins into their hands for spending money. A cart and driver had been hired to drive Letizia and her two sons to the port of Bastia, where she would see them safely aboard a ship for Marseilles. With shouted farewells and much waving, the family watched the cart rumble up the street, turn the corner and disappear from view.
Carlos stayed a moment longer, feeling sick at the knowledge that he would not see his sons again for many months, and now at last doubting the decision to send them to France. It had always seemed the sensible thing to do through all the years that he had petitioned for his title of nobility and then for the scholarships, thinking only of their future. Now the time had come – the fruition of his plans – and it felt as if his heart were being torn from his body.
The cart left Ajaccio and began to climb up through the surrounding countryside as the sun rose. Giuseppe and Naboleone leaned on the back of the rear seat and stared back at Ajaccio, a jumble of houses nestling next to the azure sea, until at last the cart crested a ridge and their home was lost from view. The driver joined the military road that the French had carved across the heart of the island in the early days of their occupation of Corsica. The route wound through the hills, passing through small villages, some still in ruins after being burned down by French soldiers in reprisal raids. Small, fortified outposts remained at key points along the road, evidence that some Paolists at least were keeping the cause of Coriscan independence alive.
When the road crossed the bridge at Ponte Nuovo, faded memories returned to Letizia of the brave Corsicans charging the ordered white lines of the French soldiers – just there, overlooking the meadow that ran down to the tumbling stream and trestle bridge. Now goats grazed on winter pasture as their shepherd warmed his hands over a small fire. This was where she had stood, with the other women and their children as the first terrible volley tore the ranks of their husbands, their sons, their lovers to bloody shreds.Volley after volley had echoed off the sides of the surrounding hills, drowning out the cries and screams of the wounded. Then finally the shooting ended, and out of the shrouds of gunpowder smoke came wails of fear and panic. Dim shapes of men flitted into view, running back up the slope, fleeing for their lives. Their cries were taken up by the women and children around Letizia, and with a dreadful fear tearing at her insides she waited for Carlos. Thanks be to God, he was with the men that escaped from the carnage of Ponte Nuovo. But not the same Carlos.Wild-eyed and shaking and spattered with the blood of his comrades. This was where the Corsican nation had died. Letizia shivered.
Giuseppe felt her flinch on the seat next to him and took her hand. 'Mother?'
'It's nothing. I'm just cold. Here, hold me for a moment.'
Bastia had greatly changed since she had last visited the port. Even then it had felt more Italian than Corsican, but now the stamp of French rule was apparent everywhere, from the off-duty soldiers milling in the streets, to the French warships in the harbour and the French names above many of the businesses in the centre of town.
Letizia made for the address of the shipping agent Carlos had told her about, and booked two berths for her sons on a cargo vessel leaving for Marseilles the next day. Then she took a room in an inn close to the harbour and had the driver of the cart unload their trunks before dismissing him for the night.
Even though it was winter the harbour was busy and it took a while to find the right ship. All the cargo was already aboard and the last few passengers were loading as Letizia and her sons carefully trod across the gangway and stepped down on to the deck. Behind them the porters struggled aboard with the trunks and were directed by a sailor to the cramped passenger quarters below. The captain checked off the names of the two boys on his manifest and turned to Letizia.
'We're casting off shortly, madam. I'd be obliged if you said your goodbyes quickly.'
She nodded and crouched down, opening her arms. The two boys stepped into her embrace and she could feel the shudder of sobs through the folds of their cloaks.
'There, there,' she managed in a strained voice. Inside Letizia felt more wretched than she had ever felt in her life, and even now wanted nothing more than to turn round, take them with her, and return home.
'Mother,' Naboleone mumbled into her ear, 'Mother, please, I don't want to go, I don't want to leave you.' He tightened his grip round her shoulder. 'Please.'
She did not trust herself to reply, and felt her throat tighten unbearably as she blinked away the first tears. A short distance away the captain looked at her for a moment, before turning and looking out to sea, granting her a last moment of privacy before parting. Letizia swallowed and forced herself to assume a calm expression. She loosened her grip on her sons and eased herself back until they were face to face.
'Hush now, Naboleone.You must be brave. Both of you. This is for the best, you'll see. Make sure that you write as often as you can. Now wipe your eyes.' She handed him a handkerchief and he scrunched it into his face.
'There… Now it's time.'
She stood up and both boys gripped her round the waist. The captain crossed the deck towards her and indicated the gangway.
'I'm sorry, madam, but…'
She nodded and gently eased herself away from Giuseppe and Naboleone.They held her for a moment, and then the captain put his hands on their shoulders.
'Come, lads, your mother needs to go now. She needs you to be brave for her. Don't let her down.'
Their arms reluctantly dropped to their sides as they stood, fighting back the tears. Letizia reached down to kiss Giuseppe on the head, then turned to Naboleone, and whispered softly in his ear, 'Coraggio.'
Chapter 10
Ireland, 1776
The abbey stood on rising ground with views over the Boyne, and beyond the river stood the huge ruins of Trim Castle. The walls and towers stood within a moat, and still looked formidable to Arthur as he stared out of the carriage window.Then the castle was lost from view as the carriage passed through the abbey gate and into the courtyard.
His first impression of the austere setting was that it looked like a prison, and his heart ached with longing for his home and his family. The feeling swelled inside him as O'Shea unloaded his meagre trunk of clothing, books and other belongings and turned the carriage back towards the gate. Then O'Shea was gone and the sound of the wheels on gravel quickly faded away. Arthur stood alone before the main entrance. All was still, but not quite silent. From somewhere within the abbey a chorus of voices conjugated a Latin verb.
'New boy!' a voice called out.
Arthur turned and saw a lad not much older than himself crossing the courtyard from a side building. He had a thick crop of dark hair and a robust build. Arthur swallowed nervously. 'Me, sir?'
The boy stopped and looked round the courtyard with elaborate concentration. 'It appears there is no other to whom I might address my remarks.You idiot.'
Arthur opened his mouth to protest, lost his nerve and blushed instead. The other boy laughed.
'Never mind.You must be Wesley.'
'Y-yes, sir.'
'I'm not "sir". My name's Crosbie. Richard Crosbie. I've been told to look out for you. Here, let me help you with the trunk.'
They took hold of the straps at either end of the trunk and lifted it with some effort.
'This way,' Richard grunted. They heaved the chest across the courtyard, through a stone arch into a cloister beyond. A small flight of stairs led up from the far end into a low-ceilinged dormitory.
'This is your bed.' The older boy set the trunk down in front of a plain bed that seemed surprisingly wide to Arthur. 'You're sharing it with Piers Westlake. The near side is yours.Your trunk goes underneath.'
Arthur gazed at the bed. 'Shared beds?'
'Of course. This ain't a palace. It's a school.'
'Are all schools like this?' Arthur asked quietly.
'How should I know?' Richard shrugged. 'I've never been anywhere else. The housemaster wants to see you now. I'll show you the way. Come.'
He led Arthur to a short, dim corridor that ended in a thick studded oak door.
'There,' Richard said quietly. 'Just knock. He's expecting you.'
'What's he like?' Arthur whispered.
'Old Harcourt?' Richard stifled a grin. 'He eats new boys for breakfast. I'll see you later, if you live.'
Richard turned and hurried away, leaving the young boy standing in front of the big door. He felt his hand trembling as he raised it towards the dark wood.Then he paused, afraid and alone. For a moment he felt the urge to turn and run. Then his resolve stiffened a little and he leaned forward and rapped twice on the door.
'Enter!'
Arthur took a deep breath to steady his nerves, lifted the latch and pushed the door open a small way, squeezing round its thick edge. Beyond was a large room lit by light from a window high up on one wall.The fireplace was bare and the floor had no coverings on its worn flagstones. The room was dominated by a huge desk, and behind it, sitting on a high-backed chair, was a large figure in a cassock. His face was broad and ruddy, and dark eyes peered out at the newcomer from beneath bristling eyebrows.
'You're Wesley?'
Arthur nodded.
'Speak up, young man!'
'Yes, sir. I'm Arthur Wesley.'
'That's better.' Father Harcourt nodded. He looked the boy up and down and did not show any sign of approval, before he turned his attention to a letter lying open on his desk. 'It seems that your parents are concerned about your lack of academic progress. Well, we shall soon set that right. Do you do anything well, young Wesley?'
'Please, sir. I can read music. I'm learning the violin.'
'Really? Well, that's nice. But no use to you here. This is a school, boy, not a concert hall. Kindly bend your efforts to learning what we will attempt to teach you in the coming years.'
'Years?' Arthur replied bleakly.
Father Harcourt smiled coldly. 'Of course. How long do you imagine it takes to bring boys like you to an acceptable level of competence in all the basic subjects?'
Arthur had no idea, and could not even begin to guess, so he shrugged instead.
'The answer depends on how diligently you apply yourself to your studies, young Wesley. Work hard, be obedient and you will do well. Failure to do so will result in a thrashing. Understand?'
Arthur shuddered and nodded. 'Yes, sir.'
'Those are the most important rules here. The others you will pick up soon enough. Now you must go and wait in the main hall. It will be lunch soon. You'll be joining the class of Mr O'Hare. I'll be along directly to point you out to him. Now off you go.'
Arthur nodded and turned for the door.
'Young man!'
Arthur turned back with a start and saw Father Harcourt wagging a finger at him. 'When a member of staff gives you an instruction, you will reply "Yes, sir" in future. Or face the consequences.'
'Yes, sir.'
'That's better. Now go.'
'Yes, sir.'
The first days at the abbey were the hardest in Arthur's life. At first none of the other boys would speak to him except Richard Crosbie, but even then the older boy seemed to delight in giving him inaccurate information about the school and its rules, and very quickly Arthur grew to trust no one, and withdrew into quiet solitude as a means of staying out of trouble and not attracting the attention of those boys with a penchant for bullying. But, as the new boy, he was the prime object of their attention and fell victim to all manner of tricks and spiteful behaviour.