Young bloods - Scarrow Simon - Страница 38

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The two new officers made their way up the steps, into the headquarters and asked for directions to the adjutant's office.

Napoleon knocked on the door and immediately a gruff voice shouted out to them, 'Don't just stand there! Open the damned door and come in.'

Inside, the room was small, barely big enough for the two cupboards, desk and chair that it contained. Behind the desk a man glanced up with a stern expression.

'Gabriel!' Alexander shouted. 'You rogue! What kind of a way is that to welcome your younger brother?'

'Lieutenant Des Mazis! That is no way to address a superior officer. Stand at attention, damn it! And your little friend too.'

They immediately responded and stood stiffly, eyes fixed straight ahead, until Captain Des Mazis could no longer keep a straight face and began to laugh. 'Enough! At ease, gentlemen.'

As they relaxed Napoleon and Alexander exchanged uncertain looks, not yet sure how to address Alexander's older brother. But Gabriel was already squeezing his large frame round the end of the desk and then he embraced his brother and kissed him on both cheeks.

'When did you get here? You're not expected for another two days.'

'We were keen to take up our duties as soon as possible. So here we are,' Alexander beamed. 'Now introduce us to our men and our guns and we'll take on anyone the King tells us to.'

'Not so fast, Alex.' His brother punched him lightly on the chest. 'This is the artillery; we're proper soldiers, not like that riffraff in the cavalry.You have to earn command here.'

'Earn command?' Napoleon raised an eyebrow. 'What do you mean, sir?'

The captain turned to him with a warm smile of greeting. 'You must be Buona Parte, the touchy Corsican.'

'Yes, sir.' Napoleon tried to hide a frown.

'Don't worry. That's not from official channels. It's what my brother wrote in his letters.'

'I see.' Napoleon glared at his friend and Alexander shifted uncomfortably as his brother continued addressing them.

'Everyone gets a fresh start here. Well, nearly everyone.Young Alex here is going to be under close scrutiny since I recall only too well what a mischievous wretch he was as a child. Imagine what he might do if we entrust a cannon to him, eh?'

'Sir,' Napoleon said evenly, 'you were saying something about earning command.'

'All new officers must serve a probationary period. I expect you already know that, but the Regiment de la Fere goes a bit further. For the first three months you will serve as ordinary gunners, until you learn the ropes. Then, if you satisfy our commanding officer, he might let you take up your duties as lieutenants.'

'Oh, come on,' Alexander laughed. 'You're not serious?'

'But I am.' The captain's expression hardened a little. 'It's a serious business, the artillery. Also a very complicated one, and we're not going to let a couple of new boys loose on our very expensive equipment until they know how to treat it, and the men who operate it, with respect.'

'I see,' Alexander replied. 'Does that mean we have to share rooms with the rankers as well?'

'What? Of course not.' The captain looked scandalised. 'That would be taking things too far. Don't want to give them any egalitarian ideas, do we?' He looked from one to the other.

'No, sir,' Napoleon agreed quietly. 'They shouldn't get ideas above their station.'

Alexander laughed. 'Ignore him. It seems that Corsicans have an insatiable appetite for equality. You'll get used to it after a while.'

The captain stared at Napoleon briefly. 'I'm not sure that I care to. Never mind. I've been ordered to settle you two in. Where are your bags?'

'We left them in the guardhouse.'

'Let's go and get them, then I'll take you to find lodgings in town.'

As with all other regiments, the officers of the Royal Artillery were expected to look to their own resources for accommodation and sustenance. Napoleon rented a small room for ten francs a month in the house of Monsieur Bou, a kindly old man who lived with his daughter and who was fond of the young officers he accommodated. Napoleon took meals at the Three Pigeons inn for another thirty-five francs a month. Together with the repayments on the money he had borrowed to buy his uniform and books there was little left from the ninety francs pay he received each month.

His duties as an ordinary gunner began the morning after his arrival. Each day, he rose before dawn, dressed in the plain blue coat tunic and breeches of the artillery and hurried over to the barracks to join the other men being roused by their corporals, who let fly with the foulest language Napoleon had heard since he had played with the soldiers of the garrison at Ajaccio as a child.

The sergeant responsible for his training was a short, overweight man with a huge moustache. When the company had assembled on the parade ground he strode down the line and stood in front of Napoleon, hands on hips, and sneered.

'What have we got here? Not another new gentleman?'

'Yes, Sergeant.'

'Name?'

'Lieutenant Buona Parte, Sergeant.'

'Fuck that. You're Private Buona Parte until the colonel says otherwise. Got that? Meanwhile, you call me sir, and I call you sir. The difference is, you mean it.'

'Yes, Serg-sir.'

The sergeant cupped a hand to his ear. 'Speak up, sir! Can't hear a word.'

'I said, yes, sir!' Napoleon shouted, reflecting that the stories he had heard about deaf artillerymen were true after all.

'That's better. Now then, sir. I've got a man off sick on "Magdalene" – you're taking his place. That means you are the number two on that gun, the spongeman. Understand? Good. You've come at a good time. Today's gun drill.'

He turned and walked off, to inspect the other men in the company, and left Napoleon none the wiser about his duties.

The company marched over to the artillery park, attached ropes to four of the eight-pounders and began to haul them across to the drill field. Napoleon, at only sixteen years of age, and slightly built, was soon sweating freely from the exertion of hauling on the rope that had been fastened to the right arm of the gun carriage. But the day's trials were only just beginning. As soon as 'Magdalene' was in position, the sergeant thrust a long pole into his hands. At one end was the sponge, a tightly packed wad of sheep's wool. At the other end was a stout plug of wood.

'That's yours. Look after it, sir. You stand there.' He indicated the ground to the right-hand side of the barrel and roughly shoved Napoleon into position. 'You're number two. When I call your number you dip your sponge in that bucket there and thrust it down the barrel, as far as it will go. Twist it both ways and pull the sponge out. Then shout "Clear". Number three, he's the loader, will place a cartridge in the end of the barrel. When he's done, he shouts "Loaded". Then it's over to you again. Stick the wooden end of your rod into the barrel and ram the charge down as far it goes.Then you pull it out, get back to your position and shout "Ready to fire".' He looked closely at Napoleon. 'Got all that, sir?'

'I think so, sir.'

'All right, then. Let's see.'

The sergeant strode back and took up a position well behind the trail of the cannon. 'Standard battle drill. The gun is about to fire… BANG! Recoil… Number two!'

Napoleon stepped up to the barrel and thrust the ramrod in, sponge first.

'Stop!' The sergeant hurried over. 'You haven't dipped it, sir.' He pointed to an empty bucket hanging from the chassis. 'In there.'

'But there's no water in there, sir,' Napoleon pointed out.

'And there's no fucking charge in the gun, neither, sir. Just pretend, for the drill, like.'

'I see.' Napoleon withdrew the rammer and dipped the sponge into the bucket. He looked up at the sergeant and saw that the man was frowning at him. 'Splash, splash?' he ventured.

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