Young bloods - Scarrow Simon (библиотека электронных книг txt) 📗

The warning was clear enough, and ominous, and when Napoleon attended the fete to celebrate the anniversary of the fall of the Bastille it was clear to him that the public mood had now swung wholly against the King. For several days the streets were filled with delegations from across the country who had travelled to Paris to join the celebrations. Amongst the crowds were thousands of National Guard volunteers, most of whom were destined to join the armies at the front. However, as the month drew to an end and the last of the official events was concluded, several thousand of the volunteers remained, billeted close to the heart of the city. Napoleon had no doubt that their presence was part of some wider plot as the King and Assembly edged ever closer to open confrontation.

In the first days of August the newspaper-sellers' voices filled the streets with cries about an extraordinary document issued by the commander of the Prussian armies, the Duke of Brunswick. The Prussians were invading France to end the anarchy and restore authority to the King. Any civilian who opposed the army would be executed on the spot and if the people of Paris made any more attacks on the Tuileries, or threatened the King or Queen, then the Duke of Brunswick would order the annihilation of the city.

'Anyone would think that the King is on the side of the enemy,' Napoleon protested to Monsieur Perronet the day after news of Brunswick's document had arrived in Paris. They were sitting in the engineer's salon, reading a selection of the morning's papers.

'Perhaps he is. Who could blame him? The enemy offer him the only chance of regaining control of France.'

'That's absurd.' Napoleon shook his head. 'If his authority was based on foreign soldiers, he would simply be commanding an army of occupation. The people would never stand for it. Never.'

'Unless King Louis took your advice from the other day, and crushed the rabble.' Perronet sighed. 'It seems that the King must become a tyrant, if he is not to be destroyed.'

Napoleon thought about that for a moment, then nodded. 'You're right. It has come to that. Before the war with Prussia and Austria can be won, there must be a war between the King and the people.'

Chapter 64

10th August

Napoleon was woken from his sleep by a distant volley of musket fire. By the time he reached the street and began running towards the sound, the firing was continuous. He passed a clock-maker's window and saw that the time was just after eight.The gunfire had started to draw other people outside too, and they hurried toward the sound.Then, a small group of men emerged from the Rue des Petits-Champs, running against the flow. In their midst a man held a pike aloft. A head had been jammed on to the top of the pike and blood trickled down the wooden shaft. Napoleon slowed to a halt and stared at the sight in horror as the men came down the street, crying out. 'Long live France! Long live the nation!'

Then one of the group saw Napoleon's uniform and thrust out his arm. 'Citizens! Look there! A soldier!'

The mob swerved from its course and approached and surrounded Napoleon. The man who had spotted him stepped forward. In one hand he carried a bloodied hatchet and he raised it towards Napoleon.

'You! You're an army officer. A regular.'

Napoleon nodded, forcing himself not to look at the head swaying from side to side above the group of men. 'Lieutenant Buona Parte.' He tried to sound like he had some authority. 'What's the meaning of this? What's going on here?'

'Quiet!' The man thrust the axe towards his face, spattering blood on Napoleon's jacket. 'You're a royalist! I can see it in your eyes!'

The man seemed to have surrendered his senses to the madness of the mob and Napoleon knew that he was moments away from death unless he could steer the confrontation.To try to use reason would be suicidal. Only madness could confront madness. He slapped the head of the axe aside, and thrust his finger into the man's breast. 'How dare you call me a royalist! I'm a Jacobin! A Jacobin, d'you hear!'

The man's mad gaze flickered and he faltered for a moment, before he tried to regain the upper hand. 'All right, citizen. Then tell me, who are you for? King, or country?'

'Long live the nation!' Napoleon thrust his fist into the air. 'Long live the nation!'

The others took up the cry, and their leader stared at Napoleon a moment before nodding in satisfaction. He raised his axe and pointed back up the street. 'Come on, boys. That way!'

Napoleon stood still as the group of men rushed past him, against the flow of the crowd streaming towards the Tuileries Palace. They were soon lost in the mob; only their gory trophy marked their progress as they spread word of the battle taking place in the heart of the city.

Napoleon continued forward, his heart pounding. When he reached the Place du Carousel he saw that the iron railings had been torn down and beyond, in the royal courtyard, a bank of gunpowder smoke wafted in the air. Within the smoke bright orange stabs of flame flickered, briefly illuminating the pikes and bayonets of the mob surging towards the entrance to the palace. Napoleon hurried across the square and saw the first bodies stretched out on the cobbles: a handful of National Guardsmen, a civilian and the mutilated corpse of one of the Swiss Guards. On the corner of the square was a furniture shop with a sign in the window saying that it was closed for business. But the mob had already smashed the door in and looted the contents. Shards of broken glass crunched under his boots as Napoleon stepped inside. He crossed the floor and climbed the stairs at the back of the shop.When he reached the second floor he found a storeroom and went to the window. As he had hoped, the window gave him a clear view towards the palace.

The Swiss Guards had formed a line four deep across the entrance to the palace, and even as Napoleon watched they fired a volley into the dense mass of people in the courtyard. As the crash of musket fire carried across the square there was a deep groan from the mob, which instantly transformed into a cry of rage, and they swept forward once again. Another ripple of fire darted out from the red-coated ranks of the Swiss Guards and then they were fighting hand to hand with the mob. Against such odds there could only be one outcome and the Swiss were forced back up the steps and into the palace. Instinctively Napoleon glanced up at the balcony of the royal apartments where the King had appeared a few weeks earlier. If the royal family were still in there, they would surely be slaughtered without mercy this time.

Napoleon hurried back down into the square. He paused a moment, fearful that his uniform might attract unwanted attention again. Then he saw a revolutionary cockade in the hat of one of the National Guardsmen who had fallen in the square. Removing his bicorn, he went over, wrenched the cockade free, jammed it into the crown of his hat and ran across towards the entrance to the palace. By the time he reached the tangled ruin of the main gate most of the mob had entered the building and were rampaging through the royal apartments. The muffled thud of musket fire told of the desperate resistance that was still being mounted inside the Tuileries.

The courtyard looked like a battlefield. Scores of bodies lay sprawled on the ground. Many wore the uniforms of the National Guard but most belonged to the household guard, slaughtered like cattle as they had made the retreat to the palace entrance.The flagstones in front of the palace were splashed with blood.With a look of distaste Napoleon picked his way over the carnage towards the steps.

Before he reached them, there was a screech of triumph and three women emerged from behind one of the pediments at the bottom of the staircase, dragging a small figure in the red coat and white breeches of the Swiss Guard. He could not have been more than twelve years old and must have been one of the drummer boys, Napoleon realised. The women dragged him out on to the steps, then one of them rummaged in her haversack and drew out a large cleaver. As soon as the boy saw it he screamed in terror. He caught sight of Napoleon and stretched out his hands, fingers splayed and begging for help. Then the women dragged him down and one pinned his head on a step. The cleaver flashed down and thudded into his neck with a wet crunch, cutting off his screams. The bloodied cleaver rose and fell, rose and fell again and then one of the women stood up, brandishing the boy's head, as blood coursed down the steps and dripped on to the cobblestones. Snatching up a crudely sharpened stake from one of the dead bodies littering the ground in front of the steps, the woman thrust the little head down onto the point and then, grasping the base of the stake, she lifted it over her head with a gleeful cry. Then the three of them set off towards the Place du Carousel. Napoleon stared at them in numbed horror as they passed by him, and refused to acknowledge their greeting.