*By the
Way*
A cold rain sleeted downwards, striking through garments and causing men to mutter curses and attempt to keep moving, slapping arms against their sides and stamping feet in order to hold on to a little heat. The troops encamped around Toulon were all settled into the siege by now and there was no excitement or anticipation in their ranks, just grim performance of tasks for those that had them and dreary idleness for those who had not. The ground had been hopelessly churned by men and horses, guns and heavy wagons; trees and bushes had been hacked for firewood; neither the men nor the variety of makeshift shelters they lived in were anywhere near clean.
An officer on horseback picked his way carefully across the muddy ground. His uniform was shabby, although the insignia of a brigadier of artillery could still be made out, and he sat his horse with no particular grace. He received only a scattering of lacklustre acknowledgements from the troops, the French Republican Army was not prone to pay any great respect to rank.
Nearing his own billet a group of gunners called out, demanding a senior officer’s attention. The brigadier dismounted, showing neither reluctance nor eagerness as he made his way over and demanded to know what the issue was.
“Prisoner, sir,” a sergeant reported. “Caught him trying to slip through the lines.” He jerked a thumb, and the brigadier looked over at the figure squatting on the ground under the hostile eyes of his captors. A very young man, thin and pinched looking. His hands had been tied behind his back and the rain had soaked through his threadbare blue jacket, leaving him shivering. The brigadier eyed him without feeling.
“Well? Send him to join the others.”
“Could be a spy, sir,” the sergeant suggested. “He was trying to get into the port, not out of it. And those aren’t army clothes he’s wearing.”
“It is a uniform,” the brigadier said. “And he looks young for a spy.”
“You never can tell with the roastbeefs, sir.”
“True.” The brigadier looked back at the prisoner, where he crouched with his eyes on the ground. “Do you speak French?” he asked with careful slowness.
“A little,” the prisoner looked up, sullenly.
“My men think you are a spy. What have you to say to that?”
“It is not true,” said the prisoner dully. “I am of the Navy. I escaped from the prison where I was. I hoped to reach the British in Toulon.”
“He would say that,” the sergeant interjected. The brigadier ignored him.
“Can you prove what you say?”
“No. How can I?”
“I do not think I believe you.” The brigadier drew a pistol from his belt and cocked it. “We have a short way with spies here. If you do not give me some good information, and quickly, then I will kill you.” He placed the muzzle of the gun against the prisoner’s forehead.
The young man swallowed, and closed his eyes, mouth set in a desperate line. His whole body was rigid with tension as he crouched, waiting. After a number of seconds the brigadier withdrew his gun.
“Send him to join the other prisoners,” he told the sergeant. Then, in explanation, “A spy would have tried to invent some tale. He is what he says he is.”
He started to turn away then had a second thought. The brigadier was not a soft-hearted man but like most soldiers he respected courage. He drew a battered flask from his pocket, uncorked it, and held it to the prisoner’s lips. The young man drank and choked a little, but some colour came back into his face.
“Thank you, Monsieur,” for the first time he looked at the French officer as if really taking notice of his face. The brigadier was decidedly young for his rank, only a few years older than the young sailor, but there was already a marked frown line between his brows. His long dark hair hung loose and unkempt, his face, although naturally round, nonetheless had something of the hawk about it. “May I ask your name?”
“Why should you?” the brigadier asked coldly. “If you think that using my name will be any help in the prison to which you are going then you are entirely wrong.”
The prisoner frowned, puzzling out the words, then when he understood them his chin went up proudly. “That was not my reason.”
The brigadier looked down on him and shrugged, uncomprehending. Already in the act of turning once again back to his horse he gave the reply offhandedly, over his shoulder.
“My name is Bonaparte.”