He is without firm standing-ground; his only rights are the revolutionary
rights of a National Guardsman, the member of a force which may go
to pieces directly a reverse is sustained. Hic Rhodus! He must take
advantage of the latent civil war between the townsfolk of Ajaccio and
the Guard; must fan the flames, so that, amid the general confusion, he
may assume the role of saviour! Is not the citadel, now occupied by the
king’s regular forces, a standing menace? Did not Frederick and Cæsar
always begin by storming citadels? Seize the commander of the regulars,
drive out this well-born booby, and thus, at one stroke, free the island!
France, now involved in wars, will be unable to reconquer Corsica. The
liberator will become a popular hero, and old Paoli will be no more than
a legend.
On Easter Sunday, 1792, an open struggle occurred. Was the National Guard
provocative; were the townsfolk playing double? Who began the affray? An
everlasting problem! This much is certain, that Buonaparte, at the head
of his battalion, tried to seize the fortress. But the garrison was not
to be intimidated. Guns were trained on his men, and he had to withdraw.
A complaint against the young officer was lodged in Paris; he was accused
of armed rebellion, and a trial for high treason was impending. His
exculpatory phrases deceived no one. Paoli, who had from the outset been
somewhat alarmed at the zeal of his turbulent fellow-islander, hastened
to proclaim his own loyalty to France, and to cashier the son of his old
friend.
“If you turn against me, Paoli, I will turn against you,” thought
Buonaparte. “You had better be careful what you are about! To Paris,
post-haste. Not for nothing is there a revolution there!”
Through the streets of the French capital, these hot summer days, strolls
our adventurer, for whom everything has gone awry. He has neither money
nor position. In France, he is a lieutenant, but regarded more or less
as a deserter; in Corsica, he is a cashiered lieutenant colonel. The
gravest charges are likely to be brought against him, and to-morrow
he may be actually starving. The Jacobins are his last hope, and he
joins Robespierre’s faction, for nothing can save him but the fall of
the dynasty. To him, the complete break up of the old order has become
essential.
Life in Paris is costly. He pawns his watch, and, in spite of this,
gets into debt—a thing he has hitherto been sedulous to avoid. Fifteen
francs due to a wine-dealer! He proposes to his friend Bourrienne that
the pair shall become house-agents. Does he envy those who sit in high
places? No, he merely despises them. “Any one who sees at short range all
that is going on, must admit that the peoples are hardly worth wooing
for their favours. Here, human beings are perhaps even more base and
calumniatory.—Enthusiasm is merely enthusiasm, and the French nation is
outworn. No one seeks anything but his own advantage, and every one tries
to push his way into the first rank.—Ambition undermines everything. To
lead a quiet life, for oneself and one’s family, that is the only lot
worth having, with a fixed income of four or five thousand francs—if
imagination would but cease to torment one, would quiet down!”
Woe to him who is thus plagued by a lively imagination! What colossal
possibilities may be cooling in this Parisian cauldron, may arise out of
the chaos of this titanic time! Being an Italian, a foreigner, he can
contemplate with equanimity the destinies of these Frenchmen, and, as
a cold-blooded adventurer, can seek to turn their fortunes to his own
account. The Jacobins are already coming to the front.
When the sansculottes storm the Tuileries, Buonaparte is among the
onlookers. What are the thoughts of the man under the harrow? “Thank
God, we are free once more.” But what does the army officer say? “I saw
soldiers threatened by civilians, and was terribly shocked.—Had the
king shown himself on horseback, he would have gained the victory; such
was the mood that morning.” A few days earlier, when the king had been
masquerading in the red cap of liberty, Napoleon had written: “What a
fool! Why didn’t he use grape-shot? If a few hundred of the mob had been
shot down, the others would have run away!”
Still, his main feeling was one of liberation. His opponents had been
overthrown. The day after the storming of the Tuileries, he wrote to
his uncle: “You needn’t worry about your nephews. They will know how
to look after themselves.” The new government does the handsome thing
by Napoleon. Not merely is the deserter taken back into the service,
but he is promptly raised to the rank of captain. He has, however, no
inclination to hasten to his regiment. What does it matter to him that
the king of Prussia is on the Moselle? What does he care about the wars
of France? “I am a Corsican! Back to the island!”
IX
Is it possible? Has not the fresh wind from the sea, has not even the
pure breeze from the mountains, been able to dispel that partisan spirit
into which, everywhere, the struggle of ideas tends to degenerate?
Calumny, corruption, anarchy: these are the forms which the strife has
assumed in the island. Saliceti, the Corsican delegate to the Convention
in Paris, is Paoli’s mortal enemy, and is therefore friendly to the
Buonapartes now that they have turned against Paoli. The Jacobin Club in
Ajaccio is divided, but revolutionary feeling is in the ascendant; and
Paoli, the only honest man in the island, is stigmatised as a traitor
because he is a moderate.
Who holds the reins of power? Every one and no one. Mutual suspicion is
ripe, for in Paris the guillotine has been set up, the king has passed by
that red road, and no one knows who will be the ruler there to-morrow. In
Corsica, all go armed, and not the mountaineers alone; but orders from
the coastland break unavailingly against the crags of the interior. Every
one, here, is his own king; every one, his own avenger. Can there be a
better field for this adventurer, who has nothing more to lose? He makes
a third attempt to become master of the island.
Brother Joseph, Brother Lucien, and Uncle Fesch, all have adherents,
but Napoleon is the first to gather the scattered forces. He has the
confidence of the deputy, who needs a skilled artillerist to help him
in the next faction fight. For the same reason, the Club is inclined to
court his favour. Might it not be a good move to accuse Paoli of treason
against France? We know that he has been influenced by his twenty years’
enjoyment of British hospitality, and is it not in his mind to sell us to
England? If Lucien were to go to Marseilles, and whisper the suspicion
in the commissary’s ears, Saliceti would soon be shouting it in the
Convention. A little island like Corsica is a hot-bed of intrigue. Since
public life is controlled by two or three families, family life becomes
merged in public life.
Ere long the Convention sends representatives to Corsica. Officers are
appointed and dismissed without Paoli’s leave or advice. Buonaparte, now
a captain in the French service, regains in the island his position as
commander. Before this, his abilities and the affection of his soldiers
have enabled him to usurp the command once more, and the official
appointment is no more than an endorsement of an accomplished fact. His
chances are improving.
Then comes a terrible order from Paris. Paoli is to be arrested. But his
opponents have overreached themselves. The hearts of the islanders warm
towards the veteran hero. All rally to his support, and he defies the
order.
Young Buonaparte is at a loss. Always he has had his ear at the heart of
the people, not in the spirit of a lover, but in the investigatory mood
of a physician. He tries to gain time, seeks a middle course, publicly
proclaims himself on the side of the maligned Paoli; but also explains
that he is a supporter of the sagacious Convention. Yet the Convention
mistrusts this supporter, and now issues a warrant for his arrest also.
Paoli likewise suspects him of wanting to have a foot in both camps. In a
Paolist manifesto we read: “Since the brothers Buonaparte have supported
the slander, and have sided with the commission, it would be beneath the
dignity of the Corsican nation to have anything more to do with them.
Enough to abandon them to remorse and public execration.”
The enemies of the family raided the Buonaparte mansion, looted the
place, and would have made short work of the inmates had not these
already taken refuge with the commission.
Perhaps Buonaparte had wanted events to take this course. He had given
the authorities in Paris plain proof that he was a staunch revolutionist.
Certainly, they were now ready to show their trust in him. He, who
a year before had led the Corsican volunteers against the French
governmental artillery, was now made commander of this same artillery
against the Corsican volunteers. Big guns! True, the others occupy the
best positions, but at length he has power, ample power, with orders to
protect the coast. Now then, Paoli, for our last duel!
But the old man, enjoying the full tide of popular favour, has also the
best of it as a soldier. He holds the citadel. When Napoleon, acting this
time as a Frenchman, makes his second attempt to storm that stronghold,
he succeeds no better than before. A last endeavour is made to take the
fortress from the islands. It is fruitless!
There is no longer a place for him and his in Corsica. They are banished
by popular decree, and declared outlaws. The mother, so proud of her
descent; her two sons, her two daughters, and her brother—all have been
rendered shelterless by Napoleon’s unsuccessful attack on Paoli. They
must escape from the island at a few hours’ notice. Through the silent
woods, in whose recesses twenty-four years earlier she had found safety
from the French, Letizia has now to flee towards the coast under the
protection of the French. All her possessions are in the hands of her
enemies. Nothing is left to her beyond the clothes she wears.
The artillery officer, twenty-three years of age, stands on the deck
of the sailing ship that is bearing him to Toulon. Throughout the long
June evening, he watches the coast recede; every cape, every ridge,
is familiar to him. Thrice he has tried to conquer the island, as its
liberator. Now he has been driven out by the Corsicans as a Frenchman.
He is full of rage and of a thirst for revenge. The victories of France
will strengthen him, and in days to come he will, after all, be master of
Corsica!
But as he sails westward, and as the French coast draws near, our
adventurer enjoys the sense of freedom that comes to him who is
everywhere at home. Such is the happy lot of the man who has no country.
X
“How shabby their dresses are!” thinks Letizia Buonaparte, when her two
half-grown girls come home from the market with their poor purchases.
The refugees are living on the fourth floor of a confiscated house in
Marseilles (the owner, a nobleman, has been guillotined). The mother is
in the early forties. The three children with her are earning bread for
the family as best they can; the two youngest are still in Corsica,
cared for by relatives. Since the Buonapartes are “persecuted patriots,”
they receive a part of their rations from the commandant. Letizia, who is
proud as ever, makes no complaints.
Soon Napoleon, who is travelling, has the chance of putting some
lucrative opportunities in his brother’s way, affairs connected with the
supply of munitions of war. Maternal Uncle Fesch lays aside the priestly
habit and becomes a man of business, in the silk trade. Then Joseph, who
is of fashionable exterior, resembling his father in appearance, and,
as the eldest, following the father’s example in styling himself Count
Buonaparte,—wins the hand of one of the two heiresses of a Marseilles
silk merchant. Napoleon entertains thoughts of marrying his sister-in-law
Désirée, the late silk merchant’s other daughter.
He is on the move throughout this summer; now at Nice, with his regiment;
now on the Rhone; now at Toulon. All the time, his soldier’s eyes are
on the look out; his artillerist’s brain is noting the actual and the
potential fortifications along this strip of coast. Soon he will make
good use of the knowledge now acquired. Meanwhile he writes political
dialogues. One of them in conversational form, appears as a pamphlet,
printed at the public expense.
In this conversation, the manufacturer is of a familiar type. The
well-to-do folk of Toulon, like their brethren in Marseilles, are, in
fact, under Robespierre’s rule, afraid of losing their heads or even
their property. Concern for their money-bags tends to make them ever more
solicitous for the welfare of the sometime royal house, now in exile.
At length, in the hope of saving their capital, they call the enemies
of France to their aid, handing over the remnants of the navy to the
English, who in return promise them protection.
This is a fearful blow for the young republic. On all fronts, France
is at grips with the forces of reaction. Belgium has been lost; the
Spaniards are advancing over the mountains; in Vendée, the Bourbon
cause is gaining ground. Then comes the crowning disaster of Toulon.
The republic calls up its last man for active service, enlists women,
transforms the whole of France into an armed camp. Experts are doubly
welcome.
Before Toulon, preparations are being made to drive out the English. As
to how this is to be done, the Convention leaves that to the commander
of the forces, originally a painter of pictures, in whom revolutionary
enthusiasm is to make up for the lack of technical knowledge of the art
of war.
Then it came to pass that young Captain Buonaparte, returning from
Avignon whither he had been sent for a consignment of gunpowder, paid
a visit to his fellow-countryman Saliceti, who introduced the young
artillerist to the painter-general. After dinner, the dilettantes went
for a stroll, and happened upon a 24-pounder, several miles from the sea.
They began to boast of all that the gun would do. The expert assured them
that, in its present position, it would be useless. He fired four shots
to show them that the sea was quite out of range. Dumbfounded, they kept
Buonaparte at Toulon, and set him to work.
“At last, one end of the rope is in my hands. Grip and hold fast!” thinks
the lonely man with the strong will. With amazing activity, our captain
has heavy guns brought from all possible places along the coast. In six
weeks, he has more than a hundred pieces of ordnance at his disposal.
Now he will give a display of his talents as military commander. What is
his plan? He will mount batteries on the tongue of land which divides
the bay into twin harbours, and will thus cut off the hostile fleet from
access to the sea. The British commander will not stay to be shot at in a
mousehole with no outlet. He will set light to the arsenal and withdraw
his forces from the town.
“Fantastical nonsense!” say the amateurs, mockingly. But Buonaparte,
who has friends in the Convention, has a complaint lodged there against
his chief. He also sends to Paris his scheme for the bombardment of
Toulon, many pages of manuscript, containing, in addition, counsel of a
more general nature: “Our fire must always be concentrated. If we can
breach the wall, the balance will incline to our side, resistance will
be fruitless, the place will be won. To live, we must divide; to strike,
we must unite. Victory is impossible without unity of command. Time is
everything!” Thus does a captain of twenty-four write to the central
authorities.
He has a powerful ally in Paris, the younger Robespierre, who has the
reputation of a man of talent, and is not completely overshadowed by his
all-powerful brother. “Should you ever need a man of iron for street
fighting,” said Joseph Robespierre to Maximilien, “a young man, a new
man—then it must be this Buonaparte.” Indeed, the Corsican adventurer
had already been asked whether he would become military guardian of the
terrorists, but considerations of caution had led him to decline. Now
his plan was approved, and the painter-general was recalled. Who would
replace him?
Buonaparte gnashes his teeth. Another dilettante! The new general is a
medical man. He spends his time nosing out conspiracies hatched by the
nobility—and meanwhile the enemy occupies the precious tongue of land.
From Paris there had come State carriages filled with “men of genius,”
clad in brilliant uniforms, and resolved to end the siege of Toulon,
to take the place out of hand. Buonaparte led them to an unprotected
battery. When the enemy opened fire, and they looked round vainly for
cover, their guide said gravely: “We do without cover, nowadays; we
have patriotism instead.” This young man with blue-grey eyes is more
interested in actions than in intentions. Further complaints, and a
new change in command. This time the chief is a tried warrior, who is
prompt to appoint Napoleon battalion commander, and to adopt the young
artillerist’s plan for driving the enemy from the tongue of land.
When, finally, Toulon is stormed (still in accordance with Buonaparte’s
designs), his horse is shot under him; and he is wounded in the calf
by an English lance—this being his first and almost his last wound.
Moreover, it is his first victory, although he is not the official
commander; and it is a victory over England. The enemy retreats to the
ships, fires the arsenal, and withdraws, all in one night, just as
Napoleon had foretold.
Conflagration and death, battle and the terrors of a naval port in which
thousands of treasonable burghers are trying to escape the avengers; amid
all the fierce passions of this December night, through the reek and the
cries, across heaps of corpses, and to the accompaniment of the agonised
curses of drowning civilians and the exultant shouts of looting soldiers,
a new star rises in the firmament—Napoleon’s fame.
XI
The popular festival held in Paris to celebrate the liberation of
Toulon and fresh victories on the northern and eastern fronts, spreads
Napoleon’s name among the masses. He is raised to the rank of brigadier
general, and his chief, sending in a report in which the subordinate is
given due credit as the originator of the plan of siege, adds (betwixt
fear and admiration) the amazing sentence: “Even though the Convention
were to slight him, he would still force his way to the front.” But five
other young officers are likewise mentioned in despatches, and when for
the first time Napoleon sees his own name in the “Moniteur” there can be
no doubt that he is vexed at being merely one among so many. How hard it
is to climb!
Already, however, there are some young fellows who have noted the rising
of the new star. Marmont and Junot, unknown officers, want to join their
fortunes to his. He appoints them his adjutants; Brother Louis, too, now
sixteen years of age. He has a group!
Big guns! The Convention commissions him to fortify the whole stretch
of coast from Toulon to Nice. Is not Genoa, Corsica’s ancient enemy,
farther along the coast? He who takes Genoa, has the island in his
hands. Is not Genoa full of diplomats and agents? This is the place for
weather-breeding among the neutrals; here, any one with sharp eyes and
keen ears can learn a great deal, and keep his information to himself. He
gets himself appointed people’s commissary, which gives him precedence
over the chiefs in Genoa. Ostensibly the appointment is made that he may
help in the settlement of frontier questions.
In reality, this is the first step of Buonaparte the diplomatist. He
intrigues with agents of various kinds, while taking note whether the
representatives of France in that part of the world are genuinely
revolutionary or only making a pretence of revolutionary fervour. At the
same time, he keeps his eyes open to see where the cannons are. He comes
back to Nice to write his report, and, without warning, he is arrested.
For, meanwhile, Robespierre had fallen, and had perished by the
guillotine. There is a general movement of repudiation. Every one wishes
to make out that only under compulsion did he hold converse with the
tyrant. Those who wish to prove themselves guiltless, look round for
victims. The best victims will be those who are not in Paris to make
a fight for it. Quick, quick, lest we should be suspected of having
belonged to Robespierre’s faction! General Buonaparte! He has just been
on a secret mission to hostile Genoa. Lay the traitor by the heels! He
was colloguing with Robespierre to bring about the destruction of our
southern army. Hale him to Paris for trial!
Napoleon is in Fort Carrée near Nice. All his papers have been seized.
It is his birthday. “To-day I am twenty-five,” he thinks, as he glances
seaward through the grating. If he could lean out of the window, he would
catch a glimpse of Corsica. How many attempts he has made there, only to
be defeated! Was the destiny of a young aspiring soul ever before built
upon such a series of catastrophes? What has Plutarch to say on this
matter? Cashiered, banished, outlawed—as far as Corsica is concerned.
Now, after all his plans, he is a prisoner of France. Next week,
perhaps, he will be standing in the barrack yard, with his back against
the wall, awaiting a score of bullets. What is to be done?
His faithful followers advise him to flee. He answers in an impassioned
tone such as we rarely encounter in the sixty thousand of Napoleon’s
letters. He thanks them for their friendly counsel, but says: “Men may
treat me unjustly; no matter, so long as I am innocent. My conscience
is the tribunal before which I judge my own conduct, and my conscience
is untroubled. Do nothing, for you would only compromise me.” The one
genuine phrase in this letter wherein he poses as a martyr, is the last.
To Junot, the enthusiastic admirer, he speaks of motives which Junot
will understand. In reality, since he knows that there is not a jot of
evidence of complicity with Robespierre, he does not wish to compromise
himself. Flight would be an admission of guilt.
Writing from prison to an influential diplomat, he says: “I am somewhat
affected by the tragical death of the younger Robespierre, for I loved
the man and believed him genuine. Nevertheless, had he been my own father
I would have stabbed him had he wished to become a tyrant.” Is not that
spoken like a true Roman? With even more circumspection, he writes to
the Convention: “Although innocent of the charge, I shall never make any
complaint against the committee, whatever it may decide.... But now hear
me! Strike off my chains, and restore to me the respect of patriots! An
hour afterwards, if the wicked clamour for my corpse, I shall be ready. I
hold my life at little account, for I have risked it in the trenches too
often. Nothing but the thought that I can serve my country enables me to
endure my burdens cheerfully.”
A week later, he is free. Saliceti, his fellow-countryman in the
Convention, had been his accuser. Now, when the Corsican deputy has got
over his first fright and feels that his own neck is safe, he pledges his
word that Buonaparte is innocent. But at the close of his statement, he
adds a phrase which is an unconscious prediction of the young officer’s
triumphs: “Besides, we need him in the army.”
XII
How he is shunned! Powerful friends, to whom he sends letter after
letter, long epistles, make no answer. He writes beseechingly for little
things, such as “a good surveying outfit for the army,” when he wishes
to force an influential comrade to reply. All at once comes a signal
from the island. Old Paoli has summoned the English to his aid. Corsica
must be saved for France! Back to Paris, in order to fan the flames. The
expedition is actually decided on, and he eagerly hopes to secure the
command. In a fortnight the fleet is back at Toulon, having sustained a
reverse. Fresh disappointment! Why did they not put him in charge? Had
he not conquered Toulon, fortified the coast—all with an eye towards the
campaign against Corsica?
Reaction is in full swing. Napoleon is suspect. The authorities offer him
high command in Vendée, for this will separate him from his adherents. At
the same time he is transferred to the infantry, as a “supernumerary.”
How mortifying to a highly skilled artillerist!
The pale young man grew paler than ever, for he had made up his mind to
refuse. He expostulated with the People’s Commissary for War, who, in
reply, twitted him with his youth. Napoleon looked the commissary, who
knew little of active service, straight in the eyes, and said: “A man
matures quickly on the battle-field, and it is from the battle-field that
I come.” Refusal to obey orders; expectation of dire consequences; just
as it had been three years before.