strange lad, my little Spartan," said he. "I don't think I ever knew
a boy quite like you."
[Illustration: THE SNOW FORT AT BRIENNE]
The teacher moved away and the boy continued making his drawings with
the pointed stick.
By the time the afternoon had ended the square fort of snow was
finished. It was by far the finest fortification the boys of Brienne had
ever built. It had four bastions and a rampart three and one-half feet
long. Water was poured over the top and sides so that ice might form,
and it looked like a very difficult place to take. When he considered it
finished Bonaparte ordered the boys to quit work, and taking up a book
he had thrown on the ground before him he started to stroll up and down
by the farther wall of the parade. He was fond of walking here, book in
hand, studying some military treatise, and, though only a boy, he had
gained the power of shutting out all thoughts except those of his study.
Some of the boys had put together a rough sort of sky-rocket, and now
brought it out from the house to light it in the playground. One boy
touched a match to the fuse and the others leaped back out of reach.
There was a loud explosion, and the firework, failing to shoot off as
was intended, simply fizzled in a shower of sparks near the feet of the
boy by the wall. He glanced up, looked at the flames and then at the
circle of boys beyond.
In an instant he had seized his stick and was among them, hitting the
boys over their heads and calling them all the names he could think of,
beside himself in a sudden storm of passion because he had been
disturbed. They fled before his attack like leaves before a whirlwind.
In a few moments he had cleared the playground. Then he threw down the
stick and picked up his book again.
A few minutes later Monsieur Pichegru, who had been told of the
explosion, came over to him.
"You must not lose your temper in that way, my boy," said he. "Some day
you will learn to regret it."
"Why?" said the Corsican lad. "I was studying here, I was reading how
great Hannibal crossed the Alps, and that pack of fools broke in upon
me. I will not be disturbed."
"You'll teach them to hate you," said the master, trying to argue the
boy out of his ill temper.
"No, I'll teach them to do as I want, or let me alone when I wish it.
That's all I ask of them, to be let alone." The master, shaking his
head, thought that the boy would soon have his way, for day by day he
grew more solitary and his playmates' fear of him increased.
The teachers at the school and also some of the servants saw the fort on
the playground that afternoon, and the news of it sped through the town.
According to report it was very different from the snow forts the boys
usually built, much more ingenious and complicated, and along military
lines. As a result the next morning many of the townspeople came to see
the fortifications and examined them with great interest while the boys
were indoors at study.
When they were free in the afternoon the battle began, one party of the
boys leading the attack from the streets of the town, the other under
Bonaparte defending the bastions and rampart. Attack and defense were
well handled. The boys had already learned many military tactics and
they thoroughly enjoyed this mimic warfare, but the Corsican lad was
much too clever for his adversaries. He was continually inventing new
schemes to surprise his opponents, now sending out a party of
skirmishers to attack them in the rear or on the flanks, again luring
them into a direct assault upon the rampart, and then leading his
soldiers up and over the ice walls to scatter the enemy down the street.
By sunset there was no doubt as to which was the victor. The flag, which
was the prize of battle, was formally awarded to the boys who had held
the fort.
There was no doubt that young Napoleon Bonaparte knew how to lead
others. He had shown that ability to an amazing degree ever since he had
first entered the school of Brienne when he was only nine years old. The
boys at Brienne were all being trained to be soldiers, and they were all
brought up in strict military discipline which would have been irksome
to many a boy. The young Corsican, however, liked it and seemed to
thrive on it.
Some of the rules of the school were curious. Until they were twelve
years old the boys had to keep their hair cut short, after that they
were allowed to wear a pigtail, but could powder their hair only on
Sundays and Saints' Days. Each boy had a separate room which was much
like a cell, containing a hard bed with only a rug for covering. The
boys had to stay in school for six years, and they were never allowed
to leave on any pretense whatever. During the long vacation which
lasted from September fifteenth to November second they had only one
lesson a day and had plenty of time for outdoor sports. Everything
possible was done to fire their ardor for military life. They were
encouraged to read the lives of great men, especially Plutarch's
"Lives," and those historical plays which deal with great French scenes.
History and geography were the chief studies, and after those two,
mathematics. In all of these branches Bonaparte took great delight.
Singularly enough the school, although designed to train boys for
warriors, was entirely under the charge of an order of Friars. Neither
teachers nor boys could help but admit Napoleon's great strength of
character. When the Abbé in charge organized the school into companies
of cadets the command of one company was given to this boy. He ruled
those under him with a rod of iron, and finally the boys who were the
commanders of the other companies decided to hold a court-martial.
Bonaparte was brought before them and charged with being unworthy to
command his schoolfellows because he disdained them and had no real
regard for them. Arguments attacking him were made by various boys, but
when it came to Napoleon's turn to defend himself he refused, on the
ground that whether he were commander or not made little difference to
him. The court-martial thereupon decided to degrade him from his rank
and a formal sentence was read aloud to him. He seemed very little
concerned, and took his place with the other privates without any show
of ill feeling. For almost the first time the boys felt a sort of
affection for him because he bore his humiliation so well.
Unlike most boys he really seemed to care very little whether he was
popular or not; all he asked was a chance to learn the art of warfare.
He was happiest when he was left alone to study history. Plutarch's
"Lives" was his favorite book, and his favorite nation among the ancient
peoples was that of Sparta, because he admired the Spartans' stern sense
of heroism and hoped to copy them. That was the reason Monsieur Pichegru
had given him the nickname of "The Spartan," and the name stuck to him
for years.
The Corsican boy's first desire was to be a sailor. He hoped he might be
sent to the southern coast of France where he would be near his own
beloved island home. It so happened, however, that one of the French
military instructors came to Brienne after Napoleon had been there about
five years, and immediately took an interest in the boy. A little later
he, with four others, was chosen to enter a famous military school in
Paris as what were known as "gentlemen cadets." The report that was sent
to Paris respecting Bonaparte stated that he was domineering, imperious,
and obstinate, but in spite of these qualities he was chosen because of
his great ability in mathematics and the art of warfare.
The military school of Paris was one of the sights of the French
capital. Famous visitors were always taken there, and the cadets were
intended to form the flower of the French army. Only a few of the boys
who were at the schools in the provinces were chosen to come to Paris,
and those who were chosen were put through a rigid course of study and
of physical drill in preparation for service in the army. Most of the
boys were sons of the nobility and were accustomed to bully their less
distinguished comrades.
When Bonaparte had been in Paris a very short time he had his first
fight with such a boy. He was quite able to hold his own, but all that
first year he was continually set upon by the Parisians who loved to
taunt him with being a little Corsican and to make ridiculous nicknames
out of his two long names. He lost something of his reserve, because he
liked the military side of the Paris school much better than the church
atmosphere at Brienne.
Nothing made him so indignant as to hear his native land spoken of
slurringly, and there were many of his comrades who took a special
delight in doing this. The boys would draw caricatures of him standing
with his hands behind his back in his favorite attitude, his brows
frowning, and his eyes thoughtful, and underneath would write "Bonaparte
planning to rescue Corsica from the hands of the French." Whenever he
had a chance he spoke bitterly of the injustice of a great people
oppressing such a tiny island as his.
Finally some of his words came to the ears of the general in charge of
the school. He sent at once for the boy and said to him, "Sir, you are a
scholar of the King, you must learn to remember this and to moderate
your love of Corsica, which after all forms part of France." Bonaparte
was wiser than to make any answer, he simply saluted and withdrew.
But he paid no heed to the advice, and one day shortly afterward he
again spoke to a priest of the unjust treatment of Corsica. The latter
waited until the boy came to him at the confessional and then rebuked
him on this subject. Bonaparte ran back through the church crying loud
enough for all those present to hear him, "I didn't come in here to talk
about Corsica, and that priest has no right to lecture me on such a
subject!"
[Illustration: NAPOLEON AS A CADET IN PARIS]
The priest as well as the others in charge soon learned that it was
useless to try to change this boy's views, or indeed to keep him from
expressing them when he had a chance. They were learning, just as
Monsieur Pichegru and the friars at Brienne had learned, that he would
have his own way in spite of all opposition.
When he was sixteen Napoleon and his best friend, a boy named Desmazis,
were ordered to join the regiment of La Fère which was then quartered in
the south of France. Napoleon was glad of this change which brought him
nearer to his island home, and he also felt that he would now learn
something of actual warfare. The two boys were taken to their regiment
in charge of an officer who stayed with them from the time they left
Paris until the carriage set them down at the garrison town. The
regiment of La Fère was one of the best in the French army, and the boy
immediately took a great liking to everything connected with it. He
found the officers well educated and anxious to help him. He declared
the blue uniform with red facings to be the most beautiful uniform in
the world.
He had to work hard, still studying mathematics, chemistry, and the laws
of fortification, mounting guard with the other subalterns, and looking
after his own company of men. He seemed very young to be put in charge
of grown soldiers, but his great ability had brought about this
extraordinarily rapid promotion. He had a room in a boarding-house kept
by an old maid, but took his meals at the Inn of the Three Pigeons. Now
that he was an officer he began to be more interested in making a good
appearance before people. He took dancing lessons and suddenly blossomed
out into much popularity among the garrison. Older people could not help
but see his great strength of character, and time and again it was
predicted that he would rise high in the army.
He had not been long with his regiment when he was given leave of
absence to visit his family in Corsica. His father had died, but his
mother was living, with a number of children. All of them looked to
Napoleon for help. When he reached his home, although he was only
seventeen, he was hailed as a great man. Not only his own family, but
all the neighbors and townspeople spoke of him with pride, and expected
that he would do a great deal for their island.
He still had the same passion for that rocky land, and spent hours
wandering through the grottoes by the seashore, or in the dense olive
woods, or lying under a favorite oak tree reading history and dreaming
of his future. The open life of the fields and the pleasures of the farm
appealed strongly to him, but he knew that there was more active work
for him to do in the world, and so, after a short stay, he went back to
the main land.
It was not long before great events took place in France. The people
arose against their king and the first gusts of the French Revolution
blew him from his throne. The young Napoleon was a great lover of
liberty; he wished it for Corsica and he wished it for the French
people. It seemed at first as though the island might be able to win its
independence, owing to the disorder in France, and the Bonapartes sided
with the conspirators who were working toward this end. But the young
lieutenant attended strictly to his own business. He watched the rapid
march of events from a distance, and when he went to Paris he was
careful not to ally himself too closely with any particular party.
Finally the Republic was proclaimed, and Napoleon saw that there would
be an immediate chance for fighting. He had complained as a boy that the
trouble with the officers was that they had not had a real taste of
battle. He hoped to be able to learn his profession on the actual field.
At a time like this when every one doubted his neighbor, and no one knew
how long the present government would last, one quality of the young
lieutenant, his steadfast sticking to duty, made him conspicuous.
Whoever might rule the country he stuck to his work of drilling the men
under him, and step by step he advanced until he became
lieutenant-colonel. Finally his great chance came.
The city of Toulon on the Mediterranean rebelled against the Convention,
which had in turn become the governing power of France, and surrendered
itself to the English. French troops were sent to the city, and at the
very beginning of the fighting the commander of the artillery was
wounded by a ball in the shoulder. Napoleon was next in rank and took
his place. The siege lasted for days, and the young commander was
obliged to exercise all his ingenuity to hold his position before the
English lines. It was like a repetition of the old fight of the Brienne
school yard, only now Bonaparte led the attacking forces, and he found
this a more difficult task than to defend his own iced ramparts.
There was also trouble with some of the officers, and one of them
ordered Napoleon to place his guns in a certain line of attack. The
Corsican youth refused, declaring that he would not serve under a man
who was wanting in the simplest principles of warfare. The commander was
indignant, but all his friends said to him, "You had better let that
young man alone, he knows more about this than you. If his plan succeeds
the glory will all be yours; if he fails the blame will be his." The
officer took the advice and told young "Captain Cannon," as he called
Napoleon, that he might have his own way, but that he should answer for
the success of his plan with his head.
"Very well," said the youth, "I'm quite satisfied with that
arrangement."
The siege lasted a long time, and then it was finally decided to carry
the town by a grand assault. All possible forces were brought to the
attack, and at last Toulon was taken. The young lieutenant-colonel
distinguished himself greatly in this his first real battle. His horse
was shot under him, and he was wounded with a bayonet thrust in the
thigh; but he kept his men in place, and finally advancing they
succeeded in covering both the town and the fleet in the sea. When the
fighting was over the general in command wrote to Paris: "I have no
words to describe the merit of Bonaparte; much science, as much
intelligence, and too much bravery. This is but a feeble sketch of this
rare officer, and it is for you, ministers, to consecrate him to the
glory of the Republic."
Such was the young Napoleon at twenty-three. Almost immediately he was
made general of brigade, and was looked upon as one of the coming
defenders of the French Republic.
He went to Paris, was loaded with honors, and given post after post in
the service of his country. For a time he proved a great defender of his
people, for a time he served the Republic as no other man could; but
when defense was no longer needed he could not sheathe his sword, he had
to use it for attack whether the cause were just or not. As he won
victory after victory and tasted power he discarded even the Republic
that had made him, and placed himself upon the throne as Emperor.
That same love of power which had made him was also his undoing. He
could not rest content with what he had. As he had predicted to Monsieur
Pichegru that afternoon at Brienne he would have his own way, and very
much as he had treated his schoolfellows there he later grew to treat
the nations of Europe. As a result they, like his playfellows, combined
against him, and sent him down finally among the privates.
XV
Walter Scott
The Boy of the Canongate: 1771-1832
The business office of a Scotch solicitor is not an especially cheerful
place at any time, and the interior of such a room looked particularly
cheerless on a late winter afternoon in Edinburgh in 1786. A boy of
fifteen sat on a high stool at an old oak desk, and watched the snow
falling in the street. Occasionally he could see people passing the
windows: men and women wrapped to their ears in plaid shawls, for the
wind whistled down the street so loudly that the boy could hear it, and
the cold was bitter.
The boy looked through the window until he almost felt the chill
himself, and then, to keep warm, held his head in his hands and fastened
his eyes on the big, heavy-leaved book in front of him, which bore the
unappealing title, Erskine's "Institutes." The type was fine, and the
young student had to read each line a dozen times before he could
understand it. Sometimes his eyes would involuntarily close and he would
doze a few moments, only to wake with a start to look quickly at another
desk near the fire where his father sat steadily writing, and then to a
table in the corner where a very old man was always sorting papers.
The winter light grew dim, so dim that the boy could no longer see to
read. He closed the book with a bang.
"Father."
"Yes, Walter, lad?" The lawyer looked up from his writing, and smiled at
the figure on the high stool.
"I'd best be going home; there's no more light here to see by."
"A good reason, Walter. Wrap yourself up warm, for the night is cold."
Young Walter slid down from his seat, and stretched his arms and legs to
cure the stiffness in them. He was a sturdy, well-built lad, with
tousled yellow hair, frank eyes with a twinkle in them, and a mouth that
was large and betokened humor. When he walked he limped, but he held
himself so straight that when he was still no one would have noticed the
deformity.
Five minutes later the boy was plowing his way through the narrow
streets of the Canongate, the old part of Edinburgh that had as ancient
a history of street brawls as the Paris kennels. Nobody who could help
it was abroad, and Walter was glad when he reached the door of his
father's house in George's Square and could find shelter from the
cutting wind. The Scotch evening meal was simple, soon over, and then
came the time to sit before the blazing logs on the great open hearth
and tell stories.
The older people were busy at cards in another room, and Walter, with a
group of boys of his own age who lived in the neighborhood and liked to
be with the lame lad, had the fireside to themselves.
In front of the fire young Walter was no longer the sleepy student of
Erskine's "Institutes"; his eyes shone as he told story after story of
the Scotch border, half of them founded on old ballads or legends he
knew by heart and half the product of his own eager imagination. Whole
poems, filled with battles and hunts and knightly adventures, he could
recite from memory, and his eye for the color and trappings of history
was so keen that the boys could see the very scenes before them. They
sat in a circle about him, listening eagerly to story after story,
forgetting everything but the boy's words, and showing their fondness
and admiration for the romancer in each glance.
Walter was minstrel and prophet and historian to the boys of the
Canongate by the winter fire, as he was to be later to the whole nation
of Englishmen.
By the next day the snow had ceased falling, and the open squares of the
city presented the finest mimic battle-fields that could be imagined.
The boys of Edinburgh were divided into clans according to the part of
the city in which they lived, and carried on constant warfare as long as
winter lasted. Walter Scott and his brothers belonged to a clan that
made George's Square their headquarters, and their nearest and dearest
enemies were the boys of the Crosscauseway, a poorer section of the city
that lay not very far distant.
On the day the storm ceased Walter left his high stool and ponderous
book early and joined his friends in solid array in their square. While
they waited for the enemy to come up from the side street, the boys
built snow fortifications across the Square and stocked them with
ammunition sufficient to stand a siege. Still no enemy appeared, and,
eager for a chance to try their aim, the boys of the Square boldly left
their own haunts and proceeded down the Crosscauseway in search of the
foe.
The enemy's country lay through narrow winding streets, and there was
great need of care to avoid an ambuscade. Slipping from door to door,
from one point of vantage to the next, the boys made the whole distance
of the enemy's land without sight of an enemy. They came to the further
boundary and raised a cheer of defiance, when suddenly a hail-storm of
snowballs struck them, and from a side street the boys of the
Crosscauseway shot out. The invaders fired one round, then turned and
fled before a fierce charge.
Back the way they came the boys retreated, and after them came the enemy
pelting them without mercy and with good aim. In the van of the pursuit
ran a tall, fair-haired boy, who wore the bright green breeches of a
tailor's clerk, who was famous for his prowess in these schoolboy
battles, and who, because of his clothes, had been given the picturesque
nickname of "Green Breeks."
Young Scott and his friends ran back into their square, but the enemy
were close upon their heels. Green Breeks was now far in the lead of his
forces, so far in the lead that he might have been cut off had not the
pursued been panic-stricken. Over their own fortifications the boys fled
and dropped behind them for safety. Their banner, a flag given them by a
lady of the Square, waved defiantly in Green Breeks' face. The tall boy
leaped upon the rampart and seized the standard, when a blow from a
stick brought him to the ground. He fell stunned, and the blood poured
from a cut in his head.
The watchman in George's Square was used to the boys' battles, but not
to such an ending to them. He hurried over to the fallen Green Breeks,
and the boys of both armies melted silently away. Shortly after Green
Breeks was in the hospital, his head bandaged, but otherwise little the
worse for his mishap.