Young Bloods [Wellington and Napoleon Quartet - Book I] by Simon Scarrow

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Marcus Antonius

Marcus Antonius

Per Ardua Ad Astra
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TNP Nation
Ethnon
Discord
Marcus Antonius #8887
Introduction by Marcus Antonius

I have chosen this book next for the library as we don't have anything from the 'Napoleonic' era.

I read this book a few years ago at around the time of the bi-centenary of the Battle of Waterloo.

There used to be an advert on the telly offering this medallion, one free to every UK household.

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I didn't bother getting one. :lol:

Having read all of Simon Scarrow's Roman set books so far, I was looking forward to getting my teeth into an entirely different piece of historical fiction.

I found this to be a brilliant book.

When history is put into story it is so much easier for people like me to understand and then store in the brain, rather than just relentless lists of facts, dates and events.

Once again you have the opportunity to re-read this with me.

I hope you enjoy it.

~Marcus
 
Overview:

YOUNG BLOODS is the first gripping novel in Simon Scarrow’s bestselling Wellington and Napoleon quartet. Perfect for fans of Robert Harris.

Arthur Wesley (the future Duke of Wellington) was born and bred to be a leader.

With a firm belief that the nation must be led by a king, the red-coated British officer heads for battle against the French Republic, to restore the fallen monarchy.

Napoleon Bonaparte joins the French military on the eve of the Revolution.

He believes leadership is won by merit, not by noble birth.

When anarchy explodes in Paris he’s thrust into the revolutionary army poised to march against Britain.

As two mighty Empires embark on a bloody duel, Wesley and Bonaparte prepare to face a sworn enemy, unaware that the fate of Europe will one day lie in their hands…
 
About the author:

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Simon Scarrow (born 3 October 1962 near Lagos, Nigeria) is a British author. Scarrow completed a master's degree at the University of East Anglia after working at the Inland Revenue, and then went into teaching as a lecturer, firstly at East Norfolk Sixth Form College, then at City College Norwich.

He is best known for his Eagles of the Empire series of Roman military fiction set in the territories of the Roman Empire, covering the second invasion of Britain and the subsequent prolonged campaign undertaken by the rump of the Julio-Claudian dynasty. As of December 2019, there are 18 books in the series; the latest, "Traitors of Rome", was published in 2019.

He has also written another series, Revolution, focusing on Wellington and Napoleon, whose first title, Young Bloods, was published in 2006. The second volume, The Generals, was released on 31 May 2007 and the third volume Fire and Sword was released in January 2009. The fourth and final novel of the series was released in Jun 2010 and is called The Fields of Death. He began publishing a new series in 2011 titled Gladiator.
 
Notes by the Author:

Names, dates and measurements

Many readers will be aware that the Duke of Wellington had once been Arthur Wellesley.

Before that his family name was Wesley.

This was changed to the more familiar Wellesley after Arthur’s older brother inherited the family title.

Arthur began to use the new version only after he arrived in India, an event covered in the next book in the series - The Generals.

In order to keep matters clear for readers, I have used imperial measurements for both sides of the story.

With regard to dates I have not used the revolutionary calendar, since most of the French only paid it lip service and continued to use the conventional calendar.
 
Chapter 1

Ireland, 1769​

With a last look back into the dimly lit room the midwife withdrew and closed the door behind her. She turned to the figure at the other end of the hall. Poor man, she thought to herself, unconsciously drying her strong hands in the folds of her apron. There was no easy way to tell him the bad news. The child would not last the night. That was clear enough to her, having delivered more babies into the world than she could remember. He had been born at least a month before his time. There had been only a flicker of life in the child when the lady had finally squeezed it from her womb with a piercing shriek of agony, shortly after midnight. The result had been a pasty thin thing that trembled, even after the midwife had cleaned it up, cut the cord and presented it to its mother swaddled in the clean folds of an infant’s blanket. The lady had clasped the child to her breast, awash with relief that the long labour was over.

That was how the midwife had left her. Let her have a few hours of comfort before nature took its course and turned the miracle of birth into a tragedy.
 
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She bustled towards the waiting man, skirt hems rustling across the floorboards, then bobbed quickly as she made her report.

‘I’m sorry, my lord.’

‘Sorry?’ He glanced beyond the midwife, towards the far door. ‘What’s happened? Is Anne all right?’

‘She’s fine, sir, so she is.’

‘And the child? Has it arrived?’

The midwife nodded. ‘A boy, my lord.’

For an instant Garrett Wesley smiled with relief and pride before he recalled the midwife’s first words. ‘What’s the matter, then?’

‘The lady’s well enough. But the lad’s in a poor way. Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t think he’ll last until the morning. Even if he does, then it’ll be a matter of days before he meets his Maker. I’m so sorry, my lord.’

Garrett shook his head. ‘How can you be sure?’

The midwife took a breath to restrain her anger at this slur on her professional judgement. ‘I know the signs, sir. He ain’t breathing properly and his skin’s cold and clammy to the touch. The poor mite hasn’t the strength to live.’

‘There must be something that can be done for him. Send for a doctor.’

The midwife shook her head. ‘There isn’t one in the village, nor near it neither.’

Garrett stared back at her, his mind working feverishly. Dublin was where he would find the medical care he needed for his son. If they set off at once they could reach their house on Merrion Street before dusk fell, and send for the best doctor immediately. Garrett nodded to himself. The decision was made. He grasped the midwife’s arm.

‘Get downstairs, to the stable. Tell my driver to harness the horses and make ready to travel as soon as possible.’
 
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‘You’re leaving?’ She looked back at him, wide-eyed. ‘Surely not, sir. The lady’s still very weak and needs to rest.’

‘She can rest in the carriage on the way to Dublin.’

‘Dublin? But, my lord, that’s …’ The midwife frowned as she tried to imagine a distance further than she had travelled in her entire life. ‘That’s too long a journey for your lady, sir. In her condition. She needs rest, so she does.’

‘She’ll be fine. It’s the boy I’m concerned for. He needs a doctor; you can’t do any more for him. Now go and tell my driver to get the carriage ready.’

She said nothing, but just shrugged. If the young lord wanted to put the life of his wife at risk for the sake of a puny infant that was certain to die, then that was his decision. And he would have to live with the consequences.
 
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The midwife bobbed, scurried over to the stairs and descended with a clumping of boots. Garrett shot a last look of disdain in her direction before he turned away and hurried down the hall to the room where his wife lay. He paused for an instant outside the door, concerned for her health in the difficult journey to come. Even now he wondered if he was following the best course of action. Perhaps that midwife was right after all, and the boy would die long before they could reach a doctor skilled enough to save him. Then Anne would have suffered for nothing the discomfort of the carriage’s bumpy progress along the rutted road to Dublin. Worse still, it might place her health in jeopardy as well. One certain death if they stayed here. Two possible deaths if they made for Dublin. A certainty against a possibility. Put like that Garrett decided they must take the risk. He grasped the iron handle, thrust it down and pushed the door open.
 
The inn’s best room was a cramped affair of clammy plastered walls with a chest, a washstand, and a large bed above which hung a plain cross. To one side of the bed was a table and on it rested a pewter candle stand. Three half-melted candles wavered ever so faintly from the draught of the door’s movement. Anne stirred beneath the folds of the covers and her eyes flickered open.

‘My love,’ she murmured, ‘we have a son, see.’

Easing herself up on the bolster she nodded gently to the bundle in the crook of the other arm.

‘I know.’ Garrett forced himself to smile back. ‘The midwife told me.’

He crossed to the bed and lowered himself to his knees beside his wife, taking her spare hand in both of his.

‘Where has she gone?’

‘To give word for our carriage to be readied.’

‘Readied?’ Anne’s gaze flickered towards the shutters, but there was no fringe of light around the edges. ‘It’s still dark. Besides, my love, I’m tired. So very tired. I must rest. Surely we can spare a day here?’

‘No. The child needs a doctor.’

‘A doctor?’ Anne looked confused. She removed her hand from her husband’s grasp and carefully drew back a fold of the soft linen cloth wrapped round the baby. In the warm glow of the candles Garrett saw the puffy features of the infant - eyes closed and lips still. Only the rhythmic flaring of the tiny nostrils indicated any sign of life. Anne stroked a finger across the wrinkled forehead. ‘Why a doctor?’

‘He’s weak and needs the proper attention as soon as possible. The only place we can be sure of that is Dublin.’

Anne frowned. ‘But that’s a day’s journey from here. At least.’

‘Which is why I’ve given orders to ready the carriage. We must leave at once.’

‘But, Garrett—’

‘Hush!’ He softly pressed a finger to her lips. 'You mustn’t exert yourself. Rest, my dear. Save your strength.’

He rose from the bed. Beyond the shutters there were sounds of stirring from down in the coach yard; one of the grooms cursing as the gates squeaked on rusty hinges. Garrett nodded towards the window. ‘I must go. They’ll need a firm hand to get us on the road in good time.’
 
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Down in the inn’s cobbled yard, two lanterns had been lit and hung from brackets outside the coach house. The doors had been wedged open and inside dim figures were harnessing the horses.

‘Hurry up there!’ Garrett called out as he crossed the yard. 'We must leave at once.’

‘But it’s still night, my lord.’ A man emerged from the servants’ quarters, pulling on his overcoat, and Garrett dismissed his coachman’s protest with a curt wave of his hand.

‘We leave the moment my wife is dressed and ready to travel, O’Shea. See to it that our baggage is loaded. Now get those horses out here and harnessed to the carriage.’

‘Yes, my lord. As you wish.' The coachman bowed his head, and strode into the stable. ‘Come on, lads! Move, you idlers!’

Garrett’s gaze flickered up to the window of his wife’s room and he felt a pang of guilt at not being by her side. He glanced back towards the stable and frowned.

‘Come on there, you men! Set to it!’
 
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Garrett Wesley, composer & first Earl of Mornington. Elected first Professor of Music at Trinity College Dublin in 1764
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Chapter 2
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The carriage rumbled out of the yard in the last hour of darkness. Turning on to the roughly cobbled street of the village, the iron-bound wheels rattled harshly, shattering the silence of the night. On either side the dark mass of the houses packed along the length of the street were momentarily illuminated by the two carriage lanterns. Inside, the coach was lit by a single lamp fixed to the bulkhead behind the driver. Garrett sat with his arm around his wife and stared down at the still form of their son, cradled in her lap. The midwife was right. The baby looked weak and limp. Anne glanced at her husband, reading his concerned expression accurately.
‘The midwife told me everything before we left. I know there is little enough chance that he will survive. We must put our trust in the Lord.’
‘Yes,’ Garrett nodded.
 
The carriage pulled out of the village and the rattle of cobblestones gave way to the softer rumble of the unpaved turnpike that wound through the countryside towards Dublin. Garrett flicked back one of the curtains from the small carriage door and pulled down the window.

‘O’Shea!’

‘My lord?’

‘Why are we not going faster?’

‘It’s dark, my lord. I can barely make out the way ahead. If we go any faster we could run off the road, or turn the carriage over. Not long to dawn now, sir. We’ll make better time as soon as there’s light to see.’

‘Very well.’ Garrett frowned, sliding the window closed before he slumped back against the padded seat. His wife took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

‘My dear, O’Shea’s a good man. He knows he must hurry.’

‘Yes.’ Garrett turned to her. ‘And you? How are you coping?’

‘Well enough. I’ve never been so tired.’

Garrett stared at her, thin-lipped. ‘I should have left you to rest at the inn.’

‘What? And carried our son to Dublin by yourself ?’

He shrugged, and Anne chuckled. ‘My dear, much as I think you are a fine husband, there are some things that only a mother can do. I have to stay with the boy.’

‘Has he fed?’

Anne nodded. ‘A little. Shortly before we left the inn. But not enough. I don’t think he has the strength.’ She lifted her little finger to the baby’s lips and teased them softly, trying to provoke a reaction. But the child wrinkled his nose and turned his face away. ‘It seems he has little will to live.’

‘Poor lad,’ Garrett said softly. ‘Poor Henry.’ He felt his wife stiffen as he used the name. ‘What is it?’

‘Don’t call him that.’ She turned away to the window.

‘But, it’s the name we agreed on.’

‘Yes. But he might not … live. I’d saved the name for a son who would be strong. If he dies then I’d not use the name for another. I couldn’t.’

‘I understand.’ Garrett gently squeezed her shoulder. ‘But no Christian child should die without a name.’

‘No …’Anne looked down at the tiny face. She felt powerless, knowing that scant hours might lie between the present and the moment at which the baby moved on to the next world, scarcely drawing breath in this. There would be sorrow in vast disproportion to the duration of the infant’s life. Conferring a name on the sickly thing would only make matters worse and she shied away from the duty.
 
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‘Anne …’ Garrett was still looking at her. ‘He needs a name.’

‘Later. There’ll be time for that later.’

‘What if there isn’t?’

‘We must trust to God that there will be time.’

Garrett shook his head. It was typical of her. Anne hated life to confront her with any difficulties. Garrett drew a deep breath. ‘I want him to have a name. Not Henry, then,’ he conceded. 'But we must agree one now, while he still lives.’

Anne winced and looked out of the window. But all she saw was the juddering images of herself, and her husband and child reflected back at her.

‘Anne …’

‘Very well,’ she said irritably. ‘Since you insist. We shall name him. For whatever good it will do. What name shall we give him?’
 
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Garrett stared down at the boy for a moment, marvelling at the depth of his feelings for the infant, and at the same time dreading the midwife’s verdict. For Anne to have carried him in her womb for so many months; to have felt his first fluttering movements; to know that she carried a life within her … When she had told Garrett of the awful stillness within her womb, they had rushed to Dublin in a blind panic, only to have the birth begin on the way. When the child had been born alive, Garrett had felt his heart fill with relief, which had been crushed when the midwife had gently explained that the child was too weak to live. He fought back the grief welling up inside his heart.

‘Garrett?’ Anne raised her face to look into his eyes. ‘Oh, Garrett, I’m so sorry, I’m not being much help, am I?’

‘I - I’ll be fine. In a moment.’

He straightened up and held her close to him, sensing the strain in her body even as the carriage jolted along the rutted turnpike. Outside, the first pale grey glimmer of dawn smudged the rim of the hills to the east and the coachman cracked his whip above the heads of the horses, increasing the pace.

Anne forced herself to concentrate. A name was needed - quickly. ‘Arthur.’

Garrett smiled at her and looked down at their son.

‘Arthur,’ he repeated. ‘After the king. Little Arthur.’ He stroked the infant’s silken forehead. ‘A fine name. One day you’ll be as gallant and courageous as your namesake.’

‘Yes,’ Anne said quietly. ‘Just what I was going to say.’
 
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The dawn, grey and drizzling, broke across the Irish countryside, and the rutted track soon became muddy and sucked at the carriage wheels as the vehicle splashed along. At noon they stopped briefly in a small town to rest the horses and take refreshment. Anne stayed in the carriage with the child and tried to breast-feed him again. As before, Arthur’s lips smacked as he sought out the proffered nipple, but after only a few convulsive sucks he turned his face away, choking and dribbling, and refused any more.
 
As the light faded, and darkness wrapped itself around the carriage once again, the turnpike wound round a hill and, ahead, Garrett could see the distant twinkle of hundreds of lights from windows as the capital came into view. Once more O’Shea had to slow the pace as he strained to see the track ahead. And so it was two hours after nightfall before the carriage entered the city, and clattered through the streets to the house at Merrion Street.

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Mornington House on Merrion St, Dublin​
 
Garrett gently handed down his wife and child, and ushered them inside, giving orders that a fire be stoked up in the parlour at once, and that warm food be prepared for Anne and himself. Then he sent servants out to find a wet nurse and to summon Dr Kilkenny - the most reputable of the city’s doctors.

He was led into the parlour just as Anne and Garrett were finishing their broth. Garrett jumped to his feet and clasped the doctor’s gloved hand in greeting.

‘Thank you for coming so soon.’

‘Yes, well, I was told it was urgent.’ The doctor’s breath carried the odour of wine. 'So where’s my patient, Wesley? This young lady?’

‘No.’ Anne gestured towards the crib, warming by the fire. 'Our son, Arthur. He was born last night. The midwife said he was poorly as soon as she saw him. She said we must expect the worst.’

‘Ah!’ The doctor shook his head. ‘Midwives! What does a woman know of medicine, an Irish woman at that? They should never be permitted to pronounce on medical matters. Their remit is purely the delivery of babies. Now what’s the matter with the boy?’

‘He’s not feeding, Doctor.’

‘What? Not at all?’

‘Only a few mouthfuls. Then he chokes and won’t take any more.’

‘Hmm.’ Dr Kilkenny set his bag down beside the crib, shuffled out of his coat and handed it to Garrett before leaning over the baby and gently folding back the linen swaddling. His nose wrinkled at an all-too-familiar odour. ‘Nothing wrong with his bowels at least.’

‘I’ll have him changed.’

‘In a moment, after I’ve examined him.’
 
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Anne and Garrett watched in anxious silence as the doctor leaned over their child and examined the tiny body closely in the wavering glow of the candles in the chandelier. There was a faint cry from the crib as the doctor pressed lightly on the child’s stomach and Anne started in alarm. Dr Kilkenny glanced over his shoulder. ‘Rest easy, my dear woman. That’s perfectly normal.’

Garrett reached for her hands and held them tightly as the doctor finished his examination and straightened up.

Garrett looked at him. ‘Well?’

‘He might live.’

‘Might live …’ Anne whispered. 'I thought you could help us.’

‘My dear lady, there are only so many things a doctor can do to help his patients. Your boy is weak. I’ve seen many like this. Some are lost very quickly. Others linger for days, weeks even, before succumbing. Some survive.’

‘But what can be done for him?’

‘Keep him warm. Try to feed him as often as you can. You must also rub him with an ointment I’ll leave with you. Once in the morning and once at night. It’s a stimulant. It may well mean the difference between life and death. The child may cry when you apply it, but you must ignore any tears and continue the treatment. Understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now, my coat, please. I’ll have the bill sent round in the morning. I bid you both good night, then.’
 
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As soon as the doctor had left, Garrett slipped down into a chair close to the crib and stared helplessly at the baby. Arthur’s eyes flickered open for a moment, but the rest of his body seemed as limp and lifeless as before. Garrett watched for a while longer, then rubbed his tired eyes.

‘You should go to bed,’ Anne said quietly. ‘You’re exhausted. You need to rest. You must be strong in the coming days. I’ll need your support. So will he.’

‘His name is Arthur.’

‘Yes. I know. Now go to bed. I’ll stay here with him.’

‘Very well.’

As Garrett left the room, his wife stared down at the baby, stroking her brow wearily.
 
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The next day Anne continued to try to feed the child, but he took little of her milk and shrank away before their eyes. At first the application of the ointment made the infant howl, but after a few moments, Anne discovered that he quickly sought out the comfort of her breast once smeared with the ointment, which smelled faintly of alcohol.

Anne and Garrett kept his birth a close secret, not wishing to have endless visits from concerned friends and relatives. They did not even send word back to their home in Dangan to let their other children know about their new brother.
 
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Then, on the fourth day after his birth, an excited Anne burst into her husband’s study to tell him that Arthur was feeding properly at last. And slowly, as he continued to feed, he gained weight and colour and began to wriggle and writhe as infants should. Until at last it was clear that he would live. Only then, on the first of May, over three weeks after his birth did the parents announce the birth of Arthur Wesley, third son of the Earl of Mornington, in the Dublin papers.
 
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Close-up of plaque mounted near the front door of 24 Upper Merrion-street, Dublin​
 
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Chapter 3

Corsica, 1769​

Archdeacon Luciano had just begun the blessing when Letizia’s waters broke. She had been standing in a pool of light cast by a bright sun shining fully through the high arched window behind the altar of the Cathedral in Ajaccio. It was a hot August day and the light carried a searing heat with it, so that she felt warm and prickly beneath the dark folds of her best clothes, the ones she wore only for mass. Letizia felt perspiration trickle under her arms, cool enough to make her shiver. And, as if in response, the child inside the grossly swollen lump of her stomach lashed out with its limbs.

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The present cathedral was built between 1577 and 1593 and is attributed to Italian architect Giacomo della Porta.
It was built to replace the former Cathedral of Saint-Croix, destroyed in 1553 in order to make room for developments
in the city's defences, as stated in the permit required by the Council of Ancients in 1559 to the Senate of Genoa and
Pope Gregory XIII in order to build a new cathedral. The final stone was laid in 1593 by Jules Guistiniani, made bishop
by Pope Sixtus V. It is where Napoleon Bonaparte was baptised on 21 July 1771 and he recited the following on his
deathbed in Saint Helena in 1821: "If they forbid my corpse, as they have forbidden my body, deny me a small piece of
land in which to be buried, I wish to be buried with my ancestors in Ajaccio Cathedral in Corsica."

The cathedral has been a monument historique (a national heritage site of France) since 30 October 1906.

According to legend, on 15 August 1769, Letizia Buonaparte felt sudden labour pains while in the cathedral. She rushed home to the
Buonaparte's home, just steps away, and gave birth to Napoleon on a first floor sofa before she could reach her bedroom upstairs.​
 
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Letizia smiled. So different from her first child. Giuseppe had lain in her womb so still that she had feared another stillborn baby. But he was a fine healthy little boy now. Meek as a lamb. Not like the one inside her, who even now seemed to be struggling to burst upon the world. Perhaps it was due to the nature of his conception and the life that she and Carlos had been forced to lead during her pregnancy. For over a year they had been fighting the French: long months of trekking across the craggy mountains and hidden valleys of Corsica as they set ambushes for French patrols, or attacked one of their outposts, killing its garrison, then fleeing into the interior before the inevitable column of infantry arrived to hunt them down. Months of hiding in caves, in the company of the rough band of peasants that Carlos commanded. Patriots, hunted down like animals.
 
It was in such a cave, she recalled, that the child had been conceived. On a bitter winter evening, shortly before Christmas, as she and Carlos lay on a bed of pine branches, covered in worn and soiled blankets. Around them, their followers had slept on, or pretended to, as their leader and his young wife moved quietly beneath their coverings. She had felt no shame over it. Not when the next day might bring death for either, or both of them, leaving Giuseppe an orphan in the house of his grandparents.
 
They had fought the invaders through the winter, into the first flushes of spring, and all the while Letizia felt the life growing inside her. With the early successes of the rebellion, Carlos and the other patriots had been so sure of victory that General Paoli abandoned his small war of ceaseless skirmishes and led his forces into battle at Ponte Nuovo. There they had been roundly beaten by the ordered ranks and massed volleys of professional soldiers. Hundreds of men cut down; their passion for Corsican independence no defence against the lead musket balls that whirled through their ranks. A waste of fine men, thought Letizia. Paoli had squandered their lives for nothing. After Ponte Nuovo the surviving patriots were driven into the mountains, there to remain until Paoli fled from the island and the triumphant French offered an amnesty to the men deserted by their general.
 
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The Battle of Ponte Novu took place on May 8 and 9 1769 between royal French forces under the Comte de Vaux, a seasoned
professional soldier with an expert on mountain warfare on his staff, and the native Corsicans under Carlo Salicetti. It was the
battle that effectively ended the fourteen year-old Corsican Republic and opened the way to annexation by France the following
year. The Corsican commander-in-chief, Pascal Paoli, was trying to raise troops in the vicinity but was not present in person. He
trusted the defence to his second-in-command, Salicetti. His forces included a company of Corsican women under a female captain
named Serpentini. Ponte Novu is a Genovese bridge over the Golo River in north central Corsica in Castello-di-Rostino commune.
The battle opened the route through the rugged mountains to the Corsican capital of Corte. The battle is important as it marked
the end of the Corsican War and paved the way for the incorporation of Corsica into France. Voltaire, in his Précis du Siècle de Louis XV,
admiringly wrote about the battle: "The principal weapon of the Corsicans was their courage. This courage was so great that in one
of these battles, near a river named Golo, they made a rampart of their dead in order to have the time to reload behind them before
making a necessary retreat; their wounded were mixed among the dead to strengthen the rampart. Bravery is found everywhere,
but such actions aren't seen except among free people."​
 
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Filippo Antonio Pasquale de' Paoli {6 April 1725 – 5 February 1807)
was a Corsican patriot, statesman and military leader who was at the
forefront of resistance movements against the Genoese and later French
rule in the island. He became the president of the Executive Council of
the General Diet of the People of Corsica, and also designed and wrote
the Constitution of the state.

The Corsican Republic was a representative democracy asserting that
the elected Diet of Corsican representatives had no master. Paoli held
his office by election and not by appointment. It made him commander
-in-chief of the armed forces as well as chief magistrate. Paoli's
government claimed the same jurisdiction as the Republic of Genoa.
In terms of de facto exercise of power, the Genoese held the coastal
cities, which they could defend from their citadels, but the Corsican
republic controlled the rest of the island from Corte, its capital.

Following the French conquest of Corsica in 1768, Paoli oversaw the
Corsican resistance. Following the defeat of Corsican forces at the
Battle of Ponte Novu he was forced into exile in Britain where he was
a celebrated figure. He returned after the French Revolution, of which
he was initially supportive. He later broke with the revolutionaries
and helped to create the Anglo-Corsican Kingdom which lasted
between 1794 and 1796. After the island was re-occupied by France
he again went into exile in Britain where he died in 1807.​
 
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Letizia had been with child for seven months by that time, and Carlos, fearing for her health, and by no means content to spend any more time living like a savage, had accepted the enemy’s offer.

Within a week they had returned to their home in Ajaccio. The struggle was over. Corsica, so long the property of Genoa, had a fleeting taste of independence and was now the possession of France.

And so the child inside her would be born French.
 
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Without warning Letizia felt an explosion of fluids between her thighs and gasped in surprise as she snatched a hand to her mouth in an instant of confusion and fear.

Carlos turned to her quickly. ‘Letizia?’

She stared back, wide-eyed. ‘I must leave.’

Faces nearby turned towards them with disapproving expressions. Carlos tried to ignore them. ‘Leave?’

‘The child,’ she whispered. ‘It’s coming. Now.’
 
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Carlos nodded, slipped an arm round her thin shoulders and with a quick bow of his head towards the huge gold cross on the altar, he led his wife down the aisle towards the entrance to the cathedral. Letizia gritted her teeth and waddled slightly as she made for the doors. Outside in the dazzling sunshine, Carlos shouted at the bearers of a nearby sedan chair. At first they didn’t move, but then stirred when they saw that the woman was in pain. Carlos gently handed her inside and gave curt directions to their house. The bearers raised the sedan from the ground and set off. Carlos trotted alongside, casting anxious glances at his wife as she sat on the narrow seat, clenching her teeth and gripping the window frames tightly. The bearers grunted under their load and soon their breaths came in sharp gasps as their footsteps echoed off the sun-bleached houses crowding the narrow streets of Ajaccio.

A sharp cry drew Carlos closer and he looked on in terror at his wife’s tightly clenched face.

‘Letizia,’ he panted, and forced himself to smile as she glanced sidelong at him. ‘Not far, my love.’

Letizia lowered her head and groaned. ‘It’s coming!’

‘Faster!’ Carlos shouted at the bearers. ‘For pity’s sake. Faster!’

The sedan lurched round a corner, and there ahead of them lay the house, a large, plain building on three floors.

‘There!’ Carlos pointed. ‘That one!’
 
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Maison Bonaparte, Napoleon’s birthplace​


In Corsica, the most famous house is the Maison Bonaparte in Ajaccio where Napoleon was born on August 15, 1769.
According to tradition, his mother, Letizia Ramolino was praying in the nearby cathedral when she felt severe labour pains.
She hurried home, only making it to a first floor parlour where she gave birth to her second son,
named Napoleon after an uncle who had died in the Corsican struggle for independence.​
 
The bearers set the sedan down heavily, causing its passenger to cry out once more, and Carlos cursed them, even as he wrenched the flimsy door open and lifted his wife out. He threw a few coins to the bearers, fumbled for the key in the fob of his waistcoat, rattling it into the iron lock, then thrusting the door open.

Inside the house the air was cool and musty. Letizia panted in quick sharp breaths and desperately stared round the dark interior.

‘That chair.’ She nodded to a low, worn couch in the corner. ‘Help me down.’

As soon as she lay back against the arm of the couch Letizia reached for the hem of her skirts. Then she paused and looked at her husband. His expression was riddled with fear and anxiety, and she knew he would not cope with what was to come. He had been witness to only one of her deliveries, a stillborn child, and had been consumed by helpless anguish as he had stared down at the pale, lifeless bundle of bloodied flesh. She would have to do this without him. She would do it without any help. The house was empty; everyone was at mass.

‘Go!’ Letizia nodded towards the door. ‘Fetch Dr Franzetti.’
 
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After the briefest of hesitation Carlos turned for the door. He pulled it to behind him and Letizia heard his boots echoing down the street as he went for help. Then all thought of Carlos was gone as the muscles of her stomach turned hard as iron, gripping her in a crucible of agony. She hissed through clenched teeth, then opened her mouth in a silent scream as the pain seemed to endure for an age before it at last relented and slowly relaxed its grasp. She gasped for breath, and felt a terrible straining in her groin. Her hands wrenched the hems of her skirts up and bunched the folds over the stretched smooth skin of her stomach.

Then another contraction seized her and Letizia cried out loud, and as it reached its climax she strained her stomach muscles and with a superhuman effort forced the child from her womb. For a moment nothing happened, just waves and waves of pain, and with a last reserve of strength Letizia pressed down.

With a slick rush of sound the strain disappeared and she felt hollow. At once euphoria flushed through her body as she reached down between her thighs and gently closed her fingers round the sticky body of the infant that lay there. It flinched at her touch, and with tears of relief and joy Letizia raised the baby up towards her chest, trailing its pasty grey umbilical cord.

A boy.

He opened his mouth a fraction and a bubble of spittle grew on his lips before bursting. Tiny fingers twitched and clenched into small fists as Letizia hurriedly untied the straps that held the top of her dress together. Her breasts were swollen far beyond their normal size and, cupping her hand round her pallid flesh, she offered the nipple up to the boy. At once his lips puckered, began to make smacking noises and then closed round the nipple. She smiled.

‘Clever boy.’
 
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When Carlos and Dr Franzetti hurried into the room a short while later Letizia smiled up at them. ‘He’s fine. See Carlos, a fine healthy boy.’

Her husband nodded as the doctor hurried over and set his bag down beside the couch. He gave the baby a quick examination and nodded his satisfaction before turning back to his bag. From inside he brought out a steel clip and carefully attached it to the umbilical cord close to the child’s stomach before he produced a pair of scissors and cut through the tough sinewy fibre of the cord. When all was done Dr Franzetti eased himself up and stared down at the child, its mother and the father. Carlos beamed proudly at his new son as he held his wife round the shoulders. The infant, even though it had drunk its fill of breast-milk wriggled restlessly in the crook of Letizia’s arm.

‘He’s a lively one,’ Dr Franzetti smiled. His smile faltered as he recalled Letizia’s two previous babies who had not survived into this world. ‘He’s strong and healthy. He’ll do well enough now and should cause you no problems. I will go.’

Carlos drew his arm away from his wife and rose to his feet. ‘Thank you, Doctor!’

‘Pah! I did little. It was Letizia there. She did all the hard work. A brave wife you have there, Carlos.’

Carlos glanced down at her and smiled. ‘I know.’

Dr Franzetti picked up his bag and turned towards the door. He paused at the threshold and turned back, staring at the woman and her child on the couch.

‘Have you decided on a name?’

‘Yes.’ Letizia looked up. ‘He’s to be named after my uncle.’

‘Oh?’

‘Naboleone.’

Dr Franzetti placed his cap on his head and nodded in farewell. ‘I’ll call in a few days from now to see how the child’s faring. Until then, I bid you good day, Carlos, Letizia.’ His gaze flickered down to the lively baby and he chuckled. ‘And you too, of course, young Naboleone Buona Parte.’
 
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