THE WORMWOOD SAGA

Part Four

THE CORSICAN SISTERS

Cover design: Dave Chisholm Cartoons

A “Very Brief” Author’s Note

(Skip if read)

Some reading this will be familiar with the 15 David Donachie novels in the John Pearce series. Up till now, all my novels bar two, have been traditionally published and distributed, which means I have shared any revenue with the publisher. No more: from now on my naval fiction will be put up both as digital downloads and POD paperbacks by me. I hope you, my readers, with not only stick with me, but communicate too, giving me the kind of feedback which, at present, I’m denied. The story below is a departure in the nature of the narrative, but I hope you will enjoy it just as much as I did writing it: either way, you can now tell me what you think!

The Wormwood Saga does not set out to be a realistic description of the King’s Navy in the late 18th Century. It was written for amusement and to be humorous, based on the certainty not all naval officers could have been brave and upright. We think we live in a corrupt and greedy society; compared to the reign of George III, we are in a collective Utopia. Nothing could be achieved without influence or money, so the acquiring and brokering of such commodities exercised naval minds as much as the thought of battle or glory. Not all could be competent either: some, surely, were frankly too dangerous to be let loose with even a bum boat.

There was also a high degree of sexual licentiousness, hardly surprising given the young age and nature of those serving at sea, away from home in an entirely male environment for months on end, making every landfall an excuse to indulge excessively in drink and copulation. The wedded estate was hardly a bar either. It was the married Captain Horatio Nelson who declared that, “Every man is a bachelor east of Gibraltar!” One of his predecessors in the Mediterranean, Captain Augustus Hervey, was said to have fathered over fifty illegitimate children during the Seven Years War, surely a feat never equalled.

Lest it be thought I don't admire our naval champions, let me say I most assuredly do, given the endemic corruption of the time, sailing sometimes in ships which might literally fall apart, added to the lack of support generally received from seniors, juniors, the general public and the government. That those who officered the Men O’ War achieved any success at all is amazing. They led the most bloody minded, best trained and effective seaman afloat, so could go into battle knowing whatever happened the men before the mast, if there was the slightest chance of prize money, would never let them down.

So would it be churlish to point out many plying their guns, trimming the sails and harrying the trade of Britannia's foes did it not for King and Country, but for the prospect of capturing intact a valuable enemy, none more than the most potent dream of all, the taking of a Spanish Plate ship. The capture of such a vessel was the equivalent of winning the modern Lottery and who, even today, would not wish for that!

So I invite you to read on…..

DAVID DONACHIE

Deal 2019

Email: david@twofingersbooks.com

Website: www.twofingewrsbooks.com

Facebook: Two Fingers Books

Twitter: #twofingersbooks

1.

Stripped to the waist, Lord Charles Wormwood sat in the captain’s cabin of HMS Petra, his sailor/servant Kissock, tending to the slight gash in his upper arm, this inflicted by a musket ball in the recent action to cut out an enemy corvette. Every time Wormwood flinched and turned his head away to hide the pain, which he did as Kissock applied a swab of brandy, the one-time child pickpocket was able to smile and dab once more. Thus he could accept, without reaction, being vilified as both a coward and an ingrate.

Here lay a rare chance for Kissock to reverse the abuse to which he was regularly exposed, bearable in comparison to the misery of serving before the mast. This had been his station in life for too many years, so mistreatment could be borne for the sake of a more comfortable berth. For all its shortcomings in terms of respect, being an officer’s servant was bliss by comparison. It meant better food, proper sleep and only being ordered about by one blue coat, instead of any sod who cared to exercise authority.

In addition, his master depended on him for advice. Having reluctantly joined the Navy only months before, at the insistence of his arriviste and wealthy father, the Earl of Moidart, the son had taken up his duties as a midshipman in a state of total ignorance.

Malign fate had seen him participate in an action against the French, one which turned him into something of a hero, this making exposure of his failings more likely, not less. Undeservedly promoted to lieutenant through the devious machination and downright chicanery of his maternal uncle, Captain Harry Hamilton, he’d garnered since much more authority but scarcely more knowledge.

Thus he was obliged, when in doubt, to consult Kissock. Given the mass of things Wormwood needed to know, he required that which had been absorbed by his rat-faced servant after many years at sea. It could have been called a marriage of convenience, if either party had possessed an ounce of mutual respect, but this was lacking.

Kissock harboured less than kindly feelings about the likes of Charles Wormwood; rich, rude and insensitive. His master, having grown up in a house full of servants, held them all to be thieves and slackers, who’d not lift a finger unless driven and would purloin and sell your property as soon as you turned your back.

This formed the only flaw in Kissock’s appreciation of his position; he was serving a man who trusted no one, so the original intention to milk him of his possessions and money had proved near impossible.

Not that all hope had been abandoned; he was sure there had to be a way, so spent an inordinate amount of his time trying to find it.

*

The French corvette just taken, identified as the Mariette, had been anchored just outside a deep bay, at the base of which lay the Corsican town of Porto Vecchio. The capture had been far from simple; in fact both Charles and Captain Trelawney had been humbugged, drawn into a very dangerous trap, without being sure by whom it had been set.

Ultimately successful, it had cost several lives, including, at the very outset, that of Trelawney. Having got clear, the surviving crew spent the rest of the day shifting stores into the newly taken vessel, repairing her rigging, helping the wounded and preparing the dead for burial.

HMS Petra, with her prize in company, was now beating back through the charmingly named Bouches de Bonifacio, the strait which separated Corsica from Sardinia, this as Charles prepared himself for what was to come.

He had to oversee the burial of those who’d died in the action. Their bodies had been sown in canvas, a stitch though their nose, with a cannonball at their feet. In rehearsing the words of the ceremony, he’d sought the right tone of funereal piety. What came out on deck was so far from successful, it led to the general opinion they might as well have chucked the poor buggers over the side.

An inspection of the Mariette established she was well found in stores, except for wood, water and powder. A certain amount of the first two could come from the Petra, but Kissock advised it would be safer to make good the deficit before re-joining the fleet.

So, having first made sure it was safe to do so, they’d called in to another deep bay. Anchoring off a fishing village called Gurgazo, they made up the necessary stores, also buying fresh provender from the inhabitants, both fisher folk and farmers.

Acting Lieutenant Pettigrew had been given command of the Mariette, with one midshipman, a master’s mate and a half the crew to assist. So, for a short period, the spotty pest would have the freedom of command. He too would enjoy the privacy of the captain’s cabin, a room no one could enter without permission.

The next task for Charles was to write up the ship’s log. There being no harm in gilding the lily, he made much of being struck by a musket ball but keeping to his duty, exaggerating the wound while placing the acquisition at the beginning of the action, not the very end.

The privilege of keeping and writing the log was not one to be treated lightly, this being the daily diary of the ship, its crew, stores and condition. Uncle Harry Hamilton had made sure Charles knew the facts; a captain filled it in almost as it suited him, albeit it must, in a good measure, correspond to the other logs being compiled, those of the Master, the Gunner, the Purser and the Carpenter.

It would not do if some ill-disposed junior raised questions as to the validity of the captain’s entries regarding stores condemned which were perfectly edible, or shot and powder listed as being used in training while, in fact, the guns were never employed.

Likewise assertions cables and canvas supplied from the dockyard storerooms came deficient in both length and square footage. The trick was to ensure those providing such supplies, in a measure which suited their standing, shared in any rewards which came from the pickings. A course could be listed which did not correspond exactly to the one taken, allowing a little wandering in search of prizes.

By law, a captain was only allowed to give a dozen lashes for any offence; it truth most administered a great many more but the log would state the legal dozen. If a man expired at the grating, he would merely be entered as having “died in the execution of his duties”, with no mention of the cat coming out of the bag at all.

So Wormwood, by dint of a superior’s demise, raised from First Lieutenant to Captain, made sure his contribution was at the centre of the tale, both in the log and in the despatch he must write next, in a similar vein, for the fleet commander.

Kissock’s telling contribution would not mentioned at all while Charles would take credit for a signalling idea which had been Pettigrew’s. Apart from this he would praise the boy, while alluding to his youth, his inexperience and the need, after the death of Captain Trelawney and considering the situation in which they found themselves, to remind Mister Pettigrew of his duty. It was appropriate, as far Charles was concerned to say, on being so prompted, he had behaved extremely well.

The master would also be praised for his handling of the Petra as well as his gunnery, which had saved the day and quite possibly Charles’s life. That said, anyone reading between the lines would see good training and a proper sense of discipline, both exercised by the First Lieutenant prior to the action, stood as the primary cause of his capable performance.

All in all, it would amount to a good day’s work. He’d slant the despatch in such a way as to assist to him to that which he sought, a permanent position as a Master and Commander, perhaps in the HMS Petra or in the captured corvette.

*

They made a fine sight, the two small warships as, on a steady wind, they positively flew along with a full set of sails aloft. They ignored the waving of the fishermen as they hailed the Union flag flying over the tricolour, an international message to say Britannia had triumphed over France.

Their destination was Ajaccio, the largest town on Corsica, which, from the available intelligence, was basically unfortified, only having a rundown citadel above the town. If there were no warships in the harbour, Charles knew he could dominate the area with his cannon, allowing him to find out, at no risk to himself, the state of affairs on the island.

To be a temporary captain was wonderful, even with such inexperienced subordinates. He listened to the holystoning of the deck, amazed at how comforting it sounded from his cot. To this he’d returned after overseeing the daily ritual, before the sun rose, in which the guns were run out and the ship was on high alert, in case an unseen enemy emerged from darkness.

Next came the bucket and broom men, so he was soothed by the gentle sound of the deck being washed, followed by the slap of the swabbers as they flogged the planking dry, an easy task in this warm climate.

Kissock saw to it his master’s breakfast was properly prepared, especially his coffee, but it was what happened after this he loved the most; the choice of breakfasting alone or choosing to have company. This one freedom, of solitude or sociability, was available to only one person on any ship not carrying an admiral.

He was just finishing a solitary dinner, the main course a Turbot in a clear shallot sauce, both purchased in Gurgazo, the preparation of which he had personally supervised, when the lookout hailed to say they were in sight of Ajaccio a town which lay in a bay on the northern shore of a deep bight.

Hard by the entrance, Kissock pointed out a group of islands best avoided, they being surrounded by dangerous reefs, white water breaking over them, each with an old watchtower cum lighthouse. Several minutes searching the chart identified them as the Isla di Sanguinaria, this information required before Charles could instruct the master to take them well clear of such a hazard.

This had become necessary because, after the action at Porto Vecchio, the man had begun to get above himself, proffering opinions not within his province. Charles must keep the fellow in his place, even if it meant giving him orders he would carry out anyway.

A glass trained on the harbour only a few minnows for fishing and inter island trade. These his servant named; small feluccas, the larger boats being Tartans, all within easy distance of a jetty on the western arm of a shady bay. Raising his telescope to the small citadel, Charles noted it with satisfaction. The flag flying from the tower was not a tricolour but the Moor’s Head ensign of an independent Corsica.

So he sailed into the bay, to drop anchor off the jetty, their arrival causing some excitement in the town; a group of people seemed to be hurrying away, while others stood on the jetty end as if to welcome them.

Ever prudent of his own safety, Charles sent a party of marines ashore under the command of Mr Collins now, with Pettigrew absent, Petra’s senior midshipman. If there was any danger let him face it first. Apparently they were well received and Collins sent back to say so.

*

Despite the lateness of the hour Charles decided to go ashore. There had been no sign of any officials, in fact the citadel seemed deserted, apart from the flag, a white background, with the face of a Moor wearing a white bandana round his forehead. The town reminded him of the less prosperous parts of Genoa, hardly surprising since it had belonged to that maritime power for centuries.

The late Trelawney’s orders were to try and contact the adherents of one Pasquali Paoli, the proponent of independence, and find out how he was faring against those Corsicans who favoured the present regime in Paris. This would have great bearing on the desirability of using the island as a base for the British fleet blockading Toulon.

‘Mr Collins, have you made contact with anyone?’

‘No, Milord,’ replied the spotty midshipman, as Charles came ashore. ‘I’ve tried to talk to a few of the locals but they just grin and point to the flag on top of the castle.’

‘Then it is to there we must go. Nip on ahead and see if there’s anyone about.’

Ajaccio was a one-street sort of town, a flat open space leading to a cobbled hill running from the shore to the citadel. Collins, leading four marines, marched on purposefully, between houses tightly packed together: flat-fronted and heavily shuttered buildings which looked exceedingly inhospitable.

This stood in contrast to those of the people, who seemed pleased to see them; locals stood in their doorways, smiling cheerfully, waving and calling out incomprehensible greetings. Following a good twenty yards behind, Charles tipped his hat as he passed, until finally he emerged into a cobbled square facing the citadel gate.

It was gross flattery to refer to it by such a name at all; the place was in a terrible state of repair. It looked as if any determined assault would take it in an hour.

‘Knock them up, Collins,’ he shouted from a safe, deeply shaded and empty doorway on the far side of the square.

The midshipman took out his cutlass and, using the hilt, banged on the metal studded door. They waited in silence as a whole minute went by, then another, Charles about to give up and turn away, when the gate was pulled open.

Given the whole place had a rather medieval air, he would not have been surprised to see emerge a knight in full armour. The fellow who now stood in the open doorway was more surprising than any such archaic character.

He was short, somewhat overweight and dressed incongruously in some of the finest and most dazzling silks Charles had ever seen; in fact he was positively ablaze with colour.

A scarlet coat over a flaring yellow waistcoat were the first things to catch the attention, this before you could appreciate the green silk breeches, the stockings, the shoes, the shirt and the stock. But most striking to the eye were the sparkling jewels covering both his stock and his hands, twinkling in the last of the evening light.

This glittering apparition came out on to the square and stood facing the sailors in their plain uniforms. Charles waited for half a minute then, perceiving no threat, left his shelter and walked across to introduce himself, thinking the way this fellow was dressed would have brought a blush of envy to the face of the Prince of Wales himself.

‘Good day to you, monsieur,’ he said, in French, ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lieutenant, Lord Wormwood, of His Britannic Majesty’s sloop, HMS Petra, which you have, no doubt, observed anchored berthed off the jetty.’

‘Indeed I have,’ came the reply in faultless English he, at the same time, raising a gold lorgnette to his eyes, examining Charles quizzically. ‘I also noticed another vessel.’

‘The Mariette, late of the French navy. We captured her yesterday.’

‘Ah! The English Navy,’ he cried, clapping his hands and sparkling away. ‘I have often remarked to His Majesty how lucky he is to possess such a weapon of war.’

‘His Majesty?’

‘I too must introduce myself.’

The name, Carlo Andreas Pozzo di Borgo, came with a deep and flourishing bow.

‘I have visited England many times and flatter myself I am well thought of by the court and I have often attended the levees at Windsor so I know your master quite well.’

‘How is His Majesty?’ he continued solicitously, though without waiting for a reply. ‘I hope he is not unwell, poor man, for his family is such a trial to him, yet I am fond of his boys, I must say….’

Di Borgo spoke at a furious pace, seeming not to draw breath and leaving no room in the steady flow of words for interruption.

‘…So here you are, the British Navy come to our little island of Corsica, a poor place as you’ll have already observed and hardly the spot for a gentleman but we must suffer for our beliefs since it our duty to fight the forces who threaten our liberties, oh yes, they do, although looking about you would wonder if any of this is worth protecting...

Charles tried to interrupt. ‘Signor....’

‘...but then you must take heed of the words of Pasquali Paolo, who has brought again the flag of an independent Corsica to fly over the country or at least part of it, for Calvi and Bastia are still true to the mainland and you would be hard pushed to hold Corsica without them. We look to you for assistance of course and I am just off to see Pasquali before proceeding to see your admiral...’

‘But....’

‘...to tell him of the state of affairs. Of course I should have sent someone down to invite you to dinner but the servants here. It is impossible to get anything done. I have had to dress myself and I even had to open the door myself. It is all Liberté, Egalité and Fraternité round here and with no troops and no money it is impossible to get any loyalty but I....’

‘Excuse me, sir!’ shouted Charles.

Di Borgo stopped and used one jewelled hand to slap the other. ‘I have been prattling on, have I not? It is a bad habit. King George used to scold me for it saying, once I started, conversation was dead and it was something I really must attend to.’

He paused catching the look in Charles eye. ‘Oh dear, I am such a poor host. Captain, please enter our humble Castello.’

They whole party followed the fabulous one inside, entering through a narrow doorway cut into the wall, to find a citadel even more dilapidated on the inside. The crumbling stone of the walls exactly matched the smell of decay, with the first chamber they passed through after crossing a courtyard, being used as a stable.

There were several packhorses, all seemingly well fed, plus one beautiful bay stallion, while the accoutrements beside its stall, saddlecloth, saddle, bridles and bits were as gorgeous as di Borgo’s clothing. A lace handkerchief was flicked by him in the direction of the horse.

‘One must travel this way in my native country,’ he added. ‘A coach would be out of place in such a primitive landscape.’

‘Keep a sharp eye out, Collins,’ hissed Charles. A lot of packhorses meant a lot of men, possibly soldiers.

‘Never fear, captain,’ the magnificent one intoned. ‘I do have a number of retainers, but I can hardly get them to lift a finger. The thought they might bestir themselves to defend me is ludicrous.’

They continued, ducking under small archways, coming eventually to a habitable suite of rooms, brilliantly lit by dozens of large candelabra. In the centre of the largest room, a table was set with very high quality plate and it was plain the steaming chafers contained the makings of a substantial repast.

‘I was about to enjoy a meal, captain. Perhaps you’d care to join me?’

‘Delighted’ Charles responded, sniffing the air appreciatively: he’d eaten fairly recently, but the smell of good food was too tempting to resist. Di Borgo clapped his hands and a servant appeared to be given instructions.

‘Mario, another place for the captain.’

The servant bowed, went over to a small chest, one of a number in the room and extracted a plate, from another knives and forks, from yet another a silver goblet. The other members of the crew stood respectfully in the background, which Charles found embarrassing.

‘Collins, repair back aboard and, in passing, inform Mister Pettigrew of the situation. All guns to be loaded and run out and the ships cleared for action, the boarding nets rigged.’

His mind raced as he tried to imagine all the things the efficient Pettigrew would already have done.

‘It’s a warm night so the men can sleep between the guns. Leave Kissock and two others to wait for me outside.’

Collins dragged his hungry midshipman’s eyes away from the dishes on the table and led the men out of the room, leaving Charles and di Borgo, apart from his servant, alone.

‘I can assure you the guns are unnecessary.’

‘Just a precaution’ Charles replied, before sitting down, producing a look which hinted at less than complete trust.

‘Mario,’ di Borgo called to the servant. ‘Tell Mario to lay out some travelling clothes for me’

This was acknowledged and the man made his way through a small archway.

‘Mario will only cook and serve the food, while my valet Mario will not countenance anything which does not attach to my person. My groom, Mario looks after the horses and nothing else. Hence I must open my door to you myself, since I left my Major Domo, Mario, in Corte.’

‘You seem to have a lot of Marios.’

‘They all came with me from Pisa. It’s very difficult in Italy to find anyone who is not called Mario, the Virgin being such a potent force for personal salvation. Believe me, captain, it is unwise to shout Mario in Italy. One could be trampled to death.’

‘You are preparing to travel to Corte?’

‘I am. I came here to visit a prominent local family, to see if they could be persuaded to support Pasquali Paoli instead of the government in Paris.’

The food was delicious, Bologna Sausages, swimming in a cassoulet of fresh broad beans, onions, herbs and lots of garlic backed up by a dish of very tart celery, which seemed have been baked in fennel. The wine was robust rather than refined, but perfectly suited to such a strong flavoured meal, so the least he could do was to indulge in a little conversation, given the matter was of some interest, pertaining, as it did, to his orders.

‘And were you successful?’

‘It is difficult to know,’ Di Borgo responded and he was off again, not pausing for breath.

‘It is a large family. The eldest brother resides in Corte and speaks loudly of his loyalty to our cause, while another brother has called for the Convention to sweep the forces of reaction from the island and he has, of course, advocated this from the safety of Marseilles.

Yet another brother, an army officer and a member of the National Guard, is here at the moment, though not the eldest he is unquestionably the head of the family. It is to him I appealed. He seemed to agree to support us, but then he issued a series of demands I fear Pasquali Paoli will refuse to consider so we are back in the melting pot. It is really too bad when people agree to things and then change the conditions of acceptance don’t you agree ...’ 

         Charles sat silently, happily munching and imbibing as di Borgo talked on and on. It transpired he’d been a deputy to the Convention in the early days of the Revolution, one of those people who believed in a better lot for the lower orders. Now he was surrounded by Marios who wouldn’t do what they were told by their master, so he only had himself to blame.

It also seemed this fellow had been everywhere and knew everyone, because Charles was treated, without the possibility of interruption, to a ‘tour de force’ of European, Mediterranean and especially Corsican history.

‘Di Borgo!’ his host cried to himself eventually, as he looked at his guest. ‘You must not allow me to go on so. I can be such a bore,’

‘It was very interesting,’ Charles lied, wiping the residue of a beautiful pear from his lips, taking a gulp of a fine sweet wine, which would not have bowed the knee in quality to Chateau d’ Y’quem, before laying down his heavy linen napkin and getting to his feet. ‘Now I really must get back to my ship.’

‘And I must tell Mario to pack. I return to Corte, to our hero Pasquali Paoli, to tell him what I have gleaned. It has been a pleasure to talk with you. Perhaps we shall meet again.’

The Corsican bowed once more, obliging Charles to do so in return. ‘The information you have given me will be passed on to Admiral Lord Hood as soon as I return to the fleet. I am sure he will be most intrigued.’

‘Hood you say? I was given to understand the commander was Admiral Dangerfield.’ The explanation was swift. ‘Thank you for putting me in the portrait, as you English say. Such an odd expression. Then perhaps I shall see you, for I am to sail to on to talk to your admiral after I visit Corte. If you’re nearby, I shall certainly ask Admiral Hood to send for you.’

Charles had a fleeting thought to offer passage, swiftly discarded: playing host to this fellow, with his gabbling talk, was not to be considered. 

‘I look forward to it.’

‘Allow me to escort you to the gate.’

His host picked up one of the candelabra, to lead Charles back through the narrow corridors. The packhorses were out of their stable and in the courtyard, most with their loads tied on and ready to leave. Di Borgo was treated to a final touch of the hat, before Charles exited through the gate to join the waiting Kissock, catching sight of him and the others just before the candlelight faded.

2.

‘A good dinner, Milord?’

‘Capital!’ said Charles, ignoring the obvious note of pique. The moon disappeared behind a bank of cloud and the night turned pitch dark. Without the candlelight, Kissock and the other two crew members were now invisible.

‘We’ll have a high old time getting back to the ship in this,’ his servant moaned. ‘What about knocking and asking for a lantern?’

‘Nonsense.’

Charles had no intention of going back into the citadel to face another dose of di Borgo: he had consumed well over a dozen glasses of wine, so his confidence was at full height.

‘All we have to do is head downhill. As long as we’re doing so then we’re going in the right direction.’

‘Maybe best we hold hands, sir?’ came from the disembodied voice of one of Kissock’s companions.

‘Certainly not! Confine that sort of suggestion to your unsavoury lower deck type.’

‘Tom was thinkin’ of us not getting separated, Milord,’ Kissock explained. ‘Who knows what the people are like in these parts.’

‘Rest assured, Kissock, you’ve nothing to fear. My host has convinced me the natives are friendly, which was borne out by the welcome we received as we walked up to the citadel. Corsica will soon be wholly committed to our cause.’

‘If you say so, your honour.’

‘Right,’ Charles ordered. ‘Follow me.’

What light existed now came from the thin silver lining on the edge of the bank of cloud which hid the moon. It barely extended to illuminating the uneven surface of the cobbled square and didn’t penetrate much of the narrow alleyway which led back to the jetty. They were obliged to keep their hands held out in front in order to avoid bumping into things, proceeding like blind men.

The night being warm and humid, away from the cooling interior stones of the citadel, Charles started to perspire in the warm muggy air. He also tripped on two occasions, cursing Kissock for a fool as the bank of cloud moved to completely hide the moon once more so, in amongst the huddled houses, there was no light at all.

‘Kissock,’ he called softly, ‘Do you think we’re going uphill or downhill?’

‘I ain’t got a clue, your honour.’

‘Useless oaf! Ask the others.’

‘Bill, Tom,’ Kissock called.’ How do you think the land lies?’ There was no reply. ‘Stop your messing about for the love of Christ.’ Still silence. ‘They’re not there, sir, we’ve lost them.’

‘That’s what I get for listening to you and your “flogging ain’t necessary, Milord”. First hint of a little difficulty and the men disappear. Well those two can have a dozen in the morning for a start. Come on, we’re probably on a level bit. We’ll start going downhill again soon.’

On they went, stumbling and cursing, though they did palpably begin to go downhill, a steep incline, which required a great deal of care to negotiate.

‘Why the hell you didn’t bring a lantern, Kissock, I don’t know!’

He got no reply, which made Charles feel good: he was fed up with the man’s insolence, as well as his increasing familiarity.

‘You’ve nothing to say for once, it makes a change. You’d better alter your ways or I’ll be looking for someone else to be my servant, d’ye hear me?’

Louder and louder his voice became, only to be greeted, when he finished, by complete silence. ‘That’s knocked the wind out of your sails and about time.’

‘Ouch!’ he cried as he slipped and barked his shin against something, his reaction an increase in both complaint and petulance.

‘Don’t enquire if I’m hurt, will you?’ Still silence. ‘Kissock, where are you?’

No reply. ‘Damned fool has gone and got lost as well.’ The thought then struck him he too was lost, until he heard a movement in the darkness. ‘Kissock, is that you?’

Nothing came in response. What was the name of those other two fellows? He knew they were called Tom and Bill, but he couldn’t address them as such, being an officer, any more than he could remember the surnames by which they mustered.

‘Come here you two.’ he said. Again there was a rustle of movement but no voices. ‘Kissock. If you are messing about, I will see you flogged around the fleet.’

The blow on the back of his head registered for only the briefest moment, until blackness took over and he fell forward on his face. 

*

Charles Wormwood awoke to feel a sponge, with deliciously cool water, being rubbed over his forehead and cheeks. Slowly he opened his eyes, then closed them again as the light from a nearby candle caused a piercing flash of pain. He lay for a moment, listening to the soft and soothing female voice, as the sponge continued its ministrations.

Gently he eased up his lids, slowly focusing on the object closest to his face, to find himself looking into a pair of dark, striking eyes, set in an olive-skinned and lovely young face. Black shiny hair formed a tunnel around the cheekbones as the girl leant over him, seeming to isolate it and him from the rest of their surroundings. Her body smelt of lemons and he knew he must be dreaming until a harsh voice broke the reverie.

‘Basta, Maria Paola!’

The command made her stand upright and step away, but his eyes stayed on her, which told him she was a girl of quite remarkable beauty, wearing a plain white garment which, in its simplicity, showed she was well on the way to being a fully-fledged woman. Another face came into his field of vision; male, round, with a sharp nose and two staring black eyes. His hair too was long, flowing and without any tie.

The fellow leant forward to examine him, then spoke in strongly accented French. It wasn’t the language which troubled Charles, but the breath, which reeked of garlic, causing the heavy meal sitting dormant in his stomach to churn around. He gagged and shot bolt upright, a spray of bile forcing itself through his gorge and out from his lips.

His examiner stepped back, but not speedily enough. A wall of vomit hit him on the front of his coat, this as Charles turned sideways to deposit the rest of di Borgo’s supper on the floor. A shocked silence followed and, turning back to look, Charles saw the man, a rather short fellow, standing silently, his arms apart, looking at the stain which covered his green uniform coat. If looks could kill, the glare Charles was getting from this pint sized person, would certainly do so.

The tension broke, with several female voices all gabbling at once. Clothes and water were fetched and the little soldier allowed his coat to be removed and his doeskin breeches to be wiped down, this as the smell of his own sick hit Charles, causing him to retch again.

The victim brushed the women aside, turned round to angrily leave the room. Charles lay back as the mess was cleared up, feeling in his throat and his nostrils the burning acidity which always follows on from a heave.

The young lovely came over to sponge his face again, murmuring words in Italian. As he looked into her liquid eyes, he had to fight the temptation to lift his hand and feel the small breast he could see, perfectly formed, pushing against the fabric of her dress. The same harsh male voice stopped him and, as she pulled away again, he sat up to observe the fellow was now wearing a threadbare dressing gown, staring at him in an unfriendly way, his round pallid face accentuating the hard quality of those eyes.

‘Monsieur! Allow me to apologise for the stupidity of my subordinates.’

The French was good, if harsh, with what Charles took to be an Italian accent, as he made a gesture to signify people who were not present.

‘It is a case of mistaken identity. They thought, in the darkness, you were someone else, my enemy, so clubbed you and brought you here for that reason. They have already felt my displeasure!’

Charles swung his legs to sit on the edge of the kitchen table, looking around slowly. The soldier was the only man in a room containing two other women, one elderly, the other very like the girl who had bathed his face, a little taller but with a less attractive features.

His nurse stood closer to him, ready to take up her task again, while by the door, half-hidden behind a large piece of furniture, stood a much younger pair, a girl and a boy. As he looked towards them, they ducked out of sight.

The man stepped forward and pulled himself into a rather formal pose, shoulders squared and hands behind his back.

‘Forgive me, monsieur, do you comprehend French?’ Charles nodded gently, causing a pain which made him wince. He put up a hand to feel the large bump on the back of his head. ‘You are an English officer, are you not?’

‘Lord Wormwood,’ he said softly. ‘Captain of His Britannic Majesty’s ship, HMS Petra.’

He looked once more into the black eyes, as the little officer drew himself to his full and very insubstantial height.

‘Captain of Artillery, Napoleone Buonaparte, at your service. I have already sent word to your ship to say you are safe. It is a most unfortunate occurrence.’

With that he disappeared again. Charles, with minimum bidding, followed the older of the two woman, to enter a larger room, rustically furnished, with whitewashed walls, to be shown to a chair which, like the rest of the rough-hewn furniture, appeared locally made. The floor was of flagged stone and a huge blackened fireplace stood empty. Within a minute Buonaparte came back to join them.

‘I feel I must explain I have many enemies, Lord Vurmvood.’

The way he formed the W’s, with his Italian accented French, was faintly comical, but this was only one factor which created an air of unreality. Buonaparte had also changed back into his uniform jacket, which had been thoroughly cleaned. From the way he kept tugging at it, as he paced up and down before his seated guest, it appeared he felt uncomfortable without it.

‘The choice between France and Corsica represents a dilemma for a man such as myself. I am not persuaded an independent Corsica is a good thing. After all, it is a very small place.’

‘So monsieur, is England, yet her position in the world is vast.’

‘Ah, England.’ Buonaparte sighed. ‘My father wanted me to go to there, rather than to France, to be educated.’

‘Do you regret not taking his advice?’

‘Sometimes, when I look around this island and see what little opportunity exists for a man who wishes to achieve something.’

‘What is it you wish to achieve?’

‘Glory,’ he replied, with some force. ‘What else is there?

Charles, instinctively, felt any attempt to tell him would be a waste of time. His eyes had opened wide as he said the word glory, the same way Nelson’s did when he spoke of his destiny. The more he thought about it, the more he recognised the similarity; not physically of course, although they were both minnows, but the ability to employ words like glory and destiny without blushing.

‘Are you a supporter of Pasquali Paoli?

The eyes flashed angrily ‘I am not a supporter of anyone! I have offered my services to his cause on certain conditions.’

‘You must be the fellow di Borgo spoke of, the one he came to see.’

At the use of the name his host abruptly suspended his pacing, swinging round to glare at him with a degree of suspicion. ‘You know Pozzo di Borgo?’

His voice had a whiplash quality, which annoyed Charles: he had no desire to be talked to in this manner, especially by this rather greasy specimen before him. Time to put him in his place.

‘I dined with him this evening. I’m afraid it was his dinner I disposed of so unceremoniously in the kitchen.’

This caused Buonaparte to rub the front of his slightly damp uniform. The door opened and the young girl, Maria Paola, came in with a tray; the smell of coffee wafting into the room along with her. Charles watched her move towards him, thinking she was an extremely graceful creature. She started to say something in Italian, but her brother stopped her and instructed her to speak French.

‘Luigi has returned, monsieur. Your compatriots are aware you are safe.’

She had a nice voice too, low and seductive, measured in the way she timed her speech.

‘I have called for a doctor to examine you.’

Buonaparte waited for Charles to protest this was unnecessary; he waited in vain, so was forced to continue, which he did in his peremptory, military manner.

‘He will be here in a few hours. Meanwhile, you will breakfast with us.’

Had the young girl not been in the room, Charles would have refused and insisted on returning to the ship. But her flashing smile, as her brother issued the invitation, made him nod his agreement. It was as though some outside force controlled his head: he could suffer the brother if by doing so he could elicit such smiles from the sister.

‘It would be a pleasure.’

‘Good. Please leave us, my dear,’ he said, and the girl flitted out of the room.  

          ‘So you dined with di Borgo. Did you not find him a great fool?’ He said this and, like the man he referred to, didn’t wait for an answer. ‘He thinks I am content to stay in Corsica and take from Pasquali whatever crumbs he cares to throw my way.               Me!’ He pointed emphatically to his chest. ‘Napoleone Buonaparte.’

‘You said you had made certain conditions?’

‘Only one of importance. That I be given command of the army and we immediately undertake the conquest of Sardinia.’

This sounded like two conditions to Charles, as Buonaparte began pacing up and down. ‘We are a small island! If we are to have any hope of a glorious future, we must expand. There is only one way to expand and it is by conquest.’

‘And if Paoli refuses?’

The question had some bearing on Charles’s orders: if there were to be an internecine conflict, Hood would want to know.

His host shrugged. ‘Who knows, monsieur?’

‘Civil war?’

Buonaparte laughed, shook his head and opened his arms, as if to encompass the entire island.

‘For this place? I would have to find some other outlet for my talents.’ He stopped to peer at Charles. ‘With the assistance of a proper sponsor, I might even offer myself to the British Navy.’

‘But you are a soldier, sir.’

‘War is war, monsieur, wherever it is fought and, as for tactics, you must find the main force of your enemy and destroy it, at sea as well as on land.’

‘You put the matter most succinctly.’

‘Your Navy is expanding?’ asked Buonaparte quickly, his eyes intense.

‘Naturally.’

‘Then there is an opportunity, is there not, for someone who can establish they are both zealous, able and competent with artillery?’

Buonaparte rattled this out very quickly: having had the idea, it obviously appealed to him the more he thought on it, so Charles deliberately delayed his response, happy to douse it in cold water.

‘I’m afraid it‘s not quite that simple.’

‘Are you saying you have no need of competent commanders?’

‘We, like any other country, depend on our leaders,’

Charles said this, thinking to himself, from what he had seen, England was sadly served by those who claimed the distinction.

‘Would you sponsor me?’

Buonaparte fixed his guest with an unblinking stare, which made it hard to say no. In truth, it wasn’t impossible. There were, he knew, instances of foreign officers being given commissions in the Navy. As for the army, one merely bought those, the price depending on the regiment and the rank. Buonaparte was artillery and it, as far as Charles knew, was for lowborn types and pretty cheap.

‘Of course I will sponsor you,’ he said smoothly.

‘Good!’ said Buonaparte, cutting the air with a chop of the hand. ‘I shall join the British Navy and help to destroy the French fleet.’

‘Are you not technically French?’

It wasn’t a silly question: he was a French uniform.

‘It is of no account, my loyalty is to my own destiny.’

Well blow me, thought Charles, at least Nelson’s fighting for England.

‘A very commendable attitude,’ was what he said. ‘There are however, one or two things I must point out to you.’

Bonaparte fixed him once more with those black eyes, sensing the ‘things’ would not please him. It was an indication of the nature of Charles Wormwood, the following explanation was larded with hypocrisy.

‘First, you would have to become a midshipman, unless you could persuade His Majesty to grant you a commission. This would be a very lowly rank for someone of your present eminence and it is unpaid. Secondly, you can only progress to lieutenant by passing an examination and that is concerned with seamanship, which I think you will agree, takes some time to learn. To be elevated to the next rank you require good fortune.’

‘I have good fortune,’ Buonaparte boomed portentously. ‘And when I lack it, I make it.’

‘I’m sure you have, just as I am sure you’d equal the rank of captain well within the ten years it normally takes.’

‘Ten years? And I would still only be a captain, not an admiral?

‘First you become what’s called a Post Captain. Which equates to a colonel. Then you must wait until all the admirals and captains senior to you are promoted or die. Then, and only then, do you become an admiral.’

Quite possibly, with the backing of the Wormwood parent, he could get to a captaincy much more swiftly but, as Charles hadn’t taken to the fellow, he was disinclined to make the offer. This was quite apart from the fact, militarily, the bombastic little boor was likely to be more of a liability than an asset.

‘I cannot wait so long,’ Buonaparte insisted. He took to pacing up and down once more, the dream of becoming an English admiral fading with each step. ‘And the army, what of the army?’

‘You would require funds to purchase a commission and also need to be acceptable to the serving regimental officers.’

‘What a stupid way to run things.’

‘I do agree,’ replied his guest, with a glance around the poorly appointed room, sure it was lack of funds, not the system, which formed his opinion.

‘So,’ Buonaparte said at last. ‘It is Corsica or France?’

France I hope.’ thought Charles, and they’re welcome to him.  

3.

Breakfast was a frugal affair compared to the meal he would have enjoyed aboard ship. It consisted of bread, some goat’s cheese and a bottle of fiery and almost undrinkable red wine. But he wasn’t fussed, especially when the delightful Maria Paola was doing the serving. There were now seven Buonapartes at table, plus their guest and, confusingly, all the girl’s names started with Maria.

There was Maria Paola, Maria Annunziata, and Maria Anna, the latter being the eldest and harbouring pretensions to being a lady. She was not much given to smiling and ate her peasant fare with exaggerated delicacy, habits formed before the Revolution it transpired, when she had attended the Royal Academy at Fontainebleau.

At first she’d paid Charles little attention but, on his being required to explain the rank of his father, she’d warmed considerably, while struggling to get his attention. Her younger sister Maria Paola had changed into a low cut but still simple garment, washed and brushed her hair, which caught and reflected the sun light.

With her pale olive complexion, snow-white teeth and the graceful movements of her lithe young body, she commanded as much of his interest as he could indulge in, without giving offence.

The youngest, Maria Annunziata, was a mere two years younger than Paola, yet the gap told everything about the difference between a girl and a woman. As yet unformed and still with her childish plumpness, it was hard to tell if she’d turn into another beauty. Beside her, sat a handsome little boy called Girolamo, the youngest in the family, while Napoleone occupied the head of the table, with his mother on his right.

She was a tough old bird, with jet-black, coarse hair, a hard, forbidding countenance and a gravelly voice to add to a dominating personality. It was plain she had a great deal to say to her son about his conduct, refusing his injunction to speak French, which was just as well, as she spoke it badly.

Napoleone’s younger brother, Luigi, slightly taller and with indications he might run to fat, said little, concentrating on the food and taking good care to get his share. It was he who’d carried the message to the ship, only to discover they were not aware of the problem; no one else had returned either.

‘Of course, Paoli will have to accede to my demands, since my family is too powerful to ignore,’ Napoleone pontificated. ‘I still do not know I will accept. Perhaps it would be best if he were to become a figurehead and allow me to run the country.’

‘He’s quite elderly, I gather.’

The response was a dismissive shake of the head.

‘Ancient, Captain Vurmwood, and sadly lacking in vision. All he seeks is the independence of Corsica and has no ambitions beyond that. How can anyone allow themselves to be ruled by someone with such a limited aims? It does not lend itself towards the creation of a glorious state to be so narrow-minded.’

‘France was a glorious state,’ said Maria Anna, touching her mouth with a carefully applied napkin.

She alone spoke French without an Italian accent, indeed her voice was refined and her mode of speech measured, evidence of a different upbringing. Yet she was not without passion, as her next statement, delivered with great feeling, demonstrated.

‘And it was destroyed by barbarians. The poor king condemned to death and executed like a common criminal.’

‘King Louis was a dolt!’ Maria Anna’s face took on a look of shock at such lese majesté. ‘He should have called out the artillery and threatened to blow the Convention to pieces unless they dispersed. You cannot reason with revolutionaries.’

Charles was perplexed, given this disagreed somewhat with the information vouchsafed to him by di Borgo on the various family members.

‘Am I mistaken? I was given to understand you have a brother who is a member of the Convention?’

‘We have,’ declared Paola, proudly. ‘Luciano, the cleverest of us all.’

‘Nonsense!’ Napoleone objected: it was clear he didn’t relish praise of anyone but himself. ‘Just because he can address a mob? The only form of genius which affects the shape of the world is what is exercised on the field of battle. Demosthenes, the great orator, changed nothing. Alexander of Macedonia changed the known world. Had he lived, his descendants might still rule us to this day. I know which model inspires me!’

Mad, thought Charles. Quite mad!

His mother rattled at him in Italian, which obviously upset him because he responded in the same tongue. What started as a conversation rose very quickly into what sounded like an argument, until they were yelling at each other, both talking at once and waving their hands. The rest of the family paid no attention, so Charles assumed it wasn’t serious.

The quarrel was abruptly terminated by the arrival of the doctor, with the mother throwing up her arms and screaming, ‘Dottore’ several times over.

He was shown to the table, where she engaged him in a serious and seemingly intimate discussion, pointing to various parts of her body, no doubt emphasising the ailment therein, having quite forgotten the ‘Dottore’ had come to see the English captain.

No one intervened, Charles concluded through a fear of her tongue. Even Napoleone, it seemed, for all his vainglorious boasting, hesitated to come between his mother and her medical advisor. The doctor nodded sagely as she talked, explaining to her, Charles surmised, she was quite well and good for another few years.

Eventually, Napoleone tried to point out the man had come to see their guest, only to have his head snapped off. He turned and gave Charles a very Italian gesture; a sort of sad smile, with raised shoulders, palms up on open hands. Shorn of his pomposity, he reminded Charles of a street vendor he’d seen when shopping in Genoa, working a hand organ with a monkey on his shoulder.

At last, after Madame Buonaparte had been dissected and re-assembled, she extracted some blue pills from the ‘Dottore’, which seemed to satisfy her. The doctor could now attend to Charles, which consisted of a perfunctorily look at the back of his head.

A rapid exchange followed, in which he presumably chose to pronounce him fit and well. In adding something else, he completely destroyed any harmony which existed in the room. This time the whole family, barring the educated Maria Anna and the little boy, became embroiled, all yelling at the doctor, with him yelling back with equal ferocity.

Charles couldn’t make head or tail of the argument, but neither could he take his eyes off the now magnificent Maria Paola. She was screeching like a woman possessed, her arms in the air and her small breasts heaving, while her hips, in the truly important moments, thrust forward to emphasise her point.

The source of the dispute was revealed when the doctor turned to Charles and, in halting French, explained the family were refusing to pay him his fee for the visit, to which Napoleone intervened loudly to protest.

‘That is not the case, Lord Vurmvood, but we refuse to be treated as people of no account. No country doctor can demand immediate payment of a Buonaparte.’

‘They will not pay me because they have no money,’ the doctor explained.

This started the whole dispute off again and Maria Paola was in the thick of it once more: she really was a lovely girl, so much so Charles completely ignored his normal standards of behaviour. He pulled out his purse, containing a goodly sum, thinking to himself he must impress her. If this was not enough, he would fire a broadside on the citadel.

‘Allow me, doctor.’

He deposited a small cascade of coins on to the table. First the noise, then the flash of gold, took everyone’s eyes. They all stared, transfixed, as the guineas rolled around and spun until the last was still.

‘How much is your fee?’

‘There are fees outstanding, monsieur, from previous visits. And medicines for Madam Buonaparte.’

Charles smiled at the hard-faced matriarch. ‘If Madam would permit me?

‘No, monsieur, it is impossible,’ Napoleone protested. ‘This charlatan can be paid when my remittance arrives from the army. It is due any day.’

The doctor said something in Italian, which Charles took to mean ‘Pigs might fly’, for the whole room erupted again.

‘Captain Buonaparte!’ shouted Charles, so loudly everyone stopped talking. ‘As a military man, I perfectly understand. I have not been paid since the beginning of the year.’

Stoical Maria Anna’s conspicuous eyebrows shot up: if this visiting Milord had not received any pay for such a period, yet still could dazzle them with so many gold coins, he must be a wealthy man. He was certainly of noble birth, thus meeting one of her criteria for a husband: he had just demonstrated the second.

Her vanity was equal to that of her war-mad brother, with a mind just as capable of being fired by an idea. She too considered she had a destiny, one which did not encompass being resident in a fly-blown island like Corsica. Within seconds Maria Anna had decided Charles was, for her, an eligible match.

No fool and with feminine antennae, she’d noticed his interest in her sister, but this was of little account. Paola was certainly pretty, but she lacked education and was utterly without social grace.

This English Milord must be shown the advantages of paying court to the best of the Buonapartes. Once he had realised her accomplishments, then a consuming interest would surely follow. Time would not allow for courtship, but her memory of Fontainebleau and Versailles had convinced her morality was a weapon, not a way of life.

True, she knew nothing of him. He might be the most awful creature but he represented a means of escape for someone who’d been educated, to whom life in Ajaccio was a living hell. She would do anything to get off the island, even submit to the embraces of a total stranger.

It didn’t occur to her the object of this dream might resist. She was a Buonaparte and a woman, he would succumb.

‘Allow me to advance you some funds,’ continued Charles, unaware of the way in which he’d quickened the heartbeat of the eldest sister. ‘As you can see, I’m not without money and I have more on board ship. As one officer to another, I insist.’

The Corsican dwarf went through the usual series of facial expressions everyone thought they should express before accepting money, if you excepted servants. Lacking hypocrisy, they took it without any expression at all and often without their master’s knowledge.

‘I am most reluctant to impose.’

‘Come sir, from a fellow officer? It cannot be an imposition.’

He was looking at the brother, but it was the reaction of the little sister he was after. Charles would have been less pleased had he turned a fraction and observed the glowing, almost avaricious look on Maria Anna’s face. Napoleone was now almost finished with the performance, but the coda had to be played out.

‘It is a matter of days, I assure you and I insist I must pay the doctor for attending upon you.’

‘Then please, monsieur, help yourself and I pray you will not leave yourself short.’

He adopted an earnest expression, as Napoleone slowly helped himself to a goodly sum, money which Charles, no stranger to either lending or borrowing, reckoned he’d be lucky to ever see again.

‘I must give you a note of hand.’

‘If you insist, but the word of a fellow officer is quite sufficient.’

‘There coins are called?

‘Guineas, monsieur, equivalent, in value, to the Louis d’Or.’

Napoleone went to a bureau to scribble and sign a piece of paper for the amount taken, passing it to Charles. The doctor then handed Napoleone a piece of parchment, so cracked and stained, it looked as if he had been carrying it around for months.

Now he was in funds, the debtor was expansive, gifting the man what he asked without the customary dispute so the doctor departed a happy man. He was rarely paid in coin for his services; normally he had to wring a few chicken necks before he could take them home as his fee.

‘You must dine with us this evening,’ Napoleone pronounced. ‘We shall have a feast. Added to which, you have yet to tell of the affair my brother told me about. The capture of the corvette.’

Charles had deliberately withheld the information on the events in Porto Vecchio, quite simply because such a military fanatic was bound to want to hear the details. Clearly someone aboard ship had blabbed. His response was to smile and quite deliberately change the subject.

‘I was hoping to enjoy the beauty of the landscape.’ This was delivered with a meaningful look in the direction of Maria Paola. ‘From the ship, the heights to the west of the town seem very attractive. I had intended to lunch there.’

‘It affords a good view of the place, it is true,’ Napoleone replied with pursed lips, ‘but you will find the citadel is badly placed and the town is untenable. The whole lot could be taken by artillery alone if you command those heights. Ajaccio can only be defended by holding the river line, ten miles inland.’

Maria Paola’s head had jerked slightly when Charles mentioned his intention of where he wished to dines, so he neither heard nor cared what her brother was saying. He experiencing a certain girding is his groin as he registered her interest, completely unaware it had become evident, if one looked closely enough, at the state of his breeches.

‘Of course, you must all visit the ship, perhaps tomorrow.’

He would accept the dinner invitation, but the look he gave Maria Paola was designed to let her know he was available beforehand.

‘I shall definitely examine the view from the western heights later this morning and take some refreshments with me. Anyone who cares to come along would be most welcome.’

The lift in the girl’s dark eyebrows was enough to turn physical reaction from pleasant to uncomfortable.

‘Then, if you can abide a dusty traveller, I should be delighted to join you for dinner.’

Maria Anna had watched this exchange with amused interest. Clearly the Englishman had issued an invitation her sister seemed eager to accept. So be it: the open air was not the kind of place she would seek to compete with her.

Let him discover, for all her physical beauty, there was nothing more. Then, tonight, at dinner, she would show him just how entertaining and interesting an educated, aristocratic Buonaparte female could be.

Charles, with a last smile at the family, left the house, to find Kissock standing outside.

4.

‘Milord?’

The word was employed with palpable caution; Kissock anticipating a tongue-lashing or worse, having spent the night curled up in a doorway, only to discover what had happened when he returned to Petra. 

           ‘Back to the ship, quick,’ snapped his preoccupied master as he dashed past him. ‘Get someone ashore to find fresh ingredients. Then get the cook to prepare a meal to be eaten ashore in the woods. Dig out the best white wines and wrap them in wet cloths. We are going to look at the scenery.’

As they rushed down the street, Kissock missed most of what Charles was saying. Ignoring the cheerily waving locals, he ran for his barge, waiting at the quayside and, without ceremony, he leapt in.

‘Pull hearty, lads,’ shouted Kissock jumping in after him, ‘looks like the bleedin’ Armada’s on the way an’ our captain fancies himself a Drake.’

It said something about his master’s state of mind he failed to even hear this piece of insolence, thus Kissock’s standing with the rest of the crew rose accordingly. It was the same when they got aboard: no ceremony or pipes had time to sound, although Collins had them ready. As he rushed past, Charles issued an order to the midshipman.

‘Mister Pettigrew aboard at the double.’ Then he dashed for his cabin, followed by Kissock, flinging off his coat. ‘Best clothes, Kissock and not uniform.’

Soon naked, he hurried back on deck and, without pausing, dived over the side into the beautiful clear, cool water. Slowly, as he swam, he felt the heat in his body, which had been like an itch he couldn’t scratch, subside.

*

Ashore, Napoleone was holding forth in his staccato way, pacing to and fro.

‘Lord Vurmvood is a gentleman. Normally, I would not demean myself to borrow money, but from someone so well bred, it is no dishonour.’

His family listened to this fiction without reaction. So accustomed were they to the ramblings of their brother they didn’t even notice as he continued.

‘Do you know he offered me a captaincy in the British Navy? I refused, of course and then he suggested the army. I was forced to decline this also. Such a pity, the British are so badly led.’

Maria Paola certainly didn’t hear his words. She was mentally concocting the tale which would get her to the rendezvous. Her sister likewise was plotting; Maria Anna was no stranger to the art of seduction, having lived in the shadow of a royal court but time was short.

The object of her determination could sail away at any time, while the opportunity to escape from the boredom of her existence would depart with him.

Desperate remedies were required to concentrate his mind. If he could not be caught in a silken net, then he must be hooked like a fish, so she decided her body must provide the hook. Not much after this had been determined, she decided on the name of their first child.

*

Charles had changed into much more comfortable attire, a buff coloured coat of a light material, instead of the usual heavy uniform broadcloth. The day was warm, the sun was shining and a gentle breeze fanned his cheeks.

A hamper was unloaded containing all he needed for a meal for four, a leg of lamb, which would be near to cold, but with the juices still running by the time it was carved. There were the ingredients for a salad, with finely chopped ship’s pork as lardons in lieu of bacon. If his hints had been accepted, he was in for an interesting day; nothing might happen but the pleasure of the chase was exciting in itself.

Despite the previous night’s fiasco, Kissock felt he’d finally reached an understanding with his master, having never known him to be so benign and gentle. Charles hadn’t shouted at him more than a dozen times since they met outside the Buonaparte’s house, though he was trying to work out the reason for his final demand.

This had been for him to take along a set of Bosun’s pipes. Curious it might be, but in the new relaxed atmosphere, it wasn’t one about which Kissock cared to seek enlightenment.

He secured the services of a donkey to transport the hamper and followed his master out of the town, heading for the heights overlooking the Isla di Sanguinaria, which Charles assumed, translated, meant the Contented Isles. If the last look he’d exchanged with Maria Paola was anything to go by, they would not be singular in such emotion.

As they came out of the town and onto a steep path, Charles removed his coat and neck cloth. The breeze ruffled his hair, as well as his shirt and, on this day, in these circumstances, he was happy to be in the service.

He saw her before she saw him, with her brother Luigi, which was better than Charles could have hoped. There was no sign of either the younger or the older sister, which made him wonder how she’d managed it. 

The plump Luigi, surely a lover of food and wine, could be taken care of so he hailed him, greeting him like a long lost companion, while keeping his greeting of the girl quite formal.

Luigi Buonaparte carried a mandolin slung over his shoulder, Maria Paola assuring Charles, with a modest smile, he was an accomplished player. As they passed along the path together, Charles found this brother, away from the shadow of Napoleone, to be a different and much more delightful companion, showing a ready wit and a propensity to mock any talk of glory. Paola was hardly included in the conversation but seemed content with the odd smile aimed in her direction.

They talked as they progressed, eventually coming out on to a plateau, which afforded them a magnificent view of the bay. They could see the waves washing around the small islands, the spume showing brilliant white against the azure colour of the sea, while behind them lay a thick, dark green forest, known locally, Luigi informed Charles, as the maccia.

For a while they discussed hunting, the maccia seemingly containing an abundance of pursuable things; wolf, deer, wild boar and all manner of smaller game. Luigi talked of this without enthusiasm, more in the sense of imparting knowledge.

His host warmed to him as he confessed he didn’t actually enjoy the hunt for game and neither did Charles. He considered it, in his metropolitan way, absurd to endanger oneself chasing something which, if you stood still, you could quite easily shoot: failing that, without leaving home, you could buy it.

Kissock spread the cloth and, going to the edge of the forest, with a small spade, dug a hole in the ground as a cool store for the food.

‘Some refreshment, Kissock, if you’d be so kind.’

This caused the man to blink and be slow to respond, still unaccustomed to the courteous tone. He unwrapped a bottle of Loire wine from its damp cloth, laid out three glass goblets, into which he poured the cool liquid, handing out each in turn.

This done, he nipped behind a tree and took a swig straight from the bottle, until a sharp command made him put it by his master. The goblets twinkled and flashed in the sun, while the effect on Paola’s olive skinned face, reflected in the liquid, was enchanting. Charles smiled at her and she responded, adding her sparkling teeth to the image. Immediately he filled Luigi’s glass to the brim.

‘I’m surprised no more of your family chose to join us.’

‘Maria Anna deplores eating outdoors,’ Luigi shrugged, ‘though she asked me to say how she looks forward to entertaining you at dinner this evening. My mother is too old and Paola refused to allow the youngsters to spoil things with their chatter.’

Good for her was the silent thought. If he’d known how many tears had been shed and of the heated arguments which had rent the Buonaparte household, he’d have admired her even more.

Paola was a minx, a constant worry to her family, with her wild and unrestrained behaviour. Unbeknown to them, she was no stranger to the nature of Charles’ interest, pursued as she was by all the local swains, being a girl who did not have it in her to decline an advance.

She liked the look of the ‘Milord’ as much as he liked the look of her. Paola was not, like her sister, laying out any long-term plans even if she found Ajaccio just as tedious as Maria Anna. But she lived for the moment; today was important and tomorrow could take care of itself.

Nevertheless, she also knew any chance of pleasure would be ruined if the whole family accepted this Englishman’s invitation. It was only with much protest and a stern maternal reminder of what constituted proper behaviour, she’d agreed to include Luigi as her chaperone.

‘And what of Napoleone?’ asked Charles.

This got a hearty laugh. ‘He’d only come if you offered to drag one of your cannon up here as well.’

‘Your brother is certainly afire with military ardour,’               ‘It is all he dreams of,’ the younger brother moaned. ‘That is, in those rare moments when he sleeps.’

‘He doesn’t sleep?’

Charles thought it might account for the jerky quality of the captain’s behaviour as Paola answered the question.

‘Not more than three hours a night. He gets up and paces about the house in his boots, waking up everyone else.’

‘He has too many hours in the day and not enough to fill them,’ Luigi added.

‘He doesn’t seem to be the type who can readily take his ease,’ observed Charles, topping up Luigi’s goblet again.

It engendered another chuckle. ‘He’s a bundle of nerves, finds it impossible to sit still and is convinced he has a great future. Hence his constant desire to be at war, since he has been taught there’s much scope for activity. The problem is, he can’t quite decide who to fight for.’

‘Poor Napoleone,’ said Paola, coquettishly undermining Luigi. ‘He has to support us all.’

‘As my sister says, monsieur, he is the only member of the family who draws any income, apart from Luciano, who’s away in France.’ Luigi looked him straight in the eye. ‘I feel you should know, your action this morning, in advancing us some money could not have been more timely.’

Charles aim his smile at the girl. ‘It was nothing.’

‘I also feel you should be aware you may have to wait some time before we can reimburse you. My brother has taken so much leave from his regiment, he cannot be entirely confident of a place should he decide to return.’

Allowing for the fact that wine had loosened his tongue, Luigi was obviously an honourable creature; Napoleone would be extremely angry if he heard his brother speak so candidly.

‘Kissock, I think we’re ready to eat.’

The carved lamb and various jars, containing preserved additions, potted shrimps, plover’s eggs and salted cod dressed with parsley, were laid out as another bottle of wine appeared, this time a red from Beaune. His host made sure Luigi’s glass was never empty, nor was Paola’s, while his own was never full, so the party grew steadily jollier.

They were young, it was a beautiful day, excellent food and wine were being dispensed which left them with not a care in the world. Luigi refused nothing, solid or liquid so the looks which passed between Paola and Charles became bolder the more the brother drank, until he began to exhibit the first signs of being inebriated and, like all people who achieve such a state, his consumption increased.

Encouraged by his sister, he took out his mandolin and started strumming, before launching into what Charles took to be a haunting love song in the local argot. This was followed by another, racier tune, obviously slightly salacious and funny because, as he sang, he leered at his sister, while she collapsed into gales of laughter.

This was followed by a saltarella, a lively and exciting dance, which Paola set out to teach Charles, accompanied by much squealing and giggling. As they whirled around the grass, not far from the edge of a cliff, with Luigi strumming away, Paola’s face was alight with pleasure.

Charles, holding her outstretched hands, felt a strange sensation run up his arms, through his groin and down his legs. He spun her round, feeling her waist move beneath his palm, the little muscles rippling over her ribs.

With Luigi strumming faster and faster, to reach a climax, Charles whirled her in the air in such a way she was compelled to fall against his body. As he pushed himself against her, a leg slipped in between his and she looked up at him, in her eyes and her slightly opened mouth, a clear indication her desire was as strong as his own.

Sitting down once more, not without some difficulty, Charles poured more wine for Luigi, who, after the exertions of his singing and playing, had thrown himself on his back. With eyes closed and his arms spread out, he had a very contented smile on his face.

A siesta being the norm in this part of the world, he soon drifted into sleep. Charles cautioned Paola to be quiet and, standing up, he took her hand and led her towards the trees, to find Kissock asleep too: not all the wine had made it to the table.

Under normal circumstances he would have received a hearty kick, but not on this day. Charles got Paola out of sight, then quietly motioned for her to stay still before going to gently shake his servant awake. Kissock made to speak, staring surprised and fearful into his master’s face, until a hand was clapped over the open mouth.

‘Keep an eye on brother Luigi,’ he whispered. ‘If he wakes, I want a blast on the Bosun’s whistle. Should he find you asleep, I will hang you by your thumbs from the mainmast yard.’

The quiet way this was said carried more conviction than his normal bad-tempered yelling, while Kissock was only too aware, as an acting captain, he now had the power to carry out the threat.

His master stole away on tiptoe, taking a bottle of wine with him. Catching hold of Paola’s hand, he felt the sensation coursing through his limbs again and, as he looked into her eyes, she gave a little smile, running her tongue over her lips once more to make them glisten. Much as he wanted to he didn’t kiss her, knowing he would unable to contain himself while they were so close to her brother.

So they walked on through the pine forest which, getting thicker and thicker, shut out the glare of the sun. The ground dropped away into a small vale, leaving them just able to see the mountains surrounding them to the northeast. Charles stopped in a small, secluded glade, the ground covered in pine needles and uncorked the bottle, taking a swig before passing it to Paola.

As she lifted the bottle to her lips, tilting her head back, he slipped his arms around her waist and buried his head in the base of her neck. She dropped her arms to her side, arching backwards, pressing herself into his body so he could feel everything of her through the thin dress.

She could feel him too and ground her hips to let him know, so Charles took the bottle out of her hands, leant it against a tree, then removed his shirt, before taking hold of her again.

She made no protest as his hands started to roam over her body, moaning slightly as they brushed the more sensitive parts, until with one swift movement, he took the hem of her dress and lifted it over her head, leaving her naked.

Standing back he could see her body was unspoilt, with not an ounce of spare flesh, the olive skin clear, her stomach flat and her black pubic hair still confined to a tight area just above the join of her legs. The breasts were perfectly formed cups, with upwardly pointing and hard nipples, which gave her the appearance of a classical Greek statue.

Paola rubbed her hands over his chest, feeling the muscles under the skin, then paused on his pectorals and tweaked the nipples, before sliding gently down to his waist. Charles started to kiss her breasts, crouching to do so, running his hands over her tight haunches as he fell to his knees.

He pulled her down beside him, on to the carpet of pine needles, to push one leg gently between hers, while she pushed the other out. He was between them, adjusting her hips as he entered her, she moaning slightly, a sound which increased with each movement.

Then she screamed, causing him to pause: the noise was loud but he hoped they were far enough away for it not to matter. Besides he couldn’t stop now! Suddenly her scream seemed to be repeated, first at the same level, then diminishing away. Charles, momentarily distracted, couldn’t really think of anything other than his immediate goal and so resumed his thrusting.

Paola started to moan again, gently at first, then louder and louder. The hills threw the sound back at them, her cries of pleasure reverberating round the valleys, coming eventually so thickly those she emitted and the echoes melded together, completely drowning out the frantic blowing of a Bosun’s whistle which had been going on for some time.

Her cries eventually subsided. Charles, who was gasping, his heart pounding, felt the last of the excruciatingly pleasurable, almost painful sensation of ejaculation, this while the last of the echoes was fading.

His brain registered for the first time what had happened and, just about to throw himself on his back, he finally heard Kissock’s furious high-pitched efforts which had him to his feet.

‘Get dressed,’ he snapped to Paola, pulling her to her feet. ‘Your brother’s coming.’

He then put his hands to his mouth and made a sound, as close as possible to those which had gone before.

‘Mama Mia!’ cried Paola, leaping up and slipping into her dress.

As her head came out of the top she screamed too, taking her cue from Charles. As the sounds he’d made came back to them, screams echoed round the mountains, which allowed Charles to pull his shirt over his head and to haul up his breeches, difficult, they being entangled with his boots.

The absurdity of the situation overcame his fear and he laughed out loud. This too echoed back, so Paola, looking into his face, joined in, till the sound of them both laughing shot back and forth.

Luigi entered the glade to find them staggering about, fully clothed and acting in a manner completely above suspicion. For all he was an amiable chap, he was also a native of the island: men did not go off into the woods with a Corsican’s fifteen-year-old sister. Even if he lacked the experience to positively identify the sounds echoing off the mountains, he was extremely angry, refusing to be mollified by giggling antics.

‘It is most ungentlemanly,’ he insisted peevishly.

‘I can assure you, sir, we are only indulging in a little horseplay, as any two young people would. We didn’t wish to disturb your repose.’

Charles was at his most conciliatory and Paola, equally, showed no distress or shame at what had just occurred. Indeed it was his sister’s manner which convinced Luigi he was being told the truth. The Bosun’s whistle was still blowing regularly, causing Charles to silently curse Kissock’s zeal. Sure Luigi wouldn’t know what it meant, so he added hastily.

‘I told my man to call us at four bells. I wish to look around the island and we must not be late for our invitation to dinner. Your brother would be most put out.’

At the mention of his brother, Luigi showed deep alarm. If Napoleone were to find out his sister had been allowed to go off into the woods alone with this Englishman, there would be trouble, though he struggled to find a way to broach the subject. Paola he could trust; she, certainly, would say nothing to anyone but this stranger, not knowing the customs, might inadvertently let something slip.

‘My friend,’ Luigi whispered, as they walked towards the sound of Kissock’s piping. ‘I’m sure the customs in your country are different. But here in Corsica, it is not considered the proper thing for a young man to go off alone with a young woman, unless they are married.’

‘Really!’ Charles exclaimed. ‘How very confining. I wasn’t aware of that.’

‘Had you asked me for permission, I should have, most reluctantly, had to refuse.’

‘How unfortunate you were asleep,’ Charles responded, with a grave expression. ‘I fear I’ve caused you some offence.’

‘My family would be most upset if they discovered I had done so while chaperoning my sister. She was expressly put under my care. I wonder if I could prevail upon you to keep the information to yourself.’

‘Delighted to, my dear fellow,’ cried Charles. ‘A perfect solution. After all, there’s no harm done.

He turned and gave Paola his most dazzling smile, a gesture mirrored by the look of happiness which filled her sparkling eyes.

5.

They arrived back at the Buonaparte house just as dusk was falling. Out in the bay, Charles could see the ship’s boats plying to and fro with wood and water, always commodities made up to full capacity whenever a chance arose, plus as much green stuff and fresh produce as they could buy, Pettigrew had been left with instructions to be ready to weigh at first light tomorrow.

Kissock was dismissed back to the ship; he wouldn’t be needed again that night, as Napoleone had undertaken to see Charles safely back aboard. The thought of his servant’s face, either with or without the knowing leer, one which had accompanied them back from their picnic, was not to be borne.

On entering the house, Charles was greeted by the tombstone smile of the matriarch. Leticia seemed to have set aside all her natural suspicion since his loan to the family. This rather un-nerving welcome was followed by one more acceptable, an elegant curtsey from Maria Anna.

The same age as Charles, her hauteur made her seem older, added to which, her manner would have been helped if she’d softened what seemed a disapproving countenance.

‘I have prepared a room for you,’ she said, ‘somewhere for you to change. I have had your sailors put in there the small chest they brought from the ship.’

He’d arranged to have his best uniform delivered to the house; you didn’t dine with the likes of Captain Buonaparte in civilian clothes. The man was insufferable enough without giving him the sole advantage of military garb.

‘You are most kind, mademoiselle.’ Charles added a courtly bow, the kind he thought she would appreciate: it had the desired effect; her lips parted and she almost smiled.

‘Allow me to show you the way.’

Turning, her left hand swept her dress round in an elegant manner, which would not have been out of place at a royal reception. She led him along a narrow corridor to a small low-ceilinged room, almost wholly taken up by an enormous bed. A chest sat under the window, on it a jar of water and a chipped basin. The floor was plain board, while the only decoration, apart from a large crucifix, was a rather crudely woven rug on one whitewashed wall.

‘My uncle, the bishop’s room, monsieur, in which he so very recently passed away.’

It seemed an appropriate remark for such a gloomy person, though he couldn’t suppress his first thought: the bed was a mite large for a celibate priest.

‘As humble as he was himself and very unlike your home in England, I’m sure.’

Charles had a vision of Wormwood Hall, with its dark rooms, large fires and heavy furniture, thinking barren as it was, he preferred the simplicity of this, which matched the climate.

‘After Fontainebleau and Paris, I find it very uncomfortable,

‘I daresay.’

‘One could tolerate the climate if only the people were not so...’ she waved her arm, as if seeking the word.

‘Provincial?’

‘Exactly so! There is no conversation, no elegance, so unlike the heart of France. Have you ever been to Paris, monsieur?’

‘My father took me there when he went to call on the Duc de Choiseul. I was only a boy, but I remember it well.’

Her eyebrows were raised in genuine surprise ‘You met the King’s First Minister.’

‘He was no longer a minister then. My father and he had some business to transact.’

The business had been to move some of the Choiseul’s money to a place of safety. Having fallen foul of Louis XVI he was, nevertheless, fully aware of the parlous state of French finances. With the country nearly bankrupt, he’d felt it prudent to invest elsewhere. There was also the fact of getting his fortune to a place out of reach of his numerous creditors.

‘Your father must be very important,’ Maria Anna said softly, in what was really a question.

‘Oh, yes,’ Charles replied airily. ‘If he failed to support the government, it would probably fall.’

Her brow, already etched with lines of surprise, creased even further.

‘The ways of English government are strange to me. But then so is the present state of affairs in France. I do not comprehend how you can govern without a king.’

‘The trick, Mademoiselle Buonaparte, is to let the King rule while the people govern his right to spend money.’

Maria Anna asked him to explain more regarding the mysteries of British governance which he did, pointing out, in order to achieve the present settled and prosperous nation, it had also been necessary for the English to remove the head of a king.

As they talked, some of her coldness, as well as the extra lines on her forehead, seemed to fall away: her training had emphasised the value of good conversation, so Charles was now seeing her at her very best, communicating easily and gracefully, with a relaxed air, this improving her looks somewhat.

Yet he still couldn’t help but think it strange, given almost the same features as her younger sister, one should be so outstandingly beautiful while the other was close to being plain.

‘I have detained you long enough monsieur,’ she said finally. ‘We must not be late for dinner.’

‘Until then,’ said Charles, taking her hand and bending to kiss it.

Head lowered he did not see the way her eyes closed, while her jaw tightened and her whole frame shook with a very faint judder.

*

Dinner was a trial, the main topic of conversation being Corsica’s future, solely as it related to the fortunes of the Buonapartes. Seeking diversions, Charles deliberately engaged Maria Anna in conversation, this as a way of further reducing any suspicion in Luigi’s mind regarding the events of the afternoon.

The elder sister, sitting close to him, positively blossomed under this attention, while at the end of the table, on the far side of the garrulous Napoleone, her little sister bristled.

Utterly unaware of Maria Anna’s fantasies, Charles had no idea how his behaviour was playing on her resolve, strengthening the impression that the means of her release into a wider world was not only present, but clearly quite smitten with her charm.

Every so often, when his attention was elsewhere, she’d lift the back of her hand to her nose as if the smell of his lips on her flesh was still there.

Each time she felt again the frission of excitement the physical contact, swift and minor as it was, had engendered. The pleasure of remembrance made her drink more than her normal ration of wine, thus deepening the glow of her certainty, until she was quite heady with suppressed excitement.

Their conversation was not all subtle courtship and exemplary manners; they did discuss other things, such as Paris before the Revolution. Charles then tried on brother Napoleone the remark about kingship and money, which had so impressed Maria Anna in her uncle’s old bedroom. The results were disappointing.

‘Strength!’ barked the pint-sized gunner. ‘One must govern with strength. Louis lost his head because he was not strong enough. Give me one regiment of soldiers who will obey my commands, put them in the right place at the right time and I will ensure any sovereign of his ability govern the country.’

‘Would Swiss Guards suffice?’ Charles enquired mischievously.

Mercenary bodyguards, the Swiss had been massacred when the Parisian mob stormed the Palace of the Tuileries, forcing the King and Queen to flee. Opening his mouth to reply, loud banging at the door cut off Buonaparte’s intended response, this preceded by the jabbing finger of a man who knew he was right.

Everyone stopped, sitting absolutely still, as if in a tableau. At a nod from Napoleone, Luigi went to the door, opening it just a crack, which allowed a dishevelled looking creature to squeeze through and the first words uttered, in rapid Italian, brought Napoleone to his feet.

He fired off a series of questions, the answers to which soon had the whole tribe standing. Within a minute, everyone was talking at once, asking the man questions which he was given no time to answer. Napoleone finally commanded silence, then spoke to Charles.

‘They are coming to arrest me. No doubt having heard from di Borgo, Pasquali Paolo has ordered it. His agents are gathering a mob now.’ He spoke rapidly to his mother and sisters, who immediately departed the room. ‘I must leave at once. Both Luigi and I must go.’

‘What about the women?’

‘It is to be hoped they will be safe. I cannot believe they will arrest my mother and sisters, or molest a boy as young as Girolamo. It is me they want.’

The women came back carrying tightly wrapped bundles, obviously clothes, as well as both brothers’ cloaks.

‘But I would ask you, monsieur, to afford them your protection. They will not dare harm them if you are here and, with your ships and men in the harbour, you command the town.’

Napoleone looked at Charles with his piercing black eyes. If he could protect the women, he could also protect the Buonaparte men.

‘I regret, as a representative off my Sovereign, I cannot be seen to be partisan,’

This was what Charles said. In fact he was wondering how he could get out of the house before the mob arrived. After all, if the head of the house could escape, so could he.

‘All I seek is you protect them from abuse,’ added Napoleone gravely, putting on his cloak. ‘Surely no gentleman would allow them to be molested.’

Damned cheek was the immediate thought! He’s running away and he reminds me of the duties of a gentleman. But there was really little choice. Quite apart from anything else, he would find it hard to stand by and watch Maria Paola manhandled. As for his own safety, he could always threaten to blow the town to pieces if they touched him.

‘And if I could prevail upon you to remain till first light, I think it would be best.’

‘I’ve already discovered dark streets can be dangerous,’ replied Charles waspishly.

‘I shall not forget this, monsieur.’

Napoleone kissed his mother and sisters, Luigi doing the same, causing them to cry. Both shook hands with Charles, before in the wink of an eye they, and the messenger, were gone. This left Charles looking at the four weeping females, with a creeping sense of embarrassment. It was the mother who recovered first; she sprang to her feet and started barricading the street door, rattling away in Italian.

‘Madame.’ said Charles in a commanding tone.

She stopped and glared at him. He walked over and pulled open a shuttered window, then looked out, to see the light of torches coming towards the house. They were playing on the high walls of the narrow streets, accompanied by the murmur of angry voices, rising in volume and shouting imprecations against the Buonapartes.

The mob came into view and made to approach the house, their voices rising even more as they sought to give themselves courage, until they finally stopped before the open window. Stood just inside, Charles was glad he’d worn his uniform: there could, at least, be no mistake about his identity. The leader of the mob stepped forward and spoke directly to him in French.

‘Monsieur, we come on the authority of our leader, Pasquali Paolo, with orders to arrest the brothers Buonaparte for treason.’

‘The brothers, except the youngest child, are not here.’

Translated, this caused the voices of the crowd to grow loud and menacing.

‘This is not a quarrel to involve an English officer,’ pleaded the spokesman. ‘Please to give them up?’

Charles was far from sanguine; indeed hidden by the windowsill, his knees were shaking and he had a dry feeling in his throat; having seen mobs in London, he knew them to be both fickle and potentially bloodthirsty. You never knew which way they were going to jump.

Certainly he had power; ships, men and guns but he was cut off from safety by this crowd. His primary aim was to ensure whatever way they swayed, he didn’t become the object of their anger. This caused him to shout, reasoning bluff was better than pleading.

‘Are you doubting my word, sir? That is not something I will tolerate. I will also remind you, if I choose to partake of a quarrel, it is my affair. Don’t you know I could have this whole town reduced to rubble? I only have to give the order and my ships will commence a bombardment. For the last time, neither Napoleone nor Luigi are here. They have gone, only the women and the child remain.’

A strong hand pulled him back into the room, as Madame Buonaparte poked her head out into the street and started yelling at the crowd like a fishwife, while several people called back at her in a similar vein.

Charles stepped forward and tapped her on the shoulder, since she was clearly in danger of undermining the whole purpose of everything he’d said. This would lead to an attack on the property, in which who was victim and who was not, would become confused.

She spun to berate him too and the mad look in her coal black eyes made him step back smartly, leaving him to reason he’d done what he could. Yet a look across the room told him Paola was frightened and so was the younger girl, who was clutching both her bigger sister and Girolamo. Maria Anna’s expression had the look of an aristocrat facing the guillotine, creating, to his mind, a situation which simply would not do.

‘Madam!’ he yelled. ‘Come away from the window at once.’

Leticia Buonaparte turned again, her mouth gaping in surprise. No one had addressed her in such a tone since the death of her husband. Charles, towering over her, by sheer force of height and personality, forced her to move away before he then leant out into the street.

‘You sir,’ he said to the spokesman. ‘Climb in through the window and search the house. You will see, for yourself, the men of the family are not here. You have my word you will be safe.’

He took time to consult his companions, the reason for the hesitation simple to deduce; to these folk the Buonapartes to be a treacherous bunch. Finally he was pushed towards the window and, handing his torch to another, climbed over the low sill. The women watched him suspiciously as he passed by, then frowned as they heard him searching the house.

After a few minutes he came back, went to the window and, looking into the eager faces, shook his head. The rumble of discontent caused the crowd to come to life again and the spokesman turned to address the women while they looked to their protector.

‘We must take the ladies into custody, monsieur.’

Charles looked at Paola, wondering if he could hand this lovely girl over to these people. He could, but he didn’t want to; she was just too beautiful and the thought of other hands on her body would be hard to bear. At the same time, he had another thought; to ensure the safety of the family, he would need to spend the night here.

With the brothers gone, in a dark and silent house, there was just a possibility of another tryst, a repeat of what had happened in the afternoon. In an uncharacteristic act of proper behaviour, he put the man leading the mob firmly in his place.

‘Do you make war on women, sir? These ladies are now under the protection of His Britannic Majesty, King George. Lay a hand on them and it will be war.’

He ended this statement with his head back and his hand, one finger raised, in the air.

‘As you wish, monsieur,’ was the reply: you could not argue with a man who struck such a noble pose and one who, moreover, had two warships in the harbour. He spoke rapidly to the crowd, who again rumbled menacingly, then climbed out of the window. Charles with a fierce glance at the mob, banged the window shut and barred it.

‘There, I don’t think we will have any more trouble with them.’

Paola rushed across the room and, taking his hand, kissed it. Maria Anna catching his eye curtsied. Madame Bonaparte had already gone back to her food.

6.

Charles lay naked in the pitch-dark room, listening to the sounds of the residence; creaking timbers, some of which occasionally cracked as they cooled from the heat of the day, having put out of his mind any thought of going looking for Paola.

In a strange dwelling, he would probably wander into the wrong room and end up trying to get into bed with Buonaparte’s mother. That she might not reject the advance was the really horrifying thought.

They’d finished their meal in silence, listening as the crowd outside dispersed. Still seeking to deflect his interest in Paola, Charles praised Maria Anna for her calm behaviour, while assuring the others they now had nothing to fear. This performance had a further effect on the elder sister, confirming her previous good opinion of him, while adding another dimension to her dreams.

Here was a man who could face down a mob, so unlike those who had surrounded the late King Louis. Fanciful it might be, but she imagined, if he had been in Paris at the right time, the King would still be on the throne and she would still be an attendee at court.

As the object of these illusions lay in the huge bed, eyes closed, thinking and hoping, the door opened and shut. It happened so quickly the tallow wad in the hallway sconce seemed to flash like a signal lantern. Aware of a ghostly white presence bedside his bed, Charles smiled: Paola had sought him. Reaching out a hand he felt a calico nightdress.

‘You have come,’ he said softly.

‘Yes.’ whispered the voice, hoarse and low. ‘Time is so short, I must know if you want me?’

‘Of course I want you,’ he murmured, ‘more than anything in the world.’

‘Will you take me away from here?’

Charles immediately sensed danger; this could be a steep price for a little frolic. His mind went back to what had happened in the forest and any feelings of caution evaporated. No woman had ever touched him in the way Paola had. There was lust certainly, but there was something else as well. Quite apart, a man with a throbbing erection, which was his present state, can possess no conscience, so he reached out and touched a hand, which quickly squeezed his own.

‘Promise you will always be gentle.’

‘I shall. I shall.’

One hand swooped up the inside of the nightdress and he heard her gasp, which he ignored, being too busy pulling her body down into the bed. Without ceremony, Charles threw her on her back and mounted her, aware, somehow, it was not the same. Where was the excitement he had felt previously, the amazing sensation which filled his whole body, making him tremble? And why was she not responding as she had earlier, with a passion as eager as his own?

Perhaps she needed wine to arouse her, or sunlight: he didn’t know and was too far advanced to give it any thought. Rapidly and selfishly he was coming to a climax, disappointed there was no response from the body beneath him.

The door opened again and, in the faint light from the hallway candle, he saw Paola. She stood shocked, as she sensed rather than saw his writhing figure on the bed. The door was shut quickly and Charles froze as the image disappeared behind it; if it was Paola outside the door, to whom was he making love? There was really only one possibility!

‘This is madness.’ he said, starting to withdraw.

‘I know,’ said the girl beneath, writhing erotically for the first time, pulling his body closer.

Maria Anna had her arms round his back and was exerting too much pressure for him to break free without a struggle. There was really nothing he could do so he surrendered to her insistent grasp, the conclusion of their coupling a pretence, devoid of passion. He immediately alluded to the danger of her staying, hurrying her out of the room to avoid further embarrassment, this accompanied by lying endearments of everlasting affection.

The same fear of exposure or repetition kept him awake for the rest of the night and had him up before cock-crow, tiptoeing downstairs with his shoes in his hand. Abandoning both chest and yesterday’s clothes, he let himself out through the window and, shoes back on, strode down to the quayside in the cool morning air.

Untying a small dinghy, he rowed himself out to the fully wakened ship where the deck had already been washed and flogged dry, coming aboard with full ceremony, leaving Collins to think what to do about the purloined boat.

At a shout of ‘Kissock’, the door opened and his servant came in to find his master undressing.

‘Breakfast in five minutes.’

He ran on deck and dived once more into the sea, this time to wash off the residue of the oddest day of his life so far. Later on, dressed, shaved and breakfasted, he called Pettigrew over from the Mariette. The young man sat in his cabin, full of pride, making his report. The ships were ‘in all respects’ ready for sea, fully victualled, apart from a want of powder aboard his prize vessel.

‘Right’ said Charles. ‘We have achieved all we can here. The island is, from what I can gather, in the hands of the locals, who are friendly to us. We must set a course to look at Calvi, then we shall weather Cape Corse and reconnoitre Bastia.’

‘Reconnoitre?’ Pettigrew responded eagerly; clearly smelling battle.

‘I doubt we shall attempt anything. Both are well-fortified and full of French troops.’

The light of possible combat faded in the Pettigrew eye. Knowing how keen his subordinate was to fight the enemy, Charles wondered if the boy would, as he had in the past, inadvertently get him into another scrape, an idea which made him speak very sharply.

‘Our orders are to investigate and return to the fleet, so no good purpose will be served by seeking trouble.’

The youngster was looking at him in a strange way, shocked to hear such words from his hero.

‘Our task is clear, young fellow, it is to find an anchorage for our fleet. Those are our orders and sometimes, Mr. Pettigrew, they are difficult to obey. But obey them we must, for if we do not, we endanger the whole enterprise in the Mediterranean.’

He gave the lad a look he imagined Nelson might employ at such a moment; clearly, it was the right one. The features opposite, naturally given to good humour, set in the frozen mask Charles recognised as a copy of that which he employed.

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘Right Mr. Pettigrew, back to your ship and we shall get under way.’

The boy left the cabin as Charles donned his uniform coat and, jamming his hat on his head, went on deck.

‘Carry on Mr. Collins.’

Shouts rang out, the orders were given and the crew rushed to pull Petra over her anchor, while signals flew unnecessarily at the masthead, ordering Pettigrew to do likewise. It all made sense to Charles now in a way it had not done in the past. A ship had to hauled over an anchor to dislodge the fluke buried deep in the seabed, this done by attaching the anchor cable to the capstan and reeling the ship in.

The words cat and fish, so confusing on his first voyage, he now knew to mean the anchor, hauled clear of the water to lie against the ship, had been fished when a line was attached, and catted when it was secured to the side of the vessel. Everything was going impressively smoothly when, clear in the still morning air, came the crack of a pistol shot.

All eyes turned to look to the jetty and the street which led off it, to observe a small knot of people running frantically down the hill. Within seconds they reached the quayside and climbed into a boat.

‘Boat putting off, sir,’ shouted the lookout, wasting his breath. ‘One man, a small boy and what looks like four women.’

The Wormwood stomach turned a complete somersault; there could be no doubt about whom it would be, especially when a crowd appeared in pursuit, rushing towards water’s edge, yelling at the people in the boat.

He could not, tempted as he was, get away, because by the time they had fished the anchor the boat would be alongside. Charles could hardly order the anchor cable to be cut, the quickest method of weighing in an emergency, to avoid the danger of such a party.

‘Mr. Collins,’ he said, ‘you will oblige me by putting a cannonball over the heads of the mob.’

The youngster rushed to obey, a gun being run inboard, the tompion removed, to be loaded with one of the charges left over from the previous night.

The boat had reached the side of the Petra by the time it was ready to fire, Charles having confirmed it contained the Buonaparte family, plus the messenger from last night. They climbed up the side and huddled at the entry port, until both Paola and Maria Anna, seeing Charles, started across the deck simultaneously, one smiling, the other furious.

‘Carry on, Mr. Collins.’

The lanyard was pulled, the flints sparked and the cannon roared out. The ball must have shaved the heads of the crowd, because it hit the road just behind them before bouncing a couple of times and then demolishing the front door of one of the houses. The crew cheered as the mob simply dissolved, while the noise and smoke persuaded the Buonaparte girls to rush back to the protection of their mother’s skirts.

‘Mr. Collins, house the gun and let us get under way.’

He walked across to Madame Buonaparte and bowing, welcomed her aboard. Both girls were looking at him but he concentrated on the matriarch: at all costs he must not see either of them alone, this as the deck came alive with running sailors.

‘Kissock, take the ladies to my cabin and make them comfortable.’

They were led away, with Charles looking around for the messenger. But he’d rowed on and was heading for the other side of the bay. Soon they were under way, weathering the northern promontory, well clear of Isla de Sanguinaria, in line ahead on a course or Calvi.

He stayed on deck as long as he could, so as to avoid what was bound to be a very unpleasant interview. Eventually, when he could put it off no longer, he was forced to go below.

‘Ladies,’ he said on entry, removing his hat. ‘You have had a close shave.’

‘They have looted our house,’ moaned Maria Anna. ‘Everything is gone.’

As he remembered it, everything didn’t amount to much. More alarming than the news, was the looks he was receiving. Maria Anna was positively adoring, while Paola’s glare would have made a more stalwart man than Charles Wormwood blench.

‘I heard a gunshot,’ he said, sitting down behind his desk.

‘Mama used the one of papa’s pistols,’ Paola snarled. ‘She is very handy with a gun.’

This engendered a mental note to keep the key to the armoury on his person. As if to ensure him such a precaution was superfluous, Madame Bonaparte released her hold on the boy, still clinging to her, to produce a brace of pistols from her voluminous garments.

‘Carlo,’ said Maria Anna. ‘You must help us.’

The translation of his name brought a look of suspicion to the hard face of the matriarch, with Charles wondering who her eldest daughter was talking. It came as a shock to realise it was he. Paola’s eyes flashed angrily, first at her sister, then at him so he kept his eyes on the pistol-waving mother as Maria Anna spoke on.

‘Napoleone has crossed to the other side of the island. He is just outside Bastia. Carlo, we must go to him, unless....’

‘Unless?’

‘You are prepared not only to care of me, but my entire family.’

Charles might not be prey to her fantasies, but there was no mistaking the look nor the tone she had just used. He racked his memory, recalling their conversations, especially searching for what she had said last night. The word ‘always’ stood out starkly and alerted him to just how much trouble he had created.

The way he had deliberately played court to her at dinner had turned the girl’s head, which had led her to his bed on the assumption he harboured deep feelings. Maria Anna had surrendered her body to cement it and now, quite clearly, saw them as committed.

He spoke quickly to cut off Paola, who looked prepared to contest her sister’s quite evident claim.

‘Quite, but first we must get you somewhere to berth.’

The door opened as soon as he shouted for Kissock, which killed any further conversation.

‘We must find these ladies somewhere to rest, they’ve had a disturbed night.’

Even though they couldn’t understand it, he blushed as he realised the double meaning of his own words.

‘I don’t care who’s inconvenienced, I want them all to have separate accommodation. The boy can, of course, stay with his mother.’

Charles succumbed to panic; he knew he had to keep talking but no words would come, so he grabbed his hat and rushed out of the cabin. As he reached the deck the ship came out of the shelter of a headland into open sea, to lift and drop on the swell, which unlocked his mind even if it brought little relief. 

What was paramount? He had to see Paola alone, to get her to remain silent and he also must avoid Maria Anna or she would let the cat out of the bag. His reasons for avoiding the mother were obvious. Twenty minutes later, Kissock came on deck, the smirk on his face indicating he had a good notion of what was going on.

‘All safely stowed, your honour, though the older girl don’t like the motion of the ship.’

‘Seasick?’

‘I’ll say,’ he replied, with a slimy grin.’ She’s laid right low, as is the mother. The boy’s all right, though he staying close to his Mama and the two younger girls seem fine. I put the little one in Mister Pettigrew’s quarters and the pretty one we had our meal with is in yours.’

‘Take that insufferable grin off your face!’

He went below for what he knew was going to be a very difficult meeting. As he walked through the door, Paola flew at him, her nails like an eagle’s talons. He caught her hand, twisted it behind her back and pulled her to him, kissing her hard on the lips. She still struggled, then seemed to go limp. Had he not been kissing her, he would have smiled with the thought she couldn’t resist him.

The knee took him in the groin and he doubled up, his eyes starting from his head. Not content with his obvious distress, Paola started beating him around the head. Keeping one hand covering his groin, he tried to fend her off, to little avail as she continued her assault.

It was only by luck he caught hold of one of her hands and managed to restrain her for a moment. Taking his other hand away from his still aching balls and grabbing her free arm, he forced her back into a chair.

‘Paola, I can explain.’

‘Explain, you pig. You satyr,’ she hissed. ‘And I thought you wanted me.’

‘But I do,’ he heard himself say, surprise compounded by the feeling he meant it.

‘Liar!’ she spat, ‘when are you going to take my little sister to your bed, or perhaps you would prefer my mother.’

‘Quiet, people will hear,’ he begged.

‘Hear!’ she yelled. ‘Wait till Napoleone hears. Your life won’t be worth a bent livre. He will cut you to little pieces.’

Charles wasn’t worried about Napoleone; he had dozens of sailors on his side and could easily cope with such a pint-sized nonentity. But the mother, with her brace of loaded pistols, she would be something to be afraid of: he could hardly set a load of ‘Jack Tars’ on her.

‘It was a mistake,’ he whispered, breathlessly. ‘I thought it was you,’

She screamed and twisted, trying to get out of his grip. ‘Me! You compare my sister to me?’

‘It was dark. I was waiting for you, praying for you to visit. She came into my room and threw herself on me. What could I do?’

‘Liar.’

‘It is you I want, I swear.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she spat, but she had ceased to struggle.

‘How can I prove it to you?’

These words came out unbidden and he could have cheerfully bitten off his tongue when he heard them. Paola’s eyes had narrowed as she formed the very obvious conclusion.

‘You must tell Anna you do not want her. You must tell her you want me!’

‘It will break her heart,’ came out in desperation. ‘Your own sister.’

‘I knew it, you swine,’ she cried, spitting venom at him, trying to claw at his eyes again.

‘All right.’ he snapped. ‘I’ll tell her.’

‘Now! This very minute.’

‘Later,’ he pleaded.

‘Now!’ she insisted, pulling her hands clear of his.

His mouth formed the word ‘Later’ for a second time, as he nodded slowly.

‘Now.’ she said again, before pointing to the door.

7.

Maria Anna had been allocated the midshipmen’s quarters, so he made his way there, to pull back the screen and confront his nemesis. She lay groaning on a cot, unable to sit up, quite green, but able to reach up her hand feebly towards him and murmur softly.

‘Carlo, you have come to comfort me.’

He took the outstretched fingers, unable to think of anything else he could do. The strength of the sharp tug surprised him, especially when he found himself kneeling beside the cot.

‘I knew you would,’ she added, passing her free hand over her forehead. ‘I am not well. This ailment does little to enhance my appearance.’

‘Nonsense,’ he replied gallantly, before he paused, letting her see his hesitation. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle while his performance, to his ears, sounded pretty convincing. ‘My dear Maria Anna, is it possible your sister could be jealous?’

‘Who would not be,’ she replied, with a wan smile. ‘Am I not to be married to the most handsome man in the world?’

A vision of blowsy Kate Braeburn came into his mind, as well as what had happened in Sheerness. She too had used her body to trap him and, with the connivance of her dastardly father, had extended it to a commitment to wed her at some unspecified date in the future.

He had no intention of complying and nor could he countenance making any real commitment now, but it was hard to rid himself of a troubling thought.

Why is it every time I meet a certain type of woman they try to trick me into marriage? He did contemplate telling her there could be no such thing, but life was too complicated for such a simple exit. Better to keep everyone happy until he could sling them all off the ship.

‘It’s something which concerns me. I feel I would not want us to be too friendly, until we have seen your brother and obtained his consent.’

‘But, Carlo?’

‘Hush.’ he said, a gentle hand resting on her brow. ‘It’s only for a few days. Your sister will not dare to show anger once your dear brother has had his say. It is a game we shall play, the more to surprise her when the time comes.’

‘A trick then, Carlo?’

The voice was decidedly stronger: the idea of deceiving her prettier sister obviously appealed, so he replied in a voice full of repressed enthusiasm.

‘I want you to pretend to dislike me. No more Carlo, call me Lord Wormwood and behave in a distant manner. Then, when we spring the surprise, it will teach her the futility of jealousy.’

‘I would find it very difficult to pretend I dislike you.’

‘If Paola asks you what you feel for me, tell her you hate me, that I’ve abused your trust and good nature. Will you do this for me, my love?’

The oily voice was enough to make any sensible person sick. Kissock, standing on the other side of the screen, certainly felt like it, even if he couldn’t understand a single word.

Maria Anna whimpered. ‘Carlo, I would do anything for you,’

‘Now you must rest, my dear,’ he whispered, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek, earning him a wan smile and a feeble wave as he departed. Back in the main cabin, Paola waited. He came in and smiled at her.

‘It is done.’

‘You have told her?’

‘She was rather upset. After all, she surrendered her virtue to me in the belief I could love her. It’s my fault, of course. In order to divert attention from my feelings for you, I paid her too much attention. How could she be so foolish? Perhaps you could go and comfort her.’

Paola had certainly intended to go and see her sister, not to sympathise but to crow and flaunt. Charles’s utter assurance, his invitation for her to do so, changed her mind. She flew into his arms, seeking to wrap her lithe thighs tightly about his body.

A small cabin is an awkward place for two people to make love, but they were both young and eager so they managed it very well.

*

The two ships looked in at Calvi, the largest town and the best known anchorage on the island, getting close enough to draw fire from the batteries on the battlements, the Mariette, with its tricolour still surmounted by the British flag drawing the most.

Plumes of water shot up less than a cables’ length from the ship’s side, something which delighted Paola. She leapt for joy each time the sea erupted with the falling shot, then put her open thumb to her nose, hand spread wide, to tease the distant gunners, delighting the crew with her uninhibited behaviour.

There was little point in hanging about in a place full of Frenchmen, so they put about and headed out to sea, turning north to weather Cape Corse, looking into a deep bay on the north-eastern shore, with a small town at the base called St Florent, noting more than a line of whitewashed buildings along the strand with more behind, surrounded by verdant looking mountains.

Given it looked like a potential anchorage a certain amount of checking was required to ensure the ship’s charts had accurate soundings. This was a task delegated to Pettigrew and the Master, who took to the cutter with all the usual paraphernalia of lines and weights.

Charles meanwhile, visited Maria Anna, finding her, if still weak, ever more enthusiastic. She was close to venomous regarding the plan to confound Paola; truly there was no sisterly love lost.

Sailing further into the bay and close to the town established there was a French garrison, but it appeared small in numbers and clearly lacked any kind of long range artillery. They ran a pair of field guns on to the shoreline and did try to hit Petra even although the range was absurd. Moving well away, even from such minimal danger, Charles ordered Pettigrew to bring Mariette alongside to exchange impressions.

‘Ample deep water, Milord and good holding ground. What of the town and those field pieces? A broadside would see to them, Milord, and provide sport for the crews.’

This got the ginger pest a furious glare, until Charles remembered himself and allowed his features to freeze, the blank stare he’d perfected on his first voyage, to cover for his ignorance of everything nautical, providing time to think.

What would he be risking if he agreed? Not a lot and his other midshipmen would be just as keen as Pettigrew. Here was another one of those occasions when being a hero was damned inconvenient. To just sail on without doing anything would tarnish his image.

The late and drunken Captain Trelawney had curtailed any gunnery practice for the effect it had on his hangover, which meant Charles had no assurance, if he met an enemy warship, either crew he now commanded would be able to perform well enough to allow him to run for safety.

This would leave him relying on Pettigrew sacrificing himself, as well as the captured corvette, to allow Petra to escape, a situation it seemed wise to prepare for.

Nothing could be better in terms of practice than a small but real target, which in terms of retaliation, appeared to be no serious threat. And there was another consideration: gunfire excited Paola. In such a state, after Calvi, she’d proved her sense of exhilaration did not diminish once back in his cabin, with only one way to assuage it.  

‘Very well, but give me a moment to ponder on how best we maybe deploy.’

If the crew and his midshipmen wondered why Lord Wormwood left the deck for his cabin, they kept it to themselves, not even exchanging stares of incomprehension for, in following his example, they were now well versed in the need to appear indifferent.

The one person who was not in a state of query was Kissock, who had deduced quickly what was required. Given the only other occupant of the cabin couldn’t speak English, he was free to openly proffer advice.

‘Be best to give Mr Pettigrew the honour, Milord. Way to bombard a shore, from what I’ve been told, is in line ahead, with guns run out on both sides and under topsails, movin’ targets being hard to strike. So if Mariette is first, it’ll tell what’s at risk. Gives you the chance to haul clear if them pop guns are well worked. If not, you give ‘em a blast, then come about for another go if it looks like to be successful, which puts us in the van.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Clearin’ for action is the right way to go about things.’

‘Why do I sense doubt in your tone?’

‘It would mean rousin’ the ladies and the young lad, then putting ‘em in the cable tier for safety.’

‘We won’t be doing that, Kissock.’ Seeing the grin begin to form on his lips, Charles added. ‘And one word from you or so much as a leer and it’ll be the keelhauling you’re always on about.’

The face went stiff immediately. Even if Kissock knew it was a threat unlikely to be carried through, he wasn’t going to take a chance on the Wormwood temper. Charles turned to a confused Maria Paola, speaking in French.

‘I wonder if you would like to fire one of our cannon. Something to boast about to your brother, I would think.’

The eagerness of the assent, even if it was somewhat curtailed by the presence of his servant, promised much once the action was over. Unseen in the shaking of his head, Kissock was thinking one day, if he didn’t get his breeches sown up, so he could keep his tackle from temptation, Lord sodding Wormwood was going to get them both into real bother.

‘Mr Pettigrew,’ Charles boomed, as he came back on deck. ‘I feel, after the affair at Porto Vecchio, you deserve some reward for your exemplary behaviour, so to you will go the honour of leading us into battle. Pray set your sails and get under way. HMS Petra will follow in your wake.’

‘I am conscious sir, I’d be depriving you of the credit.’

Supressing the desire to call out the stupidity of the remark, there being no credit in this any more than there had been in the affair in the Goulet on which his heroic status rested, Charles replied.

‘I’ll spare some for a reliable subordinate.’

Charles waited for the hat to come off, the grin to appear and the gratitude to flow, but the ginger pest had imbued too much of the Wormwood philosophy. All he got was a very correct, ‘Aye, aye sir.’

‘Mr Collins, having heard what I’ve said, I’m sure I need not issue you any orders?’

Within minutes both ships were under canvas and sailing in a wide arc, boats towed behind, to take the westerly wind, which would bring them parallel to the shore. Strangely, there was no response, even when they came within range.

Through his telescope Charles could see the field pieces were still in place, surrounded by the silent unmoving gunners, the only curiosity being, on a mild, sunny day, these French coves seemed to need a flaming brazier to keep them warm.

He’d placed Paola on the forward twelve pounder, loaded and run out by the crew, the gun captain ready to aim the piece. She stood holding the lanyard, which would spark the flint. It should be no more than a gesture, the men on Mariette having destroyed the field guns and smashed the bombardiers with it on their prior run.

Having come level with the target, Pettigrew opened up in a rolling broadside which, if it looked impressive in the amount of smoke it produced, did not replicate it in the result. Several balls never even made it to the shore, landing in the shallows to throw up useless plumes of water.

Others flew too high, arcing over the heads of the Frenchmen, to either demolish part of a house fronting the beach or, in a couple of cases, to smash through the roof tiles of one to their rear.

Charles knew from the prattling of people like Nelson, an ambitious captain would exercise their guns daily, mostly without actually doing any firing. When they did indulge, the time aimed for in reloading and firing a second salvo was two minutes.

You did not need a watch to know Mariette, creeping along under topsails, was taking a lot longer to get off anything like a second broadside and this when the target was untouched. It was doubtful if they could get one away before the task fell to Petra.

‘And I thought them Froggies in the Goulet was bad,’ whispered Kissock, referring to the gunners who’d helped burnish Wormwood’s heroic status. The next word he uttered was less dismissive.

‘Christ!’

‘What now?’ Charles demanded, impatiently.

The field guns had finally fired and two balls could be seen arching towards their prize, trailing smoke as they went. They came up short and fell into the sea, to throw up not just water, but a hissing cloud of steam.

‘Heated shot,’ Kissock declared. ‘Bastards have heated their balls.’

‘Is it bad?’

Charles asked this in a faraway sort of tone; he was thinking of what he might look forward to after this escapade, which meant the French were not alone

‘Can be mortal, Milord. One of those red hot buggers gets embedded in a hull, in a place hard to reach, an’ the ship will catch light for sure. If they strike dry canvas, which I take leave to point out is what we have aloft, that goes up easy.’

‘Just as well they missed, then.’

Pettigrew must have got some of his men working properly. Two or three cannon did manage to get another roundshot away, not that they did any good, being even less effective than the first attempt. Now Petra was coming up with the enemy on her beam.

Charles glanced forward to see Paola crouched so she could see through the gun port and, unlike the crew, she was not prepared to wait for an order to fire. He saw her elbow the gun captain aside and haul hard on the lanyard.

It was just as well the man had a brain, for he pulled her backwards as the cannon recoiled, which saved her from severe injury. It got him no gratitude, just a stream of Corsican invective, which gave time to see her shot land on the thin strip of beach, to gouge out a great cloud of sand only yards away from the French guns.

‘Mr Collins, when you’re ready. I think we have an example to follow.’

The order to fire was not a roar, more a gurgle of nervous instruction as the lad walked down the deck instructing each gun captain in turn. If an eager superior trained his telescope, he was far from pleased to register, if anything, his men had fared even worse than those under Pettigrew, this while the French responded, having adjusted their range.

One of the heated balls fell short, but the other, perhaps because of better powder, slammed into the side. The deck was mass of men seemingly doing all the wrong things.

The neat swabbing and reloading of the guns, which Charles had seen on the flagship, was entirely absent. Some men were hauling the guns up while their mates were trying to haul them back.

The gun captains had their wads of powder ready and some hands had the ball standing by for loading, but there was no coordination and thus no way the broadside could be repeated in anything like the recognised time.

Smoke began to billow up over the hammock nettings, a sight which induced panic and not just in the crew. Charles was cursing Pettigrew, who’d got him into this scrape, while also wondering if he could get into a boat and away before the whole ship went up in flames.

He turned to yell at Kissock, only to find he wasn’t there. The next salvo from the field guns sent shot through the rigging and, if it sliced through tarred ropes, it left behind smouldering tails where they’d frayed.

Realising Kissock must have gone below, instinct began to take him in the same direction; if his servant had sought safety there this was the place to be. He was vaguely aware, as he began to move, the Master had changed course to open up the gap between ship and shore, which seemed so sensible he issued a sharp command over his shoulder to do that very thing.

He was off the deck before he realised stern on, Petra presented a harder to hit target and cursed himself for not adding this to his instruction.

Half way down the companionway he found himself in danger of being bowled over by Kissock, leading a party of men in the other direction, who seemed to carrying something which looked like a large snake. Immediate risk had him turn and run before them, coming back on deck to see the bows were fully round and they were heading away from the shore, this as another pair of balls hissed into the sea off the stern.

‘Fire engine, your honour,’ gasped Kissock, ‘call for the fire engine an’ we’ll be safe.’

The shout of those two words was an automatic response, though he wondered where in the name of all which could be called holy they were going to find such an artefact. Yet there it was, a small wheeled affair, which he’d seen used to wet the sails on hot and dry days, as well as the decks in the morning, to wash the sand away after holystoning. That it had a third use had never occurred to him.

The hose, for this was what Kissock’s lot had been carrying, was lowered over the side then connected to the pump, which two sailors began to work up and down until a stream of seawater emerged, with young Collins directing they should aim to wet the singed canvas first.

If smoke was still billowing up from the scantlings, surely this was the wrong way round in terms of peril. It was time to take charge.

‘Mr Collins,’ Charles commanded, striding forward, ‘We can spare some cordage and canvas, but I think burning timbers represent the greatest threat.’

Kissock’s arms went up in the air and so did the eyes, a sure sign he was wrong, which called for a swift change of mind.

‘You are however, to be commended for your application, so carry on.’

Passing Collins he got the very smallest hint of a nod from his servant, so he carried on to where Paola stood, clearly confused about what was happening. She was very obviously still excited, standing like a coiled spring and, looking at her, so was he. 

‘I think it best I return you to my cabin.’

She got his meaning, which was obvious in the sly smile, raising his pressing need another notch.

‘Mr Pettigrew’s going about sir,’ called the Master from the quarterdeck. ‘And he set a course to take Mariette closer inshore.’

Charles was forced to look to where this was taking place. Instead of bearing up and away from the shore, Pettigrew had worn round to head for the beach and, given Charles could clearly see a man in the chains, casting a lead, it was obvious the stupid boy intended to sail as close as he could without running aground.

Sailing into the wind he was making very slow progress, which would put him at the mercy of those cannon both at close range and for some time. There was no consideration, in his reaction, Pettigrew might be risking life and limb, not just for himself but for his skeleton crew.

The corvette represented success to him and prize money to the crew; risking it was not to be borne and he had to get him to desist. Unsure of how to bring it about, it was necessary to put both Paola and his intentions regarding her aside, then sidle towards Kissock.

Yet he couldn’t speak: there were too many ears close by, not that his servant was in any doubt about the reasons for his proximity.

‘Got to admire the lad, I say,’ was imparted loudly. ‘Let’s give him a cheer lads.’

Even those on the fire engine, who were now stood on the hammock nettings, directing their aim as the side of the ship, let out a great hurrah, which allowed Kissock to impart, without being overheard.

‘Get aloft a signal your honour and quick. Engage the enemy more closely. Even them useless buggers can’t miss when they can see the whites of John Crapaud’s eyes.’

‘Mr Collins, a signal to Mr Pettigrew.’

‘They’re running away,’ came the cry, with hands pointing to the shore.

The French gunners were abandoning their guns and limbers, getting themselves and their horses off the beach as fast as the sand tugging at their boots and hooves would let them. Within minutes they’d disappeared down an alleyway between two buildings.

Realising there was now no danger, and aware of the shoddy performance of the gunnery so far, Charles came to the conclusion he’d been presented with a chance to practice the very thing with no danger of retaliation.

‘The signal, sir?’ asked Collins.

Calling the required words, inaccurate since there was no longer an enemy left to engage, mattered little; it sounded heroic, even more so when he ordered the master to put them in Mariette’s wake.

Thus a goodly amount of time was spent with both vessels sailing to and fro, well inshore and with minimum water under their keels, trying to destroy those two field guns and their limbers, Paola being permitted to fire off the odd cannon, generally with more effect than the crew.

The damage they visited upon the houses fronting St Florent was dreadful, more than one being close to collapse given the number of shots which missed the target, until finally one ball, aimed accurately, no doubt by accident, upended a cannon and sent its wheels spinning along the strand, the ball turning the limber behind into matchwood.

‘Enough,’ Charles called. ‘House your guns.’

He forbore to say, at this rate of success, they would run out of powder before the second field gun was destroyed. Once sailing out of the bay, he was free to leave the deck and return to his cabin. The fact the circumstances with the girls hadn’t changed was a thought which had to wait, but it was a very short time before it resurfaced.

He had to get rid of these women, Paola included and Napoleone was the only person he could pass them on to. The Buonaparte brothers were heading for Bastia yet he could hardly just sail into a place, which, as the French capital, probably contained more troops than Calvi.

*

On weathering Cape Corse and turning south, they encountered contrary winds, forcing both vessels to beat up, with constant changes of course, a slow process which would not see them off Bastia till morning.

Running into what was a wicked choppy sea had one advantage; it kept Maria Anna below, although her mother seemed to have recovered, having recently demanded food and the presence of the ship’s captain to find out what he proposed to do next.

Charles suggested the most obvious course was to put the family ashore and let them find Napoleone. This Madame Buonaparte flatly refused to consider, stating they would not last two minutes without a man to protect them.

Looking into her face, with its tough features, knowing her to be still in possession of her pistols and the means to load them, he suspected she would easily overwhelm anything the French cared to deploy.

But the old battle-axe could just as easily take care of him and no doubt would if the truth emerged. A mumbled suggestion that perhaps Paola be sent ashore to find her brother nearly gave her mother an apoplexy, engendering a flood of high-pitched Italian abuse.

He might know nothing of the language, but the old lady’s gestures left him in no doubt she considered him deficient in a quite specific anatomical location. The fact all his difficulties were caused by over sufficiency in this very area would have amused him, had he not realised, with a shock, the only other person who could effectively perform the requisite task was himself. 

             This is ridiculous, he thought, in the face of Madame Buonaparte’s tirade, how can I possibly go, I’m the ship’s captain?

‘Mister Pettigrew to repair aboard.’

No order would be necessary; the boy would volunteer at the first hint. The signal was sent and, despite the quite heavy sea, Mariette immediately lowered a boat. Having extracted details of where to find her son and written them down, Charles got rid of Madame Buonaparte before Pettigrew, his boat cloak dripping water, came rushing in to his cabin, his face eager as he lifted his hat in salute.

Charles took one look at the pink, freckled countenance, topped as it was by a mop of bright ginger curls and wondered how could he send this boy ashore to an island teeming with swarthy natives? He would be apprehended in no time.

‘Sir?’ Pettigrew barked, jamming his hat under his arm.

‘Damn you,’ yelled Charles. ‘Send Kissock to me and then get back to your ship!’

The crestfallen lad exited, while Kissock, eavesdropping and a bit mystified, took his time before appearing. His captain’s interview with Madame Buonaparte had been conducted in French, thus he was at a loss to know what it was about and her letting fly in Italian hadn’t helped matters.

But the cavalier treatment of Pettigrew aroused his suspicions. As he entered the cabin this was heightened: Charles was smiling at him.

‘Ah. Kissock,’ he said, in a voice designed to be disingenuous, ‘just the fellow.’

“Just the fellow.” sounded to his servant like a candidacy for the gallows.

‘We have to get these ladies ashore,’ said Charles, in a tone of deep gravity. ‘Trouble is, they refuse to go unless they are given into the care of Madame’s son, Napoleone. He, and his brother are ashore in the house of a relative outside Bastia. I want you to take a note to him and bring him out to fetch them ashore.’

‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Kissock, maintaining a concerned look, before raising his eyes. Such a ready acceptance wiped the friendly smile off his master’s face. ‘Mind, I’d be obliged, your honour, if’n you could coach me enough in the local lingo, so as I’ll be able to ask directions?’

‘The directions are all here,’ rapped Charles, stabbing at the map he had concocted with the mother.

‘Why there’s a help an’ no error. This son of hers, Nipolin, how does I recognise him?’

‘You’ll recognise Luigi, he’s the fellow we had the picnic with.’ The next words were added with a deep growl. ‘Are you going to be difficult, Kissock?’

Kissock responded with a shocked expression, finally looking his master in the eye.

‘Difficult, Milord, perish the thought. You know your wish to be my command and it’s simple enough, ain’t it? I’m to go ashore, to a town full of Frenchies an’ ask for a local called Nipolin, or failing that his brother. Never mind I don’t speak the lingo, cause I always find, if you waves your hands and shouts loud enough, it works wonders with foreign coves.’

‘Enough,’ said Charles gloomily, as he turned to look out of the cabin windows at the disturbed wake.

‘No doubt this Nipolin cove speaks civilised and will readily smoke what I’m saying in my humble Limehouse tongue. I’m to tell him, putting aside the fact he don’t know me from Adam, he’s to come along and fetch his family. But then it don’t matter he don’t know me, cause his brother does. An’ there be no doubt, having picnicked together, and you having gone off into the woods with his little sister, he will place all his trust in the sign language I use, to tell him the ship is out here in the bay waiting.’

‘Shut up,’ said Charles, a little louder.

‘Now I don’t suppose, seeing as how the ladies came aboard, the two of them is in bad odour with anyone....’

Charles hissed through clenched teeth. ‘If you don’t belay, I’ll have the armourer pull out your fingernails with red hot tongs.’

‘Only tryin’ to be helpful, your honour.’

The grin was wiped off Kissock’s face as Charles spun round and said.  ‘Get me out some civilian clothes, preferably something plain.’

‘You’re not thinkin’ of goin’ yourself!’

The answer was delivered wearily.

‘If you can think of someone aboard this ship who is male, knows these Buonapartes, speaks French and is an idiot, tell me, for I shall certainly send him.’

‘Why don’t you just turf them off the ship, your honour?’

The look Charles gave him explained all, so he left the cabin mumbling under his breath about people keeping their breeches buttoned. Kissock was angry; he would have to go with his master because he couldn’t afford to let him get killed. Who else would employ him? 

*

As the boat scraped against the soft sand of the beach, they leapt out, Kissock carrying a bundle and a lantern, which would be used to give the arranged recognition signals at a fixed rendezvous time. Charles heard the oars splash as the launch pulled away and they were alone, with the moonlight added to the reflection from sand and surf.

‘It will be dawn soon,’ he said.

‘Then we’d best get into them there trees, your honour, case there’s any John Crapaud’s about.’ 

         Charles just stood there, thinking of the partings he had made aboard ship. Maria Anna, still prostrate, smiling weakly and asking him to take care; Paola, inhibited by her mother’s presence, yet still managing to convey concern. It was only then he realised how much he liked her company, how much he did not want to give her up, even although he knew he must.

With a sigh he set off towards the dark mass of foliage at the edge of the beach, joining Kissock, who’d picked a place to hide his bundle. Full daylight found them on a dusty track from where, in the distance, the citadel of Bastia stood out clearly, rising on a slight rocky promontory above the harbour, the fortress no doubt bristling with cannon.

They passed various peasants on the pathway, none of whom saw fit to acknowledge them. Kissock’s attempt to get his master to dress like a common sailor had fallen foul of the Wormwood vanity. Dressed as he was, and carrying two pistols in his belt, Charles looked like someone in authority and no Corsican peasant looked such a personage in the eye.

He had selected his shabbiest garments and borrowed a cap, now pulled low over his eyes. Yet what was the point of his trying to be inconspicuous when his master was dressed in a beautifully cut black coat, gleaming linen stock, buff-coloured breeches and highly polished black boots.

Such display was out of character for one so careful of his own safety. What Kissock could not know, because Charles didn’t tell him, was he was damned if he was going to appear before a toad like Napoleone dressed like a tramp. 

         The sun was high in the sky by the time they reached the outskirts of Bastia, there being no sign of any French troops. Charles supposed, with the natives being unfriendly, they kept to the citadel so the whole thing was going to be easy. There were few large mansions in the town, so following the directions for one near the shoreline was not difficult.

Eventually they found the one described, a two-storey house surrounded by a high wall, with a gap where there should have been a gate. As they walked into the courtyard and up to the house, they could see the front door hanging on one hinge, obviously smashed in.

‘Best take a look indoors, Kissock,’ whispered Charles, waving him to carry on.

Cautiously the servant entered the gloomy hallway. To his left a door stood ajar, leading into an even darker room, while in front a staircase led to the first floor. He chose the darkened room and, as he stepped through the doorway, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the lack of sunlight.

The knife at his throat felt very cold, while the hand over his mouth was hot and clammy; a hoarse voice whispered something he couldn’t understand, but logic and fear told him not to struggle. The voice hissed again, the knife pressed even harder against his skin, at the same moment as the hand was taken away from his mouth.

At first he didn’t understand, the knife pressed quickly once more, the voice repeating the hoarse command. He was being asked to call out for his companion. It was not loyalty which made him hesitate, just the suspicion, once he’d called his master, and once Charles had agreed to come, he might die.

If his assailant was alone, he would have to dispose of his present prisoner to be in a position to deal with someone else. Kissock only had one card to play and, if his assailant spoke English, he was a dead man.

8.

‘Hey, admiral’s bum boy, you’d best get yourself in here!

‘What did you say?’ shouted Charles.

‘Stop arguing you poxed son of a whore and move yer arse.’

‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Kissock?’

‘No, Milord, but this cove with the blade at my neck might just so that.’

‘Milord!’ said the hoarse voice by his ear. The hand was clamped firmly over Kissock’s mouth again and he was pushed towards the shuttered windows, to hear his master’s strangulated voice floating through the warm morning air.

‘Are you telling me there is somewhere in there with a knife?’ There was a pause, as though a reply was expected and, when it did not come, Charles added querulously. ‘You really are hopeless, Kissock. I entrust you with a simple task and you go and get yourself threatened by an armed assailant.’

The voice was receding, not getting closer; so much for any hope of rescue. The man behind him had, by this time, pushed him all the way to the window. Taking his hand off his quarry’s mouth again, he reached past him and pushed the shutter open a fraction, so Kissock could see his master backing slowly towards the gate, both pistols in his hands.

‘Milord Carlo!’ his captor cried, at the same time dropping the knife, to push the shutters open fully, flooding the room with light.

‘Luigi?’ shouted Charles

Kissock spun round; even half blinded by the sudden sunlight he recognised the plump mandolin player.

‘You must come inside at once,’ Luigi demanded. ‘Our enemies are everywhere. It is not safe.’

The reversing of his course was swift. Charles was in the hallway in a flash, hiding behind the smashed front door until Luigi walked out to greet him, spinning him round till they were face to face, then throwing his arms around him in a passionate embrace.

Kissock, nervously rubbing the front of his neck, observed this with a bitter expression, because with them speaking French he was lost again. Charles looked at him over Luigi’s shoulders with an equally uncomprehending stare.

‘Thank god you are here,’ said Luigi, the catch in his throat evidence of deep emotion.

‘You spoke of danger?’

Luigi indicated the broken door. ‘French soldiers came during the night.’

‘Where is your brother?’

‘Both taken.’

‘Both?’ mouthed Charles, confused.

‘I escaped by climbing out on to the roof. They searched for me but didn’t think to look up there. They have taken Napoleone to the Hotel de Ville to join Giuseppe, my oldest brother, who was already a prisoner, arrested on the way here. The French are going to try them for treason.’

Luigi, his expression both sad and desperate, made the chopping sign of the guillotine.

‘How many people can your brother betray?’ asked Charles querulously. ‘The last time I saw the two of you, you were on the run from your fellow Corsicans.’

‘The French do not believe Napoleone is loyal, even though he has sworn he is.’

‘Well it goes to prove they’re not entirely stupid,’ Charles growled in English. Then reverting to French he said. ‘I have the rest of your family aboard my ship. Where do you suggest I put them ashore?’

‘Ashore, Monsieur, you cannot put them ashore on this island. On the contrary, we must rescue my brothers and get away from here as fast as we can.’

‘We?’ was asked imperiously, again in English, allowing Kissock, an excluded witness to almost the whole exchange, to sense renewed danger. It didn’t last as it was back to French once more. ‘I have had the courtesy to rescue your family, after you and your brother deserted them in the most shameful fashion. You, soon it seems to be the oldest male member of the brood, will kindly relieve me of my burden so I may continue on my way.’

‘Are you saying you would desert us in our hour of need?’

‘I most certainly would,’ came the reply, one without the least trace of unease.

Luigi’s face fell and he looked from Kissock to Charles and back again without hope.

‘Might I ask what’s afoot, your honour?’ Kissock asked.

‘They really are the end, these Buonapartes. Seemingly the two elder brothers have got themselves arrested for treason and they are about to get the chop.’

Luigi winced as Charles, himself, made the sign of the guillotine.

‘This after having only narrowly escaped being strung up by their own countrymen. The whole lot are totally unreliable and this one, who’s been skulking in the house, doing nothing himself, wants me to rescue them.’

‘This is a right pig’s breakfast an’ no mistake,’ Kissock opined.

‘Accurate if not elegant. The trouble is, what to do now?’

‘Dump them on shore and get as far away as possible.’

‘We would have to bodily lift them out of the ship. They won’t come ashore unless Napoleone says it’s safe and it doesn’t look likely.’

‘Can’t we dump them someplace else?’

What Charles would have liked to say was this: 

“Have you any idea of the difficulty I’m in with this lot? Half of them are trying to get me to the altar while the other half seem intent on getting me to the grave. And who’s going to turf old mother Buonaparte off the ship. This miserable specimen here refuses to take the responsibility, while I can just imagine her two daughters yelling rape on the quarterdeck and her still armed. And if word of all this getting about, I’d be a laughing stock.”

Instead he said, ‘It is our duty to assist the family in every way we can.’

Kissock wanted to say something about the benefits of castration, instead he said. ‘Aye aye, sir.’

Charles turned to Luigi. ‘Your brother was arrested last night you say?’

‘In the middle of the night.’ the Corsican replied.

‘Good.’ said Charles, thinking this would be right up Pettigrew’s street. ‘It gives us plenty time to formulate a plan as well as to get assistance from the ship.’

‘Not so, Monsieur, there is very little time. My brothers will be brought before the Committee of Public Safety this afternoon.’

Charles gave Luigi what he thought was a reassuring smile. ‘Well, never mind, they still have to try them.’

The response was a bitter laugh.

‘The Committee of Public Safety does not try people, it condemns them. Every evening, the crowds gather in the square to see some poor unfortunates butchered. And were the members of the committee not such drunkards, with the need to nurse their heads of a morning, it would all be over before lunch.’

‘One is tempted to ask,’ barked Charles, ‘if the matter is so urgent, what you were doing hanging around here?’

This information changed the whole picture. It was one thing to consider a rescue of two Buonapartes with a party of marines and seamen, ably led by Pettigrew; it was quite another thing to contemplate the same rescue with the resources at his disposal.

Luigi shrugged and pulled out a pistol from his belt. ‘What can one man do on his own, even armed?’  

         ‘Kissock’ said Charles, reverting to English. ‘We are going to have to dump this idiot. Apparently they do the head chopping before supper, which leaves us no time to get a party from the ship. I fear however, if I tell him the truth, he will make a scene and who knows, he may even betray us to the authorities to save his own neck. The question is, how do we get away from him?’

‘What about the womenfolk?’

‘One problem at a time. I shall have to cross that bridge when I come to it. Meanwhile we have got to get shot of him and by such a method he doesn’t suspect we’re not coming back.’

‘Well, you’re honour,’ said Kissock. ‘If’n we were goin’ to actually rescue this Nipolin, we’d have to figure out a way of getting him off the island.’

‘Go on,’ Charles replied, giving Luigi a most reassuring smile.

‘So’s we would need horses most like, or maybe a boat’d be better.’

‘Why would a boat be better?’

‘There are Frenchies in that there castle,’ Kissock replied, with the sigh of man stating the obvious. ‘And if they’ve got any horses, they’ll be the best on the island. Lest we could steal their mounts, they’d most likely catch us before we’ve got to the rendezvous. Any road, I can’t ride a horse.’

‘We’re not actually planning a rescue,’ Charles pointed out crossly.

His servant stabbed an angry finger at Luigi. ‘But we got to convince him we are. He knows nothing about boats, so if we set him to keep a lookout for what’s goin’ on in the town, we can nip down to the harbour...’

‘And steal a boat?’

‘An’ keep walking, your honour, straight back to the rendezvous. By the time he realises we’re not coming back, it’ll be too late for him to do anything, since he’s no idea where we’re heading.’  

Kissock smiled reassuringly at the mystified Luigi which, given his rodent-like features, engendered a suspicious frown on the man’s face.

‘Good thinking.’

Charles turned to Luigi and reverted to French.

‘We have decided to steal a boat from the harbour, given our ships are offshore. It is the quickest way, especially with such a large party. Now, monsieur, I suggest we head into town so you can show us the layout. We must have a plan which befits the involvement of the Royal Navy.’  

*

The guillotine stood in a large open piazza, before the front of a twin towered church, placed there as if to remind those about to die to make their peace with God. They had entered from a narrow street, with Charles, glancing right and left, frowning frequently, giving every appearance of a man formulating a plan for a daring rescue.

On the other side of the square, a short street led to the small harbour, while the one from which they’d just emerged would take them back to the Hotel de Ville.

It was obvious, if one was actually planning a rescue, it would have to be done in the open, otherwise the difficulties of getting away would be insurmountable.

Luigi had described the scene for Charles, outlining the size of the crowd, some hostile but most cowed by the presence of the revolutionary guards armed with muskets, all gathered to watch the prisoners being brought to the guillotine in a tumbrel.

It was only a short walk from the Hotel de Ville to the church square, but they used such a conveyance in Paris and the revolutionary committed, regardless of how remote they were from the centre of things, could do no less.

‘We need some form of diversion, Luigi,’ Charles murmured. ‘I suggest, once your brothers have been brought into the square you, from this point, shoot the nearest soldier. This will take everyone’s attention, especially the armed guards. As you make your escape up this street, they’re bound to pursue you.’

‘It would be a good idea,’ he continued airily, in the face of Luigi’s less than enthusiastic expression, ‘if you could shoot a few more of them. Meanwhile, Kissock and I will release your brothers and make for the harbour, hoping the crowd will, if not actively aid us, at least hinder our opponents.’

‘And then what do I do, monsieur?’ Luigi demanded with a frown. ‘With all these people after me?’

‘Make your way to the harbour as best you can. We will, of course, wait for you.’

‘It sounds very dangerous, monsieur. Suicidal.’

Charles responded sharply. ‘Well what do you suggest? I can’t engineer miracles you know. I have had about five minutes to work something out and, according to my reckoning, I have about the same amount of time to steal a boat, then get back here to rescue two members of your family. If you can come up with something better, I would be glad to hear it. Or, if you don’t wish us to bother, I will happily make my way back to my ship.’

‘Forgive me,’ Luigi pleaded. ‘I did not mean to doubt you. I am most grateful for what you propose to do.’

‘Good. We will stay out of the square until they’re all in place. When you see us come to the front of the crowd over there,’ Charles pointed to the other side of the square, ‘then shoot the nearest armed man.’

They wouldn’t appear on the other side of the square and Charles hoped Luigi would not shoot unless he saw them for he wasn’t a bad sort of fellow. His brothers might forfeit their lives, but there was no good reason why he should die as well.

‘Right then, Luigi, you stay here while Kissock and I go and sort out a boat.’ He took his watch from his pocket and showed it to both men. ‘It’s now three-thirty. You say the actual executions take place around four?’

Luigi nodded, as Charles mimed a count of time on his fingers. ‘Then we shall see you on the hour.’

As he made as if to walk away, Luigi put his hand on his arm to stop him. ‘Monsieur, would it not be a good thing if I knew which boat? There are many vessels in the harbour and I am no sailor.’

The response was a cold expression.

‘It is just if something were to go wrong.’ Luigi’s eyes and his gesture implied the ‘something’ would be a dead Wormwood and even possibly a dead Kissock as well. ‘If I am left to complete the task myself, God forbid, then I must know what boat to steal.’

Charles, smiled and nodded, this immediately replaced by a look of annoyance as he turned his back on Luigi and set off across the square, followed by the Corsican and his servant: Luigi had made a sensible suggestion and it had to be followed up.

‘Saving your presence, your honour,’ hissed Kissock, hurrying to come abreast of Charles. ‘If these here executions take place at watch change time, we be cutting it mighty fine.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that? After this escapade, and once we have got rid of the lot of them, the first person to say the name Buonaparte will spend a year in the bilge with the rats for company.’

They left the other side of the square and entered the narrow street leading to the harbour. Here it was pleasantly dark, shaded from the broiling, late afternoon sun. Charles turned and looked across the sunlit space to where Luigi would stand if he could get rid of him. He nodded several times as if confirming his plans, then turned abruptly and continued till they came out onto the quayside, the inland side of which was lined with tall houses, interspersed with narrow alleys. In the harbour, dozens of boats rocked gently on the swell.

‘Right, Kissock, at the risk of carrying this play acting too far, I want you to select the boat you’d steal if we were really going to carry out our plan.’

‘What plan?’ demanded Kissock, his face pinched in anger. ‘You’ve been gabblin’ away to him in Froggie, Milord. How do you expect me to understand?’

Which brought forth an angry bellow; Luigi was getting on his nerves and Kissock had just added himself to the brew.

‘I should have thought it would have been obvious, even to a feeble minded simpleton like you!’

Heads turned as Charles shouted, not only at the noise but also at the unfamiliar language. Seeing he’d drawn attention to himself, he continued in an impatient whisper.

‘Just pick out the best boat in the harbour, one which will carry six people and one we can easily steal.’

‘You don’t bleedin’ want much,’ complained Kissock.

‘Alright then,’ he shouted again, this time even louder. ‘Club this oaf I can’t shake off and let’s get out of here.’

His master’s nerves were obviously raw, too raw for further protest, so Kissock looked over the edge of the quay and started examining the floating craft, walking up and down and then out onto the mole.

Charles took out his watch and examined it; time was running out and his servant seemed to be in no hurry, having practically walked all the way out to the harbour entrance. Finally, having stared, long and hard at something on the outer edge of the mole, he turned and came back.

‘There a nice-looking clinker built job, right out by the entrance. Don’t know what it’s called, but it’s a bit like our cutter, havin’ a mast for a single square sail, an’ it’ll hold six people easy.’

‘What colour’ asked Charles.

‘Dark blue.’

‘Show us, but say nothing. Let me pick it out, it looks better, me being an officer.’

Charles led them out on to on to the mole, sauntering casually as he looked out into the water. All the boats seemed to be dark blue, which had Charles whispering out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Which one, for God’s sake!’

‘That one,’ replied Kissock, pointing at a boat tied to the side, the glare that produced making him feel good.

‘You weren’t supposed to point.’

Kissock, too, was getting rattled and it was time to say so. ‘I might not own a watch, your honour, but I hazard we don’t have time to play officers and seamen.’

‘Right, Luigi,’ said Charles, looking out to sea. ‘This will be our boat. Don’t look at it, man, you will make people suspicious.’

He indicated the small knot of people who’d gathered at the point where the mole met the quay.

‘And now I suggest we take up our positions.’

9.

He led the way back down the mole, the knot of people parting to let them through, silently staring in a most disconcerting way, as they headed back to the street which ran up to the church square. Coming out of the strong sunlight into the shade, Charles was temporarily blinded, but he heard a shout.

His sight cleared just enough to see a civilian in front of a group of blue-coated soldiers, pointing at him. The soldiers raised their muskets, one of them calling out for him to stand still. He being rooted to the spot, Kissock grabbed his collar and dragged him back round the corner.

‘Run for it, your honour, we’ve been rumbled.’

He sped off with Luigi and his master his heels, ducking up the first alley they came to, calling for them to follow. Charles could hear the boots of the soldiers behind as he obeyed his servant’s cry, pulling his pistols from his belt so as to run faster down an alleyway so narrow two people could not have walked past each other.

The thought of muskets being fired down such a confined space made him accelerate even more; they could hardly miss and he was at the back. Kissock turned left into another alley, slightly wider, Luigi hard on his heels, Charles now with his heart in his mouth, for he was now the sole target. He dived round the bend just as a ball cracked over his head.

‘Luigi.’

The Corsican slowed at the shout, just enough for Charles to push past him, happier now he was not back marker: if he was risking his life for the Buonapartes, it was only fitting the sole member present should take station to reduce the danger. This followed by a peremptory call of.

‘Come on, man!’

He fixed his gaze on Kissock’s back as his servant twisted and turned from one alley to the next, the noise of the pursuing boots seeming to fade, then get louder, only to fade again, until disappearing completely. They kept running, all panting heavily, their heads down and concentrating on escape; what they were not doing, in their panicked flight, was looking where they were going.

The trio shot out, almost on each other’s heels, in to a proper street. Kissock, head down and arms pumping, ran headlong into the head of a horse, causing it to rear. His master piled into his back, while Luigi pulled himself up just in time to see the beast was hauling some kind of cart. Raising his head he found himself staring into the pale, stoic faces of his brothers.

The rearing horse was neighing and kicking the air as much as the shafts would allow. Kissock and Charles had recoiled back into Luigi. Charles too, as he fell backwards, looked up into the now-startled faces of Napoleone and another man, standing, hands tied to the side of the swaying tumbrel.

Then he saw the accompanying guards, like everyone, frozen with the shock as the scene calcified. The Buonaparte brothers in the cart, four armed revolutionary guards, the drummer with his sticks in mid-air, the dark clad members of the Committee of Public Safety following along, with their red white and blue cockades and tricolour sashes.

One of the latter broke the silence, his tall hat falling off his head as he yelled and pointed at them. The horse responded to the shout, neighing again and dragging the cart forward into the square.

‘Trâitres.’

With a coolness born of terror, which would later have him shaking like a leaf whenever it was recalled, Charles lifted his pistol and, ignoring the shouting, unarmed official, shot one of the armed guards, who was trying to level his musket.

‘Kissock!’ he yelled, ‘the horse. Luigi, to me.’

He threw the empty pistol at another guard’s head, then rushed forward and, with a single motion, picked up the falling man’s musket, swirling it about his head without any idea of who was at risk, forcing the other guards into a confused withdrawal. The drummer, less swift, was clubbed to the ground just as Luigi joined him, pistol at the ready.

They both fired together and these untrained civilians riding the bandwagon of Revolution, fell back, two of them spinning as they took a ball. Charles grabbed Luigi and dragged him away, because the soldiers pursuing them would hear the firing; Revolutionary Guards were one thing, trained troops quite another.

Kissock was hanging on to the horse traces for dear life, his body-weight acting to slow the animal down slightly, which allowed Charles, followed by Luigi, to jump on to the open back of the cart.

He shouted to his servant to let the horse run and the man obliged, so the cart picked up speed, with him still attached and now struggling to keep pace. It rumbled into the square with Kissock’s little legs pumping, trying to match the horse’s hooves as they careered towards the assembled audience.

The tumbrel didn’t have much in the way of speed but it did have weight. It also had a wild-eyed animal, scared by gunfire, pulling it. Thus the crowd in the square, gathered to see some heads chopped off, scattered before them.

One stationary, uniformed fellow, braver than his companions, ran for the side and jumped up, slashing at Charles with a sabre. Luigi, as Charles fell backwards in terror, grabbed his wrist to arrest the sword and gave the now defenceless man a perfect right hook.

The man fell backwards, Charles recovering to grab the sword from his lifeless grip, while Luigi moved to the other side of the cart, laying to and fro with the butt of his pistol to keep people at bay as they shot straight across the square into the narrow road leading to the harbour. The curious, yelling crowd closed behind them, which impeded those armed and in pursuit, now proper soldiers.

‘Make for the boat, Kissock,’ shouted Charles, this uttered in the mistaken impression he was directing the horse

The reply went unheard, which was just as well since it was courts martial offence. The horse veered sharply to the right as it saw the edge of the quay, the wheels of the tumbrel lifting so it nearly tipped over.

Charles and Luigi were flung down, while Napoleone and Giuseppe were kept upright by the bonds tying them to the side. The effect slowed the animal, allowing Kissock to turn its head just enough to get it out onto the mole.

They rocked along, faced with imminent disaster on both sides, as the cart swayed back and forth. Behind them the crowd had followed cautiously onto the quay, their numbers in the narrow space still preventing the soldiers from doing likewise.

Charles, pulling himself up, used the sabre to cut the brother’s bonds. Coming to the end of the harbour wall, Kissock heaved at the traces to stop their progress.

The horse might be frightened, but it was also tired now, so it stopped suddenly, throwing the whole party forward in a heap. Kissock ducked under the horse’s belly to grab the rope holding the boat he had chosen, hauling it in to the side.

‘Come on, your honour,’ he shouted.

He needn’t have worried: Charles, as he untangled himself, observed the soldiers had finally pushed their way out through the crowd. He jumped first on to the quay and then straight down into the boat, the others following, in their haste to get aboard, nearly causing them to capsize.

‘Sit still, you lubbers,’ shouted Kissock, as he jumped down on top of Luigi. ‘The oars, your honour.’

Charles pushed Napoleone into the bottom and climbed over him to get to an oar, while Kissock took a savage delight in standing on Giuseppe’s head to do the same. They thrust the oars into the rowlocks and started to heave. The soldiers had now started to progress up the mole and one stopped, took aim and sent a ball cracking into the water beside them.

They heaved with all their might, almost standing up, slowly gathering forward movement, scraping out past the outer wall, Kissock having to fend off with his oar until they were out in open water.

The oars rose and fell and, as they got their rhythm right, they picked up speed. The soldiers, having passed the now stationary horse and cart, gathered at the harbour mouth and jostled for position, in order to bring their guns to bear on the receding vessel.

There was insufficient room for them all to deploy but, in the absence of a proper commander, they failed to take advantage of the space, which delayed their taking aim. The continued elbowing for the privilege of shooting these traitors and spies, meant they couldn’t keep their muskets steady, so all fired wildly, the shots going everywhere but towards their target.

By the time they had reloaded, Charles and Kissock had pulled the boat some fifty yards, out of accurate musket range and with spurts of water erupting in their wake they fell forward over the oars, watched by the silent and useless Buonapartes.

Eventually, having recovered some breath, Kissock bent on and raised the sail, hauled it round until it took the wind and, with Charles at the tiller, they set off down the coast. Napoleone finally spoke, his voice hoarse with emotion.

‘Monsieur, what can I say?’

‘You would oblige me greatly, sir,’ Charles replied, with a baleful look, ‘If you would say nothing.’

He was shaking from head to foot and he knew it had nothing to do with the exertion of rowing.

‘I must speak for my brothers and myself. Such élan. We owe you our lives.’

He was about to respond when Kissock spoke, his tone furious.

‘There you go again, your honour. Gabbin’ away foreign so as I don’t know what goin’ on. Now if you had kept me posted about what was happening back there, I wouldn’t have had to ask and you wouldn’t have got mad enough to shout at me in English, alerting them to the fact we was strangers.’

‘For your information, Kissock,’ came the snapped response, ‘I’ve just told the man to shut up. I trust I’m not required to say the same to my servant.’

Kissock’s mumbled rejoinder was too indistinct to carry and they sailed on down the coast in silence, not pursued, despite their anxious glances back towards Bastia. Eventually Charles relented enough to allow himself to be introduced to Giuseppe, to accept their thanks and to inform them of their destination, albeit his look didn’t invite conversation.

Kissock was wise enough to remain quiet until, in the fading light, he spotted the bay where they’d landed that morning. The boat was put about and, they headed in towards the beach as darkness fell. Kissock climbed out first, helping the others to alight in turn, then headed up the beach to where he’d hidden his lantern.

Emptying out a small amount of gunpowder, he laid in to it an oil soaked spill. Using a flint he struck a spark, igniting both powder and taper, then used to light the tallow in the lantern. Walking down to the edge of the beach, he waved it, shaded so the light shone only out to sea. 

Charles, having lain down on the beach, tried to stay awake, to watch out for the incoming boat. Within minutes his eyes were drooping, oblivious to the Buonapartes quietly conversing.  Not long after there was a hail from the darkness and the Petra’s launch was rowed inshore, with Collins calling out.

‘Captain?’

‘Sound asleep, sir,’ replied Kissock testily which, recounted later, added another paragraph to the Wormwood legend.

*

As they came aboard, it was pleasing to note Paola showed no signs of familiarity in the presence of her brothers. Luigi and Giuseppe looked extremely queasy; the waves further out to sea had unsettled them and the motion of the Petra made it worse, so they were soon both leaning over the side: Napoleone, unaffected, examined the guns, before greeting his family.

‘Lord Vurmvood,’ he said turning back to face Charles. ‘My mother assures me you have been most attentive to my family.’

‘I gave my word to do so,’ replied Charles haughtily, ‘but I had intended to put your family ashore, in order to join you there.’

‘A soldier must always be prepared for a sudden change of plan.’

Gone was the note of deference to the man who had saved him; he was back to his old self. Charles glared at this renegade, standing easily on the deck, his legs apart, a borrowed coat flapping in the breeze, eyes fixed on the receding, invisible shore.

‘There is nothing more for me here, I must re-join my regiment, indeed I should have done so weeks ago, but I had to await the outcome of events in Corsica.’

‘Re-join your regiment?’

‘Yes, monsieur, my regiment of artillery, which is, of course, in France.’ he nodded towards Paola. ‘My sister assured me, devoted as you are to our welfare, you would not object.’

‘But Captain Buonaparte, need I remind you of something. You nearly had your head removed by the authorities in Corsica?’

‘Unfortunate, I agree.’ He looked at Charles intently. ‘But the authorities in France will know nothing of this and, once I’m back with my battery, who will question my loyalty? I would be obliged if you mentioned today’s event to no one. I shall, most certainly, never do so.’

Charles couldn’t help wondering if anyone would care.

‘There is one more thing, monsieur. You say it is your intention to take up your duties with your regiment, this while your country is at war with my own. I can hardly put a serving officer ashore in enemy territory.’

‘Then I must become your prisoner,’ replied Napoleone without any hint of disappointment. ‘I do not mind, since I know my family will be well looked after. No one who has behaved as you did today could possibly leave us to fend for ourselves.’

Charles Wormwood had a vision then, of his entire future plagued by Buonapartes and it was an unpleasant one; instead of becoming simpler, things were getting more complicated. His whole strategy, which was to get rid of the women before any discoveries of his behaviour could be made, seemed in danger of unravelling and it had only worked because Maria Anna had been laid low with seasickness.

This was not something which could be kept up indefinitely and, if the truth came out, and he had the brothers to contend with as well, it would be very difficult to see how he could escape unscathed and unwed from such a denouement.

‘It would be a tragedy for someone of your undoubted abilities to be a prisoner,’ he said quickly.

‘True.’ Napoleone replied, accepting the flattery without blush. ‘It will, however, be better for my family to be under your protection, than it would have been, had we been obliged to stay ashore in Corsica.’

I’m the one who needs protecting, Charles thought, his brain working overtime. He had to get rid of them and, if the only way he could do so was by taking them to France, then so be it: one artillery captain, more or less, was not going to affect the outcome of the war.

‘Of course, Captain Buonaparte, if you were to give me your word you would not take up arms against my country, I would have no objection to putting you ashore in France.’

‘Then you have it.’

Napoleone looked him straight in the eye, convincing Charles he didn’t mean it, that he would break his parole at the first opportunity. Yet he could hardly challenge him and call him a liar and he had no desire to; all he wanted was to find a formula to get rid of the lot of them. 

         ‘I accept. Now if you will go below, to my cabin, I must set my ship on a course which will take us to France’ 

*

Charles stayed well clear of Buonaparte for the whole of the next day. They would reach the French coast after dark if the wind held true. He’d spoken quickly, and separately, to Paola and Maria Anna, his message the same; he would come with them to France, deserting both his post and his country, such was his regard.

Yet if his officers found out, they would lock him up, so no one must be told or suspect, not even their family: it was their secret. Paola hugged him when he told her, causing a genuine twinge of regret. Maria Anna’s response was reserved.

Unbeknown to him, she was wondering if a man foolish enough to desert his post and his country was also foolish enough to desert his fortune. Only when she’d decided he was not so stupid, did she favour him with a smile. This allowed him to give instructions to Kissock.  

         Standing on the deck, looking at the French coast in the moonlight, they saw the surf breaking gently on the shoreline of their destination, a sandy beach near a fishing hamlet called St Tropez. Charles, having backed his sails, gave the orders that would get the barge into the water, then he went below to collect his charges, the mother leading them all up onto the deck

Maria Anna seemed to recover now she was going ashore, while Luigi and Giuseppe had to be helped through the gangway into the bobbing barge and it took some time to get them all seated properly.

As they pulled away from the side, some of the crew waved to Paola, who responded well. Napoleone sat rocklike on the rearmost thwarts, looking towards the coast of France was, thought Charles, still dreaming of his stupid destiny. 

Once they grounded, the sailors climbed out to pull the boat up the beach, until stopped by a sharp word from Kissock. Charles helped the little boy and the ladies over the side and on to the strand while the crew, who would normally have assisted the men, sat resolutely still.

Napoleone stepped out over the prow, followed by his still suffering brothers and, once clear of the water, the soft sand squelched beneath their feet. Dawn was breaking, the eastern sky tinged with light so a most beautiful morning was promised.

The Buonaparte family lined up on the beach, some ten feet from the lapping waves, Napoleone in the middle. Charles, his face now visible in the increasing light, smiled first at Maria Anna, then at the beautiful Maria Paola as he said.

‘I must say farewell to by men.’  

         A frown crossed Napoleone’s face, causing him to look questioningly at the rest of his family. Then his eyes fixed on their rescuer as he walked slowly down the water’s edge. Aware of the gaze on his back, Charles ran into the gentle surf and jumped, the crew, forewarned by Kissock, dropping their oars and pulling for all they were worth.

Charles, upright in the prow, turned to look back at Maria Anna and Maria Paola, as both started forward, before they stopped and looked at each other. A furious argument broke out, a quarrel in which Napoleone intervened, pulling the warring girls apart and demanding an explanation.

Obviously he got all he needed, which brought him down to the edge of the surf and, reaching inside his coat, he produced a pistol, no doubt one of his mother’s. This he cocked and aimed carefully at the man who had debauched his sisters.

Fear fixed his target, still standing upright in the barge, like a rabbit, for he was looking straight down the barrel of the gun. There was a loud crack, a puff of smoke and Charles felt his hat whipped off his head.

He looked into the water, knowing he’d just had a lucky escape for, in the morning light, he could see it floating, with a neat hole in the brim. Then he looked back to the fast receding shoreline, straight at Napoleone Buonaparte.

Well, at least, he thought, sensible of the loss of both his hat and of the sensual and beautiful Maria Paola, I shall never see nor hear again of the noxious little toad, Napoleone Buonaparte!

***

Read on to find out what’s coming next….

Thank you for buying and reading

The Corsican Sisters

in which I follow the adventures

 of reluctant naval officer

Charles Wormwood.

Already released;

All at Sea

The Hero’s Curse

A Fleet to Command.

Coming shortly: Wormwood Under Siege

You may well know me from my previous books.

Over fifty to date and well over a million sold.

15 John Pearce stories: 6 Privateersmen Mysteries:

 a trilogy on Horatio Nelson and Emma Hamilton.

 As Tom Connery on the 18th Century Marines

15 more historical novels penned as Jack Ludlow.

Plus thrillers written under the name Jack Cole.

The whole list, as well as why I use so many names

at my website.

www.twofingersbooks.com

The Wormwood Saga has had a long gestation – 30 years since it was first put up for sale! It was my very first novel and was bought but never published. Why? Well that’s a story too long to relate here, but if you want to know, or just communicate and join my mailing list for updates on work in progress and forthcoming books, send an email to:

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This edition first published in 2019

© David Donachie 1987

www.twofingersbooks.com

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