dreadful fear tearing at her insides she waited for Carlos. Thanks be to God, he was with the men that escaped from the carnage of Ponte Nuovo. But not the same Carlos.Wild-eyed and shaking and spattered with the blood of his comrades. This was where the Corsican nation had died. Letizia shivered.
Giuseppe felt her flinch on the seat next to him and took her hand. 'Mother?'
'It's nothing. I'm just cold. Here, hold me for a moment.'
Bastia had greatly changed since she had last visited the port. Even then it had felt more Italian than Corsican, but now the stamp of French rule was apparent everywhere, from the off-duty soldiers milling in the streets, to the French warships in the harbour and the French names above many of the businesses in the centre of town.
Letizia made for the address of the shipping agent Carlos had told her about, and booked two berths for her sons on a cargo vessel leaving for Marseilles the next day. Then she took a room in an inn close to the harbour and had the driver of the cart unload their trunks before dismissing him for the night.
Even though it was winter the harbour was busy and it took a while to find the right ship. All the cargo was already aboard and the last few passengers were loading as Letizia and her sons carefully trod across the gangway and stepped down on to the deck. Behind them the porters struggled aboard with the trunks and were directed by a sailor to the cramped passenger quarters below. The captain checked off the names of the two boys on his manifest and turned to Letizia.
'We're casting off shortly, madam. I'd be obliged if you said your goodbyes quickly.'
She nodded and crouched down, opening her arms. The two boys stepped into her embrace and she could feel the shudder of sobs through the folds of their cloaks.
'There, there,' she managed in a strained voice. Inside Letizia felt more wretched than she had ever felt in her life, and even now wanted nothing more than to turn round, take them with her, and return home.
'Mother,' Naboleone mumbled into her ear, 'Mother, please, I don't want to go, I don't want to leave you.' He tightened his grip round her shoulder. 'Please.'
She did not trust herself to reply, and felt her throat tighten unbearably as she blinked away the first tears. A short distance away the captain looked at her for a moment, before turning and looking out to sea, granting her a last moment of privacy before parting. Letizia swallowed and forced herself to assume a calm expression. She loosened her grip on her sons and eased herself back until they were face to face.
'Hush now, Naboleone.You must be brave. Both of you. This is for the best, you'll see. Make sure that you write as often as you can. Now wipe your eyes.' She handed him a handkerchief and he scrunched it into his face.
'There… Now it's time.'
She stood up and both boys gripped her round the waist. The captain crossed the deck towards her and indicated the gangway.
'I'm sorry, madam, but…'
She nodded and gently eased herself away from Giuseppe and Naboleone.They held her for a moment, and then the captain put his hands on their shoulders.
'Come, lads, your mother needs to go now. She needs you to be brave for her. Don't let her down.'
Their arms reluctantly dropped to their sides as they stood, fighting back the tears. Letizia reached down to kiss Giuseppe on the head, then turned to Naboleone, and whispered softly in his ear, 'Coraggio.'
Chapter 10
Ireland, 1776
The abbey stood on rising ground with views over the Boyne, and beyond the river stood the huge ruins of Trim Castle. The walls and towers stood within a moat, and still looked formidable to Arthur as he stared out of the carriage window.Then the castle was lost from view as the carriage passed through the abbey gate and into the courtyard.
His first impression of the austere setting was that it looked like a prison, and his heart ached with longing for his home and his family. The feeling swelled inside him as O'Shea unloaded his meagre trunk of clothing, books and other belongings and turned the carriage back towards the gate. Then O'Shea was gone and the sound of the wheels on gravel quickly faded away. Arthur stood alone before the main entrance. All was still, but not quite silent. From somewhere within the abbey a chorus of voices conjugated a Latin verb.
'New boy!' a voice called out.
Arthur turned and saw a lad not much older than himself crossing the courtyard from a side building. He had a thick crop of dark hair and a robust build. Arthur swallowed nervously. 'Me, sir?'
The boy stopped and looked round the courtyard with elaborate concentration. 'It appears there is no other to whom I might address my remarks.You idiot.'
Arthur opened his mouth to protest, lost his nerve and blushed instead. The other boy laughed.
'Never mind.You must be Wesley.'
'Y-yes, sir.'
'I'm not 'sir'. My name's Crosbie. Richard Crosbie. I've been told to look out for you. Here, let me help you with the trunk.'
They took hold of the straps at either end of the trunk and lifted it with some effort.
'This way,' Richard grunted. They heaved the chest across the courtyard, through a stone arch into a cloister beyond. A small flight of stairs led up from the far end into a low-ceilinged dormitory.
'This is your bed.' The older boy set the trunk down in front of a plain bed that seemed surprisingly wide to Arthur. 'You're sharing it with Piers Westlake. The near side is yours.Your trunk goes underneath.'
Arthur gazed at the bed. 'Shared beds?'
'Of course. This ain't a palace. It's a school.'
'Are all schools like this?' Arthur asked quietly.
'How should I know?' Richard shrugged. 'I've never been anywhere else. The housemaster wants to see you now. I'll show you the way. Come.'
He led Arthur to a short, dim corridor that ended in a thick studded oak door.
'There,' Richard said quietly. 'Just knock. He's expecting you.'
'What's he like?' Arthur whispered.
'Old Harcourt?' Richard stifled a grin. 'He eats new boys for breakfast. I'll see you later, if you live.'
Richard turned and hurried away, leaving the young boy standing in front of the big door. He felt his hand trembling as he raised it towards the dark wood.Then he paused, afraid and alone. For a moment he felt the urge to turn and run. Then his resolve stiffened a little and he leaned forward and rapped twice on the door.
'Enter!'
Arthur took a deep breath to steady his nerves, lifted the latch and pushed the door open a small way, squeezing round its thick edge. Beyond was a large room lit by light from a window high up on one wall.The fireplace was bare and the floor had no coverings on its worn flagstones. The room was dominated by a huge desk, and behind it, sitting on a high-backed chair, was a large figure in a cassock. His face was broad and ruddy, and dark eyes peered out at the newcomer from beneath bristling eyebrows.
'You're Wesley?'
Arthur nodded.
'Speak up, young man!'
'Yes, sir. I'm Arthur Wesley.'
'That's better.' Father Harcourt nodded. He looked the boy up and down and did not show any sign of approval, before he turned his attention to a letter lying open on his desk. 'It seems that your parents are concerned about your lack of academic progress. Well, we shall soon set that right. Do you do anything well, young Wesley?'
'Please, sir. I can read music. I'm learning the violin.'
'Really? Well, that's nice. But no use to you here. This is a school, boy, not a concert hall. Kindly bend your efforts to learning what we will attempt to teach you in the coming years.'
'Years?' Arthur replied bleakly.
Father Harcourt smiled coldly. 'Of course. How long do you imagine it takes to bring boys like you to an
