boys before he ran out. The screams and cries of those who had been hurt caused the other side to lose heart and they turned and ran, kicking a path through the snow boulders so that they could escape.
Hurrying across the field from the direction of the college buildings came the teachers, alarmed by the shrieks of agony from inside Napoleon's fortifications.
It was clear the fight was over, and Napoleon clambered over the snow wall, carrying away a chunk of it as he tumbled on to the ground on the far side. He scrambled to his feet, then ran over to where Alexander was sitting on his knees, one hand clasped to his nose as bright red blood dripped on to the slush in front of him. His other hand groped for the slender shaft of sapling on which he had tied the red scarf.
'Oh, no you don't!' Napoleon jumped to his side and stamped his boot down on Alexander's fingers. 'That's mine!'
As Alexander snatched his fingers back, Napoleon took up the banner and clutched it tightly to his side. All around him he could hear the cheers of his companions and it was a moment before the full glory of victory washed over him and he was swept along with the joy of winning. He glanced down at Alexander and saw him staring up with undiluted hatred burning in his eyes. All the teasing and the torment that he had suffered at the hands of this young aristocrat dissolved as he looked down at his beaten foe with contempt.
'My victory, I think.'
'I'll get you back, Corsican. It was you who threw the rock at me.'
'Prove it.' Napoleon took the banner, pressed the butt against Alexander's stomach and thrust him back into the slush. Napoleon raised the butt up again and took aim at his enemy's face, but before he could strike his arm was seized.
'Stop!' Louis hissed in his ear.'What do you think you're doing?'
'Vae victis,' Napoleon sneered down at Alexander.'Let go of my arm. He's had this coming to him.'
'No! He's had enough, Napoleon. It's only a game, remember. And you've won. That's all that matters. Now it's over.'
'It's not over,' Napoleon snapped. 'You think this makes up for all that he's done to me?'
Louis frowned. 'Don't do it, Napoleon. Besides, it's too late. Look.'
Louis pointed towards the field and Napoleon saw that a handful of the more nimble teachers were already picking their way across the outer wall. As they clambered into the enclosed space and saw the score of dazed boys and the handful of bloodied victims of Napoleon's special missiles they looked horrified, and then angry.
'What's going on here?'The director's voice carried across the walls. Moments later he stood, gasping from his exertions, his face wreathed in the short-lived tendrils of his rapidly exhaled breath. 'Who is responsible for this bloodbath? Was it you, Buona Parte?'
'Me, sir?' Napoleon shook his head and gestured to Alexander still lying in the mud, winded. 'It was de Fontaine's idea, sir. Ask him.'
The director looked at Napoleon suspiciously for an instant before he transferred his gaze to Alexander. 'Is this true?'
Alexander propped himself up. He was aware of the other boys clustered around him, close enough to hear every word he spoke to the director. There was no choice. He had to admit to the truth. 'Yes, sir.'
'I see. Then you have only yourself to blame for this… carnage. You are gated for the rest of term, and denied special privileges.' The director straightened up and indicated the other injured boys.'The rest of you, get these boys to the sanatorium, as fast as you can.'
Chapter 25
In the months that followed, Napoleon was no longer picked on by Alexander and his friends. He was still regarded as a social inferior by most of the fee-paying sons of aristocrats, but their snobbishness was tempered by a grudging respect for his victory on the field. Indeed, the victory was so comprehensive that Napoleon was asked to recount it in front of his class by Father Dupuy and it was used as an example in their consideration of ancient siege-craft. Naturally, Alexander suggested a few refinements of his own, to the scarcely concealed contempt of Napoleon who comprehensively demolished his rival's contribution to the debate.
Now that he was no longer being bullied Napoleon was free to concentrate on his education and his teachers were pleased by the improvement in his attitude as well as his performance. All the time Napoleon kept his focus on the coming assessment for a place at the Royal Military School of Paris. He studied the curriculum of the school and revised the appropriate subjects thoroughly. Conscious of his small size, he made efforts to exercise more.With his brilliant but prickly nature he seemed to burn nervous energy, which worked against gaining weight and he was constantly frustrated by his small stature.
As the 1784 autumn assessment drew closer, Napoleon spent long hours in the stuffy heat of the library, reading and memorising as much as he could. He was always mindful of Father Dupuy's advice that for those outside of the aristocracy, the only route to achievement was through the Military School of Paris. The sooner he received his passing-out certificate, and a commission in the service of the French Crown, the sooner he could build a meaningful career for himself.
On the day of the assessment the boys who had been selected for testing waited in the library to be called in turn. Napoleon had never doubted that he would be put forward for this moment and while some of the others fretted and talked nervously, he sat quite still with his arms folded, until at last his name was called.
The visiting Inspector of Military Schools was a veteran officer, Monsieur Keralio. Slender and stiff, he wore a powdered wig and gave Napoleon a long, searching look with sharp blue eyes before he indicated the chair opposite the director's desk. He had a folder open on the desk in front of him containing a sheaf of notes.
'Cadet Buona Parte, isn't it?'
'Yes, sir.'
The inspector tapped the notes in front of him. 'You have an interesting background. A Corsican Frenchman must be something of a rare breed in a place like this.'
Napoleon smiled. 'Yes, sir.'
The inspector looked at him keenly. 'So which are you? Corsican or French?'
'Both, sir.' Napoleon replied directly. 'Just as another man might be a Norman, or French Burgundian.'
'But those regions have long been part of France, unlike Corsica. They have no Paoli to agitate for their independence. Your father fought with Paoli, did he not?'
'Yes, sir.That was many years ago.Today he is in the service of the Comte de Marbeuf in Ajaccio, and a loyal Frenchman. As am I, sir.'
'Good. I am satisfied with that,' the inspector said quietly.'Now then, young man, why do you want to serve in His Majesty's forces?'
The inevitable question Napoleon had been expecting, and like every other aspirant he had worked hard at preparing his answer. 'It's a man's life, sir. A chance for adventure, perhaps some glory, and I love my country well enough to want to protect her with my life.'
'And which country would that be, Cadet Buona Parte? You seem to avoid being specific.'
'Why, France, sir.'
The inspector looked at him a moment before he chuckled. 'Fair enough. A careful answer, Cadet Buona Parte.You have the guile to go far in this world.'
'Guile?' Napoleon coloured.
'Guile, perhaps. But, it seems, not patience nor complete self-control. '
Napoleon bowed his head, ashamed that he had fallen into the trap so easily.
The inspector leaned back and shuffled the papers into a neat stack. 'You may go.'
'Go, sir? Is that all?'
'Yes.'
Napoleon swallowed nervously. Most of the other cadets had had far longer interviews than this. How dare the inspector dismiss him after such a short and superficial interrogation?
'Did I pass the assessment, sir?'
'That is for me to know and for you to find out in due course, Cadet Buona Parte. Please send for the next
