'But I am.' The captain's expression hardened a little. 'It's a serious business, the artillery. Also a very complicated one, and we're not going to let a couple of new boys loose on our very expensive equipment until they know how to treat it, and the men who operate it, with respect.'
'I see,' Alexander replied. 'Does that mean we have to share rooms with the rankers as well?'
'What? Of course not.' The captain looked scandalised. 'That would be taking things too far. Don't want to give them any egalitarian ideas, do we?' He looked from one to the other.
'No, sir,' Napoleon agreed quietly. 'They shouldn't get ideas above their station.'
Alexander laughed. 'Ignore him. It seems that Corsicans have an insatiable appetite for equality. You'll get used to it after a while.'
The captain stared at Napoleon briefly. 'I'm not sure that I care to. Never mind. I've been ordered to settle you two in. Where are your bags?'
'We left them in the guardhouse.'
'Let's go and get them, then I'll take you to find lodgings in town.'
As with all other regiments, the officers of the Royal Artillery were expected to look to their own resources for accommodation and sustenance. Napoleon rented a small room for ten francs a month in the house of Monsieur Bou, a kindly old man who lived with his daughter and who was fond of the young officers he accommodated. Napoleon took meals at the Three Pigeons inn for another thirty-five francs a month. Together with the repayments on the money he had borrowed to buy his uniform and books there was little left from the ninety francs pay he received each month.
His duties as an ordinary gunner began the morning after his arrival. Each day, he rose before dawn, dressed in the plain blue coat tunic and breeches of the artillery and hurried over to the barracks to join the other men being roused by their corporals, who let fly with the foulest language Napoleon had heard since he had played with the soldiers of the garrison at Ajaccio as a child.
The sergeant responsible for his training was a short, overweight man with a huge moustache. When the company had assembled on the parade ground he strode down the line and stood in front of Napoleon, hands on hips, and sneered.
'What have we got here? Not another new gentleman?'
'Yes, Sergeant.'
'Name?'
'Lieutenant Buona Parte, Sergeant.'
'Fuck that. You're Private Buona Parte until the colonel says otherwise. Got that? Meanwhile, you call me sir, and I call you sir. The difference is, you mean it.'
'Yes, Serg-sir.'
The sergeant cupped a hand to his ear. 'Speak up, sir! Can't hear a word.'
'I said, yes, sir!' Napoleon shouted, reflecting that the stories he had heard about deaf artillerymen were true after all.
'That's better. Now then, sir. I've got a man off sick on 'Magdalene' – you're taking his place. That means you are the number two on that gun, the spongeman. Understand? Good. You've come at a good time. Today's gun drill.'
He turned and walked off, to inspect the other men in the company, and left Napoleon none the wiser about his duties.
The company marched over to the artillery park, attached ropes to four of the eight-pounders and began to haul them across to the drill field. Napoleon, at only sixteen years of age, and slightly built, was soon sweating freely from the exertion of hauling on the rope that had been fastened to the right arm of the gun carriage. But the day's trials were only just beginning. As soon as 'Magdalene' was in position, the sergeant thrust a long pole into his hands. At one end was the sponge, a tightly packed wad of sheep's wool. At the other end was a stout plug of wood.
'That's yours. Look after it, sir. You stand there.' He indicated the ground to the right-hand side of the barrel and roughly shoved Napoleon into position. 'You're number two. When I call your number you dip your sponge in that bucket there and thrust it down the barrel, as far as it will go. Twist it both ways and pull the sponge out. Then shout 'Clear'. Number three, he's the loader, will place a cartridge in the end of the barrel. When he's done, he shouts 'Loaded'. Then it's over to you again. Stick the wooden end of your rod into the barrel and ram the charge down as far it goes.Then you pull it out, get back to your position and shout 'Ready to fire'.' He looked closely at Napoleon. 'Got all that, sir?'
'I think so, sir.'
'All right, then. Let's see.'
The sergeant strode back and took up a position well behind the trail of the cannon. 'Standard battle drill. The gun is about to fire… BANG! Recoil… Number two!'
Napoleon stepped up to the barrel and thrust the ramrod in, sponge first.
'Stop!' The sergeant hurried over. 'You haven't dipped it, sir.' He pointed to an empty bucket hanging from the chassis. 'In there.'
'But there's no water in there, sir,' Napoleon pointed out.
'And there's no fucking charge in the gun, neither, sir. Just pretend, for the drill, like.'
'I see.' Napoleon withdrew the rammer and dipped the sponge into the bucket. He looked up at the sergeant and saw that the man was frowning at him. 'Splash, splash?' he ventured.
The sergeant smiled. 'Now you're getting the hang of it, sir. Continue.'
Napoleon sponged out the gun and stood to one side. 'Clear!'
The loader pretended to place a cartridge in the muzzle. 'Loaded!'
Napoleon reversed the rammer and thrust the imaginary charge down and returned to his place. 'Ready to fire!'
'BANG!' roared the sergeant. 'Nice try, sir. But let's give the sponge a nice twist this time.After all, we don't want to blow your arms off the moment we start live firing, do we?'
In addition to firing drills Napoleon was taught to harness and unharness the gun, how to clean and maintain the equipment, how to keep his uniform tidy and make sure that his boots gleamed. Then there was watch-keeping, guard duties, route marches and camp skills. The last proved to be an interesting experience after Napoleon's previous year of fine dining at the Military School. At the end of the day the sergeant major called for the cooking pots to be taken out of the supply wagon. The ingredients for the stew were purchased from local farmers out of the 'frog', a kitty to which all members of the gun crew, including probationary officers, had to contribute. Once the stew was ready, the gunners took their turns at the pot in order of seniority. Since Napoleon was the most recent recruit to the regiment he came last and had the dregs. At first he had considered protesting and pulling rank, but then he realised that he would be leading these men in a matter of months and that he could not afford to earn their ill will. The men soon came to respect him and, as time passed, someone coined an affectionate nickname for the young officer when he moved on to the second stage of his probation and was made an NCO – the 'little corporal'.
At first Napoleon had endured this part of the training, but as he got to know the men and worked alongside them, so he learned his trade in detail. By the end of the year he could have exchanged places with any man in the company and carried out his duties to the same standards of efficiency and effectiveness. Alexander, by contrast, was suffering the probationary period without concealing the distaste he felt for carrying out common duties and having to associate with the rankers. As soon as his duties were concluded for the day he rushed back into town to change clothes and go out drinking with the other officers. Napoleon tended to linger in the barracks, talking with the soldiers and making sure that he fully understood all that he had learned that day. Besides, he did not have enough money to waste on drink and women.
At last, as the new year of 1786 began, the colonel summoned Napoleon to headquarters. A light snow had fallen, dusting the barracks with a fine powdery layer and Napoleon pulled his coat firmly around his thin shoulders as he strode up the steps and exchanged a salute with the sentry, a man he recognised from the company he had served in.
'Cold morning, Gaston.'
'Yes, sir. If I'm not relieved soon they're going to freeze off.'
'Be a shame. Wipe the smile off that miller's girl.'
