the palace, and then look to his own survival.’
‘Very well, sir.’ Junot saluted and ran off, leaving Napoleon staring out across the barricade. It was possible that they might not beat off another attack, Napoleon considered briefly, then he shook his head irritably. No.There was no question of defeat. Junot was a fool to even think it.
The sound of the royalists marching back along the Rue Saint-Honore grew louder and then the head of the column entered the Carrousel again. It was clear that someone had taken charge of the attackers this time, as a line of militia men formed across the square and, at the command, advanced steadily towards the palace. The rest of the mob spilled into the space behind the front line and cheered them on. Napoleon drew a deep breath.
‘One last effort, lads! Make every shot count.Aim true and kill as many of the bastards as possible! Long live the republic!’
Some of the soldiers echoed his call before turning to face the enemy with intent expressions. The militia battalion reached the edge of the zone carpeted with bodies and discarded weapons and slowed down as they stepped over their fallen comrades. They halted fifty paces from the barricades and then their commander bellowed the order to prepare their weapons. The cocks clicked back, and the weapons came up at the order to present.
‘Keep down!’ Napoleon called out.
The defenders ducked behind the barricade.The order to fire was instantly drowned out by the crash of the volley and smoke immediately obliterated the militia as their musket balls rapped home against the barricade or whirred overhead. A sharp cry sounded to Napoleon’s right but he ignored it and rose up to give his orders.
‘Make ready! Open fire!’
Once again the muskets and cannon crashed out into the square, and so thick was the bank of smoke this time that the effect of the volley was not visible. As his men reloaded their weapons Napoleon heard the militia commander give the order to charge. Most of the defenders fired blindly into the smoke, until vague shapes flitted into sight and then burst through the smoke right in front of the barricade. Five or six men appeared directly before the cannon beside Napoleon and drew up wide-eyed at the sight of the muzzle gaping before them. An instant later the portfire touched the fuse and the men were shredded into bloody ribbons by the grapeshot.
The militia appeared all along the barricade, bayonets thrusting towards the defenders as the government troops rose up and defended themselves, using their bayonets or wielding their muskets like clubs. Napleon’s sword was in his hand and his heart beat wildly as he stepped up to the barricade. To his left a grenadier was locked in a duel with a stocky man in a black cap, their bayonets scraping as each tested the other’s strength.With a snarl the militiaman thrust the other’s weapon aside and made to thrust his point home. Napoleon slashed his sword down on to the barrel and the point thudded harmlessly into a meal bag, tearing the material open instantly.The grenadier swung his butt up, smashing it into the militiaman’s face, and he collapsed with a grunt. The grenadier grinned and nodded his thanks to Napoleon before turning to face the next attacker.
For a moment Napoleon found that he had no one to engage. He glanced to both sides and saw that, even though his men were holding the line, the rest of the mob were piling into the rear of the militia battalion and soon the sheer weight of numbers must overwhelm the defenders.
Junot appeared beside him. ‘Hot work.’
‘Where’s Murat?’
‘He’s entering the courtyard, over there.’ Junot gestured with his arm.
‘Then tell him to charge now. Now, or the fight is lost!’
When Junot had gone, Napoleon stepped back from the line and filled his lungs.‘Grenadiers! Gunners! Fall back to the palace! Fall back!’
His men obeyed at once, as best as they could. Some ran back from the barricade, others retreated with their weapons levelled, ready to fight off their pursuers. In the thick smoke along the fighting line the militia did not immediately realise what was happening and there was a moment’s delay before a triumphant cheer swept through their ranks and they began to clamber over the rough barricade and charged after the government troops. Napoleon raced at the head of his men, making for the stairs that led up to the main entrance. He sprinted to the top and turned round to face his soldiers.
‘Form up here! Quickly, damn you!’
The men turned and hurriedly shuffled into several ranks, bayonets lowered to receive the royalists streaming across the courtyard. More and more of them filled the open space, anxious to butcher the men who had caused them such grievous losses earlier on. But they never made it as far as the stairs. The sound of horses’ hooves clattering across the courtyard stopped them in their tracks, the cries of triumph dying in their throats as they turned to see a line of hussars sweeping towards them, long curved blades resting on the riders’ shoulders as they picked up more speed. At their head rode Murat, tall and imposing in his saddle. A short distance from the fringe of the loose mob he raised his sword into the air, then arced it down and leaned forward as he spurred his mount on.
The royalists turned and fled for their lives, throwing down their weapons as they ran, fighting with their comrades to get away from the dreadful fate carving its way through their ranks. From the stairs the defenders jeered their enemy. True to their orders Murat’s men showed no mercy as they hacked and slashed at the men running before them, cutting them down in droves. Then they reached the line of the barricade and the slowly dissipating powdersmoke, leapt their mounts over the barrels and meal bags, and were swallowed up in the haze. And the sounds of the pursuit drifted away from the palace, across the square and back up the avenues running between the Rue Saint-Honore and the River Seine.
Napoleon was suddenly aware of how cold and tired he felt and his sword hand trembled as it struggled to retain its hold on the hilt. As he sheathed the blade there was a clatter of footsteps behind him and Napoleon turned to see Paul Barras hurrying down the steps towards him, arms stretched as he smiled widely.
‘Bonaparte! My dear Bonaparte! You’ve done it! They’re running like the treacherous cowards they are. Murat will cut them down like vermin.’ He reached Napoleon and flung his arms round his shoulders. ‘France is saved. Thanks to you. All thanks to you.’
Around them, the soldiers turned away from the grisly carnage of Murat’s pursuit and cheered, some of them raising their hats up into the air on the ends of their bayonets as they joined in the cheers for their commander standing a few steps above them, in the embrace of the most powerful man in France.
Chapter 7
Over the next two days the royalists’ rebellion crumbled as the government troops hunted them down. Most had already fled into the suburbs and surrounding countryside where they could do no more harm. With the centre of Paris back under government control Barras moved quickly to disarm every quarter of the city, even those that had stayed loyal. All firearms, pikes and swords were to be handed in to the local town halls. As the people of Paris began to emerge back on to the streets Paul Barras announced his triumph to the National Assembly. He paraded the officers responsible for crushing the attempted coup, and publicly thanked them for their assistance in defeating the royalists. But even as he did so, Napoleon suddenly realised that not one of them had been singled out by name. Barras was determined to seize all the glory for himself, and would have done without an intervention from one of the deputies, who rose to his feet to propose a vote of thanks to ‘General Bonaparte’. Struggling to hide his irritation, Barras conceded the vote. By the end of the next day all Paris knew of the brilliant officer who had saved France from the Bourbons, and to spare the people the confusion of explaining that Bonaparte was only in fact a brigadier, Barras rushed through his promotion to full general.
So it was that, a week after the storms of grapeshot had swept clear the ground in front of the Tuileries palace, Napoleon was sitting in a large, comfortably appointed office overlooking the same square. He found it hard to believe the improvement in his fortune that had occurred in the last few days. Barras had appointed him second in command of the Army of the Interior. On his greatly enhanced pay he had been able to move out of his squalid rooms in the slum quarter, and into a fine official residence in the hotel de la Colonnade in the centre of the city. He had servants, a new carriage and horses and a beautifully cut new uniform, albeit lacking in the ostentatious gold braid that Major Murat seemed so fond of. No longer the obscure officer of artillery, Napoleon was now the most talked about man in Paris, invited to almost every ball and salon in the capital. Napoleon smiled to himself. Even the conceited Madame de Stael had condescended to send him an invitation to visit her house. Life was good, he mused. All he lacked now was an army posting worthy of his talents and ambition. That, and perhaps a wife.
There was a knock at the door and Napoleon pulled himself up in his chair and called out, ‘Come!’
