‘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-Honoré 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 hôtel 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 Staël 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!’
His secretary, a thin man with glasses, entered the office. ‘General, there’s a boy outside wishing to see you.’
‘A boy? What’s his name?’
‘Eugène Beauharnais, he says.’
‘Beauharnais?’ Napoleon frowned. ‘I don’t know the name. Did he say what he wants to see me about?’
‘A personal request, with regard to his late father’s sword.’
Napoleon’s curiosity was piqued by this information. He had been on the verge of sending the boy away, but he decided to spare this Eugène Beauharnais a moment of his time. ‘Very well, I’ll see him now.’
‘Yes, General.’
The secretary disappeared and a minute later the door opened again to reveal a tall, handsome boy in his early teens. He had wide clear eyes, and a high forehead capped with curly brown hair. He bowed gracefully. ‘Good morning to you, General Bonaparte.’
Napoleon nodded without rising from his chair. ‘And to you, Citizen Beauharnais. How can I be of service? I’m told it’s some matter relating to your father’s sword?’
‘Yes, sir. My mother has sent me with the request that the family might be able to retain the sword.’
‘I’m sorry, but you must know the terms of the Assembly’s disarmament decree?’
‘Indeed I do, sir.’The boy looked pained. ‘But the sword is one of the few keepsakes that my family has to remember my father by.’
‘What happened to your father?’
‘He was guillotined last year, sir.’
‘For what reason?’
‘He was in command of the garrison of Metz when it fell. The Committee of Public Safety charged him with treason. And, well, you know how it was under Robespierre, sir.’
Indeed Napoleon did. Any military reverse was treated with suspicion and the representatives of the Committee were merciless in their punishment of failure in order to inspire other commanders to achieve success. And here was the human cost of such a strategy - the grief of a blameless family. Napoleon felt some compassion for the boy and his mother. They had already sacrificed enough for France without having to give up a precious memento of what they had lost.
‘Very well, young Beauharnais.You shall keep the sword. It has already been surrendered, I presume.’
‘It was taken from our house yesterday.’
‘Then it will be at the nearest praefecture. Leave your address with my secretary and I will see that the sword is returned to you as soon as possible.’
The boy bowed his head. ‘My sincerest gratitude, General. And my mother’s as well.’
Napoleon smiled. ‘Your mother must be proud of you, Beauharnais. I’m sure you’ll grow up to be a fine soldier, and wear your father’s sword at your side.’