Young Bloods Page 5

  ‘Mother,’ Naboleone spoke earnestly, ‘I shall never forget you. I will come back as often as I can. I swear it. Giuseppe too.’ He turned to his older brother. ‘Swear it!’

  ‘I promise, Mother.’

  She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘We’ll see.’

  Chapter 9

  The letter arrived in November. Giuseppe and Naboleone had been awarded places at the school in Autun in the new year, with generous scholarships from the French Government. The days passed in a state of nervous anticipation for Naboleone. He was eight years old, and despite his independent spirit and taste for adventure, he became more and more anxious about leaving his home.There would be no familiar shell to return to at the end of the day with the comfort of his family around him. Despite having a good command of French, his accent, he knew, would mark him as an outsider.

  They set off early one morning in the middle of December. The entire family rose to bid the two boys farewell. Even Uncle Luciano, bedridden with gout, painfully made his way outside into the street and pressed a few coins into their hands for spending money. A cart and driver had been hired to drive Letizia and her two sons to the port of Bastia, where she would see them safely aboard a ship for Marseilles. With shouted farewells and much waving, the family watched the cart rumble up the street, turn the corner and disappear from view.

  Carlos stayed a moment longer, feeling sick at the knowledge that he would not see his sons again for many months, and now at last doubting the decision to send them to France. It had always seemed the sensible thing to do through all the years that he had petitioned for his title of nobility and then for the scholarships, thinking only of their future. Now the time had come - the fruition of his plans - and it felt as if his heart were being torn from his body.

  The cart left Ajaccio and began to climb up through the surrounding countryside as the sun rose. Giuseppe and Naboleone leaned on the back of the rear seat and stared back at Ajaccio, a jumble of houses nestling next to the azure sea, until at last the cart crested a ridge and their home was lost from view. The driver joined the military road that the French had carved across the heart of the island in the early days of their occupation of Corsica. The route wound through the hills, passing through small villages, some still in ruins after being burned down by French soldiers in reprisal raids. Small, fortified outposts remained at key points along the road, evidence that some Paolists at least were keeping the cause of Coriscan independence alive.

  When the road crossed the bridge at Ponte Nuovo, faded memories returned to Letizia of the brave Corsicans charging the ordered white lines of the French soldiers - just there, overlooking the meadow that ran down to the tumbling stream and trestle bridge. Now goats grazed on winter pasture as their shepherd warmed his hands over a small fire. This was where she had stood, with the other women and their children as the first terrible volley tore the ranks of their husbands, their sons, their lovers to bloody shreds.Volley after volley had echoed off the sides of the surrounding hills, drowning out the cries and screams of the wounded. Then finally the shooting ended, and out of the shrouds of gunpowder smoke came wails of fear and panic. Dim shapes of men flitted into view, running back up the slope, fleeing for their lives. Their cries were taken up by the women and children around Letizia, and with a 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 op
ened 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 acceptable level of competence in all the basic subjects?’

  Arthur had no idea, and could not even begin to guess, so he shrugged instead.

  ‘The answer depends on how diligently you apply yourself to your studies, young Wesley. Work hard, be obedient and you will do well. Failure to do so will result in a thrashing. Understand?’

  Arthur shuddered and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Those are the most important rules here. The others you will pick up soon enough. Now you must go and wait in the main hall. It will be lunch soon. You’ll be joining the class of Mr O’Hare. I’ll be along directly to point you out to him. Now off you go.’

  Arthur nodded and turned for the door.

  ‘Young man!’

  Arthur turned back with a start and saw Father Harcourt wagging a finger at him. ‘When a member of staff gives you an instruction, you will reply “Yes, sir” in future. Or face the consequences.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s better. Now go.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The first days at the abbey were the hardest in Arthur’s life. At first none of the other boys would speak to him except Richard Crosbie, but even then the older boy seemed to delight in giving him inaccurate information about the school and its rules, and very quickly Arthur grew to trust no one, and withdrew into quiet solitude as a means of staying out of trouble and not attracting the attention of those boys with a penchant for bullying. But, as the new boy, he was the prime object of their attention and fell victim to all manner of tricks and spiteful behaviour.

  Each day they rose at first light.The boys washed in cold water drawn from the abbey’s wells, and then dressed for the day. All meals were served in the hall and featured a steady diet of porridge, broth, salted meat and boiled vegetables, served with a hunk of bread. Meals were eaten in silence, and the teachers slowly patrolled the hall with short lengths of willow, ready to swish them down on any boy who spoke, or infringed any rules of precedence and propriety in the manner in which they took their places, or went up to collect their food.

  Lessons were held in cells leading off the cloistered quadrangle, twenty boys to a room, seated on bare benches as they leaned across well-worn tabletops and struggled with dictation, basic maths, reading exercises and the rudiments of Latin and Greek. Failure to master tasks set by the teachers was rewarded with slashes of the willow canes across the back of the legs or the palm of the hand. At first Arthur cried out, but then received an extra three blows for not controlling his pain. He learned quickly to clench his teeth hard and stare over the shoulder of the teacher at a spot on the far wall, concentrating on containing the agony. Despite such incentives to excel at the tasks set for him, Arthur resolutely remained an average student, struggling with every subject. Misery piled upon misery and his longing to return home steadily became more intense, passing from mere homesickness into a kind of dark despair that this harsh and cruel life would never end.

  On Saturdays and Wednesday afternoons, the boys were allowed out of the abbey’s grounds and Arthur made straight for the bridge across the Boyne and explored the ruins of Trim Castle. Often small parties of boys would play at medieval knights, slashing away at each other with makeshift swords and spears, pulling back their blows at the last moment so as not to inflict hurt, but in their mind’s eye hacking their enemies limb from limb. When such contests began, Arthur quietly withdrew from the fray and watched from the shelter of a moss-covered wall or crumbling archway. It was not just the prospect of pain that caused him to withdraw, it was the wildness in the expressions of his peers, the relish of violence in their faces. It frightened him when he saw how easily play crossed over an ill-defined boundary into naked aggression.

  Towards the end of his first term, a package arrived from home. It contained a violin in a finely decorated case, and a brief note from his father.

  My dear Arthur,

  Since you demonstrated such a flair for the instrument at home it would be a great shame not to persist with your lessons. I am sending you the violin I was given at your age. It may be a little on the large size for you at the moment, but won’t be for long! I have made enquiries and have found a suitable music teacher close to Trim - a Mr Buckleby - and have arranged with Father Harcourt that you might attend a private lesson in Trim once a week. I look forward to hearing of your progress when you return to Dangan.

  Your loving father

  PS. Please take great care of the violin.

  So every Saturday, Arthur quitted the abbey and walked into Trim, outsize violin case tucked under his arm. Mr Buckleby lived in a stone cottage with a slate-tiled roof on the edge of town. Arthur found the place readily enough on his first visit and, steeling himself, he lifted the iron door knocker and thudded it home. Almost at once the door was wrench
ed open so suddenly that Arthur took half a step back in fright.

  A huge man in a brown suit filled the entrance. His stockings, once white, were now a misshapen grey and drooped over the top of the pinchbeck buckles on his scuffed shoes. A powdered wig rested at an angle above his wrinkled jowls. He wore spectacles, behind which dark brown eyes scrutinised the young boy.

  ‘I saw you coming up the path, young man.What can I do for you?’

  ‘Good day, sir,’ Arthur said quietly. ‘I’m looking for a Mr Buckleby.’

  ‘Dr Silas Buckleby, at your service.You must be young Wesley, Garrett’s boy. Come in, come in.’

  He stood aside and Arthur squeezed past into a small hall.The space was lined with stacks of music, bound and loose, and musical instruments in various states of repair were propped up against the walls. Motes of dust twinkled in the broad shaft of light entering from the door, and abruptly disappeared as Dr Buckleby slammed it shut and turned round, gesturing to a door at the rear of the hall.

  ‘Through there, sir. We must begin at once!’

  He brushed past and pushed the far door open, beckoning Arthur inside. The room behind the hall was in sharp contrast to the hall. It was almost bare, save for a single chair and two music stands. A leaded window looked out over a small overgrown garden and faded tapestries hung over the other three walls.They depicted scenes based on ancient myths and Arthur’s gaze was riveted to the details of a bacchanalian scene. Dr Buckleby’s keen eyes noted the boy’s expression.

  ‘The hangings are for acoustic purposes only. Try to ignore them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I find that the quality of some of my students is such that I am obliged to deaden the screams of their tormented instruments as far as possible, else I should go mad.’ He smiled as he slumped his ponderous form down on the chair, which creaked in protest. ‘Now then, young Arthur, do you know who I am?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Arthur bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’