Chapter 78: The Rulers (8)
Chapter 78: The Rulers (8)
French Corsica, Ajaccio Port.
Around 3 a.m.
“Uhehehe… th-this, this is our house, right…”
“Hah, you bastard—how can you drink so much you can’t even handle it?”
“Ah! So what if I drink a little! Ain’t our Brother Napoleone gonna take me home like now?”
“…This f—damn it, this is driving me crazy.”
Napoleon, hauling a staggering drunk up the slope with the man slung over his back, was forcing down the thick, filthy curses he’d learned from Guillaume through superhuman patience.
Huuup!
Following the drunk’s gesture, Napoleon opened the house door and went straight in. Squeezing out his last remaining strength, he shoved the drunk onto the bed and panted.
Even though it was March, with winter’s chill still lingering in the dead of night, Napoleon had dragged a man nearly his own size several hundred meters—up a slope, alone. Sweat poured off him like rain.
“Huff, huff… hey, don’t you have water in your house? Water?”
Napoleon pulled off his outer coat and tossed it onto the bedside table, then yanked at the necktie wrapped around his neck. Fanning himself so air would pass over his neck as it steamed with heat, Napoleon looked at the drunk and asked.
“Waaater? Ah, th-that’ll be in the kiiiitchen… uhehehe…”
With his face buried in the pillow, the drunk kept giggling—whether from being drunk or because something pleased him, who knew. Following his words, Napoleon headed for the kitchen.
“…Brother.”
“What.”
Napoleon, tilting a kettle to pour water into a cup, answered the voice from behind.
“Our Corsica… we can really become independent, right?”
“…Teacher Paoli is here, so what are you worried about?”
“Hehehehe… brother doesn’t knooow anythiiiing…?”
“What do you mean I don’t know anything?”
Napoleon downed the cup of water in one go, then turned toward the voice behind him.
The drunk stayed with his face buried in the pillow, only his hand limp and wavering in the air as he spoke slowly.
“You know Teacher Paoli… who brought him here?”
“…Who else? The English brats brought him over.”
“Right? Buuut, a few days ago, the English brats came to see Teacher Paoli, I’m tellin’ you.”
“…England? Why would the English brats—”
“That’s because!”
“That’s because?”
“I don’t know either! Hahahaha!”
“…”
‘Is this lunatic for real?’
Napoleon barely swallowed the curse rising to his throat.
The drunk continued.
“…But after that English bastard left, Teacher Paoli’s face—these past few days, it’s gone baaad. He’s looked like he’s about to die, I’m tellin’ you.”
“…Teacher Paoli looked like he was about to die?”
Napoleon’s brow twitched, trembling faintly.
“Of course—why would I lie to you, brother?”
“Hey, shut up and sleep now. I’m leaving.”
“Ah, brother! One more drink before you go…”
Ignoring the voice behind him, Napoleon hurriedly grabbed his coat and burst out of the house as if kicking it open.
Each time the chilly night air brushed past Napoleon’s cheeks, his alcohol-blurred mind began to sharpen.
With his hands clasped behind his back, Napoleon descended the slope at a fast pace, thinking.
Teacher Paoli had stowed away back to Corsica with England’s help.
England’s plan was probably to check southern France through Corsican independence.
But then England suddenly visited Corsica, and afterward Teacher Paoli’s mood turned foul.
Thoughts bit into thoughts, and those thoughts bit into others, and in an instant Napoleon’s head started burning hot.
But with his mind soaked in alcohol, for a long while Napoleon couldn’t push past that point.
“Damn it…”
In the end, Napoleon drew up water from a nearby well and shoved his head into the bucket.
The icy water—drawn from deep underground and still holding winter—snapped the drunkenness awake and chased it off.
“Ugh!”
Of course, the headache came with it.
Napoleon shook off the dripping water from his hair with his hands a few times, then hurried toward the house—Maison Bonaparte.
“So what you’re saying is… England and Teacher Paoli aren’t thinking the same thing. That it?”
At Lucien’s words, Napoleon quietly nodded.
“…But that’s all suspicion, isn’t it? What if that guy was just drunk and talking nonsense—what then?”
“There’s a saying that when you’re drunk, you speak the truth.”
“That saying—I’ve never heard it even once.”
“Guillaume said it. Anyway, other than this, do we have even one thing we can bet on right now, Lucien?”
“…Honestly, no.”
“Then we have to gamble anyway.”
As Napoleon dried his hair roughly with a towel, he spoke to his younger brother, who was shaking his head side to side.
“…Hah. Fine—tell me specifically how you’re going to gamble.”
“My thinking is, no matter what it is, the English bastards look like they’re trying to quietly pull their foot out of Corsica. Whether it’s just for a bit or for good, I don’t know.”
Napoleon tossed the towel he’d used into the laundry basket and continued.
“…”
“For England to suddenly change course on screwing France… something pretty noisy must’ve happened on the continent. But Corsica’s an island, so the news hasn’t reached here yet.”
“Mm.”
“From Teacher Paoli’s perspective, England trying to pull out would be damn irritating. Put plainly, without English support, he can’t stand against France.”
“Fine. Let’s say every guess you made is right. So what are you going to do, brother?”
“What else would I do. Obviously I have to stir up some chaos.”
“…?”
Seeing Lucien’s face like he was saying, What the hell are you talking about? Napoleon grinned.
“I saw and learned a lot in Paris. You go find a ship headed for the French mainland and talk to the captain in advance. No matter what, the captain can’t be Corsican—it has to be French.”
A few days later,
A meal gathering hosted by Paoli.
“Teacher Paoli, I don’t think you have any talent for war.”
Napoleon said it while looking at Paoli, who was boasting about old exploits against the French army.
“W-what?”
“Wh-why’s that guy suddenly doing that?”
“Hey! Napoleone, are you crazy?!”
The once-lively meal table instantly filled with faces of shock.
“…Everyone, quiet. Napoleone—why do you think that?”
Paoli raised his hand to stop everyone’s mouths, then asked Napoleon.
“With a deployment like that, isn’t it obvious you’d get crushed?”
“Hey! Napoleone!”
“What kind of general shoves two thousand men in front of the one and only narrow retreat?”
Someone kicked back their chair and stood up, but Napoleon calmly kept moving his mouth.
“…Do you have some complaint against me?”
“Not a complaint—just a justified criticism.”
“…Criticism?”
“I used to respect Teacher Paoli vaguely, but after hearing what you said today, my feelings changed.”
Paoli’s brow twitched, but Napoleon kept going.
“Teacher Paoli—you’re no different from someone who killed two thousand Corsicans out of ignorance.”
Blood vessels burst in Paoli’s eyes, staining the whites red.
“I devoted my whole sixty years to the independence of this land! And this little shit dares run his mouth at me?!”
“Hah! So France’s rule bothered you that much, and now you’re begging England? Are the English angels? Do you know how they rule India?!”
Napoleon also slammed back his chair and started shouting.
“What nonsense! Unlike those Indian bastards, we’re civilized people!”
“Sure—let’s say we become independent with England’s help. Do you think Corsica would be safe from France without further English help? No! They’d definitely try to creep in, talking about naval bases and whatever! Put it plainly—what did France even do to us here? Do they levy some special tax? Do they conscript us by force?”
“You traitor’s bastard whelp!”
“Why do you think Americans fought the English bastards to the death? They were the same English, and they still discriminated—that’s why! But we’re civilized, so what? Don’t talk nonsense! If that’s not it—then tell everyone here what that Englishman who came to see Teacher Paoli said recently.”
“…Y-you!”
“I don’t know what secret deal you and England made, but can you reveal it openly in front of the Corsican people? Can you? If you can, do it.”
“Who are you to order me around! I’m Corsica’s representative—the ruler! Not some brat like you!”
Corsica began to stir.
“Did you hear?”
“What is it?”
“That… Teacher Paoli and Young Master Napoleone got into it…”
“Why would those two…?”
“They say Young Master Napoleone pressed Teacher Paoli hard, asking what secret deal he made with England, and the atmosphere turned ice-cold.”
“A secret deal? What secret deal! Do you think Teacher Paoli looks like someone who’d make a secret deal with a foreign power?”
“Hey, don’t accuse an innocent man! I’m not saying I think that—just that the rumor’s going around like that.”
“Isn’t it obvious without even seeing it? That Napoleone bastard went to Paris or whatever, drank up French influence, and came back a total son of a bitch, didn’t he?!”
“Teacher Paoli! That’s not true, right?! Hurry and tell the people there’s no secret deal!”
“Teacher Paoli!”
“Teacher!”
Even with people coming night after night to his hideout under cover of darkness, Paoli kept silent.
And the more he stayed silent, the tiny doubt in people’s hearts only grew larger.
‘Why won’t Paoli come out?’
‘If he’s innocent, shouldn’t he come out and say it’s not true?’
‘If surveillance makes it hard to come out himself, shouldn’t he at least send a lackey to deny it?’
The way people looked toward Paoli’s hideout grew stranger and stranger.
“…I fell to my own trick. I should’ve kept that bastard far away…”
“Teacher… they say the stowaway ship the Englishman mentioned will arrive within a few days.”
“…Give me a little time.”
Paoli sighed, pressing a hand to his face.
He didn’t know where it had leaked from, but now that the connection with England had surfaced, Paoli had nowhere left to retreat.
If he followed England’s words, it would look like he was running without answering the suspicions.
If he answered truthfully, he’d be branded a traitor who sold Corsica not to France, but to England.
If he lied, he could never dream of English support again.
“Listen.”
“Yes, Teacher.”
“We abandon English support. If I retreat to London from here, Corsica becomes France’s land forever.”
“Then…?”
“Burn that estate—Maison Bonaparte. Kill all the Bonapartes.”
“You packed everything, right?”
“Just like you said, I only packed the jewelry. But will Teacher Paoli really harm us?”
Lucien spoke toward where Napoleon’s voice came from.
It was pitch-black inside the ship, and it was the cargo hold at that—so they couldn’t properly make out each other’s faces.
“If it were me, I wouldn’t. But if it’s a ruler, who knows. Even the dethroned king called troops into Paris, didn’t he. Of course, I don’t know whether he truly meant to suppress people with guns or not.”
“…I’m not going to do politics. I think it’s more comfortable to just keep going in and out of courtrooms.”
“Yeah. Don’t. My friend didn’t even want it, got dragged into it, and now he says he’s about to die from overwork.”
“…Brother. Do we have anywhere to go?”
“We can seek refuge at Guillaume’s family home.”
Early March, 1790.
The Bonapartes survived.