Napoleon Bonaparte, May 11, 1786
"Made it big, huh?"
"Jealous?"
Napoleon Bonaparte, a lieutenant in the Paris garrison artillery battalion, had received a personnel transfer order stamped with the royal seal.
"It's just a wartime rank anyway."
Napoleon's friend, Antoine Bourienne, eyed him with envy.
"At least they'll make you a captain, right?"
Bourienne inwardly burned with jealousy but still congratulated Napoleon on his promotion.
"Don't forget about me now that you're climbing the ladder."
"What are you talking about? I'll rack up merits and come back with a real major's insignia, so salute me properly next time."
* Versailles, office.
"Napoleon Bonaparte. Military."
Napoleon had come to pay his respects. Of course, a 16-year-old lieutenant suddenly made battalion commander would get pushed around by his subordinate captains and majors handling the real work. That's when the king's authority came in handy. With the king as his backer, no one would dare eye his position.
"Congratulations on your appointment as commander of the Venice expeditionary battalion."
"It is my honor."
He didn't look like the Napoleon I knew yet—probably because he was so young. Once he put on some weight, he'd resemble that Napoleon. For now, he was the picture of a typical handsome Frenchman. Youth really was something. I was already past thirty, starting to miss it myself.
"You look sturdy, as befits an artilleryman. How tall are you in centimeters?"
He was taller than I'd expected. I remembered Napoleon as 168 cm.
"175 cm, sire."
"Is that so? You look it."
Well, unlike original history, he might have grown taller from better food and living. My own height was 193 cm, so anyone under 187 cm looked about the same to me.
"In any case, do your duty. It'll mostly be company-level skirmishes, but take care of yourself. Above all, local security and public sentiment matter most. Remember, behind your position stands not just Napoleon Bonaparte, but also Louis-Auguste de France."
"I shall keep it in mind."
Given Napoleon's personality, he'd exaggerated by an inch or two, but whatever. A man could stretch three centimeters—what was the harm? No shoe lifts existed yet; cut the guy some slack.
* Having finished his audience with Louis XVI, Napoleon endured a lecture from the personnel colonel.
"I know your records clearly state 173.8 cm—did you really have to say 175?"
It was about his height, of all things.
"That was measured with a crappy wooden ruler when I enlisted. Measure me now with a bronze one, and it'll be 175 for sure."
Bluster was still a lie. The personnel officer disapproved of Napoleon's bravado and scolded him, but Napoleon brushed it off lightly.
"His Majesty let it slide this time, but be careful next time. Truth is the highest virtue. And here—your major's insignia."
The officer shook his head a few times at Napoleon's brazen attitude.
"It's not an official promotion, so no ceremony. If your regimental commander is a good sort, you can have one on-site."
Napoleon personally sewed the major's insignia and major's braiding onto his uniform in the supply room.
"Not bad with a needle for a man."
"Part of a lieutenant's training."
After finishing, Napoleon stood before the mirror, adjusting his appearance.
"Clothes make the man. A few gold threads, and it shines like this. Obvious, but don't forget—strutting around like this to chase women is a breach of discipline."
"Understood. Thank you for the concern."
"Carriage is ready. Till then, here's the operation overview. You stayed in Paris for the audience, but the expeditionary force left for Udine the day before yesterday."
The personnel officer pointed to a map of northern Italy pinned to the wall of the supply room.
"Your temporary battalion is the Italian Order Maintenance Force. Skip the details—most important is your posting: Udine, in Venice. Heard of it?"
"No, sir."
"Fair enough."
The officer unrolled a map of the entire Italian peninsula.
"See here—this is your home island of Corsica. First supply line goes via Tuscany's Elba Island to Piombino port. Then overland through Tuscany, the Papal States, Venice, to Udine here. City west of the Isonzo River. Got it? We'll set up supplies along this route, so no worries there."
Nice-Ajaccio-Elba-Piombino-Florence-Bologna-Padua-Udine. An odd supply line longer by land than sea.
"Any thoughts on this supply chain?"
"More wagons than cargo ships, I'd say. Deliberately avoiding the Adriatic Sea."
"Right. To eliminate any chance of attack, it's all through friendly territory."
As he said, France's supply line ran from the mainland—Nice in the illegal Sardinian occupation—to Ajaccio on Corsica, Elba and Florence in Tuscany, Piombino (practically a Tuscan puppet), Bologna in the Papal States, then Venice.
"This kind of long land route is stable but inefficient—low capacity per trip. You're not planning to build roads, are you? Like the Romans?"
"Sharp eye. Not just for cards, I see."
"It's obvious."
Napoleon had seen through the intent behind Louis XVI's supply line.
"Even friendly Italian states won't grant free military passage. So we're paving roads in exchange. Handy, since we need the supply route anyway. His Majesty mentioned adjusting tribute quotas."
Echoing his words, the officer relayed bits from the cabinet meeting.
"I'm no economist."
"Neither am I. But His Majesty has it all prepared—no need to fret."
Yet they were soldiers, not bureaucrats.
"Ah, carriage is here. Details in Udine. Battalion command won't be much; captains and majors handle the grunt work. They don't expect admin skills from a promoted lieutenant anyway—just gain some combat experience."
Before slipping into political chit-chat, the officer shifted topics and sent Napoleon off to Udine.
* May 26, 1786. Ajaccio, France.
Napoleon set foot on his homeland after seven years.
"Son, ain'tcha happy to see yer aba?"
At Ajaccio port, Napoleon's father, Carlo Buonaparte, greeted him in halting French.
"Father. I'm here on duty—gotta head straight inland. Glad to see you, but I board another ship in thirty minutes."
"Gone to the mainland and turned full Frenchman, eh? Makes yer aba sad. Come home for lunch at least."
Carlo felt slighted by his son's neither-French-nor-Corsican speech.
"Father, I've got big responsibilities this time—must go. When I get leave after the job, I'll visit. Really sorry, but let's part here."
"Lordy. No matter how grand you get on the mainland, don't forget yer roots are Corsica. Yer a Corsican, not French."
He felt a twinge of betrayal from his son, who'd shed all Corsican identity for French.
"Father! Enough! Corsica's France and France is Corsica—how long you gonna cling to the old days?"
Napoleon bristled at his father.
"If Corsica was so great, why didn't you fight with Uncle Pauli at Borgo? Why whine about it after it's all over!"
He resented his father, who'd always sided with the winners at key moments, now lecturing him—a temporary battalion commander who'd overcome Corsican bias.
"Father. Ship's here. I'll visit on next leave if time allows. Farewell for now."
Napoleon boarded the Elba-bound ship without another glance.
"Darn. Leaves me speechless. Won't even wave. Bah, my fault. All my fault."
Napoleon holed up in his cabin, ignoring his waving father.
"See, Master Carlo? Told ya he'd hate it."
Carlo's farm manager, watching, consoled him.
"Hush. Go pick a lime or somethin'."
Carlo pretended annoyance to brush him off, but the manager stood firm.
"Limes all froze last year, din't they? Plenty citrons—grab one?"
"Thanks."
The manager casually picked a citron from nearby and handed it over.
"Yer other son never comes see ya?"
"Kid's young—one's gotta mind the house, right? Can't tote the rascal in a cart to see his brother."
"Still, first home in seven years—coulda hired someone to watch the boy."
"How was I to know? He's always favored his ma since little. If she'd come, he'd be sweeter. Shoulda minded him myself."
Carlo Buonaparte peeled the citron, gazing at the ship heading to Elba.