Napoleon. Adam Zamoyski
The Jacobin
On 2 June 1793, eleven days before the Buonaparte family reached the mainland, the Revolution had entered a new phase. The extremist Jacobin faction in the Convention, known as Montagnards or La Montagne because they sat on the highest seats in the amphitheatre, had expelled the more moderate Girondins. France was plunged into what was effectively civil war. In Toulon, where the Buonaparte landed, the Jacobins were laying down the law through terror and intimidation, arresting nobles, dragging wealthy citizens out of their houses and stringing them up from lamp-posts or bludgeoning them to death in the streets.
The Buonaparte family were not immediately threatened: they were unknown and destitute, and Lucien was prominent in the local Jacobin club. But the city was in ferment, crowds could be volatile, and the Buonaparte were, after all, ci-devant nobles. In such a climate nobody was safe. They moved to the village of La Valette outside the city. Having settled Letizia and his siblings there, Joseph made contact with Saliceti, who had also fled Corsica. He had publicly distanced himself from the Buonaparte, declaring that ‘Neither of these little intriguers will ever count among my friends,’ but he was not a man to burn bridges. He too needed associates, and with his backing Lucien was given an administrative post as quartermaster in nearby Saint-Maximin, and Joseph Fesch, who had shed his ecclesiastical garb, a similar position at Chauvet. Joseph himself accompanied Saliceti to Paris, where he lobbied the Convention to provide funds for the sustenance of exiled Corsican ‘patriots’ such as the Buonaparte who had suffered in the cause of the Revolution. His efforts were rewarded, and Letizia obtained her dole. Joseph then looked around for career opportunities, and secured the lucrative post of commissary to the army.1
Napoleone had gone to Nice, where the greater part of his regiment was stationed as part of the Army of Italy. Given the dearth of officers, he was welcomed back and given 3,000 francs in back-pay. It so happened that the commander of the artillery of the Army of Italy was Jean du Teil, younger brother of Napoleone’s old friend and commander at Auxonne. He gave Napoleone the task of inspecting the coastal batteries between Nice and Marseille, as Admiral Hood’s fleet was looking for an opportunity to land troops. At the beginning of July he was ordered to Avignon where he was to organise the convoy of ordnance and powder destined for Nice. He had not gone halfway when he found himself entering a war zone.2
The events of 2 June in Paris had provoked violent reactions and an anti-Jacobin backlash around the country. Ten provinces defied the Convention, a royalist rising had taken over the Vendée in the west, and in the south Marseille, Toulon and the valley of the Rhône were in open revolt. The fédérés, as the rebels were called, overran the region, including Avignon, stopping Napoleone in his tracks. An army under General Carteaux was marching south to defeat them, and by the end of July the fédérés had been expelled from the former Papal fief. Napoleone was present, but probably played no part in the fighting.3
There is little firm evidence about his movements over the following weeks, but he probably spent them carrying out his orders of convoying powder and shot from Avignon to Nice, possibly delayed by a bout of fever at Avignon. If so, it may have given him the time to reflect on his position. France had become a dangerous place for young men like him, and he needed to assert his political stance. He did this by writing Le Souper de Beaucaire, a polemic in the form of a dialogue which may or may not have taken place over dinner shared by a group of people at an inn at Beaucaire, on Napoleone’s route from Avignon to Nice.4
It is a political diatribe against the fédérés, in which the narrator, an officer, discusses the political situation with a group of citizens of Marseille, Nîmes and Montpellier who had come to the fair at Beaucaire, and argues in support of the Convention in Paris. He admits that the Girondins are good republicans and that the Montagnards might not be perfect, but asserts that the former showed weakness and the latter strength, and their authority should therefore be acknowledged: the successful faction has right on its side. He takes the opportunity to denounce Paoli, who only feigned loyalty to the French Republic ‘in order to gain time to deceive the people, to crush the true friends of liberty, to lead his compatriots into his ambitious and criminal projects’.
It was a political manifesto, calculated to establish Napoleone’s revolutionary credentials and position himself politically in a way that would shield him from the kind of accusations that had sent many an officer to the guillotine. It also aimed to represent the Buonaparte clan as the victims of the counter-revolutionary Paoli. Patriots such as they had welcomed Paoli believing him to be a good republican, and only gradually became aware of his ‘fatal ambition’ and his perfidy.5
The piece is couched in the flowery hyperbole so beloved of revolutionary France (and every totalitarian regime since), but there are few traces of the idealism that still haunted Napoleone’s recent writings, and it represents an emotional as well as an ideological coming of age. Reality had not lived up to his adolescent dreams of a Corsica reborn under Paoli, and his disappointment and sense of rejection had turned into anger, and even bitterness. He renounced Corsica; henceforth he would angrily reprove anyone who called him a Corsican and declare that he was and always had been French, since the island had already been incorporated into the kingdom when he was born. He was not bothered by the apparent inconsistencies or what might be seen as his betrayal of the Corsican and Paolist cause: it was Paoli who had betrayed him, and Corsica had let him down. In addition, he had smelt weakness in Paoli, and he had come to see that as a failing.
The riots he had witnessed over the past three years had dispelled any faith he might have had in the inherent goodness of human nature. The disgust and fear he had felt outside the Tuileries on 10 August the previous year had convinced him that the lower orders must be contained. The small-town struggles for power in Corsica had taught him that subterfuge, cheating, treachery and brute force were the only effective means of achieving a goal in politics. He had participated in several elections in which rules had been disregarded and results falsified, and had taken part in two coups. As an officer on full pay he had tried to subvert troops from under the authority of a brother officer. He still saw himself as a soldier, but the Revolution had politicised the army, and in politics the rules of chivalry did not apply. The winning side was the one to be on. The dreamy romanticism of his youth had been confronted with the seamy side of human affairs, and at the age of twenty-four he had emerged a cynical realist ready to make his way in the increasingly dangerous world in which he was obliged to live.
On his way from Avignon to Nice in mid-September Napoleone passed through Le Beausset, where Saliceti and the représentant en mission of the Convention Thomas Gasparin were staying, and he naturally called on his compatriot. ‘Chance served us well,’ Saliceti wrote of the encounter: they were in urgent need of a capable and politically reliable artillery officer.6
As well as being torn by internal dissent and civil war, France was now under attack from the combined forces of Austria, Prussia, Britain, Spain, the Dutch Republic, Sardinia, Naples and several other small Italian states, on five fronts. By the late summer of 1793 the Prussians had pushed back the French on the Rhine, the Austrians had taken the French fortress of Valenciennes, Spanish forces had crossed the Pyrenees and were moving on Perpignan, the Sardinians were invading from the east, and the British had laid siege to Dunkirk. The minister of war, Lazare Carnot, had ordered a levée en masse to defend the motherland, but things were not looking good.
Marseille had been retaken from the fédérés by the forces of the Convention on 25 August, but Toulon was still holding out, and retaking that was not going to be easy. Horrified by the bloody reprisals visited upon the inhabitants of Marseille, the fédérés and royalists in Toulon had opened the port to Admiral Hood’s Anglo-Spanish fleet, which had landed troops and occupied the city in the name of Louis XVII, now languishing in a revolutionary gaol. Toulon, the home of France’s Mediterranean fleet, was a natural harbour, with a large inner roadstead sheltered by land and an even larger outer one protected by a long promontory. The city was defended on the landward side by a string of forts and from the sea by batteries that could cover both the inner and outer roads. These defences were now held by nearly 20,000 British, Neapolitan, Spanish and Sardinian regulars, guarding not only the city but the roads in which Hood’s fleet was anchored.