'Bravo!' someone cried out.

'Now, little Corsican, repeat after me. I swear undying obedience to His Most Catholic Majesty, King Louis…'

Naboleone echoed the words thoughtlessly as he revelled in the joy of becoming a soldier and the thought of all the adventures he might have; of all the wars he might fight in; of how he would be a hero, leading his men in a gallant charge against terrible odds, and triumphing to the resounding cheers of his friends and family.

'There! That's it, young man,' the French soldier was saying. 'You are one of us now.'

But Naboleone's thoughts remained with his family. As he glanced back towards the harbour the first lamps were already being lit along the street and in the windows of the houses.

'I have to go,' he muttered, gesturing in the direction of his home.

'Oh!' the soldier laughed. 'Deserting already!'

Naboleone started to undo his buttons, but the soldier stayed his hand. 'No. The uniform's for you. Keep it. Anyway, you're a King's man now, and we'll be expecting to see you on duty again soon.'

Naboleone surveyed the coat with a look of disbelief. 'It's mine? To keep?'

'But, of course! Now run along.'

The boy's eyes met the soldier's. 'Thank you,' he said softly, little fingers closing around the hilt of the toy sword.'Thank you.'

As he moved towards the edge of the small group of soldiers they parted before him, as if he were a general and when he turned back someone shouted an order and they all shuffled to attention with wide grins and saluted. Naboleone, stern-faced, returned the salute, then turned about and marched down the street towards his home, feeling as tall as a man and as grand as any king.

Behind him the Frenchmen settled back to their evening ration of sausage, bread and wine. The soldier who had dressed Naboleone watched the little boy strutting down the road and he smiled in satisfaction before he rejoined his comrades.

By the time he had reached his home, night had fallen and Naboleone's bravado had seeped away as he faced the prospect of sneaking back into his room without being caught. He waited in the entrance hall for a moment, ears straining to pick up any sounds in the house. From the first floor came the voices of Naboleone's parents. He crept towards the stairs and then, keeping as close to the wall as possible to minimise any creaking of the boards, the boy stole upstairs. His heart was pounding at the tension in his body as he reached the top, squeezed through the door to his family's rooms and started down the darkened corridor to the room he shared with Giuseppe. He never made it.The toy sword, jammed into his belt, suddenly scraped across a skirtingboard.

Before the boy could dive the last few feet to his room, the door to the kitchen was wrenched open and a dim glow spilled into the corridor.

'Where on earth…?' his father began, then there was a beat before his anger gave way to surprise. 'What are you wearing? Come here, boy!'

Naboleone warily made his way to the kitchen door, paused to remove his tricorn and look up at his father towering over him, then entered the room. His mother sat at the table. Her lips tightened as she saw the uniform.

'Where did you get that?'

'It – it was a present.'

'Who from?'

'The soldiers at the citadel.'

Letizia stood up and stabbed a finger at her son. 'Take it off! How dare you wear that?'

Naboleone was shocked by the venom in her voice. He hurriedly undid the belt and buttons, shuffled his arms out of the coat and laid it on the table. The gaiters followed, together with the tricorn and toy sword. All the time his parents stared at him. At length his father broke the silence.

'Tell me you did not walk through the streets wearing that uniform.'

'I did.'

Carlos rolled his eyes and clapped a hand to his forehead.

'Did anyone see you?' Letizia snapped. 'Speak up! The truth, mind.'

Naboleone thought back. 'It was growing dark. I passed a few people.'

'Did they recognise you?'

'Yes.'

'Well, then,' Letizia said bitterly, 'word will get round that our son has been seen in French uniform. That's an end to any reputation our family once held in this town. It's bad enough your father is employed by the French, Naboleone. And now our own son marches round the town in a French uniform. The Paolists will drag our family name through the gutters for this.'

Carlos stepped up to the table and examined the tiny uniform. 'You exaggerate, Letizia. This is a toy, that's all. Dressing-up clothes. They made them for him as a joke.'

'They were a gift,' Naboleone piped up. 'They're mine.'

'Quiet, you little idiot,' Letizia said coldly. 'Can't you understand what you've done? What fools you have made of us?'

The little boy shook his head, bewildered by her rage.

'Well, try to understand, before you ruin our reputation any further. Do you know, there are still bands of Corsican patriots out there in the maquis, still fighting the French? Do you know what they do to any collaborators they capture?'

Naboleone shook his head.

'They cut their throats and leave the bodies where others can see them, as a warning. Do you want that to happen to us?'

'N-no, Mother.'

'Stop it!' Carlos raised his hand. 'Letizia, you're scaring the child.'

'Good! He needs to be scared. For his own sake, as well as ours.'

'But we're not in the maquis. We're in the town. The garrison is here to protect us. To restore order. The Paolists are little more than brigands. They'll be finished off before the year's out. The French are here to stay and the sooner people accept that, the better. I have.'

She sneered. 'Don't think I haven't noticed. Don't think it hasn't disgusted me that we have had to sell our birthright as Corsicans to safeguard the future of our family.'

Naboleone watched the confrontation between his parents anxiously and now he almost choked as he interrupted their exchange. 'Mother, I was only playing with them.'

'Well, don't! Never again, you understand?'

He nodded.

'As for these,' she bundled the uniform and hat up, 'they must be disposed of.'

'But, Mother!'

'Quiet! They must go. And you must never mention this to anyone.'

The boy seethed inside, but he knew he must accept her word or face a beating he would not forget in a long time. He nodded.

'In any case,' Carlos said in a calming tone, 'you've spent too long running around the town.You're almost feral. Look at you. Your hair needs a comb. No, better still, a cut.You need a cleanup and some discipline. It's time you started school.'

Naboleone's heart sank into the pit of his stomach. School? That was as bad as being sent to prison.

'Your mother and I have talked this over. You need an education. Tomorrow I will speak with Abbot Rocco about admitting you and Giuseppe to his school. It'll mean we have less money in the house but, given tonight's events, I don't think we can afford not to send you there.'

Ireland, 1773

Anne poured herself a fresh cup of tea and gazed out through the doors of the orangery to where her children were playing on the lawn. The two older boys, Richard and William, were once again commanding Anne and Arthur about as they arranged a collection of drying racks and sheets into the outline of a ship. A book on pirates had gone round the nursery, being avidly devoured by each child in turn, and for the last few weeks of the summer they had played nothing else. As ever, the quiet Arthur, now four years old, said little but did as he was bid and carried out his orders with focused intensity. Anne watched him with a keen sense of pity. He had developed a sensitive face. His nose had a faint downward curve and his eyes were a brilliant light blue, the whole fringed by long fair hair that wafted in the gentle breeze as he went about his work.