FROM THE ELYSÉE TO ST. HELENA
Napoleon was far from accepting Waterloo as a final blow. At
Philippeville on the day after the battle, he wrote to his brother
Joseph that he would speedily have 300,000 men ready to defend France:
he would harness his guns with carriage-horses, raise 100,000
conscripts, and arm them with muskets taken from the royalists and
malcontent National Guards: he would arouse Dauphiné, Lyonnais, and
Burgundy, and overwhelm the enemy. "But the people must help me and
not bewilder me.... Write to me what effect this horrible piece of bad
luck has had on the Chamber. I believe the deputies will feel
convinced that their duty in this crowning moment is to rally round me
and save France."[527]
The tenacious will, then, is only bent, not broken. Waterloo is merely
a greater La Rothière, calling for a mightier defensive effort than
that of 1814. Such are his intentions, even when he knows not that
Grouchy is escaping from the Prussians. The letter breathes a firm
resolve. He has no scruples as to the wickedness of spurring on a
wearied people to a conflict with Europe. As yet he forms no
magnanimous resolve to take leave of a nation whom his genius may once
more excite to a fatal frenzy. He still seems unable to conceive of
France happy and prosperous apart from himself. In indissoluble union
they will struggle on and defy the world.
Such was the frame of mind in which he reached the Elysée Palace early
on the 21st of June. For a time he was much agitated. "Oh, my God!" he
exclaimed to Lavalette, raising his eyes to heaven and walking up and
down the room. But after taking a warm bath--his unfailing remedy for
fatigue--he became calm and discussed with the Ministers plans of a
national defence. The more daring advised the prorogation of the
Chambers and the declaration of a state of siege in Paris; but others
demurred to a step that would lead to civil war. The Council dragged
on at great length, the Emperor only once rousing himself from his
weariness to declare that all was not lost; that _he_, and not the
Chambers, could save France. If so, he should have gone to the
deputies, thrilled them with that commanding voice, or dissolved them
at once. Montholon states that this course was recommended by
Cambacérès, Carnot, and Maret, but that most of the Ministers urged
him not to expose his wearied frame to the storms of an excited
assembly. At St. Helena he told Gourgaud that, despite his fatigue, he
would have made the effort had he thought success possible, but he did
not.[528]
The Chamber of Deputies meanwhile was acting with vigour. Agonized by
the tales of disaster already spread abroad by wounded soldiers, it
eagerly assented to Lafayette's proposal to sit in permanence and
declare any attempt at dissolution an act of high treason. So
unblenching a defiance, which recalled the Tennis Court Oath of
twenty-six years before, struck the Emperor almost dumb with
astonishment. Lucien bade him prepare for a _coup d'état_: but
Napoleon saw that the days for such an act were passed. He had
squandered the physical and moral resources bequeathed by the
Revolution. Its armies were mouldering under the soil of Spain,
Russia, Germany, and Belgium; and a decade of reckless ambition had
worn to tatters Rousseau's serviceable theory of a military
dictatorship. Exhausted France was turning away from him to the prime
source of liberty, her representatives.
These were doubtless the thoughts that coursed through his brain as he
paced with Lucien up and down the garden of the Elysée. A crowd of
_fédérés_ and workmen outside cheered him frantically. He saluted them
with a smile; but, says Pasquier, "the expression of his eyes showed
the sadness that filled his soul." True, he might have led that
unthinking rabble against the Chambers; but that would mean civil war,
and from this he shrank. Still Lucien bade him strike. "Dare," he
whispered with Dantonesque terseness. "Alas," replied his brother, "I
have dared only too much already." Davoust also opined that it was too
late now that the deputies had firmly seized the reins and were
protected by the National Guards of Paris.
And so Napoleon let matters drift. In truth, he was "bewildered" by
the disunion of France. It was a France that he knew not, a land given
over to _idéalogues_ and traitors. His own Minister, Fouché, was
working to sap his power, and yet he dared not have him shot! What
wonder that the helpless autocrat paced restlessly to and fro, or sat
as in a dream! In the evening Carnot went to the Peers, Lucien to the
Deputies, to appeal for a united national effort against the
Coalition, but the simple earnestness of the one and the fraternal
fervour of the other alike failed. When Lucien finally exclaimed
against any desertion of Napoleon, Lafayette fiercely shot at him the
long tale of costly sacrifices which France had offered up at the
shrine of Napoleon's glory, and concluded: "We have done enough for
him: our duty is to save _la patrie_."
On the morrow came the news that Grouchy had escaped from the
Prussians; and that the relics of Napoleon's host were rallying at
Laon. But would not this encouragement embolden the Emperor to crush
the contumacious Chambers? Evidently the case was urgent. He must
abdicate, or they would dethrone him--such was the purport of their
message to the Elysée; but, as an act of grace, they allowed him _an
hour_ in which to forestall their action. Shortly after midday, on the
advice of his Ministers, he took the final step of his official
career. Lucien and Carnot begged him for some time to abdicate only in
favour of his son;[529] and he did so, but with the bitter remark: "My
son! What a chimera! No, it is for the Bourbons that I abdicate! They
at least are not prisoners at Vienna."
The deputies were of his opinion. Despite frantic efforts of the
Bonapartists, they passed over Napoleon II. without any effective
recognition, and at once appointed an executive Commission of
five--Carnot, Caulaincourt, Fouché, Grenier, and Quinette. Three of
them were regicides, and Fouché was chosen their President. We can
gauge Napoleon's wrath at seeing matters thus promptly rolled back to
where they were before Brumaire by his biting comment that he had made
way for the King of Rome, not for a Directory which included one
traitor and two babies. His indignation was just. An abdication forced
on by _idéalogues_ was hateful; to be succeeded by Fouché seemed an
unforgivable insult; but he touched the lowest depth of humiliation on
the 25th, when he received from that despicable schemer an order to
leave Paris.
He obeyed on that first Sunday after Waterloo, driving off quietly to
Malmaison, there to be joined by Hortense Beauharnais and a few
faithful friends. At that ill-omened abode, where Josephine had
breathed her last shortly after his first abdication, he spent four
uneasy days. At times he was full of fight. He sent to the "Moniteur"
a proclamation urging the army to make "some efforts more, and the
Coalition will be dissolved." The manifesto was suppressed by Fouché's
orders.
Meanwhile the invaders pressed on rapidly towards Compiègne. They met
with no attempts at a national rising, a fact which proves the welcome
accorded to Napoleon in March to have been mainly the outcome of
military devotion and of the dislike generally felt for the Bourbons.
It is a libel on the French people to suppose that a truly national
impulse in his favour would have vanished with a single defeat. In
vain did the Provisional Government sue for an armistice that would
stay the advance. Wellington refused outright; but Blücher declared
that he would consider the matter if Napoleon were handed over to him,
_dead or alive_. On hearing of this, Wellington at once wrote his ally
a private remonstrance, which drew from Gneisenau a declaration that,
as the Duke was held back _by parliamentary considerations and by the
wish to prolong the life of the villain whose career had extended
England's power_, the Prussians would see to it that Napoleon was
handed over to them for execution conformably to the declaration of
the Congress of Vienna.[530]
But the Provisional Government acted honestly towards Napoleon. On the
26th Fouché sent General Becker to watch over him and advise him to
set out for Rochefort, _en route_ to the United States, for which
purpose passports were being asked from Wellington. Becker found the
ex-Emperor a prey to quickly varying moods. At one time he seemed
"sunk into a kind of _mollesse_, and very careful about his ease and
comfort": he ate hugely at meals: or again he affected a rather coarse
joviality, showing his regard for Becker by pulling his ear. His plans
varied with his moods. He declared he would throw himself into the
middle of France and fight to the end, or that he would take ship at
Rochefort with Bertrand and Savary alone, and steal past the English
squadron; but when Mme. Bertrand exclaimed that this would be cruel to
her, he readily gave up the scheme.[531]
It is not easy to gauge his feelings at this time. Apart from one
outburst to Lavalette of pity for France, he seems not to have
realized how unspeakably disastrous his influence had been on the land
which he found in a victoriously expansive phase, and now left
prostrate at the feet of the allies and the Bourbons. Hatred and
contempt of the upper classes for their "fickle" desertion of him,
these, if we may judge from his frequent allusions to the topic during
the voyage, were the feelings uppermost in his mind; and this may
explain why he wavered between the thought of staking all on a last
effort against the allies and the plan of renewing in America the
career now closed to him in Europe.
He certainly was not a prey to torpor and dumb despair. His brain
still clutched eagerly at public affairs, as if unable to realize that
they had slipped beyond his control; and his behaviour showed that he
was still _un être politique_, with whom power was all in all. He
evinced few signs of deep emotion on bidding farewell to his devoted
followers: but whether this resulted from inner hardness, or
resentment at his fall, or a sense of dignified prudence, it is
impossible to say. When Denon, the designer of his medals, sobbed on
bidding him adieu, he remarked: _Mon cher, ne nous attendrissons pas:
il faut dans les crises comme celle-ci se conduire avec froid_. This
surely was one source of his power over an emotional people: his
feelings were the servant, not the master, of his reason.
Meanwhile the Prussians were drawing near to Paris. Early on the 29th
they were at Argenteuil, and Blücher detached a flying column to seize
the bridge of Chatou over the Seine near Malmaison and carry off
Napoleon on the following night. But Davoust and Fouché warded off the
danger. While the Marshal had the nearest bridges of the Seine
barricaded or burnt, Fouché on the night of the 28th-29th sent an
order to Napoleon to leave at once for Rochefort and set sail with two
frigates, even though the English passports had not arrived.
He received the news calmly, and then with unusual animation requested
Becker to submit to the Government a scheme for rapidly rallying the
troops around Paris, whereupon he, _as General Bonaparte_, would
surprise first Blücher and then Wellington--they were two days'
marches apart: then, after routing the foe, he would resume his
journey to the coast. The Commission would have none of it. The
reports showed that the French troops were so demoralized that success
was not to be hoped for.[532] And if a second Montmirail were snatched
from Blücher, would it bring more of glory to Napoleon or of useless
bloodshed to France? Those who look on the world as an arena for the
exploits of heroes at the cost of ordinary mortals may applaud the
scheme. But could men who were responsible to France regard it as
anything but a final proof of Napoleon's perverse optimism, or a flash
of his unquenchable ambition, or a last mad bid for power? He showed
signs of anger on hearing of their refusal, but set out for Rochefort
at 6 p.m.; and thus the Prussians were cheated of their prey by a few
hours. Bertrand, Savary, Gourgaud, and Becker accompanied him.
The cheers of troops and people at Niort, and again at Rochefort,
where he arrived on July 3rd, re-awakened his fighting instincts; and
as the westerly winds precluded all hope of the two frigates slipping
quickly down either of the practicable outlets so as to elude the
British cruisers, he again sought permission to take command of the
French forces, now beginning to fall back from Paris behind the line
of the Loire. Again his offer was refused; and messages came thick and
fast bidding Becker get him away from the mainland. Such was the
desire of his best friends. Paris capitulated to the allies on July
4th, and both French royalists and Prussians were eager to get hold of
him. Thus, while he sat weaving plans of a campaign on the Loire, the
tottering Government at Paris pressed on his embarkation, hinting that
force would be used should further delays ensue. Sadly, then, on July
8th, he went on board the "Saale," moored near L'Ile d'Aix, opposite
the mouth of the Charente.
He was now in sore straits. The orders from Paris expressly forbade
his setting foot again on the mainland, and most of the great towns
had already hoisted the white flag. In front of him was the Bay of
Biscay, swept by British cruisers, which the French naval officers had
scant hopes of escaping. There was talk among Napoleon's suite, which
now included Montholon, Las Cases, and Lallemand, of attempting flight
from the Gironde, or in the hold of a small Danish sloop then at
Rochefort, or on two fishing boats moored to the north of L'Ile de Ré;
but these plans were given up in consequence of the close watch kept
by our cruisers at all points. The next day brought with it a despatch
from Paris ordering the ex-Emperor to set sail within twenty-four
hours.
On the morrow Napoleon sent Savary and Las Cases with a letter to
H.M.S. "Bellerophon," then cruising off the main channel--that between
the islands of Oléron and Ré--asking whether the permits for
Napoleon's voyage to America had arrived, or his departure would be
prevented. Savary also inquired whether his passage on a merchant-ship
would be stopped. The commander, Captain Maitland, had received strict
orders to intercept Napoleon; but, seeking to gain time and to bring
Admiral Hotham up with other ships, he replied that he would oppose
the frigates by force: neither could he permit Napoleon to set sail on
a merchant-ship until he had the warrant of his admiral for so doing.
The "Bellerophon," "Myrmidon," and "Slaney" now drew closer in to
guard the middle channel, while a corvette watched each of the
difficult outlets on the north and south.[533]
Three days of sorrow and suspense now ensued. On the 12th came the
news of the entry of Louis XVIII. into Paris, the collapse of the
Provisional Government, and the general hoisting of the _fleur-de-lys_
throughout France. On the 13th Joseph Bonaparte came for a last
interview with his brother on the Ile d'Aix. Montholon states that the
ex-King offered to change places with the ex-Emperor and thus allow
him the chance of escaping on a neutral ship from the Gironde.
Gourgaud does not refer to any such offer, nor does Bertrand in his
letter of July 14th to Joseph. In any case, it was not put to the
test; for royalism was rampant on the mainland, and two of our
cruisers hovered about the Gironde. Sadly the two brothers parted, and
for ever. Then the other schemes were again mooted only to be given up
once more; and late on the 13th Napoleon dictated the following
letter, to be taken by Gourgaud to the Prince Regent:
"Exposed to the factions which distract my country and to the
enmity of the greatest Powers of Europe, I have closed my
political career, and I come, like Themistocles, to throw myself
upon the hospitality of the British people. I put myself under the
protection of their laws, which I claim from your Royal Highness,
as the most powerful, the most constant, and the most generous of
my enemies."[534]
On the 14th Gourgaud and Las Cases took this letter to the
"Bellerophon," whereupon Maitland assured them that he would convey
Napoleon to England, Gourgaud preceding them on the "Slaney"; but that
the ex-Emperor _would be entirely at the disposal of our Government_.
This last was made perfectly clear to Las Cases, who understood
English, though at first he feigned not to do so; but, unfortunately,
Maitland did not exact from him a written acknowledgment of this
understanding. Gourgaud was transferred to the "Slaney," which soon
set sail for Torbay, while Las Cases reported to Napoleon on L'Ile
d'Aix what had happened. Thereupon Bertrand wrote to Maitland that
Napoleon would come on board on the morrow:
" ... If the Admiral, in consequence of the demand that you have
addressed to him, sends you the permits for the United States, His
Majesty will go there with pleasure; but in default of them, he
will go voluntarily to England as a private individual to enjoy
the protection of the laws of your country."
Now, either Las Cases misinterpreted Maitland's words and acts, or
Napoleon hoped to impose on the captain by the statements just quoted.
Maitland had not sent to Hotham for permits; he held out no hopes of
Napoleon's going to America; he only promised to take him to England
_to be at the disposal of the Prince Regent_. Napoleon, taking no
notice of the last stipulation, now promised to go to England, not as
Emperor, but as a private individual. He took this step soon after
dawn on the 15th, when any lingering hopes of his escape were ended by
the sight of Admiral Hotham's ship, "Superb," in the offing. On
leaving the French brig, "Epervier," he was greeted with the last
cheers of _Vive l'Empereur_, cheers that died away almost in a wail as
his boat drew near to the "Bellerophon." There he was greeted
respectfully, but without a salute. He wore the green uniform, with
gold and scarlet facings, of a colonel of the Chasseurs à Cheval of
the Guard, with white waistcoat and military boots; and Maitland
thought him "a remarkably strong, well-built man." Keeping up a
cheerful demeanour, he asked a number of questions about the ship, and
requested to be shown round even thus early, while the men were
washing the decks. He inquired whether the "Bellerophon" would have
worsted the two French frigates and acquiesced in Maitland's
affirmative reply. He expressed admiration of all that he saw,
including the portrait of Maitland's wife hanging in the cabin; and
the captain felt the full force of that seductive gift of pleasing,
which was not the least important of the great man's powers.
He was accompanied by General and Mme. Bertrand, the former a tall,
slim, good-looking man, of refined manners and domestic habits, though
of a sensitive and hasty temper; his wife, a lady of slight figure,
but stately carriage, the daughter of a Irishman named Dillon, who
lost his life in the Revolution. Her vivacious manners bespoke a warm
impulsive nature, that had revelled in the splendour of her high
ceremonial station and now seemed strained beyond endurance by the
trials threatening her and her three children. The Bertrands had been
with Napoleon at Elba, and enjoyed his complete confidence. Younger
than they were General (Count) Montholon and his wife--he, a short but
handsome man, his consort, a sweet unassuming woman--who showed their
devotion to the ex-Emperor by exchanging a life of luxury for exile in
his service. Count Las Cases, a small man, whose thin eager face and
furtive glances revealed his bent for intrigue, was the eldest of the
party. He had been a naval officer, had then lived in England as an
_émigré_, but after the Peace of Amiens took civil service under
Napoleon; he now brought with him his son, a lad of fifteen, fresh
from the Lycée. We need not notice the figures of Savary and
Lallemand, as they were soon to part company. Maingaud the surgeon,
Marchand the head valet, several servants, and the bright little boy
of the Montholons completed the list.
The voyage passed without incident. Napoleon's health and appetite
were on the whole excellent, and he suffered less than the rest from
sea-sickness. The delicate Las Cases, who had donned his naval
uniform, was in such distress as to move the mirth of the crew,
whereupon Napoleon sharply bade him appear in plain clothes so as not
to disgrace the French navy. For the great man himself the crew soon
felt a very real regard, witness the final confession of one of them
to Maitland: "Well, they may abuse that man as much as they like, but
if the people of England knew him as well as we do, they would not
hurt a hair of his head."--What a tribute this to the mysterious power
of genius!
On passing Ushant, he remained long upon deck, silent and abstracted,
casting melancholy looks at the land he was never more to see. As they
neared Torbay, the exile was loud in praise of the beauty of the
scene, which he compared with that of Porto Ferrajo. Whatever
misgivings he felt before embarking on the "Bellerophon" had
apparently disappeared. He had been treated with every courtesy and
had met with only one rebuff. He prompted Mme. Bertrand, who spoke
English well, to sound Maitland as to the acceptance of a box
containing his (Napoleon's) portrait set in diamonds. This the captain
very properly refused.[535]
In Torbay troubles began to thicken upon the party. Gourgaud rejoined
them on the 24th: he had not been allowed to land. Orders came on the
26th for the "Bellerophon" to proceed to Plymouth; and the rumour
gained ground that St. Helena would be their destination. It was true.
On July 31st, Sir Henry Bunbury, Secretary to the Admiralty, and Lord
Keith, Admiral in command at Plymouth, laid before him in writing the
decision of our Government, that, in order to prevent any further
disturbance to the peace of Europe, it had been decided to restrain
his liberty--"to whatever extent may be necessary for securing that
first and paramount object"--and that St. Helena would be his place of
residence, as it was healthy, and would admit of a smaller degree of
restraint than might be necessary elsewhere.
Against this he made a lengthy protest, declaring that he was not a
prisoner of war, that he came as a passenger on the "Bellerophon"
"after a previous negotiation with the commander," that he demanded
the rights of a British citizen, and wished to settle in a country
house far from the sea, where he would submit to the surveillance of a
commissioner over his actions and correspondence. St. Helena would
kill him in three months, for he was wont to ride twenty leagues a
day; he preferred death to St. Helena. Maitland's conduct had been a
deliberate snare. To deprive him (Napoleon) of his liberty would be an
eternal disgrace to England; for in coming to our shores he had
offered the Prince Regent the finest page of his history.--Our
officials then bowed and withdrew. He recalled Keith, and when the
latter remarked that to go to St. Helena was better than being sent to
Louis XVIII. or to Russia, the captive exclaimed "Russia! God keep me
from that."[536]
It is unnecessary to traverse his statements at length. The foregoing
recital of facts will have shown that he was completely at the end of
his resources, and that Maitland had not made a single stipulation as
to his reception in England. Indeed, Napoleon never reproached
Maitland; he left that to Las Cases to do; and the captain easily
refuted these insinuations, with the approval of Montholon. If there
was any misunderstanding, it was certainly due to Las Cases.[537]
Indeed, the thought of Napoleon settling dully down in the Midlands is
ludicrous. How could a man who revelled in vast schemes, whose mind
preyed on itself if there were no facts and figures to grind, or
difficulties to overcome, ever sink to the level of a Justice Shallow?
And if he longed for repose, would the Opposition in England and the
malcontents in France have let him rest? Inevitably he would become a
rallying point for all the malcontents of Europe. Besides, our
engagements to the allies bound us to guard him securely; and we were
under few personal obligations to a man who, during the Peace of
Amiens, persistently urged us to drive forth the Bourbons from our
land, who at its close forcibly detained 10,000 Britons in defiance of
the law of nations, and whose ambition added £600,000,000 to our
National Debt.
Ministers had decided on St. Helena by July 28th. Their decision was
clinched by a Memorandum of General Beatson, late Governor of the
island, dated July 29th, recommending St. Helena, because all the
landing places were protected by batteries, and the semaphores
recently placed on the lofty cliffs would enable the approach of a
rescue squadron to be descried sixty miles off, and the news to be
speedily signalled to the Governor's House. Napoleon's appeal and
protests were accordingly passed over; and, in pursuance of advice
just to hand from Castlereagh at Paris, Ministers decided to treat
him, not as our prisoner, but as the prisoner of all the Powers. A
Convention was set in hand as to his detention; it was signed on
August 2nd at Paris, and bound the other Powers to send Commissioners
as witnesses to the safety of the custody.[538]
His departure from Plymouth was hastened by curious incidents. Crowds
of people assembled there to see the great man, and shoals of
boats--Maitland says more than a thousand on fine days--struggled and
jostled to get as near the "Bellerophon" as the guard-boats would
allow. Two or three persons were drowned; but still the swarm pressed
on. Many of the men wore carnations--a hopeful sign this seemed to Las
Cases--and the women waved their handkerchiefs when he appeared on the
poop or at the open gangway. Maitland was warned that a rescue would
be attempted on the night of the 3rd-4th; and certainly the Frenchmen
were very restless at that time. They believed that if Napoleon could
only set foot on shore he must gain the rights of Habeas Corpus.[539]
And there seemed some chance of his gaining them. Very early on August
4th a man came down from London bringing a subpoena from the Court of
King's Bench to compel Lord Keith and Captain Maitland to produce the
person of Napoleon Bonaparte for attendance in London as witness in a
trial for libel then pending. It appears that some one was to be sued
for a libel on a naval officer, censuring his conduct in the West
Indies; and it was suggested that if he (the defendant) could get
Napoleon's evidence to prove that the French ships were at that time
unserviceable, his case would be strengthened. An attorney therefore
came down to Plymouth armed with a subpoena, with which he chased
Keith on land and chased him by sea, until his panting rowers were
foiled by the stout crew of the Admiral's barge. Keith also found
means to let Maitland know how matters stood early on the 4th,
whereupon the "Bellerophon" stood out to sea, her guard-boat keeping
at a distance the importunate man with the writ.
The whole affair looks very suspicious. What defendant in a plain
straightforward case would ever have thought of so far-fetched a
device as that of getting the ex-Emperor to declare on oath that his
warships in the West Indies had been unseaworthy? The tempting thought
that it was a trick of some enterprising journalist in search of "copy
"must also be given up as a glaring anachronism. On the other hand,
it is certain that Napoleon's well-wishers in London and Plymouth were
moving heaven and earth to get him ashore, or delay his
departure.[540] In common with Sieyès, Lavalette, and Las Cases, he
had hoped much from the peculiarities of English law; and on July 28th
he dictated to Las Cases a paper, "suited to serve as a basis to
jurists," which the latter says he managed to send ashore.[541] If
this be true, Napoleon himself may have spurred on his friends to the
effort just described. Or else the plan may have occurred to some of
his English admirers who wished to embarrass the Ministry. If so,
their attempt met with the fate that usually befalls the efforts of
our anti-national cliques on behalf of their foreign heroes: it did
them harm: the authorities acted more promptly than they would
otherwise have done: the "Bellerophon" put to sea a few days before
the Frenchmen expected, with the result that they were exposed to a
disagreeable cruise until the "Northumberland" (the ship destined for
the voyage in place of the glorious old "Bellerophon") was ready to
receive them on board.[542]
Dropping down from Portsmouth, the newer ship met the "Bellerophon"
and "Tonnant," Lord Keith's ship, off the Start. The transhipment took
place on the 7th, under the lee of Berry Head, Torbay. After dictating
a solemn protest against the compulsion put upon him, the ex-Emperor
thanked Maitland for his honourable conduct, spoke of his having hoped
to buy a small estate in England where he might end his days in peace,
and declaimed bitterly against the Government.
Rear-Admiral Sir George Cockburn, of the "Northumberland," then came
by official order to search his baggage and that of his suite, so as
to withdraw any large sums of money that might be thereafter used for
effecting an escape. Savary and Marchand were present while this was
done by Cockburn's secretary with as much delicacy as possible: 4,000
gold Napoleons (80,000 francs) were detained to provide a fund for
part maintenance of the illustrious exile. The diamond necklace which
Hortense had handed to him at Malmaison was at that time concealed on
Las Cases, who continued to keep it as a sacred trust. The
ex-Emperor's attendants were required to give up their swords during
the voyage. Montholon states that when the same request was made by
Keith to Napoleon, the only reply was a flash of anger from his eyes,
under which the Admiral's tall figure shrank away, and his head, white
with years, fell on his breast. Alas, for the attempt at melodrama!
_Maitland was expressly told by Lord Keith not to proffer any such
request to the fallen chief_.
Apart from one or two exclamations that he would commit suicide rather
than go to St. Helena, Napoleon had behaved with a calm and serenity
that contrasted with the peevish gloom of his officers and the spasms
of Mme. Bertrand. This unhappy lady, on learning their fate, raved in
turn against Maitland, Gourgaud, Napoleon, and against her husband for
accompanying him, and ended by trying to throw herself from a window.
From this she was pulled back, whereupon she calmed down and secretly
urged Maitland to write to Lord Keith to prevent Bertrand accompanying
his master. The captain did so, but of course the Admiral declined to
interfere. Her shrill complaints against Napoleon had, however, been
heard on the other side of the thin partition, and fanned the dislike
which Montholon and Gourgaud had conceived for her, and in part for
her husband. These were the officers whom he selected as companions of
exile. Las Cases was to go as secretary, and his son as page.
Savary, Lallemand, and Planat having been proscribed by Louis XVIII.,
were detained by our Government, and subsequently interned at Malta.
On taking leave of Napoleon they showed deep emotion, while he
bestowed the farewell embrace with remarkable composure. The surgeon,
Maingaud, now declined to proceed to St. Helena, alleging that he had
wanted to go to America only because his uncle there was to leave him
a legacy! At the same time Bertrand asked that O'Meara, the surgeon of
the "Bellerophon," might accompany Napoleon to St. Helena. As
Maingaud's excuse was very lame, and O'Meara had had one or two talks
with Napoleon _in Italian_, Keith and Maitland should have seen that
there was some understanding between them; but the Admiral consented
to the proposed change. As to O'Meara's duplicity, we may quote from
Basil Jackson's "Waterloo and St. Helena": "I _know_ that he [O'Meara]
was _fully enlisted_ for Napoleon's service during the voyage from
Rochefort to England." The sequel will show how disastrous it was to
allow this man to go with the ex-Emperor.
In the Admiral's barge that took him to the "Northumberland" the
ex-Emperor "appeared to be in perfect good humour," says Keith,
"talking of Egypt, St. Helena, of my former name being Elphinstone,
and many other subjects, and joking with the ladies about being
seasick."[543] In this firm matter-of-fact way did Napoleon accept the
extraordinary change in his fortunes. At no time of his life, perhaps,
was he so great as when, forgetting his own headlong fall, he sought
to dispel the smaller griefs of Mmes. Bertrand and Montholon. A hush
came over the crew as Napoleon mounted the side and set foot on the
deck of the ship that was to bear him away to a life of exile. It was
a sight that none could behold unmoved, as the great man uncovered,
received the salute, and said with a firm voice: "Here I am, General,
at your orders."
The scene was rich, not only in personal interest and pathos, but also
in historic import. It marks the end of a cataclysmic epoch and the
dawn of a dreary and confused age. We may picture the Muse of History,
drawn distractedly from her abodes on the banks of the Seine, gazing
in wonder on that event taking place under the lee of Berry Head, her
thoughts flashing back, perchance, to the days when William of Orange
brought his fleet to shore at that same spot and baffled the designs
of the other great ruler of France. The glory of that land is now once
more to be shrouded in gloom. For a time, like an uneasy ghost, Clio
will hover above the scenes of Napoleon's exploits and will find
little to record but promises broken and development arrested by his
unteachable successors.
But the march of Humanity is only clogged: it is not stayed. Ere long
it breaks away into untrodden paths amidst the busy hives of industry
or in the track of the colonizing peoples. The Muse follows in
perplexity: her course at first seems dull and purposeless: her story,
when it bids farewell to Napoleon, suffers a bewildering fall in
dramatic interest: but at length new and varied fields open out to
view. Democracy, embattled for seven sad years by Napoleon against her
sister, Nationality, little by little awakens to a consciousness of
the mistake that has blighted his fortune and hers, and begins to ally
herself with the ill-used champion of the Kings. Industry, starved by
War, regains her strength and goes forth on a career of conquest more
enduring than that of the great warrior. And the peoples that come to
the front are not those of the Latin race, whom his wars have stunted,
but those of the untamable Teutonic stock, the lords of the sea and
the leaders of Central Europe.
* * * * *
The treatment of the ex-Emperor henceforth differed widely from that
which had been hastily arranged by the Czar for his sojourn at Elba.
In that case he retained the title of Emperor; he reigned over the
island, and was free to undertake coasting trips. As these generous
arrangements had entailed on Europe the loss of more than 80,000 men
in killed and wounded, it is not surprising that the British Ministers
should now have insisted on far stricter rules, especially as they and
their Commissioner had been branded as accomplices in the former
escape. His comfort and dignity were now subordinated to security. As
the title of Emperor would enable him to claim privileges incompatible
with any measure of surveillance, it was firmly and consistently
denied to him; while he as persistently claimed it, and doubtless for
the same reason. He was now to rank as a General not on active
service; and Cockburn received orders, while treating him with
deference and assigning to him the place of honour at table, to
abstain from any acknowledgment of the imperial dignity. Napoleon soon
put this question to the test by rising from dinner before the others
had finished; but, with the exception of his suite, the others did not
accompany him on deck. At this he was much piqued, as also at seeing
that the officers did not uncover in his presence on the quarter-deck;
but when Cockburn's behaviour in this respect was found to be quietly
consistent, the anger of the exiles began to wear off--or rather it
was thrust down.
One could wish that the conduct of our Government in this matter had
been more chivalrous. It is true that we had only on two occasions
acknowledged the imperial title, namely during the negotiations of
1806 and 1814; and to recognize it after his public outlawry would
have been rather illogical, besides feeding the Bonapartists with
hopes which, in the interests of France, it was well absolutely to
close. Ministers might also urge that he himself had offered to live
in England _as a private individual_, and that his transference to St.
Helena, which allowed of greater personal liberty than could be
accorded in England, did not alter the essential character of his
detention. Nevertheless, their decision is to be regretted. The zeal
of his partisans, far from being quenched, was inflamed by what they
conceived to be a gratuitous insult; and these feelings, artfully
worked upon by tales, medals, and pictures of the modern Prometheus
chained to the rock, had no small share in promoting unrest in France.
Apart from this initial friction, Napoleon's relations to the Admiral
and officers were fairly cordial. He chatted with him at the
dinner-table and during the hour's walk that they afterwards usually
took on the quarter-deck. His conversations showed no signs of despair
or mental lethargy. They ranged over a great variety of topics,
general and personal. He discussed details of navigation and
shipbuilding with a minuteness of knowledge that surprised the men of
the sea.
From his political conversations with Cockburn we may cull the
following remarks. He said that he really meant to invade England in
1803-5, and to dictate terms of peace at London. He stoutly defended
his execution of the Duc d'Enghien, and named none of the paltry
excuses that his admirers were later on to discover for that crime.
Referring to recent events, he inveighed against the French Liberals,
declared that he had humoured the Chambers far too much, and dilated
on the danger of representative institutions on the Continent. However
much a Parliament might suit England, it was, he declared, highly
perilous in Continental States. With respect to the future of France,
he expressed the conviction that, as soon as the armies of occupation
were withdrawn, there would be a general insurrection owing to the
strong military bias of the people and their hatred of the Bourbons,
now again brought back by devastating hordes of foreigners.[544]
This last observation probably explains the general buoyancy of his
bearing. He did not consider the present settlement as final; and
doubtless it was his boundless fund of hope that enabled him to
triumph over the discomforts of the present, which left his companions
morose and snappish. "His spirits are even," wrote Glover, the
Admiral's secretary, at the equator, "and he appears perfectly
unconcerned about his fate."[545] His recreations were chess, which he
played with more vehemence than skill, and games of hazard, especially
_vingt-et-un_: he began to learn "le wisth" from our officers.
Sometimes he and Gourgaud amused themselves by extracting the square
and cube roots of numbers; he also began to learn English from Las
Cases. On some occasions he diverted his male companions with tales of
his adventures, both military and amorous. His interest in the ship
and in the events of the voyage did not flag. When a shark was caught
and hauled up, "Bonaparte with the eagerness of a schoolboy scrambled
on the poop to see it."
His health continued excellent. Despite his avoidance of vegetables
and an excessive consumption of meat, he suffered little from
indigestion, except during a few days of fierce sirocco wind off
Madeira. He breakfasted about 10 on meat and wine, and remained in his
cabin reading, dictating, or learning English, until about 3 p.m.,
when he played games and took exercise preparatory to dinner at 5.
After a full meal, in which he partook by preference of the most
highly dressed dishes of meat, he walked the deck for an hour or more.
On one evening, the Admiral begged to be excused owing to a heavy
equatorial rain-storm; but the ex-Emperor went up as usual, saying
that the rain would not hurt him any more than the sailors; and it did
not. The incident claims some notice: for it proves that, whatever
later writers may say as to his decline of vitality in 1815, he
himself was unaware of it, and braved with impunity a risk that a
vigorous naval officer preferred to avoid. Moreover, the mere fact
that he was able to keep up a heavy meat diet all through the tropics
bespeaks a constitution of exceptional strength, unimpaired as yet by
the internal malady which was to be his doom.
That one element of conviviality was not wanting at meals will appear
from the official return of the consumption of wine at the Admiral's
table by his seven French guests and six British officers: Port, 20
dozen; Claret, 45 dozen; Madeira, 22 dozen; Champagne, 13 dozen;
Sherry, 7 dozen; Malmsey, 5 dozen.[546] The "Peruvian" had been
detached from the squadron to Guernsey to lay in a stock of French
wines specially for the exiles; and 15 dozen of claret--Napoleon's
favourite beverage--were afterwards sent on shore at St. Helena for
his use.
Doubtless the evenness of his health, which surprised Cockburn,
Warden, and O'Meara alike, was largely due to his iron will. He knew
that his exile must be disagreeable, but he had that useful faculty of
encasing himself in the present, which dulls the edge of care.
Besides, his tastes were not so exacting, or his temperament so
volatile, as to shroud him in the gloom that besets weaker natures in
time of trouble. Alas for him, it was far otherwise with his
companions. The impressionable young Gourgaud, the thought-wrinkled
Las Cases, the bright pleasure-loving Montholons, the gloomy Grand
Marshal, Bertrand, and his mercurial consort, over whose face there
often passed "a gleam of distraction"--these were not fashioned for a
life of adversity. Thence came the long spells of _ennui_, broken by
flashes of temper, that marked the voyage and the sojourn at St.
Helena.
The storm-centre was generally Mme. Bertrand; her varying moods, that
proclaimed her Irish-Creole parentage, early brought on her the
hostility of the others, including Napoleon; and as the discovery of
her little plot to prevent Bertrand going to St. Helena gave them a
convenient weapon, the voyage was for her one long struggle against
covert intrigues, thinly veiled sarcasms, sea-sickness, and despair.
At last she has to keep to her cabin, owing to some nervous disorder.
On hearing of this Napoleon remarks that it is better she should
die--such is Gourgaud's report of his words. Unfortunately, she
recovers: after ten days she reappears, receives the congratulations
of the officers in the large cabin where Napoleon is playing chess
with Montholon. He receives her with a stolid stare and goes on with
the game. After a time the Admiral hands her to her seat at the
dinner-table, on the ex-Emperor's left. Still no recognition from her
chief! But the claret bottle that should be in front of him is not
there: she reaches over and hands it to him. Then come the looked-for
words: "Ah! comment se porte madame?"--That is all.[547]
For Bertrand, even in his less amiable moods, Bonaparte ever had the
friendly word that feeds the well-spring of devotion. On the
"Bellerophon," when they hotly differed on a trivial subject, Bertrand
testily replied to his dogmatic statements: "Oh! if you reply in that
manner, there is an end of all argument." Far from taking offence at
this retort, Napoleon soothed him and speedily restored him to good
temper--a good instance of his forbearance to those whom he really
admired.
Certainly the exiles were not happy among themselves. Even the amiable
Mme. Montholon was the cause of one quarrel at table. After leaving
Funchal, Cockburn states that a Roman Catholic priest there has
offered to accompany the ex-Emperor. Napoleon replies in a way that
proves his utter indifference; but the ladies launch out on the
subject of religion. The discussion waxes hot, until the impetuous
Gourgaud shoots out the remark that Montholon is wanting in respect
for his wife. Whereupon the Admiral ends the scene by rising from
table. Sir George Bingham, Colonel of the 53rd Regiment sailing in the
squadron, passes the comment in his diary: "It is not difficult to see
that envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness are firmly rooted in
Napoleon's family, and that their residence in St. Helena will be
rendered very uncomfortable by it."[548]
Intrigues there are of kaleidoscopic complexity, either against the
superior Bertrands or the rising influence of Las Cases. This official
has but yesterday edged his way into the Emperor's inner circle, and
Gourgaud frankly reminds him of the fact: "'If I have come [with the
Emperor] it is because I have followed him for four years, except at
Elba. I have saved his life; and one loves those whom one has
obliged.... But you, sir, he did not know you even by sight: then, why
this great devotion of yours?'--I see around me," he continues, "many
intrigues and deceptions. Poor Gourgaud, _qu'allais-tu faire dans
cette galère_?"[549]
The young aide-de-camp's influence is not allowed to wane for lack of
self-advertisement. Thus, when the battle of Waterloo is mentioned at
table, he at once gives his version of it, and stoutly maintains that,
_whatever Napoleon may say to the contrary_, he (Napoleon) did mistake
the Prussian army for Grouchy's force: and, waxing eloquent on this
theme, he exclaims to his neighbour, Glover, "that at one time he
[Gourgaud] might have taken the Duke of Wellington prisoner, but he
_desisted from it, knowing the effusion of blood it would have
occasioned_."[550]--It is charitable to assume that this utterance was
inspired by some liquid stronger than the alleged "stale water that
had been to India and back."
On the whole, was there ever an odder company of shipmates since the
days of Noah? A cheery solid Admiral, a shadowy Captain Ross who can
navigate but does not open his lips, a talkative creature of the
secretary type, the soldierly Bingham, the graceful courtly
Montholons, the young General who out-gascons the Gascons, the
wire-drawn subtle Las Cases, the melancholy Grand Marshal and his
spasmodic consort--all of them there to guard or cheer that pathetic
central figure, the world's conqueror and world's exile.
Meanwhile France was feeling the results of his recent enterprise.
Enormous armies began to hold her down until the Bourbons, whose
nullity was a pledge for peace, should be firmly re-established.
Blücher, baulked of his wish to shoot Bonaparte, was with difficulty
dissuaded by the protests of Wellington and Louis XVIII. from blowing
up the Pont de Jéna at Paris; and the fierce veteran voiced the
general opinion of Germans, including Metternich, that France must be
partitioned, or at least give back Alsace and Lorraine to the
Fatherland. Even Lord Liverpool, our cautious Premier, wrote on July
15th that, if Bonaparte remained at large, the allies ought to retain
all the northern fortresses as a security.[551] But the knowledge that
the warrior was in our power led our statesmen to bear less hardly on
France. From the outset Wellington sought to bring the allies to
reason, and on August 11th he wrote a despatch that deserves to rank
among his highest titles to fame. While granting that France was still
left "in too great strength for the rest of Europe," he pointed out
that "revolutionary France is more likely to distress the world, than
France, however strong in her frontier, under a regular Government;
and that is the situation in which we ought to endeavour to place
her."
This generous and statesmanlike judgment, consorting with that of the
Czar, prevailed over the German policy of partition; and it was
finally arranged by the Treaty of Paris of November 20th, 1815, that
France should surrender only the frontier strips around Marienburg,
Saarbrücken, Landau, and Chambéry, also paying war indemnities and
restoring to their lawful owners all the works of art of which
Napoleon had rifled the chief cities of the continent. In one respect
these terms were extraordinarily lenient. Great Britain, after bearing
the chief financial strain of the war, might have claimed some of the
French colonies which she restored in 1814, or at least have required
the surrender of the French claims on part of the Newfoundland coast.
Even this last was not done, and alone of the States that had suffered
loss of valuable lives, we exacted no territorial indemnity for the
war of 1815.[552] In truth, our Ministers were content with placing
France and her ancient dynasty in an honourable position, in the hope
that Europe would thus at last find peace; and the forty years of
almost unbroken rest that followed justified their magnanimity.
But there was one condition fundamental to the Treaty of Paris and
essential to the peace of Europe, namely, that Napoleon should be
securely guarded at St. Helena.
* * * * *