MURAT’S LAST DAYS
No sooner was Caroline on board than the city broke out again and
anarchy reigned, until the Austrians sent in some troops in answer to
the frantic appeals of the magistrates, and these, with the British
Marines, set upon the mob, killing a hundred or more of the worst of
them before order was restored.
The riot and the subsequent slaughter had apparently no effect upon
the people’s feelings, for on the very next day they illuminated the
city gorgeously, and the sound of their merriment could be heard
out at sea. All the ships in the harbour were dressed, even that
one which sheltered Caroline and her followers, and on the 23rd the
Austrians entered with Crown Prince Leopold of Bourbon at their head,
who graciously acknowledged the howls of the crowd. Everything that
suggested Murat—flags, statues, pictures—was destroyed, and Caroline,
from the deck of the British ship, watched the general jubilation over
her husband’s fall.
Joachim, passing Gaeta, saw his standard still flying from that
fortress, and, even then, would have landed and joined the garrison had
he been permitted to do so, but the port was blocked up with vessels
and he was forced to proceed on his way.
He reached Fréjus on May 28; but as the shore became clearer and the
outline of the coast grew into the horizon, the hopes with which he had
left Caroline began to weaken, and he became oppressed with a sense of
helplessness, seeming to feel that he was struggling against hopeless
odds. The sight of the country he had once served so well, and where
his name had been a household word—he was known as “the Achilles of
France”—struck chill upon his heart. He had loved his mistress, and had
never counted the cost, but he had sided against her too, and, as he
well knew, a country, like a woman, forgets a thousand acts of devotion
in the face of one affront. He had no friends there any more save,
perhaps, his brother-in-law; but Napoleon had a woman’s memory for past
wrongs too, and though his letters had been full of affection while
the issue of his own attempt was still problematical, now that he had
succeeded he could repay to the uttermost farthing.
He might need Murat to lead the cavalry—nay, as it seemed, he _must_
need him, for he could not, surely, allow a personal spite to prevent
him from using that weapon of weapons when the hilt of it was held
out to him! Murat was not the only one either. Ney had sworn to bring
the Emperor back in a cage like a wild beast—and he had taken Ney to
his heart as soon as they met. Marmont had deliberately gone over to
the enemy—taking his corps with him. Indeed, of all Napoleon’s former
adherents it might be said that only Soult had proved to be the true
metal, for he had not laid down his arms till after the Emperor had
descended from the throne, and he had fought his last fight with as
high a courage and as steadfast a heart as his first. Soult had never
surrendered, nor had he ever allowed it to be said that force of arms
had compelled him to submit to the allies. He had obeyed the decision
of his countrymen, and that was all.
The evil days upon which he had fallen had eaten into Murat’s
self-confidence badly, and he dared not even proceed to Paris, but
remained at Toulon. From there he wrote to Fouché, whom he still
imagined to have kindly feelings towards him—Fouché!—because in his
prosperity he had befriended him.
“You know,” he wrote, “the motive and the result of the war in Italy.
Arrived in France. I now offer my arm to the Emperor and trust that
Heaven may allow me to atone for the disasters of the King by the
success of the Captain.”
Fouché presented the letter to Napoleon without comment, and the latter
read it. “What treaties of peace have I concluded with the King of
Naples since the war of 1814?” he asked, handing it back, and Fouché
bowed himself out.
Murat remained at Toulon, growing daily more hopeless, although
the inhabitants treated him with great respect. But he had passed
the point where the respect or otherwise of private citizens could
affect him. Then came Waterloo, and the South of France took on the
political aspect of the unhappy kingdom which he had just quitted.
The Monarchists rose and smote out right and left, massacring their
political opponents, and looting everything that those unfortunates
left behind them. Marshal Brune, who had previously been sent by the
Emperor to maintain order in the south, was torn to pieces by a mob,
and Joachim was forced to hide himself as best he could from the “White
Terror,” which was overrunning the land.
From his hiding-place he wrote again to Fouché, but that adaptable
gentleman was now Minister to Louis XVIII, and vouchsafed no answer.
Fouché was one of those human chameleons that fit themselves into any
colour scheme, and all the wars, plots, revolutions, and armageddons of
the past years had passed him by. He had just succeeded in betraying
Wellington, to whom he had promised Napoleon’s plan of campaign, by
sending the plans and then taking steps to see that the messenger
was delayed long enough on the frontier to make the delivery of them
useless; and now he was more monarchist than the poor old monarch
himself, hunting out his late associates mercilessly. Murat begged for
a passport to England, but no notice was taken of his appeal.
In despair, and having escaped, by what seemed to be a miracle, from
the hands of the Marquis de la Rivière, who owed his life to Joachim’s
favour, he wrote to Louis himself, requesting Fouché to deliver his
letter. But Fouché sent no word, and no answer came from Louis, who
probably never saw the letter at all; and, seeing no other hope for
him, Murat resolved to go to Paris and place himself in the hands
of the allied Sovereigns. They could not, in reason, blame him for
doing to them that which they had all at various periods during the
past twenty years done to one another. He had been a great figure—a
greater figure than any of them. They had now no reason for betraying
his confidence; and they were neither vengeful nor bloodthirsty. He
would be safer with them than among his own countrymen. His idea was to
travel by sea—for to attempt a land journey would have been something
not far removed from suicide—to Havre de Grâce, whence he could make
his way to Paris with little risk. So, having made arrangements for a
vessel, and chosen a wild and unfrequented part of the coast and a dark
night for his embarkation, he set out.
But the vessel, for some reason or other, did not arrive at the spot
that night, and Murat was compelled to retire among the rocks and
vineyards for shelter, and here he remained, hoping against hope, until
the darkness gave way to the summer dawn, and the light from the faint
topaz-coloured east on the waters showed nothing that looked like the
craft he had bargained for.
Perhaps it was meant, that crushing disappointment, for there is no
saying, in the light of the conditions which reigned at the capital,
whether he would ever have reached the sanctuary of the allies at
all. The White Terror, a plague as fierce and irresponsible as the
Red one of a quarter of a century earlier, was raging uncontrolled
and uncontrollable, and the deeds of Murat, as King of Naples in 1814,
would not have counted then for the Emperor’s broken Marshal. Fouché’s
agents very nearly caught him that time, and he had to fly from cover
to cover like a hunted hare; but he escaped from them, and a while
later slipped away in a little ship that was bound for Corsica.
Even now the demon of his ill luck, still unsatiated, continued to
pursue him, for, after two days, a storm overtook them which forced
them to lower their single, three-cornered sail, and let the boat
run under bare poles for a day and a half, at the end of which time,
when the little ship was filling rapidly, they were picked up by the
_Corriera_ on her way to Bastia. A large French vessel which they had
spoken a few hours earlier had refused to have anything to do with
them, and, when this other one, more charitable, came alongside, Murat,
uncovering his face, told the captain his name.
“A Frenchman,” he said, “I speak to Frenchmen, and, nearly shipwrecked,
I ask aid from those who are themselves out of danger.”
Greatly to his surprise and his gratification, he was treated with
every honour and welcomed on board as a king, and the next day he
landed at Bastia.
He had come at a moment when Corsica was in the throes of a civil
war of its own, between the followers of the Bourbons, the adherents
of Napoleon, and a party who, sitting on the fence between, called
themselves Independents. Many of Murat’s old-time companions in arms
had been natives of Corsica, and, the Napoleonists and Independents
being in the majority, they called upon Joachim to help them crush
the remainder and rule over the island afterwards. This was the sort
of invitation which the fiery cavalryman was always only too ready to
accept, and his heart soared into the heavens!
One begins to understand the reason why Napoleon could hold all Europe
down when one reads the adventures of Murat and Ney and Soult. Even
when the great force behind them was removed, and they were struggling
single-handed, while the least and weakest chance remained to continue
fighting they would fight. They never counted the odds, they never
parleyed with a compromise, repeated defeats never cooled their
courage; they would follow as hard upon the faintest ray of hope as
they had galloped into the blazing sunlight of an assured victory.
It was not long before Joachim became the object of the deepest
suspicion to such authorities as still remained in Corsica, and
he removed himself to Vescovado, and thence to Ajaccio, with the
enthusiastic assistance of the discontented element in the island.
Once more, under the action of the popular support, he began to feel a
king, and frequently remarked that if strangers rallied to him in this
fashion, the Neapolitans might be expected to rise _en masse_ at his
appearance. “I accept it as a happy augury!” he exclaimed.
It seems incredible that, after his experience among them, Joachim
should have an illusion left about his late subjects. But he evidently
had, and he determined to descend upon Salerno, where 3,000 of his
former troops were quartered. They were, he was sure, discontented with
the Bourbons—being what they were, they were bound to be discontented
with any sort of established authority—and with these he expected to
march towards Avellino, increasing his following as he went, throwing
a panic into the capital before him; in fine, repeating the Napoleonic
performance, and seating himself firmly upon the throne before the
Austrians could descend upon him.
He had completed his arrangements, when he received a letter from
Maceroni informing him that the latter was upon his way to Ajaccio, and
that he was bringing good news with him.
He waited a day for him, and Maceroni, when he appeared, presented
Murat with a note written in French.
“His Majesty the Emperor of Austria” (it ran) “will grant an asylum to
King Joachim on the following conditions:
“First. That the King shall assume a private name; and the Queen having
taken that of Lipano, the same is proposed to the King.
“Second. That the King shall reside in one of the cities of Bohemia,
Moravia, or Upper Austria, or, if he should prefer it, in the country;
but in one of these provinces.
“Third. That he shall pledge his word of honour not to quit the
Austrian territory without the express permission of the Emperor, and
to live as a private individual subject to the laws of the Austrian
monarchy.”
It was signed by Metternich, and dated from Paris, on September 1.
But Joachim, in spite of his friend’s entreaties, would have none of it.
“_Quem Deus vult perdere, prius dementat._” Joachim’s soul was aflame
now, and he spoke contemptuously of the offer.
“A prison, then,” he cried, “is to be my asylum! A prison is a tomb,
and nothing remains for a king who has lost his throne but the death of
a soldier. You have come too late, Maceroni. I have already determined
on my fate.... If I fail, imprisonment must be the natural consequence,
but I will never consent to drag out the miserable remnant of my days
in slavery. Bonaparte resigned the throne of France, yet he returned
to it in the same way which I now attempt.... I have not resigned my
throne or forfeited my right, therefore a fate worse than imprisonment
would be contrary to human justice; but be assured that Naples shall be
my St. Helena!”
On the night of September 28 the forlorn hope embarked at Ajaccio.
The weather was mild and clear, the sea calm, and both the troops and
their leader happy and confident. They did not know that Ferdinand
had had intelligence of every move that Joachim had made since his
landing in Corsica, through one of Joachim’s own servants, a man of the
name of Cabarelli. This man, who owed everything that he possessed to
Murat’s kindness, accosted him at Ajaccio, and, while offering himself
to his old master’s service, begged him not to attempt the crazy
enterprise. In this he was acting according to his orders, for the
Neapolitan Government was frightened; but having discovered, doubtless
from Joachim’s own rash words, that he was bent upon the affair and
would allow nothing to stop him, Cabarelli forwarded to his employers
Joachim’s entire plans, preparations, and movements.
The only thing that he did not learn was the destination of the little
force, and the lack of that knowledge prevented Ferdinand from taking
any steps towards dealing with Joachim when he should arrive. Ferdinand
was afraid, too, of any rumour spreading, for Murat had still many
friends in the kingdom, and he, Ferdinand, had none.
For a week all went well with the expedition, but on the seventh day a
storm arose which lasted for three days and which scattered the little
fleet hopelessly. Joachim’s boat chanced to find its way into the
Gulf of Santa Eufemia, and Joachim, after some hesitation, resolved to
stake all upon the throw, and land at Pizzo with the twenty-eight men
remaining to him.
This was on October 8. It was a festa, and, in consequence, the militia
were paraded in the market-place, when the party came ashore. No sooner
were these on land than they raised Murat’s standard and advanced upon
the town, shouting “Long live King Murat!”
But there was no response, and the onlookers remained silent. It was
as though a cold mist had settled upon the sunny morning, and Murat
hastened on to Monteleone, where he trusted to the gratitude of the
citizens for many favours which he had done them in the past. But two
Bourbon adherents, a certain Captain Trentacapilli, and an agent of the
Duke dell’ Infantado, hastily collected a following of men and weapons
and met Joachim on the road, where they opened fire upon him.
He, however, did not return their fire, but only saluted them,
whereupon, taking heart from his inaction, they fired again, killing
one and injuring another of his followers. The remainder prepared to
defend themselves, but Joachim prevented them.
Now a crowd began to collect, and very soon the only avenue of escape
for Joachim was by the steep cliff, down which he ran, hailing, as he
arrived upon the beach, his ship, which was still but a little distance
from the land. His captain, Barbara, though—another upon whom Joachim
had lavished every sort of kindness and whom he had raised from nothing
at all to the rank of a baron—paid no heed to him, and sailed away with
the booty which he had on board.
Then Joachim, despairing at last, attempted to make his escape in a
small skiff which lay on the beach; but it was too heavy for him to
move, and the next moment Trentacapilli and his rabble were upon him,
striking him in the face and tearing off the jewels which he wore
upon his cap and breast, and bellowing their insults at him, while he
was being led up to the grey, straggling castle; and only when he was
inside the gates and out of sight did their howling cease.
A tiny light penetrated through the gloom that surrounded him when
Captain Stratti, upon hearing who the prisoner was, treated him with
marked deference and respect, addressing him as “Majesty” and securing
for him the best room that he could. General Nunziante also, upon
arriving, paid him every mark of respect, and endeavoured, as far as
it was possible for him to do, to show his sympathy for the unfortunate
and betrayed captive.
This treatment appears to have restored Murat considerably, and that
night he slept soundly and peacefully. No idea of the sort of vengeance
which Ferdinand and his abominable Government were preparing for him
appears to have entered his head, and he still seems to have thought
it possible to come to some arrangement with that royal hyena, for he
remarked to Nunziante, the day before his execution, that it would be
easy to come to an accommodation with Ferdinand by the latter yielding
to him the kingdom of Naples and by his yielding to Ferdinand his
claims to Sicily.
Ferdinand, in the meanwhile, having recovered from the nightmare of
terror which had seized him upon the receipt of the news of Joachim’s
landing at Pizzo, allowed his joy and relief full play. At first he
wanted to imprison every one who could even be suspected of a suspicion
in the direction of Muratism, but his courage failed him, and he had
to content himself with dispatching Canosa—who may, I think, without
injustice, be classed among the three or four worst and most despicable
characters that ever infested that sunny land—into Calabria with carte
blanche to represent his master.
The order for Murat’s execution was sent down by signal telegraph, and,
that done, a court-martial was composed to try him! Seven “judges” were
chosen, three of whom, besides the Procurator-General, had been raised
from poverty and obscurity and loaded with money and honours by Murat
himself; and, in order to save themselves from any taint of common
gratitude or even decency, which might bring them into disfavour with
their present sovereign lord, they first of all thanked the latter
humbly for deigning to make use of them, and by their bearing and
remarks during the trial made it impossible for Murat to sit in the
same room with them even had he desired to do so.
In the round tower Joachim spent the last night of his life, mercifully
undisturbed by the knowledge of the court which was to go through the
farce of trying him. It was long after daylight when Nunziante entered,
so softly that the sleeping man did not awaken. Nor did Nunziante
arouse him—an act of charity which must surely have been put to his
credit when the long roll-call summoned him in his turn.
On Joachim’s awakening and opening his eyes, Nunziante broke the news
of his approaching trial as gently as possible.
“I am lost, then!” exclaimed Murat. There were tears in his eyes, and
Nunziante himself was unable to speak for emotion, but he brought his
prisoner pen and paper.
“MY DEAR CAROLINE,” wrote Murat. “My last hour has struck. Within
a few moments I shall have ceased to live and you will have lost
your husband. Do not forget me! My life has never been stained by
an act of injustice. Adieu, my Achilles, my Letitia, my Lucian,
and my Louisa. Show yourselves worthy of me. I leave you without
a kingdom, without wealth, in the midst of many enemies. Be
united and rise above misfortune. Look upon yourselves as you
are, not as you might be, and God will bless your humility. Do
not curse my memory. Know that my greatest misery in this last
hour of my life is to die far from my children. Receive your
father’s blessing—receive my embraces and my tears. May the
memory of your unhappy father be ever present with you.
“JOACHIM.”
In the letter he placed some locks of hair.
With infamous cynicism, a defender had been appointed for him before
the court, but Murat, rising above his misery, rejected the melancholy
foolery with a contempt the expression of which must have cut into the
horny feelings of his judges and left them sore for many a long day.
He was their King, he told them, but went on to observe: “If I am to be
tried in the light of a Marshal of France, I may be tried by a Council
of Marshals; if as a General, by Generals. But before I descend so low
as to submit to the decision of the judges who have been selected _many
pages must be torn from the history of Europe_!”
To Storace, who had been appointed to defend him, and who now begged
to be allowed to do what he could, Joachim replied: “You cannot save
my life. Allow me to save my dignity. I forbid you to speak in my
defence.”
Storace, who, with Stratti and Nunziante, appears as one of the three
rays of human light in the whole horrid affair, left him sadly, as the
magistrate entered and with gusto proceeded to torment the victim with
questions. But he did not get very far before Joachim turned upon him.
“I am Joachim Murat,” he replied, “King of the Two Sicilies and your
King. Leave me and relieve my prison of your presence!”
It seems to have occurred to him that possibly Ferdinand was revenging
himself now for the murder of the Duc d’Enghien—for he mentioned the
tragedy and swore to Stratti that he had had no hand in it. He had been
Governor of Paris when the young Duke was kidnapped and shot, but he
could have done nothing to save him. Murat was speaking the truth. The
Duc d’Enghien was murdered by Talleyrand, who devised the whole affair
and drove Napoleon into giving the order by suggesting the result of it
upon the Royalists, who had, then, made several attempts upon the First
Consul’s life.
Murat then thanked Stratti for his kindness and begged to be left
alone, when he crossed his arms on his breast and stared at the
portraits of his family. His first notice of the sentence which had
been pronounced upon him came through a priest, whose name was Masdea.
The latter, as he told Joachim, had had cause to be grateful to him in
the past for some unexpected help in the building of a church, and it
was that which had induced him to brave the displeasure of Joachim’s
enemies now. He assured Joachim that his prayers would be offered up
for the repose of his soul, and begged him to prepare himself as a
Christian to appear before his Maker; and Joachim did so, Masdea says,
with philosophic resignation.
The “court” by now had its sentence ready.
“Joachim Murat, by the fortune of arms, having returned into
that private life in which he was born, and having ventured with
twenty-eight comrades to attempt this rash enterprise, not trusting
to the force of arms [this, by the way, seems to be a queer sort of
grievance], but to rebellion, has excited the people to rise against
the lawful sovereign, endeavoured to revolutionize the kingdom and
Italy, and is therefore condemned to die as a public enemy, by the
law made during the Decennium, and which is still maintained in full
vigour.”
Joachim seemed to be very little interested in the reading of his doom.
Except for an occasional glance of cold contempt, he paid no attention
to the herald or his message.
Then he was led down some stone steps into a sort of court, which may
be seen to this day, and placed against the wall on the left of the
foot of the stairs.
He refused to have his eyes bound, and looked calmly on while the
muskets of the firing party were being loaded. When all was ready, he
straightened himself up and looked steadily at his executioners.
“Spare my face,” he said, “and aim at my heart.”
So died Joachim Murat, in the forty-eighth year of his life, and he met
his end with a fearlessness and dignity which shone the brighter for
the squalid surroundings in which he displayed them.
There is a story still current in the Penisola, that after his death
his head was cut off, by Ferdinand’s order, and carried to Naples, in
order that the “Butcher King” might be sure that his gallant enemy was
no more.
One would have imagined that the gruesome proof would have satisfied
him, and having seen it he would have been content to bury it decently.
But the report goes on to say that nothing would induce him to part
with it afterwards, and that he kept it in a specially constructed
case, under lock and key, by the side of his bed. Here, whenever his
crazy panics seized him, he could open the box and finger the head and
reassure himself again.
And all this happened, not in the time of Caligula or Tiberius, but
three years before the birth of Queen Victoria.