by Barney Broom
Peering into Napoleon’s bedchamber, the ex–emperor’s appearance shocked Podric. Half-dressed in his old uniform and sitting in a corner chair, Bonaparte was corpulent. With a grey pallor and wracking cough, he looked an ill man. Seeing Podric, Napoleon waved at him through a none-too-clean towel.
“Ah, mon chéri, you are here at last.”
Approaching Napoleon, Podric said nothing.
“Help me up. We will sit on the veranda. At this time of day, it is just bearable.”
Podric helped him stand and holding on to his arm, Bonaparte shuffled outside.
Lying on a chaise longue, Napoleon swatted away a fly. Sitting beside him, Podric sipped some coffee Marchand had laid out.
“This island… The weather… The summer, the heat is unpleasant, and the winter, it’s cold, desolate.”
“You cheated on me.”
Napoleon waved his hand dismissively.
“Cheated in your game?”
“You said life was one.”
“Pchwa. In life victory is everything. I wished to beat you.”
“But you lost.”
“I was disadvantaged.”
Napoleon studied his left wrist. Though faint, the little microchip could still be seen below the skin’s surface.
“You have timed your arrival well. Today is the 21st day of April – the feast of England’s St George. Ha, I have just two weeks of life remaining.”
Another bout of coughing ensued. Through his wheezing, Napoleon forced a grim smile.
“Of course I went in and saw my end. There’s been plenty of time. What else have I had to do these past six years? This villa they put me in – death will be easy.”
Napoleon looked as though he might expire at any moment. Turning on his side, he tried to make himself more comfortable.
“Ah, here comes Countess Bertrand and her son Arthur. They’ve all deserted me – Las Cases, O’Meara, Gourgaud. In marrying her husband, the woman owes everything to him, who in turn owes all his promotions to his emperor, but still she despises me… Madame, join us.”
Making an expansive wave, he indicated his welcome. The woman and boy, aged about four, came nearer. Napoleon continued his briefing to Podric as if the newcomers didn’t exist.
“Given she and the Count named their eldest son after me, I’ve wondered at their choice of this one’s name. Arthur is your Duke of Wellington’s, is it not?”
Arriving at the foot of the steps, the child made a little bow. His mother curtsied perfunctorily. Napoleon smiled at Arthur, who smiled back.
“My husband said you were ill.”
“That is nothing new, Countess.”
“You are not contagious?”
Napoleon laughed again and managed to stifle a splutter.
“What ails me is a disease of quite a different nature.”
As he spoke, Bonaparte rubbed the side of his head as if in pain.
“No, your emperor’s ailments are not for catching.”
Little Arthur Bertrand stood beside Napoleon’s chaise longue. Bonaparte, discovering a sweet in his waistcoat pocket, put it in the boy’s hand. After tweaking Arthur’s cheek, the ex-emperor looked up at his mother, who sat down uninvited on a wicker chair.
“I believe, Countess, you regard this island as a place the devil defecated on.”
“’Tis a foul rock. You know it, sire!”
“And those of you who’ve remained await my death to escape the infernal schist. Well, it will delight you to know your sojourn is nearly over. I only have a few days of mortality left.”
“You seem remarkably certain as to the timing, Emperor.”
Laughing again, Napoleon winced in pain.
“See, Podric, the consideration shown to me by my own people!”
Lying back exhausted, Bonaparte fiddled with a loose button on his jacket.
“If there is nothing else, Countess, I will see you and your family again in a day or so.”
Napoleon gave Arthur a playful prod and smiled.
Standing, the Countess Bertrand addressed Podric.
“The emperor is renowned for his courtesy.”
Watching their departure, Bonaparte appeared in a reverie then suddenly transformed. A fired intensity burned in his eye.
“Marchand!”
The valet appeared.
“Have the carriage brought around.”
“Sire – the carriage? You haven’t been out, well…”
“I know – ignore my confines. Have it here.”
With another Gallic shrug, the servant disappeared. Napoleon felt about his person.
“My snuff box. Could I trouble you to bring it, Podric? It’ll be beside my cot.”
Travelling through the estate, they approached a neatly white-washed cottage.
“That is the little house the Countess, her husband and family reside in.”
A horseman was leaving the property as they went by; his eyes studiously avoided them.
“General Montholon. He runs my household. He does not have my favour. The man is an imbecile.”
“History wonders if he might have slowly poisoned you. A high level of arsenic is found in your body.”
This didn’t seem to surprise Napoleon very much.
“With Sir Hudson’s approval, no doubt.”
Napoleon sat back.
“I welcome death. I have been dying here every day since my arrival – with or without assistance.”
The carriage moved along at a pleasant pace in the early afternoon sunshine.
“You know, Podric, you remind me of my son, His Majesty, the King of Rome. You are only a few years older than he.”
“When did you last see him?”
“The times were brief, too brief…”
Bonaparte stared sadly at the passing view.
“Before my exile to Elba. I abdicated in his favour.”
Looking at Napoleon, Podric watched him experience another mood change – becoming melancholy and remote.
“Mortality – man’s destiny…”
Arriving at the estate entrance, the driver pulled up.
“Why do you stop, Archambault?”
“Emperor…”
“Drive on. We visit The Peak.”
“But…”
“You will do as you are bid.”
The coachman was still hesitant. Opening the carriage door, Napoleon got out. Stretching his fat legs, he indicated Archambault to approach him.
Standing beside the horse, Napoleon put an arm around the driver, who began to sob. After a few moments he put something into the man’s hand and parting, patted him on the back. Archambault went down to the gate and communicated with two guards. CQMS Tweeney appeared from a small stone gatehouse and after listening to the discussion, lumbered up to the carriage. Ignoring Napoleon, he addressed Podric.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but he’s not allowed beyond ’ere. Governor’s orders.”
“It’s alright, Quartermaster. General Bonaparte is with me.”
“But sir… I can’t allow it.”
Stepping out of the carriage, Podric took Tweeney aside.
“Sergeant, your prisoner has two weeks to live. Surely for the sake of humanity…”
Tweeney shook his head.
“More than my job’s worth.”
“Well, that’s significant. Supposing you were posted today. How would that suit?”
“Are you serious, sir? It can’t be done.”
“It can, Sergeant, and it will be. An Indiaman leaves this afternoon. If you go to your quarters now and gather your things, I’ll see you’re aboard.”
Tweeney’s eyes narrowed.
“I know you know a lot about me an’ all, but what proof have I got this’ll happen?”
“May I see you briefly in your office, alone?”
Tweeney shrugged and the two walked down to the gatehouse.
Minutes later, Podric returned to the carriage by himself. Adjusting his sleeve, he touched his left wrist.
“My dignity preserved by a 17-year-old twenty-first-century boy!”
Bonaparte squeezed Podric’s arm. The gates swung open and the carriage moved off.
“Why did you do what you did?”
The track they were on was winding its way through lusher, greener countryside.
“Things happened. Toulon – my country – France!”
“But then you became ‘First’ something or other – then crowned yourself. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Life does not stand still, Podric, and a man such as me, cannot. I, a Corsican corporal, could not. When things happen to such a man, you don’t stop. Your grip on power rests on activity. But I had such dreams for my country.”
“Dreams for yourself…”
“Yes! For myself also – why not?! But I am everything and nothing. I have lived to lead!”
The carriage approached a lovely secluded spot. Napoleon suddenly leaned out of the door and pointed.
“I will be buried here – under those trees!”
Some weeping willows hung over a small stream. The place had a calm, peaceful feel to it.
“In just fourteen days’ time… Ha!”
Napoleon fell back.
“Oh, Poderique. To think what could have been and what I have become.”
Napoleon was emotional. In front of them the track divided. Archambault guided the horse towards the left fork.
“No, Archambault, a deviation – mon promenade!”
“Oui, mon empereur. Vive l’empereur!”
Archambault cracked the whip and turned the horse on to the right track. The mood in the carriage became less poignant.
“Your British government put me here in this remote prison, thousands of miles from anywhere. When I first arrived I was tired, so tired – it was tolerable. The man who brought me to my ‘île bagne’ as governor, Admiral Cockburn, was an intelligent man, a man worthy of Napoleon. But then this vile viper, this cursed Lowe arrives. The little piece of dung with a brain no bigger than a fly…”
Napoleon brushed one from his sleeve before continuing.
“He is awarded the task of guarding the Emperor of France! Such is my treatment. But you know, Podric, some would like to see me free – even in England. I know this… Such people still believe in the genius of Napoleon.”
They arrived at a cliff top overlooking the sea. Archambault brought the carriage to a halt. With great effort Bonaparte climbed out, followed by Podric. Below them a bay was filled with ships – xebecs, barquentines, merchantmen of the East India Company and navy two-deckers. The predominant flag flown was either a red or white ensign.
Napoleon stood absorbing the scene. Ill, yet defiant in his classic Napoleon stance – one hand inside his coat, he stared out at the maritime activity below.
“I have been to this place many times watching the ships, but I will make a confession to you. In continental war, my victories were unrivalled. I conquered all.”
Podric’s look was quizzical.
“Russia…?”
“I entered Moscow!”
“But your retreat was a disaster.”
“You know little of such things, young man.”
“I know history.”
“Ha! Is that what they say in the future? Yes, I can see it. Anyway, it is not that which destroyed me. We’re looking at what destroyed me. Perfidious Albion.”
“It took a land battle to finally defeat you.”
“That is so, but my nemesis was able to continue its fight against me through all the years of conflict, however many victories I won.”
Napoleon kicked a pebble over the edge.
“I was trying to remember. A long time ago a man told me I would fail because of the sea.”
“Sounds like Archie. He had a dog.”
“Yes. Yes! A dog. I remember your partner – in the garden. Ha!”
Napoleon became reflective again.
“That is where I failed. My navy – the officers… Weak men who promised much but delivered little.”
“I told you when we first came into the game, Archie and me, we met Admiral Nelson.”
“He is a man I would like to have fought myself. I wish he had been a soldier.”
“Wellington…?”
Napoleon laughed.
“So young… I love you, Podric, because you are ‘une original’. At the Belgian battle, I was unwell – and now it is too late. You are going to end this adventure and I am going to die.”
Napoleon turned to Podric.
“What is it you English say – ‘in at the death’.”
They walked a little way along the path.
“Your telling me about finding your father in realité ultime.”
Napoleon limped badly and clutched Podric’s arm.
“My own boy being so young, I’ve sometimes felt you were the son I wanted.”
There were tears in Napoleon’s eyes. “How little time we have to achieve.”
Napoleon reached out to Podric, and hugged him. Whilst in the embrace, the boy looked at the ex-emperor’s ear. He would leave the little audile membrane where it was. Perhaps posterity would find it one day?
“The reality I’ve created is a world that never needs to end.”
Showing some Napoleonic spirit, Bonaparte had a pinch of snuff.
“You have made me immortal, Podric.”
“Give me your wrist.”
Napoleon smiled.
“The left one, I think.”
Producing a small knife, Podric made a tiny incision.
“Have you decided what your next adventures will be?”
Podric didn’t reply but neatly removed the microchip, wrapping a piece of fabric around the emperor’s wrist.
During this operation Napoleon looked out to sea. For a long while, he continued to gaze at the ocean. When he turned back, he was alone.
The coach climbed away from the cliffs, the hill road twisting and turning upwards into the island’s hinterland. Fumbling in his waistcoat pocket, Napoleon took out his snuff box, its coat of arms surrounding an embossed ‘N’ on the lid. His pudgy fingers opened the silver container. A little piece of metal lay amidst the snuff. Inspecting it, Napoleon couldn’t fathom its significance and tossed it away. Gazing back, he saw a youth standing on the promontory.
“Ah, youth éternel.”
Envoi
Sitting on the pilot’s seat of ZA119 – the Typhoon T3 Podric’s father flew and instructed in, Podric felt the full thrust of the two EJ200 engines powering the aeroplane. Bursting through a stratum of cloud into the sunshine above, for a brief second, he looked down at the cumulus below. It was a sensational feeling – one that could go on forever but was dramatically interrupted. The console in front of him flashed a warning ‘Combat Imminent – Enemy Attacking. Player 1 Response’.
“Break, Podric. Break!”
Sean Moon’s voice was urgent, but cool.
A MiG 29 suddenly appeared in Podric’s rear view mirror.
“I’m on it, Dad!”
The T3 gave a sharp inverse roll, combining the action with jaw-dropping descent. It was a fast manoeuvre. The Typhoon simply disappeared from the MiG’s view.
Pulling maximum G, Podric hauled the aeroplane into a tight turn and began a vertical climb. Regaining height at a thousand feet per second, they appeared under the two Russians, shadowing them in a blind spot no more than eighty feet below.
Flipping the Typhoon’s missile switches to ‘On’, Podric throttled back slightly and the millisecond he had the port beam
29 in his sights, released a heat-seeking missile. It immediately locked onto the enemy’s afterburners. The display flashed ‘Target Eradicated’. But quick though he was in attempting to line up on the second MiG, the Russian pulled a similar vanishing manoeuvre to Podric’s.
Flying on instinct, the boy spun the Typhoon on its tail.
The 29 pilot was good, very good. The aircraft corkscrewed, climbed, twisted and turned in a series of rivet-pulling, eye-bulging weaves and dodges. For a second, Podric thought he had him, but then the Russian evaded his momentary entrapment and the hunt continued its hair-raising chase across the skies.
“Exercises are okay but if you want to make Top Gun, Podric, you won’t get him like this in combat. Think outside the box.”
The son didn’t reply to the father’s comments but just before entering cloud, Podric appeared to veer away from the MiG in a steep bank.
Inside the whiteness, it was impossible to see what his actions were doing. Only by reading the altimeter, whose needle rotated rapidly, could he know his position. Seconds later and dangerously low, Podric emerged from the cloud right on the tail of the MiG! Activating his missile switch again and depressing the ‘fire’ button, the ‘Target Eradicated’ display instantly flashed, followed by ‘Combat Concluded: Formulating Score’. He’d outguessed his enemy. Trimming the aircraft, Podric throttled back, easing the control column.
“Where have you been?”
Sean’s voice was relaxed.
“Learning some history.”
“Good. It’s important. I told you – with it, you can get an angle on the present and maybe have a chance dealing with the future.”
“I’ve missed you, Dad.”
“Me too. But I’m here now – I’ll always be here.”
“I just don’t want to lose you.”
“You never will, Podric.”
Podric could hear his father’s warm chuckle.
“I could fly with you forever.”
The console flashed one last time.
‘Player 1 wins: Player 1 wins’
‘Game Over’
“Well then, what’s to stop us?”
***
Acknowledgements
The author wishes to thank John Rosenberg for his script-writing assistance and ideas over the years. He would also like to acknowledge John Rush – sometime agent provocateur, for his support and guidance, and Rachel Drew at True Editors for her incisive eye and professionalism. Also to David Percy at Aulis for bringing the book to publication. Finally, a big thank you to Seana for putting up with him whilst allowing his imagination to wander in the numerous directions it does.