Betsy and the Emperor

by Anne Whitehead

  On 25 November, Sir Pulteney Malcolm called at Longwood and was received most amicably. Afterwards the admiral visited Madame Bertrand at her new cottage across the road. As he came out he ran into a posse: Lowe striding purposefully, accompanied by Reade, Gorrequer, Captain Blakeney and a police commissioner (whose ship had called from the Cape) and some dragoons. The governor told the admiral that ‘he was come to arrest Las Cases for having endeavoured to bribe a slave to convey letters to Europe’. He requested that Admiral Malcolm arrange for a ship to take the prisoner to the Cape.6 At Longwood the diminutive count was seized, refused permission to farewell his beloved emperor and marched away. Napoleon remarked that the arresting soldiers looked like a party of South Sea cannibals.7

  The charge was that Las Cases had attempted to smuggle two letters to Europe by means of James Scott, his sixteen-year-old mulatto servant, who belonged to the class of ‘free blacks’. The letters were to Napoleon’s brother Lucien Bonaparte and to Lady Clavering (Las Cases’ former employer in England, said to have been his lover8); they had been written on white satin and sewn into the servant’s waistcoat. James Scott had confessed the plot to his biological father, an Englishman who had sired him with a coloured woman. Scott senior went straight to the garrison with the story.

  Once the governor had received the incriminating evidence, he ordered Las Cases’ arrest. He said that the letters made false accusations against himself and his treatment of the French at Longwood and broke the strict rule that outward correspondence must pass through his office. Despite Las Cases’ protests, all his writings, including his precious journal, were confiscated. He and his son were taken to Ross Cottage, Balcombe’s poultry farm, and held there under house arrest until they could be deported.

  Ten days earlier, James Scott, the young servant, had been caught taking a message from Las Cases to Madame von Stürmer, the Austrian commissioner’s wife.9 For this relatively minor transgression he had been removed from his position at Longwood and interrogated by Lowe, a terrifying ordeal. On St Helena slaves were flogged for far less.10 The evidence suggests that the governor instructed the frightened boy to undertake a covert mission, effectively a sting operation.

  As Las Cases was ruefully to recall, his former servant, taking advantage of the darkness ‘and his knowledge of the localities of the island, had surmounted every obstacle, avoided sentinels and scaled precipices, to come and see me, in order to tell me that, having got a situation with a person who was going to set off for London in a very few days, he came to offer me his services without reserve . . . Thus everything combined to urge me towards the precipice, down which I was about to fall.’11 Las Cases accepted the boy’s offer to carry correspondence and neglected to obtain Napoleon’s approval: ‘I should say that my servant had appeared to me honest, that I believed him to be faithful, and that I was still a stranger to any idea of instigating spies.’12 Marchand observed that ‘a trap was set for Count de Las Cases by the governor and the night visit of the servant had been facilitated’.13

  If it was a trap, it actually suited Las Cases. He was separated from his wife; his son Emmanuel’s health was failing, diagnosed as a weak heart; his own eyesight had been giving him trouble; he was often at odds with the other companions at Longwood; and the declaration he had signed, to remain at St Helena until the end, had panicked him. He wrote in his journal of being ‘exiled, and probably for ever, to a deserted rock two thousand leagues from home’.14 He was doubtless only too ready to leave the island, if he could do so with honour, taking his huge collection of notes, to complete what he believed would become the definitive memorial to his hero.

  Napoleon told O’Meara: ‘I am convinced there is nothing of consequence in the letter, as Las Cases is an honest man and too much attached to me to undertake anything of consequence without first acquainting me with the project.’ If Las Cases had told him about it he would have stopped him—‘not that I disapprove of his endeavouring to make our situation known, on the contrary; but I disapprove of the bungling manner in which he attempted it’.15 O’Meara thought the count’s ‘bungling’ had been deliberate, in order to achieve the desired deportation, and said as much in a letter to Finlaison.16

  When the governor visited Las Cases at Ross Cottage, he brought with him an inventory of his papers. The count was appalled to learn that Lowe had been reading his private journal, thereby gaining an account, ‘day by day, of all that happened amongst us at Longwood’. Lowe came almost every day, sometimes severe and threatening, at other times offering ‘most marked attention’, sending choice meals from Plantation House. Las Cases wrote him long, eloquent letters, ensuring that his demand that his papers be returned was on record, referring to the ‘trap laid for me’, and insisting that his papers proved there was ‘no plot, no plan, not even a thought relating to Napoleon’s escape. You could not find any, because none existed.’17 (However, O’Meara informed Finlaison that in the papers it was revealed that correspondence had been carried on with ‘some persons in London’ by coded messages inserted in British newspapers.18)

  Finally, Lowe made a concession, bringing Las Cases a letter he had withheld for some days. It was from Napoleon, who had swallowed his pride by sending it unsealed to the governor; in it he professed such sorrow and affection at losing his intelligent companion that the count almost broke down in front of Lowe. He was not allowed to keep the original, but Emmanuel was permitted to make a copy:

  My dear Count Las Cases—My heart is deeply affected by what you now experience. Torn from me fifteen days ago, you have been since then imprisoned, in close confinement, without my being able to communicate with you . . . Your conduct at St Helena has been, like the whole of your life, honourable and irreproachable. I love to tell you this . . . Your papers, among which it was well known there were some belonging to me, were seized, without any formality, close to my apartment, and with expressions of ferocious joy . . . Your society was necessary to me. You alone could read, speak and understand English. How many nights have you watched over me during my illness! Nevertheless, I request you, and, in case of need, command you, to require the governor to send you to the Continent. He cannot refuse, because he has no power over you, except through the voluntary document which you signed . . .19

  After the governor left, Las Cases and his son recopied the letter ‘in many ways and in many places; we even learnt it by heart’, so great was their fear that Lowe would still confiscate any copies.20 The count was relieved that Napoleon had commanded him to quit the island: ‘I can no longer, I thought, be of any great service to the Emperor here; but I may perhaps be useful to him elsewhere.’21 However, he suddenly remembered the velvet band he wore secreting Queen Hortense’s diamond necklace. He had become accustomed to it as if ‘it were identified with my person’. He shrank from the idea of depriving Napoleon of such a valuable item, but ‘how would it be possible now to make restitution? I was in the most rigorous confinement, surrounded by gaolers and sentinels, so that all communication was impracticable. I vainly endeavoured to contrive a plan; time pressed; only a few days were left, and nothing could be more depressing than thus to quit the island. In this predicament, I resolved to run all risks. An Englishman, to whom I had often spoken, came to the prison on a particular errand, and it was under the eyes of the Governor himself, or one of his most confidential agents whom he brought, that I ventured to communicate my wishes.’

  This Englishman, clearly not an officer, could only have been William Balcombe, for even if his property was being used as a temporary prison, the governor could scarcely have denied him permission to oversee his poultry. Las Cases, in his account, no doubt disguised Balcombe’s identity to protect him: ‘“I think you are a man of principle,” said I, “and I am going to put it to the test—though with nothing injurious or contrary to your honour—merely a rich deposit to be restored to Napoleon. If you accept the charge, my son will put it into your pocket.” He answered only by slackening his pace; my son, whom I had
prepared for the scene, followed us, and the necklace was transferred into this man’s possession, almost in sight of the military attendants.’22

  Marchand noted in his Mémoires that ever since the count’s arrest, Napoleon had remained in his quarters, seriously depressed. When the admiral called he was told that the emperor ‘was ill and in bed. The host of the Briars, Mr Balcombe, was more fortunate—the Emperor received him in his dressing-gown; he was a man who had rendered services and was disposed to continue doing so; he said on leaving the Emperor that he was much changed; I said that given the conduct of the governor it could not be otherwise.’23 The next day, 24 December, Bertrand recorded in his journal that in the Longwood billiard room Napoleon showed Madame Bertrand ‘the diamond necklace of Queen Hortense, valued at 200,000 francs.’24 Las Cases’ own account confirmed the conclusion of this episode: ‘Before quitting the island, I had the inexpressible satisfaction of knowing that the necklace had reached the hands of the Emperor.’25

  The count and his son were transferred to the castle in Jamestown before their departure. The notes on Napoleon’s military campaigns that Las Cases had transcribed were returned, but Lowe refused to give back his journal ‘or any papers relating to General Bonaparte since he has been at St Helena’. These were sealed, awaiting the advice of the British government.26 (They were not returned until after Napoleon’s death.)

  On 30 December, Count de Las Cases and his son, who was dangerously ill, boarded the sloop-of-war HMS Griffon, bound for the Cape. The two watched the island of St Helena fade into mist: ‘We were rapidly sailing away from that dear and accursed spot, in the midst of the ocean and at an immense distance from both the old and the new world.’27

  The dictation work at Longwood became more onerous. With Las Cases gone, the load shared among four was now divided between three, and young Emmanuel, who had transcribed fair copies, was sorely missed.

  Marchand was concerned about his master: ‘Since the new restrictions, the Emperor would not see any foreigners other than the admiral and Mr Balcombe; Dr O’Meara was the only man at Longwood who could inform him of what was happening on the island and give him recent news from Europe. O’Meara’s importance increased for the Emperor and he was given access to his private apartment.’28

  The doctor was anxious too, and wrote to Finlaison—knowing that his letter would be read at a much higher level—that his patient simply wanted to live quietly in England under surveillance, taking the name Colonel Muiron. Napoleon had told him he only insisted on ‘Emperor’ because he was exiled to such a miserable place: ‘I have made noise enough in the world already—perhaps more than any other man will ever do—perhaps too much. I am getting old and only want retirement.’29

  When Sir Pulteney Malcolm called at Longwood, he found Bonaparte thinner, his eyes sunken, but—considering that he had remained indoors for three months—thought him in better spirits than expected. Napoleon wanted to talk, for more than three hours as it turned out. Since the admiral’s return from Cape Town, his relations with the governor had soured further. There had been a ‘long and disagreeable correspondence’, ostensibly a dispute about the deployment of transport ships between the island and the Cape, but the Malcolms’ Diary concedes that the real reason was the admiral’s social calls on Napoleon: whenever he went to Longwood ‘his visit gave rise to unpleasant ideas in the Governor’s mind’.30

  On New Year’s Day 1817, Betsy and Jane Balcombe visited Fanny Bertrand, who was in ungainly advanced pregnancy and exhausted by the summer heat. ‘We always made a point of riding to Longwood every New Year’s day,’ Betsy recalled. They had become close to the countess, who helped with their French studies, and they were good with her three children, Napoleon, Hortense and Henri, playing with them and chattering in a mixture of English and French. Fanny probably told Betsy that she was now famous, for when Madame von Stürmer was in France she had heard ‘much talk of Betsi Balcombe. If she was in France and they knew that the young person was she whom the Emperor treated well, everyone would run after her.’31

  Betsy was admiring some of the elegant souvenirs the emperor had given the countess, ‘when Napoleon himself waddled into Madame Bertrand’s room, where my sister and I were seated . . . In his hand were two beautiful Sèvres cups, exquisitely painted, one representing himself in Egypt, in the dress of a Mussulman; upon the other was delineated an Egyptian woman drawing water. “Here, Mesdemoiselles Betsee and Jane, are two cups for you, accept them as a mark of the friendship I entertain for you both, and for your kindness to Madame Bertrand.”’32 The girls were shocked to see his physical decline.

  Within three months, the Longwood community had been reduced by six individuals. Napoleon remained in a sullen and moody state and said that he was ‘in a tomb’.33 He brooded about the malign intentions of the governor: ‘He will send away all the French people about me by degrees. You see he has already commenced by taking away Las Cases and some of the servants, tomorrow or next day Montholon will go, by and by all the rest; and then, when a fit opportunity occurs, when I am surrounded by spies of his and fit instruments for him to work upon, he will despatch me, according to his instructions from Lord Bathurst.’34

  CHAPTER 15

  THE SICK LION

  On 17 January 1817, an extremely nervous Fanny Bertrand, who had suffered four previous miscarriages, gave birth to a healthy boy weighing 12 pounds. Dr Matthew Livingstone, the island’s medical superintendent, noted that it was a difficult labour and for some time afterwards the mother was ‘in grave danger’.1

  Napoleon had barely stirred from the house since the increased restrictions but walked over the road to inspect the new arrival, named Arthur in memory of Fanny’s father, Sir Arthur Dillon, who was guillotined during the revolutionary Terror. She proudly showed off her baby. ‘Sire,’ she quipped, ‘I have the honour to present to Your Majesty the first Frenchman who, since your arrival, has entered Longwood without Lord Bathurst’s permission.’2

  ‘There is not much news on the Island,’ Lady Malcolm wrote to her aunt. ‘Madame Bertrand and Mrs Wynyard have both got sons, and with their infants are doing well. Bonaparte still confines himself to the house, and all his exercise is sometimes playing at billiards. I am told he has invented a new game, which he plays with his suite; they have all the balls and push them about with their hands. I believe Pulteney is the last visitor who has seen him.’ She said she hoped it was true that the admiral’s successor had been appointed, as they were both tiring of the island.3 They had long since tired of the governor.

  At the end of the month, she and her husband visited Madame Bertrand. General Bertrand went over the road and informed Napoleon that the Malcolms were there, and returned with a request that they walk over. They enjoyed a lively chat in the Longwood drawing room: ‘Bonaparte appeared to know every trifling occurrence.’4 Since Las Cases’ departure he had clearly felt deprived of stimulating conversation. ‘Everyone lives in fear here,’ Bertrand wrote in his journal after the Malcolms had gone. ‘We cannot say what we think. This is something new for the English. The Admiral’s wife says she cannot hide her thoughts, and who does not hesitate is in dread of Plantation House. It is said they open letters of all persons residing in the island.’5

  The following day, Lowe called on the admiral, accompanied by Reade, and they had a terse discussion about supplies from the Cape brought by naval vessels. The Malcolms’ Diary noted that as the governor took his leave he turned and, ‘in an extraordinary manner’, addressed Sir Pulteney: ‘At your last interview with Bonaparte, did anything occur of which his Majesty’s Government should be informed?’ The admiral replied: ‘Nothing.’ He confided for his wife’s diary that if Sir Hudson had expressed a desire to be informed of his conversation with Bonaparte, he would have had much pleasure in detailing it to him; ‘but to be interrogated in that mode was repugnant’.6

  Napoleon, isolated in the gloomy house on the windswept plateau, refused to take exercise and occupied his prodigious
brain with trifles. There was the episode of the cow. He had complained that the milk was frequently sour, it being usually brought by bullock cart from Jamestown in the heat of the day. At his request, Balcombe had sent a cow and calf to Longwood and they were put in the stable. In the evening the cow broke loose from its tether and got away. After two days she was found, brought back and tethered again, and Montholon instructed the groom Achille Archambault that the cow should share the horses’ feed. Whether by accident or because the grooms had no inclination to look after her, by evening the rope was broken again and the beast had gone. Gourgaud described the bother that followed: ‘This morning, Montholon related the incident to the Emperor in such hectic colours, that the Emperor became very angry and sent for Archambault. As he was long in coming, the Emperor then sent word by Noverraz and Ali, that if the cow was not brought back again to the stable, he would deduct the value of it from Archambault’s wages. Also, he threatened that he would kill all the chickens, goats and kids that were in the yard!’

  In the evening, Gourgaud found his master still fuming over the cow incident. ‘At dinner, the Emperor asks Archambault: “Did you let the cow get away? If it is lost, you’ll pay for it, you blackguard!” Archambault assures His Majesty that he caught the cow again at the other end of the park; that she twice broke her rope, and that she gives no milk. I hold my tongue throughout the meal. His Majesty, in a very bad humour, retires at 10.30, muttering: “Moscow! Half a million men!”’7 Some days later, Gourgaud noted with irony: ‘I am told that the cow has produced a bottle of milk, and that she may produce a second! Noverraz is going to make some butter.’8