The Fields of Death

by Scarrow, Simon

  ‘Sire.’ De Las Cases nodded towards the lieutenant of the watch who was crossing the deck towards them. The English officer stopped in front of Napoleon and touched the brim of his bicorne.

  ‘Sir, the captain wishes to see you in his cabin at your earliest convenience.’

  ‘Ah.’ Napoleon smiled. ‘Then he has news from London, eh?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, sir.’ The lieutenant gestured towards the companionway. Napoleon turned briefly to de Las Cases. ‘Stay here. This shouldn’t take long.’

  Then he followed the lieutenant below decks as the midshipman by the blackboard rubbed it down and reached for the chalk once more.

  The lieutenant paused outside the captain’s door and knocked, then opened the door and stood aside to let Napoleon pass inside. Maitland was sitting behind his desk and rose up carefully to avoid bumping his head on the deck above. He bowed his head.

  ‘General Bonaparte, may I introduce Mr Jacob Waterman, from the Cabinet Office. He has come directly from the Prime Minister.’

  Napoleon had been surprised by the captain’s mode of addressing him. So far he had been pleased to use the imperial title, but now ‘General’? He frowned for an instant before he forced himself to smile a greeting and advance to offer the civilian his hand. Waterman made no attempt to reciprocate, and stood, hunched beneath a wooden beam, hands clasped behind his back.

  Captain Maitland cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘Er, Mr Waterman is here to convey the decision concerning your fate that has been decided by his majesty’s government.’ He nodded to his companion. ‘If you would be so good?’

  He sat down without waiting for a reply and the government’s representative addressed Napoleon coldly.

  ‘General Bonaparte, after careful consideration of the obligations of the government and nation of Britain, the Prime Minister and his cabinet have resolved to convey you, and a limited number of your followers, to a place far enough from Europe that you shall not again disturb its peace. You will be placed under guard, and all communications and visitors shall be at the discretion of the government.’

  Napoleon raised a hand to stop Waterman. ‘I take it that you have decided not to return me to Elba then?’

  ‘Elba?’ Waterman looked surprised. ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Then where will I be taken?’

  ‘The government has chosen the island of St Helena.’

  ‘St Helena? I have never heard of it.’

  ‘I am not surprised, sir. It is a small British colony in the south Atlantic ocean, thousands of miles away.’

  Napoleon felt his heart sink at the prospect of a long sea voyage. Worse still was the thought of being held captive on some primitive rock far from decent civilization.

  ‘How long does your government propose to keep me there?’

  Waterman and Maitland exchanged a brief look before the former replied. ‘For the rest of your life, sir.’

  ‘What?’ Napoleon felt a stab of desperation at the prospect. ‘Surely the Prime Minister can’t mean it? Let me write to him. Better still, let me make my case in person. I swear that if I am granted a comfortable exile in England that her people need never fear for my actions again.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’Waterman shook his head. ‘There’s no time for you to present your case. A fast frigate, the Northumberland, will convey you to St Helena as soon as she is provisioned. You are to select no more than six of your companions to join you in exile. You may take whatever possessions are left to you. Do you have any questions, sir?’

  Napoleon was momentarily stunned by the swiftness with which his fate had been decided. There would be no semblance of a kingdom for him to rule this time. Only a dreary life eked out on an island prison far from Europe.

  Waterman sniffed.‘You seem surprised, sir. What did you expect?You are an enemy of peace. Because of you a multitude have suffered. Europe will bear the scars of your influence for a generation, or more. You have proved to be too dangerous to be allowed to remain in proximity to Europe. Of course, should you wish to return to France, then I am sure that his majesty’s government would be inclined to look favourably on such a request.’

  ‘That would be a death sentence, and you know it.’

  ‘Quite. And as far as I am concerned, it is no more than you deserve.’ Waterman paused. ‘However, the choice is yours, General. You might find some comfort in a martyr’s death if you return to France and face your enemies. Or you live out the rest of your days, and end your life in unregarded obscurity. Which will it be?’

  Napoleon glared sourly at the official. For a moment he was seized by the fire of defiance. Let him return to France. Let him face his enemies and show them how a soldier dies. Who would ever forget the name of Napoleon Bonaparte then? His fervid imagination pictured the scene of his execution. Firing squad or blade, each prospect filled him with a cold dread that he had never known on the battlefield. A glorious end would be denied to him for ever now. He did not want to die the death of a common criminal. He was afraid to, and that insight sickened him. He swallowed and looked down at the deck as he made his reply.

  ‘I will accept exile on your terms.’

  ‘I thought so,’Waterman replied with a hint of scorn.‘Very well, then I am done here. Good day, General. We shall not meet again.’

  He did not wait for any reply, but made his way out of the cabin. Maitland was still for a moment, and then rose up from his table and left to make arrangements for the transfer of his prisoner to the Northumberland. Napoleon stood alone in the cabin staring blankly at the outside world through the grille of the leaded stern windows.

  Paris, August 1815

  Arthur lowered the copy of the despatch that Somerset had brought him a few minutes earlier. He did not respond immediately, but stared out of the window of the Tuileries palace into the gardens. Scores of Parisians were walking along the gravel avenues stretching out between the flowerbeds and neat lines of trees, enjoying the cool of the early morning. In the afternoon, Arthur knew that the gardens would be almost deserted and he decided to take his exercise then. There had been little chance to take a break from his duties since the allied army had accepted the surrender of Paris at the beginning of July. Despite the defeat at Waterloo, the French had put up a stiff fight outside their capital before giving in. Within days Louis was back on the throne, but everyone in Paris knew that the real power in France was now the Duke of Wellington. His word was law. The newly-returned King did not dare protest against Arthur’s instruction to reappoint Fouché as Minister of Police, even though Fouché had fixed his signature to the death warrant of the previous monarch. Even so, Arthur knew that his authority would be severely tested in the months to come. The Royalists were openly calling for revenge against those officials and army officers who had gone over to Bonaparte during his brief resumption of his throne. Arthur was determined to do what he could to prevent the thirst for revenge leading to unnecessary bloodshed. His task was complicated by the desire of the Prussians to make France suffer for the indignities that Bonaparte had heaped on Frederick William over the years. General Müffling had requested yet another meeting with Arthur to state the demands of Blücher and Gneisenau, and Arthur sighed wearily at the prospect of facing Müffling within the hour.

  He puffed out his cheeks and turned back to Somerset as he tapped a finger on the despatch. ‘Boney should be comfortable enough on St Helena, I suppose. I have been there, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ Somerset raised his eyebrows.

  Arthur nodded. ‘On the return voyage from India, the best part of fifteen years ago. As I recall, the climate was pleasant and the uplands attractive. There are worse prisons.’ He paused and frowned. ‘It is a shame that Bonaparte did not perish on the field of battle and spare us all the burden of his incarceration. As it is, he has dealt us a tricky hand.’

  ‘How so, your grace?’

  ‘While he lives he must be guarded closely. The world cannot afford to let him escape again. At
the same time, it will be politically inexpedient to hand him over to those in Europe who clamour for his blood. There are too many English Whigs and radicals amongst his admirers.’

  ‘ ’Tis true,’ Somerset agreed bitterly.

  ‘Still, while he is on St Helena, he can do no harm,’ Arthur concluded. ‘Now then, it is time to face General Müffling, I fear.’

  Somerset smiled thinly. ‘Shall I send for him, your grace?’

  Arthur nodded. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  While Somerset left the study to fetch the Prussian emissary, Arthur glanced round the room, reflecting with some wonder that this had been the room where Bonaparte had dreamed his plans for the fate of Europe less than two months before. Now the dreams had crumbled and other nations could begin to hope that a lasting peace had finally dawned.

  The door clicked open and Arthur hurriedly composed his mind as he stood up and nodded a greeting to the Prussian officer. Müffling smiled back as Somerset closed the door and left them alone.

  ‘Your grace, it is good to see you again,’ Müffling began.

  ‘And you. Please take a seat.’ Arthur gestured to the chairs on the other side of his desk as he sat down himself.‘I imagine Marshal Blücher has sent you to demand that England hands Bonaparte over to suffer Prussian justice.’

  ‘Indeed, your grace.’ Müffling pulled out a copy of The Times from inside his jacket and laid it on the desk. ‘It seems that your government is considering offering shelter to the Coriscan tyrant. No doubt that would be a pleasing outcome for those of your countrymen who still admire the enemy of peace. My superiors wish me to convey to you their outrage at such a prospect.’

  ‘I would share that sentiment, if it were true that England had decided to shelter Bonaparte. The Prime Minister has decided, however, to send Bonaparte to the island of St Helena, some three thousand miles from Europe, where he will be kept under close guard.’

  ‘To what end?’ Müffling shook his head. ‘So that he may be used, by England, as a diplomatic bargaining counter?’

  ‘No,’ Arthur replied firmly. ‘He is too dangerous a creature to be played with. Bonaparte will remain on the island, isolated from the world, and there he will live out the rest of his days.’

  ‘Why should he be permitted such an end? After all the death and destruction that he has dealt out to the people of Europe? Marshal Blücher demands that he be handed over, tried and executed. This, he richly deserves.’

  ‘Oh, doubtless.’ Arthur nodded. ‘We must, however, consider the wider context, my dear Müffling.’

  ‘Wider context?’

  Arthur took a brief moment to form his argument. ‘What is the point of executing Napoleon now? What good would it do? It would only satisfy the desire for revenge, that is all. That is not a good enough reason to shed any further blood. It is not . . . civilised.’

  ‘Forgive me, your grace, but that is an easy thing for the English to say. They have been spared the presence of French soldiers on their soil. I wonder how reticent your countrymen would be if England was not set apart from the rest of Europe by the sea?’

  It was a fair point, Arthur conceded. He had seen at first hand the cruelties inflicted by the enemy, and could readily understand the rage of those who had suffered under French occupation. He cleared his throat and spoke.

  ‘Be that as it may, the execution of Bonaparte will not serve any of us well once revenge has been satisfied. His death at our hands would outrage many in France, and beyond. I dare say there will be people who will say that he did not deserve to be defeated. There will be others who will seek revenge. Then neither I, nor you, nor Marshal Blücher, will sleep easily in our beds as long as allied forces occupy Paris. It is far better to let Bonaparte fade into obscurity. Then when he dies it will not be an event of note, but a mere detail, as the rest of the world lives in peace,’ Arthur concluded.

  Müffling was silent for a moment as he stared back at Arthur. Then he nodded faintly. ‘Obscurity? I wonder if that will really be his fate.’

  ‘I hope so. As I hope that Europe will learn never to endure another such.’ Arthur stroked his jaw. ‘If he is not to be cast into obscurity, then let him at least be remembered as the first general in all the world.’

  Müffling looked surprised. ‘Surely you, or Blücher, might assume that title with just cause, in the wake of Waterloo?’

  ‘Perhaps. It is customary for the victors to write the history, and on the day I outfought Bonaparte.’ Arthur turned to gaze out of the window. ‘Yet I cannot easily believe that so singular a genius, and so cruel an ambition, will ever release his grip on posterity . . . For my part, I am not sure that I care. I have played my role, served my country, and now I am done with soldiering. Whatever history eventually makes of me, I know that I have earned my peace.’

  Author’s Note

  It has been an epic tale and, having followed the lives of two of history’s greatest figures, I imagine that many readers will want to know what became of Napoleon and Wellington after their titanic struggle came to an end.

  For Napoleon, there remained less than six years of life. He spent these at Longwood House on St Helena, a meagre accommodation for a former emperor. Napoleon continued to be bitter about his imprisonment, perpetually complaining to the governor of the small colony, and writing letters to the British government to demand better conditions and relocation to a less desolate place of exile. When he was not protesting about his captivity, Napoleon set about writing, or rather dictating, his memoirs. These were fabulously partial and depicted Napoleon as an heroic, moral and infallible figure. That his empire had collapsed he put down to the betrayals and incompetence of his subordinates. His enemies were portrayed as foolish and corrupt, and he regarded Wellington with increasing resentment. This was partly because he blamed the Duke for the decision to send him to St Helena (wrongly, since the location was suggested by a civil servant) but mostly because Wellington had beaten Napoleon, as he had beaten the emperor’s best marshals, and thereby demolished their reputation of invincibility.

  When he put aside his protests, and his rewriting of history, Napoleon occasionally walked about the small island, always under the watchful eyes of his captors. He ate excessively and put on a great deal of weight. His health began to fail and in 1821 he complained about a sharp pain in his stomach which grew steadily worse as the weeks passed. Napoleon died on 5 May and was buried with full ceremonial honours four days later. His grave was covered over with a plain cement slab and there his body lay until 1840, when it was returned to France and entombed in Les Invalides. The funeral procession was attended by the surviving veterans of the Grand Army, tearfully following their former master to his final resting place.

  There is still a debate about the cause of Napoleon’s death. At the time it was said to be cancer, the same fate that had befallen Carlos Buona Parte, Napoleon’s father. More recent tests on samples of Napoleon’s hair revealed the concentrated presence of arsenic, however, and certainly the symptoms noted at the time are consistent with such poisoning. It is possible that the arsenic had been administered in small doses for as long as two years prior to his death and the accumulated affect was fatal. The identity of any poisoner is unknown. Some argue that it was an assassin acting on behalf of the British government, but it is equally likely that it was an agent within Napoleon’s small household, paid to do the deed by the Bourbons.

  The report of Napoleon’s death was received with a degree of equanimity in Europe. Despite some hysteria amongst those still loyal to Napoleon, it is Talleyrand’s characteristic response that best sums up the real significance of his death. Tallyrand is said to have been playing cards when word reached the house of his hostess. The lady was silent for a moment before exclaiming, ‘What a momentous event!’ Talleyrand shook his head and responded. ‘No. It is only news.’

  The principal victor of Waterloo (in terms of the rewards garnered, if not the absolute responsibility for bringing about Napoleon’s d
efeat), lived a long and prosperous life. Prize money and the rewards awarded to him by parliament amounted to over three quarters of a million pounds - a staggering fortune by the standards of the day. On his return to England, Arthur insisted on the creation of the Waterloo medal - the first such to be issued to all ranks. Although he was never again called upon to serve in the field he did briefly become commander-in-chief of the army, an honour usually reserved for a member of the royal family. Following the death of Prime Minister Canning in 1828, Arthur reluctantly accepted the premiership and was immediately embroiled in a political crisis. For many years, reformers had been pressing for legislation to relieve Catholics of some of the oppressive restrictions they were forced to live under. Fearing that there might be a civil war unless the restrictions were lifted, Arthur steered the legislation through parliament and even fought a duel with a staunch opponent of Catholic relief. Luckily, both men were sensible enough to shoot wide and settle the affair with some measure of honour.

  Embittered by his experience, Arthur opposed more reform, this time to permit more people to vote for their members of parliament, and his government fell. After some years in opposition, he served as foreign secretary before retiring from politics in 1846.

  On his return from the war Arthur’s marriage to Kitty steadily soured. He felt no love for her, and was constantly frustrated by her lack of sophistication and common sense. For her part, Kitty lived in hope of restoring just a little of the affection he had once genuinely felt for her in the early days of their courtship, before the outbreak of the French Revolution. She died in 1831, never realising that hope. Arthur’s disappointment with his wife extended to his two sons who were for ever burdened by living in the shadow of their father. Arthur’s relationship with his grandchildren was far happier and he took great pleasure in their company as he grew old and infirm.