Napoleon's Rosebud

by Humphry Knipe

  His first thought was to burn the noisome packet, herbs and all. This was overtaken by a moment of doubt during which he considered sending for his aide, Sir Thomas Reade, to ask him what he thought was the best course of action. But rising above this cowardly whisper he heard his wife jeering that Reade was the real governor of Saint Helena. No! He would prove who was in charge!

  “You may go,” he said to Balcombe. “I shall have my secretary reseal the packet and return it to you for posting within the hour.”

  Balcombe did not go, instead stood there fiddling awkwardly with his hat. Eventually he found the words he was looking for. “Your Excellency, my creditors are pressing. May I be paid my expenses for this packet, by any chance?”

  Red hairs licked out of Lowe’s nose like flames out of a furnace. How could the man think of money at a time like this? He scribbled a note to his secretary. “Tell him to come and see me immediately he has paid you off,” he snapped at Balcombe, the note of authority back in his voice.

  He had decided what his counter to Bonaparte’s gloating was going to be. He would make a copy of the scroll then send the original by fast sloop to Whitehall with a cover letter. He would double the lookouts on the mountain peaks. Put the garrison and the frigates on high alert. Man all the batteries. Cancel shore leave. Then he would strike at Bonaparte himself. Instead of the circle of redcoats guarding Longwood closing in at 9:00 p.m. as usual, from now on he would have them swarming Bonaparte’s garden by sunset, when the rogue liked to take his evening constitutional. With any luck they would trample his flower beds into the Deadwood dust!

  November 22, 1816.

  Daniel, in the Black Dog, had just finished reading Charlotte’s cover letter for the fourth dangerous package from Saint Helena, which she said would probably be the last. All it reported was that everyone was sniggering about the Sir Hudson Low poem that he must have read by now, that security had been tightened and that Napoleon was being supplied with bad butter and that his milk cows had been confiscated. Her letter was so short, she said, because she was saving the spiciest tidbits of gossip since he would be home so very soon. Then, as if she couldn’t wait even that long, Charlotte swept in through the door.

  As usual the messenger boy had told Daniel that another packet had arrived. As usual he had gone to the smoky tavern immediately after his taskmasters at Kew released him from work. But it wasn’t at all usual for Charlotte to be magically transported from Saint Helena to a tavern in Kew on the heels of a letter that had just spent six weeks on a packet boat battling its way north through the turbulent Atlantic. At first Daniel thought it was the nonsense that his mother had preached to Charlotte, that first impressions were reality, that the bear you saw change in a wink to a bush actually was a bear and that the bush was the illusion. Gypsy nonsense, of course. Except that the Charlotte who walked into the Black Dog remained Charlotte even after he blinked.

  Charlotte, as blonde as ever. Charlotte, wearing her hair in ringlets as she always did on special occasions, that familiar lovely spring to her step, waving gaily to him. His heart tried to flee its cage. He nearly cried out with delight.

  But it wasn’t Charlotte.

  “Hello!” said Polly cheerfully, sliding into a chair opposite him. She laughed at his consternation. “Fooled you for a moment, didn’t I?”

  “What are you doing here, dressed like that?”

  Polly ran her fingers through the curls. “Do you like me ’air? I did it like that picture you showed me. Fought you’d like it. Aren’t you goin’ to kiss me hello? She lets you kiss her, doesn’t she, the real Charlotte?”

  “That’s none of your business,” said Daniel, uneasy at this sudden turn of events. “It’s nobody’s business. Why are you here?”

  There was a mischievous twinkle in Polly’s blue eyes, not emerald, definitely not Charlotte’s. “Mr. Edwards asked me if I’d mind and fetch the secret letter for ’im. Mind! I jumped at the chance of seein’ you again.” She reached across the table and touched his arm. “Any girl would. She’s a lucky lady, your Charlotte. Just ’ow lucky she hasn’t found out yet, has she?”

  “Of course not, we—” Daniel began and then caught himself. The busy tavern was loud with shouts and laughter, but he leaned forward and whispered to be safe. “I haven’t taken the scroll out yet. It’s in a bag of dried herbs. Don’t want to do all that here.”

  Polly looked at him with eyes that gave every indication of being adoring. “Of course you can’t. I have taken a room, right around the corner, so we can, you know, talk safely for a couple of hours. I have something I need to show you. Oh, you naughty boy. I can read yer mind! No, it’s not that! You’ve seen that already!”

  The untidy little room was up some back stairs. It must have been paid for because there wasn’t any sign of a landlady. It was furnished with a chair, a tiny table, and a narrow bed. Polly threw herself on the bed with a happy sigh. Daniel sat on the chair and immediately went to work on cutting open the packet, fishing out the scroll, inspecting its large, messy seal. The imperial eagle.

  “Everyfing all wight?” Polly asked.

  “Yes,” said Daniel. He had meant to berate Polly for stealing Charlotte’s previous letter that somehow had ended up as the inspiration of a handbill but somehow couldn’t get round to it.

  “Good!” She waved a sheet of paper at him. “Let’s do a swap. This is somefing important. Mr. Thistlewood told me ’imself that he wanted you to read it, didn’t he? Come and get it, or don’t you dare? I don’t bite, you know. ’Cept when I gets excited!”

  Daniel approached the bed as if there might be a snake hidden in the greasy sheets. “What is it?”

  “A handbill.” She moved over, making room for him, patted the bedcover stained with who knew what. “Come on, sit next to me.”

  Daniel sat as far away from her as the bed’s narrowness would allow. He passed her the sealed scroll, took the handbill in exchange.

  “Read it out loud,” Polly said. “My readin’ ain’t that good, and I could do wiv’ hearing it again.”

  Daniel could tell at a glance that the handbill was a humble production. The type was crude, and there were frequent spelling mistakes. Every sentence was followed by an exclamation mark. Mr. Burchell would not have approved of the grammar.

  “BRITAINS TO ARMS,” it was headed and then went on, “The whole country waits the signal from London to fly to arms! Hurry, break into gunsmiths for arms! No rise in the price of bread! No bishops! No aristocrats! No prince regent! Off with their heads! Stand true or be slaves forever! Stand up for freedom on December 2 at Spa Fields!”

  “What’s this?” said Daniel.

  “What it says. It’s a call to arms.”

  “By whom?”

  Her eyes were wide with surprise, whether sincere or not, Daniel couldn’t tell. “Haven’t you ’eard? We ’ad a huge meeting at Spa Fields, over ten thousand of us, just ten days ago. Orator Hunt ranted about us not having the vote and asked His Majesty very nicely to save us from bloodsucking landlords and the like. Then and there we drew up a petition to the prince regent asking ’im to shake up parliament and voted for Orator Hunt to deliver it to His Highness—I mean, His Lowness—in person.”

  Daniel had heard all about the meeting and how the Regent couldn’t arouse his majestic fat self enough to read the petition. Daniel had even discussed it with Mr. Burchell, who said, in his poetic way, that it was just one more cloud of dust thrown up by the fall of that colossus Napoleon. But Daniel had heard nothing of a second meeting just a week away.

  “What’s going to happen?” he asked rather lamely.

  “We’re going to storm the Bastille!” said Polly, launching herself at Daniel and assaulting his lips with hers. “Mr. Thistlewood says you need to be there, so you can report it all to Napoleon, man to man!”

  Since she was holding her smooth cheek against his, Daniel was forced to speak in a whisper. “The Bastille?”

  “The Tower of London, of cours
e.”

  “This sounds dangerous. We could end up on the gallows.”

  “It is dangerous.” Polly’s hot whisper burned his ear. “But you’re a man. You’ve already proved to me that you’re a man, but I want you to prove it again.”

  Her breath in his ear and her hand roving his breeches excited him, but fear of ending up on the noose end of a Tyburn rope worked in the opposite direction. “I can’t do it,” he said feebly, trying unsuccessfully to push her away. “I leave for Saint Helena in a few days’ time. I have to settle my affairs.”

  “What could be mo’ of an affair than this one? That’s why Mr. Thistlewood wants you to be there,” said Polly, her hand quickly finding what she was looking for.

  Daniel groaned, whether in pleasure or pain was difficult to tell.

  “Last time you called me Charlotte when you were, you know, finishing,” Polly whispered. “You can call me Charlotte again, all the way through this time, I don’t mind. Polly isn’t me real name, anyways.”

  After a long morning’s walk, begun well before dawn on December 2, 1816, Daniel was finally in Islington, where he found Spa Fields easily because everyone seemed to be hurrying there. In the center of a huge crowd stood a cart decorated with red, white, and, blue banners, the colors of the French Revolution. On the cart stood Mr. Thistlewood and next to him stood Polly, golden curls falling from a pointed red freedom cap decorated with a red, white, and blue cockade. She saw him, perhaps because he was tall, waved and beckoned to him.

  Someone with a loud voice was declaiming from the cart, “If they don’t give us what we want, shall we not take it?”

  “Yes, yes!” roared twenty thousand voices.

  “Are you willing to take it?”

  To blend in with the throng, Daniel waved his fist and yelled with the rest, “Yes! Yes!”

  “Will you go and take it?”

  “Yes!”

  “If I jump down among you, will you come with me and take it?”

  Thousands of voices swore they would. But they didn’t.

  The speaker leaped off the cart, grabbed the tricolor flag, and set out, Thistlewood at his side. A few hundred followed them, the hotheads, on their way to storm the Tower of London. Liberate it like the Bastille had been liberated in 1789. The rumor flew through their ragged ranks: The aristos are packing their silver! The royal family has already fled London!

  “Daniel!” It was Polly, cheeks flushed as red as her liberty cap. Next to her, hopping along like a hungry vulture heading for carrion, was George Edwards. Polly grabbed Daniel’s hand. “What are you waiting for? Napoleon will want to hear everyfing! Come on, or we’ll miss all the fun!”

  There wasn’t really much fun to miss. By the time Thistlewood’s ragged army reached the city it had dwindled to a band of three dozen, mostly soused with the gin they were drinking to keep going. Revolution was thirsty work. Thistlewood made a long speech in front of the Tower, but their grins never left the guards’ faces. Daniel was footsore. He had been walking all day. He needed a cool drink and a bed warmed by Polly. But when he looked for her after Thistlewood stopped bending his ear, she’d slipped away. No ringlets, no freedom cap, no tricolor cockade, no bright blue eyes and shining face.

  Gone as if she had never really been there at all.

  Chapter 7: The Incident at the Ball

  December 31, 1816.

  Sir Hudson Lowe, in full gubernatorial regalia and with a strut in his step, presided over the New Year’s ball in the Castle. Faces glowed with admiration as they greeted him. Forgotten was the vile poem. Remembered was the fact that he had locked up Bonaparte’s biographer and his son for the part they had played in smuggling in the slanderous insult, and just yesterday, he had packed them off on a boat bound for Cape Town, where they could rot forever in the wilds of Africa for all he cared. It was a warning for anyone who defied Sir Hudson Lowe. It was a message for Bonaparte.

  While Lowe was strutting Daniel was busy vomiting his beans and bacon over the side of the storm-tossed brig clawing its way slowly southward toward Saint Helena, where Charlotte was dancing a quadrille and hating every step.

  Gaspard had proved he knew how to hold a grudge by cutting her dead for the past two months, ever since Napoleon had confided in her and not him. Ever since she refused to soothe his hurt pride in bed. So she’d arrived at the ball on the arm of Basil Jackson, the handsome young officer who was in charge of the repairs constantly needed at leaky Longwood. She liked Basil, who was twenty, the same age as she was, because he was funny and bright but there was absolutely nothing more to their relationship. She was saving love for marriage and marriage for Daniel, she reminded herself more than once, trying her best to believe it.

  Although Gaspard refused to say a word to Charlotte, not even a civil hello, she could feel his eyes boring into her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Short a fourth couple for the quadrille, and thinking he might be able to repair fences, Jackson commandeered Gaspard. Clinging to Gaspard’s arm tight as a clam, so hopelessly in love that it was quite embarrassing, was plain Mary Porteous, an awkward best friend for Charlotte to have under the circumstances, because she knew that Gaspard was striking at her by stealing Mary’s heart.

  People were looking so Gaspard couldn’t decline the invitation, but he fixed Charlotte with a cold eye that was both contemptuous and bold all the way through the agonizing dance.

  Afterward, as a respite from the insufferable Jamestown midsummer heat, Basil led Charlotte out to the garden. Gaspard followed with Mary hanging on his arm.

  Gaspard was lecturing an English officer, new to the island. “The emperor?” he said so loudly that he clearly meant to be overheard. “Of course he’s not here. He never goes out in public. Why should he?” He glared straight at Charlotte. “Why bother to go out when the pick of the Yamstock trollops, a blonde called Rosebud who doesn’t even have the brains to charge for her favors, regularly beats a path to his door!”

  Before a thought had time to cross her mind, Charlotte took three long-legged strides and slapped Gaspard’s face. The Frenchman raised his right arm to slap Charlotte right back and might have done so if Mary hadn’t thrown him off balance by jerking at the arm she was clinging to for dear life. In the heat of battle, Gaspard brushed her off and Mary fell awkwardly, cutting open her lip on the rim of a potted dogwood tree.

  “Oh, clumsy me!” said Mary, sitting up and dabbing at her bleeding lip with a handkerchief. “I tripped!”

  Gaspard helped her to her feet. “Mary, pardon me, please. I was…” He glared at Charlotte, who glared back at him. “I was distracted.”

  The night was obviously over for Mary. “Let me walk you home,” said Charlotte, although Porteous House was right next door.

  “Mon Dieu, no! I insist on having the honor.”

  Mary gave him a bloody smile. “Thank you, Gaspard. Although I don’t want to ruin your evening.”

  “No, mademoiselle, you will not, I assure you. The evening has just begun!”

  Later that night Mary told Charlotte what had happened next. “He hurried me here to my room,” she whispered. “He was bursting with a strange excitement. First he kissed me fiercely. My cut lip hurt, but he seemed to like that, and soon, very soon, I liked it, too—isn’t love peculiar! Then he practically threw me onto my bed. Can you believe it, plain little Mary Porteous from Saint Helena exciting a man used to enjoying the most beautiful women in Europe! Oh, Charlotte, I am oh so divinely happy!”

  “Did you…” Charlotte couldn’t say the word.

  “Of course we did! We’ve been doing it for ages. We meet secretly in the Valley of the Nymph and make love for hours in the geraniums. So poetic, isn’t it?”

  The next morning Napoleon had risen as usual at six, taken his tea, had his full-body massage with eau de cologne. “Rub harder,” he told Marchand as he did almost every morning, “as if you were rubbing down a donkey.” It was during his massage that the valet told him about the incident at the ball an
d the imminent arrival of Rosebud’s fiancé. It preoccupied him while he had lunch at ten and kept distracting him when he dictated his memoirs until late afternoon. Satiated at last by past glories, he had his bath at four and thought about more immediate matters. He was still in his bath at sunset, the coolies who carried water from a nearby stream to keep the boiler going nearly dropping with exhaustion. It was as the moon rose that everything fell into place. In one blinding flash he saw exactly how he was going to set himself free: Gaspard was going to London.

  He sent for Rosebud in the morning and told her what she had to do.

  “This will test your relationship with your boy Daniel to the limit. But that’s what you women like to do, isn’t it? Also it will take time because Lowe is a suspicious man. Will you do it for me?”

  Her heart was beating like a drum that was marching men into battle. She remembered her father’s wish that one of his sons, at least, would fight for Napoleon. Perhaps not. But one of his daughters would!

  There were tears in her eyes. She was thinking of the toy with the black hat on the rearing white horse. “Sire, I would be honored.”

  Daniel came home on a warm day in February, just a month after Napoleon had his secret meeting with Rosebud. Everyone knew about the feud raging between Charlotte and the snooty French general that had been sparked by what happened at the New Year’s ball. That stuck-up Frog had the gall to call her a trollop in public. Their Charlotte, the most beautiful girl on the island!

  Gaspard was killed by hostile looks whenever he visited Jamestown, which was often, because there was nowhere else to go. Charlotte’s brother John, whenever he’d had a drink or two too many, kept threatening to take a knife to “that bantam” as he called him, although not to his face, of course.

  Just as often John would tease Charlotte when tungi, the local prickly pear liquor, led him by the nose. “Look at her, all prim and proper,” he’d crow. “Pretending butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. But watch out, she’s a wildcat, that baby sister of mine. At the first ball, she lets that bantam of a Frenchie general kiss her hand, but at the latest she slaps his face! Now that’s what we Yamstocks call progress!”