Napoleon's Rosebud

by Humphry Knipe

  “For how much?”

  “Two thousand pounds.”

  “Do you recommend the place?”

  “Oh, yes! It has spectacular views and anything will grow there.”

  “Take a message to Balcombe.”

  Charlotte delivered it on the way home. William Balcombe wasn’t alone at the Briars, because he had Bacchus for company. Business was bad, had been bad since the black market dried up with the lifting of the embargo at the end of the war. He was sinking into a deep hole of debt, and how could a man dig himself out of a hole without lifting a glass?

  “Papa’s not well,” said Betsy, subdued for a change. “Who is the message from?”

  “The neighbor,” said Charlotte, trying unsuccessfully not to sound too important.

  “Boney!” crowed the brat. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I just did, didn’t I?”

  “Papa’s in his study,” said Betsy, transitioning into a whisper, “but as I said…”

  “I think this message will make him feel better.”

  Betsy, who had grown into a willowy, not unattractive sixteen-year-old, looked doubtful but did show Charlotte in.

  Balcombe was unshaven, and although the Briars was in a protected valley his hair looked like it had been attacked by Longwood’s southeaster. He was beyond pretense about his drinking, a bottle of brandy and a half-full glass within easy reach on the desktop.

  Charlotte said, “The emperor has a request.”

  “Napoleon? What does he want this time?” he rambled. “He knows that every request has to go through Governor Lowe, and Lowe says that everything has to go through London, so it takes four months to get permission to sneeze.”

  “He wants you to buy him Virgin Hall from my uncle Samuel.”

  “What for? They will never let him move out there. Too close to Sandy Bay. Governor Lowe would be terrified that someone will rescue him.”

  “I don’t think he plans to move to Virgin Hall.”

  “Why does he want to buy it, then? A sudden urge to speculate in land?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Any idea what he wants to pay?”

  “Uncle bought it from Daniel’s father for two thousand pounds.”

  A crafty look crept like a thief into Balcombe’s bloodshot eyes. “You don’t happen to know, just between the two of us, how Napoleon intends to pay for it? He puts it about that he doesn’t have a brass farthing. He had to sell his silver plate last year just to get by.”

  “Mr. Balcombe,” she said, allowing a whiff of impatience to show, “I’m sure you know that the emperor smuggled out millions of gold napoleons on the Northumberland. He sold off his imperial plate to pretend he was penniless, to drum up sympathy in Europe.”

  Balcombe didn’t dispute it. He’d heard that Napoleon’s valet Louis Marchand had split a fortune into money belts that were worn by just about everyone in Bonaparte’s party. He could tell by the itching of his palms that he was about to get his hands on a life-saving chunk of French gold.

  Samuel Knipe, although very ill, received Balcombe, now sober, when he called on him the next morning.

  After the usual pleasantries, Balcombe said, “I have a client who wishes to buy Virgin Hall.”

  The old man gazed at Balcombe with watery eyes as if he didn’t quite understand him. “Virgin Hall?” he said eventually. “I can’t sell it. I promised to rent it to Daniel.”

  “Daniel!” said Balcombe, springing at the idea. “Exactly! My client wants to buy it for Daniel—buy it, not rent it—because the boy has been of such great help in certain private matters. A secret gift.”

  Samuel still had enough of his business acumen left to be confused. “But why buy it for Daniel if I plan to rent it to him for next to nothing, as a wedding present?”

  “A wedding present?”

  “He must marry Charlotte,” wheezed Samuel. “To get the property.”

  “But Samuel, Daniel’s got too much going on in his life right now, with his botanical duties and whatnot. Also, he’s so young, barely in his middling twenties. He’s not established. No need to force him into marriage. Let my client give Virgin Hall to him. You have so many heirs who are depending on you. This way there will be more money for them when…when the time comes.”

  This tactless reminder of his imminent demise took the wind out of Samuel’s sails. He lay back on his pillows, clearly thinking things over. Balcombe didn’t interrupt him. “This client of yours, he’s French, isn’t he?” the old man asked eventually.

  “That I may not reveal, save to say that there are indeed high matters at stake here, matters that will advance both Daniel’s and Charlotte’s prospects.”

  Samuel sighed. “Agreed, then. I have no intention of making a profit on this sale. It is a family affair. So long as Daniel is named as owner in the title deed, I shall sell it for what I paid. Two thousand pounds.”

  “Done!” said Balcombe without the slightest hesitation.

  That afternoon Gaspard called on Balcombe’s shabby office in town, which didn’t have many callers these days. “The emperor believes you have a price for Virgin Hall,” he said.

  “Yes. I got it for a bargain. Three thousand pounds.”

  Gaspard savored the amount for a moment. “Three thousand it is. But the sale must be confidential,” he said.

  “Of course. I will take care of all the paperwork, General. You know you can rely on me.”

  “We know,” said Gaspard. He turned sharply on his heel, leaving Balcombe shuffling papers to decide which of his creditors he would pay off first.

  “Balcombe sold his soul for a mere one thousand pounds!” Gaspard crowed when he returned to Napoleon with the news.

  Napoleon walked to the window, took a pinch of snuff, clasped his hands behind his back, and stared at the rain drumming on the low roof. “Souls are cheap in Saint Helena.”

  The leaky ceiling admitted a large drop of water that hit him on the nose and teared its way down his cheek. He didn’t flinch. “Gaspard, I need you to take Daniel swimming,” he said.

  Close to noon a few days later Daniel, who had just left Charlotte selling peaches and potatoes in her mother’s front porch store, was walking up to the Botanical Gardens when Gaspard with a saddled horse in tow thundered past him, took a wide turn in the street, to the consternation of the resident dogs, and then thundered right back.

  Daniel had seen the Frenchman only once, at the Almond Tree, since the drunken dinner at Plantation House when Charlotte had brought up the painful matter of the missing leeches. He had been polite but hardly effusive.

  Now he radiated bonhomie. “Daniel, mon ami,” he crowed, his large Gallic nose in the air and an even larger grin on his lips. “I have found you at last! Walking is good for the constitution, but I’m sure you will make a more suitable impression on the ladies when seated on a horse! See”—he gestured at the little nag—“I have brought you one! The emperor has heard your knowledge of the local plants is absolutely prodigious, so he sent me to learn from you. What do you say we ride up into the mountains for an hour or two? I have lunch and a bottle of good wine in my saddlebag.”

  Daniel looked at the slavering beast he was being offered. At least it was less threatening than a duel, but threatening all the same. He’d ridden with Charlotte as a child, but going mounted was not how apprentices at Kew got around. “I’m afraid I’m not that much of a horseman,” he said, trying to divine what lay behind the Frenchman’s surprise invitation.

  “Nonsense! This horse is as quiet as a lamb, quite boring, in fact, a big favorite with the weaker sex. Hop on. If you don’t like it, you can always fall off!”

  Daniel ran excuses through his mind. That he had urgent business. An appointment. A shipment of plants to inventory. But it seemed the Gaspard was reading his thoughts. “Come on, be a devil. I’m so sick of the stale conversation at Longwood. You can’t imagine how boring it is. Everyone gets on everyone else’s nerves. The emperor is
in one of his black moods. He’s sheer hell. Almost as bad as when he’s elated. Your company will be like a breath of fresh air. We’ll talk about London. You can tell me all about the English ladies. You are so…so presentable that I’m sure there were dozens of those. And I’ll tell you war stories—I certainly have hundreds of those. We got off to a bad start, you and I. Someone nearly got killed. Let’s turn to a fresh page, what do you say? Please say yes!”

  Daniel didn’t dare say anything else.

  “What did you talk about?” Charlotte asked Daniel as they sipped sherry at the Almond Tree that evening.

  “Except for answering a few botanical questions, all I did was listen. He’s only thirty-four, but he’s had an extraordinary life already.”

  “Really?” said Charlotte, not liking the hint of hero worship in his voice.

  The object of their conversation walked up with Mary Porteous beaming proudly on his arm. For an hour Charlotte had to listen, with growing irritation, to Gaspard describing his battles, in which he always, for some unfathomable reason, played the central role. What made matters worse was that he said nothing to her, directing his graphic descriptions at Mary and Daniel, whose face increasingly wore the same adoring expression as Mary’s did.

  It wasn’t that Gaspard was ignoring her. Just the opposite. She had the distinct impression the whole point of his heroic monologue was aimed at her. He was crowing about the fact that he had captivated both of the people closest to her. It was his way of taking revenge on her for refusing to go to that little room near the wharf with him.

  Every day that passed, and days soon passed into months, was another twist of the rack.

  “It’s such pleasant weather, Daniel. Shall we go up Sister’s Walk this afternoon?” Charlotte would ask.

  “Dearest, I’d love to. But I’ve promised Gaspard”—yes, Daniel was calling the villain by his first name now—“to go riding to Sandy Bay.” Or: “Nothing I’d like better, but Gaspard has borrowed one of Napoleon’s pistols for me. Imagine that! A pistol that’s been fired by the emperor himself right in my hand!” Or: “Gaspard has been invited to Plantation House for tea and insists I go along with him. He’s keen to show the governor that these days he prefers English company.”

  “Am I not invited as well?”

  “I will have to ask Gaspard if that would be suitable.”

  “Don’t bother,” Charlotte said. “I promised Mother I’d feed our rotten fruit to the pigs this afternoon.” It was difficult to keep the bitterness out of her voice. Napoleon had warned her that the battle to get Gaspard sent on his mission to England would not be won easily, that it would strain her relationship with Daniel. She hadn’t realized how much.

  On September 21, 1817 an earthquake, although modest in magnitude, shook the island. It did nothing to shake it awake. Charlotte sold vegetables and fruit. Daniel attended to his garden. They pretended to be in love but the long shadow of Gaspard fell between them like a chasm.

  It wasn’t until February that matters came to a head. Gaspard called on Porteous House and told Mary that he and Daniel were going to exercise with sabers that afternoon at a little pool called Nymph’s Pond, which was near Longwood. He also told Mary, in his bullying way with her, to bring Rosebud, as Daniel very much wanted to show her how much progress he’d made in the manly arts.

  Mary’s homely face was so alive with excitement that Charlotte couldn’t say no.

  Because the island was very quiet away from Jamestown, except for the sighing of the wind, they heard the clang of the swords a mile away. The martial athletes were at work on each other on the banks of the little pool. Both had their shirts off, their fine young bodies shiny with sweat. Gaspard touched his forehead with his saber in salute. Daniel, a quick learner, did likewise. The younger man hadn’t quite recovered his stance when Gaspard darted a surprise stab at him, which he was only just able to parry.

  Ten minutes later Gaspard called it a day. Daniel looked as exhausted as he looked happy. “I don’t know about you,” said the general, “but if the ladies will excuse us, I’m dying for a swim.”

  “Does that mean we have to withdraw?” asked Charlotte.

  “What on earth are you hinting at? Of course you must withdraw,” said Daniel with a giggle that sounded almost girlish, Charlotte thought. “We’ll come find you when we’re done.”

  “Nonsense. You’re welcome to watch,” said Gaspard, loosening his trousers. “I’m a great believer in heroic nudity. All the athletes competed totally naked in the ancient Olympic Games, you know!”

  “Spare me!” Mary put her hands over her eyes but peeped through her fingers as if hinting that she couldn’t resist a look at what Gaspard was about to reveal, then raced off into the woods, shrieking with laughter.

  Of course Charlotte couldn’t stay. She followed Mary, although at a more sedate pace. She found her resting on a mossy bank, her ample bosom heaving from the exertion of her narrow escape from the spectacle of heroic nudity. There they sat, too hidden to see, but close enough to hear the men splashing and laughing.

  Suddenly the laughing stopped and it fell quiet except for the croaking of the frogs. “What’s the matter?” whispered Mary. “We’d better take a look in case they’ve drowned.”

  But they hadn’t drowned. Far worse. Their nude bodies were embracing in the shallows. Daniel had his back to them, but Gaspard was peering over Daniel’s shoulder, smiling triumphantly at them.

  Charlotte was sure the men, if you could call them that, heard her gasp of horror. She didn’t care. Longwood was just ten minutes away. She would tell Napoleon what he could do with his strategy! It was strategic for Gaspard and Daniel to appear to be friends. But lovers! Never!

  “What’s the matter?” Napoleon asked when she was shown into his presence, her eyes awash with emerald tears that had been welling up for months.

  “Daniel. Gaspard has stolen him away from me!”

  His haunted eyes examined her. “Tell me.”

  He listened attentively, a disconcerting smile toying with his lips. When she finished he let loose his bray of a laugh. “What? Did Gaspard actually bugger the boy?”

  “I didn’t wait to see. He’s gone far beyond just pretending to be friends with Daniel, as you instructed. He’s been seducing him with his endless boasting. Now Daniel adores the monster!”

  Napoleon laughed again.“I’ve never heard of a strategy working too well!”

  “Well, this one is, Your Majesty.”

  A crafty look crept into the deep set eyes. “Did Gaspard know you were watching?”

  “Yes! He smirked at me!”

  “Ha! That’s the explanation right there!”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “Gaspard was mixing business with pleasure. Where’s your female intuition? Gaspard is in love with you! Deliciously and hopelessly besotted. He’s accustomed to having any woman he wants. He wants you all the more because you have refused him. What he’s doing is taking his revenge. Let him bugger you instead, and he will leave your precious Daniel alone! You are provoking him.”

  “You honestly think—”

  “Of course you are! You’re a woman. You can’t resist.” A stray thought seemed to strike him. “Oh, Josephine!” he sighed. “How can you abandon me in this wasteland?”

  “Your Majesty, I am not provoking him. I am being civil to him for your sake, because that’s what you asked me to do. It’s a sacrifice.”

  “Sacrifice!” Napoleon thundered. “Let me tell you what sacrifice is! It’s fifty thousand fine young men turned into stinking corpses in just one day. Riderless horses trying to outrun their own dragging entrails.” He paused and, standing very still, hands clasped behind his back, gazed out the window at the gum trees bowing in obedience to the perpetual gale. Charlotte didn’t dare interrupt him.

  Eventually he spoke. “You are beautiful. In spite of your modest birth, Gaspard will be proud to have you on his arm. When our strategy succeeds, when my jailer sends Gasp
ard to England, and that will be soon—the matter is being settled as we speak—I want you to go with him.”

  The ill wind was howling so loudly that Charlotte thought she’d misheard. “Your Majesty?”

  “Gaspard is magnificent, but he is erratic. He needs to be supervised. He needs to be led around like a chimpanzee on a chain. Who better to do that than a woman he’s in love with? Think of it as an act of revenge for his attempt to seduce Daniel.”

  An awful thought struck Charlotte, that the incident at Nymph’s Pond had been Napoleon’s idea. “Your Majesty—”

  He knew what she was about to say but didn’t allow her to go on. “I want you to make sure Gaspard speaks to the right people about how I am forced to live. I want you to corroborate everything he says, to add observations of your own. When you return to me, I expect a full report.”

  For a long moment Charlotte was speechless, overwhelmed by the exultation of having just been vaulted onto the galloping charger of history. “You want me to spy on him?”

  “Yes. Beauty is the best disguise. It will take you everywhere, where even Gaspard cannot go. It will help you deliver a letter for me. This one.”

  When she took the letter, she noticed, once again, how impeccably manicured he kept the fingers that had once pulled the strings of a mighty empire, unblemished except for the dusting of snuff between thumb and forefinger. The letter was sealed with the imperial eagle, just like the scrolls had been. She turned it over. There was no address on it. All that was written there was one word in Napoleon’s scrawl.

  Byron.

  “You must deliver it to him in person,” Napoleon said.

  There was an urgency to her words, the loud whisper of a collaborator. “Your Majesty, the newspapers say Byron has left England. He’s in Europe—Italy, I think.”

  “So was I!” said Napoleon. “I won my first great victory there, Montenotte in ’96. If you cannot deliver it to Byron in person, destroy it. Unopened. It is for his eyes only. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”