Napoleon's Rabbit Farmer, page 7
‘Worse than that Your Majesty, it is rumoured that the Governor intends to smash the bust to see if it contains any secret messages. Apparently it is a very good likeness of your son.’
Still dripping from his bath, Napoleon stomped over to the window. ‘Get a pen and paper and start taking my words down. I shall write a pamphlet that will make the hair of every mother in England stand on end.’
Cipriani went to the study to get the writing materials as Napoleon’s two valets, Marchand and St Denis, returned to dress their master. ‘The English shall hear that Lowe is a monster in human shape. He’s poisoned me and now wants to smash a statue of an innocent little boy.’
Chapter Seven
June 1817
Captain Poppleton smashed his heavy stick down on the escaping rats, swinging so wildly that he caught Barry O’Meara hard on the ankle. The doctor cursed in pain as he too aimed a spiked club at the cornered rodents which were also being savaged by a pair of snarling terriers. Some of the brown rats, with no prospect of escape, turned their teeth on the attackers. Two privates waded into the melee with their spades and boots, hitting and stamping on as many as possible.
‘It is not quite fox hunting or hare coursing,’ said Poppleton, surveying the carnage. ‘But after horse racing it is the best sport Deadwood camp can offer.’
The privates had dug out a big nest that was enclosed by a wall and ditch. Once their home was disturbed, the creatures ran in every direction desperately searching for bolt holes.
O’Meara had been at Deadwood to help treat soldiers of the 53rd regiment struck down by a new outbreak of dysentery when he was invited by a group of young officers to join the hunt.
‘We should do this at Longwood,’ said O’Meara to Poppleton, who was resting after the frenzied attack. ‘The rats scuttled over me in my bed the other night. I threw my boots at them and everything I could lay my hands on but they weren’t scared in the slightest. I have seen them like broods of chickens round the offal thrown out of the kitchen.’
‘Have you tried poisoning them,’ said Poppleton, wiping sweat from his forehead.
‘The French gave it a go but the rats scurried off to die in the cavities in the walls. The smell was so bad that we could not use some of the rooms for days. You have probably heard how sensitive Napoleon’s nose is.’
An hour earlier the whole garrison had paid their respects to four victims of the disease that was sweeping the camp.
‘You can see why they call this place Deadwood,’ said Private Evan Evans, who was sprinkling lime on the bodies of his comrades. ‘This place is cursed.’
He and Private Nathaniel Smith then covered the corpses in the men’s grey mess blankets as no wood was available for coffins.
‘I bet when they took the King’s shilling they thought they might die heroes in battle,’ said Smith, watching the burial party approaching the grave, which was on a gentle slope. ‘They never thought they would be taken by disease thousands of miles from home.’ Evans took the men’s faded scarlet jackets and folded them into a neat pile. The burial party began filling the pit while he sorted through the victims’ possessions.
Six hundred men of the 53rd were camped in white bell tents that stretched as far as the eye could see on Deadwood plain, a downland in the shadow of the mountains.
‘It’s the rotten food and water that’s doing for people,’ said Smith, spitting into the mud. ‘It makes everybody sick.’
‘There’s another 50 who could go the same way as these four, God rest their souls,’ he added, watching the chaplain arrive with wooden crosses that had been crafted by the camp carpenter.
That evening Evans and Smith were part of a guard of 72 marching in column up the hill to Longwood. ‘We will soon be leaving St Helena,’ said Evans in a whisper. ‘We’re going to be replaced by the 66th who are coming from Calcutta.’
‘Thank God for that. Let’s hope we make it home before the plague strikes us down,’ replied Smith.
Evans nodded. ‘Well, we might be able to drown our sorrows tonight. There should be some grog waiting for us in the Longwood garden.’
It was approaching nine and the light was fading when the soldiers took up position on the boundary of the sloping Longwood garden, their heavy Brown Bess muskets slung over their shoulders. They were posted within shouting distance of each other and would be there until dawn when the curfew on the house ended. Their sergeant was the first to help himself to the wine hidden in a crate beneath a shrub close to the boundary wall. He then signalled for his men to swap positions, one by one, until each had filled their canteens. No one questioned why the wine was hidden in the garden. For the soldiers the alcohol relieved the hours of boredom and they did not care if it was the secret horde of one of the Longwood residents or gardeners. All they knew was that it was replenished regularly and that if they were caught drinking by an officer they would be flogged.
‘These Frenchies are damned hospitable,’ said Evans, taking some red wine. ‘This will keep out the chill.’
***
Napoleon could not go through with it. ‘Pay her some money and send her away,’ he told Montholon, who had asked the young woman to wait in the Emperor’s study. ‘She is nothing but a girl whose parents will be missing her.’
Two days earlier Napoleon had been keen on the idea of some female company after hearing of Gourgaud’s visitor. The Emperor had been entertaining Count Montholon with tales of his romantic conquests when the subject had come up. ‘Perhaps a young woman could visit me,’ he said as they walked in the Longwood garden, waiting for lunch to be served. As it was a fine day the servants had put up a marquee to accommodate guests.
‘The first thing I notice about a woman is her hands and feet,’ the Emperor said. ‘They have to be delicate and small for a woman to be attractive. I had my first encounter when I was 18. It was in Paris, the bright lights of the Palais Royal and I was terribly lonely.’
‘Sire, we have all had times like that in our lives,’ said Montholon.
‘Well it was bitterly cold and I was about to enter a café when I noticed a young woman with a fine figure. Quite clearly she was a prostitute but something struck me about her. Her pale cheeks, the impression of weakness enchanted me. I asked her if there was a job better suited to her health and she said No, she had to work to live. The girl told me that she had been deserted by an army officer who had brought her to Paris. She suggested that she came back to my quarters where we could get warm and I could have my fill of pleasure.’
‘But you have been in love sire,’ said Montholon pausing in the shade of one of the few trees.
‘I was 26 when I met Josephine. A general on half pay and half starving. Paris was in chaos. She was 32 and a widow. Her husband, Vicomte Alexandre de Beauharnais, had gone to the guillotine after being thrown into prison. You may have met him.’
‘No, Sire. I did not have the honour of his acquaintance.’
‘I was smitten by her warm nature and good humour. After the loss of her husband all she wanted to do was host parties. She also had powerful connections and was rumoured to be the mistress of Paul Barras. When I told him of my intention to marry her, he promised me the command of the army in Italy. It was a powerful combination. But I wasn’t the only suitor in Josephine’s bed after our wedding. She had this vicious, ugly pug called Fortune, with a face like he had run into a barn door. The dog had carried messages, hidden in his collar, to her friends while she was in prison. Josephine was very attached to him and let him share her bed.
‘Every time I got in he would bark and growl, then the beast gave me a painful nip on my calf. I still have the scar.
‘Marie Louise was totally different to Josephine but I grew to love her too,’ continued Napoleon, casting his eye over a new vegetable plot.
‘I needed an heir after a Saxon student tried to assassinate me and a marriage to the daughter of the Emperor of Austria was also a way to secure peace in Europe. She was blonde, with blue eyes and a rosy complexion and being 18 was very eager to please. After we made love for the first time she asked if we could do it again. But being so young she was afraid of the dark and ghosts and had to sleep with candles burning. As you know I have to sleep in total darkness so we had adjoining rooms. The birth of the King of Rome was cause for huge celebrations, one of my proudest moments.’
Napoleon paused at the sight of Cipriani, who was approaching in his green uniform. The butler smiled and bowed. ‘Sire at your convenience, lunch is ready to be served.’
‘What are we eating Cipriani?’
‘Your Majesty, today we are serving a soup followed by roasted lamb, cooked to your liking.’
‘I hope it is very well done,’ said Napoleon, following the butler towards the big white tent where William Balcombe was waiting to dine with them. The official of the East India Company was now responsible for supplying provisions to Longwood as well as to the British ships calling at St Helena. ‘I trust the children are keeping out of trouble,’ said the Emperor to Balcombe, ‘Especially the mischievous Betsy.’
‘They are sir,’ said Balcombe, blushing as he remembered Napoleon’s stay in the pavilion at his home the Briars.
‘You must bring them with you next time you visit. They will cheer the place up. It has been a while since I have seen them.’
***
Albine de Montholon’s pretty face glowed in the candlelight of the Longwood drawing room. She was singing at the piano, Napoleon turning the pages of the sheet music for her and listening intently. She leaned in close to the Emperor and smiled shyly when he applauded her.
‘Bravo’, he shouted. ‘We could be at the opera.’
Montholon, the Bertrand couple, and Gourgaud clapped politely. Madame de Montholon curtsied for her audience and gazed admiringly at Napoleon.
‘Some men of 48 still behave like young bucks,’ she said to him with a flirtatious smile.
‘Yes, but they have not had as many sorrows to bear as I have had,’ he replied.
Gourgaud was seething at her impudence. He glared at the countess and was about to rebuke her when the Emperor moved to ease the tension.
‘Let’s go to the theatre,’ he said. ‘What shall it be? Comedy or tragedy?’ Napoleon did not wait for an answer and started reading aloud from Moliere’s School for Wives. He would pause at the points he found interesting and ask questions. The men in the party were forced to stand with Bertrand propping himself against the mantelpiece, struggling to keeps his eyes open. After nearly two hours Napoleon abruptly closed the book, declaring the evening at an end. Wishing everyone a good night the Montholons were the first to leave, followed by the Bertrand couple.
Gourgaud was now alone with the Emperor, his valets busy preparing his bedroom.
‘Gorgo my boy, you must not be so angry,’ he said to his sullen aide-de-camp. ‘You must be nicer to the Montholons.’
‘I would rather stay in my room with the rain coming in.’
‘It seems that boredom is getting to you. It is wearing you down. Come, read to me in my room. It will help me sleep.’
Over the following days Napoleon lost all patience with Gourgaud and stopped confiding his compositions to him. ‘You are always gloomy and do nothing but grumble,’ Napoleon told him after a game of chess in the drawing room. ‘Be as gloomy as you please, so long as you do not appear gloomy in my presence. You could always end your misery with a pistol shot to the head.’
‘We could all die together, Sire. We could shut ourselves in a room, drink champagne and asphyxiate ourselves with charcoal fumes. It would be the ultimate protest against the British.’
‘You are losing your mind, get out of my sight,’ shouted the Emperor. ‘The Montholons never open their mouths but to say something pleasant while you only have the harshest things to say.’
When Gourgaud had gone, Napoleon summoned the Grand Marshal. ‘We must get rid of Gourgaud. Remove him as soon as possible,’ he told Bertrand. ‘I want you to suggest suicide to him. It would help our cause immensely. That the cruel British have driven one of my suite to suicide.’
***
The marble bust of the King of Rome took pride of place on the mantelpiece in the Emperor’s bedroom. Alongside it were pictures of his young heir and above portraits of his wife Marie-Louise and a miniature of the Empress Josephine. Napoleon was delighted at the new marble likeness of his son, but was still seething with rage at the Governor for confiscating it.
‘It looks a little too much like Marie-Louise. The upper part of the face is mine,’ he told O’Meara, who had come to check on Napoleon’s health. ‘Did you know that my son did not want to flee Paris in 1814? Like his mother he wished to remain, even with the Prussian, Russian and Austrian armies marching on the city. He clung to the curtains, hangings and banisters, shouting that he would not leave his home. ‘I won’t go away. Papa’s not here,’ he said. The King of Rome had to be dragged to the carriage. I had given orders that my wife and son should not be captured. I could not bear the thought of him being brought up in Vienna as an Austrian prince.
‘To secure the throne of France for my son I decided to die in battle. At Arcis-sur-Aube I placed myself in the thickest part of the fighting. My uniform was torn to shreds by Austrian case shot and shrapnel but death did not call.
‘I even rode my horse over a shell with a burning fuse while a company of chasseurs ran for cover. The horse took the full force of the blast and I was thrown to the ground but again walked away without injury. I later took a strong dose of poison after being given the news that the young Napoleon and his mother had been captured and handed over to her father, the Emperor Francis.’
‘That is terrible, Sire,’ said O’Meara.
‘My imbecile doctor Yvan prepared too strong a dose and I could not keep it down.’
‘What did he give you?’
‘I believe it was opium, belladonna and white hellebore. I clenched my teeth, trying not to vomit and became very cold, then burning hot. My limbs were rigid and then my stomach heaved. I had a raging thirst.’
Napoleon caressed the statue’s face and was silent for a few moments. ‘The man who gave orders to smash that image to pieces, would, if he had it in his power, plunge a knife into the original,’ he said, referring to the Governor.
‘I don’t think he could have kept the bust for much longer, Your Majesty,’ replied the doctor, who had been instrumental in persuading Lowe to send the statue up to Longwood. ‘The Governor realised he would get into trouble with London if he deprived you of it.’
‘The man is cruel and an impossible fool,’ said Napoleon, who was hoping his words would reach him.
‘I can trust you O’Meara, can’t I? You are my physician.’
‘I am your surgeon and one whom I hope you may place complete confidence.’
‘Well you must choose between Lowe and myself. If you stick to your duties as a British officer then you can return to your obscure career.’
Chapter Eight
Thinking she was alone, Albine de Montholon raised the hem of her long white silk dress above her knees and straightened her pantalettes. Reaching down, she pulled her black silk stockings as high as they would stretch on her slender legs and then settled into the library chair, her pert face displaying a rosy glow.
Careful not to give himself away, General Gourgaud spied on her through a narrow gap in the door to the adjoining dining room. He watched as she studied a book in the light of one of three large windows, her free hand playing with a loose strand of her ebony hair.
‘She has just come from the Emperor’s bedroom,’ he said under his breath. On the second chime of the mantel clock, Gourgaud burst into the library, startling Madame de Montholon, who jumped to her feet.
‘You gave me a start, sir,’ she said, moving quickly for the door.
The General stared at her with bloodshot eyes, blocking the exit. ‘Does your husband know you have been visiting the Emperor’s bed?’ he asked, with contempt in his voice.
‘I do not know what you are talking about. Please do not offend me. I do not deserve your insults.’
‘You have had three husbands and many lovers, have you not?’
‘I am an honest woman, now let me go.’
Gourgaud stepped aside as Madame de Montholon squeezed past him, her perfume hanging on the humid air. The general strode into the library, its shelves filled with books transported from France and volumes donated by the British. A frown creased his high forehead when he picked up the book that the countess had hurriedly put down on a small table.
‘The history of the Marquise de Brinvilliers, the infamous poisoner. How very revealing,’ he said to himself.
‘The greedy Marquise killed her father, two brothers and countless others. Perhaps Madame de Montholon is looking for a few tips. It seems she is planning to poison us all. She will put arsenic in our wine, the Emperor’s wine. I must warn him.’ Gourgaud hurried out to the parlour but Longwood was empty and silent.
***
The whole house shook violently, the walls creaked loudly and pictures dropped to the floor. Empty wine glasses rattled on the dining room table, moving as though in the grip of invisible hands. The earthquake had started with a low rumbling noise and grew in force until most of Longwood’s residents fled their rooms in fear. Napoleon had just fallen asleep after retiring early. It was 9.55 and the valet Marchand came rushing into his chamber to check on the Emperor. The tremor, which had lasted no more than 20 seconds, had shifted his bed.
‘It’s just what we need to make our stay on St Helena more enjoyable,’ he said, smiling. ‘What damage has been done, Louis?’
‘I think there has only been minor damage Sire, but it has given everyone quite a scare. All the rooms have a coating of dust.’
‘Go to the library and fetch me that book about the Lisbon earthquake in 1755. That was a real catastrophe with a massive wave and fires destroying almost the entire city and killing 100,000.’
