Betsy and the Emperor (9781439115879) (3 page)

The Frenchman mounted his charger, and the horse stepped onto shore. A few of the Jamestown men shouted things at him that I couldn't understand. Unbeknownst to the British soldiers, one Jamestowner had raised and aimed his musket at the unarmed Frenchman. I tried to yell, but no sound came out. The Frenchman caught sight of the Jamestowner and stared at him with steely intensity. Incredibly, the man lowered his musket as if compelled to do so by an invisible power. Then the Frenchman's gaze swept slowly over the crowd like the beam from a lighthouse. A hush fell upon the crowd. To a man, they fell back, clearing a wide path for the Frenchman. And suddenly, I understood who this man, capable of inspiring such terror, must be.

Bonaparte!
Was there any man more feared and hated in all of Europe—in all of history? General Bonaparte. Emperor Bonaparte. What on earth was he doing on St. Helena? Small wonder Jamestown was in such an uproar!

The countries of Europe had been at war with one another for as far back into my childhood as I could remember. I had never known exactly what all the fighting was about. Perhaps, as in most wars, no one really did. But there was one name that was always mentioned in connection with it; one man mocked and condemned again and again in the British gazettes; one name that was never merely spoken, but spat—especially by the London matrons who had lost sons in the war. One man blamed for everything from British debt to British dysentery: Napoleon Bonaparte, emperor of France.

He was rumored to have massacred prisoners of war and even the weak and wounded among his own troops. He was said to have kept a harem in Egypt and a dozen mistresses in every country he conquered. And more than once I'd heard that he'd stolen and sold his wife's jewels to finance his military campaigns. What was fact and what was fiction? I did not know. I'd never paid much attention during
Miss Bosworth's history lessons at school. What did I care what happened last week, much less a year or twenty ago? As for the newspapers, only the results of the horse races interested me. I supposed I knew as much of Bonaparte as I cared to—as much as most Englishmen did. And like most my age, I could think back to my childhood and remember the little ditty my mother whispered in my ear as she tucked me in at night:

Ah! So that's where the name “Boney” came from!

It had been only several months since word had come to us in London of Bonaparte's defeat at the Battle of Waterloo; I was sure I'd heard the last of him. I recall at the time some of the girls at Hawthorne were discussing possible methods of disposing of him. One of them actually proposed baking him into a tureen of French liver pâté and serving him to King
George! And now, these several months later, it occurred to me that perhaps St. Helena was, in a sense, serving as that tureen. Perhaps this was the King's chosen method of disposing of the vanquished Emperor Napoleon. Not a bad choice, at that. If I had an enemy I wished to see rot, I'd ship him posthaste to St. Helena!

 

The long procession from the
Northumberland
wended its way up the beach. Bonaparte on his charger passed by close enough for me to smell the horse sweat. His face and body were brilliantly illuminated by the torches of the Jamestowners who lined his path. He looked not unlike the portraits I'd seen of him in London. Oh, he was a bit fatter, and I was surprised to see how yellowish and waxy the skin on his plump, round face appeared. But then, most portraits tend to flatter their subject. The short, green military jacket with red collar and piping, the fine white linen vest and breeches, the cumbersome black hat that seemed a bit too large for his small features, even the silver Star of Honor pinned to his breast—all were precisely as depicted in the gallery portraits and newspaper engravings. Bonaparte's eagle eyes stared straight ahead seeming to see
everyone—and yet no one—as he advanced through the silent crowd. For their part, their attention was fixed solely on the emperor. No one took any notice of the British admiral nor of any of the others. Where, I wondered, was the admiral taking him? By the look of things, it was difficult to determine just who was leading whom!

Not long before the sun began to peek over the mountains on St. Helena, the procession passed from my view. I was suddenly too weary to follow.

 

It was so far to the Briars that I decided to sleep out a few hours and return home as soon as I awoke. I was accustomed to doing this and to slipping back into the Briars unnoticed. Mercifully, my family were late risers. As long as I returned before ten o'clock, they'd be none the wiser.

I had little trouble finding a proper bed. Next to a barn, not far from the beach, stood a rusty wheelbarrow—just my size! And now, for a mattress: I loaded the barrow with hay, which I'd pulled from the bales stacked nearby. Then I climbed aboard. I daresay it made a finer resting place than that “bed of nails” they gave me at Hawthorne!

I watched the last star of night fade into the
sunrise. Then I shut my eyes and thought about my encounter with Emperor Napoleon.
Too bad,
I mused,
I can't tell Jane about it.
I couldn't trust her to keep mum. And besides, I could imagine just how she'd react. I'd tell her the whole incredible story of my adventure, including the fact that I'd stood near enough to the most feared man on earth to have reached out and touched him. And what would Jane say?
Good heavens, Betsy! You slept in a wheelbarrow?

I laughed myself to sleep.

I
'm certain I would have slept half the day away if a game hen hadn't seen fit to use my belly as her roost. She pounced on me, and I was jarred from a deep sleep—not a pleasant experience, to be sure. Despite a few aches and pains in my wheelbarrow-cramped limbs, I chased her all the way to the ocean, knowing the next wave would drench her from beak to bottom. A moment later the origin of the saying “mad as a wet hen” was no longer a mystery to me. Ah, sweet revenge!

Self-satisfaction melted away quickly as I noted the position of the sun in the sky. My worst fears were confirmed when I heard the toll of the Jamestown clock: seven…eight…nine bells. Nine o'clock already!

I fell down twice, scratched my cheek on a nettle, and tore the hem of my nightgown in the mad
dash to reach home before my parents awoke. Still, I got there more quickly than ever before.

All was quiet outside the Briars. I was in luck. Normally, my father would have been in the fields by this time, giving the day's instructions to the slave overseer. If my father found out I'd been out all night, he might have sent me back to Hawthorne for another year!

I ran around to the back of the house and climbed up the vine to my bedroom.
Blast!
The window was stuck. No, not stuck. Locked! Damn that miserable creature, she'd locked me out. I would have cursed Jane through the glass, but she wasn't even in our room. I had no choice but to climb back down and go around to the front entrance.

I said a quick prayer on the threshold: “Please, please let them be asleep!” Then, quietly, hardly daring to breathe, I opened the heavy oak door a crack and peered inside.

I couldn't see anyone, but I heard voices coming from another part of the house. With any luck, I could slip upstairs unnoticed. I galloped across the bright Persian rug in the parlor—and came within inches of colliding with a man who roared
“Zut alors!”
as I whizzed past. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned
around to find myself face-to-face with Napoleon Bonaparte.

Somehow, I had the presence of mind to behave as if there were nothing the slightest bit out of the ordinary in finding him here. I spoke to him in French, the only subject I'd excelled in at school.

“
Pardonnez-moi,
monsieur,” I said.

He looked me over from head to toe as if I were a heifer he was thinking of purchasing at market. He seemed to take particular note of my bare feet and ragged nightgown.

“Hmmfftt!” he said—that was all. Then he waved the back of his small, white, plump hand at me, as if he were shooing flies.

Apparently, I was being dismissed from his presence. More than happy to oblige him, I ran up the stairs three at a time and then into my bedroom. I shut the door behind me. Finally!—a chance to think. I paced up and down the creaky wooden floorboards.

The first thing to do, I reasoned, was to change into my day clothes. After all, assuming Bonaparte hadn't done away with my parents, I was still in danger of their punishing me should they discover I'd been out all night. Forgoing the scratchy petticoats my mother always pleaded with me to wear, I slipped
directly into my only clean frock: a frilly pink cotton nonsense that Jane had outgrown and handed down to me. How I hated it!

One glance in the looking glass told me that I ought to try to make some sense of my hair. My pale golden curls stood out at odd angles like celery roots. Unfortunately, I didn't have the faintest idea what to do about it. Jane or one of the older girls at Hawthorne had always arranged my hair for me. “You're so helpless, Betsy!”—or was it “hopeless”?—Jane often said to me. But I could find better things to do with my time than fussing with curling irons.

I shook my head like a wet spaniel until a few pieces of hay fluttered to the floor. Then I pinned all my hair in a pile on top of my head.
Good enough,
I thought, and headed for the door. I was about to go downstairs but thought better of it. I realized it would be best if I learned more of what was going on at the Briars before I made my presence known. Taking care not to get soot on my frock, I removed the screen from the fireplace and climbed inside. By the time I was four years old, I'd made the happy discovery that the chimney led directly from the library to my bedroom and that conversations in one room could be heard distinctly in the other. I listened.

The first thing I heard was a sound as familiar to me as the plaintive wail of St. Helena's seagulls. My mother was weeping. This in itself was not cause for alarm—she cried over everything and nothing. But it spurred my curiosity. There was also an undercurrent of rapping noises, occurring in short bursts at frequent intervals, like percussive accompaniment to the melodic theme of tears. This I recognized as my father nervously rapping his pipe against the fireplace to empty it of old tobacco. He always did this when my mother wept, probably because he felt bewildered by it and inadequate to the task of comforting her.

“Hear him out, my dear. Hear him out,” I heard my father say, clearly discomfited.

Then a man—of fine old British stock, I judged by his manner of speech—joined the conversation. He cleared his throat, as if rather more out of uneasiness than any trace of influenza.

“May I offer you my sincere apologies, Mrs. Balcombe, for—for causing you such discomfort. I'm sure I handled the situation rather badly.”

“Not at all, Admiral,” I heard my father say. “Not at all.”

So, the man was an admiral. The one from the
Northumberland,
no doubt.

At this point my mother said something, but as she still had tears in her voice, I could not make it out. In any case, the admiral replied, “It would only be for a few months. Until we can find a proper place for him elsewhere on St. Helena.”

At this, I began to suspect the nature of the proposal the admiral must have made to my parents.

“Bonaparte has been known to vanquish entire nations in less time, Admiral,” my father said sternly.

“I assure you, Balcombe, I have just spent seventy days at sea with the man. Without his army, he is not a dangerous fellow.”

My father replied with a skeptical “Harumph.”

“We have children, Admiral Cockburn,” my mother said calmly. “Two of them are young ladies,” she said meaningfully. I could picture her now, dry-eyed and alert, regally maternal, sitting up as straight as a washboard in her chair.

“Madam, I understand your concern. He will be watched day and night—his every move. Over two thousand British soldiers are charged with supervising his captivity. Five hundred guns stand aready. I give you my word that—”

“And you say this is not a dangerous man!” my mother interrupted.

“To France, perhaps. To England, certainly. But to you?” The admiral probably shrugged, allowing his question to hang in the air like chimney dust. There was a silence. Then he tried a new tack. “Balcombe, you and I served together at sea,” he said earnestly. “Men who have shared berth and battle don't steer each other wrong on dry land.”

Another silence followed, this one longer than the last.

My father sighed, just the way he does when I wheedle him for pin money and he's ready for surrender. “He's right, my dear,” my father said wearily. “The admiral would not allow us to place ourselves in any danger. We must do as he asks.”

“Whatever you think best,” my mother said, her voice heavy with resignation. It was like her to give in without a fight. From whom did I inherit my pluck?

Just then I heard the approach of smooth and graceful footsteps—as those of a lady. Someone had joined the group in the library.

“I see I am no longer in any danger of being washed away by madame's tears,” Bonaparte said. “Your aides saw to it that my sortie was as brief as it was well supervised.”

Hmmm,
I thought.
There must be some officers
about, whom I missed seeing on my way into the house.

“But they were pleasant company, I trust?” the admiral said, a bit of mischief in his tone.

“Oh, quite pleasant, Admiral,” he replied. “If a bit too familiar.”

The man's English was abominable. I untangle it here with difficulty.

My legs were growing weary of holding the same uncomfortable position for so long. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, which stirred up some soot. Try as I might—and, oh, how I did try!—I couldn't contain a sneeze.

“God bless you, my dear,” I heard my father say.

“I didn't sneeze,” my mother replied puzzledly.

I stifled a giggle in my fist lest they hear that as well.

There was some awkward small talk for a moment or two. It was clear just how ill at ease my parents felt with Bonaparte in the room. Then my father said solemnly: “I think it's time we call the children.”

“Jane is out with the boys,” my mother said. “They should return shortly. Have you seen Betsy this morning?”

“No,” my father replied, uneasiness creeping into his forthright manner. I knew he was wondering whether I'd gotten myself into some sort of mischief.

“I'll call upstairs for her. You'll excuse me, gentlemen?”

My mother's rapid exit alerted me to move quickly if I hoped to avoid being caught eavesdropping.

“Betsy!” she called from the parlor.

I leaped out of the fireplace, bumping my head in the process. “Ow!…er…yes, Mother?” I called back.

“Betsy, are you quite all right?”

“Yes, Mother.” I brushed the soot from my dress.

“Then come downstairs, please. We have guests in the library.”

I could tell she was going to great lengths to conceal the quaver in her voice.

As I entered the library, I was surprised to see that Jane and my brothers were present, having just returned from their outing. Willie and little Alexander were too young to recognize Bonaparte on sight, and Jane too ignorant. I smiled inwardly, anticipating the unpleasant surprise in store for her.

My mother was serving tea and cakes. Her hands shook so much, the fine china cups rattled like bones on the tray. Bonaparte stood by himself, absorbed in removing some of my father's books from the shelves and examining them. My father and the admiral chatted amiably, reminiscing about their days at sea.

I was about to make myself comfortable on the settee, but my mother caught my eye and shook her head vigorously at me. Reluctantly, I continued to stand.

“Won't you sit down, monsieur?” my mother said nervously, offering Bonaparte my place on the sofa.

He either did not hear or chose to ignore her. In any case, he made no reply.

“Monsieur?” my mother ventured timidly.

Slowly, he turned around. Bonaparte first looked puzzled, then extremely annoyed. The transformation was sudden and complete. “You are addressing me, madame?” he snapped.

My mother was taken aback. Jane looked stricken. My father and the admiral ceased their conversation.

My mother plucked up her courage and nodded at Bonaparte.

“Madame, if we are to live under the same roof, then I suggest you learn to address me in a more appropriate manner.” He did not elaborate. My mother nodded like a small child who'd received a scolding from her teacher. So, just as I'd thought: He was moving in with us!

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Then the admiral attempted to lighten the atmosphere. He
held up a tea cake, cleared his throat, and said: “Mrs. Balcombe, these are marvelous. If you can make hardtack and boiled sow as well as you can tea cakes, there's a place for you on my ship!”

She smiled wanly in appreciation. My father chuckled.

“Sorry, Admiral,” my father said. “My wife has her own crew to cook for.”

“Understood, Captain Balcombe,” the admiral replied, smiling.

“William?” my mother said, as a reminder to my father that there was business at hand. He caught her meaning.

“Children,” he said, “gather round. Gather round.” He pointed to an area on the rug.

Jane, Willie, and Alexander lined up in front of the stern-faced Bonaparte, who stood at attention, hands folded behind his back. My brothers and sister seemed unsure of whether to expect an inspection or a firing squad.

“You too, Betsy,” my father added when he saw I was laggard. I took my place in line.

“Children, this gentleman will be our guest for a while. General Bonaparte, these are our children. Jane…”

Gleefully, I noted that Jane was turning as pale as pastry flour. Bonaparte nodded at her to acknowledge the introduction. She staggered a bit, then took a step backward in an attempt to conceal this. She curtsied and managed to croak out: “
Bon—Bonjour,
monsieur.”

Next, my father turned his attention to the boys.

“William Junior,” he said. “And Alexander.”

“It's vicious Boney-parte!” the terrified Alexander whispered into his older brother's ear—loud enough, unfortunately, for everyone to hear. My father turned purple with embarrassment. Little Alexander clung to Willie, gripping his waist so tightly from behind that poor Willie swayed back and forth like a dinghy. Alexander peeked out from behind his brother.

I studied Bonaparte's face, and I could swear that I saw the trace of an amused smile appear on his lips as he watched the trembling boys. He took one step toward them, and they cowered all the more. Then, quickly, Bonaparte mussed up his hair with the tips of his fingers and bugged out his eyes like an ogre. He bent down low and leaned close to them. “Argghh!” he growled.

The boys screamed and jumped back in terror. This frightened Jane, who fell backward right into a
pile of ashes in the fireplace! She wasn't hurt—only her pride, I suppose. My father helped her up.

Bonaparte laughed wickedly. I laughed too, I confess. Bonaparte noticed my reaction and seemed intrigued by it. My mother glowered at me in disapproval.