# Napoleon's Young Neighbor/Chapter 13

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CHAPTER XIII
LONGWOOD DAYS
MANY a time when in the company of Napoleon and the members of his suite, Betsy must have realized that this pleasant intercourse could not last always.
Few people remained indefinitely long at St. Helena,—few people, indeed, besides the natives and the one life prisoner, the Emperor Napoleon. Betsy, however, had no desire to leave her beloved island. She loved its climate and its scenery, and she was happy with the many people who were her friends. It was a gay little place, with numerous officers quartered there with their families,—a much gayer place than it would have been had not the British Government thought it necessary to make it a great military stronghold for the safeguarding of the Emperor, a much gayer place than it had been before Napoleon's arrival.
LONGWOOD
Madame Montholon and Madame Bertrand and, to a certain extent, the gentlemen of the Emperor's suite entered more or less into the festivities of the place. It was only Napoleon who always stayed at home alone. Betsy, who was an especial favorite of Madame Bertrand, was often at Longwood, and very often the latter was the young girl's chaperon at balls or other entertainments.
Yet even when no special gayety was in view, Betsy enjoyed her visits to Longwood, and the ingenuous girl with her frank speech certainly brightened the lives of the exiles. As for Betsy herself it was a great advantage for her to be so much in the society of these French people, with their cultivation and gayety. On cool evenings chairs were brought out on the lawn leading to the billiard-room, and there the Countess of Montholon and ​Madame Bertrand, with their husbands and children, would spend the hour after sunset listening to the crickets, of which there were thousands. Sometimes they sat on the lawn in the moonlight, gazing long at the sky, which at St. Helena is of a peculiarly deep blue.
Doubtless at such times the hearts of the poor exiles were far away among home scenes in France, and even lively Betsy for the time was quiet and subdued. One splendid starry night, as they were all on the lawn near the billiard-room steps after a very sultry day, they heard a sound as if heavy wagons were lumbering over the ground beneath. Those nearer the house thought that it was about to fall about their heads. Dr. O'Meara and Major Blakeney, Captain of the Guard, hastening from the room, expected to find the ladies half dead with fright. All the household, some from their beds, rushed out, looking wonderingly into the sky, and little Tristram Montholon ran to his mother, screaming that some one had tried to throw him out of his bed.
This was in September, and the strange rumbling was caused by an earthquake, the ​first one in St. Helena for a long time. Many feared for their friends in the valleys with the sharp precipices, but fortunately in the end it was shown that there had been no loss of life.
Napoleon was in bed at the time of the shock.
"Ah Mees Betsee," he asked the next morning, "were you frightened by the tremblement de terre? You look pale and quiet."
Betsy admitted that she had had a little fear at the earthquake.
"I thought," said Napoleon, turning to General Bertrand, "that the Conqueror had exploded in the harbor; but the second or third shock showed that it was an earthquake."
The Conqueror was the seventy-four pounder whose arrival Betsy had seen Napoleon observe with great interest.
Betsy, for several nights after the earthquake, was too frightened to go to bed, and in a day or two she was ill with a severe cold, caught while sitting on the veranda. In this case, as always in illness, Napoleon was sympathetic, blaming the climate and adding that the houses ought to have plenty of fireplaces to protect people from sudden changes.
​"What would be the use of fireplaces," asked Betsy, "when we have no coals?"
"Then burn the orange trees," responded Napoleon.
From this remark Betsy saw that for some reason the Emperor was not in good humor, for he was one of those who realized the need of more trees on St. Helena, and later—if he had not then begun—devoted much time and money to planting trees in the neighborhood of Longwood. Perhaps the presence of the Conqueror in the harbor disturbed him, since this was the vessel that had brought Admiral Pamplin, who was to relieve Admiral Malcom. Sir Pultney Malcom had come to St. Helena with Napoleon, and the two had grown to be very good friends. The Admiral, a courteous old man, with exquisite, kindly manners, showed great consideration for the exile. He paid Napoleon many visits, sent him newspapers, and so far as he could tried to protect him from various annoying things said or done by Governor Lowe.
It was not strange, then, that Napoleon should feel depressed at the thought of Admiral Malcom's departure, and, in ​consequence, seem a little more brusque than usual with Betsy in talking of her cold.
Napoleon well understood the value of regular occupation and spent many hours daily in reading and writing. He had few of the works of reference that he needed for his historical work, yet he persevered in spite of all difficulties. In the end he really had something to show, volumes of military commentaries, essays on great generals and historical sketches, chiefly of the time of the French Republic. These writings may not all be perfectly accurate, but they show a wonderful memory and grasp of facts. The inaccuracies, indeed, are chiefly such as must result when a man writes without the proper documents and books to verify his statements.
The Memoirs left by Napoleon, the many volumes of conversations collected by his friends on subjects of general interest, as well as those books that relate to the military profession, show the wonderful strength of his mind. His temperate habits were, of course, a great help in carrying out the broad plans that he made for hard work. He took little wine, and then only used it as a medicine.
​Napoleon's hours for rising and going to bed were very irregular. Often on moonlight nights he would rise at three o'clock, and when at The Briars he would go to the garden before Toby was up, getting the key from the place where the old slave had hidden it. He would then have an early breakfast of fresh fruits.
Not infrequently, in those early days of his stay at St. Helena, Betsy would see him in the early morning riding around the lawn on his beautiful horse Hope, and when she talked with him she would learn that already he had that day dictated a number of letters. Hope was the first horse Napoleon rode on the island, and it pleased him to think that this name was an augury.
When it came to his bed hour, Napoleon's habits were most uncertain. Frequently, when he was restless, he would have Marchand read him to sleep.
At times when he was ill he resented the doctor's efforts to get him to take medicine. He had original ideas on the best treatment of the sick, and believed strongly in the efficacy of the salt-water bath.
​However heterodox his views on any subject, Napoleon seldom hesitated to express them, at least to those in whom he had confidence.
"I have no faith whatever in medicine," said Napoleon one day to a very clever medical man who was on the island. "My own remedies are starvation and the warm bath. Churchmen," he added, "are often hypocrites, because too much is expected of them. Politicians must have a conventional conscience, and soldiers are cut-throats and robbers. But surgeons are neither too good nor too bad; their mission is to benefit mankind, and they have opportunities to study human nature as well as science. I have a higher opinion of the surgical profession than of any other. The practice of the law," he concluded, "is too severe for poor human nature, for he who distorts truth and exults at the success of injustice at last will hardly know right from wrong."
Napoleon liked sailors, and often talked with those who conducted fatigue parties around the island.
​One day he asked the girls if they had met one active young reefer, who happened to belong to a distinguished family.
"He is one of the few combinations of high birth and intelligence I have ever seen."
"We know him," was the reply, "and he is one of the most popular men in the ward-room. Oh, how funny he was when we first knew him!" added Betsy. "He was coming back from the Admiral's ball. We met an old cart, and he was surrounded by brother middies, all shouting, 'Lord W.'s carriage stops the way.' Well, we couldn't get past, as the cart had been dragged inside the arch through which we were to pass. Afterwards this same young man had a narrow escape. He was rowing guard when hailed by sentry. On account of the surf, the sentry could not hear him give the password, and so he fired among the crew."
"Yes, he can do anything. Sir Pultney Malcom put him in charge of the government farm, and said he had never seen such vegetables produced on the sterile rocks of St. Helena."
​"Whatever British sailors take in hand," said Napoleon, "they never leave undone."
A marble bust of the King of Rome was sent to Napoleon, probably by Maria Louisa. Napoleon gazed on it with proud satisfaction and he seemed pleased with the praises of Betsy and her mother.
"You ought to be proud to be the father of so beautiful a boy," said Mrs. Balcombe.
Smiles lit Napoleon's face, and Betsy, child though she was, was impressed by his expression of paternal fondness.
The bust was of white marble and executed by Caracci, and it bore the names Napoleon François Charles Joseph. The child was shown wearing the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor. It had been brought from Leghorn by the gunner of a ship bound to St. Helena, and although it had come so mysteriously, people generally understood that Maria Louisa herself had taken the trouble to have it sent in this way to Napoleon, her husband.
"Now, come," said Madame Bertrand, after the sisters had spent some time admiring Napoleon's gifts, "let me show you my presents;" ​for the ship that had brought the bust brought things also to others of the French exiles. These were chiefly for Countess Bertrand and Countess Montholon from Lady Holland, who often remembered them in this way.
"La bonne Lady Holland," as Napoleon called her, was one of the few English women not afraid to show her sympathy with Napoleon and those who had followed him to St. Helena. He was very grateful for her attentions to him now when he was abandoned by the world. "All members of the family of Fox," he said, "abound in liberal, generous sentiments. Fox was sincere in his intentions, and had he lived England would not have been devastated by war. He was the only minister who rightly understood the interests of his country." To show that he had always appreciated Fox, Napoleon told of a visit that the latter with his wife paid to St. Cloud. By mistake he opened the door of a private room, and he was surprised to see there his own statue among those of distinguished citizens of the world, Hampden, Washington, Cicero, Lord Chatham and his son.
​The regulation that an officer must accompany him on his rides was a continued annoyance to Napoleon. At first he submitted, and rode off, painfully realizing that a representative of his jailers constantly kept his eye on him. After a time he decided that he would not ride if he could not ride alone, and during the last four years of his life he was not on a horse. As he had depended on riding for exercise during the greater part of his life, he now suffered from giving it up. He not only began to grow extremely stout, but his general health became poorer.
It disturbed Napoleon greatly that the English always addressed him as "General Bonaparte." The title "Emperor" would have been so barren on St. Helena that it is hard to understand why Napoleon should have cared much about it. He might easily have been as philosophic about this as he was about other things.
Soon after his arrival Sir Hudson Lowe addressed a card of invitation to "General Bonaparte."
"Send this card to General Bonaparte," said Napoleon to Count Bertrand. "The last ​I heard of him was at the Pyramids and Mt. Tabor." Yet Napoleon was never happier, never better loved by the French people, than when, as General Bonaparte, he was received with the greatest enthusiasm on his return from his Italian campaign.
The English, on their part, were foolish in objecting to the use of a title to which he once had had a perfect right, with all its power and dignity. Now, deprived of the substance, there was no reason for forbidding him the pleasure of treasuring the shadow. Sir George Cockburn seems to have been almost childish in writing to Count Bertrand:
"I have no cognizance of any Emperor being actually upon this island, or of any person possessing such dignity (as stated by you) having come here."
Language like this was far more absurd than Napoleon's obstinacy on the subject. Even his good friend, Admiral Malcom, could not change his views. In the course of a conversation on the subject of letting him have the title "Emperor," Malcom said decidedly:
"Still, it would be impossible to treat you as a sovereign."
​"Why, they might leave me my honors to amuse me. It would do no harm on this rock."
"But you would have to be styled Emperor."
"No; they could not do that. I have abdicated."
"But you object to be called General."
"That is because I am no longer a general,—not since I returned from Egypt,—but why not call me 'Napoleon'?"
It was a long and painful discussion, and it did not end even with Napoleon's death. The British Government, since Napoleon was securely in its power, could have afforded to let him wear the title that had once been his by right, even though on St. Helena it would have shown itself an almost foolishly vain ornament. The foreign Commissioners were told by the countries that they represented to give him this title, but the Act of Parliament dealing with the distinguished prisoner had called him "Napoleon Bonaparte," and this, or "General Bonaparte," he was to be to all who had dealings with him at St. Helena.
Within his own circle—and in this circle ​the Balcombe family may be included—he was ever "the Emperor."
Napoleon often showed great kindness to the sick. For example, when a certain officer, Captain Meynell, was ill under Mr. Balcombe's roof at The Briars, Napoleon sent Cipriani, his maître d'hôtel, daily to inquire about him, and seemed really concerned when he asked about him.
Not long after he left The Briars, Betsy had a severe illness. When Napoleon heard of this he sent constantly to inquire for her, and the messenger usually brought her some delicacy made by Piron.
Napoleon's kindness of heart was also shown by his attitude toward the Malay slave, named Toby, who had care of the beautiful garden at The Briars. When no one was in it the garden was kept locked and the key was left in Toby's hands. Toby and Napoleon speedily became friends, and the black man always spoke of the Emperor as "that good man, Bony." He always placed the key of the garden where Napoleon could reach it under the wicket. The black man was original and ​entertaining, and so autocratic that no one at The Briars ever disputed his authority. His story was rather pathetic.
He had been enticed from his native place many years before, brought to St. Helena by the English, smuggled on shore and illegally sold as a slave, let out to whoever would hire him, and his earnings chiefly appropriated to his master. Napoleon perhaps recognized in Toby a kindred spirit, or at least felt a common bond in the fact that both had been brought unwillingly to the island. Certainly he liked him, and, when he had heard his story, wished to buy and free him. But for political reasons, when Mr. Balcombe made Napoleon's wishes known to Sir Hudson Lowe, he could not get his consent.
Toby, however, was grateful to Napoleon for his wish to help him, and continued his devoted admirer. On going from The Briars, Napoleon presented Toby with twenty-nine napoleons and always inquired for his health. When Napoleon left The Briars, Toby often arranged bouquets and fruits to go to Longwood,—"to that good man, Bony."
Toby, from all accounts, was an attractive ​fellow. His countenance had a frank and benevolent expression. His eyes were animated and sparkling, his aspect not abject, but prepossessing. So at least he appeared to Betsy, and one day she was interested to hear Napoleon reflecting upon him:
"What, after all, is a poor prisoner but a machine? As for poor Toby, he endures his misfortunes very quietly; he stoops to his work, and spends his days in innocent tranquillity. This man, after all, had his family and his happiness and his liberty, and it was a horrible act of cruelty to bring him here to languish in the fetters of his slavery."
Toby, however, was not the only slave on St. Helena. Not long after the first discovery of the island by the Portuguese, Juan Denova Castella, a nobleman, was exiled there for desertion and had to spend four years in complete solitude, except for a few slaves that he was allowed to have with him. The Portuguese did not colonize St. Helena, and after a time the Dutch held it for many years. When they had deserted it, the East India Company, with plenty of capital, took possession and naturally fell back on slave labor to ​cultivate the fields. When the Dutch saw that St. Helena was likely to prove profitable to the English they tried to get it back again, but the effort was unsuccessful, and since 1666 it has been counted an English possession. At one time a law was passed restricting the importation of slaves, for the colonists had begun to fear that they might outnumber the Europeans. There was, however, an old law that every Madagascar ship should leave one slave to work the company's plantations. The slaves were often troublesome, but the cruelty with which they were treated was inexcusable. Probably many a poor creature on the island had been stolen from his home, just as we know poor Toby had been stolen.
After the arrival of Sir Hudson Lowe, the new Governor reminded the people of St. Helena that their island was the last British possession to retain slavery. Various plans were proposed for doing away with it, and at last, at his suggestion, it was agreed that after Christmas Day, 1818, all children born of slave women should be considered free. Thus the great evil gradually ceased.
This good action on the part of Sir Hudson ​Lowe—that he helped gain freedom for the slaves—made him no better liked by Napoleon and his friends. From the first, indeed, the Governor was suspicious of Napoleon's friends, and the fear that they were plotting for Napoleon's escape was one of the reasons, probably, for the regulations that greatly annoyed Napoleon. It seemed as if he wished Napoleon to be surrounded entirely by English, for one of his early acts was to tell the French that they were at liberty to leave St. Helena whenever they wished. Every facility, he said, would be offered them to return to Europe. Had he known human nature better, Sir Hudson Lowe would have realized that persons who had given up so much to follow Napoleon would hardly desert him merely because conditions on the island did not suit them.
At last, on one pretext or another, he contrived to have several of Napoleon's attendants sent away,—Santini, the clever little lamplighter, the jack-of-all-trades, who had so often amused Betsy's small brothers with his toys; Rousseau, his artificer; and Archambaud, his coachman, whose reckless driving ​of the jaunting car always struck terror to Betsy's heart. Most important of all, however, was the departure of Count Las Cases, who had never failed to frown on Betsy's hoydenish pranks. With Count Las Cases went his son, the boy about whom Napoleon had loved to tease Betsy. It was before the end of Napoleon's first year at Longwood that these two were sent away on the charge of bribing a young native of St. Helena to carry a letter to Europe for them. This would not have been a serious offence, except for the reason that the Governor had made a regulation that no letter should be sent to Europe without passing through his hands.
For a time Las Cases and his son were in prison on the island. Later they were despatched to the Cape of Good Hope, where they were detained seven months and at last sent to England.
"Let them take away all my Frenchmen," said Napoleon sadly, after the departure of Las Cases. "I do not want them." He especially missed Las Cases, since it was to him that he daily dictated the material for his Memoirs.
​Not long after the departure of Las Cases, Napoleon was greatly disturbed because the Governor would not let him receive a visit from a botanist just arrived from Europe, who was known lately to have seen Maria Louisa and the little King of Rome. Betsy sympathized with him in his indignation at this and other needless restrictions.
Sometimes, however, she felt like laughing at him.
"Where is the Emperor, where is the Emperor?" she asked one morning, when staying at Longwood after a ball.
At first no one could inform her, but at last someone said, "Go over there; he is building a ditch."
Going in the direction indicated, the young girl found Napoleon superintending the building of a trench that he was having constructed, so that he might have a place where he could walk unobserved.
"Do not laugh!" he said, after Betsy had come upon him, standing with folded arms and downcast gaze. "Do not laugh! I must have a walk of my own, where no one can look at me when I go out."
​Even though she smiled, Betsy understood Napoleon's feeling. In his early days at The Briars, when he was permitted to walk out unattended, Napoleon was fond of strolling some distance from the cottage. Later when he could not go far without the watchful eye of an officer upon him, he almost gave up walking. At a certain hour of the afternoon, as it was known that he took a short walk along a straight path not far from the house, the curious often stationed themselves at a distance where they could observe him. On account of this annoying observation, Napoleon conceived the plan of digging a ditch or trench. The ditch served at least one purpose: while it was digging it gave Napoleon plenty of occupation in directing the workmen. When it was finished it is said that he never used it as a promenade.
His unwillingness to take exercise resulted in a serious illness. During this time Betsy and her sister did not see him, but whenever they met Dr. O'Meara they eagerly questioned him about their friend. "I would rather die at once than walk, as you prescribe." These were the words of Napoleon that Dr. O'Meara ​reported to the sisters. "I have tried persuasion of every kind, but I cannot get him to take exercise," he said, "although I have told him that this is the only thing that can possibly cure him. I urged him to let me call in another surgeon, so that if he should grow no better, too much blame need not fall on me, and what was his reply?"
Dr. O'Meara paused for a moment, and then repeated Napoleon's exact words: "If all the physicians in the world were collected, they would but repeat what you have already advised me—to take constant exercise on horseback. I am well aware of the truth of what you say, but if I were to call in another surgeon, it would be like sending a physician to a starving man instead of giving him a loaf of bread. I have no objection to your making known to him my state of health, if it be any satisfaction to you; but I know that he will say, 'Exercise.' As long as this strict surveillance is enforced, I will never stir."
In vain Dr. O'Meara repeated his arguments. Napoleon had but one reply, "Would you have me render myself liable to insult from the sentries surrounding my ​house, as Madame Bertrand was, some days ago?"
"Jane," said Betsy, who always saw the funny side of things, "what a fine caricature this would have made for the London print shops—Napoleon stopped at the gates by a sentinel, charging him with a fixed bayonet! How the Londoners would laugh! No, I don't blame Napoleon for staying indoors."
But when Betsy saw the Emperor after this illness, her heart was filled with pity. His skin was a waxy yellow and his cheeks hung in deep pouches. His ankles were terribly swollen, and he could not stand without the support of a table on one side and the shoulder of an attendant on the other.
As Betsy looked at him, tears fell from her eyes and she could hardly keep from sobbing aloud.
"Ah!" said Napoleon kindly. "Do not cry, Mees Betsee. I am almost well—and the good O'Meara will surely cure me."
Upon this Betsy became more cheerful, but later, when they were out of the Emperor's hearing, Mrs. Balcombe shook her head ​sorrowfully, as she turned to Betsy, saying, "He has the stamp of death on his brow."
Had Napoleon been less obstinate, within the eight miles of enclosure allotted him he might certainly have taken enough exercise of various kinds to preserve his health.