For over twenty years, since he first emerged in 1793 as a young artillery officer at a siege in Toulon, Napoleon Bonaparte had been the wonder and the despair of the world. His extraordinary energy had shaken the old countries of Europe to the roots—first France, then Italy, Germany, Spain, Portugal, not to mention Egypt, Russia and Syria—none would be the same after his passing through. By 1814, however, his enemies had been too much for him and he was incarcerated in the Mediterranean island of St Elba, not far from his Corsican birthplace. The diplomats of Europe packed their bags and prepared for a long and enjoyable session of haggling and self-indulgence at the Congress of Vienna. But they had not heard the last of Napoleon.
Aided by devoted adherents, he escaped from Elba in early 1815 and drove north to Paris, gathering more and more enthusiastic supporters as he went. This mesmeric power over the ordinary French people was his strength, not least because it was by far the most populous country in Europe—24 million people against Britain’s 10 million and Ireland’s 5 million (Germany and Italy were still divided into small states).
Europe quickly declared war against him, and eventually fought him to a stop at Waterloo. What Wellington famously called the ‘near-run thing’ cost 40,000 French, and perhaps 22,000 Allied soldiers’ deaths. Napoleon was soon forced to abdicate a second time.
This time the Allies were taking no chances. The most dangerous man in Europe had vividly shown his power during the hundred days since his escape from Elba, and they, particularly the British, were going to make sure that would not happen again. They identified one of the most remote islands in the world, a tiny victualling post in the middle of the southern Atlantic used by ships travelling to and from India. That was to be Napoleon’s new place of exile. Furthermore, the island was going to be policed by as many ships and soldiers as might be necessary to ensure that any escape plans, such as those mooted by Bonapartist refugees in America, should come to nothing.
On board the Bellerophon, the ship used to transport Napoleon and his entourage away from France, was a young Irish surgeon, Barry O’Meara, who was about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime. We join O’Meara on the first leg of the long voyage from Europe to Napoleon’s prison-island, thousands of miles away.
Late in the afternoon the doctor came on deck for fresh air. The heavy Atlantic swell had made most of the new passengers quite seasick. He had spent many hours in the stifling heat below, tending to those who were ill. It was now a beautifully blue, cloudless evening and there was a moderate fresh breeze. With the measured step of an experienced seaman, he made his way up to the poop deck, where he joined a small group of his fellow officers.
The conversation turned inevitably to the dramatic events of the previous days. Suddenly all those facing the stern stood to attention and removed their caps. The doctor turned and saw the Emperor coming towards them. He was accompanied by marshals and generals but, even though they surrounded him on all sides, there was still the sense of a respectful distance being observed. As one of them recalled later, although obviously a prisoner, ‘Napoleon was in fact still an Emperor aboard the Bellerophon. The captain, officers and crew soon adopted the etiquette of his suite, showing him exactly the same attention. The captain addressed him either as “Sire” or “Your Majesty”.’
After he had climbed up to the deck and nodded to the young officers to be at ease, Napoleon leaned against the rail and for a time gazed down at the clear water and then to the horizon. Eventually, turning back to the group, he noticed the doctor for the first time.
‘Are you the chirurgien major?’ he asked, addressing him in French. In Italian O’Meara confirmed that he was. In Italian also, Napoleon continued: ‘What is your native country?’ ‘Ireland.’ ‘Where did you study your profession? ‘I studied in Dublin and later in London.’ ‘And tell me, Doctor, which is the best school of medicine?’ ’For anatomy Dublin is best. London is best for medicine.’ ‘Ah, you only say that because you are Irish!’ ‘No, no, Sire—bodies are much cheaper to buy in Dublin, so our anatomy and hence our surgery is much better.’
Napoleon smiled at this reply and then changed the subject. ‘Where have you seen battle?’ the Emperor asked quietly. ‘I have fought, Sire, in Sicily, Egypt and. more recently, in the West Indies.’ O’Meara told him briefly of some of the more memorable battles in which he had been involved and then, in somewhat greater detail, of the capture of the 74-gun French flagship, the Rivoli. ‘You appear to have been remarkably fortunate in your sea battles.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘The Rivoli was a great loss.’
Napoleon wanted to know more about Egypt and the doctor told him of the rescue of a garrison under siege in Alexandria 1807. To his surprise he discovered that Napoleon had watered and fed his horses in the very same stable where he himself had bivouacked at Aboukir.
Napoleon laughed loudly at this, and afterwards ‘recognised’ O’Meara when he noticed him, and occasionally called on him to interpret or explain English terms. Since one of Napoleon’s entourage was ill, O’Meara was frequently in attendance, and Napoleon regularly asked about the patient, and about the malady and the mode of cure.
From these conversations arose a trust between the two men, and eventually an offer that was to set the thirty-two-year-old doctor on a life-changing course.
Newtown House today (John Geary)
The interior of Newtown House today, looking much as it would have in Barry O’Meara’s time (John Geary)
Barry Edward O’Meara, third child of Jeremiah and Catherine O’Meara, was born in 1783 in the elegant southern suburb of Dublin, then called Newtown on Strand and now known as Blackrock. He had two elder brothers, Healy and Charles. Some ten years later a sister, Charlotte, was born.
The O’Mearas were comfortably off. Like so many middle-class Protestant Irish, Jeremiah had held a commission in the British army. He had seen service in North America. Later, for ‘seizing with his own hands two of the leaders of an armed mob in the North of Ireland, who afterwards suffered the fate they merited’ he was granted a pension. Then he met and married a beautiful young woman called Catherine Harpur, whose family, recalled O’Meara, owned ‘much land in the counties of Queen’s County and King’s County’. She herself had a substantial income and as the family grew they could afford a large domestic staff. In addition, she employed her own unmarried sister Heather to act as governess to the children. They got on well with their equally comfortable neighbours in Newtown and could count the young Lord Edward Fitzgerald, cousin of Charles James Fox, who later became Britain’s Foreign Secretary, among their many friends.
By 1798, however, when Barry was fifteen, the world was a dangerous place. The British struggle against Napoleon’s French army had been long and not very successful; a detachment of French had attempted an invasion of Ireland in 1796, and again three times in 1798; the 1798 Rising caused thousands of Protestants from the south-east to flee to Wales before it was brutally crushed.
In Dublin the medical schools were working hard to fill the great demand for doctors for the army and the navy across the globe. But neither the army nor the navy could afford to maintain the age-old restrictive distinctions between the learned, hands-off physician and the rough and ready surgeon. The services needed men who could combine both surgery and medicine and that is what the Dublin schools provided.
One of those taking advantage of the new curriculum was Barry O’Meara, who began his training at the age of sixteen, attending lectures at the newly-established Royal College of Surgeons and at Trinity. With his easy-going disposition and agreeable personality, he made many friends. He was formally apprenticed (as solicitors and accountants still are) to one of the most successful medical men of the day, the city surgeon William Leake, a founder-member of the Royal College of Surgeons. O’Meara had great respect for Leake, speaking of him as a ‘wonderful gentleman, who was able and willing to pass on all his expertise’.
Having qualified in 1804, O’Meara immediately enlisted in the 62nd Regiment of Foot in the capacity of assistant surgeon. In his dark navyblue uniform, with its red edgings, the young man cut a fine figure in Dublin society. He was elected a member of the fashionable United Services Club. The future looked bright. In early January 1805 the 62nd were ordered to Portsmouth. There was trouble in the West Indies but unfortunately, the flotilla sailed straight into a gale, which soon became a hurricane. The ships turned and, one by one, made their way back to Portsmouth. The regiment were put on half-pay and told to await further orders. When none came, Barry O’Meara asked for permission to continue his medical education and attended various teaching hospitals in London, including St Bartholomew’s and Guy’s.
Occasionally he was able to return to Dublin and it was during one of these visits that he met an attractive young girl, whose name and subsequent history have disappeared from the records. She became pregnant and it is quite possible that she died during childbirth—an all too common tragedy at that time. The baby boy, whom Barry’s relatives named Dennis, survived and was brought up in Newtown by his sister Charlotte, with the assistance of the large domestic staff.
Meanwhile, the 62nd Regiment of Foot was ordered to the Mediterranean.
On land Napoleon was uniquely formidable. The Duke of Wellington famously compared his presence on the battlefield as equivalent to 40,000 reserves. His speed, technical mastery and aggression made him the supreme general of his day. By 1805 he had subdued, more or less, the continent and now turned his attention to his last and most formidable enemy—Britain. But a victory by the British navy at the Battle of Trafalgar prevented him from carrying out his long-developed plan to invade. For as long as O’Meara had been a student, the threat of invasion had loomed over Britain and Ireland (Ireland was expected to serve as a soft side-entry to Britain). Martello towers were erected along the exposed British and Irish coasts, and the fervid state of alertness sometimes reached fever pitch. In January 1804, for instance, the Freeman’s Journal reported that ‘an attempt without delay is now hourly expected’; the message was repeated on 17 January, 9 February and 14 February. The Rising of 1798 and the two previous invasion attempts showed that this was no empty threat. There is no doubt that the wave of relief that led to the erecting of Nelson’s pillars in Dublin and London was absolutely genuine.
By 1806, Britain had the most powerful navy in the world and was keen to consolidate control of the Mediterranean. However, there were problems everywhere in the region, especially in Egypt and southern Italy. It was for Italy that Barry O’Meara and the 62nd Regiment of Foot were bound.
Returning, perhaps with relief, to land warfare, Napoleon embarked on the re-annexation of Italy. He ordered his troops south to achieve this. Naples having fallen, he prepared to invade southern Italy itself, judging that he should then be able to take Sicily with ease. The prize this would deliver was greater still. As he said, ‘he who controls the straits of Messina controls the Mediterranean’.
As the French inched down the peninsula, Major-General Sir John Stuart scored an unexpected victory over the invading French force at Maida in Calabria—a welcome boost to British morale at the time. But his failure to follow up allowed the French to regroup and gradually, over the following year, to conquer the whole of Calabria. His indecision and delay would cost the lives of many of his soldiers. Malaria was rife, and most of the men who became infected subsequently died.
Only the small town of Scylla, with its spectacular castle perched high on a rock overlooking the Straits of Messina, just two miles from Sicily and the British army, resisted the French advance. Having laid siege, the French took Scylla at the end of December 1806 and then began to bombard the castle. Within were over 300 British soldiers and 500 local Calabrians, under the command of Colonel Robertson, of the 35th Regiment of Foot, who was determined to hold out to the last man. The commander of the British forces at Messina, Major-General Sherbrook, reported to the War Office that Scylla would be held, until further resistance became ‘an act of imprudence’.
The critical moment soon arrived. Major Robertson sent urgent pleas for food, reinforcements, ammunition and, most of all, medical help. It was in response to the situation in Scylla that Barry O’Meara and the 62nd Regiment had arrived in Messina some weeks before, in early December. They encamped around the outskirts of the town and awaited orders to invade Calabria. But they were very quickly diverted to Egypt.
The situation there had been giving rise to concern in London. There was tribal warfare all over the country and the most powerful tribe was led by Mohammed Ali (actually Albanian by birth), who was hostile to British interests. There was also the danger of another French invasion. An expeditionary force under General Alexander McKenzie Fraser set sail from Messina on 6 March 1807. Fraser’s orders were to capture the city of Alexandria, establish British control and show the flag. Preparations had taken a month and the flotilla which sailed comprised 33 ships, with 242 officers, 5,672 soldiers (and 500 horses), and almost 700 women and children on board. The intention was clearly to remain in Egypt for some time.
But, from the start, misfortune dogged the expedition. Fraser was facing a particularly ruthless and powerful enemy in the person of Ali and he was not helped by the fact that his orders were ambiguous. To make matters worse, on the night following the expedition’s departure from Messina, a gale blew up which separated 19 of the ships from the rest. Fraser was eventually able to reach Alexandria, with 2,200 men, on the morning of 16 March. He landed his men with considerable difficulty through the pounding surf but was subsequently able to surround and capture the city with ease. It seemed that his mission had been accomplished—all he had to do now was to reinforce his position, ‘show the flag’ and stay put. But some time later the British Consul in Cairo, Major Missett, advised him that there was widespread starvation in Alexandria. The good news was, however, that in the small town of Rosetta, 40 miles to the east, there was ‘abundant food’ to be had. Moreover, Rosetta’s defences were minimal and the Albanian soldiers there ‘just a mere rabble of savages’. Rosetta had not featured in his orders. Fraser was in a quandary. However, as he wrote many years later, ‘it was difficult not to yield to Missett’s representations so, reluctantly, I gave way’.
Unfortunately, he sent too small a force—just 1,600 men and two canons, under the unfortunate Colonel Meade—to capture Rosetta. Meade reached a small hill overlooking the town on 31 March. The town appeared perfectly still. The gates were opened and, with no precautions, the troops were led through the narrow streets to the centre of Rosetta. Accounts vary on what happened next. Some say that there was no initial opposition of any kind and that British soldiers were actually having lunch in a coffee house when the retreat was suddenly sounded. Shooting began from every window and rooftop. Not withstanding this, the troops managed to retire in good order back to the hills outside the city, carrying their wounded as they went. But the Albanians followed in savage pursuit. They cut off stragglers and any wounded men who were captured were first mutilated and then decapitated. Captured soldiers who could walk were forced to carry the severed head of one of their comrades as a present for the Pasha. Of the 1,600 who had set out, only 460 returned to Alexandria.
Fraser decided that, for the sake of his reputation and wounded British pride, he must make another attempt to take Rosetta. This time he sent 2,500 men and 11 guns. On arrival after three days, the expedition encamped outside the walls, deciding to wait 24 hours before attacking. The next morning they found themselves surrounded by thousands of Mamelukes. There was no choice but to abandon the siege and fight their way back again to Alexandria. Fraser’s situation was now desperate. Alexandria was under siege. Food was short. Of the 5000 men with whom he had set out, more than half were killed, wounded, stricken by sickness or in captivity. Those who had survived were dispirited, having had to witness the mutilation and decapitation of their comrades and aware that 400 troops were still being held by the enemy. And he had 380 women in his care. The thought of surrender was too awful to contemplate. He could not abandon Alexandria without making some effort to take back those who had been captured. He decided to attempt negotiation with Mohammed Ali. An officer and two privates marched out of the city with a white flag. But as soon as they reached enemy lines they were shot. Fraser tried again. Again the three soldiers were killed. At this stage he guessed that the Muslim army did not understand the significance of the white flag. This time two Muslims were sent from the city and negotiations were finally able to begin. Mohammed asked quite simply why Fraser was in Egypt and what he wanted.
While the negotiations were taking place, the Cambridge, bearing the 62nd Regiment of Foot, arrived at Aboukir harbour. They remained some days and Barry O’Meara bivouacked in horse stables while he treated the many wounded. Two days later they set off for Alexandria, on their way passing the severed heads of fellow-soldiers, impaled on stakes and rotting in the sun. Upsetting as the sight was, it instilled not fear but ‘a resolution to fight and win.’
Once the 62nd had reached Alexandria, Fraser’s negotiating hand was greatly strengthened. He informed Ali that he would abandon Egypt if all the British prisoners were returned. One of the officers who had been held was released and was able to inform Fraser that his fellow prisoners—as many as 500 in all—had been well treated and that this was owing to the intervention of the French Consul, Monsieur Dournatan. (Fraser later sent heartfelt thanks to the Frenchman for saving so many of his men.) Mohammed Ali agreed to the proposal. All the soldiers who had been captured—even those who had by then been sold into slavery—were returned to Alexandria. Women, children and the wounded boarded the first available vessel. Fraser’s now much-reduced expeditionary force was accommodated on a second ship. Last to board, having stayed to the end to ensure that Ali kept his word, were the 62nd Regiment of Foot. Subsequently, Lord Windham’s replacement as Secretary for War by Lord Castlereagh led to a change in the policy towards Egypt. The reasoning had been that, to secure Egypt, Sicily would have to be ignored. But Sicily was England’s fortress in the Mediterranean and there could be no question of such an alternative. Egypt must be sacrificed.
The return of the expedition to Messina was met with much rejoicing. But the news from Scylla (sent by semaphore) was not encouraging: Lieutenant Colonel Robertson’s situation in the castle was evidently desperate. The senior medical officer in Messina, Dr Greene, sent for his Irish colleague. He had received impressive reports of Dr O’Meara’s fortitude under very trying circumstances in Egypt. Would he be willing to help the beleaguered regiment in Scylla? O’Meara immediately promised to row across that night. The Straits of Messina are only two miles wide but the deep whirlpools and strong currents make the journey very dangerous and it was almost daybreak when he arrived at the base of the sheer cliff on which Scylla Castle stands. With great difficulty he managed to gain the summit of the cliff, carrying with him food and a large quantity of medical supplies. In the castle, there were many severely wounded men, some of whom were dying from loss of blood. He did what he could, despite the hopelessness of the situation.
Meanwhile, the French ‘bombarded the castle night and day, until it was no more than a pile of rubble’. Robertson decided to abandon Scylla and retreat to Messina. First to go were the wounded. ‘At midday the painful journey began’, O’Meara recorded. ‘Forty-nine stretchers were brought down the narrow stairwell, while French riflemen fired at us from the beach.’ With some pride he added: ‘All 49 severely wounded men were eventually returned to Messina without loss of life.’ (When I visited Messina and Scylla in 1980 the castle was undergoing extensive repairs, and even a fault line in the rock on which it was built was being sealed. What remained, however, was an almost perpendicular line from the sea to the top of the parapet of nearly 200 feet. How Barry O’Meara managed to evacuate his wounded I will never understand.)
A violent thunderstorm delayed the evacuation of the rest but, on 17 February 1807, Captain Troy on the Electra was able to put small boats right up against the cliff-face and, within 24 hours, the fortress was abandoned. On returning to Messina, every officer was congratulated personally by Major-General Stuart. Each was awarded an extra bar of soap and advised to keep his hair shorter! But France was now in command of the whole of Italy.
During the long hot Sicilian summer that followed, it was inevitable that arguments and even fighting would break out here and there among some of the troops. Quarrels between soldiers and some of the locals (all of whom carried knives) were regarded as understandable. But fighting among officers could not be tolerated. Major-General Stuart was determined to get rid of duelling, then quite prevalent in Italy. It was at this time that a friend of Barry O’Meara’s, Captain Crookshank, became embroiled in a troublesome argument with a fellow officer, a Captain Robertson. Crookshank asked O’Meara to act as his second. O’Meara wrote later: ‘I felt myself bound not to withhold my support in a situation of peculiar delicacy. Although the affair was terminated without any injury to either party—a result to which I had the consolation of reflecting I greatly contributed, Stuart insisted that the challenger and his second should be arrested.’ Accordingly, in November he was brought to a court-martial at Messina and cashiered from the army.
What to do now? Lack of funds ruled out his return to Ireland, where there was little hope of employment. The court-martial’s decision was wounding but it had not destroyed his enthusiasm for service to the forces. He had been in the army for only two-and-a-half years when his career ended but, as he wrote in his memoirs, he knew that ‘he got on well with his troops and was popular among his brother officers’. Resourcefully, he decided to try his luck with the navy. Carrying with him letters of introduction from Dr Greene, the most senior officer at Messina, he sailed for Malta.
Although attempts were made much later to smear O’Meara in respect of the reasons he left the army, at the time it was clearly recognised as being hardly more than a technical offence. Furthermore, the service clearly needed skilled medical men. He went to Malta, where, introduced by his old friend Dr Greene he had the good fortune to meet Sir Alexander Ball. O’Meara was appointed assistant surgeon in the Royal Navy. However, before he could become full surgeon to a ship, he would have to do a two-year apprenticeship as an assistant. In August 1809 he joined the Ventura, anchored in Valetta Harbour. Early in his career, he served on various ships. He was attached to the flotilla which harassed Murat’s army in Messina, at that time attempting to invade Sicily. Murat lost more than 1,200 men in a succession of failed attempts at invasion. When O’Meara came on shore he was greeted enthusiastically by his fellow officers of the 62nd Regiment, as he wrote later in his memoirs when recalling his military career: ‘My conduct, while in the army, was not wholly devoid of merit, and . . . my departure from the 62nd was regretted by most of the officers of that regiment—this may be inferred from the very flattering reception I experienced on my return to Sicily.’
His next appointment was to the Victorious, under Captain John Talbot, which was sailing in the Mediterranean at that time. At the beginning of 1812 it was ordered to the port of Venice, along with the Weazel , under Captain John Andover. They were instructed to find, engage and, if possible, capture France’s newest ship of the line, the 74-gun Rivoli.
On the foggy morning of 21 February the Rivoli and some smaller vessels were spotted coming out of port and setting a course across the Adriatic for Pola. The Victorious followed and, at 4.30 a.m., brought the Rivoli into action. As the ships closed on one another, both opened fire. Although a splinter almost blinded Captain Talbot, obliging him to hand over command to Lieutenant Thomas Peake, his deputy carried the battle to a satisfactory conclusion five hours later when the enemy ran aground on a sandbank. This made it easy for the Victorious to sail around the stranded Rivoli and, once the French vessel’s mizzen mast had been lost, the Victorious closed in. Fierce hand-to-hand fighting followed but, eventually, the captain of the Rivoli was forced to surrender.
At home, much was made of the capture of the newest French battleship, with a complement of 850, by 500 British sailors. The victory had not been secured without a cost: 27 crew-members of the Victorious were killed and 99 wounded and the two surgeons on board had to work for hour after hour over the next four days. There were many amputations and more than 200 men from either side had to be treated.
Barry O’Meara’s commanding officer, now Sir John Talbot, sent glowing reports of his new surgeon back to the Admiralty, the first time he had been mentioned in dispatches. The good opinion he had won was mirrored in a letter from Dr Greene, who had originally recommended him and who was now the most senior surgeon in the navy. Writing from Malta on 6 May 1812, Greene reported to the Admiralty: ‘Mr O’Meara, whom you must recollect in the 62nd Regiment, and who was really—in my opinion—dealt rigidly with, has requested me to introduce him to you once more. I am happy to say that he has not forfeited my good opinion of him. In a most severe action he has proved himself to be a well-informed professional man, and by his good conduct, during nearly three years as an Assistant Surgeon on board the Victorious, he has gained the esteem of his captain and officers. Captain Talbot has mentioned him in his public dispatch in very handsome terms.’
O’Meara’s name was now entered on the surgical list of the Royal
Ship |
Guns |
Date |
Captain |
Assistant surgeon 1808–9 |
|||
Ventura |
– |
Dec 1808 |
Thomas Younger |
Sabine |
18 |
May 1808 |
James Donner |
Victorious |
74 |
Nov 1809 |
John Talbot |
Senior surgeon 1812–15 |
|||
Espiègle |
18 |
Sept 1812 |
? Taylor |
Goliath |
56 |
Nov 1813 |
Frederick Maitland |
Boyne |
96 |
Nov 1814 |
Frederick Maitland |
Bellerophon |
74 |
April 1815 |
Frederick Maitland |
Navy. He was appointed to various ships, seeing action in the Americas and the West Indies. Among other places, he spent a considerable time off the coast of Surinam and the port of Paramaribo. In due course he was fortunate enough to come under the command of an agreeable, softly-spoken Scottish captain, Frederick Maitland, and due perhaps to their common Celtic origin or the fact that Maitland had a young Irish wife, the two men became friendly.
Maitland’s high esteem for Barry O’Meara was clearly expressed in a letter of 5 November 1814 to Dr Harness in which he observed that ‘during fifteen years of service I have commanded many of his Majesty’s ships—I have never had the pleasure of sailing with an officer in his situation who so fully meets my expectations. I am not a judge of his professional abilities—though I have every reason to believe them of the first class and know that to be the opinion of some of the oldest and most respectable surgeons in the navy. I shall only state that during the period of very bad weather which occasioned the Goliath to be extremely sickly his attention and tenderness to the men was such as to call forth my warmest approbation and the grateful affection of both officers and men. Were it possible that I should soon obtain another appointment—I know of no man in the service I should wish to have as surgeon so much as Mr O’Meara. As however in the present state of the war, this is not likely, I trust you will do me the favour of giving him an appointment as an encouragement to young men of his description.’
Maitland appears to have been more successful in his intervention on the young doctor’s behalf than he had expected and was able to persuade the Admiralty to allow Barry O’Meara to follow him on to two further vessels. The second of these was an old but still impressive 74-gun man-of-war, the Bellerophon.
