In his memoirs Barry O’Meara recalls the shock the travellers received at the first sight of their new home. ‘We arrived at St Helena,’ he wrote, ‘on the 15th of October. Nothing can be more desolate than the appearance of the exterior of the island.’ William Forsyth (the lawyer who was to attack O’Meara’s account of his time with Napoleon but who never actually visited the island) combined travellers’ tales and described it thus: ‘Its appearance from the sea is gloomy and forbidding. Masses of volcanic rock with sharp and jagged peaks tower up around the coast and form an iron girdle which seems to bar all access to the interior. And the few points where a landing can be effected were then bristling with cannon, so as to render the aspect still more formidable. The whole island bears evidence of having been formed by the tremendous agency of fire, but so gigantic are the strata of which it is composed, and so disproportionate to its size that some have thought it the relic and wreck of a submerged continent. Its seared and barren sides without foliage or verdure, present an appearance of dreary desolation.’
One of the most isolated places in the world—St Helena. This photograph was taken more than a mile distant from the island. The sea at this point is two miles deep, the cliffs are 200 feet high.
St Helena, one of the most isolated places in the world, is not an island paradise. A gaunt bare rock more than 1,200 miles from the nearest land mass, its appearance, as Betsy Balcombe put it in her memoir of her stay there, ‘is certainly but little calculated to make one fall in love with it.’ The island is about 10½ miles long, 6¾ miles wide and 28 miles in circumference (rather smaller than Lough Neagh). It was discovered by the Portuguese in 1502 and it was they who introduced the goats that rapidly destroyed the inland woods and most of the unique indigenous plant life, making the island even bleaker. Other unknown sailors accidentally introduced the rats which were such a feature of island life. St Helena was captured by the British in the 17th century and leased by Charles II to the East India Company, which used it as a staging and victualling post on the long journeys to and from India before the Suez Canal was built. The wind blows constantly and steadily from the south-east.
Like so many tropical stations, it was, as Barry O’Meara discovered, a very unhealthy place. Dysentery, inflammation of the bowels, liver problems, fevers all took their toll. (It was later discovered that the poor water supply was a major cause of these ailments.) The island, as O’Meara put it, was ‘so unfavourable to longevity that very few persons pass their 45th year.’ When British propagandists declared that St Helena was ‘positively and decidedly healthy’, O’Meara indignantly recorded that ‘during my residence at Longwood there was not a single individual of Napoleon’s suite (with the exception of Count Bertrand) who had not been seriously and most of them dangerously ill; either with fever, dysentery, inflammation of the bowels or liver. All of Count Bertrand’s and General Montholon’s children had been dangerously ill; and three deaths occurred at Longwood from inflammation of the bowels, and dysentery in as many weeks.’ The island’s good reputation, so blithely affirmed by Wellington, derived, O’Meara believed, from the fact that few Europeans (at least until Napoleon arrived) spent a considerable time on the island, and they would have found any landfall a pleasant change after the cramped, damp and uncomfortable conditions on board an East Indiaman.
In April 2005 I visited St Helena. We sailed from Cape Town on a 38,000-ton ship which even at a steady 18 knots took seven days to reach the island (in Napoleon’s time a 74-gun ship such as the Northumberland would have been lucky to average 6 knots on such a voyage.) The island, lost and isolated in the vast southern Atlantic loomed bigger than I had imagined.
Mr Henry Porteous’ lodging house, where Napoleon spent his first night on St Helena
For the most part it is made of tall volcanic mountains composed of black magma whose peaks have been bleached white by the sun. From the sea the most visible aspect are the looming cliffs of volcanic rock, some reaching as much as 200 feet above the sea. There are only two or three little places where a landing can be made—making St Helena an ideal prison island.
We dropped anchor a thousand metres from shore and were ferried to land by lifeboat. Jamestown is still the only town on the island, jammed between two steep mountains on the warmer side of the island facing a natural harbour. There are about 400 houses. Some one-fifth of the 5,000 population lives in Jamestown, the rest in small farms scattered across the island.
Some of the interior is fertile, and there are numerous small farms filled with cows and sheep; other parts are no more than bare rock.
The present population is a delightful mixture of races—English, Chinese, Indian and African. They speak a kind of sing-song English, and are remarkably happy, helpful and pleasant. They appeared delighted to see us, but oddly uninterested in Napoleon. The house where he stayed his first night on the island is perversely called Wellington House, and only the efforts by the French have preserved Longwood and Napoleon’s tomb for posterity. Nonetheless, I was reluctant to leave this island of happiness.
In 1815 the government took the island over from the East India Company to house its illustrious prisoner—and to forestall any Bonapartist rescue attempts they simultaneously took over St Helena’s immediate neighbours, the Ascension Islands, half a dozen rocks a mere 600 miles away, and Tristan da Cunha. At this time the population on St Helena was some 3,000 souls most of whom lived in the one town, Jamestown, which sits uncomfortably in the cleft of a wedge on the leeward side of the island, facing a deep sheltered bay. The town consisted of a small street across the beach, the marina, and another, about 300 yards long, at right angles to it.
In October 1815 the townspeople were, of course, in a considerable state of excitement, having heard a day or two before of their guest. (They were so isolated that the news of his coming among them was the first that they had heard of his escape from Elba.)
The Governor General, Colonel Wilks, came on board the Northumberland soon after it moored. He was introduced to Napoleon. There was, he explained, some difficulty finding accommodation for the French, so everyone had to remain on the ship for the next 24 hours. The normal and reasonably private accommodation for distinguished guests was Castle House, but it was too near the sea.
Eventually, accommodation was found in a boarding house on the main street owned by Mr Henry Porteous. To prevent ‘many prying eyes on his arrival’, Napoleon requested that they delay their disembarkation until the evening time.
The gig carrying Napoleon and Count Bertrand arrived at Jamestown harbour after sunset. By this time most of the crowds that had been anxiously waiting for a glimpse of the great man had dispersed, but rumour quickly circulated that Napoleon and his entourage were in Porteous’. A crowd gathered outside, hoping he might show his face at the door or even the window. The house was clean and neat, but small and completely lacking in privacy. O’Meara recalls: ‘Counts Bertrand and Montholon (who, with their ladies, Count Las Cases and his son, General Gourgaud and myself) were also accommodated in the house.’ Napoleon was unable to go out or even walk from his bedroom without being seen.
‘At a very early hour on the morning of the 18th Napoleon, accompanied by the Admiral and Las Cases, proceeded to Longwood, a country seat of the Lieutenant-Governor’s which had been chosen as the place most proper for his future residence.’ This house, for Napoleon and his entire retinue, was situated high in the mountain about four miles from Jamestown. Although Napoleon was keen to get away from the prying eyes of the townspeople, as Barry O’Meara put it, Longwood’s appearance was ‘sombre and unpromising’. It was no better than a lightlybuilt country cottage, with five rooms, intended for use only a few months a year. It was totally inadequate for the Emperor and his suite which was eventually to amount to over forty persons. O’Meara learned later that the locals were astonished at the choice, regarding the situation as bleak and exposed. The house had never before been lived in for more than a few months a year. Local rumour assumed that a winter residence would also be provided.
Longwood as it appeared in 1816
The location was evidently chosen more for security reasons than any thought of the personal comfort of the inhabitants. Longwood was perched on a high plateau at an altitude of 1,800 feet, and crucially on the windward side of the island. For the three hottest months of the year the cool was attractive. For the remaining nine months the house was regularly surrounded by a thick damp mist and subjected to a piercing cold southern wind. It often rained for days on end—unrelentingly. There was no water, and no shade—the few trees were bent horizontal by the constant wind. The nearby 1,500-acre estate of gumwood trees was depressingly called Deadwood.
The state of the house made it clear that a considerable amount of work would be necessary to make Longwood habitable. On the way up Napoleon had noticed a beautiful little house in a quiet valley about a mile and a half from Jamestown. Called ‘The Briars’ it belonged to a Mr William Balcombe, a purveyor for the East India Company. The house was surrounded by trees, a green lawn and a well-kept garden. To the side, on the elevated plateau, stood a small pavilion consisting of one good room on the ground floor and two attic rooms above. It looked beautiful and peaceful, just what Napoleon wanted. Admiral Cockburn and the party accordingly went to The Briars, and the Emperor expressed his desire to remain there.
In her Recollections Betsy Balcombe takes up the story: ‘My family at the time of the Emperor’s arrival consisted of my father, my mother, my elder sister, myself and my two brothers, who were quite children. My father had offered Sir George Cockburn apartments at the cottage, and he immediately assured us of his willingness to resign them to General Bonaparte as the situation seemed to please him so much. Napoleon determined on not going down to the town again, and wished his rooms to be got ready for him immediately.’ Betsy, who was possibly fifteen at the time, was quickly smitten by the great man, the celebrity of the world landed in their garden, and there is no doubt that Napoleon was happy to encourage her. Her Recollections, written many years later, after an unfortunate marriage, is the diary of a teenage girl who falls in love with a very powerful man.
Napoleon’s camp-bed was put up without delay and to keep him company, Count Las Cases and his fourteen-year-old son occupied the two garrets overhead. A marquee was attached to the front of the building and fitted up as a dining-room. Here Napoleon spent the first two months of his island captivity in total relaxation, the first such episode since his abdication. The house was private as it was surrounded by trees; there was a high waterfall to the back. The garden was warm, secluded, and filled with various fruits such as peaches, lemons, grapes, figs, oranges and mangoes. Napoleon spent his time reading and dictating his memoirs to Las Cases.
In the evening he invited himself into the family to play cards, eat or perhaps just to enjoy the family life. Of the two teenage girls, Jane, the eldest, was quite reserved and somewhat afraid of Napoleon. Betsy was tall for her years, blonde, and was jealously described by Madame Bertrand as ‘a fully-grown woman with the mind of a teenage girl’. Both girls spoke French. Betsy in particular had an excellent singing voice and played the guitar quite well. During the months of his stay at The Briars, she tried to teach the Emperor English, and also dancing, the guitar and tried even to make him sing—the latter with very little success as Napoleon was tone deaf! However, the Emperor enjoyed all her efforts immensely.
Once arrangements were completed the Admiral and the rest returned to Jamestown. (Dr O’Meara would come up to The Briars each morning.) Some chairs were brought out on the lawn and seating himself, Napoleon asked Betsy to sit beside him. In her Recollections she describes his appearance: ‘I was able to inspect his face more carefully. He had a remarkable profile, straight nose, strong jaw, olive skin and fine brown silky hair, just like a child’s. He had perfectly white straight teeth and when he smiled it was like the sun coming from behind a cloud.’ He enquired if she knew the capitals of Europe, France, Italy, and Russia? ‘Petersburg now,’ she replied, ‘Moscow formerly.’ ‘On my saying this,’ she remembered, ‘he turned abruptly round and fixing his piercing eyes full on my face, he demanded sternly: “Qui l’a brûlé?”’ Betsy hesitated—she was afraid to answer. He repeated the question more forcefully. She stammered “I do not know, Sir.” “Oui, oui,” he replied, laughing violently. “Vous savez très bien, c’est moi qui l’a brûlé!’ On seeing him laugh I gained a little courage and said, “I believe, Sir, the Russians burned it to get rid of the French.”’
That evening Napoleon came into the house and as neither Mr nor Mrs Balcombe spoke French he addressed himself to Betsy. He asked her if she played music—adding that he supposed she was too young to play herself. Rather piqued, she replied that not alone could she play but she could also sing, which she did. When she finished, Napoleon said that it was the prettiest English air that he had ever heard. Betsy replied rather brusquely that it was Scottish. He then asked her to sing ‘Vivre Henri Quatre’. She said she did not know it, so Napoleon stood up and sang, but ‘as with his subsequent attempts at singing I never could discover what tune he was executing.’ Despite this, so passed Napoleon’s first pleasant evening with the happy Balcombe family.
There followed a curious moment of calm in the Emperor’s life. It was, after all, barely a year since he had escaped from his previous island prison, Elba, reasserted himself as ruler of France and plunged once again into warfare against the massed armies of Europe. Now he was to spend two months as the guest of an English country gentleman, with as his principal companion a hoydenish fifteen-year-old girl. Betsy Balcombe had a wild streak which evidently appealed to the Emperor. Napoleon allowed her a fool’s privilege of entry to his presence, and encouraged her chatter about local doings (she and her sister had learned French from a servant). Most of his day was spent working on his memoirs with Las Cases or Bertrand, Montholon or Gourgaud. Visitors called, but Napoleon did not leave the grounds.
The pavilion at The Briars, where Napoleon spent his first two months on the island.
According to Betsy, the Emperor’s habits during his stay were simple and regular. He got up at 8 a.m. and had nothing more than coffee for breakfast. He lunched at 1 and dined at 9 p.m. in the evening. He retired to bed at about 11 p.m. Betsy recalls constantly meeting him: ‘His manner was so unaffected, kind and amiable that in a few days I felt perfectly at ease in his company and looked upon him more as a companion of my own age rather than a mighty warrior!’
Napoleon lived very simply and cared little or nothing about what he ate. When finished he abruptly pushed his chair away from the table and quit the dining-room, ‘apparently glad it was over!’ Betsy records in her memoirs many trifling incidents—such as getting Napoleon to pretend he was a monster. Napoleon enjoyed romping, physical games; he had, she reports, a ‘boyish love of mirth and glee, not unmixed sometimes with a tinge of malice’. She records her indignation at his shameless cheating at cards. He regularly teased her about marrying young Las Cases, who was then only fourteen. Betsy was furious at Napoleon treating her as a child (especially as she wished to attend a ball some weeks later which she feared her father might not allow). The Emperor, noting her annoyance, held both her hands behind her back and ordered the young lad to kiss her, which, being a gallant Frenchman, he did. Once Betsy was free she hit him as hard as she could across the face.
On another occasion Napoleon showed her his ‘costly and elegant sword’. Impulsively she decided to take revenge for some earlier slight, and ‘drew the blade out quickly from the scabbard and began to flourish it over his head, making passes at him, the Emperor retreating until at last I had him fairly pinned up in the corner. I kept telling him all the time that he had better say his prayers for I was going to kill him. My sister and Las Cases ran in and begged me to instantly desist, but I only laughed and maintained my post—until my arm dropped from sheer exhaustion.’
Napoleon then caught her ear (which had been pierced only the day before) and pinched it, giving rise to great pain. He then pulled her nose heartily in good fun. His good humour never left him during the whole scene. On another occasion, coming at the end of a single file descending a narrow garden stairway, she deliberately crashed into the person in front of her so that they tumbled like dominoes and, to the horror of Las Cases, even knocked Napoleon. Sometimes indeed she went too far—on one occasion her father punished her rudeness to Napoleon by locking her in the cellar. The dark and gloom were bad enough, but the worst were the famous St Helena rats ‘who leaped about me on all sides. I was half-dead with horror and should most certainly have been devoured alive by the vermin had I not in despair seized a bottle of wine and dashed it among my assailants.’ The contest continued, at the expense of Mr Balcombe’s cellar, until both she and the rats were overcome by alcohol.
Meanwhile Admiral Cockburn and his seamen were bustling about getting Longwood ready. Their brisk activity caused no little surprise among the local tradesmen who were unused to such a pace of work. As O’Meara put it, ‘the Admiral was frequently seen to arrive at Longwood shortly after sunrise, stimulating by his presence the St Helena workmen who, in general lazy and indolent, beheld with astonishment the dispatch and activity of the sailors.’ By early December (high summer in those latitudes) Longwood was ready for some of Napoleon’s party. So, greatly to the besotted Betsy’s dismay, Napoleon, Count and Countess Montholon and the Las Cases moved into what was to be the Emperor’s last home. O’Meara lived in a tent at Longwood until his room was ready.
The building chosen to be Napoleon’s residence was originally a barn erected to store the oats, barley and wheat that attempts were being made to grow nearby. These failing, in 1797 the Governor General had it converted into a makeshift ‘holiday home’ for use a couple of months a year. It had been built on a high desolate plateau on the coldest and wettest part of the island. During the hottest months of the year, January, February and March, it afforded some relief from the equatorial heat of Jamestown. For three months the climate was almost Mediterranean. However, for the remaining months of the year the house was shrouded in mist and fog. It would rain constantly for many days. From April until the end of the year the cold southern wind would increase, and once this hit the high cliffs and mountains of St Helena it would be swept up into the atmosphere creating clouds, mist, fog and constant heavy rain.
Despite its proximity to the equator (16° south) the plateau often became extremely cold. Once the sun went down the temperature could fall by over 10°C. The evening air would turn into a claustrophobic wet mist, blocking out everything, the sun, the moon, the stars. Unlike around The Briars, the vegetation was sparse. Apart from a few eucalyptus trees, few plants could thrive on this inhospitable plain. Only rough grass, which was quite inedible for animals, and a peculiar gumwood tree could survive here. The sap from these ugly looking trees provided nourishment for millions of large blue flies. For the consumption of the British public, this bleak environment was presented as a wooden palace, ‘the gardens teeming with flowers’; and a fanciful drawing was released of ‘Longwood House, from the flower garden’, embellished with parterres, trees and shrubs.
During the hot summer months the relentless sun would beat down on the cardboard roof painted with thick coats of tar. The burning tropical heat would melt the tar; this would, in turn drip down. More problematic were the rats. It was they, so it was said, that had caused the failure of the crops, and now they were everywhere. As O’Meara wrote, ‘the rats are so numerous at Longwood, and so fearless that they often assemble even in daytime to feed when the kitchen offal is thrown out (in their feeding frenzy they often devoured one another) . . . the floors at Longwood were so perforated with their holes as to resemble sieves. Napoleon’s own dining-room was particularly infested with them; one of these obnoxious animals sprung out of his hat when he was going to put it on after dinner.’
The rooms were separated by a wooden double panelling, just sufficiently wide to allow the passage of these large black rats. To eliminate the pest, rat-hunting became a favourite sport. At dusk the servants would uncover the holes and wait until the rats crept out looking for food. On a signal they would charge in with dogs and cats, close up the holes and start to slaughter the vermin. The rats would turn on their attackers, biting some of the servants quite viciously.
When the rains came there was the additional problem of leaking roofs, when water came in everywhere. O’Meara recorded: ‘This is partly caused by the bad construction of the roofs which are in a great measure formed of boards and brown paper, smeared over with a composition of pitch and tar which when melted by the rays of the sun runs off and leaves open a number of chinks through which the rain finds an easy admission.’ In the rainy season ‘the French officers and their ladies have been repeatedly compelled by the rain to get up several times in the night to shift their own and their children’s beds’. Madame Montholon had great difficulty in keeping her children, sleeping in their cots, dry at night, and making sure there were no rats asleep with them. Daily repairs, plugging up holes with cloth or wood were very often insufficient to keep the place dry. O’Meara’s own room was frequently inundated, but, as an old seadog, he was more used to such inconveniences.
Napoleon’s household at Longwood consisted of around forty persons. The principal attendants were Count Montholon and his wife and three children, General Gourgaud, and Count de Las Cases and his young son. Count Bertrand, with his wife and children, lived in a separate house about a mile away. There were also numerous servants, headed by Louis Marchand, Napoleon’s valet, and including three stable hands. Barry O’Meara also had a room in the house, as did Captain Poppleton, the orderly officer, under whose immediate care Napoleon was.
In the claustrophobic atmosphere the aristocrats did not, unfortunately, see eye to eye: Montholon and Gourgaud indeed were so much at loggerheads that Napoleon had to forbid them to fight a duel. In his memoirs Gourgaud refers to Las Cases as ‘a Jesuit’ who was only on the island to get what he could out of the situation. In addition, Montholon blamed Las Cases for mishandling the situation immediately after Napoleon’s abdication that had led them to their present plight. Many writers, including myself, believe that Napoleon had an affair with Madame Montholon, and perhaps others, and certainly Longwood residents conducted affairs with women of the island. It should be remembered that all the actors in this drama were comparatively young. Napoleon himself was forty-six, Bertrand forty-two, Gourgaud and Montholon thirty-two; Las Cases was the old man of the party at forty-nine. Barry O’Meara was now thirty-three.
The conditions set by Admiral Cockburn in which England’s great prisoner was kept were elaborately strict. No one could risk a repetition of his escape from Elba only eighteen months before. It was estimated that the total cost of keeping Napoleon on St Helena was £91,000 a year (almost the same as the £65,000 paid to the Prince of Wales plus the £35,000 a year paid to his estranged wife.) More than half of this went in sustaining the naval surveillance, including the islands of Tristan da Cunha and Ascension.
On the island a central space was allotted to Napoleon within which he could ride or walk without being accompanied by a British officer. Within this space were camps of the 53rd and 66th regiments which supplied the troops for the guards at the entrance to Longwood and around the perimeter. At night these guards closed in to create a tight cordon, and Napoleon was not allowed to leave the building. Visitors required permission firstly from the Governor and then from Count Bertrand.
Further sentries were placed on all the paths leading to the sea, and around the island two warships patrolled constantly. No foreign vessels, unless in severe distress, were allowed into Jamestown harbour, and all the island’s fishing boats were numbered and checked in every night by a naval officer. The strict controls insisted on by the authorities affected the people of the island also. On one memorable occasion a large party, including Betsy Balcombe and her family, went on a picnic on a remote side of the island. Unfortunately, the journey and the festivities took so long that they were still out when the great gun on Ladder Hill, Jamestown, announced the curfew. Now nobody could move about the island without authority; since the Balcombes did not know the password, when they were accosted by a sentry they had to spend the night in a guard room—‘a wretched night’ as Betsy Balcombe remembered, ‘eaten up by fleas, mosquitoes and all sorts of horrible things’. The tight control kept over the island was illustrated by Betsy Balcombe’s story of a young midshipman rowing guard around the island. Apparently his voice giving the password could not be heard over the roar of the surf. Not hearing the countersign, the guards instantly opened fire on the boat, though fortunately without injury.
St Helena in 1815
The rats and rain of Longwood did not appear to upset Napoleon much. What worried him was boredom. Despite the appalling state of the house he decided to turn it into as near as possible an Imperial Palace. He established a protocol, which would be maintained until the very end. Every one of his staff knew their place. He would be addressed as ‘Votre Majesté’. People would stand and remove their hats when he entered a room. They would remain standing until the Emperor sat down. No one could sit until directed to do so. No one was expected to speak unless spoken to. The four aristocratic officers, who were in attendance upon him, only spoke in muted whispers. As their memoirs reveal, they were in constant jealous competition with one another in trying to please Napoleon.
Once they had settled in Napoleon gave everyone a specific daily task. Boredom accompanied by bad food and cold weather would be disastrous. They all realised that they were in for a long stay. Napoleon insisted that everybody must be occupied, especially those nearest to him—Bertrand, Montholon, Las Cases and his secretary Gourgaud. To each, he gave the task of writing part of his military history. This would keep them at arm’s length from one another.
Longwood would be kept as clean and as tidy as possible. The food—what there was of it—would be prepared properly, and every evening they would dress for dinner.
The first few months at Longwood were quite pleasant. The new visitors were fortunate with the weather. Occasional flowers appeared and the view was perfect. The sun at mid-day was unbearably hot despite the altitude and the cold trade winds from the south-east. When Napoleon was feeling well, a lively conversation would take place over dinner, usually about the day’s events. Often the meal would take place quickly and in silence. Dinner was always served by candlelight as there was only one small window in the dining-room. The servants, dressed in livery, stood on either side of the Emperor, ready to serve him the next course immediately. Napoleon always ate quickly. Following dinner, he would seek out a play or have some pages from a novel read aloud. He usually retired to his room at ten or eleven and went to bed soon afterwards.
Despite its isolation in the vast expanse of the southern Atlantic Ocean, Jamestown was, to the dismay of Napoleon’s gaolers, in constant contact with the outside world. There was an active social life and with the influx of British soldiers the island took on the appearance of an English colony in India.
The islanders were delighted with the addition of over two thousand Europeans. Among these were, of course, the officers and men sent to guard Napoleon, and also three Commissioners sent by the Allies to oversee the conditions on the island: Baron von Sturmer and his wife on behalf of Austria, Count Balmain on behalf of Russia and the Marquis de Montchenu on behalf of France. Long before the arrival of the Northumberland, Jamestown had been quite a busy port. Every week two or three large vessels, sailing either north or south, would drop anchor at Jamestown, pay an agreed fee. and take on fresh water and food. Visitors were many. While Napoleon was in residence, as Barry O’Meara put it, ‘officers and respectable passengers from China and India came in numbers to Longwood to request a presentation to the fallen chief; in which expectation they were rarely disappointed.’
The dining-room at Longwood as it appears today
Monotony was relieved by many activities such as cocktail parties, evening balls, private theatricals, dinner parties, shooting parties and most important of all the bi-annual race meeting at Deadwood. This race meeting, organised by Captain Henry Rous (a future director of the English Turf Club) was the social event of the year. Eight horses would run in each race.
Napoleon settled into a routine. As Barry O’Meara recorded, he rose at seven and wrote or dictated until breakfast which was generally served in his room between nine and ten. After breakfast he worked again on his memoirs, and at two or three received such visitors as had been directed to present themselves. Between four and five, when the weather permitted he rode out on horseback, accompanied by his suite, and then dictated or read until eight when dinner was announced.
When bored or when he had finished with his dictation, he would ask Barry O’Meara to translate some English newspapers or perhaps a novel that he could not understand. This inevitably led to long conversations on the subject matter which O’Meara had translated. They would discuss for hours problems of medicine, philosophy, religion and war. In the course of these discussions Napoleon would occasionally exercise his curiously physical way of showing affection, by gently slapping O’Meara’s face, or pinching his earlobe.
So far, Napoleon had adapted well to the island. He took plenty of exercise and made sure he ate properly. He was waiting. He had hoped for a change of heart in the British government or even a change of government, which might allow him to return to England. He knew that there was a small but well-connected group of Bonapartists urging his return. His treatment on St Helena, in differently exaggerated stories, had certainly become something of a cause célèbre in England, but in the prevailing conservative mood it was, in truth, unlikely that he would be allowed back to Europe.
For the moment all was well. The weather was agreeable and apparently the French were settling in. People came to visit Napoleon each day. Barry O’Meara was often invited to join Napoleon and his companions at dinner. His conversation apparently livened up their evening meal, which sometimes had been eaten in total silence. They all appeared to appreciate his company. On 15 April 1816 O’Meara was again invited to join the French for their formal evening dinner. Before the coffee was served Napoleon turned to him and said, ‘Dr O’Meara, you must write your diary.’ ‘That is very generous of you, your Excellency—but why should I write such a diary?’ Napoleon replied, ‘because, my good friend—it will make you a fortune! Promise me, however—you will not publish your work until I am dead.’ O’Meara replied: ‘I am flattered and greatly honoured, your Excellency. Yes, I will do so. I will even start this evening, and yes, I promise I will not publish this work until you are dead.’ ‘Good, good’, replied Napoleon, ‘now for coffee.’’
That night O’Meara returned to his room. By guttering candlelight he dipped his quill pen into a black inkpot and wrote the first page of his massive diary. This work would extend to over 1,800 pages of tightly written, almost illegible script. He would record all the events of each day, as he saw it, for the next three years. He would also remain true to his word and not publish until the death of Napoleon in 1821.
Although Napoleon retained his sense of outrage that the British had, as he thought, so illegitimately captured and imprisoned him, life on the island was tolerable. But on 15 April 1816 a new Governor General, Sir Hudson Lowe, came to replace Sir George Cockburn. The Phaeton, with Sir Hudson and his family and staff, actually arrived the previous evening. As it was Sunday, Lowe decided to delay his landing. He wished to have a large welcoming committee for his arrival. Life on the island was about to change forever.
The new Governor-General was to remain in office as long as his distinguished prisoner was alive. Sir Hudson Lowe was a small, thin, rather nervous individual. He was born in Ireland, in Galway, four months before Napoleon in Corsica, and three months after Wellington, in Dublin. His father was a Scottish surgeon in the British army, who had fought with distinction in the Seven-Year War. Posted to Ireland, the surgeon there met a young Irish girl, whom he eventually married. In 1769 she gave birth to a small, puny, redheaded boy, whom they christened Hudson. Within three months of the delivery Dr Lowe was sent to the West Indies. Mrs Lowe became pregnant again, but sadly, both she and her new-born daughter died in childbirth.
The young boy, Hudson, was destined to follow his father around the world, grabbing here and there what little education he could. At the age of twelve he became an ensign in the Devon militia, and at the age of nineteen he was commissioned into the army. His army career was not marked by great military achievement. He appears to have been constantly on the move, more a bureaucrat than a fighter. In Gibraltar he was reprimanded by the great General O’Hara. Given leave of absence, he was allowed to travel in southern Europe in order to improve his Italian and French. Once back in the army he was sent to Corsica, to Ajaccio. However, despite the legend, he did not live in ‘Casa Bonaparte’—that distinction is given to an Irishman, Lieutenant Ford, who wrote: ‘I was treated very kindly and entertained by three young girls running around barefooted. Madame Letizia was kind, but always gave me the impression I was not there.’
Hudson Lowe was transferred to various islands in the Mediterranean, ending up in Minorca. This island had many Corsican immigrants—most had been forced into service. Hudson Lowe selected 500 of these immigrants, and formed a small battalion, called the Corsican Rangers. This group was sent to Egypt with Abercrombie. There is no record of the Rangers having taken part in any of the action at Alexandria. Lowe always appeared to be on the periphery of battles. One evening he advised a sentry not to shoot an approaching stranger who turned out to be Sir Sidney Smith. Much has been made of this; Captain Lowe has been ‘acknowledged’ as having saved the life of the heroic Admiral who for once appeared to have been on dry land. In 1803, Sir Sidney Smith placed Captain Lowe and his Corsican Rangers in command of the small island of Capri. He had cannon and 1400 men. When General Lemarque attacked the island, Hudson Lowe surrendered. As with so much of the career of this awkward man, this action became controversial. The official story is that the French attacked the island with over 3,000 men, and that with the poor quality of his Maltese auxiliaries and a lack of sea support Lowe had no choice. Others, including notably the historian of the Peninsular Wars, Sir William Napier, took a tougher view; Napier reported that ‘Hudson Lowe first became known in history—by losing in a few days a post that could have been defended for just as many years!’ All the soldiers were made prisoners of war. General Lemarque dropped Hudson Lowe back on the warm sands of Sicily—to explain his disastrous defence of Capri.
Over the next few years Lowe was sent to various islands in the Ionian Sea. He eventually returned to England and, with Sir Alexander Home, was sent to Sweden in order to persuade Count Prince Bernadotte to fight against Napoleon.
Just before the Battle of Waterloo in 1815 he was in Brussels and fell foul of the Duke of Wellington. As the Iron Duke later told the old parliamentary gossip Thomas Creevey, ‘I found him Quarter-Master-General of the army here and I presently found the damned fellow would instruct me in the equipment of the army, always producing the Prussians to me as model; so I was obliged to tell him I had commanded a much larger army in the field than any Prussian general and that I was not to learn from their service how to equip an army. I thought this would have stopped him, but shortly afterwards the damned fellow was at me again about the equipment etc. of the Prussians; so I was obliged to write home and complain of him and the Government were kind enough to take him away from me.’ Sir William de Lancey replaced him and was killed during battle. Returning to Belgium, Hudson Lowe proposed that a monument should be constructed at Mont St Jean. Later that year, when living in Marseille, he was informed that he had been appointed Governor-General of St Helena with specific instructions in respect to Napoleon.
When asked about Hudson Lowe’s appointment, Wellington replied that it was ‘a very bad choice; he was a man wanting in education and judgement. He was a stupid man, who knew nothing of the world . . . and he was suspicious and jealous . . . I always thought that Lowe was the most unfit person to be charged with the care of Bonaparte’s person.’ (We have seen that Wellington claimed intimate knowledge of St Helena as a result of calling in on his way from India. ‘I looked at every part,’ he told Creevey, ‘on my return from the East Indies. There are only three or four places by which a prisoner could escape, and they could be guarded by a mere handful of men.’) Another senior officer said that Lowe ‘is troublesome and unreasonable beyond endurance. He is stupid, suspicious, and occasionally jealous. He appears to succeed in quarrelling with everyone.’
Sir Hudson Lowe—a typical French portrayal, accentuating ‘perfidious Albion’
On his appointment, Hudson Lowe rushed back to London. His detailed instructions from Lord Bathurst, the Government Minister in charge of the colonies, stressed that he was to make every effort to ensure that Napoleon should not escape from the island. On the other hand, subject to security, he was also asked to try and make life as agreeable as possible for the new inhabitants of St Helena. Achieving a sensible balance between these two objectives was to prove impossible for the prosaic military bureaucrat.
Before Hudson Lowe’s departure to St Helena he was invited to Holland House, the epicentre of British Bonapartism. News of Napoleon’s deportation to the Southern Atlantic they found quite shattering. Lady Holland skilfully organised no fewer than eight excellent dinner parties for Sir Hudson. She invited close family friends, Captain Maitland and even the dull Post Master General, Lord Ossulston (whose main claim to fame was that he had been at the famous meeting in the Star and Garter where the rules of cricket were established).
Lady Holland found Sir Hudson Lowe ‘humourless, reserved, and occasionally abrupt’. On each occasion she was unable to win over the stern autocratic Lowe. At their final dinner she enquired if Sir Hudson had ever seen Napoleon. ‘Yes,’ was the reply, ‘at the battle of Bautzen in 1813.’ (Las Cases reports that Napoleon learned of this and augured well from the coincidence: ‘We have then probably exchanged a few cannonballs together, and that is always in my eyes a noble relation to stand in.’)
Lady Holland asked if she could communicate with Napoleon or even Madame Bertrand. The reply was that ‘all letters must go through the Governor-General’s house on the island. These are my instructions, Madam.’ While in London, Hudson Lowe took the opportunity to visit Mrs Susan Johnston—the sister of Sir William de Lancey, his successor as Quarter-Master-General who had been killed at Waterloo. This was Mrs Johnston’s second bereavement in just one year. Some days following the first interview Lowe returned with a proposal of marriage. The startled Mrs Johnston said ‘she would consider it’. She was a widow. She had two teenage daughters to support. If she accepted the proposal she would have a title, wealth and most importantly, position. It was not too difficult to make up her mind. Within a week they wed, and at the end of February 1816 she, now Lady Lowe, sailed with her family to St Helena.
The frigate Phaeton arrived at Jamestown in mid-April. The journey from England had taken 75 days. On board were Lieutenant-General Sir Hudson Lowe, KCB, GCMG, his wife and step-daughter Charlotte Johnston; his staff, including Sir Thomas Reade and Colonel Lyster of the militia, Mr Baxter, Inspector of Hospitals, and others, especially Major Gorrequer, Lowe’s private secretary, whose racy diaries of life inside the Governor’s residence, Plantation House, were subsequently decoded and published. These men were to form the critical support group to Lowe in his struggles with Longwood. He moved immediately into Plantation House, and made plans to see Napoleon as soon as possible.
Barry O’Meara describes how ‘a little before nine a.m. Sir Hudson Lowe arrived in the midst of a pelting storm of wind and rain, accompanied by Sir George Cockburn and followed by his numerous staff. As the hour fixed upon was rather unseasonable, and one at which Napoleon had never received any persons, intimation was given to the Governor that Napoleon was indisposed and could not receive any visitors that morning.’
Hudson Lowe was disconcerted. He did not know quite what to do. ‘After pacing up and down before the windows of the drawing-room for a few minutes,’ he accepted defeat and arranged an appointment for two the following day. When the group appeared again the following day, a minor farce ensued. Hudson Lowe and Admiral Cockburn were shown into an antechamber. Two men, Santini (a Corsican usher who eventually became the guardian of Napoleon’s tomb at Les Invalides) and Noverraz (third valet at Lngwood), stood guard on either side of the door leading to Napoleon’s room. The visitors were invited to sit while Count Bertrand announced their arrival to the Emperor. After a considerable wait, the door opened, and the Governor was called for. Hudson Lowe moved quickly into Napoleon’s room, leaving the Admiral behind. When Sir George presented himself he was refused entry by Noverraz. ‘Only one,’ he said.
The door was closed. Napoleon was leaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece. Lowe, standing erect, removed his helmet and declared: ‘I am Lieutenant-General Sir Hudson Lowe. I am the new Governor of the island.’ Napoleon did not move but said, rather flatteringly, ‘I hear you speak both Italian and French?’ ‘I am quite fluent in both,’ replied Lowe. ‘Very well then,’ replied Napoleon, ‘we will speak in Italian—you may sit down.’
The conversation came to nothing. Napoleon started first by declaring the illegality of his detention on the island. He also complained about the sanitation and the dreadful state of Longwood. ‘Surely there must be a better house on the island where the weather is more agreeable?’ Lowe answered that his orders, which came directly from the Government and Lord Bathurst, must be obeyed to the letter. After twenty minutes or so of futile conversation, Napoleon realised that there was no point to the meeting. He firmly informed the Governor that ‘he could go’—and dismissed him.
This was the first act in a long conflict from which neither side emerges with credit. At the same time as he described Lowe as ‘a damned fool’, Wellington, in his commonsensical way, described it thus. ‘Bonaparte is so damned intractable a fellow there is no knowing how to deal with him. To be sure, as to the means employed to keep him there never was anything so damned absurd.’ Lowe and the British Government’s greatest fear was that Napoleon would escape. To prevent this possibility Lowe insisted that three ships should constantly sail around St Helena. Cannons were mounted on every vantage-point. Sentries were posted on every road. He ensured that the elaborate system of flags and military signals devised by the government and sent to his predecessor Governor Wilks be utilised so that the Governor’s residence, Plantation House, could be informed immediately of any unexpected event. A blue flag (he had nightmares about this colour) would indicate that ‘General Bonaparte is missing’.
Dispatches from London made Lowe even more nervous. The responsibility was far too much for him. He was constantly made conscious of wild schemes being devised by Bonapartists, notably those from a General Lallemman in Texas (Napoleon’s brother Joseph was living in Philadelphia at this time). If Napoleon disappeared, his career would end in failure. As a result, a series of increasingly petty and restrictive measures were taken with a view to isolating the French. Typical of these rules was one forbidding the local shopkeepers from selling them goods on credit; then the officers of the 53rd, who were in the habit of visiting Madame Bertrand in her house at Hutt’s Gate were officially discouraged, and the guards were told to report to the Governor the names of those who did visit. Those who did visit were expected to provide the Governor with detailed reports of the conversation. Barry O’Meara reported ‘a sensation of unwillingness to approach the exiles’ among the ordinary people of the island, no doubt officially stimulated, that was very different from the cheerful and hearty welcome previously experienced before Sir Hudson Lowe arrived.
