One by one Napoleon’s entourage left the island: Las Cases was the first to go, expelled in December 1816; Gourgaud and the Balcombe family left in March 1818; Barry O’Meara in August 1818; Madame de Montholon (who, rumour suggests, may have been Napoleon’s mistress) and her children left in July 1819. The Bertrands were apparently planning also to leave. In the meantime, the Conference of the Allies at Aix-la-Chapelle confirmed the terms of Napoleon’s captivity, and seemed to reduce to nil the chances of his ever leaving St Helena. Napoleon seemed now to close in on himself. He saw fewer visitors, apparently having decided that the earlier strategy of making his plight known to as many people as possible had not worked. At the same time, he was becoming sicker. He took little exercise and remained in his bedroom for most of the day.
One of the very last of his visitors was Charles Ricketts, a relative of the Prime Minister Lord Liverpool. Napoleon arranged for the young man to be ushered into his bedroom where he lay on a camp bed, unshaven and apparently in pain. The room was so poorly lit that Ricketts could barely make out the Emperor’s features. During the course of a long interview, Napoleon presented him with a paper detailing his requests: to leave the island because of his hepatitis, to have his doctor O’Meara returned, to have ‘a man of honour’ put over him instead of Sir Hudson, etc. The requests were not treated sympathetically, Lord Bathurst reporting that Ricketts had seen though ‘all the manoeuvres which were practised to impose on him’.
Napoleon became increasingly invisible to all but his immediate entourage. The orderly officer Captain Nicholls had been given strict instructions to see General Bonaparte physically twice every day. If Napoleon refused to leave his room, this became extremely difficult. Nicholls spent frustrating hours each day trying to catch glimpses of the captive. Eventually, Lowe exasperatedly said that, if need be, Nicholls could force Napoleon’s door. Incensed, Napoleon immediately ordered that the doors and windows be barricaded, and loaded pistols and guns placed near his bedside. He was determined to kill anyone who attempted a forcible entry.
As he increasingly closed in on himself, Napoleon had these spyholes in the shutters made, one for use from a sitting position, one from a standing position.
At the same time, rumours about a possible rescue attempt organised in America were rife (one of the wilder ones talked of a plan to approach St Helena by submarine). Other rumours said that Count Montholon had hanged himself, and there had been a fire in Longwood (in fact there had been a small fire, which was easily controlled). Hudson Lowe could not sleep.
As a replacement to O’Meara, in September 1818 Dr James Roche Verling, surgeon to one of the island’s artillery detachments, had been sent up to Longwood. Although he was young, French-speaking, approachable and, as it happened, Irish, Napoleon refused to see him, simply because he had been appointed by Hudson Lowe. This was rather a pity as, not alone was Dr Verling an excellent physician, but he had also written his MD thesis on liver disease. Dr Verling remained in Longwood until replaced, as we shall see, by the Italian physician Antommarchi in September 1819. Although he attended to the Bertrand and du Montholon families while in residence, he never saw Napoleon for a medical consultation.
In November 1817 O’Meara had introduced a young surgical friend of his, John Stokoe, to the Emperor. Dr Stokoe was an agreeable young naval officer, who had applied for, and had been granted an extended posting at the St Helena station. Rumour connected his name romantically with Jane Balcombe. After an alarming seizure, Napoleon allowed Bertrand to call in Dr Stokoe. He first visited Longwood on 17 January, and made four further visits in the next few days. After a thorough examination the doctor diagnosed hepatitis. His report to Sir Hudson went as follows: ‘I found him in a very weak state, complaining of considerable pain in the right side in the region of the liver and shooting pain in the right shoulder . . . it will be highly necessary that a medical man be near his person . . . for the daily treatment of chronic hepatitis which the above symptoms indicate.’
Lowe received this report with considerable distrust, fearing, as he believed of O’Meara, that the French had somehow suborned Stokoe. The following week Napoleon became quite ill. The doctor had again to wait for hours before permission to visit Longwood was granted. At 2 a.m. there was a torrential downpour, just as Dr Stokoe set off up the mountain. When he arrived at Longwood, Napoleon was asleep. Stokoe remained with him all day in Longwood. When he eventually examined the Emperor he confirmed his diagnosis of hepatitis. His report went as follows: ‘The patient passed a restless night but without any alarming symptoms. It appears from the symptoms of chronic hepatitis that this is the principal cause of the derangement in his health . . . I do not apprehend any immediate imminent danger, although in a climate where the above disease is so prevalent, it will eventually shorten his life.’
Lowe decided that Stokoe had to go. The doctor was ordered back onto his ship and told to remain there, on the grounds that the naval service could not do without him. This had been expected, as Lowe’s attitude became plainer. Stokoe informed General Bertrand: ‘I have every reason to believe that my visits will soon come to an end, either because my superiors will forbid them or because the situation will become so disagreeable to me that I shall be obliged to discontinue them. In either event I beg you to urge the illustrious patient to follow the treatment I have prescribed.’
Life became extremely difficult for the naval surgeon. Wisely, he requested permission to return to England. This was granted, but no sooner had he arrived home than he was faced with a demand that he return immediately to St Helena to face court-martial. The poor doctor returned to St Helena, clocking up 144 days at sea. The court enquiry lasted for four days. Charged with ‘having evinced a disposition to thwart the intentions and regulations of the Rear-Admiral and to further the views of the French prisoners in furnishing them with false pretences for complaint’, Dr Stokoe was, of course, found guilty. Somewhat harshly he was, after twenty-five years’ service, cashiered from the navy. He was returned to England in disgrace. He was eventually given the miserable pension of £100 per year. (It was lucky for him that no one knew of the bank draft for £1,000 that Napoleon had given him for his services, a serious breach of service regulations. This fact only emerged from the archives one hundred years later.)
In September 1819 two Corsican priests and a Corsican doctor, sent by Napoleon’s family, arrived on the island. Napoleon had written to his uncle, Cardinal Fesch, the previous year, requesting a good cook, an intelligent priest and (knowing that Barry O’Meara’s time was running out) a doctor with a good reputation. The new arrivals were a disappointment. One of the priests was old and infirm (he was just recovering from a stroke), and the other (a Fr Vignali) was not very bright and too young. The cook sent by Pauline ‘could not even brew a cup of coffee’, Napoleon said.
The physician was a Dr Francesco Antommarchi, an anatomy demonstrator from the University of Padua. Aged twenty-eight, he was described by an English visitor as ‘a common-looking young man whose conversation betrayed both ignorance and vulgarity’. He was excellent at post-mortems but not a very good physician. Although he had taken the precaution of meeting O’Meara in London before coming to the island, to learn about the case, Antommarchi did not inspire confidence. Napoleon did not like him: ‘I would give him my horse to dissect, but I would not trust him to cure my foot,’ he said. Antommarchi paid his first visit to Napoleon on 23 September. He would remain as the Emperor’s physician to the end of Napoleon’s life.
The Emperor knew that he was ill. His father had died from gastric (stomach) cancer; now he was sure that something similar would happen to him. He became preoccupied with death. He wrote his will. He had the dining-room turned into a chapel where he heard mass on Sundays. ‘We have become Christian again,’ he said with a smile.
In July 1820 Napoleon developed acute pain over his liver. ‘It stabs like a penknife,’ he said. Antommarchi diagnosed hepatitis and prescribed enemas every day. He suggested that the Emperor take more exercise, in particular in the Longwood garden that had become his latest interest. There was no improvement. Napoleon started to lose weight. Occasionally he became delirious. When Fanny Bertrand decided to return to France, claiming that her children needed European education, Napoleon was furious. He had the greatest affection and respect for Madame Bertrand, but now that she was leaving he could not forgive her. He refused to see her again.
Despite his discomfort he was adamant that he would not see any physician appointed by Hudson Lowe. He took to his bed. He had frequent shivering attacks, which often worried Antommarchi. The doctor knew that Napoleon disliked and did not trust him; this antipathy was dutifully reflected by the other French citizens at Longwood. Antommarchi’s casual dress sense also offended the Marshal (Bertrand) and the other grandees of Napoleon’s little court. As a result the doctor felt much more comfortable in Jamestown surrounded by strangers. So he was often not available when Napoleon needed him most. Antommarchi’s cavalier attitude towards his patient reinforced Hudson Lowe’s view that Napoleon was not as ill as he made out to be. It was most probably ‘a subterfuge to get off the island and get back to Europe’, he surmised.
In August 1820 Napoleon knew he was much worse. As the Governor was so unhelpful, the Emperor decided to write in person to Lord Liverpool stating that ‘he had chronic hepatitis for the past two years and that medical remedies can no longer help. It is imperative that he return to Europe to lessen his suffering’. There was no reply.
On 18 September 1820 Napoleon went out for a horse ride. It so exhausted him that he was forced to stay in bed all the next day. In October, however, he felt fit enough for a long ride down to the house of an old native of the island, Sir William Doveton, on the southern part. On arrival he was invited indoors and offered breakfast. Instead, they shared the meal the French had brought, set out on a table on the lawn shaded by magnificent cedars and cypresses. Suddenly Napoleon felt extremely tired; he painfully remounted his horse and began the long ride back to Longwood. He had to be helped up the steps on his return. His eyes were closed, his face was ashen grey.
A few days later Napoleon fainted while getting out of his bath. He complained of headache and pain in his right upper abdomen. He was extremely constipated and the daily enemas weakened him. Sunlight hurt his eyes so the curtains were drawn. He spent most of the day dozing in bed. General Montholon suggested that they might call in the English physician Dr Archibald Arnott (the fifty-year-old surgeon to the 20th Regiment). He spoke Italian quite well and had a reasonable knowledge of French. Napoleon resisted the idea, saying, ‘I will be better in a few days.’
News arrived that his sister Eliza had died from carcinoma of the stomach. She was aged forty-three. Napoleon was distressed by the news. ‘Well, Doctor,’ he said to Antommarchi, ‘Eliza has shown us the way. Death seemed to have overlooked our family. Now it is beginning to strike. My turn cannot be far off.’
On New Year’s morning 1821 Marchand entered the Emperor’s bedroom and, after opening the curtains, wished Napoleon a happy new year. Napoleon replied that it would be his last year on earth. Later that day, leaning on the arm of Marchand, he went for a short walk; however, this exhausted him so much that he was forced to return to his bed, where he lay down to catch his breath. Occasionally he was hungry, but when he put soup to his mouth his appetite would quickly disappear.
On 17 March Napoleon went out for his last carriage drive. Very quickly however, he developed severe lower abdominal pain and was forced to return home. Dr Antommarchi prescribed an emetic, which Napoleon quite correctly refused to take.
However, the following day he felt so unwell that he was eventually persuaded to accept the prescribed emetic. Immediately afterwards he started to vomit and became ‘racked with abdominal pains so much that he rolled around the floor groaning aloud’. As a result of this illjudged intervention Napoleon refused to see Antommarchi for two days. Montholon began to urge him to supplement the latter’s incompetence by consulting Dr Arnott. Finally, Napoleon agreed to see him. Before he called, Arnott met Antommarchi and discussed the symptoms.
On arrival at Longwood he was shown into a darkened room. He could just see the outline of a bed in the corner, but little more. Napoleon appeared to be in some pain. In the darkness Arnott felt his pulse, palpated the abdomen and limbs. In his report to Lowe he revealed the continuing scepticism of the English party: why, if there was no intent to deceive, was such darkness necessary? He declared that, assuming that the body he had felt had been Napoleon’s, there was ‘nothing that indicated immediate danger’. Subsequently, Dr Arnott became a more frequent visitor to Longwood. He informed the Emperor that he had a stomach inflammation but that his liver was quite healthy and not the cause of his pain. He prescribed various medications, which Napoleon refused to accept.
Napoleon now developed rigors every few hours. He was sweating so much that his bed linen had to be changed several times throughout the day and night. Fanny Bertrand abandoned her plans to leave the island with the children. Marchand and Montholon took it in turns to stay up with the Emperor.
Napoleon decided to write his will. He had about 6 million francs of his own, plus, as he supposed, 200 million in various properties. His body he wished to ‘be returned to France and buried on the banks of the Seine’. He dispensed his wealth to his family, some marshals and faithful friends. To his son he bequeathed his sword, saddle and spurs, but, in knightly tradition, he left him no money. He called Fr Vignali and ordered the priest to set up an altar in the next room for the exposition of the Blessed Sacrament. ‘You will hear my confession and say prayers for the dying.’
He was unable to swallow solid food, and was losing weight. He could only tolerate jelly, milk or soup. Arnott did nothing more than encourage Napoleon to cheer up, although Napoleon knew that he was seriously ill. Arnott reassured him that there was no tumour—‘neither hardening nor swelling’—as he repeated. In his opinion, the organ was simply ‘sluggish’.
During one of his more lucid moments Napoleon added a codicil to his will. He began by saying: ‘I die in the Roman Catholic faith, in which I was born some fifty years ago. I am proud of my dear wife Marie Louise, and I beg her to take care of my son. I urge my son never to forget that he was born a French Prince. He is never to avenge my death. I die prematurely—murdered by the English oligarchy and its hired assassin.’
There followed a long list of bequests, in total amounting to considerably more than was held in his bank. He stipulated that the residue of his estate would be given to the wounded of Waterloo.
The next day Napoleon had shivering attacks followed by violent sweating and vomiting. With dawn there came some improvement. When Arnott arrived he informed the Emperor that he could find no hardening of the liver. Again there was much vomiting and restlessness all night. Napoleon complained of pain over his liver like ‘a knife cutting into him’.
On 18 April, after vomiting most of the night, Napoleon woke to a beautiful day. He asked Montholon to open the doors into the garden. ‘Let me take in a breath of the air God made.’ He asked Bertrand to go and pick him a rose. He inhaled the perfume with voluptuous delight. He then gazed at the clear blue sky for a considerable time in silence. He appeared happy and content—almost resigned to the situation.
Occasionally he seemed better, but he did not believe in any long-term recovery: ‘Don’t fool yourselves, I am better today but my end is not far off. When I am dead you will all have the sweet consolation of returning to your families in Europe.’ From now on it became obvious to all, except the English doctor Arnott, that Napoleon was dying. He had difficulty in hearing people speak. He could not tolerate food—it made him vomit.
Within a day or two he started again to vomit copious amounts of black liquid. He had a raging fever all night but when the dawn came he was somewhat better. In a confused state he gave out to Bertrand. He spent most of the night in stupor. Around 3 a.m. he started to hiccough—this continued until morning. It quite exhausted him. His mind became confused, mistaking Antommarchi for O’Meara, and asking for Dr Baxter, who had long left the island. His bed was moved into the larger sitting-room.
On 1 May Fanny Bertrand saw Napoleon for the first time in six weeks. She was shocked by his appearance. They had a most agreeable conversation. Fanny told him that she would have liked to nurse him back to health. He invited her to visit him each day and in particular to bring her children with her.
Napoleon called for Antommarchi and instructed him as follows: ‘After my death you will carry out the post-mortem. Do not let the English carry this out. While you are operating on me pay particular attention to my stomach. Please remove my heart, place it in a silver container and bring it to Marie Louise. I want you to make a clear precise examination overlooking nothing.’ Antommarchi agreed to carry out this request.
By early May even Dr Arnott had become convinced that Napoleon was in a serious condition. He conveyed his feelings to the Governor. Lowe promptly offered that ‘English medical science should have the chance of saving his life’. Dr Thomas Shortt and Dr Mitchell moved into the New House beside Longwood. They wished to be ‘as near as possible to the dying man’.
Dr Arnott now insisted that Napoleon be given a purgative, and suggested 10 grains of calomel. This was much too strong for Napoleon’s weakened state. A most reluctant Marchand was ordered to mix the powdered calomel in water with a little sugar added. Napoleon swallowed it with difficulty. He tried to vomit it up but was unsuccessful. He turned to Marchand and gently said: ‘You are deceiving me also!’
Over the next two days his fever rose and sank; he took a little soup and sweetened water, most of which he vomited up. Occasionally he spat black, chocolate-like mucus. At two in the morning of 5 May he spoke for the last time, incoherent words interpreted by Montholon as ‘France—army—army head—Josephine!’
The bed was pulled into the middle of the room and the windows were opened. In the small hot room all the French, including for a while the Bertrand children, sat watching around the bed. All that could be heard was the ticking of a clock, and the occasional sigh from the Emperor. Two silver-plumed doves, of the species peculiar to St Helena, landed on the windowsill and started to coo. They were pushed away, but later they returned and again perched on the windowsill.
Towards evening the room became bathed in a bright orange-red glow of the sunset. Napoleon’s breathing became quite irregular. Antommarchi put a finger to his artery, and Dr Arnott scribbled on his pad: ‘5.30. He is worse, the respiration has become difficult’. It was obvious to all that the end was near. His breathing stopped. Everybody waited. Then Antommarchi gently leaned over and closed the Emperor’s eyelids. It was 11 minutes to 6 on Saturday 5 May 1821. The Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte was dead. Count Bertrand reached up and quietly stopped the pendulum on the little clock.
There were tears in everyone’s eyes. The men wept in silence. The women quietly sobbed. Even Dr Arnott was seen to brush a tear from his eye. Bertrand went down on one knee and kissed Napoleon’s hand. Each one in the room followed suit. Arnott now wrote a note to the Governor stating that ‘he has at this moment expired.’
Lowe insisted that two British doctors be admitted to confirm the death. Reluctantly they were allowed into the room. Captain Crokat, the orderly officer, paused at the end of the bed and saluted. Then followed Drs Shortt and Mitchell who confirmed the death of Napoleon Bonaparte.
At midnight they washed the body in eau de cologne. His face was shaved and a chin bandage put in place. He was dressed in a white shroud. A crucifix was placed on his chest. The room was aired and tidied up. Most of the furniture was removed, apart from a small bedside table upon which a number of candles were burning brightly. Signals to Plantation House confirmed the death, and Lowe, discussing the situation with his staff said, with a characteristic mixture of fatuous self-importance and respect: ‘Well, gentlemen, he was England’s greatest enemy and mine too, but I forgive him everything. On the death of a great man like him we should only feel deep concern and regret.’
The following day Sir Hudson Lowe arrived, dressed in all the finery his office could command. His highly-coloured feathered helmet glinted against the burning sun. All stood as Lowe entered. He removed his helmet and stood in silence at the end of the bed gazing at the Emperor for the first time without fear or amazement.
The damp, hot climate demanded that if there was to be an autopsy it should be soon. So it was decided to hold a post-mortem the afternoon after the death. The body was placed on the billiard table. Dr Antommarchi (as requested by Napoleon) started the post-mortem. This was what he could do best. He took pride in his work. He could now show the English doctors just how good he was. Deftly he made the incision from the sternum to the pubis.
Multiple adhesions were found between the stomach and the liver. Almost two-thirds of his stomach was cancerous. The tumour had eaten its way through the entire coat of the stomach and directly into the left lobe of the liver. There was a large ulcer on the lesser curvature of the stomach, quite near the pylorus, which had penetrated directly into the liver. It was obvious to all that this was the cause of death. Dr Antommarchi said so during the operation. All six other doctors agreed. He then wished to open the skull but Bertrand and Montholon objected, so it was left intact.
The heat and stench from the open abdomen in that crowded room was overpowering. They all agreed—a diagnosis had been made: death was undoubtedly from the stomach cancer, but the liver was also infected. It was time to go. As instructed by Napoleon his heart was removed and placed in a silver container, which had been filled with alcohol. Antommarchi excised the entire gut and placed it in a large tin container. To make the air in the stifling heat somewhat more agreeable he poured eau de cologne freely into the abdominal cavity. He then carefully stitched up the incision.
When Hudson Lowe read the post-mortem report he was furious. The report suggested that ‘the liver was enlarged and densely adhered to the stomach. There was a large ulcer on the lesser curvature (of the stomach) which had perforated into the liver. This in turn had become so adhered to the liver that it had prevented the contents of the stomach from spilling over into the peritoneal (abdominal) cavity.’ Lowe however insisted that the liver be reported on as ‘normal’—otherwise Dr O’Meara would have been correct in his diagnosis during all those years.
In a rage he furiously scratched out the offending paragraph. He insisted that all the doctors reconsider their findings and present him with a new post-mortem report with no mention of any problems in the liver. After considerable deliberation, reluctantly, all the British surgeons signed—even Dr Shortt who initially had been adamant that he would not sign. The harsh treatment of Dr Stokoe was still very fresh in their minds. Dr Antommarchi, who had carried out the most excellent post-mortem, absolutely refused to sign the second report.
After the autopsy Napoleon was laid out in his little bedroom, and crowds of islanders queued to file past the bed.
Hudson Lowe, no doubt reflecting both British and French official opinion, would not consider allowing Napoleon’s body to return to Europe. Neither would he allow Marie Louise to have the Emperor’s heart. He decided, however, on having a military funeral. On 8 May he wrote to Montchenu as follows: ‘Sir, I do myself the honour to inform you that the remains of Napoleon Bonaparte will be interred with all honours due to a General officer of the highest rank, at 12 o’clock tomorrow.’
Fr Vignali celebrated mass in the small room for the last time. Adding incense to the turifer, he sweetened the air around the coffin, and recited prayers for the dead.
Eight Grenadier officers from the 20th Regiment lifted the heavy coffin shoulder high and with the greatest difficulty made their way out through the billiard-room, down the veranda steps, onto the lawn, and to the waiting hearse. The coffin was covered with a large, rich, purple velvet cloth. On top of the coffin, Bertrand placed Napoleon’s cloak of Marengo and his sword.
It was a beautiful, bright, clear, silent morning. Two thousand soldiers lined either side of the road from Longwood to Talbot Springs. With bowed heads, and rifles reversed, each soldier stood to attention in the warm quiet air.
Fr Vignali, reciting prayers, led the way accompanied by young Henri Bertrand carrying the holy water. The band played a funeral march. Four horses slowly pulled the heavy black carriage along the road. A young boy led a grey, riderless horse. Then came General Bertrand and General du Montholon. Behind them came the staff of Longwood. At some distance Hudson Lowe and his staff followed. They were met at Hutt’s Gate by a carriage bearing Lady Lowe and her unmarried daughter, Susanna, dressed suitably in black. Last of all came the islanders.
When the cortège reached Talbot Springs, the coffin was placed beside the large, open grave. Napoleon’s tomb was deep and wide. As the coffin was lowered into the grave, volleys of musketry were echoed by the great guns from the fleet in the harbour and from the forts across the island. After a moment’s silence, Lowe asked Montholon and Bertrand if they wanted to say anything—they declined. The soldiers reformed and marched back to camp, the plangent fife music hanging in the air.
In an undignified last-minute squabble, Sir Hudson refused to allow Count Bertrand to have the simple name ‘Napoleon’ inscribed on the tomb. He insisted that the inscription be ‘Napoleon Bonaparte’. In exasperation the French gave way, knowing of course that the tomb needed no inscription. So in the end the stone was left bare. In 1860, when building the Washington Monument, the American Government requested a stone from Napoleon’s tomb on St Helena, to be incorporated in the monument. This request was granted.
After the funeral the French returned to Longwood, and hurriedly started to pack. Lady Lowe came to visit the house. She was appalled by the state of the place. Only now that the Emperor was gone did the French realise how awful their accommodation had been for the past five years. They packed and set out for Jamestown to face a new future in France. There was considerable difficulty finding a ship to take the French entourage. Eventually the captain of a cattle boat called The Camel decided to help out for an undisclosed sum. The ship was not very clean or comfortable, but the French were now so anxious to leave the island any boat would do. It was a most uncomfortable six-week voyage for all.