DIVORCE

The conqueror of Europe couldn’t bring himself to do it (though he wanted it done and knew that it was inevitable), so he asked Hortense to speak to her mother, and then he asked Eugène, but Josephine’s children said they’d not be party to it. He asked the archchancellor, who’d wrung his hands and pleaded to be spared the terrible task, and then he asked others too, but each had declined in turn, no matter the threats or promises.

Fontainebleau became miserable and oppressive, the whole situation exceedingly unpleasant, and the Emperor became volatile and raged unpredictably, more so than usual.

To everyone’s great relief, the Duc d’Otrante accepted the burden.

On the designated day, in Bonaparte’s study (where he’d been left alone to prepare), the ageing duke had a glass of the Emperor’s brandy and fixed his clothes in the mirror. Then he had another brandy and two more after that, and then, finally, strode across to Josephine’s chambers.

Graceful as ever, she answered the door and let him inside. The Duc d’Otrante cleared his throat and told the Empress that divorce was unavoidable and of utmost necessity in order for the Emperor to secure a dynasty with legitimate heirs.

‘It is for France that he sacrifices himself, my Empress,’ he said, exactly as he’d been instructed. ‘For France.’

Josephine turned from the fireplace. She knew Napoleon’s sentimental claptrap when she heard it, even via another’s voice.

‘Is that what you believe?’

The Duc d’Otrante blushed.

Josephine saw the old man’s unease and felt pity for him. She understood how impossible it was to be oneself when tasked by Bonaparte.

‘It is all right,’ she said.

There was a noise in the next room. They both heard it and knew instantly that it was Bonaparte, listening at the connecting door.

Josephine raised her voice, managed to hold it from breaking, ‘For France! But it is me he throws on the pyre.’

The divorce took place in the throne room of the Palais des Tuileries. Inside, it was dark and gloomy as a church. Napoleon sat solemn and lost to his thoughts, flanked by Maréchal Murat on the left, Eugène on his right. He’d just spoken (‘God only knows how much this has cost my heart’) and signed the act of annulment.

The Empress, dressed in white, stood with her daughter Hortense before the table draped in rich green velvet, where the Duc d’Otrante held the divorce act that now awaited her signature. The Bonaparte family sat in the spectator chairs behind her (‘Good riddance,’ Bonaparte’s sister, Pauline, had whispered) along with the maréchals, Bessières and Ney, and there was Talleyrand too, of course, and a few other minor officials. Josephine could feel their eyes upon her as she signed the act. And then it was done.

Later, alone together in Bonaparte’s chambers, they held each other.

‘Be brave,’ he said. ‘I will always be your friend.’

He left her Malmaison. She would be free to retain her title and all her jewels and would be assured an annual allowance of some three million francs. He would honour all her debts. Her Paris residence would be at the Palais de l’Élysée.

But there were demands, too.

Josephine was to withdraw from public life and desist from scandalous behaviour. She would receive no special treatment, and should she be invited to an official event where her former husband was in attendance (particularly if in attendance with his new wife) she was not to expect acknowledgement from him of any kind, they were not to speak with one another and she was never to approach him.

‘I understand,’ Josephine said.

A few days later she left Paris for Malmaison, accompanied by her daughter, her household staff and her parrot. Once she’d settled in again, Bonaparte came to visit. They held hands and strolled through the beautiful gardens in the mist. There were kisses too, affectionate, brother-and-sisterly, on the cheek. ‘I am greatly saddened,’ the Emperor admitted. He visited Josephine three days in a row.

His sadness didn’t last. On the fourth day he left and returned to Paris.

Bonaparte’s new royal wife was on her way from Austria. Nineteen-year-old Marie-Louise, daughter of the Emperor Francis and great-niece of the dead queen, Marie Antoinette. There was work to be done in producing an heir.

ON THE RIVER COTTICA

Dante paddled from the rear of the canoe, while his boy Aranjo kneeled up in the nose and kept an eye out for sunken trees and caiman. Krüger sat in the middle, mute with heat and pressed by the wet, tangled lushness bearing over him, the cacophony of birdcalls and screaming monkeys and the air alive with insects. The smell of mud rot in the riverbanks, the relentless hot green breath of the forest.

His soft, sodden, bread-white body sweated and suffered.

They’d been on the river for days. The last time Dante had spoken, he’d told Krüger to remove his boots.

‘Easy for feet to die,’ he’d said.

But Krüger was too afraid to take his boots off.

There was still a long way to go. They would paddle the river all the way to Devil’s Harwar, then further to Barbacoeba and Casepoere, and then to the settlement of Jerusalem on the Cormoetibo Creek. Depending on the rains, they’d either take the Wana Creek to the River Marawina and so to the border or, if there was flooding, make their way on foot through the forest. And all of it depending on the rebels, too; so far, they hadn’t seen any.

When Dante spoke for the second time since they’d entered the river (there wouldn’t be a third time for another six days) he said, ‘There,’ and pointed to a rough clearing that began at a low riverbank on their left. ‘Mr Hendrik,’ he said. ‘Home.’

‘He was there?’

Dante nodded.

It was hard to believe. Everything was overgrown, almost completely hidden by vines and grass, bushes and young trees, but as the canoe came by, Krüger could just see the burnt-out remains of a few buildings. Then his eye was caught by piles of rusted iron, barrel bands, sluices and tools, their timber handles rotted away. He saw a sunken river barge in the mud near the bank and the rotted posts where the jetty had stood. But not much else. There were no paths anywhere, no traces of previous order. No rows of tamarind trees or European rosebushes, lime and lemon groves gone wild, nothing equal to what Mr Hendrik had described, to the vastness Krüger had imagined. He couldn’t see hundreds of slaves, grand houses, outbuildings, double-storeyed distilleries, sugarcane fields stretching for miles, a river full of laden barges.

He never would have believed it, seeing this first. It was like waking from a vivid dream, and the disappointments of reality.

Dante and the boy paddled them by. The jaguars had long carried off Captain van der Velde’s bones (his hands, which had been sold in Paramaribo, were lost now, too). All that remained was his Bible, in the sack by Krüger’s foot, and some of the gold coins his electrical eels had earned, snug in the secret board sleeves.

And Josephine, maybe, somewhere up ahead.

CRUCIFIXION

The Indians sometimes came and stood on the riverbanks as they canoed by, appearing like ghosts out of the forest, but they hadn’t seen any for some days now.

The river cut deeper into the forest floor. The trees were taller, looming, the sky was only a thin speckle of pale blue through the darkened treetops. Around them the forest was an even more tightly woven mass of lush green. Clouds of mosquitoes attacked them, flew into their ears, eyes, their mouths. The heat sapped Krüger day and night.

They paddled into a chasm of sheer rock. The river slowed and seemed to work against them, as though they were climbing uphill. Dante and Aranjo rested, the boy curling up to sleep, his father with the food sack in his lap. He’d killed and salted a howler monkey some miles back and now removed an arm from inside the hessian. Snapping off the hand at the wrist, he tapped Krüger on the shoulder and held it out to him. The Prussian looked at the raw skinless fingers and yellow fat, the knuckles, the strands of sinew hanging from the wrist, shook his head and turned away before he began to retch. It was exactly as a child’s hand. He leaned over the side of the canoe and splashed water onto his face.

Dante frowned at him, threw the hand back into the sack and began to eat, gnawing at the thin meat of the howler monkey’s forearm.

The river was very deep and cold and there was nowhere to climb out. The boy woke a little while later and again he and his father stroked their paddles through the water.

Krüger dozed; over hours, days, weeks, he had no idea. When he opened his eyes, everything was different and yet always the same. Time didn’t pass but seemed to hover over them like a cloud, like mist, changing shape imperceptibly.

Ten miles on, he woke to the roar of water. Dante pointed ahead, then slapped the side of the canoe, showed Krüger how to grip it. ‘Hold good!’ he said. His face was drawn tight, his eyes wide and awake, brow ridged.

A few times they crashed and scraped against the walls of rock. Dante and the boy had to use the paddles to get them away, careful not to push too hard, capsize the canoe. Then, in a moment, they hit the rapids with a shock. The force of the river was immense, the noise unbelievable.

Dante dug his paddle in hard, reached deep into the twisting water and dragged, leaning back with the handle against his chest. In the nose, his boy Aranjo did the same. The canoe almost smashed into a knuckle of rock but scraped over the top and righted itself, regained its line through the current. Father and son began to paddle as fast as they could, Dante yelling, his voice drowned by the roar and hissing foam.

The canoe rushed down terrifying slopes of cold muscled water. Still Dante shouted through the bursting spray, but Krüger couldn’t understand a thing he said. Then the canoe suddenly fell away beneath them and for a moment everything hung in the air. They smacked the water again, the canoe was twisted and churned by the mad current; they barely managed to stay afloat. Dante and the boy paddled and tried to hold the river off, but then they hit another drop and this time it seemed to go on forever.

The canoe tipped. Krüger flew through the air. There was a momentary sensation of weightlessness, then a hard, jarring crash that went right through his spine. The river exploded around him, reared up, fell away and splashed high, white-capped, roiled and roared. The river was alive, animal. He realised with terror that he was in the water and there was nothing below his feet.

The current had him by the boots and the river turned him over and over and Krüger thrashed his arms and legs in unthinking fear. Nothing happened except that he was sucked down into the river; nothing happened except that he gasped and kicked in terror and then the water was over his head and he clamped his mouth shut and held his breath.

The light dimmed. It was green, silted light, and he looked down deeper and under him the water was brown, and there were dark shadow shapes in it, too. Krüger tried his arms and legs again but they were so heavy. The river pummelled his body and dragged him lower and lower into its depths.

Ahead of him, a form took shape in the water. When he saw it clearer, Krüger thrust out again in panic. Tilted against a ledge of rock was a wooden cross. There was an Indian tied to its beams. His long hair waved in the water. His body was bloated and the skin was blue-white and there were dark cancerous bruises spreading from the armpits. There were nails in his wrists and in his feet. The Indian’s eyes were open, but there were no eyes there, only rough holes, puckered and trailing thin veins and strands of pale flesh.

Krüger kicked desperately with his legs. His feet caught the ledge of rock where the cross was wedged and he pushed up off it, eyes on the light above him, reaching for it, the light.

Oh God.

He let go his last burning breath.

CURADO AND MARTA

After his arrest, Général Fourés was transferred to the São Jorge and then sailed to Rio de Janeiro.

The weather was clear, calm, and the Portuguese were respectful and attentive. In truth, they were in awe of his having served Bonaparte, having been in the man’s presence, having heard his voice and done his bidding. They were only one link away in the human chain (one!) from the greatest military leader since Alexander. Such proximity to fame was irresistible. They looked at Fourés as though Bonaparte might have been right there, standing just over his shoulder. They imagined them together, serious and plotting over maps in Bonaparte’s field tent, then laughing and sitting down to dinner: cognac and roast chicken.

The général could see all this. He was happy to inflate so few actual occasions to many. (It was time Bonaparte paid his due.)

In Rio de Janeiro, he was placed under house arrest on the top floor of a three-storey house not far from the monastery of Morro de São Bento. It was sparsely furnished but clean. The two small windows were barred, but there was a nice view of the harbour between the iron. Watching the ships come and go helped pass some of the hours. He was fed in the morning (bread, a small piece of cheese, a bowl of sweet milky coffee, brandy) and then again in the evening (black beans, rice, sometimes a piece of roast pork, bread, wine) and there was always a basket of fruit (bananas, mango, papaya and avocado; he gorged on the fruit, stunned by the gushing sweetness, the ecstasy of the taste). There was fresh water to wash with, even soap that smelled of lemons. And soon there was the field marshal, too, who helped the days pass quickly and more comfortably.

Joaquim Xavier Curado, Count of São João das Duas Barras, was a thin man with sharp cheekbones and a fine nose, sad hazel eyes and hair gone completely white. His boots were tall, right up to his knees, and polished to an extreme shine. He wore spurs with dainty rowels that sounded out a light ching like sleigh bells when he walked. Of Bonaparte, he couldn’t hear enough.

‘They say he only sleeps two hours a day?’

‘He doesn’t sleep at all,’ Fourés said.

‘And a week in the saddle, without stepping down?’

‘Even now he rides his horse through the halls of Versailles and pisses from the stirrups.’

‘you mock me, Général!’

‘I have seen it all with my own eyes.’

Curado always brought tobacco and brandy, and together they sat and talked through the evening heat. Fourés was grateful; afterwards, it was always easier for him to fall asleep, a little drunk and distracted from his predicament and loneliness.

Soon enough they became friends and spoke freely to one another, enjoying the opportunity to talk of things outside the contaminations of war, politics and God, temporary though it was. Sundays and Wednesdays. The first few months went by swiftly, thanks to the field marshal.

One night, Curado said, ‘I’ve tried, Général, to have your circumstances reconsidered, but our Prince Regent remains stubborn. He is still extremely annoyed with Bonaparte for having forced his retreat from Lisbon. And as you are the Emperor’s closest and highest representative to hand …’

‘We are like brothers.’

‘For now, you must continue to endure.’ Curado stood and went to the window. He called out for his adjutant, who immediately came in through the door.

‘There,’ Curado said, pointing to the table.

‘yes, Field Marshal.’

The adjutant began to remove items from a sack. There were bottles of wine, brandy, champagne, a small, stoppered earthenware jug of herbal digestive, tobacco, sugar and cured bacon. The adjutant left the room again and then came back with a pile of folded clothes: trousers, shirts, underwear, socks. Also, a new pair of Portuguese boots.

‘That is all,’ the field marshal said.

The young adjutant left the room and closed the door behind him.

Curado came over, rapped his knuckles twice against the tabletop. ‘So. I will be gone for a time.’

‘War?’

‘yes, a small one,’ Curado said. ‘Across the Rio de la Plata. The Spanish are annoying the Prince Regent, too.’

‘He is easily annoyed?’

‘He is a spoilt child and thus men must die.’

‘Then I wish you good fortune and look forward to your return.’ Fourés pointed to the food and clothes. ‘And thank you.’

‘There is one other gift, Général, that I wish to make,’ Curado said. ‘I hope you will not take offence.’

She came the next evening, a young Pataxó Indian girl from the Bahia. The old man who swept the room and emptied the slop bucket led her through the door, her delicate wrist in his dry, arthritic hand. She was dark brown and small and very beautiful, with long shining black hair and round hips. She wore a simple white cotton dress, barefoot, and her ankles were ringed in bracelets of plaited leather and colourful stones, as were her wrists. There was a large wooden crucifix hanging from her neck.

‘Marta,’ the old man said and left. The door closed and the bolt snapped.

‘Marta,’ the général said.

The young Indian girl smiled. She walked over and stood by the bed, reached down for the hem of her dress and then pulled it up over her head. She dropped it to the floor. The candlelight flickered as she turned and slid naked inside the single white sheet.

Général Fourés sat at the table and sipped Curado’s brandy. That first night he sat and drank and watched Marta until she fell asleep.

HULK

‘Floatin’ Sodoms,’ the man next to him said. ‘you’d best beware and never mind bendin’ down for the thing you dropped.’

Johannes Meyer tried not to breathe as the man leaned across and laughed into his ear.

The prisoners were assembled on the quarterdeck. The captain had come to watch while the guards went from man to man and collected money, rings, necklaces, bracelets, buttons, keepsakes, anything in their possession. They patted down pockets and checked the linings of coats and the hems of shirts and trousers. They grabbed jaws and squeezed them open and looked inside, sometimes ran a grimy finger under the tongue and around the gums. Men retched and spat on the deck.

‘It’s just for safekeeping, son,’ the guards would say, as they pulled a gold tooth with rusty pliers or a silver ring from the prisoner’s finger. ‘Don’t fret none. We’ll look after it for you.’

‘In the ship’s hold!’

‘In the Hulk Workers’ Benevolent Fund!’

‘Aye!’

Coats were confiscated too, decent pairs of shoes, any shirts or pants well tailored and of good material, all swapped for the ragged, filthy hulk uniform.

A tidy profit on the hulks, oh yes, split half to the captain and the rest distributed according to rank among the guards.

They finished gathering the haul. Leg irons dragged across the deck, just heavy enough to drown a man, should he think of jumping into the Thames. The prisoners were pushed and hustled below into the stifling decks, paired off into the berths. The timbers reeked, greasy and dark, the air was dead.

‘Hot as a whore’s arsehole!’

She’d been a French warship once, eighty guns in her glory, but the cannons had long been smelted into English rivets and nails. Just a rotten box now, chocked with three hundred souls, moored slack and iron-chained in a line of other former glories. The stench enough in each, they said, to almost keep the rats away.

Men came and went and died. Johannes Meyer waited, survived.

THE MAN WHO CAME OUT OF THE SEA

There were almost a dozen Portuguese officers pursuing Elisabeth von Hoffmann, offering sanctuary in the grand houses they’d requisitioned from the French in Cayenne.

It is not good for one so young to live alone, they said.

And, they said, I will honour you.

They sent large bouquets of tropical flowers to her room at the Hôtel de la République, and gifts of expensive perfumes and dresses, even pages of original verse. Elisabeth declined their invitations and kept everything but the poetry.

As the hottest months of the year brewed the coming storms, so the competitiveness of the officers grew more intense with each of Elisabeth’s refusals. Her unattainability and its breaching became nothing less than a test of Portuguese manhood itself. She was a distraction from their boredom and their inglorious military careers (deep down, the officers all knew they’d been assigned to a backwater). They argued and threatened and fought one another in drunken duels. Only one man was ever seriously injured.

Mostly, the situation angered Elisabeth. For weeks and then months she’d begged the Portuguese authorities for news of the général, but they’d refused to tell her a thing (’you are not his wife, Mademoiselle’). She asked the colony’s deposed French officers and former administrators to help (‘But we are powerless!’) and the général’s aide-de-camp, Christophe Bergerard, seemed to have disappeared without trace. Desperate, Elisabeth even met with one of her ridiculous suitors (an excruciating dinner, a carriage ride through Cayenne, the man preening like a duke) in the hope he might trade news for her attentions, but discovered only that the man was a goat and she’d slapped him as hard as she could and stepped out of the carriage and walked back to her hotel.

Elisabeth understood she was vulnerable, and she was angry at the feeling too, at her status, and because there was nothing she could do but wait.

She made friends with some of the French wives in Cayenne, who tolerated her, on occasion. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday she went to the market in the cooler early mornings, bought exotic fruit to try. In the afternoon, torpor. She read novels and fell asleep for an hour or two, then later bathed in the dark. She took long walks on the beach and sat on the sand and watched the sea.

One day she saw a naked man walk out of the waves.

His skin was very brown and his long dark hair was slicked back over his head. Water ran off his body and glinted in the sun. He was down a little way from where she sat in the hot dunes, and he’d appeared so suddenly that now she was stunned and didn’t know what to do. Elisabeth twitched to move, but knew if she stood up the man would certainly see her. The truth was, whether she moved or not, any moment now he’d see her anyway.

The man, dripping, strode to a pile of clothes on the beach. He turned to look back at the water, put his hands on his hips, stood in the sea breeze drying off. After a while he picked up a white shirt and slipped it over his head, then pulled on a pair of breeches. He sat down and brushed the sand from his feet.

Elisabeth squinted through the glare. Maybe he wouldn’t see her after all.

When the man stood again, he gathered up a coat and draped it over his arm, bent down for his boots. Then he looked over at Elisabeth and smiled and bowed his head. He began walking away slowly down the beach.

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

Claus von Rolt had a small mahogany box made for the shrunken head. The wood was engraved in old Celtic patterns and inside it was lined with cushioned black velvet. Fine silver hinges and clasps attached the lid, and there was a delicate filigreed lock and key, the small key a jewel, just like the keys on music boxes. It had cost him a lot of money.

Each time he opened the box, it was with great anticipation, and the thrill of seeing the head never diminished, in fact only intensified. Opening the box was like lifting the lid on a holy relic, once possessed by bishops and kings, Alexander the Great, Kublai Khan, Caesar.

To wear the head in public was an incredible feeling, but it bulged under his clothing and looked strange. Only a coat and scarf hid its presence; unfortunately, the English weather had turned unseasonably mild.

At night, Rolt undressed and wore it naked through his rented rooms.

He’d run through the rooms as fast and silently as he could on the balls of his feet, run until he began to sweat, until he collapsed on the cold floor, exhilarated. He’d rest a moment, do it again, sometimes four, five times, the head around his neck, running.

He longed to run outside in the open, in the starred dark and under the sun, across a field and through the desert, streaming between the trees of a dense green forest. A warrior running.

Claus von Rolt ran through his rented rooms and imagined himself in new lands and on endless grass plains, running, faster, his chest heaving. In the mirrors of his rented rooms, he’d pause and look and be unable to see himself at all.

By the end of the month, he’d booked passage on an English ship, the convict transport Guildford, bound for New South Wales.

LONDON — CANARY ISLANDS — RIO DE JANEIRO — CAPE TOWN — PORT JACKSON

The prisoners were given lighter leg irons and their last rancid rations, and then they were ferried off the hulk. None of them received any of their possessions back.

Carted by bony bullock teams to the London docks, they were unloaded under guard and then long-boated again, over to where their ship waited at anchor. A few women had gathered and called out to their husbands. They cried bitterly and held up their children. Some of the women spat on the guards. They were pushed away and sworn at. Scuffles broke out and the women scratched at the guards’ faces.

‘Bastards! Scum!’

‘you give it to ’em, darlin’!’

‘Fuckers!’

The sky was low and overcast. The Thames was still, flat and briny and the pebbly shoreline was fish-gutted and strewn with rotting seaweed, but Johannes Meyer was grateful to breathe the open air in deeply.

One by one for the next few hours, two hundred male convicts scaled the salt-wet rope ladders slack against the hull of the Guildford, up onto the deck. Bewildered and exhausted and weak, they took small shuffling steps in their leg irons as they were herded into lines and accounted for. Marked off the list, they hobbled over to a hatch in the deck and climbed down into the hold. It was hot and the same prison hulk stench was there too, though in truth, really, not so bad as that.

Down the ladder, again from light into dark.

‘Get ya foot off me head!’

‘Get ya ’ead off me foot!’

‘Move it!’

Down the ladder, into the hold.

They rushed and wrestled for the berths nearer the hatchways. They fought, dominance and subservience re-established. The weakest would trade all sorts of favours down the line.

After some time, the heavy vibration of the anchor chain suddenly rumbled through the hull. Not a man moved, each one stock-still, sentences cut off in the middle, thoughts slashed, dropped dead. They listened.

The timbers boomed and the ship groaned, the bow dipped under the strain; the men stood braced. Above they could hear the sailors running and shouting now, and whistles blew and their bare feet drummed the deck and then, just like that, the Guildford came free and began to float. Every man’s stomach lurched.

The shock broke. Those on the higher hold decks ran for the few fist-sized portholes cut into the hull for air, a final glimpse of England. Some wept quietly and others sang soft hymns, a few kneeled and prayed. Many sat silent on their berths and stared down into their hands. The youngest were defiant and whispered good riddance, the roughest swore oaths and vengeance.

The tide came in and Johannes Meyer heard the sails snap and flurry in the breeze. The ship swung to port and headed for the estuary, for the sea.

TALISMAN

The croaking of ten thousand frogs woke him. The swarming whir of a million mosquitoes, the screeching of bats as they burst in a black horde out of the treetops.

Krüger lay in the mud at the river’s edge as the sun went down.

He dreamed of Hilde dying in Magdeburg, their cold room in the eaves. She was happy. She said, ‘Send the doctor away.’

‘No!’ Krüger said.

‘Please,’ she said, but he couldn’t look at her now and he was ashamed.

Dante tapped him on the shoulder, handed him a monkey hand, warm from roasting on a fire he’d lit on the floor of the room.

‘For Hilde,’ he said. ‘She needs her strength.’ Dante put the long, jointed thumb of the roasted monkey hand in his mouth, showed Krüger how to suck the meat off the bone. ‘Like this,’ he said, with a loud, slurping sound.

Krüger’s nostrils filled with the putrid stink, his stomach clenched. He turned on his side and retched bile and river silt.

The Bible and the gold coins were gone, but Mr Hendrik’s obia was still around his neck.