Betsy and the Emperor (9781439115879) Read online

  Betsy and the Emperor

  Margaret K. McElderry Books

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rabin, Staton.

  Betsy and the Emperor / Staton Rabin.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: In 1815 on the remote island of Saint Helena, fourteen-year-old Betsy Balcombe develops a friendship with Napoleon Bonaparte who, after his defeat at Waterloo, is brought there as an exile and is housed with her family.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-1587-9

  ISBN-10: 1-4391-1587-7

  1. Napoleon I, Emperor of the French, 1769-1821—Juvenile fiction. 2. Abell, Lucia Elizabeth Balcombe, d. 1871—Juvenile fiction. [1. Napoleon I, Emperor of the French, 1769-1821—Fiction. 2. Abell, Lucia Elizabeth Balcombe, d. 1871—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. Saint Helena—History—19th century—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.R1084Be 2004

  [Fic]—dc22

  2003017628

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Acknowledgments

  For Anne Lambert and Tom Welch, Dan and Joan Cameron, Sam Donta, Robert Buck, and Doreen Chen and her talented staff (Elizabeth, David, Jarry, and Susan)—who helped me to fly.

  With thanks to my agents, Lynn Pleshette and Donna Bagdasarian; film producer Fonda Snyder; and my wonderful and gentle editor, Emma Dryden, whose discernment and good instincts are invaluable to me.

  This Geographical Plan of the Island & Forts of Saint Helena by R. P. Read, London, 1817.

  IMAGE COPYRIGHT © BARRY WEAVER. USED WITH PERMISSION.

  Napoleon Bonaparte

  PORTRAIT OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, FROM THE PAINTING BY ANDREA APPIANI: Napoleon I. Bonaparte als König von Italien (GG2346), REPRODUCED BY PERMISSION OF KUNSTHISTORISCHES MUSEUM, WEIN.

  “I should trouble little about myself

  if only I could be sure that someday

  our humiliations would be proclaimed

  to the world

  so that those responsible for them

  would be covered in shame.”

  —NAPOLEON BONAPARTE ON ISLAND OF ST. HELENA

  Betsy Balcombe as an adult

  PORTRAIT OF BETSY BALCOMBE (SHELFMARK #1449.H.10) REPRODUCED BY PERMISSION OF THE BRITISH LIBRARY.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Source Notes

  Geographical Notes

  The Code Napoleon and the National Anthem of France

  Chapter 1

  I opened my bedroom window and inhaled—deeply, joyfully. That familiar, intoxicating odor: night on St. Helena. The sickly-sweet smell of guava and roses hung in the air like ether, just as I’d remembered it. Who would have thought I’d be so glad to return to the place my father and his navy comrades called “Hell in the South Atlantic”?

  It was the autumn of 1815. I had been home again at the Briars just three days, from Hawthorne Boarding School in London. I’d shocked my parents by not misbehaving once since my return to St. Helena. Perhaps they believed the knuckle-rapping, head-thumping headmistress of Hawthorne had finally knocked some sense into their younger daughter. I began to wonder it myself. Blast! Had I lost my sense of adventure? Would I go soft and ladylike and marry some vain, boot-polished officer of the Fifty-fourth Regiment or His Majesty’s Navy—as my sister Jane hoped to do?

  Just then two booms of the cannon from the port at Jamestown—the signal for a ship’s arrival—broke the stillness. And I knew I remained the Betsy Balcombe of yore. Older, yes. Wiser, perhaps. But never, never willing to settle for a life that’s “Tedious-as-Hell in the South Atlantic”!

  I threw on my bed jacket and grabbed hold of my ladder—the vine that had, over the years, crept bravely up the red brick walls of the Briars and to the very edge of my windowsill. It was many a night that the vine had been my ladder to adventure. Thank heaven Toby hadn’t trimmed it back during my long absence!

  I slipped a little as I climbed out the window, and Jane woke with a start. She gave a quiet, girlish scream. I looked over at her, and she was sitting up in her white lacy canopy bed, the covers pulled tight under her chin. I had one leg out the window. My sister glared at me, stern as the headmistress of Hawthorne.

  “I’ll tell…,” Jane threatened coolly.

  “Still the little tattler,” I said, shaking my head. Jane was sixteen—two years older than I; old enough to keep secrets.

  “You’re going into Jamestown, aren’t you?”

  “Go back to sleep, Jane. If you don’t, you’ll make your eyes all puffy and you’ll turn ugly so none of the young officers will want to marry you.”

  “Betsy!”

  “Good night, Jane.”

  It was too late for her to stop me. I was already out the window and halfway down the vine. Jane would never think of spoiling her pretty hands by attempting to climb down after me.

  I jumped the last few feet to the ground. Then I peered around the corner of the Briars to see who was about. Most of our slaves had already returned to their cabins for the night. Most of the soldiers had turned in too, though there seemed to be a few more sentries on watch than usual.

  I rounded the corner of the Briars and dashed to the moon-shaded side of the Pavilion veranda. Suddenly, I heard footsteps in the dank leaves nearby. I froze, listening, trying to quiet my winded breathing so it wouldn’t betray me.

  “Is me. Only me, missy.”

  Toby! I’d forgotten the old man liked to stroll by night in the gardens he tended by day. He liked to drink a bit of the island rum too. Not enough to get drunk, though. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You go for the walk at night—like old time, missy, yes?”

  “Yes.” I still couldn’t see him, but I smelled the rum on his breath. I knew he’d be smiling broadly at me with those remarkably white teeth I used to think were a string of pearls from the seas off his native Haiti.

  “Miss Jane with you?”

  I laughed. “What do you think?”

  “Didn’t think yes, missy,” he said, chuckling softly. “Didn’t think yes.”

  Toby had been with my family for years and had seen Jane and me grow up. But I knew I was his favorite—even more than the boys.

  After a moment he whispered hoarsely: “Ship is here, in Jamestown. Do you know?”

  “I heard the signal.”

  Toby fell silent. Then he sighed and whispered seriously: “All will be very different, St. Helena now. Everything soon change, missy, yes?”

  I didn’t know what Toby meant. He often
said things that sounded mysterious. I knew the island slaves to be very superstitious, so I never took much notice.

  “Your papa ask me to cut vines all over,” he said with a chuckle. “I leave the one outside missy’s window for you coming home.”

  So Toby knew how I’d escaped from my room at night, and he’d kept my secret! I’d always felt he was one of the few people who understood me.

  “Thank you, Toby!”

  “Hush!” he whispered. “You wake family all, no Jamestown, no ship to see for missy.”

  “Good night, Toby,” I whispered back, and ran toward Jamestown.

  Chapter 2

  The warm trade winds of St. Helena gently caressed my legs as I ran—the silent greeting of my old friend, the night. My nightgown rippled, billowed in front of me, filled with the breeze like a great white mainsail. The wind picked up speed, whistling over the jagged edges of the dark, towering mountains all around me. They stood, lined up rocky shoulder to rocky shoulder in their gray, impenetrable armor like ancient warriors, spears of granite piercing the night sky. St. Helena’s mountains overwhelmed, even terrified, her visitors: “The Rock,” “The Fortress,” even “Hell” or “Purgatory” were names by which the island had come to be known. Even residents of St. Helena had no kinder names for her.

  I confess I did not like the mountains by day, much less by night. At times they seemed to lean inward, threatening to crush any poor human insect who dared to pass below. Tonight was such a night. And yet, as I ran over the gently sloping valleys—the grazing pastures of the island’s small herds of sheep and cows—I felt safe. The grassy hills were a great green cove, a haven where the rocky warriors could not pass. Confidently, I sailed on.

  Freedom! It had been so long since I’d tasted its sweetness. Hawthorne had been more of a prison than a boarding school for girls: sundown curfews, grease-laden suppers I would gladly have swapped for the murderer’s “bread and water,” and sour-dispositioned matrons who watched over us like guard hounds.

  I neared Plantation House, the magnificent white-columned governor’s mansion. The majestic building stood idle and dark, as it had for many years. It was as if it were a glorious crystal chandelier—with all its candles snuffed. I’d always wondered why the East India Company, for which my father was superintendent of public sales, had assigned him to the Briars instead of to the more opulent and unoccupied Plantation House. The thought angered me.

  Half a mile to Jamestown, I began to grow weary. I was no longer accustomed to such activity. Running had not been part of the headmistress’s prescribed course of study for young ladies!

  I regretted that I could not have ridden my horse Belle into Jamestown, but she was suffering from a sore tendon and I did not want to risk laming her. In the future, when she reached maturity, I hoped to run her in the Deadwood Races.

  Exhausted, I trudged on.

  Jamestowners were ordinarily the last residents of St. Helena to retire each night. The town was a center of unrestrained activity and unchecked impulses. Still, I was surprised at what I heard and saw when I passed the old stone clock tower and arrived in the center of town.

  Hundreds of people were dashing to and fro, squealing like greased pigs hunting for cover. I was in danger of being trampled, so I ran into the alleyway next to Porteous’ Inn and stood on a fish crate, where I could watch the crowd in relative safety. People were cramming themselves into buildings, struggling to pass six or eight abreast through the narrow doorways. Doors slammed after them, one following another like pistol shots along the long row of brown, wood-frame houses. Heavy padlocks—rarely used on St. Helena—were slapped onto shop entrances by nervous proprietors. Frantic women closed and locked shutters on upstairs windows, pulled down parchment shades, and extinguished their oil lamps. The lights of Jamestown were going out like dying fireflies.

  Of those people who remained in the street, most were men; they were shouting and had gathered in a large group. A few held muskets.

  I didn’t know what to make of all the commotion. No one seemed to be in any condition to be asked what the trouble was. If St. Helena was being attacked, then surely the soldiers would have been alerted. But no soldiers were to be seen. Perhaps it was a slave rebellion, similar to the one Toby told me had broken out on Haiti close to twenty-five years ago.

  Then, suddenly, I heard the voice of a small boy coming from behind a rum keg discarded outside the inn. He seemed to be talking to a companion.

  I crept nearer and peered over the top of the huge barrel. There were two children—a boy of approximately nine years of age and a younger girl who resembled him and was probably his sister. They were too preoccupied to notice me. They were street urchins, crouched low in their patchwork tatters, faces smeared with grime. The boy was gleefully relating a tale to the girl, who was pale with fright.

  “And Boney eats three white goats every day…,” the boy said, “and little children….” Trembling, the girl tried to edge away from him, but he caught her by her dirty hair and held her fast. His face took on an even more sinister aspect. “Only English ones,” he whispered loudly into her ear. She whimpered. “Only girls!”

  The girl screamed, jumped up, and ran down the alley, her brother close at her heels. I laughed, thinking of how many times I had terrified my own younger siblings, Willie and Alexander, with fairy stories. But who was “Boney”? I didn’t recall having heard that tale before.

  I turned around in time to see one of the Jamestown men passing oil-soaked rags wound on top of sticks to his comrades. Then he touched a burning acacia branch to his stick until the top exploded in orange flame. Though I was standing more than five yards away, I could feel the heat of that torch as it sent thick, black smoke and fumes of burning whale oil into the air. The torch was used to light another—this, another—and on and on through the crowd of men the flame was passed rapidly from torch to torch until all were lit. Then the men marched together in the general direction of the sea. With all the chaos, I’d almost forgotten about the ship’s arrival! I wondered whether the men, too, were headed toward her. I followed them.

  I gathered my bed jacket closer around me to ward off the cool, coastal breeze. A sizable crowd had gathered on the rocky beach—not just the Jamestowners, but rough-looking types from other parts of the island as well. There were armed soldiers, too: on the beach, up in the hills—I’d never seen so many. They must have been called from their posts all over St. Helena. But why? Were they expecting trouble?

  The great ship strained at her anchor in rough seas, three hundred yards offshore. I tried to make out the sea-worn letters on her hull: N-O-R-T…Northumberland! She was British, to be sure—a tattered Union Jack fluttered from a jackstaff on her bowsprit—and a battleship, at that. At least a dozen guns sprouted from her barnacled sides. Well, I reasoned, at least we aren’t being attacked by foreigners. But what if pirates had taken over the ship?

  A large landing boat packed with men and horses was already on its way from the Northumberland. It was still too far away to see any details. The crowd surged toward the water, and the British soldiers, bayonets fixed to their muskets, urged them back.

  A leathery old man wearing a buckskin smithy’s apron stood next to me, peering out to sea through a spyglass. His face was as red as pomegranate seeds, with deep brown creases around his mouth and neck. He was a Yamstock—a native St. Helenian. They all had that wind-battered look to them. He aimed his glass at the approaching landing boat.

  “Who are they?” I asked the Yamstock.

  He put his spyglass under his arm and turned to look at me. The man had only one eye! The right socket was empty, and the lid appeared to have been sewn shut.

  He cocked his head at a peculiar angle and stared at me a long time, in a way that made me sorry I hadn’t thought to change into something more substantial than my nightgown before leaving the Briars.

  “Who wants t’know?” he said in a voice halfway between a gargle and a growl.

 
“Betsy. Betsy Balcombe.”

  He stared at me again and made a strange clucking noise with his tongue. “See fer yerself,” he said, handing me the spyglass.

  I put the cold brass to my eye. The boat and its passengers looked terribly small. I couldn’t see any details.

  Then, without warning, the Yamstock rudely yanked the glass from my hands. I was stunned and disappointed. Crazy old man!

  “Yer got the thing turned wrong way round!” he growled, handing it back to me, this time with the eyepiece facing the proper direction.

  “Hmmm…,” I said, aiming it at the boat again. I could see the men in the boat very clearly now.

  “What d’yer see with those pretty young eyes o’yers?” the Yamstock asked, a bit contemptuously.

  “Horses, sailors…and oarsmen.”

  “Aye! Go on.”

  The moonlight seemed to be fading. I strained to see.

  “And…officers. One of them’s tall…gray-haired. With fancy whiskers and uniform.”

  “Aye. That’d be the adm’ral,” the Yamstock said.

  “Admiral? Which one?”

  “Go on, I say! What else?”

  I took the spyglass away from my eye. The Yamstock’s bullying was beginning to annoy me.

  “Go on!” he snapped.

  I scowled at him for his rudeness. Still, I was anxious to learn who was on the boat. So I placed the glass against my eye. I looked through it a long time in silence. A cloud had drifted in front of the moon, and I could no longer see anything worth mentioning. The Yamstock grew impatient with me.