Betsy and the Emperor (9781439115879) Read online

  “But they were pleasant company, I trust?” the admiral said, a bit of mischief in his tone.

  “Oh, quite pleasant, Admiral,” he replied. “If a bit too familiar.”

  The man’s English was abominable. I untangle it here with difficulty.

  My legs were growing weary of holding the same uncomfortable position for so long. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, which stirred up some soot. Try as I might—and, oh, how I did try!—I couldn’t contain a sneeze.

  “God bless you, my dear,” I heard my father say.

  “I didn’t sneeze,” my mother replied puzzledly.

  I stifled a giggle in my fist lest they hear that as well.

  There was some awkward small talk for a moment or two. It was clear just how ill at ease my parents felt with Bonaparte in the room. Then my father said solemnly: “I think it’s time we call the children.”

  “Jane is out with the boys,” my mother said. “They should return shortly. Have you seen Betsy this morning?”

  “No,” my father replied, uneasiness creeping into his forthright manner. I knew he was wondering whether I’d gotten myself into some sort of mischief.

  “I’ll call upstairs for her. You’ll excuse me, gentlemen?”

  My mother’s rapid exit alerted me to move quickly if I hoped to avoid being caught eavesdropping.

  “Betsy!” she called from the parlor.

  I leaped out of the fireplace, bumping my head in the process. “Ow!…er…yes, Mother?” I called back.

  “Betsy, are you quite all right?”

  “Yes, Mother.” I brushed the soot from my dress.

  “Then come downstairs, please. We have guests in the library.”

  I could tell she was going to great lengths to conceal the quaver in her voice.

  As I entered the library, I was surprised to see that Jane and my brothers were present, having just returned from their outing. Willie and little Alexander were too young to recognize Bonaparte on sight, and Jane too ignorant. I smiled inwardly, anticipating the unpleasant surprise in store for her.

  My mother was serving tea and cakes. Her hands shook so much, the fine china cups rattled like bones on the tray. Bonaparte stood by himself, absorbed in removing some of my father’s books from the shelves and examining them. My father and the admiral chatted amiably, reminiscing about their days at sea.

  I was about to make myself comfortable on the settee, but my mother caught my eye and shook her head vigorously at me. Reluctantly, I continued to stand.

  “Won’t you sit down, monsieur?” my mother said nervously, offering Bonaparte my place on the sofa.

  He either did not hear or chose to ignore her. In any case, he made no reply.

  “Monsieur?” my mother ventured timidly.

  Slowly, he turned around. Bonaparte first looked puzzled, then extremely annoyed. The transformation was sudden and complete. “You are addressing me, madame?” he snapped.

  My mother was taken aback. Jane looked stricken. My father and the admiral ceased their conversation.

  My mother plucked up her courage and nodded at Bonaparte.

  “Madame, if we are to live under the same roof, then I suggest you learn to address me in a more appropriate manner.” He did not elaborate. My mother nodded like a small child who’d received a scolding from her teacher. So, just as I’d thought: He was moving in with us!

  An uncomfortable silence ensued. Then the admiral attempted to lighten the atmosphere. He held up a tea cake, cleared his throat, and said: “Mrs. Balcombe, these are marvelous. If you can make hardtack and boiled sow as well as you can tea cakes, there’s a place for you on my ship!”

  She smiled wanly in appreciation. My father chuckled.

  “Sorry, Admiral,” my father said. “My wife has her own crew to cook for.”

  “Understood, Captain Balcombe,” the admiral replied, smiling.

  “William?” my mother said, as a reminder to my father that there was business at hand. He caught her meaning.

  “Children,” he said, “gather round. Gather round.” He pointed to an area on the rug.

  Jane, Willie, and Alexander lined up in front of the stern-faced Bonaparte, who stood at attention, hands folded behind his back. My brothers and sister seemed unsure of whether to expect an inspection or a firing squad.

  “You too, Betsy,” my father added when he saw I was laggard. I took my place in line.

  “Children, this gentleman will be our guest for a while. General Bonaparte, these are our children. Jane…”

  Gleefully, I noted that Jane was turning as pale as pastry flour. Bonaparte nodded at her to acknowledge the introduction. She staggered a bit, then took a step backward in an attempt to conceal this. She curtsied and managed to croak out: “Bon—Bonjour, monsieur.”

  Next, my father turned his attention to the boys.

  “William Junior,” he said. “And Alexander.”

  “It’s vicious Boney-parte!” the terrified Alexander whispered into his older brother’s ear—loud enough, unfortunately, for everyone to hear. My father turned purple with embarrassment. Little Alexander clung to Willie, gripping his waist so tightly from behind that poor Willie swayed back and forth like a dinghy. Alexander peeked out from behind his brother.

  I studied Bonaparte’s face, and I could swear that I saw the trace of an amused smile appear on his lips as he watched the trembling boys. He took one step toward them, and they cowered all the more. Then, quickly, Bonaparte mussed up his hair with the tips of his fingers and bugged out his eyes like an ogre. He bent down low and leaned close to them. “Argghh!” he growled.

  The boys screamed and jumped back in terror. This frightened Jane, who fell backward right into a pile of ashes in the fireplace! She wasn’t hurt—only her pride, I suppose. My father helped her up.

  Bonaparte laughed wickedly. I laughed too, I confess. Bonaparte noticed my reaction and seemed intrigued by it. My mother glowered at me in disapproval.

  “Now, was that really necessary, sir?” said the admiral to Bonaparte, attempting to be stern. But, really, it was obvious the admiral was as amused as I.

  My father did his best to overlook the incident, but I noticed that he did not look at Bonaparte when, a moment later, he presented me to him.

  “This is our daughter Elizabeth,” he said. “We call her Betsy.”

  “Je suis très heureuse de faire vôtre connaissance, Your Majesty,” I said, bowing my head slightly since curtsying did not suit me.

  Bonaparte raised an eyebrow and looked at me with an odd combination of agreeable surprise and suspicion. I suppose he wasn’t certain whether I was being respectful or subtly mocking him. I watched as his small gray eyes narrowed into lizardly slits of concentration. Then he scrutinized my face feature by feature, like a gypsy fortune-teller reading tea leaves. I realized that he was wondering why I looked so familiar to him.

  “We have met before, you and I…,” he mused.

  “No, sir. That is, I don’t see how that would be possible, sir,” I lied, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t recognize me as the girl who’d nearly run him over in the parlor.

  “I’m sure mademoiselle must be correct,” he said with formality.

  I would have felt relieved at hearing this, but his manner was disturbingly ambiguous. It was impossible for me to judge his sincerity by his expression.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, he demanded to be left alone with me. Naturally, my mother was mortified. She rose instantly from her chair to protest. But, somehow, my father managed to stop her before she voiced her objection, in that mysterious way married people have of communicating their desires without saying a single word.

  My family and the admiral filed quickly out of the room without ceremony, like good soldiers given the order to break ranks. Frankly, I resented their unquestioning obedience to Bonaparte’s wishes. Was I worth so little to my parents that they would hand me over to anyone, however disreputable, who took the trouble to ask? It wo
uld serve them right if Bonaparte took this opportunity to bludgeon me with the coatrack or the andirons!

  For the moment, however, the man seemed to have entirely forgotten that I was in the room with him. He walked briskly about the library, freely picking up and examining all of dozens of objects that took his fancy. His curiosity bordered on gluttony. It was immediately apparent to me that his mind functioned at an almost unimaginable pace, swallowing information as voraciously as a shark devours its prey. Though the room was crammed to overflowing with books, objets d’art, and my father’s nautical memorabilia, Bonaparte managed to navigate through the sea of articles with startling speed and efficiency. He did not damage or misplace anything. I noted that he was able to collect half a dozen or more items at once from different locations in the room, study them, then return each to its proper place, seemingly without a moment’s thought or hesitation.

  He seemed particularly fascinated by my father’s old navy sword, which hung from worn leather thongs over the fireplace, and two ship models: of Admiral Nelson’s frigate, the Victory, and Admiral Collingwood’s Royal Sovereign.

  Once he’d satisfied his curiosity about the contents of the room, he moved toward the south window overlooking Toby’s rose garden. The morning sunlight streamed through the glass, making rainbows in the bell jars that covered my father’s ship models. Bonaparte placed himself directly in the path of the sunlight. He took off his big bicorne hat—he’d been rude enough to have worn it inside the house—placed it under his arm, and stared out the window. In a moment he seemed to have entered a trance.

  By this time I had grown very impatient with the man and was anxious to leave. He was so eerily absorbed in his daydreaming that I was certain he would not notice my exit. I headed for the door.

  “It is very quiet,” he said, startling me. I wasn’t sure whether he had directed his remark at me or at himself, but I decided that I ought not leave just yet. I risked a reply.

  “We are in the country, sir.”

  He continued to stare out the window. I was not accustomed to holding a conversation with a man’s backbone. I made for the door once more.

  “You speak French well,” he said crisply. “Better than the others.”

  This remark drew me back. He was silent for a moment, and I got the impression that he was waiting for me to return the compliment. How ridiculous! Surely, I thought, he must know his English is dreadful.

  “I’ve only just returned from school,” I said diplomatically.

  “From school…,” he mused. Then, with appalling speed and suddenness, he fired questions at me like a barrage of artillery. I battled to keep apace.

  “What is the capital of France?” he ordered.

  “Paris.”

  “Of Italy?”

  “Rome.”

  “Russia?”

  “Petersburg now,” I said, breathless. “Moscow formerly.”

  Then, abruptly, he turned to face me. His fists were clenched white, eyes like two long gray pins fixing me where I stood. He was agitated, electrified—almost mad, really. The nervous twitching of his left thigh muscle caught my eye.

  “Qui l’a brûlée?” he demanded.

  I was stunned by his senseless intensity, struck dumb by it.

  “Who burned it?!” he roared, slamming his fist on the desk. The bell jars rattled with the force of the blow.

  “I—I don’t know, sir,” I said.

  “Mais oui!” he said with a laugh. “You know very well. I did!”

  So. He burned Moscow, just as he’d destroyed so much else with his battles and conquests. What was I to say? Jolly good show?

  Bonaparte delighted in his own cleverness, chuckling heartily. All signs of anger and agitation instantly vanished from his features. He was merry, lighthearted. He didn’t even seem to notice that I was not laughing with him.

  How could I have laughed? The change in his behavior was too sudden, too sweeping. I began to wonder about the angry scene I had witnessed only moments before. Was it playacting? Was he merely testing me?

  Bonaparte sat down in the chair behind my father’s desk. He drummed his fingers nervously on the desktop and looked straight at me. “Why did you try to deceive me?” he said.

  “Sir?” I didn’t know what he meant.

  “We met in the drawing room,” he said. “You are not a very good liar.”

  “I—I try to be, sir.”

  He laughed. “Never mind. I have had more practice at it than you.”

  I looked at him, not knowing quite what to say. It didn’t matter; by now his attention was occupied elsewhere.

  From his position at the desk, he could see out another of the library’s windows. This one had a view of dark boulders streaked with brackish water from underground wellsprings like greenish blood. Instead of trees and grasses, there was a barren and colorless expanse; volcanic ash and pumice stretched as far as the eye could see, long since having beaten all life into dreary submission. And instead of gently rolling hills, there was a row of terrible, sharp mountains, jutting like fangs from the jaw of a leviathan.

  Bonaparte was transfixed by the melancholy landscape. I supposed that he was thinking about what life would be like for him now—his life as a captive on St. Helena. He muttered something very quietly to himself, as one does in dreaming. I doubted he was aware he’d said anything aloud.

  “The Bastille was a kinder prison…,” he said.

  I stood for a few moments more, waiting for him to dismiss me. He seemed so deep in thought that I didn’t dare disturb him.

  I let myself out.

  Chapter 4

  Bonaparte spent the night at Porteous’ Inn in Jamestown—a fact that Admiral Cockburn took great pains to conceal from its nervous citizens.

  The next morning Bonaparte moved into the Briars. Or, rather, “Bonaparte & Company” did. He was accompanied by a suite of French officers and their wives—aristocrats, mostly—as well as his personal servants, chefs, and valets. They had all sailed with Bonaparte on the Northumberland after he was taken prisoner by the English. I’m not sure how my parents felt about putting up so many unexpected guests, and such odd ones at that, but they did their best to conceal any resentment they may have felt.

  There wasn’t room for the exiles in the main part of the house, so my father set them up in the Pavilion. The Pavilion was a house detached from the rest of the Briars but only a few steps away. We’d used it to house high-ranking visitors in the past, including Bonaparte’s nemesis, the Duke of Wellington, who’d sent him down to defeat at Waterloo.

  I watched in amazement as crate after crate of Bonaparte’s belongings was carried into the house. There was an endless stream of them. Some of the boxes were so large that they had to be turned on their sides in order to fit through the door. My father had called in some of his field hands to assist, and they worked side by side with Bonaparte’s men. No one but the ladies and the emperor himself was exempt from carrying crates. Bonaparte oversaw the whole operation as if he were commanding in battle, dividing up responsibilities, coordinating flanks, and shouting, “Vite! Quickly!” to rouse failing spirits. It was a strange sight to see—dignified French officers transporting goods on their backs like pack mules.

  Most seemed to take the situation in stride, but a few did not. One man complained constantly and bitterly about everything: his aching feet and back, the arduousness of his task and its inappropriateness to one of his high station. He bemoaned the heat of the day, which seemed to me a particularly ridiculous complaint since he was so obviously overdressed for the weather. A bit of a dandy, I thought. A fop. I took an instant dislike to him.

  The man half dropped one of the crates on the Pavilion doorstep with an “ooph!” and a thud. Then he grimaced, gripped his lower back, and limped—rather too theatrically, it seemed to me—toward the emperor.

  “Sire,” he whined, “I am happy to serve His Majesty in whatever capacity he sees fit. But if I am crippled with the lumbago, I will un
fortunately be deprived of the pleasure of serving him in the future!”

  “Now, now, Gourgaud,” Bonaparte replied, humoring him. “We’ve been at sea a long time. The exercise will do you good.”

  “But, Sire—”

  “Ah-ah-ah!” Bonaparte said, raising his index finger. “You must set a good example for the others, Gourgaud. They all look up to you, you know.”

  Gourgaud seemed very pleased by this transparent flattery. His chest puffed up with pride until the ruffles on his shirtfront stood out like pheasant’s plumage. He rejoined the work detail.

  About a quarter of an hour later Bonaparte made an announcement. “Messieurs,” he said, “it is time for a rest.” He pointed to several of the slaves. “You—you, there!—you, you, and you. You will take a respite. Dix minutes—c’est tout! The remainder of you will have your rest once they return.”

  Gourgaud, who, of course, was not among those selected for the first ten-minute rest period, huffed toward the emperor, his long puffy shirtsleeves flapping in the breeze. He was red in the face, sputtering like a teakettle. “Sire! Sire, forgive me for speaking so boldly, but—but I cannot understand why you have allowed these Negroes to take a respite ahead of me! After all, they are merely slaves. They are used to performing manual labor. Whereas I—”

  “Assez!” the emperor snapped. “We are guests here!”

  Gourgaud stood quietly.

  “You are correct that these men are slaves,” the emperor said brittlely. “When we are finished with them here, they must toil again all day in the fields while you retreat to a warm bath and a good meal. All the more reason why they should have a rest before you!”

  I was more than a little surprised by Bonaparte’s remarks. I would not have expected that he’d have any compassion for his social inferiors, since he’d demonstrated so little for his equals. As for me, I’d never had any stomach for slavery. I’d seen one too many of those execrable floating dungeons we call “slave ships” from Guinea and Angola sail into Jamestown Harbor with their wretched human cargo in chains. It had always troubled me that my family kept slaves. We were no different from other reasonably well-to-do families on St. Helena in that respect, but to me, this did not lessen the offense. On several occasions I’d tried to convince my father to free our slaves, but my efforts were in vain. He’d always tap his pipe nervously in the palm of his hand when I brought up the subject, explaining that while he deplored slavery as much as I, there were no other laborers on the island who had the necessary skills to tend our yam fields and could be hired at reasonable cost and that, in any case, he was sure our slaves were better treated than most paid workers on St. Helena. While this may have been true, I still felt my father’s attitude was rather hypocritical. Of course, I did not tell him so.