Napoleon's Young Neighbor Part 1

Napoleon's Young Neighbor.

by Helen Leah Reed.

PREFACE

This book, chronicling some little known pa.s.sages in the last few years of Napoleon, is based on the "Recollections of Napoleon at St. Helena,"

by Mrs. Abell (Elizabeth Balcombe), published in 1844 by John Murray.

Her little book is written in an old-fas.h.i.+oned and quiet style, and the present writer, without altering any words of Napoleon's, has, so far as possible, given a vivid form to conversations and incidents related undramatically and has rearranged incidents that Mrs. Abell told without great attention to chronology. The writer has also added many pages of matter (with close reference to the best authorities) in order to make the whole story of Napoleon clear to those who are not familiar with it.

CHAPTER I

GREAT NEWS

Far south in the Atlantic there is an island that at first sight from the deck of a s.h.i.+p seems little more than a great rock. In shape it is oblong, with perpendicular sides several hundred feet high. It is called St. Helena because the Portuguese, who discovered it in 1502, came upon it on the birthday of St. Helena, Constantine's mother. To describe it as the geographies might, we may say that it lies in lat.i.tude 15 55'

South, and in longitude 5 46' West. It is about ten and a half miles long, six and three-quarters miles broad, and its circ.u.mference is about twenty-eight miles. The nearest land is Ascension Island, about six hundred miles away, and St. Helena is eleven hundred miles from the Cape of Good Hope.

From the sea St. Helena is gloomy and forbidding. Ma.s.ses of volcanic rock, with sharp and jagged peaks, tower up above the coast, an iron girdle barring all access to the interior. A hundred years ago its sides were without foliage or verdure and its few points of landing bristled with cannon. Jamestown, the only town, named for the Duke of York, lies in a narrow valley, the bottom of a deep ravine. Precipices overhang it on every side; the one on the left, rising directly from the sea, is known as Rupert's Hill, that on the right as Ladder Hill. A steep and narrow path cuts along the former, and a really good road winds zigzag along the other to the Governor's House. Opposite the town is James's Bay, the princ.i.p.al anchorage, where the largest s.h.i.+ps are perfectly safe.

The town really consists of a small street along the beach, called the Marina, which extends about three hundred yards to a spot where it branches off into two narrower roads, one of which is now called Napoleon Street. In 1815 there were about one hundred and sixty houses, chiefly of stone cemented with mud, for lime is scarce on the island.

Among its larger buildings were a church, a botanical garden, a tavern, barracks, and, high on the left, the castle, the Governor's town residence.

About a mile and a half from the town there stood in the early part of the past century a cottage built in the style of an Indian bungalow. It was placed rather low, with rooms mainly on one floor. A fine avenue of banyan trees led up to the house, and around it were tall evergreens and laces, pomegranates and myrtles, and other tropical trees. Better than these, however, in the eyes of the dwellers at The Briars were the great white-rose bushes, like the sweetbriar of old England. From these the house took its name, and thus the family in it seemed less far away from their old home.

In a grove near the house were trees of every description, grapes of all kinds and citron, orange, shaddoc, guava, and mango trees in the greatest abundance. The surplus raised in the garden beyond what the family could use brought its owner several hundred pounds a year. The little cottage was shut in on one side by a hedge of aloes and p.r.i.c.kly pear and on the other by high cliffs and precipices. From one of these cliffs, not far from the house, fell a waterfall, not only beautiful to the eye but on a hot day refres.h.i.+ng to the mind with its cool splash and tinkle.

The owner of The Briars at this time was an Englishman named Balcombe, who was in the service of the government. Besides his servants his household consisted of his wife, his daughters Jane and Betsy, in their early teens, and two little boys much younger. They formed a happy, contented household, living a simple, quiet life, and though the parents were sometimes homesick, the children were very fond of their island abode.

One evening in the middle of October, 1815, the Balcombe children were having a merry time with their parents, when a servant, entering, announced the arrival of two visitors.

"It is the captain of the _Icarus_," said Mr. Balcombe, turning to his wife, "and another naval officer."

"The man-of-war that came in to-day?" asked one of the children. "We heard the alarm sound from Ladder Hill."

"Yes, yes, my dear." Then, turning to a servant, "Show them in."

As the gentlemen entered the room, it was plain that they had something of importance to communicate.

"Sir," said the senior officer to Mr. Balcombe, after the first greetings, "I come to tell you that the _Icarus_ is sent ahead of the _Northumberland_ to announce that the _Northumberland_ is but a few days' sail from St. Helena."

"Yes," responded Mr. Balcombe politely, wondering why this announcement should be made so seriously.

"Sir George c.o.c.kburn," continued the other, "commands the _Northumberland_, and in his care is Napoleon Bonaparte, whom he brings to St. Helena as a prisoner of state."

Mr. Balcombe started to speak; his expression was one of annoyance. He was not fond of practical jokes. His wife leaned back in her chair, gazing incredulously at the speaker. The children laughed. The officer's story was too absurd. Then one of the little boys began to cry. In their play the older children were in the habit of frightening the others with the name of Napoleon Bonaparte. It was alarming to hear that the terrible Napoleon was to come to live on their peaceful island.

Before Mr. Balcombe could express his surprise, the officer repeated:

"Yes, Napoleon Bonaparte, the enemy of England."

"But how can that be?" asked Mr. Balcombe, hardly understanding.

"Bonaparte was on Elba months ago; what has England to do with him now?"

"Surely--" began the captain; then recalling himself, "but I forgot how far St. Helena is from the rest of the world. After Napoleon escaped from Elba in February, he gathered a great army. But the Allies, with our Iron Duke at the head, met him near Brussels, and there in June was fought the great battle of Waterloo. Thousands were killed, brave English as well as French. That battle marked the downfall of Napoleon, and soon he was England's prisoner."

Mr. and Mrs. Balcombe, as well as their children, listened eagerly, absorbed in a story they now heard for the first time.

"So they send him here?" It was Mr. Balcombe who first spoke.

"Yes; no spot in Europe can hold him. Even on Elba he had begun to establish a kingdom. He reached beyond that little island, and now he has had his Waterloo."

"It is clear, then," said Mr. Balcombe, "why they have sent him here.

This is a natural fortress and it belongs to England."

"Yes," said the officer; "England knows that here, in her keeping, Bonaparte will never again escape to torment the world."

After a few more words of explanation on the one hand and of surprise on the other, the visitors withdrew.

Of those who had listened to the officer young Elizabeth, or Betsy as she was commonly called, was the most disturbed. She s.h.i.+vered and turned pale, and her mother, noticing her agitation, soon sent her to bed.

There she silently wept herself to sleep and her dreams were filled with visions of that dreadful ogre, Bonaparte. It was not a very long time since she had really believed Napoleon to be a huge monster, a kind of Polyphemus with one large, flaming eye in the middle of his forehead and with long teeth protruding from his mouth, with which he devoured bad little girls.

Although Betsy had outgrown this first idea of Napoleon, implanted in her young brain by careless servants, she was still afraid of the Conqueror. It is true that she realized he was not an ogre, but a human being; that is to say, the very worst human being that had ever lived.

She knew this must be so, for she had heard sensible grown-up persons speak of him in this way, even her own father and mother. What wonder, then, that her dreams should be disturbed by thoughts of the misery that must come to St. Helena with such a man as Napoleon living on the island?

The next morning after the visit of the officer from the _Icarus_, the little girl rose early. She was far from cheerful as she looked about her on the lovely garden and grove. A wave of hot anger pa.s.sed over her.

Why should that terrible man be permitted to land and destroy all this beauty, as he would, of course, on the first opportunity?

From the garden she looked toward the rugged mountain, known as Peak's Hill, which shut off the valley from the south. Her father had spoken of the island as a natural fortress. Except for the mountains the Government would never have thought of sending the dreadful Napoleon to St. Helena. So she hated the mountains and cliffs.

Perhaps, however, even at that moment when she dreaded the coming of the exiled Emperor, Betsy may have recalled her own first impressions of St.

Helena and cast a half-pitying thought toward the great man who now saw in its rocky heights only his prison wall.

One day Betsy's mother had reminded the young girl of the bitter tears she shed when she had first seen the island.

"You were a silly girl to cry when you first came in sight of land,"

said her mother, recalling the circ.u.mstance.

"Yes, but some had told me that the island was really the head of a great negro that was only waiting for the breakfast bell; then it would devour me first, and later the rest of the pa.s.sengers and crew."

"Well, I am glad you told me your fears."