Three days later, Pitt attended another conference, this time at Dymchurch in Romney Marsh. General Dundas was present again, and General Moore (it was his brother, aboard the Indefatigable, who had captured the Spanish treasure). The purpose of this second conference was to give the go-ahead for a military canal from Sandgate to Rye to cut off the Romney Marsh peninsula from the rest of the country, so rendering it useless to the French.
The canal qualified as a field work, which meant the cost would come straight out of the army budget without any bureaucratic delays. The work could begin at once. The first ground was broken on 30 October, and the task was considered so urgent that the labourers were to work on Sundays until the job was done. They were joined later by hundreds of soldiers, drafted in to do most of the spadework and build guardhouses and gun emplacements at every crossing.
The work progressed so quickly that the first stretch of the nineteen-mile canal was due for completion by 1 March 1805. The rest was to be finished by 1 June. That was a very tight schedule, but with Spain up in arms and Napoleon about to invade, there was no more time to waste. As he headed for Walmer after the Dymchurch meeting, Pitt could only hope that all these defences, so long in the gestation, would now be completed before the French arrived.
At the Admiralty, Lord Melville redoubled his efforts after the attack on the Spanish treasure ships. He had already instituted a substantial programme of shipbuilding to restore the deficiencies of the British fleet. He had given commissions to private yards to get the work force employed again, and had come to terms with the timber suppliers and others to ensure an adequate flow of building materials to the government yards. He was satisfied that warships would soon be rolling off the production line again in sufficient numbers to put the navy back on its feet, fully equipped and able to do its job properly. But soon, unfortunately, was not quickly enough.
It took three years to build a seventy-four-gunner. Melville needed ships in three months – three weeks if he could get them. He needed ships now to counter a threat that was suddenly all too clear and immediate. He could not afford to wait.
His most burning priority was to get all existing ships out of reserve and back to sea again. Many were long overdue for the scrap yard – the average life of a wooden ship was only seven years – but there was no question of scrapping them now, with England’s fate in the balance. They had to be patched up instead, before they rotted any further, and sent back to work. In an emergency, their hulls could be resheathed with three-inch planking and their frames reinforced internally with diagonal bracing. It was a stopgap measure, in every sense of the term, but it would do for the time being. Nothing else mattered for the moment, except getting the ships back to sea again. Lord Melville was working round the clock to make sure it happened.
CHAPTER 11
NAPOLEON CROWNS HIMSELF
In Paris, Napoleon was crowned Emperor on 2 December. The Pope himself travelled from Rome to officiate at the ceremony.
The pontiff arrived with deep misgivings, knowing full well that other European monarchs would be reluctant to recognise Napoleon’s coronation when the French already had a royal family in exile. He had misgivings about France as well, a country that had guillotined its priests and ransacked its churches in the all too recent past. Napoleon had since mended fences with the Catholic Church with a carefully negotiated Concordat, but the Pope still had his doubts, although he kept them to himself. He was grateful to Napoleon for the victory at Marengo, which had driven the Austrian army out of Italy. He needed to remain on good terms with the most powerful man in Europe.
The ceremony was held at Notre Dame, Napoleon having decided against Aix-la-Chapelle. But he retained his enthusiasm for Charlemagne. Unable to wear the great man’s spurs because of the royal fleurs-de-lis on them, he had elected instead to wield Charlemagne’s sword and sceptre, the only other relics available to him. The sword had arrived in state from Aix, only to be challenged by two other swords, both also alleged to have been Charlemagne’s. After some debate, one had been selected and solemnly brought to Notre Dame the night before the coronation. Comte Louis de Ségur had had to admonish two young officers for having a fight with it when they thought no one was looking.
The cathedral itself, stripped of much of its finery during the Revolution, had been refurbished for the ceremony. Houses near the entrance had been demolished and a Gothic annexe added to the west front. The choir screen and two altars had been removed to make a bigger central space, filled with thrones, chairs, a dais and all the trappings of a great state occasion. Napoleon’s sense of theatre would not let him settle for anything less.
He wore satin for the occasion, a silk shirt and stockings, a velvet coat and a black felt hat topped with enormous white plumes. He was decorated with so much jewellery that he looked like ‘the King of Diamonds’ or ‘a walking mirror’. His elder brother Joseph looked much the same. They stood admiring each other as Joseph joined him for the procession to Notre Dame. ‘If only our father could see us now!’ Napoleon told him. For impoverished Corsican gentry, they had come a long way indeed.
The ceremony was arranged for noon. Before setting out for the cathedral, Napoleon summoned a man called Raguideau to him. Raguideau was Josephine’s notary, a virtual dwarf who lived in the rue Saint-Honoré. Many years earlier, on the announcement of her engagement to Napoleon, Josephine had asked Raguideau to draw up the marriage contract. Napoleon had eavesdropped as Raguideau tried to talk her out of it, telling her she was mad to marry a man who had only his army cloak and sword to offer. He had advised her to marry an army contractor instead – far better prospects all round.
Raguideau arrived at the Tuileries full of trepidation. He was horribly aware that Napoleon had never forgotten the insult. He wondered what was going to happen, the Emperor calling for him on this of all days.
He found Napoleon pacing up and down in his pantaloons. The Emperor drew himself up to his full five feet and a bit and glowered down at the dwarf. ‘Well, Monsieur Raguideau?’ he demanded. ‘Have I nothing now but my cape and sword?’ Raguideau could only gibber in reply. He was glad to get out of the room in one piece.
The imperial state coach took Napoleon and Josephine to Notre Dame. It was decorated with bees (a symbol of assiduity used by Charlemagne), golden eagles and a replica of Charlemagne’s crown. The crowds along the procession route cheered loudly enough, but more for Josephine than Napoleon. There was no real enthusiasm for either of them, as he noted afterwards. Perhaps it would have been different if he had been able to conquer England before the ceremony.
At the cathedral, cannon boomed and bells rang out as they arrived. They went first to the archbishop’s palace to change into their coronation robes. Napoleon’s was royal purple, lined with ermine and embroidered with the letter ‘N’ and a swarm of golden bees. It was so long that it needed four train-bearers to carry it into the cathedral. Eight thousand people stood up and clapped as he and Josephine entered Notre Dame, proceeding up the aisle towards their thrones in front of the altar.
The ceremony followed the usual course, except that Napoleon declined to lie flat on his face in front of the Pope, as custom demanded. He accepted a papal blessing, but placed the crown on his own head rather than receive it from the Church. In the absence of Charlemagne’s, a new crown had been specially made for the occasion, a laurel wreath of solid gold designed to make him look like Caesar on a gold coin. Napoleon crowned Josephine as well, taking great trouble to make sure hers sat comfortably on her curls. She was delighted that he did so, scarcely concealing her relief that she was still his wife for the occasion, despite her inability to give him a son.
Afterwards they drove through the streets again, the crowds more enthusiastic this time, particularly in working-class areas. Their procession was lit by 500 torches as the winter afternoon gave way to night. There were fireworks in the city that evening, and fêtes and illuminations, but Napoleon and Josephine saw little of them. Back at the Tuile
ries, they decided to dine alone instead. At Napoleon’s insistence, Josephine wore her crown throughout the meal, because it made her look so pretty.
Three days later, Napoleon was on parade again, distributing new eagle standards to colour parties from the regiments of the French army. A glittering assembly was held on the Champ de Mars, where the Eiffel Tower now stands. It poured with rain throughout, but the new Emperor was not perturbed. His address to the troops was stirring:
Soldiers, here are your colours! These eagles will always be your rallying point. They will fly wherever your Emperor deems it necessary for the defence of the throne and his people. Do you swear to lay down your lives in their defence, and by your courage to keep them ever on the road to victory?
The colour parties swore. The tricolours were raised aloft in the rain and everyone cheered. Then they went back to their regiments, proudly taking the eagles with them.
The celebrations continued for the rest of the month, an endless round of balls, dinners and receptions to mark the inauguration of the Bonaparte dynasty. It was a new beginning for France. The country was still a republic, but once again with a dynastic family at its head. After Napoleon would come his son, if he had one, or his brother’s son if he did not. For a nation that had been without a real head of state since the execution of Louis XVI, the new order promised stability, where for years there had been only chaos. It came as a relief to some – although not all.
Napoleon was now one of the crowned heads of Europe. As far as he was concerned, that meant he was free to address the others on equal terms, whether they liked it or not. And none of them did. To the other monarchs, he was still General Bonaparte, the revolutionary soldier who had seized power by force of arms rather than constitutional right. They were reluctant to recognise the legitimacy of his coronation, for all that the Pope had officiated at the ceremony.
But Napoleon was undeterred. He dashed off letters to all and sundry, signing himself Napoleon at the end, as he had done since becoming Consul for Life. If other monarchs signed themselves thus, so would he.
One of the letters he wrote, exactly a month after his coronation, was to the King of England. It was a remarkable missive, astonishing in its disingenuousness. Napoleon proposed peace between the two countries, an end to all hostilities. Coming from a general with 150,000 troops poised to invade, it was not to be taken seriously. For political reasons, however, Napoleon needed to propose peace to the British. A large body of French opinion was in favour of peace. If he proposed peace and the British turned him down, it would not be his fault if the war continued. It would be theirs, and he could say as much to his critics. Napoleon’s spies had told him also that the British were in secret negotiations with the Russians. By writing to George III, he could test the waters and find out how badly they wanted peace. Napoleon dictated the letter on 2 January 1805.
My Brother,
Called by Providence, and by the voice of the Senate, the people and the army, to occupy the throne of France, my chief desire is for peace. France and England are wasting their wealth. The struggle between them may last for years. But are their respective governments fulfilling their most sacred duty? And all the blood which has been so ruthlessly shed, for no particular purpose, does it not accuse them in their own conscience . . .?
Circumstances were never so favourable, nor the time ever so propitious, for calming passions, and listening to the dictates of humanity and reason. Once let this opportunity pass, and who can say when the war, which all my efforts were powerless to prevent, is likely to cease? Within the last ten years your Majesty has acquired vast wealth, and an extent of territory larger than that of Europe. Your nation is at the height of prosperity. What can you hope to gain by war . . .?
If your Majesty will but consider the question, you will agree that you have nothing to gain. And what a melancholy prospect, that nations should war with each other simply for the sake of fighting! The world is large enough for our two nations; and reason should have sufficient influence to enable us to conciliate our differences, if there be a sincere wish on both sides to do so . . . I trust your Majesty will believe in the sincerity of my sentiments, and my earnest desire to give a proof thereof.
The letter was signed ‘Napoleon’, in the Emperor’s own hand. It was taken to Boulogne and delivered under flag of truce to a ship of the Royal Navy’s blockade. From there it was ferried across the Channel to England. French soldiers and British sailors alike watched it go, wondering darkly what was in the letter and what it might mean for them.
CHAPTER 12
NAPOLEON’S OPENING GAMBIT
The letter reached London late on the night of 7 January 1805, the same day as news of Spain’s formal declaration of war. It did not go to King George III. His Majesty did not open post from dictators. It went instead to the Foreign Office, the department of the outgoing under-secretary, Lord Harrowby.
From there it was taken across to 10 Downing Street for the Prime Minister to see. William Pitt was shaken by Napoleon’s presumption. Early next morning, he forwarded the letter to the king at Windsor Castle, with a recommendation that no answer be given until the British had consulted Russia and Austria, their potential allies in a coalition against Napoleon.
King George in turn was outraged ‘that the French usurper had addressed himself to him’. Not only that, but Napoleon had called him ‘brother’. They were far from being brothers, in King George’s opinion. No kin at all.
The king was old and ill in 1805. He had been suffering for years from intermittent bouts of madness and he had cataract problems that would eventually turn him blind. But his heart was still in the right place. ‘I should like to fight Boney single-handed. I’m sure I should. I should give him a good hiding.’ Although almost sixty-seven, George was in no doubt as to what he must do if Napoleon invaded: ‘Should his troops effect a landing, I shall certainly put myself at the head of mine, and my other armed subjects, to repel them.’ The king intended to set up his headquarters in Chelmsford, if the French landed in Essex, or Dartford, if they landed in Kent. He was ready to move at thirty minutes’ notice, if necessary.
But now here was Napoleon proposing peace, even if no one believed a word of it. Napoleon’s idea of peace was not anyone else’s. The British government responded accordingly with a letter that reached Paris on 14 January. It was not written by King George, and it was not addressed to Napoleon. It was sent instead to ‘the Chief of the French Government’, care of Foreign Minister Talleyrand:
His Britannic Majesty has received the letter addressed to him by the Chief of the French Government. There is nothing which his Majesty has more at heart than to seize the first opportunity of restoring to his subjects the blessings of peace, provided it is founded upon a basis not incompatible with the permanent interests and security of his dominions. His Majesty is persuaded that that object cannot be attained but by arrangements which may at the same time provide for the future peace and security of Europe, and prevent a renewal of the dangers and misfortunes by which it is now overwhelmed.
In conformity with these sentiments, his Majesty feels that he cannot give a more specific answer to the overture which he has received, until he has had time to communicate with the continental Powers, to whom he is united in the most confidential manner, and particularly the Emperor of Russia, who has given the strongest proofs of the wisdom and elevation of the sentiments by which he is animated, and of the lively interest which he takes in the security and independence of Europe.
In other words, the British were contemplating a new coalition against France. Even with the threat of an invasion hanging over them, there could be no peace on Napoleon’s terms. The war would go on.
Napoleon had expected nothing else. He was already finalising his plans for the invasion of England. It was scheduled now to go ahead in the spring or early summer of 1805, when the weather would be more reliable.
Napoleon’s initial idea had been to assemble a huge fleet in the Channe
l and push straight across to England, brushing aside any opposition from the Royal Navy. But his admirals had managed to talk him out of it, arguing that a frontal assault was far too risky – even if they could get all their ships out of harbour. The Royal Navy was too formidable for such blunt tactics. Subtler methods were needed if the operation was to be a success.
After brooding about it, Napoleon had decided on a diversionary strategy instead – luring the Royal Navy away from the Channel, then doubling back and launching the invasion barges across the Straits of Dover while the navy was looking the other way. It was a standard manoeuvre in military terms, one that Napoleon had practised often enough on land. It could work at sea as well.
His admirals had been labouring for months on different versions of the plan. The essence of it was to land French troops in places as far afield as South America, the West Indies, West Africa and a small Atlantic island named St Helena – all areas of commercial interest to the British. The troops would attack British settlements and threaten their security, leaving the Royal Navy no choice but to abandon its blockade and chase after them. While the navy was away, the French fleet would give it the slip and hurry back to launch an invasion of the thinly guarded British Isles. What could be simpler?
Almost anything, in the view of the admirals charged with making it happen. But Napoleon wanted it, and no one was prepared to gainsay him. On the same day that he proposed peace to King George, Napoleon instructed his admirals at Rochefort and Toulon to sail independently for the West Indies and create havoc among the British there. They were to attack the sugar islands because sugar was important to the British economy. If the merchants of the City of London saw their commercial interests being threatened, they would put pressure on William Pitt to make peace, if necessary on terms favourable to Napoleon. If they did that, then perhaps Napoleon would get everything he wanted without the bother of an invasion.
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