‘What does that mean?’
‘Explain yourself, Tonino!’
The drinkers put their cups down, and urged the man to go into further detail about his bizarre claim.
That Sunday, 26 February, the Emperor had decreed an embargo on all shipping in the roads of Portoferraio and Porto Longone. The police would not be issuing any more passports and the cannon were ready to open fire on any ship that left the harbour. The tavern emptied immediately as its occupants headed outside and Forli hurried with the others towards the Sea Gate, which was now closed off by a line of grenadiers. He saw Gianna standing against a wall, sniffing and drying her eyes with a lace handkerchief. He took her by an arm and asked her distractedly in Italian, ‘Have you seen Sénécal?’
‘Not for a week. He’s staying up there.’
She pointed her chin towards the hill and the Mulini Palace, and added, ‘He’s going to leave, they’re all going to leave.’
‘But where to? Do you know? Did he talk to you about it? Did Sénécal give you any clues to his destination?’
‘He said nothing, but everyone’s repeating it, and it’s obvious, isn’t it? They’re going to go.’
Obvious it was.
Soldiers in battalions were emerging from the rear entrances to the forts and following the stepped streets to the harbour. Grenadiers were wearing their blue travelling hoods, muskets over their shoulders, their bearskin caps lined up under white canvas covers; the Polish lancers were carrying their saddles on their heads while four-pound loaves, sausage and bottles of wine protruded from their pouches.
To lend additional gravity to the moment, the call to arms began to ring out in the four corners of the town. The whole population silently escorted these determined-looking men, and there was a great deal of sadness in the faces of the Elbans - particularly the women. In their hundreds, the town’s residents climbed up on to the ramparts and roofs. Taken unawares by this abrupt departure, Signor Forli ran back and forth: how would he join Consul Mariotti in Livorno? A fishing-boat? The Sea Gate had now reopened, and he scrambled on to the quays with the tide of people. Beside the Inconstant, repainted as an English ship, other boats also lay at anchor, smaller but equally seaworthy, and launches were transporting the soldiers to those vessels in a constant frenzy of coming and going. Signor Forli noticed a boat that was being boarded by some fishermen.
‘Hey!’
‘Me?’ asked the owner of the boat.
‘Can you take me out of the roads?’
‘That’s forbidden, Monsieur Forli, as you very well know.’
‘For fifty francs?’
‘Even for fifty francs, and it’s not as though I don’t need them, but we’re not doing it.’
‘Sixty francs?’
‘You can risk it, but that’s not to say that we’re going to get very far with all these soldiers about the place . . .’
The oil merchant jumped nervously into the boat, and the oarsmen took their places. The boat moved slowly through the middle of the chaos. The Inconstant was very close, and they would have to skirt her, but as they drew level with her bows, some sentinels leaned from the ship’s rail and shouted, ‘Turn around!’
‘Are they talking to us?’ replied Forli, looking innocent.
‘No ships are supposed to be leaving Portoferraio!’
‘It’s not a real ship, just a fishing boat...’
‘Turn around!’
‘I was going for a trip around the roads.’
‘No trips! Turn back!’
‘Don’t you recognize me? I’m Forli, the oil merchant.’
‘Get back to the quay or we’ll shoot!’
‘Careful,’ the owner of the boat said in a quavering voice, ‘they have itchy trigger fingers.’
‘No, come on, we’ll get through.’
‘Seventy francs?’
‘Fine.’
Splashed by some roundshot fired into the water, the boat was forced to return to the docks, and Signor Forli hurried away from the fishermen, who were shouting after him: ‘Our money!’
‘You haven’t earned it!’ he called back.
Forli saw some Poles boarding a vessel from Marseille that was moored near the mole. The cavalrymen strode back and forth from the hold, throwing part of the cargo into the water to the whoops of the sailors, and then Monsieur Peyrusse and Octave climbed on deck, negotiating for a long time with the captain, finally convincing him with some piles of gold coins. Thus it was that the oil merchant, who had stayed on the quay until the end of this scene, found himself face to face with Octave once more.
‘You knew!’
‘That we were going to leave? No. No one knew apart from the Emperor.’
‘Are you going to sail for Italy?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘It’s urgent that I alert Livorno.’
‘That strikes me as difficult, Forli. Unless ...’
‘You have an idea?’
‘Come with us.’
‘You’ve got a nerve!’
‘You’ve often protested your devotion to Bonapartism, I’ll mention it to your friend Cambronne, he would be delighted to have you on board the Inconstant.’
‘Come on, that’s out of the question!’
It being February, the sun set early and thousands of paper lanterns lit the ramparts. Red and green Venetian lamps hung in the windows, and a roar announced that the Emperor was coming. Wearing his hat and his grey frock-coat, he passed through the Sea Gate in Pauline’s landau, pulled by two ponies. Behind him, on foot, came Bertrand, Drouot, Pons and the valet Marchand, who was carrying a black leather case holding the jewels that Pauline had given to her brother. A slight breeze rose up, and a fisherman said to Forli, enraged by his impotence, ‘There’s a southerly wind blowing up off the coast.’
Six
THE RETURN
A SOUTHERLY WIND, light but favourable, had risen up in the middle of the night, and it drove the flotilla forwards (while at the same time keeping Campbell’s ship in the port of Livorno). Five hundred grenadiers were huddled on deck and amid the cannon in the hold of the Inconstant, while the chasseurs, lancers and volunteers were aboard small, slow boats that followed in her wake. No one knew their destination, but everyone had had a guess.
‘The army of the King of Naples awaits us.’
‘We’re going to Viareggio.’
‘No, to Vado.’
‘At any rate,’ said a grenadier, ‘we’re ultimately going to Paris, the route’s irrelevant.’
The moon was bright, no one slept. The Emperor went up on deck around dawn, where he watched the rising sun cast a yellow light on the top of the mountains of the island of Elba, twenty miles away. The previous day, in the launch on the way to his brig, an impromptu rendition of the ‘Marseillaise’ had rung out on all the ships, to be taken up in chorus by the Elbans on the quays and ramparts, and the song had run from hill to hill - that old hymn of the Revolution which had been forbidden under the Empire and which Napoleon would appropriate as a symbol of his return: was he not going to fight against kings as he had before? Of course, he was aware of the possibility that his enemies might have a trap set for him: by not paying him the income they had promised him, by sending him emissaries, not all of whom were honest, to paint him a terrible picture of the nation’s condition in his absence, by provoking his return, weren’t they trying to turn him into an outlaw so that they might more easily destroy him? It wasn’t unthinkable. He watched the last stars fading in a sunlit sky. He was not the kind of man to be daunted. He would force the hand of chance one more time.
Napoleon had been thinking of returning like this since September, when a wealthy glove-maker from Grenoble, Monsieur Dumoulin, had visited the Emperor to tell him that the towns in the Alps were his already. And so Napoleon had planned his route to Paris, avoiding the suspicious South, preferring instead to travel along the byways in the snow, skirting the big cities, as far as Grenoble, where he hoped some men would be waiting for
him: the soldiers serving the King of France against their will were his, first of all, and none of them would raise his musket against him. He discussed this now, on deck with Drouot - who was unsure but obedient - and with Cambronne, Bertrand, Octave and Pons, who still had his republican reflexes of honour and sobriety.
‘Your Majesty has thought only of enriching his marshals, they wanted to retain their fortunes, even if it meant betraying you.’
‘You’re right, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to punish men who betrayed me after they had served me. It’s a great weakness of mine.’
‘What about Marshal Ney!’
‘He doesn’t like anybody.’
‘Masséna’s the Governor of Toulon, how’s he going to react?’
‘He has the soundest judgement and the quickest eye when the shooting starts.’
‘Your former generals will resist you!’
‘Maybe they will, but their regiments won’t. They won’t follow them.’
‘And what about Augereau and his wretched proclamation?’
‘It’s not wretched, it’s stupid. He’ll write another saying the opposite, you’ll see.’
They were going to land in France, and they no longer needed to ask to be sure of it. The conversation continued in the same vein when Napoleon sat down at the table on deck. About fifty officers were lunching with him, standing up, plates in their hands and loaves under their arms. About to raise a toast to the Emperor, they each poured wine into a glass on the deck. The lookout suddenly shouted, and they raised their heads instead. The man was pointing at a frigate off the coast of Livorno: ‘They’re coming towards us!’
‘Full sail!’ ordered the Emperor, untying his napkin.
Captain Chautard was in command of the Inconstant. A retired seaman from Toulon, who had come to Elba to ask for a job, he was just as poor a sailor as Taillade, whom he had replaced, but more reliable. Trembling, he suggested, ‘Why don’t we go back to Elba?’
‘Prepare for battle!’ cried the Emperor without hearing him.
‘They’re moving faster than we are . . .’
‘Lighten as much as you can, come on, get moving, Chautard! Scuttle the heaviest boat.’
False alarm: the frigate was heading eastwards. Later in the day they saw the Fleur de Lys, one of the French ships that had circled Elba for a while, but she was at anchor. Until the evening they encountered no further obstacles, when they saw a brig heading straight for them. The two ships would soon be side by side. One of the sailors climbed down from the topmast and said, ‘I know this ship, it’s the Zéphyr. There’s no danger, Captain Andrieux won’t harm us.’
‘Why don’t we hoist the tricolour, sire?’ suggested Chautard.
‘No. Pick up your loudhailer.’
The captain obeyed, and Napoleon ordered the grenadiers who were massed on the deck: ‘Take off your hats and hide.’
He did the same, his back to the rail, and when the Zéphyr drew level with them, he said, ‘Chautard, repeat what I whisper to you.’
‘Aye, aye ...’
Captain Andrieux, as the two boats passed, put his loudhailer to his mouth.
‘Who are you?’
‘Captain Chautard ...’
‘I mistook you for an English brig.’
‘It actually is an English ship,’ whispered the Emperor to Chautard, who echoed what he said word for word.
‘Flying the Elban flag?’
‘It’s a present from the King of England,’ replied Chautard, still speaking Napoleon’s words.
‘And you’re bound for Italy?’
‘We’re going to get some trees from Genoa.’
‘And how’s Papa?’
‘Supremely well.’
‘When you get back to Portoferraio, tell him we miss him!’
After these brief pleasantries, the two ships set off again on their opposite courses; Chautard bent down to the Emperor crouching behind a crate.
‘Did you hear that, sire, he called you Papa ...’
*
The lightened Inconstant outdistanced the boats of the convoy during the night. The light was on in the Emperor’s cabin. Through the open hatch, the soldiers could see him walking up and down, one hand behind his back and the other under his waistcoat, dictating to Octave, who was leaning over a shelf. They also saw Count Bertrand, deathly pale, squeezed into an armchair, exhausted by the rolling of the ship. Octave emerged carrying a piece of paper, and headed for Monsieur Pons, who was issuing candles and lanterns. ‘Time to go,’ said Octave simply, and on the forecastle, overlooking the passengers on the deck below, he spoke.
‘His Majesty has just written some proclamations. As soon as we land, we will put them up in the towns and villages we come across.’
‘We need copyists to reproduce them in large numbers,’ Pons said.
‘Me! Me! Me!’
Dozens of soldiers and officers rose to their feet, to be handed white paper, pens and inkpots. They set themselves up where they could, kneeling against a drum, or lying flat on their stomachs, and, beneath the various lights placed near them (or held by those unfortunates who did not know how to write, and were furious about the fact), they began, forming their letters to the best of their abilities, writing out the texts read out to them by Octave and Pons.
Frenchmen, from my exile I have heard your laments and your wishes. I have crossed the seas, I am arriving among you to reassume my rights, which are also yours ...
And at the same time, Drouot and Cambronne had converted the hold into an impromptu study.
Soldiers, the eagle with the national colours will fly from belfry to belfry to the towers of Notre-Dame ...
When each man had finished his one poster, he made as many more copies as possible. Monsieur Pons and Octave also joined in, leaning on the steps of a ladder, beneath a dim lamp that swayed with the rhythm of the ship. Pons raised his pen and asked his companion: ‘Do you still think we don’t exist next to the Emperor?’
‘I never said anything of the kind ...’
‘Oh yes, you did, my dear fellow, the first time I took you to the Buono Gusto. It’s true, though, that you were a little the worse for wear.’
‘Really? I still believe it, even stone-cold sober, but at least we’ve been through some things. In one year, I’ve lived a hundred.’
‘I’m not sure we’ll ever see such a great age ...’
‘What do you mean? A civil war when His Majesty lands in France?’
‘Drouot predicts a universal war.’
‘And that everything will start up again, yes, but for how long?’
The travellers on the Inconstant thus spent a second night without closing their eyes, too excited about the unknown. ‘On Tuesday 28 February,’ Octave wrote, ‘the wind is blowing again after abandoning us for a whole day. We’ve seen the coast of Noli and the mountains over the Cap de la Garoupe - The crew and the grenadiers got to their feet to yell a terrible ‘Vive la France!’ They have laughed, drunk and eaten, and in some cases danced like devils. On Wednesday 1 March, when the weather is calm, here we are in sight of the coast of Provence, and an extraordinary agitation is taking hold of us...’
The Emperor rewarded the first lookout to sight land by giving him all the gold coins he had in his pockets, and then he called Captain Chautard.
‘Fetch up the material we have in our suitcases, and distribute it so that everyone can make himself a tricolour cockade.’
‘Is it worth it, sire?’ asked Cambronne, pointing to the grenadiers, who searched their haversacks and took out their old and slightly battered cockades. One of them even offered his to Napoleon, and cheers rang out when the Emperor pinned it to his hat, in fact the clapping of hands and stamping of feet could have capsized the brig.
The homecoming called for a celebration, and His Majesty’s chief steward, on His Majesty’s orders, shared His Majesty’s personal supplies. Bottles of champagne, claret and tokay were passed around, and Monsieur Pons improvised:<
br />
The Eagle of our nation dear
On mighty wings ahead doth race
Aloft it soars, our beacon bright,
Soon to reclaim its rightful place.
He had to be interrupted in the end, however, because he was starting to add endless couplets.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon when the vessel dropped anchor in the gulf of Juan les Pins. From the deck, everyone looked at the beach, the Tour de la Gabelle, which seemed empty of troops, and the warehouses that lay between the shore and the main road that led from Antibes to Cannes.
‘Cambronne,’ said the Emperor, ‘choose forty men and take up position on this road, but be careful, I know you’re impulsive, so just don’t use your weapons. I want to get back on the throne without a drop of blood being spilt. Tell your soldiers.’
A boat set off towards the shore carrying Cambronne and his grenadiers while the others were preparing to follow, bringing luggage and ammunition. Napoleon smiled to Monsieur Pons.
‘You seem very agitated.’
‘Yes, sire, I am extremely moved. After a long absence, I am returning to France behind an army.’
‘Where do you see an army? We’ll get to Paris without firing a shot.’
*
Octave was resting, arms crossed, against the twisted trunk of an olive tree. The flotilla had assembled, and the brig had displayed a tricolour flag on her gaff then the boat had set sail again and they set off after unloading the equipment and the 1,132 men who made up the expedition. The Emperor was in the vineyard, standing on a wooden walkway between the rows of vines, dispatchng emissaries around the region. Cambronne had headed for Cannes with a detachment to buy mules and horses; some plain-clothes officers had headed for Antibes, with proclamations under their arms; the surgeon Emery had requisitioned a passing coach to take him to Grenoble, his home town, where he was to alert the Prefect of the Isère to the situation.
Napoleon's Exile Page 26
