Betsy and the Emperor

by Anne Whitehead

  A leafy avenue of banyan trees and myrtles led from the front gates to the little paradise Toby had created. A creamy froth of pink and white roses, the sweetbriars that gave the place its name, mingled with geraniums and nasturtiums. Beyond was the orchard of oranges, guavas, mangoes and figs, with vegetable beds near the kitchen door. Pomegranate trees shaded a sloping path up to a little summer-house pavilion that Balcombe had constructed as a ballroom and occasional accommodation for guests and visiting officials of the East India Company.3

  The eldest Balcombe boy, William, aged seven in 1815, had been left to continue his education in England under the guardianship of Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt. William’s sisters had been ‘finished’ at Mrs Clarke’s genteel Ladies’ Boarding School in Mansfield, Nottinghamshire, where they had learned ‘French, Music, Dancing, Drawing, Geography and the Use of Globes’ with ‘the greatest Care taken of the Morals and Conduct of the Pupils’.4 The school was some 60 miles from South Cave in Yorkshire where the girls had spent holidays with their aunt, Mrs Balcombe’s sister, and her stockbroker husband.

  Once the Napoleonic Wars had seemed at an end and the perpetrator safely held on Elba, it had been possible for ordinary people to risk sea travel once more. Mrs Jane Balcombe had sailed to England at the beginning of 1815 to bring her daughters back home. Even without the threat of French warships, the voyage would have been a trial for this charming and attractive woman who suffered indifferent health. Although she was well liked in the island community, the isolation disagreed with her: she wrote to a relative that life on St Helena was ‘worse than being transported to Botany Bay’.5

  The girls were thrilled to return to the island. They found their father stouter than ever, more prone to gout, as volatile in temperament, but still for the most part cheerful and gregarious. Betsy was glad to abandon the strictures of school, to be petted and fussed over by their old black nurse Sarah Timms, to run barefoot in the garden, to lie on the grass by the fishpond and let the sun beat down on her face. She had grown up clambering up and down the island’s rocky slopes and gorges. Up on the misty heights she had revelled in flocks of canaries twittering through the trees and huge spiderwebs shimmering between ancient tree ferns. Sometimes the sisters had followed the tortuous descent to a pool beneath the waterfall that cascaded behind their house, just deep enough to swim in after heavy rain.

  But now they were young ladies of thirteen and fifteen and so had to forsake such escapades. Their duty henceforth was to acquire domestic skills and drawing-room graces to equip them for marriage to a gentleman of good prospects—or, if they were very fortunate or very pretty, as Betsy indeed was—perhaps to a gentleman of wealth and distinction. But this future held little attraction for Betsy Balcombe.

  On Bonaparte’s first full day on St Helena, the admiral planned a tour of the island, concluding with an inspection of Longwood. We know from General Gourgaud’s journal that the outing started badly: the admiral and Governor Wilks arrived early on horseback at the Porteous house, accompanied by soldiers bringing two splendid horses for the former emperor and his marshal. But Napoleon was in no mood to be hurried. He had resented being subjected to the rude public gaze the previous night, he considered his room at the lodgings inferior, there was no private garden, and he was outraged to find a huddle of locals pointing at him and shouting as he passed a window. He took his time getting ready in his Chasseurs uniform; when he and General Bertrand emerged, they found the admiral already on his horse, irritable at being forced to wait.

  As the party of riders ascended the Sidepath that morning, the horses found the gradient heavy going. Valet Marchand recalled in his memoirs that the emperor looked across the valley and ‘saw a small house located in a site that seemed pleasant and picturesque. He was told it belonged to Mr Balcombe; he continued on his way but proposed to stop there on his return; he preferred in effect to stay in its little hut, if Longwood was not habitable, to the house in town where he could not move without being stared at by passers-by.’6

  Napoleon knew about the governor’s residence, Plantation House, a handsome Georgian mansion set in gardens and parkland. He indicated that it would be an acceptable home for himself and his retinue, but was told that a prisoner could not enjoy superior accommodation to the governor, and in any case the East India Company had specifically precluded it. Nor was the castle in Jamestown an option; it was the administrative centre, the admiral himself was staying there, and it opened directly onto the marina and the shipping roads. Great Britain was prepared to grant ‘the General’ certain comforts and freedoms, but not at any place with access to the sea.

  The group rode beside bare rocky slopes studded with aloe, cactus and prickly pear. But as they climbed higher the air became cooler and the hillsides greener, the narrow track sheltered by cedars and cypresses, pines and firs. They circled a yawning crater known as the Devil’s Punchbowl and came out onto a wind-blasted plateau. This was the location of the rickety collection of buildings Bonaparte and his retinue were to occupy.

  Marchand observed drily that the emperor ‘was not particularly enchanted with the house that enjoyed no shade or water, and was exposed to the southeast wind that prevailed there constantly and was quite strong at the present time’.7 The house had gaping holes in the walls, rats’ droppings on the floors and manure smells exuding from underneath. Bonaparte said that repairs would take months and that he doubted whether any projected improvements could ever make the place attractive. The only advantage he could see was the extensive plateau for horse riding.

  They descended by the Sidepath and Bonaparte reminded the admiral of his wish to see The Briars. Marchand recorded that on their way there, ‘the Emperor told him that if the good man of the house had no objection to his staying in the pavilion, which was twenty-five paces from the house, he preferred to stay there than return to the town’.8 Napoleon’s suggestion was surprisingly modest, but the admiral knew that the merchant was in fact willing to let the whole house and he no doubt recognised that this could provide a temporary solution.

  The Balcombe children sighted the riders coming down the slope towards The Briars, and the man they most dreaded was with them. Betsy felt so anxious ‘that I wished to run and hide myself until they were gone’, but her mother bade her stay, for she spoke French better than anyone in the family, having excelled in it at school.

  The party came through the gates and, as there was no carriage road right up to the house, Admiral Cockburn and General Bertrand politely dismounted. However, the imperious figure in the green Chasseurs uniform clearly felt no compunction about staying on his mount, ‘his horse’s feet cutting up the turf on our pretty lawn’.

  The grown-up Betsy—Mrs Lucia Elizabeth Abell—wrote of that first meeting between her thirteen-year-old self and the most malignant figure of the age:

  How vividly I recollect my feelings of dread, mingled with admiration, as I now first looked upon him whom I had learned to fear so much. His appearance on horseback was noble and imposing. The animal he rode was a superb one; his colour jet black; and as he proudly stepped up the avenue, arching his neck and champing his bit, I thought he looked worthy to be the bearer of him who was once the ruler of nearly the whole European world.

  Napoleon’s position on horseback, by adding height to his figure, supplied all that was wanting to make me think him the most majestic person I had ever seen. His dress was green and covered with orders, and his saddle and housings were crimson velvet richly embroidered with gold. He alighted at our house and we all moved to the entrance to receive him.

  On a nearer approach, Napoleon, contrasting, as his shorter figure did, with the noble height and aristocratic bearing of Sir George Cockburn, lost something of the dignity which had so much struck me on first seeing him. He was deadly pale, and I thought his features, though cold and immovable and somewhat stern, were exceedingly beautiful.9

  The deposed ruler of half the world was gracious when introduced to Mrs Balcombe and the two girl
s. Balcombe himself was upstairs in bed with a bad attack of gout.

  Betsy barely noticed the admiral, in his full dress uniform, nor General Comte de Henri-Gatien Bertrand, a slightly built but distinguished officer with heavy eyebrows, long side whiskers and a thin tonsure of hair. All her attention was focused on Napoleon. He stepped into the drawing room and seated himself in one of their little cottage chairs, his shrewd glance appraising the furnishings. He complimented Mrs Balcombe on the attractiveness of her home and engaged in small talk, probably with the admiral as interpreter. Betsy did not have to translate after all, and recalled that she shamelessly scrutinised Napoleon, observing his pallid complexion, his fine, silky hair, his neat dimpled hands and, most of all, the beauty of his clear blue-grey eyes. When he smiled at her, revealing teeth stained from eating licorice, she had to suppress a giggle.

  But soon the point of the visit became clear, and Napoleon’s proposal was put to William Balcombe upstairs. Marchand described the eager response: ‘When they arrived at the house, the request was made to the owner, confined to his bed by gout, who agreed wholeheartedly; he even wanted to give over the whole of his house. The Emperor thanked him but refused to accept; he replied that he would with pleasure occupy the pavilion, which was detached from the main house, provided that the family’s habits were not disturbed.’10

  This was remarkably considerate of Bonaparte towards a family he had never met before, and in fact such fine concern was unnecessary, as we know from Balcombe’s correspondence that he was more than willing to let the whole house for a handsome return and may have been disappointed not to do so. The Briars was well situated for security, a mile from the sea, bordered by a mountain on one side and a yawning gorge on the other, and the main building would have accommodated Napoleon and his principal companions, with the pavilion for a few of the servants. It was regarded as one of the most attractive residences on the island, in one of the most temperate situations. Perhaps only the governor’s Plantation House was superior, and Napoleon had not hesitated to request the whole of that. Marchand makes clear in his memoir that his master wanted to occupy the pavilion even before he had seen it. With the Balcombes remaining in the main house, he would inevitably become closely acquainted with this English family. That may well have been his intention all along.

  Only after the decision was made did he inspect the little building, walking along the path under the pomegranate trees and up a flight of steps. Betsy wrote that its position, on a grassy eminence with the waterfall splashing into the ravine behind it, pleased him greatly. The interior was a single room, some 20 feet by 15, empty, with a thick layer of dust on the floor. Its windows, one of them broken, lacked shutters and curtains, but looked out to the cascade and a distant view of Diana’s Peak. Some narrow stairs, little better than a ladder, led up to a low loft space. As children, Betsy and Jane had watched from the loft when their parents hosted parties and dances there. Bonaparte announced that he wanted to stay that very night, that he did not care to see Jamestown ever again until the happy day he could leave the wretched island.

  The admiral raised ‘the cramped nature of this lodging’. Staying at The Briars’ main house was feasible but the little pavilion was absurd. There were 26 in the French retinue. Where, in that little hut, would they all fit? General Bertrand and his wife, General de Montholon and his, all their various children, their maidservants, General Gourgaud, Count de Las Cases and his son, not to mention a butler, two valets, a footman, a cook, a steward, an usher, a coachman and a groom?! It was impossible! But Napoleon was not to be dissuaded. His people should remain in town at the Porteous lodgings. He had too many people around him altogether; he would welcome time alone. He advised Bertrand to return to Jamestown where his good wife was waiting for him, and Marchand should fetch his campaign bed. On the morrow, Las Cases should come to continue work on the memoirs. The rest of them were to live in town until the execrable Longwood House was ready. ‘The admiral promptly acquiesced to his desire and the grand marshal returned to town alone.’11

  Hurried arrangements were under way as Admiral Cockburn and Bertrand made their departure. A captain and two soldiers were appointed as sentries at the front gates. Mrs Balcombe gave instructions to the servants, who bustled between the house and pavilion with duster, broom and bucket.

  Meanwhile, their new tenant made a leisurely and apparently favourable inspection of the garden. He noticed Betsy watching him from a wary distance and signalled for chairs to be brought onto the lawn. He sat in one and beckoned to her to seat herself opposite, which she did, she wrote later, with a thumping heart. He asked where she had learned to speak French. She told him they had once had a French servant in England and that it was her favourite subject at school. He wanted to know if she had studied history and geography, and startled her with a test:12 ‘What is the capital of France?’

  ‘Paris, of course!’

  ‘D’accord! And of Italy?’

  ‘Rome.’

  ‘Of Russia?’

  She thought about it and answered: ‘Petersburg now . . . and Moscow formerly.’

  ‘So what happened to Moscow?’

  ‘It was burned to the ground.’

  He fixed her with severe eyes and demanded: ‘Qui l’a brûlé? Who burned it?’

  His expression was so intense she was out of her depth. She stammered: ‘Monsieur, je ne sais pas. I don’t know.’

  ‘Oui, oui,’ he laughed. ‘Vous savez très bien, c’est moi qui l’a brûlé!’

  She believed that was not right. He did not set fire to Moscow. She gained courage and said: ‘I believe, sir, that the Russians burned it to get rid of the French.’13

  In her account he laughed and slapped his knee at the bold answer. He was delighted with her. It was a long time since he had encountered such blunt honesty.

  William Balcombe was well pleased with the extraordinary new arrangement. This amiable and hospitable man, known for the amplitude of his table, rose from his bed to host dinner for their new house guest.

  Balcombe and his wife ‘spoke French with difficulty’, and Jane was less fluent than her sister, so the burden for the evening’s conversation rested on Betsy’s unworldly shoulders.14 It is hard to imagine what was passing through the mind of the fallen emperor, sharing a repast for the first time in his life with ordinary English citizens, a people he had sought to conquer and rule. Mrs Balcombe was vivacious, relieved not to be losing her home. Napoleon found her very attractive: he later confided to Betsy that her mother bore a remarkable resemblance to the Empress Josephine.

  Napoleon’s approach with someone he found of potential use was to fire a salvo of questions: how long had they held a particular position, what had they done before, and had they seen military action? He would have been interested to hear that Balcombe had been a midshipman who saw action in the West Indies, for he always expressed admiration for the Royal Navy, while disparaging the British army. Balcombe had then gone to India as a ship’s officer with the East India Company. Bonaparte was fascinated by the Indian subcontinent, which he had planned to conquer after Egypt. It is reasonable to speculate that he would have questioned his new host about his three long trading voyages to Madras and Bengal for the Company. After all, Napoleon made personal queries of most English people he met; how much more likely was he to do so with the man whose home he now occupied? And about whom he may already have heard certain rumours concerning his important connections?

  They repaired to the parlour and sat appreciatively as Jane played the piano. Napoleon asked Betsy whether she liked music, adding: ‘You are too young to play yourself, of course.’ She wrote that she felt piqued by this and told him she could both play and sing. He requested an offering, so she sang, as well as she could, ‘Ye Banks and Braes’. When she had finished he declared it was the prettiest English air he had ever heard.

  ‘It’s a Scottish ballad, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Then that accounts for it. Of course it is too pretty to be
English! Their music is vile—the worst in the world!’

  He enquired if she knew any French songs; for instance, did she know Grétry’s ‘Vive Henri Quatre’? Betsy had never heard of it. He began to hum, left his seat and strutted about the room, tonelessly singing while pumping his arm in time.

  Mrs Balcombe and Jane applauded politely. Very pleased with himself, Napoleon asked Betsy what she thought. She shook her head, reluctant to speak, favouring him with her smile instead. He encouraged her, beaming. He now knew that she was no court flatterer; her opinion could be worth hearing.

  She said simply: ‘I didn’t like it at all!’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I couldn’t make out any tune.’

  ‘No tune?’ He tweaked her ear. ‘You are just saying that to provoke me.’

  ‘No, sir, I’m just trying to tell the truth.’

  No one had ever criticised his singing. Perhaps honesty was not always so delightful. Mrs Balcombe, who had missed most of the exchange, was surprised when their guest made an abrupt move to depart. Betsy observed: ‘The emperor retired for the night shortly after my little attempt to amuse him, and this terminated his first day at the Briars.’15

  At the Porteous lodgings in Jamestown, General Gourgaud finished a desultory meal as he listened to Bertrand’s account of the day’s events, the unsatisfactory tour of Longwood and the arrangement that had been made at The Briars. That evening he wrote in his journal: ‘Bertrand remarks that there are two pretty young ladies at The Briars, and that I shall be able to marry.’16