by Roy Adkins
At the end of March the allies realised that in his haste to drive eastwards against them Napoleon had left the route to Paris undefended, and in a bold move of the kind Napoleon himself favoured, they pushed on towards the capital. By the 29th they were on the outskirts, and the authorities surrendered the city, fearing the consequences of a siege by which the Russians might take revenge for the fate of Moscow eighteen months before. When he found out Napoleon raced back towards Paris, but was too late to prevent the triumphant entry of the allies on the last day of March. Stunned by the news, he retreated to Fontainebleau and then the diplomatic wrangling began. Although he could no longer win, Napoleon still had sufficient military forces to cause a great upheaval before he was finally defeated. The allies decided it was better to negotiate, and they were led by the Russian Tsar Alexander.
At this stage Napoleon took some convincing that even his loyal forces were worn out by continuous campaigning and wanted peace. Many others who had held power under him were anxiously manoeuvring to save their careers, leaving the emperor to his fate. Over the following weeks diplomats shuttled between Paris and Fontainebleau as the future of France was decided. The Bourbon monarchy was to be restored, although after twenty-five years of exile there was little support for the members of the royal family in France, especially as they wanted to return to the conditions that prevailed before the Revolution. Napoleon was to go into exile, and owing to the generosity of the Tsar the island of Elba, between Italy and Corsica, was chosen, rather than somewhere more distant.
Even before Napoleon was cornered and forced to abdicate, there was an assumption that peace was near. In France the British parole prisoners were moved out of Verdun, initially to Blois and then on to Guéret, and among them was Lieutenant Frederick Hoffman, who had been there since 1812 after his ship ran aground on the French coast. After a wretched march during particularly severe winter weather, Hoffman had the good fortune to find lodgings at Guéret with the Countess de Barton. At this time Napoleon’s regime still had a tight rein on the press and Hoffman had no inkling that the allied armies were closing in on the emperor. Within days news came that the allies were in Paris and Napoleon had abdicated. Unexpectedly soon, Hoffman was on his way to the city:I will not describe our tiresome and wretched journey of nine days. At length we reached Fontainebleau, where we remained two days to rest ourselves as well as the horses. In passing through its forest, which is very fine, we were almost poisoned by the stench occasioned by dead men and horses. We saw the palace, and the ink on the table where Bonaparte had signed his abdication was so fresh that it came off by rubbing it a little with the finger. Two days after, we entered Paris, which we found in possession of the allied armies, and it was with the greatest difficulty that we procured lodgings even in the Faubourg St. Antoine. . . . During the three days we remained in Paris, I visited the Louvre and its stolen goods [looted from territories absorbed into the French empire]. It was a brilliant treat; never was any palace so decorated with such gems of art, nor, I hope, under the same circumstances, ever will be again. On the day Louis le Désiré [King Louis XVIII] entered, I paid a napoleon for half a window in the Rue St. Denis to view the procession.2
Louis XVIII made his triumphal entry into Paris on 3 May. Napoleon had left Fontainebleau on 20 April and travelled to Fréjus, where, nearly fifteen years before, he had arrived back from Egypt at the start of his climb to power. At Fréjus a British frigate, the Undaunted, was made available to take him to his new kingdom of Elba. Captain Thomas Ussher of the Undaunted recorded their first meeting: ‘Soon after my arrival Count Bertrand, his Grand Marshal, informed me that it was the Emperor’s wish to see me (he is still acknowledged Emperor, and Sovereign of Elba). When I was presented he said that he was once a great enemy to England, but now he was as sincere a friend. He said we were a great and generous nation. He asked me about the wind, weather, distance to Elba, and other nautical questions; he then bowed and retired. He was very dignified - still the Emperor.’3
Napoleon was pleasant and flattering because he felt safe only with a British escort, as he feared that some of the other allies were plotting his assassination. He spent his last night at Fréjus in the Chapeau Rouge, the inn where he had stayed on his return from Egypt, but possibly not for sentimental reasons since Ussher described it as ‘a small Auberge, or hotel and, I believe, the only one in Fréjus’.4 The next day Napoleon boarded the boat that would take him out to the Undaunted, as Ussher related: ‘I informed him [Napoleon] that the boat was ready, and we walked together to where she was. He was handed into the boat by a nephew of Sir Sidney Smith’s, who is my fourth lieutenant - rather odd coincidence. Lieutenant [George Sidney] Smith had been confined in prison for seven or eight years. I introduced him. The Emperor seemed to feel his conscience prick him: he only said, “Nephew to Sir Sidney Smith; I met him in Egypt”.’5
The voyage to Elba was uneventful, and Napoleon insisted on a grand entrance when he arrived there. Ussher described how ‘the yards were manned, and as soon as the barge [carrying Napoleon] shoved off a royal salute was fired, and the same by each of the French corvettes [in the harbour]. On the beach he was received by the mayor, municipality, and the authorities, civil and military. The keys were presented on a plate, and the people seemed to receive him with great welcome, and shouts of "Vive l’Empereur!”.’6 It was a better reception than might have been expected, as Colonel Neil Campbell, the British Commissioner on Elba, commented: ‘For several weeks the inhabitants had been in a state of revolt . . . The spirit of the inhabitants is very inimical to the late Government of France, and personally to Napoleon, so that he will certainly require the French troops [already stationed there] for his protection until his Guards arrive from France. He has also so strongly urged Captain Ussher and myself to land the marines, that we could not refuse.’7
In the days and months after the Undaunted sailed from Elba, Napoleon was left very much to his own devices. Officially he was regarded as an autonomous ruler of Elba who could not leave his island, rather than a prisoner to be watched and guarded. However, many of the allies, including Britain, were not entirely happy with the decision to send him there rather than somewhere more remote, so they stationed secret agents on Elba itself and in neighbouring ports. When Napoleon had been cornered by the allies, his wife and son were in Paris and were forced to flee before they became trapped in the city. Marie-Louise was Napoleon’s second wife, having married her in the spring of 1810 after divorcing Josephine. The divorce was a political move as part of a deliberate attempt by Napoleon to found a dynasty, since Marie-Louise was daughter of the Emperor of Austria. On 29 May, while Napoleon was still exploring his new Elba home, Josephine died at Malmaison. On the day of her funeral The Times recorded her death in just thirteen lines, referring to her as ‘the mother of Prince Eugene’,8 who was not a son of Napoleon but of her previous husband. Three days afterwards, in a report from a correspondent at Paris dated 31 May, the comment was made in passing that ‘the death of Josephine is universally regretted, and it is even said that it will occasion something more than a mere Court mourning at Elba’.9 No one was sent to inform Napoleon, who read about Josephine’s death in a newspaper some time later and was so overcome with grief that he shut himself in his room for two days.
By now many of the British prisoners in France were on their way home and ‘prisoners from various depôts marched through Gueret for Bordeaux to embark there, all in great distress, for the French Government gave no clothing nor even arrears of pay due’.10 The sudden removal of the prisoners hit the local population hard, for the majority of prisoners could not or would not pay the bills they had accumulated - a substantial sum at Verdun alone. In 1839 one newspaper stated that ‘a deputation from the inhabitants of Verdun in France has just arrived in London to claim the payment of 3,500,000 francs (140,000 l.), the amount of private debts contracted by English prisoners detained in that city during the war’.11 Some former prisoners made their way to the Channel coast of France to
try to get home, and among these was Lieutenant Richard Langton, who had been at Verdun:We quitted Boulogne at 10 a.m., and walking at a moderate pace, reached Calais . . . in the afternoon. During the morning the atmosphere was too dense to permit a view of the cliffs of Dover; it however cleared about three o’clock. When first seen by several of the sailors of our party, three hearty cheers followed. These poor fellows invariably stopped at cottages where a bush hanging out on a poll [pole] over the door, denotes liquids [alcohol] may be purchased. These frequent stoppages gave rise to many ludicrous incidents during the day. As we approached Calais the sailors came to a decision to kiss every woman and shake hands with the men whom they might perchance meet. Several market women, mounted on asses, coming from thence were thus complimented, not, however, without a struggle. The ‘Sailor’s grasp’ was by no means relished by two waggoners, if their exclamations and swearing were to be taken as proof. . . . The Frenchmen were excessively enraged at the conduct of the sailors, bestowing on them epithets which it was well the latter did not comprehend, as, in such event, there would have been still further ground for their complaining. To those unacquainted with the character of a British sailor, the freaks alluded to may appear to have emanated from a feeling of revenge . . . Quite the contrary; all they wanted, and to use their common expression, was a lark.12
Among the French people themselves there was rejoicing and relief at the peace. The Royalists celebrated the return of the king, and even many supporters of Napoleon were glad of an end to the years of fighting, conscription and, they hoped, the hardships of a besieged economy. In Britain the joy was unqualified, and up and down the country all manner of festivities were set in motion. At Lichfield Major-General Dyott wrote in his diary: ‘A subscription made in Lichfield, and upwards of £700 collected for the purpose of giving a treat to all the lower class of people to commemorate the peace. Dinners were provided at the inns for near three thousand people, who were regaled with roast beef, plum pudding, and ale. I made a present of an ox, which was roasted whole and distributed. ’13 In London the Prince Regent ordered his own celebrations, which took longer to organise, as the Liverpool Mercury reported:The preparations making to celebrate the Peace, at Carlton House, engross the attention of all the parties concerned. The Board of Works have received orders to erect an immense body of frame-work, eighty feet in height, in front of the Palace, occupying nearly the whole of the Court-yard. In addition to transparencies, there will be devices in variegated lamps of a most extraordinary description. Colonel Congreve has it in contemplation to exhibit his rockets in the Green Park, on the first night of the illumination. To give full effect to the scene, a bridge will be erected on the canal, and from thence the rockets are to ascend. To gratify John Bull, there will be such an effulgence produced as to set the elements on fire; no less than 10,000 rockets will ascend at one time. This is only intended as the first volley - there will be three of them.14
Near Little Dunham in Norfolk an obelisk was erected as a monument to the peace and carries the inscription ‘In Commemoration of Peace John Drosier Esq. Erected this Obilisk Anno Domini MDCCCXIV’. Drosier is thought to have been a distant relation of Nelson, who is also commemorated by another inscription on the monument. The obelisk still survives and is a rarity: other monuments to the peace were planned but in many cases war broke out again before they were built or finished, so that most were eventually dedicated to the peace of 1815 rather than of 1814.
Not everyone in Britain was exultant about the peace. Many of the French prisoners-of-war were supporters of Napoleon and were unhappy at the prospect of being repatriated to a country ruled by a Bourbon king. Nevertheless, they were sent back to France, and by the end of August the Morning Chronicle could report: ‘Of all the prisoners at Norman Cross, only one man remains; and he, in consequence of illness preventing his removal. The change produced by withdrawing the demand for the necessaries to supply ten thousand mouths is felt in the country round the depôt.’15 Other Frenchmen were happy to return, but did not always have a pleasant homecoming, as Rifleman John Harris related:Many of the French prisoners had volunteered into the English service, and were formed into four companies, called the Independent Companies. These were smart-looking fellows, and wore a green uniform . . . on Napoleon’s being sent to Elba, these men were all liberated and sent home to their own country, with four pounds given to each man; and gloriously drunk they all were at Portsmouth the night they embarked . . . we were all sorry to hear (whether true or false I cannot say) that on their return, their uniforms betraying their having served us, they were grossly maltreated by their fellow countrymen.16
While the rest of Europe was at peace, Britain’s war with America continued, but it seemed very far away and had little obvious effect on the population as a whole. Indeed, on 18 April the artist Joseph Farington recorded in his diary: ‘James Boswell61 said that when Francis Jeffrey, the Editor of the Edinburgh Review, was lately in America, he was in company with Mr. Maddison the President who was desirous to know from Jeffrey what the People of England thought of the War with America. Jeffrey declined answering till pressed to it. He then said, “Half the People of England do not know there is war with America, and those who did have forgotten it.”’17 Peace in Europe was what really mattered to the population on both sides of the Channel.
With the cessation of war in Europe, Britain was able to send many more troops and ships to America. In early April 1814, while Napoleon was still at Fontainebleau, Midshipman John Courtney Bluett sailed from England for Bermuda in the Tonnant, which was accompanying a convoy of troopships. When they heard the news of peace Bluett thought that ‘the war with America must shortly terminate & I shall then return to England (I hope) to lead a domestic life. Give up the sea (for I despair of getting made Lieut) & endeavour to earn a livelihood without quitting my Native Country.’18 As well as yearning after promotion to lieutenant, he was desperate to earn more money, since he was in financial difficulties: ‘I have no money! Nor any means of getting any - and in this one single want, are summed up all the evils that can attack a man in this world.’19
The seaman James Durand was also about to leave for the West Indies. Durand was an American, from Milford near New Haven in Connecticut, and in 1809 had been taken off a Swedish vessel and forced to serve in the Royal Navy. When war broke out with America he and around thirty others on board his warship tried to give themselves up asprisoners-of-war, but to no avail - their pleas were ignored. In his case, he was a musician and his captain wanted him in the ship’s band. At Bordeaux on board the new frigate Pactolus, Durand explained that ‘we found it a rendezvous for all the shipping and all of our fleet. General Napoleon was a prisoner [at Fréjus], on his way to Elba . . . While we lay there, the aged and wounded troops were sent back to England and the other English soldiers came on board us too. They said that, since they had whipped Napoleon, they would have no trouble in subduing the U. States.’20
The Pactolus sailed from Bordeaux as part of a squadron under Rear-Admiral Pulteney Malcolm in the Royal Oak with Major-General Robert Ross on board. Captain Harry Smith of the 95th Regiment also embarked on board the Royal Oak, but somewhat nervously:We soldiers had heard such accounts of the etiquette required in a man-of-war, the rigidity with which it was exacted, etc., that I was half afraid of doing wrong in anything I said or did. When I reached the quarters, the officer of the watch asked my name, and then, in the most gentlemanlike and unaffected manner, the lieutenant of the watch . . . showed me aft into the Admiral’s cabin. Here I saw wine, water, spirits, etc., and at the end of the table sat the finest-looking specimen of an English sailor I ever saw. This was Admiral Malcolm, and near him sat Captain Dick, an exceedingly stout man, a regular representation of John Bull. They both rose immediately, and welcomed me on board in such an honest and hospitable manner, that I soon discovered the etiquette consisted in nothing but a marked endeavour to make us all happy . . . The fact is that Army and Navy had recently changed plac
es. When I joined the Army, it was just at a time when our Navy, after a series of brilliant victories, had destroyed at Trafalgar the navy of the world. Nine years had elapsed, and the glories of the Army were so fully appreciated by our gallant brothers of the sea service, we were now by them regarded as the heroes whom I well recollect I thought them to be in 1805.21
Still feeling a little awkward, Smith entered the cabin:The Admiral says, ‘Come, sit down and have a glass of grog.’ I was so absorbed in the thought that this large floating ship was to bear me away from all I held so dear, that I sat down, and seized a bottle (gin, I believe), filled a tumbler half full, and then added some water. ‘Well done!’ says the Admiral. ‘I have been at sea, man and boy, these forty years, but d—— me, if I ever saw a stiffer glass of grog than that in my life.’ . . . I shall never forget the kindness I received on board the Royal Oak, and subsequently on board the Menelaus . . . and from every ship and every sailor with whom I became associated. Our Navy are noble fellows, and the discipline and the respect on board for rank are a bright example to the more familiar habits of our Army.22
Bermuda was the rendezvous for the troop transports and warships. There Sir Alexander Cochrane, who had taken over from John Borlase Warren as commander-in-chief of the North American station in the spring, was waiting in his flagship - the newly arrived Tonnant. Malcolm was his third-in-command and Rear-Admiral George Cockburn his second-in-command. In mid-July Edward Codrington joined them at Bermuda as Captain of the Fleet, initially on board the Tonnant. Writing home to his wife Jane, Codrington said: ‘I like my chief (Sir Alexander Cochrane) very much, and I hope I shall make him as contented with me, by pursuing my inclination to meet all his wishes, and to make myself of material use to him.’23 A few days later he added: ‘My heart is very much in this war . . . I much like General Ross; and his troops, Malcolm says, are glorious fellows for the Yankees.’24 Unlike Codrington’s time at Walcheren, this expedition against America would benefit from close co-operation between the navy and army, many of whom were veterans of the Peninsular War.
