Letters

by John Barth

  But how to rescue him? Every day the crowds grow, increasing both the confusion and the Admiralty’s measures of security. A thousand small spectator boats jam Plymouth Sound; the quays and breakwaters are thronged. Bands play French military airs; vendors sell Bonapartist carnations; cheers go up whenever the emperor appears on deck or when, to placate the crowd in his absence, Bellerophon’s crew obligingly post notice of his whereabouts on a large chalkboard: AT TABLE WITH CAPT. MAITLAND; IN CABIN WRITING LETTERS. It is common knowledge that any number of Channel fishermen were until recently in Napoleon’s pay, supplying him with information about British ship movements; but our ancestor’s attempt to locate and organize a company of such fishermen is fruitless: they are all reaping a golden harvest from the tourists.

  Now the cabinet are chafing at the delay, lest it complicate relations among the Allies. The press have only one story, Bonaparte; the habeas corpus movement has become a ground swell; the emperor has never been more popular in Britain. Should he by any means once touch foot on British soil, he will not easily be got rid of. On the other hand, so great has been the publicity, Bonapartist naval vessels might imaginably attempt to intercept Northumberland at sea: a convoy of six brigs, two troopships, and a frigate must therefore be commissioned and assembled to escort the ship-of-war to St. Helena. More delay!

  Faute de mieux, Andrew begins to practice the forgery of subpoenas, no easy matter by reason of their sundry official seals. If he cannot board Bellerophon illegally, he will do so “legally”—as Anthony Mackenrot, defendant in Cochrane v. Mackenrot, come to serve a writ upon Napoleon Bonaparte.

  It is August 4 before he has one ready. The thing lacks finish, especially the engraving of the seals, but he can wait no longer. Rumor has it that Napoleon has decided upon suicide rather than St. Helena; that his officers are conspiring to assassinate him in order to spare themselves and their families such an exile; that orders are en route to Bellerophon to go to sea until rendezvous is made with Northumberland, lest Bonaparte escape or a habeas corpus writ be served. Andrew endeavors to imagine the accent and appearance of a Scotsman gone bankrupt in the Caribbean; he goes to the Plymouth house of Admiral Keith, commander in chief of the Channel fleet, in whose jurisdiction Bellerophon is, to demand permission to serve his subpoena. He tries out his accent on the admiral’s secretary, who angrily asks how many Mackenrots has Cochrane sued, and sends him off “to where your brother already is”: the offices of the Admiralty. Puzzled, Andrew hurries there, learns that Keith is that moment being rowed out to the Tonnant in the harbor (where lie also other veterans of the Chesapeake, among them Peter Parker’s Menelaus) to escape “you damn’d lawyers.” Cook rushes to the quay, to hire a launch. The only one in sight is being bargained for already. No matter, Andrew will double the bid—but then he sees the chap gesticulate with a rolled, sealed paper; hears him protest with a Highland burr that the boatsman’s rates are pir-r-ratical…

  Pocketing my own writ, I enquired, Mister Mackenrot? The same, said he. I introduced myself then as one who knew & sympathized with his business, having the like of my own, and offer’d not only to share the hire of the launch but to point out Admiral Keith & the Tonnant among the throng of naval officers and vessels in the sound. Which (he accepting readily) at 1st I did, & was gratify’d to observe that so seriously did Keith apprehend this whimsical finger of the mighty arm of English Law, at our approach he fled the Tonnant for the frigate Eurotas, hard by Bellerophon. And whilst we were scrambling to come a-port of Eurotas, he scrambled down a-starboard and fled off toward shore at Cawsand! Where we would surely have caught him, had not his barge been mann’d by 12 oars & ours by but 4. Splendid, preposterous spectacle: an admiral of the world’s mightiest navy in flight from a lone eccentric Scotsman with a scrap of paper! Behind which, however, lay such authority as might well upset the combined resolve of the Ally’d Nations.

  Indeed, this same reflection, together with two physical observations—that Bellerophon is hove short with topgallant sails bent, ready to sail at a moment’s notice, and that the Count de Las Cases is on the quarterdeck, watching their chase with interest—begins to suggest to Andrew a radical change of plan. Should Bonaparte now be landed in so determinedly lawful a country, where sympathy for him seemed to increase with every day’s newspaper, could he ever be persuaded to “escape” to America? Even if he could, how rescue him from so mighty a fortress as the British Isles, from whose invasion the emperor himself, at the height of his power, had quailed? WRITING WITH HIS OFFICERS, reads the board now on Bellerophon…

  He directs Mackenrot’s attention to the sailing preparations aboard that ship and proposes they divide their pursuit. Let him, Cook, return to Eurotas, where boarding might now be permitted him to keep him from reaching Keith; he will endeavor to talk his way thence to Bellerophon and remind Commander Maitland that contempt-of-court proceedings await him if he weighs anchor to avoid Mackenrot’s subpoena. Then let Mackenrot proceed to Cawsand and press after Admiral Keith.

  The Scotsman agrees (Keith meanwhile, Andrew observes, has fled toward Prometheus, where he will order out the guard boats to fend off all approaching craft), adding that if he fails to catch the admiral at Cawsand he will return directly to Bellerophon and attempt to serve his writ through Maitland. The chase has taken most of the morning; as Andrew hopes, they are permitted to board Eurotas “just long enough to state their business,” and, per plan, Mackenrot pulls away as soon as Andrew steps onto the boarding ladder, so that they cannot order him back to his hired boat. But no sooner has Mackenrot drawn out of range than Andrew sees him rowing furiously back, and then observes the reason: Bellerophon has weighed anchor and, wind and tide both contrary, is being towed by her guard boats out toward the Channel!

  And with her all my hopes, he writes, no longer of saving Bonaparte from exile, but of ensuring if I could that he went to St. Helena instead of to the Wood of Suicides in Hell. For he has now decided not only that a taste of true exile might be the best argument for inclining Napoleon to the Louisiana Project, but that with the aid of the Baratarians he is far more likely to effect a rescue from St. Helena than from the Tower of London. Almost before he realizes what he’s doing, therefore, he flings himself off Eurotas into Plymouth Sound, kicks away his boots, and strikes out for Bellerophon.

  A cry goes up from both vessels. Andrew has jumped from the side opposite Eurotas’s guard boats and nearer Bellerophon’s, which therefore pause in their labors to save him from drowning. Before he can be placed under arrest and transferred back to Eurotas and thence to shore, he shouts a warning to Bellerophon’s watch officer that the launch fast approaching bears the feared habeas corpus from the King’s Bench. Sure enough, Mackenrot stands in her bows, waving his paper—and now the Count de Las Cases has recognized “André Castine” and says something to Commander Maitland. Orders are given: to his great relief Andrew sees another boat lowered to fend off the redoubtable Scotsman; he himself, there being nothing else presently to be done with him, is fetched aboard Bellerophon with the guard boats and their crews as soon as the old ship has sea room enough to begin tacking under her own power out of the sound.

  You have betray’d us, Las Cases complain’d to me [he writes] as soon as we could speak privately. Nor did my argument much move him; for while he agreed that rescue might be more feasible from St. Helena than from Britain, he vow’d the Emperor was still adamant on that score, and was prepared to take his life rather than submit voluntarily to exile. As for that, I thot, it was likely mere bluff, inasmuch as his sentence was now clear beyond doubt, and Bellerophon’s putting out to sea removed any hope of their being received ashore or otherwise delaying execution of that sentence; yet he was still alive. On this head, however, I held my peace, proposing instead what certain of those sign-boards had proposed to me: namely, that the Emperor might be dissuaded from suicide, and induced to go peacefully tho protestingly into exile, if he were shown the opportunity therein to increase his fame. His publ
ic confinement in Tor Bay & Plymouth Sound had workt considerably to his advantage in one respect: he was now more than ever the cynosure of all eyes, and his letters, from “Themistocles” forward (so I learn’d from Las Cases), tho undeliver’d or unreply’d to, had in fact been addrest less to their addressees than to History, which is to say, to Public Opinion. What better chance, then, to bend the world in his favor, than to turn his exile into public martyrdom, by writing his memoirs on St. Helena & smuggling them out for publication? He had made history; he could now re-make & revise it to his pleasure! Thus the world’s forgetfulness, which he fear’d would bury him, would bury instead his great crimes against mankind (I call’d them his little misjudgments) & eagerly believe whate’er he wrote.

  Moreover (Andrew adds by way of clincher to his appeal), such a memoir will need delivery to the mainland, and publication, and collection of its author’s royalties. What better way for a trusted aide like Monsieur the Count de Las Cases at once to do his master a signal service and to abbreviate his own exile?

  At 1st skeptical, the Count was by this last altogether convinced—if only, he declared, to save the Emperor’s life & honor. All that afternoon & evening, as we hove to to await Prometheus, Tonnant, Eurotas, & Myrmidon, and then beat southeast toward rendezvous with Admiral Cockburn, the Count prest my plan in private with Napoleon. That same night, I was gratify’d to hear, the unemperor’d Emperor dictated a grand letter of protest, addrest “to History…” And tho he still vow’d to the English officers they would never fetch him alive to St. Helena, I was pleased to gather, from Las Cases’ nods & winks, that our appeal was going forward.

  He would have been further encouraged, could he have seen them, by editorials in the Times and the Morning Chronicle next day, expressing their writers’ conviction that the captive would have been securer from rescue in Stirling Castle, say, than on St. Helena, where “an American vessel will always be ready to take him off…”

  Nevertheless, throughout that morning and early afternoon (154 years ago today), as they rendezvous with Cockburn’s squadron between Start Point and Bolt Head, exchange cannon salutes and visits between the admirals’ flagships, then move together to the calmer waters of Tor Bay in preparation for the transfer, Napoleon gives no public sign of acquiescence. Keith and Cockburn are moved to the extraordinary precaution of impounding the French officers’ swords and pistols, lest they attempt to resist the transfer with arms. Only when Bellerophon’s doctor reports to Commander Maitland that “General Buonaparte” has invited him to serve as his personal physician on St. Helena do the English—and Andrew—have reason to imagine that Napoleon has at last accepted his fate. Even then they fear a ruse (they have just learned that Las Cases, who has affected since Rochefort not to understand English, reads and speaks their language easily). Guard boats are posted to patrol the anchorage all night lest Mr. Mackenrot, or the habeas corpus people, or the Bonapartists, or the Americans, attempt rescue or obstruction, or the emperor fling himself from his cabin into Tor Bay.

  At eight-thirty that evening Admirals Cockburn and Keith come aboard to read to Napoleon their instructions from the cabinet and work out the details of his transfer to Northumberland next morning; Andrew retires out of sight down to the orlop deck, where he had completed the “Washington” letter, and spends the evening drafting this one.

  Rather (as I have done here on the first-class deck of the Statendam, where it is not to be supposed I have deciphered, transcribed, and summarized all these pages at one sitting, simultaneously wooing your future stepmother!), he extends toward completion the chronicle he has been drafting in fits and starts since Rochefort, as I have drafted this over the three weeks past. And as I expect any moment now this loving labor to be set aside for one equally loving but more pressing (Jane is in our stateroom, preparing for bed and wondering why I linger here on deck), so my namesake’s is interrupted, near midnight, by good news from the Count de Las Cases. Not only has the emperor agreed at last, under formal protest, to be shifted with his party to Northumberland after breakfast next morning; he has made long speeches to History, to both the admirals and, separately, to Commander Maitland, from whom also he has exacted a letter attesting that his removal from Bellerophon is contrary to his own wishes. Moreover, he has prevailed (over Maitland’s objections) in his insistence that Las Cases be added to the number of his party, to serve as his personal secretary; and he has clapped the count himself on the shoulder and said, “Cheer up, my friend! The world has not heard the last from us; we shall write our memoirs!”

  Even as I, Andrew concludes, am writing mine, in these encipher’d pages, my hope once more renew’d. Tomorrow Admiral Cockburn, “Scourge of the C’s,” will weigh anchor for St. Helena with the Scourge of Mankind: a voyage of two months, during which I shall make my own way back from England to New Orleans, hoping against hope, my darling Andrée, to find you there. Where, if all goes well, you & I & Jean Lafitte will devise a plan to spirit Napoleon from under George Cockburn’s nose before he has unpackt his writing-tools!

  And even as I, dear Henry, hope against hope that upon my return to “Barataria” next week I shall find you there: the present point of my pen overtaken, the future ours to harvest together!

  I go now to Mrs. Mack, to fertilize and cultivate that future. A fellow passenger remarks, in nervous jest, upon the “secret of the Bermuda Triangle”: the hijacking of cruising yachts by narcotics smugglers to run their merchandise into U.S. harbors. I pretend to know nothing of that scandal. Small wonder, my companion replies: the Coast Guard and the tourist industry are keeping it quiet, inasmuch as they cannot possibly search every pleasure boat entering every creek and cove from Key West to Maine. Very interesting, I agree, thinking of the gift from Jane that awaits me in Annapolis.

  A word to the wise, my son? From

  Your loving father

  R: A. B. Cook VI to his son. The fourth posthumous letter of A. B. Cook IV: plans for the rescue of Napoleon from St. Helena.

  Yacht Baratarian

  St. Helena Island, Little Round Bay

  Severn River, Md.

  August 13, 1969

  Dear Henry,

  Round Bay is a handsome widening of the Severn five nautical miles above Annapolis, itself some 125 up the Chesapeake from the Virginia Capes. Off Round Bay, on the river’s southwest shore, is Little Round Bay, in the center whereof lies a small high wooded pleasant island named after Napoleon’s exile place in the South Atlantic, some 7,000 sea miles hence.

  This local St. Helena Jane Mack is of a mind to buy for our weekend exiles, as more comfortable and convenient than my Bloodsworth Island, and more private and spacious than my cottage on Chautaugua Road, not far away. Imagine an island of some dozen acres within twenty miles of both Washington and Baltimore! It is presently owned by acquaintances of Jane’s, with whom she is negotiating purchase, and who have kindly permitted me to tie up at their dock for the night. As a honeymoon house and vacation retreat it will quite do, though it is too much in view of the mainland (half a mile off all around, and thickly peopled) to serve your and my other purposes. We shall hold onto our marshy, inconvenient “Barataria.”

  From a week of dolce far niente aboard the Statendam—a sort of final trial honeymoon itself, altogether successful—we flew home yesterday, Jane to return to her métier and truest passion, Mack Enterprises; I to take delivery in Annapolis of her birthday gift to me: the sturdy diesel yacht from whose air-conditioned main cabin I write this. All day the builders and I put Baratarian through its sea trials, as successful as Jane’s and mine; tomorrow or next day I shall return it to the boatyard for certain adjustments and modifications (I feign a sudden addiction to deep-sea fishing) to be made while I check out our human Baratarians. On the ides of August, Napoleon’s birthday, I shall fly briefly north to see how things go at Lily Dale and Fort Erie. I had considered a side trip to Chautauqua as well, to confer with my quondam collaborator there; but I now believe he knows nothing of you an
d is without interest in the Second Revolution. On or about St. Helena’s Day (the 18th) I shall go up to Castines Hundred (our ancient caretakers have retired; I have engaged new ones through the post), whence I shall return, ere the sun enters Virgo, for a more considerable trial run: the first real test of our operations for the coming academic year. Will I find you there, Henry, poring through our library like your ancestors, determining for yourself what I have been at such futile pains to learn, to teach?

  Andrew IV never did return there, except in dreams and letters. The next to last of his lettres posthumes was written aboard Lafitte’s schooner Jean Blanque in “Galvez-Town, or New Barataria,” on August 13, 1820—five years and a week since its predecessor. Like yours truly, he is about to commence on the ides of August another journey: one by his own admission “more considerable but less significant” than the one he ought to make instead, to Castines Hundred. Still curst by what I had thot long exorcised, he confesses to Andrée, I shall sail 9,500 miles in the wrong direction, from Cancer down to Capricorn, to “rescue” against his will a man the world had better not seen in the 1st place, rather than fly north to the seat & bosom of my family, beg your pardon for my errancy, put by for good & all my vain dream of 2nd Revolution & Western Empire, and spend content in your arms what years remain to me.

  He refers, of course, to Jean Lafitte’s expedition to spirit Napoleon from St. Helena—the expedition which, in his last, he had hoped to expedite before the island’s defense could be organized. What has he been at for half a decade?

  Rushing to Plymouth from Tor Bay [so he begins this letter, with a 4)?(, a HSUR, a rush, as if no more than a page-turn separated Bellerophon from Jean Blanque, 1815 from 1820], I found a fast brig just departing for Bermuda, where I took a yet faster packet to New Orleans. By mid-September, a full month ere Cockburn reacht St. Helena with his prisoner, I was back in Conti Street with Jean Lafitte, asking for news of you & the twins.