Admiral Cockburn, who couldn’t resist a sly gibe, said, “In case Bonaparte climbed one of them?”
Lowe fixed the admiral with his suspicious sideways glance in case he was taking a liberty. “Of course not! It’s so a would-be rescuer can’t make a surreptitious entry. Almost everything can be twisted into a lie. I’m beginning to think that this intrigue is a terrible idea. I am seriously considering scrapping the whole damn thing.”
“Sir Hudson, suffering a little childish ridicule, especially from a slip of a girl, is regrettably the price we have to pay for peering into Bonaparte’s bag of tricks,” said the admiral. “I’m afraid the government has set its heart on it.”
Lowe pondered for a moment. He indicated the soiled scroll. “What about that mess? What do we replace it with?”
The admiral finally indulged himself with a thin smile. “Oh, I’m sure any blank sheet of paper will do.”
Chapter 6: The Vile Poem
Charlotte’s letter ridiculing His Excellency Governor Sir Hudson Lowe and a sheet of ordinary blank paper, rolled and sealed with the imperial eagle by Lowe’s secretary, arrived at the Black Dog six weeks later, June 2, 1816.
At lunchtime the messenger boy alerted Daniel that a packet was waiting for him. By two Daniel had opened it, chuckled his way through Charlotte’s letter, had deposited the dried plant specimens with Mr. Burchell and was on his way to Mayfair and the Cock with the slender scroll sealed with the Napoleonic eagle that he didn’t know was blank.
The weather was gloomy. The day was long, but the sun barely came out because this was the year without summer, caused by sunspots or the eruption of a volcano in Indonesia or perhaps nature’s sympathy with the shining light of freedom entombed in the fogs of Saint Helena.
George Edwards, stooped and stunted, perched in the tavern’s darkest corner. With him, by vivid contrast, was a sparkling young blonde whom Edwards introduced as Polly, a “comrade.” Polly acted as if she were already in her cups, although Daniel noticed she didn’t do anything more adventurous than occasionally wet her lips in her little glass of claret. He didn’t let this deter him from downing a pint of beer in record time, because the road from Kew had been a long one and his spirits needed lifting to catch up with Polly’s.
When Edwards asked to see the letter from Charlotte, Daniel was still sober enough to inform the little man that it was too personal to share. Edwards shot a meaningful glance at Polly and excused himself to deliver, he said, the Napoleonic scroll to Mr. Thistlewood.
Daniel, by now in fine spirits, ordered more bitter, then went on to sherry, which inspired him to expound on the romantic beauty of Saint Helena and its reigning queen, Charlotte, mistress of the misty crags. He even showed Polly a small Burchell picture of the love of his life, who Polly agreed was very pretty indeed. It came as no surprise—although in a soberer condition it would have—that the girl calling herself Polly showed not the slightest sign of feminine jealousy at the way Daniel was going on about the charms of another. After he upgraded to brandy, he even read to her from Charlotte’s letter, laughing immoderately at what she had written about Napoleon’s new jailer, Sir Hudson Lowe.
There came a time for Daniel after which a curtain was drawn over the rest of the evening. The next morning he woke in a cheap lodging house with a frightful headache and without his trousers. His wallet, which he checked first, was still in his pocket though much lighter. His trousers he found on the floor. But his treasure, Charlotte’s letter, was gone.
After paying off the landlady, who took his money with a smirk, he headed back on the long journey to Kew, the day just as gloomy as the last one, which perfectly suited his mood. He hadn’t gone far, though, when he heard a penny press vendor yelling the headlines of the sheet he was hawking.
“Hot off the press! Napoleon denounces his captors! He’s forced to live in a chamber pot! His favorite tree cut down out of spite. Governor a dwarf who lords it over a giant! A disgrace to England! Read all about it!”
Daniel spent his penny. Almost word for word, the news sheet was a list of all the complaints in Charlotte’s stolen letter. Across town it was brought to the attention of Lady Holland, doyen of London’s premier Liberal political salon, Holland House. Lady Holland, about whom we shall have to say much more later, personally handed a copy to one of her regular guests, the poet Thomas Moore.
“Mr. Moore, you would much oblige me if you could make a poem out of this scandal,” she said. “Before he went out to the island, that martinet Hudson Lowe was a guest here many times, in order to persuade him to look more favorably on Napoleon and our cause. Obviously we had no success. He deserves to be made a fool of, don’t you think? I mean, his name, Lowe, is perfectly appropriate, isn’t it, seeing it so smartly matches his behavior? Perhaps you could start with that.”
“I shall, Your Ladyship,” said the poet, “although it would be hard to beat Wellington’s quip that we sent a man who only knows how to follow orders to guard a man who only knows how to give them!”
Lady Holland favored the poet with a smile. “I’m certain that you will try.”
Moore’s poem, promptly written, was sniggered over everywhere. As requested it began:
Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson Low,
(By name, and ah! By nature so)…
It arrived in Saint Helena on October 10, 1816, smuggled ashore by a mulatto who performed this service regularly for his master, Napoleon’s biographer Emmanuel Las Cases. The biographer’s son, known to everybody as Young Las Cases, as usual took delivery of the illicit mail for his father. He chuckled his way through the poem, which was printed on an unsealed broadsheet. Everybody had to read this, it was so delicious! Right there at the Almond Tree, rather foolishly, he made copies in his small, neat handwriting and passed them out to friends and acquaintances. A copy went to Gaspard, who was sitting at a table with Charlotte. They rushed it up to Longwood as fast as Gaspard’s horse could take them. He kept reciting lines from the poem in his broken English and screaming his laughter into the wind. He rode recklessly, she thought, to force her to tighten her arms around his waist. She found she enjoyed holding him close.
Napoleon was in his tiny office, sitting behind his tiny desk. Charlotte expected him to laugh when she read the poem to him, translating where necessary. Instead his face instantly became an expressionless mask about which the only animated feature was his deep-set brooding eyes.
“What do you think, Gaspard?” he asked.
Gaspard, standing next to Charlotte with his hat under his arm, and who had by now had time to think things through, was uneasy. “Sire, what a pity it can’t be suppressed.”
“Suppressed?” Napoleon sat back in his chair. “Why would we want to do that?”
“Because it is going to infuriate the governor, who will strike back at you like the snake he is.”
“I thought that—” Charlotte began.
Napoleon cut her off with his bark of a laugh. “Basta! Sometimes it’s better for women not to think. What’s between their legs is much more interesting than what’s between their ears.”
Charlotte flushed, but she didn’t dare contradict him.
“Your Majesty,” persevered Gaspard, his mood improved by watching Charlotte being put in her place, “our jailer is a man who will stoop to any depths to make our lives a misery. May I remind you he cut down a perfectly lovely tree because you liked its shade?”
“A triviality. Give me a moment alone with Rosebud, would you? Go saddle her a horse. There’s something confidential I need to tell her.”
Gaspard choked down his protest and stamped off to the stables as if he were crushing cockroaches, all of them named Rosebud. Being brushed aside by Napoleon in favor of this Yamstock upstart was pushing him perilously close to open revolt.
“Gaspard has a fine head for figures, almost as good as mine,” said Napoleon, “and he is brilliant with tactics. But strategy is not his strong suit. He also has a loose tongue. Gaspard can’t be tr
usted with our secret. At least not yet.”
Charlotte’s emerald eyes clung to Napoleon’s for a long second. “Our secret, Your Majesty?”
He gave her that little cupid of a smile, which tipped up at the edges. “That we are urging the governor to make me a martyr.” The beautifully manicured hand opened a drawer, took out a sealed scroll, handed it to Charlotte. “Another secret message. Put this in a packet, just like the others. Deliver it to the postmaster this afternoon, early as you can. I’ll have Gaspard take you.”
On the zigzag path back down to Jamestown, Charlotte reminded herself that there was no such thing as a straight road in Saint Helena. The fist of a god had crumpled the island into a mad mix of rearing mountains and plunging ravines. Every road, every bridle path, every track was crooked just like the crooked path of life.
She was wondering why Napoleon had insisted she post the next packet so urgently, this afternoon, early as you can, when it would take six long weeks to reach its destination. There had to be some reason.
Gaspard interrupted her thoughts. “Quite suddenly you seem to have the emperor’s ear,” he said, making no effort to cloak his jealousy, “while I have nothing but instructions to escort you back into town when any of the servants could have done it.”
“He just wanted to make a personal comment or two,” she said.
Gaspard laughed bitterly. “He wanted to compliment you on your fresh complexion, long legs, lovely hands, and charming feet, did he?”
Charlotte couldn’t resist a faint smile. “Something like that,” she lied.
“He likes young women with fair skin who are slender and tall. Did he tell you that?”
Charlotte wished she could strike back with the truth, but of course she couldn’t. “What about your charms?” she teased, doing her best to sweeten him. “You have become quite the talk of the local ladies since Laura left.”
“Ah, Laura, Laura! Now, there was perfection for you. Not so very tall as you are. Very feminine. Very much a lady.”
“A governor’s daughter and definitely not a Yamstock like me?”
“Mon Dieu, no! A flower of the aristocracy.”
“Just like the ones you sent to the guillotine?”
Gaspard ignored the spiteful comment. He was reliving the snub Napoleon had given him. “I used to be the only man the emperor would open his heart to. I, who saved his life in Moscow when I fell on the burning fuse of a bomb left by the retreating Russians. Half a million pounds of gunpowder, which would have blown us to perdition!”
“Very commendable,” said Charlotte, who had heard this story from him before.
He didn’t seem to notice her sarcasm. “And then a second time at Brienne, although he says he didn’t see it, when I took a Cossack lance meant for him. I would have died then and there if the lance hadn’t glanced off my Legion of Honor medal!”
“Really! How fortunate then that you were awarded one,” said Charlotte tartly, because she had heard this story from him also. It had seemed much more heroic the first time he told it.
No doubt sensing that things were going wrong, Gaspard abruptly changed his tack. “I’m sorry,” he said, resurrecting his charm. “It’s not just him and you and whatever scheme you two are getting up to behind my back that’s driving me insane. It’s being cooped up on this damn island with the pathetic little entourage, same faces, same stale talk. When we are all together, the emperor ignores me completely—can you believe the man’s ingratitude! And when we are alone, all he wants to do is dictate his damn memoirs! I’d prefer to be in solitary confinement, I really would! Especially if you were my only companion,” he said with a wicked chuckle. “I tell you what. After we’ve had a glass of wine at the Almond Tree…I know of a little room near the Castle where we can relax and get to know each other a little better. What do you say?”
What a vain fool he was! It was Charlotte’s turn to laugh. “If you’re feeling in a romantic mood, Gaspard, and tired of loose women, you should call on my cousin Mary Porteous. I believe she may welcome your attentions.”
He pulled his horse to such a sudden halt on the narrow path that for a moment it looked like the startled animal was about to take flight over the three-foot stone wall that guarded the yawning precipice. “Are you trying to say you have no feelings for me? How is such a thing possible? You are little better than a peasant girl! I am Napoleon’s greatest officer. His personal aide-de-camp, the man Napoleon chose to deliver his surrender to the prince regent! I am a great man, and you are a wench of absolutely no consequence! You should feel honored to lick the dust off my boots!”
“Depends what you’ve stepped in.”
“You have a mouth like a chamber pot!”
“What do you expect of a Yamstock?”
“You are trying to avoid the issue.”
“Gaspard, I’m promised to another, you know that!”
Gaspard shut himself in cold silence the rest of the way down into Jamestown. “Not even a glass of wine?”
“Thank you, but no. I need to check on our stall.”
“You choose your vegetables over me!” Gaspard said bitterly. “You and I are no longer on speaking terms!”
There was something in the way Gaspard tied up the horses at the Almond Tree and strode off in the direction of the wharf, something mechanical, that told Charlotte he was acting under the direction of an overwhelming compulsion. What was it? Careful not to be observed, she followed him into a seedy back alley where trollops sold their wares to sailors. He knocked on a door. A black face, a woman’s, appeared at the window. The door opened. A large Negro man put a familiar hand on Gaspard’s shoulder.
Swept by a storm of emotions, Charlotte headed home before the door closed. She had a packet to prepare. She glanced at the Castle when she passed it, certain that the governor was in there somewhere. He must have read the poem by now. She hoped he liked it. The sarcastic thought lightened her mood.
Sir Hudson Lowe was indeed inside, rereading the poem for the third time.
Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson Low,
(By name, and ah! by nature so)
As thou art fond of persecutions,
Perhaps thou’st read, or heard repeated,
How Captain Gulliver was treated,
When thrown among the Lilliputians.
By now he almost knew it by heart. It kept running through his head like an annoying jingle, impossible to banish. Bonaparte the giant versus Lowe the Lilliputian! If the scribbler had the courage to set foot in Saint Helena he would be told who was the Lilliputian by the tongue of a horse whip!
Too late now, the damage done. He had to live with the fact that everyone was going to be staring at him with mocking eyes over hands that hid mocking smiles and lips that were mouthing, Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson Low. How could he show his face in public? How could he live with the humiliation of being thought of as a dwarf of a man, weak and ineffectual? He pondered long and hard on how to take his revenge. Someone was going to pay for this. He knew exactly who. But how would he justify the punishment to the government back in London? Unfortunately, Napoleon didn’t write the vile rhyme! What he could wreak his vengeance on was the person responsible for distributing it, because he would most certainly find him, sooner or later.
There was knock on the door. A clerk stuck his head in. “Mr. Balcombe is here, Your Excellency. He says he needs to speak with you on an urgent matter.”
Like a drowning man sees his life pass before his eyes, Lowe saw all the matters that Balcombe had the authority to say were urgent, but only one stood out. “Well, then, send him in!”
Balcombe entered, mopping the wet tropical heat from his face.
“What is it, Mr. Balcombe?” said Lowe, examining the trader with his suspicious sideways glance that suggested, incorrectly, that he was deaf in one ear.
“Your Excellency, the girl has just posted another one. The fourth.” Balcombe said, taking a small packet out of a large inside pocket.
“You have not tampered with it?” Lowe asked, as if the blank scroll in the last packet was somehow Balcombe’s doing.
“Of course not, Your Excellency.”
“Well, then open it, man!”
Balcombe opened the clasp as cautiously as if the packet was stuffed with explosives then laid it gently on the governor’s desk. Lowe removed the girl’s letter. It was short, she explained, because Daniel would soon be home, so she was saving the spiciest tidbits of gossip until then. But she would share the tastiest with him: everyone was sniggering about the poem comparing Sir Hudson Lowe with Napoleon.
Lowe flung the girl’s letter aside in disgust, broke the scroll’s seal, and unrolled the most extraordinary document. It was undated and addressed vaguely to “English Friends.” Instead of being blank like the previous one, it was a densely written report of an ongoing operation by the Chilean navy, horrible in its scope and intent.
A flotilla headed by a seventy-four-gun man-of-war and consisting of frigates, gunboats, and swarms of marines, was sailing on Saint Helena. In command was the legendary British commander Captain Cochrane, not for nothing known by the French as the Sea Wolf, who had recently been dismissed from the Royal Navy for stock fraud in spite of his loud claims of innocence and dark threats of revenge. The aim of the operation was to rescue Napoleon, sail him to Chile, then set him up as emperor of South America, which would then forge an alliance with the United States, and fighting as United America, would destroy the British Empire. It was signed N, as if this was all that was necessary.
The paper stuck to Lowe’s damp fingers. This following so swiftly on the heels of the libelous doggerel! Bonaparte must have laughed his way through the vile rhyme. It had swollen his head so that he couldn’t control the impulse to boast to his English minions that he was about to be rescued, not by a ship but by a whole flotilla!
Two punches to the gut on the very same afternoon! It would have broken a lesser man, but not General Sir Hudson Lowe, KCB.
Napoleon's Rosebud Page 8
