Betsy and the Emperor (9781439115879) (16 page)

F
irst Carstairs, now the emperor! There must be something poisonous in the air on St. Helena.
Step right up, ladies and gents, and take a whiff of some Bona Fide Tropical Atmosphere—fresh off the boat from hell! Hurry, hurry, hurry! She's fetid, she wriggles into your moral fiber, she corrupts. Here—take a whiff, sir. Breathe her in and sell your soul to the devil!

Was anything what it seemed? A friend was a foe. A lover, a louse. My nightmares seemed real; my life, like a nightmare. Was anything real? Was I?

Anger burned in my throat like bile. Boney was a lying scoundrel, and I had been foolish enough to be taken in by his oily charm! I fancied myself all grown up, and, in fact, I had been a stupid, gullible child. Well, I suppose I wasn't the first to be deceived by the emperor of France. Hadn't he himself once told me, “You are not a very good liar….
Never mind. I have had more practice at it than you”?

Belle and I made it back from Longwood without any difficulty. I suspect part of me had been secretly hoping the sentries would discover us. After all, what had I to live for? The two most important people in the world to me had casually thrown me over, like so much offal tossed out a kitchen window.

“Well, Belle,” I said, tucking her in for the night, “it looks like it's just you and me now.”

 

Usually, a good night's sleep made me feel like a new girl. But when day dawned, I felt as melancholy as ever. So I visited Belle. I still planned to run her in the Deadwood Races later that week, as had been my plan ever since my return from Miss Hawthorne's school. But, in truth, my heart was not in it.

“Dr. O'Meara!” I called out as he was passing by the barn on his way to calling on my father.

“What is it, lass?”

“Would you take a look at Belle? I want to make sure she's sound for the race.”

O'Meara obliged me, singing merrily at his work. He tapped Belle's knee gently with a silver instrument from his bag.

I wondered whether the good doctor was flirting with me. And that silly burr he sang in to amuse me—pretending to be a Scotsman, no less! Though my heart was heavy, I was touched by the doctor's kind and gentle smile.

“Right as rain,” he said, returning Belle's hoof to the stable floor, “and ready to romp.” He studied me. A serious look came over him. “What's the matter, dearie? Sure, you look like your leprechaun's run out on you and taken his crock of gold.”

“Nothing, really,” I said. “But it is kind of you to ask.”

He did not press me. The doctor patted Belle on the flanks and sighed. “Ah, 'tis a pity that Englishman doesn't treat humans half as well as horseflesh,” he said sadly. I was sure O'Meara was referring to Lowe's abuse of the emperor—and of the doctor himself, no doubt. “Lass, you should see the gov with his own nag, Lord
Nelson. Oh, the primpin' and the pamperin'! Says he wants him shipshape for the Deadwood Races. Aye, he dotes on that beast like a pretty colleen!”

The doctor tweaked my nose playfully. “There, you've given me a smile, lass. Don't shock me now, dearie!”

I laughed. He winked at me.

“I must be going on my way,” O'Meara said, shutting his bag of instruments. “Your da's expecting me.” He waved good-bye. “Keep that smile in a safe place now, where you can find it for me!”

I waved back, feeling grateful for his high spirits. Cheerfulness was certainly in short supply in this dreary place.

“Any message for the emp?” O'Meara called over his shoulder. “I'll be seeing him right soon.”

A new wave of rage at Boney washed over me. “No. No message.”

“Sure now, lass? He's been feeling poorly.”

“The emperor has no use for me,” I said firmly. “So I have none for him.”

A baffled look on his face, O'Meara walked back toward me. “No use for you?” He crossed his arms. “Now, where for the love of Mike did you get a fool notion such as that?”

“It's not a fool notion!” I said. “He told me so.”

O'Meara sat down on a bale of hay and shook his head in disbelief. “How on earth did you get to see him?”

“It wasn't easy,” I replied.

“You shouldn't have risked it. You might have gotten yourself killed!”

“I know, and it wasn't worth it. He didn't want to see me anyway.”

O'Meara shrugged. “You must be misunderstandin' the man, lass,” he said. “He speaks of you all the time! Hardly a day goes by…” O'Meara then did a fair imitation of Boney: “‘What? Bah—medicine again! If only Betsy were here, Docteur! I would never again have to look upon your lugubriously concerned countenance and swallow your vile calomel!'”

Yes, that did indeed sound like Boney. At least, the Boney I once knew. The doctor was clearly not making it up in order to assuage my feelings.

“But…I don't understand,” I said. “When I saw him he acted like…well, as if he hated me!”

“Poor Betsy.” O'Meara put his hand on my shoulder. “I fear he's put one over on you, lass. A bit of an actor, he is, your friend Boney.”

“But, why? Why would he—say such terrible things to me and not mean them?”

“I know you must have risked your hide by going to see him,” O'Meara explained. “Aye? Well, he knows that too. The emperor doesn't want you putting your life on the line for his sake.”

“Are you sure?”

The doctor nodded. “He was just protecting you, dearie. And your family. That's why, and no mistaking. I'd bet my life on it.”

O'Meara bade me good-bye and promised to call again.

If I'd felt stupid when I woke up this morning, I felt like a perfect idiot now. The doctor's theory about Boney made perfect sense. The emperor had only been thinking about what was best for me and my family! He knew I would never have agreed to desert him of my own accord—not even if he pleaded with me to. So Boney stopped me from visiting him the only way he knew how: by making me hate him! How could I have failed to figure this out myself?

Betsy, old girl, you will have to learn from this experience,
I vowed,
and not turn on your friends so easily again.

“Why didn't you tell me, Belle?” I said, rubbing her cheek. “Oh, why didn't you tell me what a fool I've been?” I gave her a nibble of a lump of sugar. “Well, I
suppose it's not your fault,” I said. “I'm supposed to be grown up enough to figure these things out for myself…. Shall you run a fine race for me on Saturday? Yes? There's a good girl. You know, I've had a terrible row with our friend Boney. He's quite ill, I'm afraid. Oh, he looks a pitiful sight! Have I told you?”

Belle seemed to nod.

“Yes,” I said. “It's quite serious. How I wish—how I wish there was something—anything!—I could do to help him. If only there was some hope!”

Belle whinnied and stamped her hoof. She suddenly reared up on her hind legs, and it took all my strength to hold her.

“Easy, girl, easy! What is it?” Belle's glorious head nearly grazed the roof of the barn.

And all of a sudden, I understood what she was trying to tell me.
Of course! That's it!
I thought.
A plan to help Boney!

“By God, Belle, you're brilliant! You know, I think it just may actually work. It's daring, it's outrageous, but—it just—might—work.”

Belle settled down. And I set to work.

“Dr. O'Meara!” I called out, looking for him at the Briars. He was just finishing up treating my father's gout.

“You're looking cheerier, lass,” he said.

I grabbed him by the hand and spoke in an earnest whisper: “I must speak with you!”

 

It seemed everyone on St. Helena—from blacksmith to boatswain, from cook to cobbler to captain—had come to this place dressed in their churchgoing best. Even the slaves were permitted to lay down their hoes and watch the Deadwood Races from a separate section of the viewing stands. It was early September 1817, and this was going to be the most important day of my life.

The Union Jack rippled in the breeze, snapping crisply like a topgallant sail on the mainmast. Ladies wore short white gloves and wide-brimmed hats as big as platters for Yorkshire pudding—flouncing about as if they fancied themselves at the Ascot Races on opening day. The women competed desperately with one another for the young officers' attention. To me, it was a bit like watching rats fight over a piece of Stilton cheese.

Governor Lowe and his family were sitting in a roped-off section of the stands. It was a sweltering day. A perspiring slave, the governor's personal “property,” waved a large, fanlike object at Mrs. Lowe. It beat slowly
back and forth, back and forth, like the flapping of an elephant's ears. Was there anything more lazy than a woman too shiftless to wave her own hand to keep herself cool? Charlotte sat to the governor's right; she was showing enough white flesh above the top of her skimpy dress to blind a desert chieftain. As for Lowe himself, he had a smile on his face like the cat that swallowed a canary.
With a little luck,
I thought,
he'll soon be gagging on feathers.

I scanned the viewing stands for a glimpse of my family. I knew that they were up there, somewhere.

Thomas Reade, Lowe's assistant and now also the chief of police on St. Helena, had volunteered to announce the race. There were six horses running. Had it been held in England, the race would have been described as a mile-and-an-eighth on the turf for three-year-olds and up, six starters, two fillies, four colts, no weight limit. But on St. Helena we were much less formal.

“Tenth running of the Deadwood Races shall begin!” Reade announced. One of the soldiers blew a bugle—far too close to my ear, I'm afraid—and the jockeys brought the horses on parade. Gambling was supposed to be strictly prohibited on St. Helena, but it was actually quite common here and island officials
turned a blind eye to it, especially on race day. I had it on O'Meara's authority that Sir Hudson Lowe had put one thousand pounds on his Lord Nelson to win. All “under the table,” of course. Where the man got that kind of money, I'll never know. Probably skimming funds from the budget for Longwood.

“Number six, Northern Lights,” Reade announced as a bay filly paraded in front of the crowd. “Robert Tappen aboard.” The jockey tipped his hat to the crowd, and they applauded loudly. I knew Tappen, of course. He was a local favorite. Tappen was a good rider, and Northern Lights always had a strong kick left after the final post.

“Number five, Hampton Court,” Reade called out. “Ridden by Calville Boland.” I didn't know Boland, but I knew the horse. Hampton Court had won the Deadwood Races last year but was coming back from a leg injury and might not be up to par. He tended to run off the pace, though, so the race might set up just right for him.

“Number four, Star of India,” said Reade. “Jockey is Angus McCartland.” A Scottish jockey on a Bengali horse—talk about strange bedfellows! “Number three, Catherine of Aragon, ridden by Captain James Henry.” That was the other filly in the race. It had
rained earlier that morning; that was a plus for her—she ran well on an off track. I'd seen her in her workouts last spring, and no doubt about it, Catherine could be dangerous in the mud.

“Number two, Old King George,” Reade announced. “Jockey is—” Someone tapped Reade on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. He nodded. “Er…pardon me,” Reade said. “Correction: Number two has been scratched. Repeat: Old King George will not be starting!”

There were a few boos from the crowd. I guess somebody had put money on him.

And then Governor Lowe's pampered prince high-stepped onto the track accompanied by a lead pony with a braided mane. Lowe's horse had the same obnoxious hauteur of his master.

“Number one, Lord Nelson!” Reade called out. Charlotte squealed loudly, and she and her mother—as well as Lowe's numerous cronies—cheered so raucously for the governor's horse that they drowned out Reade's voice and I couldn't hear the jockey's name. Ah, well. No matter. It was time for me to swing into action.

I ran up to Reade and whispered to him.

“We have a last-minute entry,” he announced to
the crowd. “Miss Betsy Balcombe, on her horse—” He broke off and turned toward me. “What's the name of your mount, miss?”

But I had already left him to retrieve my horse from behind the viewing stands and mount up. The other entries were now positioned at the starting line, and the man who'd blown the bugle held a starter's pistol aloft. They—and the noisy restless crowd—were all awaiting my return. I brought my horse onto the track.

A collective gasp came from the crowd.

Well, in truth, they could hardly be blamed. For my horse that day was not Belle, but Napoleon Bonaparte's Hope! There was no mistaking who owned this magnificent creature: From head to pastern, he was decked out in imperial tack. Red velvet trappings were emblazoned with the Golden Bees—known around the world as symbolic of Napoleon's reign—and the initials “NB” were scripted beautifully beneath them, writ so large that even old King George could have read them without his spectacles.

I tied on a blue bonnet, and the picture was complete. Between us, Hope and I wore all the hues of the French flag: the blue, white, and red of the tricolor!

Good Dr. O'Meara had smuggled Hope out of Longwood with the horse's livery rolled up tightly and hidden in his medicine bags. All this was done with Boney's blessing, and I knew that at this very moment the emperor was peering down from the Longwood plateau through the spyglass that had served him at Austerlitz—seeing everything as clear as the cloudless blue sky over me and anxiously awaiting the start of the race.