The Fields of Death (80 page)
Read The Fields of Death Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
In the days that followed, as the details of his fate were discussed in Paris, Napoleon fell into deep despair. He could not eat, and sat in a chair by a small fire, brooding in silence as his servants silently came and went, serving and removing meals that lay cold and untouched on their trays.
At length, Napoleon’s hand slipped inside his shirt and felt for the small pouch of belladonna and hellebore that he had kept hanging from his neck since the retreat from Moscow when he had so nearly fallen into the hands of the Cossacks. His fingers gently cupped the pouch and he pressed the soft leather, feeling the deadly powder within. There was little deliberation over the decision. His death would cheat the allies of their prize, and there was comfort and satisfaction to be had from that small victory.
Slipping the thin silk cord over his head, Napoleon withdrew the pouch and steadily untied the binding. He eased the leather open, and stared a moment at the powder, pallid as ground bones. Then he tipped it into a glass, taking care not to spill any of it, before pouring in some of the watered wine left on a meal tray. He stirred the mixture with his fork, then lifted the glass. He avoided smelling it, in case it caused him to hesitate, and provided the least excuse to reconsider his decision. He raised the glass to his lips and drank swiftly, setting the glass down with a sharp tap. Then he sat still, staring into space, shocked by the enormity of the deed. He smiled as he recalled his coronation, how he had taken the imperial wreath from the hands of the Pope and placed it on his own head, announcing to the world that none but Napoleon was worthy of crowning Napoleon. Now the same principle of greatness applied to his death. Only his hand was worthy of the act. That thought calmed his fear of the oblivion into which his mind would be cast, if not his fame. He coughed and then called for his servant.
‘Fetch Caulaincourt. Bring him to me at once.’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘He is to bring pen and paper with him.’
The servant bowed his head and hurried away, leaving Napoleon to mentally compose his final testament.
By the time Caulaincourt appeared, Napoleon could already feel the poisons working upon him. Despite the fire, he felt cold, and shivered. His skin began to feel clammy and sweat pricked out on his brow. Inside, his guts clenched painfully, and an aching nausea tightened his throat.
‘Sire, you’re ill,’ Caulaincourt said the moment he sat down opposite his Emperor. ‘Let me summon your surgeon.’
‘No. There is no need. It’s too late for that. I am dying.’
‘Sire! I will get help.’
‘No!’ The effort of raising his voice caused a spasm of pain and Napoleon’s features twisted for a moment, until the worst of it had passed. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. ‘I have taken poison. This is the end.’
The Foreign Minister looked horrified. Napoleon touched his hand. ‘I want you to take down my final statement. I don’t know how much time is left. So we must begin. Quickly, Caulaincourt.’
‘Yes, sire.’ He nodded, and swiftly took out his notebook, rested it on his knees and poised the tip of his pencil on the paper.
‘I will give you the sense of it, then you will compose it for general consumption. Be faithful to my intent, but ensure that what is left is clearly expressed and well crafted.’
Caulaincourt nodded.
‘Very well. I wish it known that I was never the warmonger my enemies would depict me as. All I desired was peace and order amongst the peoples of Europe, even if that could only be achieved by subordinating their will to mine. I trust that my enemies will be as magnanimous in victory as I was when I triumphed over them. Therefore, all those who prospered under my reign should not be disgraced and punished under whatever rule is imposed hereafter. That includes my family, my heir and those gallant officers who have sacrificed so much for France. Their glory must not be denied, however much my fame is impugned and denigrated. They have rendered good service to France and France should honour them accordingly.’ He paused to make sure that Caulaincourt was keeping up, then, collecting his thoughts, he continued.‘If my son, the dearest being on this earth, is not to reign after me, then I wish that he is at least raised a Frenchman and given the opportunity to learn of his father’s achievements, without rancour. His mother, my beloved wife, Empress Marie-Louise, is free to return to her native Austria . . .’
A sudden surge of nausea swept through Napoleon and he leaned over the side of his chair and vomited. Caulaincourt started to rise, but Napoleon waved him back. He vomited again, and again. Each time it felt as if an iron fist was squeezing his insides like a vice. Then, when his stomach was empty, he continued retching, letting out tight groans as his head hung over the acrid stench rising from the glutinous puddle below. Finally the spasm passed and Napoleon lay back, shivering violently. His eyes flickered open and he looked at Caulaincourt.
‘I can say no more. I leave it to you to craft my testimony as elegantly as you can.’
Caulaincourt swallowed anxiously. ‘I will not fail you, sire.’
‘Good.’ Napoleon sat up and rose to his feet unsteadily. ‘Now help me to that couch.’
Caulaincourt laid aside his notebook and supported the Emperor’s weight as best he could as they made their way over to the couch. Napoleon collapsed upon it with a sigh.‘My thanks. For this, and all the services you have done me.’
‘Sire . . . I . . .’
‘Say nothing. Just leave me now. Tell the servants no one is to enter the room, for any reason. You can come back tomorrow and see . . . what has happened.’
‘Yes, sire. I understand.’
Napoleon took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Goodbye then. Now go.’
Caulaincourt hesitated for a moment, then returned to his chair to retrieve his notebook before walking steadily to the door and leaving the room. Once he had gone, Napoleon let out a groan and clutched his hands to his stomach. A fierce stabbing pain throbbed through his guts, and his entire body felt as if it was in the grip of some fever. The physician who had prepared the poison had told him it would be quick and relatively painless. Napoleon cursed him for a liar as he curled up on his side and waited for the end, the steady tick of a clock and the crackle of the fire marking the agonisingly slow passage of what time remained to him. The torment of the poison robbed him of the calm state of grace he had hoped would accompany his death. It occurred to him that this was what it must have been like for Lannes, and all those others, who had gone to their deaths slowly and in agony. There was no glory in this death, no sense of destiny, just the wretched writhing of an animal in its death throes, begging for an end to it all.
The hours passed, and death did not come, just more pain. As night gave way to dawn, and pale light crept through the gaps in the curtains of the study, Napoleon realised that he was not going to die after all. The poison, two years in the pouch, had lost its potency and had only served to deepen the humiliation to which he had been condemned. Gradually the fever passed, he stopped sweating and the agony in his stomach subsided, leaving him in despair.
At the eighth hour the door creaked open and Caulaincourt quietly entered the study, causing Napoleon to stir.
‘Sire, thank God!’ Caulaincourt exclaimed as he rushed over. ‘You live!’
‘So it seems,’ Napoleon whispered miserably.
‘Then I’ll summon the surgeon.’
Napoleon did not protest. If he was not to die, then what point was there in prolonging this suffering? ‘Call him then.’
‘Yes, sire.’ Caulaincourt jumped up, then sensing his master’s disappointment he paused. ‘Sire, you still live for a reason. Destiny must have a purpose for you yet.’
‘Really?’ Napoleon shook his head. He did not care any longer. He was too tired. He rolled on to his back and stared at the ceiling as Caulaincourt’s footsteps hurried away. If he had cheated death, then death had cheated him also.
‘Those are their final terms, sire,’ Caulaincourt reported to the Emperor three days later, handing over a sealed document. ‘The allies will allow you to retain the title of Emperor. You will be given the island of Elba to rule. The French treasury will provide you with an income of two million francs a year. You will be permitted to take a thousand soldiers with you, and any additional servants you may require. The Bonaparte family is to renounce all its other crowns in exchange for pensions provided by the French government, and the Empress will be granted the Duchy of Parma.’
Napoleon stared at the document in his hand, but did not open it. His pale skin still looked faintly waxy, as if it was stretched over his skull. The poison had left him feeling weak and apathetic and he could only stomach the lightest of meals. He lay, wrapped in a thick blanket, on a chaise longue in his study. He looked up. ‘In exchange for my unconditional abdication?’
‘Yes, sire,’ Caulaincourt nodded. ‘It was the best I could do. The Prussians were all for having you shot. I played on what was left of the regard the Tsar once had for you after the Treaty of Tilsit. It was the Tsar who offered you Elba.’
‘Nevertheless, I am to be exiled.’
‘Yes, sire. You will be required to remain on the island until the time of your death. You will not be permitted to enter into any treaty with another kingdom and you will accept a resident appointed by the allied powers through whom you will communicate with them.’
‘While this resident spies on me.’
Caulaincourt nodded.
‘I see.’ Napoleon cradled his forehead in one hand as he continued to stare at the document. ‘How long have they given me to consider their offer?’
‘You are to sign it at once for me to return to Paris. If they do not have your agreement by midnight tomorrow then the offer is withdrawn and a bounty will be offered for your capture.’
Napoleon’s lips curled at the insulting prospect of being treated like a criminal, but there was no time and no choice in the matter. He must accept.
‘Very well,’ he sighed wearily. ‘I thank you for your efforts, Caulaincourt. Now fetch me that inkwell and pen over there.’
While Caulaincourt crossed the study to the Emperor’s desk, Napoleon broke the seal and opened the treaty document. The clauses were simple and direct and a space had been left at the bottom for his signature. Caulaincourt returned and held out the pen, then removed the lid of the inkwell and offered it to Napoleon. ‘Sire?’
Napoleon gazed at the treaty with malevolence. Every point had been calculated to diminish his glory and that of his entire family. It was strange, he mused, that even offended as he was, there was no desire in him to continue the fight at this moment. Exhaustion and his recovery from taking the poison conspired to rob him of the urge to resist his enemies. Flattening the paper on the surface of the couch, Napoleon dipped the pen into the ink and tapped off the excess. He hesitated momentarily before hurriedly scratching his signature, and handing the pen back to Caulaincourt.
‘There.’
‘Yes, sire.’ The ambassador delicately took the treaty and wafted it in the air to speed the drying of the ink. ‘I’ll away to Paris immediately. When you receive confirmation that they have the treaty, you are to leave for Elba.’
‘So soon?’ Napoleon eased himself back down and pulled the covers over his chest. Elba? He recalled the island, a miserable nonenity off the coast of Italy. The allies had found him the smallest of possible kingdoms to rule. But not one person in the whole of Europe would fail to see that in reality Elba was nothing more than a prison. Napoleon closed his eyes and Caulaincourt quietly left the room.
‘Elba it is, then,’ Napoleon whispered. ‘For now.’
Chapter 51
Arthur
Toulouse, 13 April 1814
‘Do you think it might be a trick, sir?’ asked Somerset as he stood at Arthur’s side, squinting through his telescope towards the gates on the eastern side of the town. They had been opened some twenty minutes earlier, and now a small party stood a short distance in front of the defences. Through his own telescope Arthur could see that they were mostly civilians, clustered together under a white flag.
‘I think not. It seems that they want to parley,’ Arthur said. ‘After all, Soult has abandoned them. They have nothing to gain from defending the town.’
Even before dawn, Arthur’s cavalry patrols had discovered the French column, picking its way to the south-east under cover of darkness. General Hill had immediately set off in pursuit, with orders to observe Soult and not engage him. Toulouse was a valuable prize and the army needed to rest and recover from the previous day’s battle for the Heights of Calvinet which dominated the town.
‘Hm.’ Somerset slowly trained his telescope along the walls. ‘There are still plenty of cannon on the walls, and I can see some soldiers.’
‘That may be,’ Arthur muttered, then snapped his telescope shut. ‘However, there’s no harm in talking to them. Ride down there and see what they want.’
Somerset lowered his telescope and nodded. ‘And if they want to discuss terms, sir? What shall I say?’
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