The Fields of Death

‘That would be a death sentence, and you know it.’

‘Quite. And as far as I am concerned, it is no more than you deserve.’ Waterman paused. ‘However, the choice is yours, General. You might find some comfort in a martyr’s death if you return to France and face your enemies. Or you live out the rest of your days, and end your life in unregarded obscurity. Which will it be?’

Napoleon glared sourly at the official. For a moment he was seized by the fire of defiance. Let him return to France. Let him face his enemies and show them how a soldier dies. Who would ever forget the name of Napoleon Bonaparte then? His fervid imagination pictured the scene of his execution. Firing squad or blade, each prospect filled him with a cold dread that he had never known on the battlefield. A glorious end would be denied to him for ever now. He did not want to die the death of a common criminal. He was afraid to, and that insight sickened him. He swallowed and looked down at the deck as he made his reply.

‘I will accept exile on your terms.’

‘I thought so,’Waterman replied with a hint of scorn.‘Very well, then I am done here. Good day, General. We shall not meet again.’

He did not wait for any reply, but made his way out of the cabin. Maitland was still for a moment, and then rose up from his table and left to make arrangements for the transfer of his prisoner to the Northumberland. Napoleon stood alone in the cabin staring blankly at the outside world through the grille of the leaded stern windows.

Paris, August 1815

Arthur lowered the copy of the despatch that Somerset had brought him a few minutes earlier. He did not respond immediately, but stared out of the window of the Tuileries palace into the gardens. Scores of Parisians were walking along the gravel avenues stretching out between the flowerbeds and neat lines of trees, enjoying the cool of the early morning. In the afternoon, Arthur knew that the gardens would be almost deserted and he decided to take his exercise then. There had been little chance to take a break from his duties since the allied army had accepted the surrender of Paris at the begi

He puffed out his cheeks and turned back to Somerset as he tapped a finger on the despatch. ‘Boney should be comfortable enough on St Helena, I suppose. I have been there, you know.’

‘Really?’ Somerset raised his eyebrows.

Arthur nodded. ‘On the return voyage from India, the best part of fifteen years ago. As I recall, the climate was pleasant and the uplands attractive. There are worse prisons.’ He paused and frowned. ‘It is a shame that Bonaparte did not perish on the field of battle and spare us all the burden of his incarceration. As it is, he has dealt us a tricky hand.’

‘How so, your grace?’

‘While he lives he must be guarded closely. The world ca

‘ ’Tis true,’ Somerset agreed bitterly.

‘Still, while he is on St Helena, he can do no harm,’ Arthur concluded. ‘Now then, it is time to face General Mьffling, I fear.’

Somerset smiled thinly. ‘Shall I send for him, your grace?’

Arthur nodded. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

While Somerset left the study to fetch the Prussian emissary, Arthur glanced round the room, reflecting with some wonder that this had been the room where Bonaparte had dreamed his plans for the fate of Europe less than two months before. Now the dreams had crumbled and other nations could begin to hope that a lasting peace had finally dawned.

The door clicked open and Arthur hurriedly composed his mind as he stood up and nodded a greeting to the Prussian officer. Mьffling smiled back as Somerset closed the door and left them alone.

‘Your grace, it is good to see you again,’ Mьffling began.

‘And you. Please take a seat.’ Arthur gestured to the chairs on the other side of his desk as he sat down himself.‘I imagine Marshal Blьcher has sent you to demand that England hands Bonaparte over to suffer Prussian justice.’

‘Indeed, your grace.’ Mьffling pulled out a copy of The Times from inside his jacket and laid it on the desk. ‘It seems that your government is considering offering shelter to the Coriscan tyrant. No doubt that would be a pleasing outcome for those of your countrymen who still admire the enemy of peace. My superiors wish me to convey to you their outrage at such a prospect.’

‘I would share that sentiment, if it were true that England had decided to shelter Bonaparte. The Prime Minister has decided, however, to send Bonaparte to the island of St Helena, some three thousand miles from Europe, where he will be kept under close guard.’

‘To what end?’ Mьffling shook his head. ‘So that he may be used, by England, as a diplomatic bargaining counter?’

‘No,’ Arthur replied firmly. ‘He is too dangerous a creature to be played with. Bonaparte will remain on the island, isolated from the world, and there he will live out the rest of his days.’

‘Why should he be permitted such an end? After all the death and destruction that he has dealt out to the people of Europe? Marshal Blьcher demands that he be handed over, tried and executed. This, he richly deserves.’

‘Oh, doubtless.’ Arthur nodded. ‘We must, however, consider the wider context, my dear Mьffling.’

‘Wider context?’

Arthur took a brief moment to form his argument. ‘What is the point of executing Napoleon now? What good would it do? It would only satisfy the desire for revenge, that is all. That is not a good enough reason to shed any further blood. It is not . . . civilised.’

‘Forgive me, your grace, but that is an easy thing for the English to say. They have been spared the presence of French soldiers on their soil. I wonder how reticent your countrymen would be if England was not set apart from the rest of Europe by the sea?’

It was a fair point, Arthur conceded. He had seen at first hand the cruelties inflicted by the enemy, and could readily understand the rage of those who had suffered under French occupation. He cleared his throat and spoke.

‘Be that as it may, the execution of Bonaparte will not serve any of us well once revenge has been satisfied. His death at our hands would outrage many in France, and beyond. I dare say there will be people who will say that he did not deserve to be defeated. There will be others who will seek revenge. Then neither I, nor you, nor Marshal Blьcher, will sleep easily in our beds as long as allied forces occupy Paris. It is far better to let Bonaparte fade into obscurity. Then when he dies it will not be an event of note, but a mere detail, as the rest of the world lives in peace,’ Arthur concluded.