Napoleon's Exile by Rambaud Patrick

Author:Rambaud, Patrick [Rambaud, Patrick]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 2007-11-30T16:00:00+00:00

Four

IN EXILE

PORTOFERRAIO FACED away from the sea. Its Levantine houses, grey or ochre, with pointed windows, were tiered along the slopes of a rocky amphitheatre. On the other side, a series of belvederes and Florentine walls fell to the sleepy waters of the port. Most of the streets climbed the hill; they finished in crude steps, without railings. As Monsieur Pons de l’Hérault had lived on the island for five years, his calves had grown very big from all the climbing he’d done - and he was climbing that morning, towards the Forte Stella, which gave a view of the Mediterranean; the lookout had signalled an English ship, and Monsieur Pons wanted to find out more. He stopped in the middle of a steep alleyway, which formed a kind of landing before the next flight of steps. The sun beat down. Monsieur Pons was sweating. His thin, lank hair stuck to his forehead. His glasses had slipped down his not inconsiderable nose, and he slid them back into place with one finger, wiped his face with his handkerchief and looked across at the flat, pink roofs and the harbour below. Then he recommenced his climb with the regular pace of a mountain-dweller, joining General Dalesme, the Governor of this poor Sub-prefecture, on the tower of the crenellated fort. It was then that he saw a motionless three-master next to the keep that defended the narrows leading into the port.

‘Did you try to blow it up with your cannon?’ Monsieur Pons asked the General.

‘Warning shots.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing, see for yourself.’

Dalesme lent him his spyglass to study the unflagged ship. Before administering the iron mines on the island of Elba, which he had restored, Pons de l’Hérault had served as a navy captain. The General said in his broad Limousin accent, ‘It’s an English frigate, do you agree?’

‘By the shape of the sails, there can be no doubt.’

‘Damned rosbifs! What do they want from us this time?’

An English squadron had blockaded the island for a long time, since London coveted Elba for the island’s strategic position as much as it did Corsica. For five months, they’d had no news from the Continent. British agents had driven the islanders to rebellion, encouraged mutinies, delivered weapons on the sly; a press-ganged regiment of Corsicans, Tuscans, deserters and draft-dodgers had revolted in April. These crooks had murdered their commander, and Dalesme had ordered them shot by his 35th Light Infantrymen. Some survivors had seized a merchant ship to make their getaway, while others had been forced aboard and dumped ashore in Italy. Meanwhile the French garrison, 400 strong, had barricaded itself up in Portoferraio and lived on biscuits and salted meat from the store.

The British had laid claim to the island, the Bourbons returned to power in Paris, and an emissary announced that Elba now belonged to the vanquished Emperor, who was about to take possession of it. Dalesme was suspicious. What did they want, the occupants of that frigate anchored in the roads, refusing to

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