In the wider field of strategy it cannot be denied that Napoleon made use of original devices and brought about revolutionary changes in the whole system. They do not appear in the Italian campaign of 1796 nor in the campaigns of Egypt and Marengo, but in 1805 we find the cavalry screen completely contrived and in efficient working order; in 1806 the strategic advanced guard; and in 1807 the perfect combination of the two. The curious part is that Napoleon himself did not seem to realize the importance of his own inventions; time and again in 1812 and 1813 he did not employ them, with invariably disastrous results. It seems a mistake on Napoleon’s part not to have made use of the new devices on these occasions, but it is unwise to condemn him offhand, because it seems inconceivable that he of all persons did not appreciate the magnitude and efficiency of his own discoveries; there must have been some reason not now apparent for these actions.

It is very nearly impossible to discover any action of Napoleon’s which was not faulty in some way, or which could not be improved upon. But since he met with unprecedented success the only conclusion is that, although his mistakes were many, they were far fewer than would have been the average man’s. Furthermore, since his schemes were all so direct and simple (a comparison between his plan and Moreau’s for the crossing of the Rhine at Schaffhausen in 1800 is very illuminating on this point), no one can help feeling a sneaking suspicion, when reading of Napoleon’s achievements, that he could not have done the same—only just a little better. Thiers’ long-drawn panegyric grows ineffably wearisome simply on this account; the writer’s efforts to minimize his hero’s errors are so obvious and so ineffective that the reader is irritated by them, while the continued superlatives seem to be given with gross unfairness to a man whose blunders are so difficult to conceal. It is far easier to write a panegyric on a man who has done nothing whatever than on a man whose whole life was spent in productive activity.

Of what has sometimes been termed Napoleon’s cardinal error, the Continental System, I have not ventured to speak. As originally conceived it was undoubtedly a wise move. If France could exist without English products, then obviously it was a sound proceeding to deprive England of so rich a market for her goods. The complications make the question much more difficult. Certainly the effort to close the whole of Europe to British trade led Napoleon into damaging annexations and disastrous wars, while the fact that the countries involved, Russia, for instance, preferred to fight rather than to continue to enforce the system, seems to indicate that it was impossible to enforce—that the country (or at least its Government) could not continue to exist without British trade. This is the simplest complication of all. It is when we come to consider Napoleon’s juggling with permits and licenses that we become involved in the fog which surrounds all tariff questions. The only certain points are that Napoleon derived a large revenue from his licenses, that the British Government was frequently severely embarrassed for want of money (the difficulties involved in collecting sufficient gold to pay subsidies and the expenses of armies in the field led to unfortunate delays), and that the discontent of the Continent was great and general. It is a purely arbitrary matter, dependent on the personal equation, to come to any decision as to the balance of these conclusions.

Taking the career of Napoleon as a whole, it is easy to see how frequently he was guilty of errors; what should also be obvious is that it was almost inevitable that he should fall into these errors. If the Austrian marriage was a mistake, then it was a mistake Napoleon could not help making; undoubtedly he did the best he could for himself in the prevailing circumstances. If the advance into Russia was a mistake, it is impossible to indicate what alternative could have been chosen, for Napoleon, at war with Russia, could not safely remain at war without gaining a decision; he could hardly maintain an army on the Russian frontier awaiting Alexander’s pleasure.

If it was a mistake to advance into Belgium in June, 1815, it would have been a far worse one not to have advanced. The greatest mistake of those into which he was not driven by circumstances was his theft of the throne of Spain—and it was that which ruined him.

MASSENA
(PRINCE D’ESSLING AND DUC DE RIVOLI)

CHAPTER XVII
ST. HELENA

WHEN Napoleon abdicated after Waterloo, for the second time, the Allies had achieved the object for which ostensibly they had made war. The Emperor had fallen, and the war they had waged had, they declared, been directed entirely against him. The immediate and burning question now arose as to what was to be done with the man against whom a million other men were on the march. Blücher wanted to catch him and shoot him; Wellington, with his usual cautious good sense, did not want to be burdened with the responsibility of an action which might be unnecessary and would certainly be unpopular. Napoleon himself, disowned by the government and by the army, wanted to retire to America, but his enemies were unwilling to set him free. The English fleet blockaded the coast, and Napoleon was compelled to surrender to it, lest worse should befall from the Prussians, or the Republicans, or the White Terror, or from personal enemies. He tried to make the best of his necessity by claiming the hospitality of England, but England kept him a close prisoner until her Allies had been consulted. They offered to hand him over to Louis XVIII. for trial as a rebel, but even Louis had the sense to decline the offer. He could shoot Ney and la Bédoyère, but he could not shoot Napoleon. For Louis to shut him up in a fortress would be as dangerous as it would be for a private individual to keep a tiger in his cellar. In the same way no Continental state would willingly see any other appointed his guardian. That would mean giving the guardian country a most potent instrument of menace. England remained the sole possible gaoler, and England accepted the responsibility.

Next arose the question as to the locality of the prison, and the answer to that question was already prepared—St. Helena. To keep Napoleon in England was obviously impossible, for England was nearer France even than was Elba, while, incredible though it might seem, the oligarchy which ruled England were afraid lest Napoleon should corrupt the mass of the people to Republicanism. That there was some foundation for this fear is shown by the intense interest in Napoleon which the people displayed while he was in Plymouth harbour. Similar arguments were effective against Malta or any other Mediterranean island. But St. Helena had none of these disadvantages. It was thousands of miles away; it was small, and could be filled with troops; there were only two possible places for landing, and these could be well guarded; the few reports on the island which were to be had seemed to indicate that fair comfort was obtainable there, and, above all, it was not at all a place where ships or individuals could easily find an excuse for calling or remaining. Even before the descent from Elba St. Helena had been suggested as a more suitable place for Napoleon’s prison, and now, with little discussion, he was sent off there.