The Story of Napoleon

by Harold Wheeler

Chancellor Pasquier attended the Te Deum to celebrate Napoleon’s triumphs which was sung at the cathedral of Notre Dame, and he tells us in his “Memoirs” that he sat almost opposite the throne; from which point of vantage he studied the Emperor’s face with quiet persistency. “He was obviously pleased with the religious sanction,” the judge relates, “which, in the eyes of the people, consecrated his glory and omnipotence; he set a price on it, all the greater from the fact that up to the time of his coming it had been absolutely denied to all the works of the Revolution, and that it distinguished him from all that had preceded him.

“I am of opinion,” adds the same authority, “that at no moment of his career did he enjoy more completely, or at least with more apparent security, the favours of fortune. Generally, in the midst of his greatest successes, he affected an anxious air, as if he wished it to be understood that his great designs were not yet accomplished, and that people ought not to think that there remained nothing more to do. The observation which I here record has been repeatedly made by those who have come into close contact with him, and who never found him less approachable than at times when it was reasonable to suppose that some most fortunate happening would open his soul to the sentiments of a more expansive good nature.

“Generally speaking, it was better for one having a favour to ask of him to approach him in his moments of worry, rather than on the days of his most brilliant successes. His character did not err on the generous side. I think I see him still, as he was on that day, dressed in his State costume, which, though a little theatrical, was noble and fine. His features, always calm and serious, recalled the cameos which represent the Roman Emperors. He was small; still his whole person, in this imposing ceremony, was in harmony with the part he was playing. A sword glittering with precious stones was at his side, and the famous diamond called the Régent formed its pommel. Its brilliancy did not let us forget that this sword was the sharpest and most victorious that the world had seen since those of Alexander and Cæsar. I remember that M. Beugnot, who sat by me, gave utterance to this thought. Both of us were then far from dreaming that less than seven years would suffice to break it.”

The following is an instance in support of Pasquier’s statement regarding favours. When the Emperor was deeply engrossed in the Austrian campaign of 1809, one of his servants, named Fischer, went out of his mind. His master refused to fill his post, and paid the poor fellow, who had to be put in an asylum, his full salary of 12,000 francs a year until the end of 1812, when Napoleon gave him an annual pension of 6000 francs. Such kindness on the part of the man who might well be pardoned for forgetting or overlooking some claim, real or fancied, on his good-will was not rare but common.

Napoleon soon settled down to work, forsaking the hubbub of war for the quietness of the study. He established the University of France, which included every school both large and small, the primary object being to train the children in patriotism. In a word, he sought to dominate the mind. “There will never be fixity in politics,” the Emperor averred, “if there is not a teaching body with fixed principles. As long as people do not from their infancy learn whether they ought to be republicans or monarchists, Catholics or sceptics, the State will never form a nation: it will rest on unsafe and shifting foundations, always exposed to changes and disorders.” The first effort of the Council of the University was to compile the “Imperial Catechism,” one of the articles of the Napoleonic faith being that “Christians owe to the princes who govern them, and we in particular owe to Napoleon I., our Emperor, love, respect, obedience, fidelity, military service, and the taxes levied for the preservation and defence of the Empire and of his throne. We also owe him fervent prayers for his safety and for the spiritual and temporal prosperity of the State.”

The founder took the greatest possible interest in the work of the University, delighting to pay surprise visits to the schools. On one occasion he was somewhat nonplussed by a girl of whom he had asked the question: “How many needlesful of thread does it take to make a shirt?” “Sire,” she replied, “I should need but one, if I could have that sufficiently long.” The Emperor gave the witty scholar a gold chain as a reward.

It was not fated, however, that the arts of peace should for long occupy first place in the attention either of Napoleon or his people, and soon the country was again engrossed in rumours of war. British agents had not been asleep on the Continent, indeed, on the 15th July 1807, less than a week after the signature of peace between France and Prussia, Jackson confided to his “Diary” that he had “been positively assured that Bonaparte has sent eventual orders to Denmark to shut the Sound against us.” A secret article of the Tilsit treaty was to the effect that should Sweden refuse to close her ports to England and to declare war against her, Denmark should be compelled to fight the former. This was to take effect if the negotiations for peace between Great Britain and Russia failed, but recent research shows that Canning, our Foreign Minister, was not correctly informed on this matter, and believed that the arrangement was to take effect immediately. England determined not to be forestalled, and proposed that Denmark should hand over her fleet until a general peace was proclaimed. The Prince Royal positively refused to entertain the proposition. As a land expedition was contemplated by Great Britain thousands of peasants were enlisted to defend Copenhagen, the garrison there consisting of some 4000 troops ill-provided with artillery. An army of 27,000 strong under Lord Cathcart sailed from Yarmouth in a fleet commanded by Admiral Gambier and disembarked on the morning of the 16th August some ten miles north of the Danish Capital. Batteries were erected, but little actual progress was made until Arthur Wellesley, who had recently returned from India, attacked a corps of 4000 of the militia at Kioge, 900 of whom were killed or wounded, and 1500 taken prisoners. Jackson’s description of them is anything but picturesque. “The men are on board prison ships,” he writes, “and miserable wretches they are, fit for nothing but following the plough. They wear red and green striped woollen jackets, and wooden sabots. Their long lank hair hangs over their shoulders, and gives to their rugged features a wild expression. The knowing ones say that after the first fire they threw away their arms, hoping, without them, to escape the pursuit of our troops. In fact, the battle was not a very glorious one, but this you will keep for yourself.... The Danes have not yet been put to any severe trial; but they show symptoms of a resolute spirit, and seem determined to fight it out with us. They have already burnt their suburbs and destroyed every house that was likely to afford shelter to our people.”

The bombardment of the capital began on the 2nd September, 1807, and ended on the 5th, when the British took possession of the citadel and arsenals. The Danish fleet was surrounded and convoyed to England the following month. Jackson thus describes the contest, beginning with the preliminary passage from Landscrona to the fleet off Copenhagen, which occupied two hours and a half.

“It was nearly dark when we sailed out of the harbour; and in about half an hour afterwards we saw a great many rockets in the air, succeeded by shells on either side. The wind was so violent that we heard nothing until we were actually in the midst of the fleet, though we saw everything distinctly. Several shells fell in our direction, and so frightened our boatmen, that they repeatedly urged us to turn back. This, of course, we would not hear of; and at last we succeeded in getting alongside the flag-ship, where we found the Admiral and my brother in the stern gallery looking at the conflagration—for the city was on fire in three places. I never saw, nor can well conceive, a more awful, yet magnificent spectacle. It was the beginning of the bombardment in forma. We saw and heard it going on until daylight, as we lay in our cots; and as the work of destruction proceeded, I cannot describe to you the appalling effect it had on me. Our cabin was illuminated with an intensely red glow, then suddenly wrapped in deep gloom, as the flames rose and fell, while the vessel quivered and every plank in her was shaken by the loud reverberation of the cannon. Alas! poor Danes! I could not but feel for them.

“Lord Cathcart told me the next morning that he had thrown two thousand shells into the town, besides the fire from our gun-boats and the famous catamaran rockets. And this sort of work was to begin again at night....