This much may be said by way of defence for Napoleon’s treatment of San Domingo: it had been one of the choicest possessions of the French crown, and he wished to regain it for his country, just as he regained Louisiana, and just as he yearned for the lost territories in Hindustan. Visions of a vast colonial empire haunted his imagination, and the spirit which influenced him in his efforts in the West Indies was, perhaps, the same which lured him to Egypt, which caused him to attach such extreme importance to Malta, and which caused him to send men-of-war to South Australia to survey the coast for settlement.
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Meantime the Peace of Amiens was becoming a very frail thing, indeed. To all men, war in the near future seemed inevitable. Very positively England had pledged herself to restore Malta to the Knights of St. John; very emphatically she now refused to do so. By way of excuse she alleged that France had violated the spirit of the treaty by her aggressions on the Continent. In reply, Napoleon insisted that France had done nothing which it was not well known she intended at the time peace was made. He also reminded England that she had taken India. And this was true, but truth sometimes cuts a poor figure in debate. In vain such splendid types of English manhood as Charles Fox stood forth boldly in the British Parliament, and defended the First Consul. England was determined not to give up the Mediterranean fortress. France had no navy, no sailor with a spark of Nelson’s genius, and Malta was safe. On the Continent Napoleon might rage and might destroy; but England had proved how easy it was for her to bear the losses inflicted upon Continental Europe, and she was prepared to prove it again. Safe in her sea-girt isle, she was not to be intimidated by armies hurled against her allies.
In this crisis, when conciliatory measures might have availed to avert war, Lord Whitworth was sent to Paris as British ambassador. With his coming all hope of accommodation vanished. He was a typical English aristocrat, the very worst man who could have been sent if peace was desired. From the first, his letters to his government show that he was intensely hostile to Napoleon and to the consular government. To his superiors at home he misrepresented the situation in France, and where he did not misrepresent, he exaggerated. Finally, when Napoleon went out of his way to have a long conference with him, and to urge that England should keep her contract, he showed himself coldly irresponsive, and hinted that Malta would not be given up. Following this private and urgent conference came the public reception, in which Napoleon, with some natural display of temper and with the frankness of a soldier, asked Whitworth why England wanted war, and why she would not respect treaties. Whereupon Whitworth represented to his court that he had been grossly insulted, and all England rang with indignation. A falser statement never caused more woe to the human race. Bismarck cynically confessed that he it was who changed the form, the wording, and the tone of “the Ems telegram” which caused the Franco-German War of 1870–1. It is not too much to say that Whitworth’s exaggerated report, and the changes for the worse which the British ministry made in it when making it public, was one of the controlling causes of the wars, the bloodshed, and the misery which followed the year 1804.
During all this while the English newspapers were filled with the bitterest abuse of Napoleon. The most shameful lies that were ever published against a human being were constantly repeated against him in the British journals. That he should be subjected to such treatment during years of peace, and while he was giving most cordial welcome to the thousands of Englishmen who were now visiting France, filled Napoleon with wrath. He knew that by law the press of Great Britain was free; but he also knew that these papers, especially the ministerial papers, would not be filled with scurrilous personal abuse of him unless the government encouraged it. He knew that the political press reflects the views of the political party, and that when ministerial journals hounded him with libels, the ministers had given the signal. In vain he protested to the English ministry; he was told that in England the press was free. Then, as all his admirers must regret, he, also, stooped to libels and began to fill the official organs in France with outrageous attacks upon England.
Another grievance Napoleon had against Great Britain—she harbored men who openly declared their intention of assassinating him. English protection, English ships, English money, were ever at the command of the royalists who wished to stir up revolt in France, or to land assassins who wished to creep to Paris. On this subject, also, the English government would give no satisfaction. It coldly denied the accusation, disavowed the assassins, and continued to encourage assassination.
While relations were thus strained, a report of General Sébastiani on the eastern situation was published. In the paper, Sébastiani had ventured to say that six thousand French troops might reconquer Egypt. Here was another insult to England. Here was another excuse for editorial thunder, another provocative of parliamentary eloquence. England did not choose to remember that Sir Robert Wilson had just published a book, also on the eastern situation, and that in this publication Napoleon had been represented as the murderer of prisoners at Jaffa, and the poisoner of his own sick in the hospitals. This book had been dedicated to the Duke of York by permission, and had been presented by the author to George III., at a public levee.
England was bent on war; no explanations or remonstrances would soothe her, and on May 18 war was declared. But she had already seized, without the slightest warning, hundreds of French ships laden with millions of merchandise—ships which had come to English harbors trusting to her faith pledged in the treaty. This capture and confiscation excited almost no comment, but when Napoleon retaliated by throwing into prison thousands of Englishmen who were travelling in France, England could find no words harsh enough to condemn the outrage. Even so intelligent a historian as Lockhart is aghast at Napoleon’s perfidy. For, mark you, England had always seized what she could of the enemy’s property previous to a declaration of war, whereas Napoleon’s counterstroke was a novelty. It had never been done before, therefore it was an unspeakable atrocity—“It moved universal sympathy, indignation, and disgust.” So says Lockhart, repeating dutifully what his father-in-law, Sir Walter Scott, had already said. And the most recent British historian, J. H. Rose, writing of that period, falls into the well-worn path of Tory prejudice, and ambles along composedly in the hallowed footprints of Lockhart and Sir Walter.
Their style of putting the case is like this: It was wrong to seize an enemy’s ships and sailors previous to a declaration of war, but Great Britain had always done it, and, consequently, she had a right to do it again. It was right for France to retaliate, but France had never retaliated, and, consequently, she had no right to do it now. Thus England’s hoary wrong had become a saintly precedent, while Napoleon’s novelty of retaliation was a damnable innovation. In this neat manner, entirely satisfactory to itself, Tory logic makes mesmeric passes over facts, and wrongs become rights while rights become wrongs.
The eminent J. H. Rose, Master of Arts, and “Late Scholar of Christ’s College, Cambridge,” remarks: