3 - The Victors parade
The wonderful Coach, from which NAPPY flew,
At Bullock’s Museum, is open to view ;
And if you will please, to take a walk in,
The whole will be shown, as neat as a pin ;
1815-1816
After his mad scramble to Paris Napoleon had soon come to recognize the impossibility of rallying the French to his banner once again. A week after Waterloo Napoleon abdicated in favour of his four-year old son, the King of Rome. The reign of L’Aiglon (‘Little Eagle’), as he was called by Napoleon’s followers, would be short-lived, or indeed practically non-existent. On 7 July King Louis XVIII entered Paris, supported by the victorious troops of Waterloo, and took over the French throne; just sixteen months after Napoleon had stood triumphant before the gates of Paris and forced him to abandon it.
A week later all schoolboys in England were given a few day’s holiday to celebrate Wellington’s victory at Waterloo. John Smart of Brixham was one of them. He was especially lucky as 14 July was his birthday. It was a beautiful summer morning, he had the day off from school and he had two half-crowns in his pocket. Life was looking good. He met some schoolfriends at the quay of Torbay and together they saw two ships coming in ‘round Berry Head’. They ran around to the baker, Michelmore, hoping he would take them along when he went around to sell his bread to the ships. They were in luck, the baker didn’t object to their coming along. Michelmore’s boat set off quickly, but on reaching the ship they were sent off with little ceremony: ‘If we need bread we’ll come ashore and fetch it, and if you don’t let go I’ll sink you’. The baker was indignant: ‘Man and boy, have I sailed on these here waters, and never have I been so treated.’ The other shore boats, trying to provision the ships which were usually only too happy to take in supplies and news after their long stay on the seas, had no better luck. As it was a holiday, the boys had no hurry to return to land and the baker obliged. They hung around, just outside the reach of the armed men protecting the ships from unwanted attention.
John’s story continues: ‘As we rounded the bows of the ship the tide caught us with great force, and (..) we were taken a little nearer than we would willingly have ventured. As the current swept us along, I noticed at one of the tower-deck ports a man nodding violently to us, but standing back a little, as if frightened at being seen. His eye caught mine for an instant as he put his fingers to his lips with a warning gesture. We were past him in another moment, but I was greatly excited, and wanted to turn back to see him again. However, Michelmore decided it would be safer to complete our turn ; and accordingly we did so, but regulated our pace with the guard boat, so that it was at the ship’s stern when we again approached the bows. This time the man was still standing back, and even less visible than before ; but his hand was just visible on the port-sill, and as we passed he let something drop from his fingers into the water. We dared not approach, but we kept it in view as it drifted along. 1 had my hand dragging as if carelessly in the water, and when we were a good hundred yards clear of the ship, Michelmore steered so as to bring the object into my hand. It proved to be a small black bottle ; but as the evident intention of the officers had been to prevent all communication, I was frightened to look at my prize, and could only clutch it in my hand with a fear that someone on board must have seen me. However, our curiosity was too great to brook delay, and we steered towards shore, so that Michelmore's broad body was between me and the ship in case anyone was spying at us through a glass. It was a foreign-looking bottle, and as I drew the cork, its oiliness and perfume suggested that it bad been used for some liqueur. I kept that bottle for a few years, but even now, without it, I can recall its shape and size and smell. In the bottle was a small piece of paper; rolled up. And on the paper was written, “We have got Bonaparte on board.” In five minutes after we reached shore, there was not a soul in Brixham, except babies, ignorant of the news. Happy was the possessor of a boat on that day. Every sort of craft that could be pulled by oars or propelled by sail was brought into requisition. The people on board the ship must have suspected from the bustle on the quay that their secret was discovered ; but the cries of " Bonaparte! Bonaparte" from all the boats, soon told them.’ [1]
So, how did Napoleon, until a month ago the mightiest man of Europe, come to be on a British warship? After his abdication, Napoleon had retreated to the port of Rochefort, ostensibly with the aim of escaping to America. An uncharacteristic lethargy, which had been noted at Waterloo, again overtook him there. He seemed indecisive. There were a number of British warships in the bay before Rochefort. Among them was the Bellerophon, under the command of captain Maitland. Napoleon, rightly or wrongly, did not believe he could get away from under these watchful eyes. And most of all, he did not want to end his glorious career in the ignominy of being captured whilst trying to escape. Preserving at least the semblance of voluntary action, he put his fate in the hands of the British. Exactly a month after his defeat at Waterloo he boarded the Bellerophon.
The letter he wrote to the Prince Regent shows he had high expectations of the English sporting sense: ‘Your Royal Highness, exposed to the factions which distract my country and to the enmity of the greatest powers of Europe, I have ended my political career, and I come, like Themistocles, to throw myself on the hospitality of the English people; I put myself under the protection of their laws, which I claim from Your Royal Highness as the most powerful, the most constant, and the most generous of my enemies, Napoleon.’ The reference to Themistocles was apt, and in fact, the wording of his letter echoes the letter of this Athenian soldier and statesman, who found asylum with his former enemy, Persia.
The news of the Waterloo victory had fanned speculation on Napoleon’s future lot, but as yet no news of his whereabouts had reached Britain. Naturally, the Admiralty and government had been informed by Maitland of his exceptional passenger. The former Emperor soon learned that the British government was not that keen on receiving him to live quietly in a country house, as Napoleon fondly pictured himself doing. In fact, he was not to touch English soil at all and was told he would not disembark at Torbay. However, the government wanted to keep Napoleon’s location secret for as long as possible. When the Bellerophon arrived at Torbay, Captain Maitland received instructions to prevent anyone from coming on board the ship and to keep off all boats. This was highly unusual, as ships coming in were always provided with at least fresh bread and a chance to send off the accumulated mail. As we have seen, the news could not be kept quiet.
From that moment, Napoleon-mania spread. People came in from all parts of the country to watch this greatest prize of all. The officers were lionized: ‘I was taken prisoner by some twenty young ladies, marched off to a fine house in the little town, regaled with tea and clouted cream, and bored with five thousand questions about Napoleon, the ridiculousness of which I have often laughed at since: What was he like ? Was he really a man ? Were his hands and clothes all over blood when he came on board ? Was it true that he had killed three horses in riding from Waterloo to the Bellerophon? Were we not all frightened of him ? Was his voice like thunder ? Could I possibly get them a sight of the monster, just that they might be able to say they had seen him ? etc. etc.’[2]
The preoccupation of the British public with Napoleon manifested itself primarily in boats. Vessels of all sizes and description surrounded the Bellerophon from dawn to dusk. Napoleon seemed pleased with the attention. As Captain Maitland recorded understatedly: ‘He came often upon deck, and showed himself at the gangways and stern windows, apparently for the purpose of gratifying their curiosity, of which, as he observed to me, the English appeared to have a very large portion.’ Too satisfy public demand, the crew of the Bellerophon took to chalking Napoleon’s movements on boards: ‘He is at breakfast’, ‘In his cabin’ or ‘Going to dinner’.
After only two days, the Bellerophon received orders to proceed to Plymouth Harbour. The British government was very concerned that Napoleon might escape, while they were still deliberating what to do with him. They could not very well let him come on land, as the force of Napoleon’s personality was evident to all. Many were convinced he would carry all England before him, not by the force of arms, but by the force of his character. As Admiral Lord Keith put it, after meeting him: ‘Damn the fellow! If he had obtained an interview with His Royal Highness (the Prince Regent) in half-an-hour they would have been the best friends in England.’ [3] Sir Walter Scott, with an eye for the picturesque, strongly advised Captain Maitland, in whose memoirs the citation appeared, to let it stand as it was, without toning it down for the Victorian public.
The bay of Plymouth, though it was a more populated place, was less convenient for any attempts to force Napoleon’s freedom. The prospect of seeing the defeated Ex-Emperor, henceforth to be addressed as ‘General’ only, on an English warship captured the people’s imagination. It still does, by the way. In 2010, the picture showing thousands of little boats trying to catch a glimpse of the fallen Emperor, was voted most popular piece in the Plymouth City Museum.
An immense number of letters must have been written by people who had the chance to see Napoleon on board. One from a British Naval officer to his uncle included a portrait of Napoleon: ‘I send you, as the greatest curiosity I have, the copy of a sketch of Bonaparte done about a week since on board the Bellerophon by his secretary Col Lanat - Having had a very good sight of him myself I can pronounce it to be a strong likeness of the outline of his face and head. The day after he arrived here one of our Colonels borrowed the General's boat and I was glad to seize the opportunity of taking Emily to see this wonder of the age. When we arrived near the ship we saw Bonaparte walking backwards and forwards in the cabin in conversation with General Bertrand...’[4].
The pressure of the boats at Plymouth was even higher than it had been at Torbay. Captain Maitland describes the reactions of his guests on the Bellerophon: ‘During the whole of the 29th of July it rained incessantly, and nothing worth relating took place: the Frenchmen were deprived of their usual amusement of admiring the ladies, and being admired in return, not a boat having made its appearance. They often remarked, with the characteristic vivacity of their nation, that they were placed in the situation of Tantalus,—so many beauties in view, without the possibility of approaching them. On Sunday, the 30th of July, the crowd of boats was greater than I ever remember to have seen at one time. I am certain I speak within bounds when I state, that upwards of a thousand were collected round the ship, in each of which, on an average, there were not fewer than eight people. The crush was so great, as to render it quite impossible for the guard-boats to keep them off; though a boat belonging to one of the frigates made use of very violent means to effect it, frequently running against small boats, containing women, with such force as nearly to upset them, and alarming the ladies extremely. The French officers were very indignant at such rude proceedings, saying, "Is this your English liberty? Were such a thing to happen in France, the men would rise with one accord and throw that officer and his crew overboard."’ Finally, however, more than ungallantry ensued. On August the 2nd a boat was run down and a ‘gentleman sank to rise no more, leaving a wife and four little children to deplore his loss’.[5] It was clear the situation could not continue like this.
On the 31st of July, Napoleon was informed that he would be sent in exile to St. Helena. This tropical island, that is situated between Africa and South-America, was then primarily used for restocking British ships en route to Asia. It was as remote from any inhabited land as possible. Even now, St. Helena has no airport, and can only be reached by a two-day journey by ship.[6]Napoleon was transferred from the rather ancient Bellerophon to the Northumberland, which was better suited to a voyage to the tropics on 5 August. Miss Mary Boger noted down her impressions of his leave-taking: ‘The most imposing scene I ever saw was on the last day of Bonaparte's appearance on the deck of the Bellerophon (...) I was invited to join a party, who had procured a boat from Capt. Broughton to take them into the Sound. Accordingly we embarked; the coxswain steered us alongside the Bellerophon and with his boathook held us to the accommodation ladder. The Emperor had not made his appearance when we arrived, and we waited nearly a quarter of an hour in great fear of being disappointed. In the meantime we contemplated the scene before us. The Sound was covered by one entire mass of boats, filled with people. Every boat that could swim was there from the splendid barge to the little cockle-shell, and so closely were they wedged together that no sea could be seen. Capt. Broughton commanded a ship in the port and his boat was therefore permitted to approach the Bellerophon which saved us from the fear of being crushed or swamped. It is impossible for any one to form an idea of the scene unless he had been an eye witness. Thousands were there without a chance of seeing him, as they were at such a distance. At last Napoleon came out of the cabin with a very graceful though very quick step, and placed himself at the gangway. Great was my astonishment when I saw him, so different a man from what I expected to see. Instead of the little insignificant figure that prints and caricatures had represented him, his appearance was anything but this. (...) A smile played about his mouth, which was truly fascinating. But after that morning he smiled no more. He was a man that having once seen, one could never forget. Having staid about half an hour on deck, he bowed to the people, and retired ; and this was the last time that he was seen in England.’[7] He arrived on St. Helena in October 1815.
1816
In the meantime, his former retinue had dispersed. Napoleons former coachman, Johannes Horn, was still a prisoner of war six months after Waterloo. At the beginning of 1816 Horn was released at Ostend, on the Belgian coast, along with many others. On foot he made his way to Paris. The new French government offered him a pension of 400 francs ‘in consideration of his sufferings.’ But 1816 also marked a new beginning for the carriage Horn had driven for so long.
When Von Keller had captured the carriage at Waterloo, and discovered there was no ready money to be found in it, he sent the carriage to his wife at Düsseldorf for safe-keeping. His wife was an enterprising woman and immediately put the carriage on show there. A Dutch traveller reported having seen the carriage in Düsseldorf in a newspaper published on 20 July.[8] The tale of how Von Keller acquired the carriage had already gained some embellishments. ‘Just seeing the carriage was worth the journey’, the traveler wrote, ‘the wife of Major Von Keller had brought the carriage and horses, which her husband had received as a gift, as a reward for his bravery’. The proceeds were to go to the 1600 wounded Prussians in the hospitals around Dusseldorf. The traveler was obviously astounded by the opulence of the carriage’s interior, as well as awed by the nearness of the great man: ‘Imagine, there was even a gold toothpick, and there was still mustard in the gold jar’.
Von Keller himself remained with the battalion during the summer, while his wife looked after the carriage. The battalion was stationed at Blois at that time. During the summer months, the division of the spoils from the carriage came up. Von Keller had promised all the officers 50 Napoleon’s d’Or as a compensation for him taking the carriage for himself. He soon regretted his generosity and paid them just 20 Napoleon’s d’Or instead. As an excuse, he told them his wife would not allow him to share anything out of the Emperors carriage. He claimed that he did not wish the officers to suffer from this and that he paid them the 20 Napoleons from his own pocket. The officers declared themselves satisfied. Sharing with the soldiers had never been discussed, according to Von Keller and another officer concerned in the matter. Interestingly, the Dutch traveller had the soldiers eating from silver plates and receiving 80 Napoleon’s d’Or each. The Von Kellers were very adept at creating a good impression.
Negotiations
Now that he had settled with his battalion, Von Keller felt himself free to dispose of the carriage in the most profitable way possible. Through the British Chargé d’Affaires in the Hague, he offered the carriage to the Prince Regent. By October, a number of very high-ranking British officials were corresponding about his offer. The Secretary for War, Earl Bathurst, wrote to the Chancellor of the Exchequer:
‘I enclose to you a letter from our Chargé d'Affaires at the Hague, concerning Bonaparte's carriage, which a Prussian officer has offered to present to the Regent, on condition of it not being examined at the Custom House on its arrival. The meaning of this I thought obvious, and I think I spoke to you about it as a thing inadmissible. The Regent offered to purchase the carriage with all its contents at a liberal valuation, and to be at the expense of its transport. The enclosed is an answer to this offer. The 500 florins mentioned in Mr. James's [the Chargé d’Affaires] letter was an estimate of the probable value of the carriage only, and one not by any means intended to be abided by, still less to include the horses and the contents of the carriage.
It will be necessary to know what it is which the Prussian officer requires. If he means that there should be nothing in the carriage but what was found in it, and that the whole is to be presented to the Regent, the officer simply requiring that no part of this present should be seized as contraband, or that he should be charged with duties upon them, the matter can, I think, be easily arranged, and I must beg of you to enable me to give to Mr. James the necessary assurances under necessary precautions; but if he means to make a profit on what the carriage may contain over and above what is to be presented to the Regent, the offer must be rejected.’[9]
The Chancellor of the Exchequer agreed to the conditions asked on 21 October: ‘that the carriage and everything in it and belonging to it (though contraband), coming bona fide for the Prince Regent, will be admitted free of duty. Nothing can pass free from examination, in order to ascertain that it is not made the means of introducing smuggled goods for the profit of individuals.’ Only a day later, on 22 October, Von Keller disembarked at Dover, bringing the carriage with him. It was taken to the royal stables at Carlton House. On 3 November it was shown to the Prince Regent ‘in its complete state’.
The Times reported the news on 29 November: ‘The Prince Regent, we have reason to know, has purchased of General Kellerman[10], for 3000 guineas, the superb carriage of Buonaparte, taken by that officer at the battle of Waterloo.’ After this short statement, it printed a longer description of the carriage the next day. A few days later The Times felt the need to reiterate their statement on the purchase, as other newspapers had doubted its truth. It stressed the trustworthiness of its source, ‘a person intimately connected with Government’, who had also furnished them with the description of the carriage. It haughtily claimed: ‘were we not desirous of avoiding the imputation of false statements, we should hardly consider the sale of Buonaparte’s carriage a subject worthy of remark’.
This attitude would soon change however, as the next owner of the carriage would make sure that his possession of the carriage would not pass unmarked. The Prince Regent did not take long to find out that he was more in need of ready cash than of carriages, however famous. And there was another buyer, anxious to take over the responsibility and prepared to pay the same price the Prince Regent had. It was a London showman, William Bullock, who would be the next strong personality to take control of the carriage.
William Bullock
An enterprising showman William Bullock had always been. Having started his career in Sheffield, he soon removed himself to Liverpool where he presented himself as a ‘Silver Smith, Jeweller, Toyman and Statue Figure Manufacturer’. While still in Sheffield he had already showed curious visitors his ‘Cabinet’, which then contained around three hundred items, ranging from wax figurines to stuffed animals. From 1801 onwards, he exhibited his quickly expanding collection at his house in Liverpool. According to later claims in the Companions to his collection he had been collecting for about six years at the time. He presented a true cabinet of rarities, containing many specimens of British and exotic flora and fauna, but also paintings, an Egyptian mummy (brought from Egypt by the French, but captured by an English privateer), curiosities from the South Seas (many from Captain Cooks travels), carvings, stained glass, in short ‘any uncommon production of Art or Nature’.
Bullock was probably around thirty years old, when he decided that Liverpool did not provide enough scope for his abilities. He removed his collection to London in 1809, where he chose Piccadilly, a busy thoroughfare, to present his collection. It was an instant success. Bell’s Weekly Messenger reported that the museum had ‘become the most fashionable place of amusement in London; more than 22,000 have already visited it during the month it has been opened.’ In the same year he commissioned a new building, that would stand out among the stately homes of Piccadilly.
Bullock combined a keen sense of marketing with a true scientific interest. His shows were for the instruction of the masses, but they usually gave him a nice profit as well. His new plans showed the same predilections. He commissioned a building in Egyptian style, very much the vogue at the time. The building, formally called the ‘London Museum’, quickly assumed the name of Egyptian Hall in the talk of the town. London-born writer Leigh Hunt acknowledged its attention value, though he thought it madly misplaced in London. ‘The absurdity however, renders it a good advertisement. There is no missing its great lumpish face as you go along. It gives a blow to the mind, like a heavy practical joke.’ As the British Museum was hardly an accessible venue in those days, Bullocks Museum filled a need in London at the time. Besides, Bullock was one of the first to present his collection in a way that even remotely resembled a natural habitat. Neither was Bullock a mere amateur in his field, as his election to several learned societies proves.
There was never a dull moment in Piccadilly, as long as Bullocks Museum was open to the public. If it were not the carriages of the many visitors who wanted to see Bullocks latest exhibit that would block the street, it would be a massive whale which would impede traffic for a whole morning before it could be brought into the Egyptian Hall to be dissected. Bullock remained an avid collector, using the guide-book to his collection to encourage people to offer him their curiosities for sale. However, he collected most of his exhibits himself on long journeys. From a trip to the Baltic he brought back a large number of specimens, including a family of Lapps. He exhibited them at his Museum, but also took them around. One evening at the theatre, they were in raptures over the tuning of the orchestra, but very disappointed over the music itself. They only wanted to encore the tuning. They were sent back to Lapland after they had lost their novelty appeal, according to one contemporary: ‘wiser, richer, and happier than any Lapps had been since their earliest migration.’[11]
Purchase
The London fascination with the final victory over Napoleon was still at a frenzied height. Several venues in London served this eager public, exhibiting a Waterloo panorama, spoils of the battlefield, a huge portrait of Napoleon (at over 4,5 metres considerably larger than life-size) and Napoleon’s horse Marengo. William Bullock already had a more than usual interest in Napoleon Bonaparte, as it was a medal of Napoleon which had once awakened his interest in curiosities.[12] So when Bullock heard that the Prince-Regent had bought the coach, he was intrigued. He undoubtedly saw the potential as a public exhibit, but perhaps he was also interested on a personal level. On 19 December, he obtained permission to inspect the carriage and everything belonging to it. On 23 December 1815 he signed a receipt for ‘the travelling carriage of General Bonaparte together with all its appurtenances and also the Four Horses and the Harness.’ He bought the coach for £2,500; ‘a very exorbitant price’, according to one of his contemporaries, William Jerdan. Taking into account the fact that he had been collecting for seventeen years and had in that time paid by his own statement over 30,000 pounds for his collection of more than 15,000 items, it might indeed be concluded that it was quite a price to pay for a single exhibit. Time would show that it had been a good gamble. The carriage would prove to be the best investment he ever made.
The Christmas days of 1815 were hardly a very homely affair for the Bullocks, as William was pushing hard to prepare the carriage for public exhibition. He wanted to ride the wave of public interest and couldn’t afford to lose too much time. The exhibition duly opened on Monday, 1 January 1816 and was accompanied by a leaflet enumerating the many special features of the coach. A description of the Costly and Curious Carriage of the late Emperor of France included a short history of the carriage and Von Kellers account of the capture. To add to the veracity of his statements, he had included a number of documents, which he had presumably received from Von Keller. Bullock promised the British public a close encounter with history: ‘these trappings of assumed Imperialism, no longer the gaze of trembling nations, but the humbled trophies for victorious eyes to examine.’
The exhibition was open six days a week from 10 a.m. until dusk and then from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. The exhibition cost a shilling, which was Bullock’s standard price for exhibitions. An annual ticket could be had for £1 1s, and a ticket for life (non-transferable) cost £10 10s. The doubts any showman must feel whether his show will be a success, were soon laid to rest. The exhibition of Napoleon’s carriage attracted great crowds. In the first few weeks he sold over 600 tickets a day.
Description of the Carriage
Bullock made sure the public was well informed about his latest exhibit. First and foremost there was his own twenty-page description, which he managed to have written and printed in the week leading up to the exhibition. It was priced at a shilling.
Bullock starts by saying, that even without the historical dimension of the carriage, it would merit attention: ‘An artisan would recognise the fertility of invention, and dexterity of execution (...). A traveller, would regard with surprise how completely comfort and security could be consulted in the same vehicle. A soldier, would perceive how practicable it has been to combine all the advantages of that seclusion in which great achievements may be digested; with all the preparations that are required for a battle, or a march. And even a female must view, with some degree of interest, all the necessary detail which are requisite for tranquil elegance; collected and arranged in the post-chariot of a traveller and soldier’. But then he brings the use its former owner made of the carriage before the eyes of his public: ‘It was to convey the Ruler of France through countries which lay prostrate before his power’. And then ‘It is a curious fact, that the fall of this memorable chieftain may be traced to the hour in which he entered the carriage which is now exhibited. It was as fatal to him as the chariot of the sun had been to Phaeton. The vehicle remains, but what has become of the charioteer?’.
Bullock praises the valour of British arms and British steadfastness: ‘had our country participated in the general dismay that overspread other nations, the civilized world would at this hour have continued under the dominion of usurped authority’, he wrote. He then tells the story of the capture at Waterloo based on Von Kellers erroneous description of events. ‘Major von Keller found the travelling carriage of Buonaparte with six horses. The postillion and the two leaders, were killed by the bayonets of the fusiliers. The Major then cut down the coachman, and forced open the door of the carriage. At that moment he observed Buonaparte mounting a horse at the opposite side.’
Many newspapers and journals from the Times to the Lady’s Magazine were happy to print descriptions of the carriage for their readers. And a friend of Bullock’s, Robert Ackermann, obliged by writing a long description of the carriage in his Repository of Arts and Literature. Together these descriptions give a good impression of a mobile home avant la lettre.
The coach was likened to an English Post-Chaise, on which model it was indeed fashioned. The wheels and the perch were painted vermillion, edged with blue and heightened with gold. The lower bodywork consisted of finely polished wood, painted a deep dark blue. The panels of the doors were bullet-proof and emblazoned with the Imperial arms. The upper bodywork was fitted in black-enamelled leather. Lamps were attached at each corner of the roof. The interior was illuminated by a special lamp, fixed at the back of the carriage, shining inwards. At the back, there was a sliding panel, which could be let down to add or remove articles without disturbing Napoleon.
The seat at the front was lower than usual to ensure a clear view for the horses for the occupant of the carriage. When Napoleon was in the carriage, it was driven with postillions on the horses. The seat was then taken by Napoleon’s private servant, a mameluke. Horn repeatedly mentions bringing the coach to Napoleon or being sent in advance with the dormeuse. Perhaps on these occasions, the carriage was driven from the box. When the carriage was being displayed two sabre cuts could still be seen on the seat, implying someone – presumably Johannes Horn – had been sitting there when the carriage was taken at Waterloo.
The interior is described extensively as well. The carriage served as Napoleons office, bedroom, dressing room, kitchen and dining room all at the same time. The inside of the carriage was lined with a dark blue cloth. There was a partitioned seat – ‘whether for pride or convenience can only be conjectured’ – which offered a clear forward view of the horses and the surrounding country. Below the front windows there was a box extension, which was divided into two compartments. The left was reserved for storage space. The right was kept empty, to provide space for Napoleon’s bed. Beneath the coachman’s seat was a small box, about two feet and a half long. This contained a bedstead of polished steel, which could be fitted up within one or two minutes: ‘the carriage contained mattresses and other requisites for bedding, of very extensive quality, all of them commodiously arranged’. There were also articles for ‘strict personal convenience’ (a bidet and a chamber pot), made of silver, fitted into the carriage. A pair of red morocco slippers and a green velvet cap were kept in the carriage for Napoleon’s use.
Opposite the seat in the rear, there was a writing desk, that could be drawn out. An ink stand and pens were found in it, and the Emperor’s personal atlas was kept here as well. There were also many smaller compartments, for maps and telescopes. On the ceiling a net hammock could be attached for carrying small travelling requisites. On both the carriage doors there was a pistol holster, in which were found pistols that had been manufactured at Versailles; and in a holster close to the seat, a double-barrelled pistol was kept. All the pistols were found loaded. On the right hand side there hung a silver watch, with a silver chain; this was the ‘Time Piece by which the watches of the Army were regulated’. It was a huge watch with a cover, which weighed over four pounds and was studded with jewels.
The left compartment, that was set aside for storage contained ‘every utensil of probable utility: of some there are two sets, one of gold, the other of silver’. Among the gold articles are a tea pot, coffee pot, sugar basin, candlesticks, wash hand basin, plates for breakfast etc. Each article is superbly embossed with the imperial arms, and engraved with his favourite ‘N’, and by the aid of a spirit lamp, Napoleon or his servant could heat a cup of tea or shaving water in the carriage.
A special feature stored in the compartment, was a small mahogany case which contained the ‘peculiar necessaire of the Ex-Emperor’. It resembled an English writing desk and had the imperial arms ‘most beautifully engraved’ on the cover. It was fitted up under the inspection of Maria Louisa (Napoleon’s wife) and was presented by her to the Emperor on his departure for Russia. ‘It contains nearly one hundred articles, both of necessity and luxury, almost all of solid gold’; these items included an elegant tooth brush, razors of mother-of pearl, a shaving box, a small ink stand, a tea pot, with the sugar box in it, two candlesticks, some small plates for breakfast, and even articles rarely to be met with in a necessaire, as for instance, a gimblet. That the ex-Emperor did not forget to make his toilette comme il faut was proved by several bottles with eau de Cologne, eau de Lavade and salt spirit. Though he endeavoured to exclude all the products of the English manufactories from France and the Continent, he allowed himself some Windsor soap. ‘All these several articles are arranged in so very compact a manner, and in the limits of a box hardly 1 ¼ feet by 8 inches that it will excite the admiration of every observer’.
The liquor case, like the necessaire, was made of mahogany; it contained two bottles, one of them still with the rum which was found in it at the time, the other full of extremely fine old Malaga wine. In the Netherlands the rum found in Napoleon’s coach even gave rise to the rumour that Napoleon had been an alcoholic: ‘The god of the Dutch had actually wrestled with the god of Jamaica’. [13]
Finally, the horses were described. Though the carriage used to be drawn by six horses, only four had survived Waterloo. These had come with the carriage to England. Bullock, with his usual showman’s flair describes them as combining ‘more strength, speed and spirit than are generally found together in one animal’. They were brown, ‘pretty stout Normans’. The harness, the Lady’s Magazine wrote, ‘is very little worthy an imperial equipage, and is but to be recognised as belonging to it by the bees’, which Napoleon used as his imperial emblem. Bullock added a romantic touch to the bad state of the harness by blaming the rigours of the Russian campaign.
Publications
The impressive publicity campaign Bullock conducted was supported by a number of publications. The Companions to the collection, which Bullock had been bringing out regularly since he started his collection, were the most important. He was now up to the seventeenth edition, having brought out the first in Sheffield in 1799. There is a marked increase in objects at the time of the Napoleonic exhibition. In 1813 he had claimed 15,000 objects for his collection, by 1818 this had more than doubled to 32,000 objects.
The records of the Bullock’s printer have survived, and go to show that even William Bullock was surprised at the number of visitors. Two days after the opening of the exhibition, he ordered 500 copies of the exhibition catalogue. Within the week, he ordered another 500, and then another 500 on the 13th. On the 16th he apparently felt sure of a prolonged success and ordered 2000 copies.[14]
A neighbouring bookseller, who had started a series of children’s books, brought out a special booklet called The Coach that Nap ran from. It builds up the story of the capture of the carriage along the lines told by Von Keller. It describes the coach, the spoils, the coachman and the moonlight in a verse to which a line is added on every page. The necessaire gets a separate page:
And here are the spoils of silver and gold!
That were in the Box prepar'd by his Wife,
That lay in the coach that NAP ran from.
In the book the time the that Napoleon’s carriage was taken, is fixed at ten past eleven: ‘The Watch tells the hour that it changed its master’. It also records that ‘the Moon then shone in all its splendour’. The last verse proclaims:
The wonderful Coach, from which NAPPY flew,
At Bullock’s Museum, is open to view ;
And if you will please, to take a walk in,
The whole will be shown, as neat as a pin ;
Paris and Horn again
Bullock, never a man to rest on his laurels, decided to go to Paris. He later explained in an ‘address to the public’ that he ‘restrained neither expense or labour to collect all that can add interest to this exhibition.’ Besides personal belongings of the former Emperor, he ‘endeavoured to bring to England some domestic servant of Napoleon’s who might be able to gratify the curiosity which had been raised.’
In a remarkable twist of fate this heralded the next stage in the travels of Johannes Horn with Napoleon. Incredible as it might have seemed to Bullock, who had heard the story of the capture of the coach from Von Keller himself, the coachman who drove the carriage he now had in his possession at Waterloo was still alive.[15] He met Johannes Horn in Paris and was convinced he was the genuine article. Bullock ‘having ascertained in Paris, beyond a doubt, that he had for several years been the coachman of Bonaparte, brought him to this country, as an appropriate and not uninteresting person to attend in the room where the carriage is exhibiting.’ [16] Johannes Horn, from Bergen op Zoom, who had been to Russia and Waterloo with Napoleon, now became a living exhibit to please the victorious British public.
As Horn did not speak English, Bullock hastened to bring out the narrative of his new acquisition. Horn dictated his story in French. To ensure it was truly ‘without addition or alteration, the statement of the individual himself’, it was then translated and interpreted back to him. Bullock was fair enough to mention the disadvantage that Horn had to reproduce everything from memory. Nearly indignantly he wrote: ‘Horn has kept neither a journal or even notes of his celebrated master’. And again he tried to allay any suspicions about Horn’s story: ‘The authenticity of the man, as coachman of Bonaparte, Mr. Bullock feels himself perfectly competent to assert. In Paris the young man was well known; and the means which Mr. Bullock used to prevent the possibility of imposture, are far more than sufficient to dismiss scepticism.’[17] The booklet was sold for 1s. 6d. at the exhibition.
The Times noted Horn’s advent on 23 February 1816. His veracity was proclaimed by horses as well as men: when he had spoken to one of the horses which came with the coach in French it had ‘turned round very sharp, as in recognition’.
Crowds
William Bullock advertised regularly, on the front page of The Times. But, having a knack for publicity, he also sent out complimentary tickets to the exhibition to the rich and famous. In this way, he enticed the leading society bucks to his exhibition, who in turn were an extra attraction to the public. Among many others, Lord Byron took the bait. During and after the Napoleonic wars there were quite a few prominent Britons who openly preferred Napoleon to George III. Byron was one of the most outspoken of them. After the abdication, he was devastated to find that his hero was a mere mortal after all. He stayed in his rooms for three days and then wrote an ‘Ode to Napoleon’. In it, he speaks severely of Napoleon’s failure to commit suicide:
'TIS done -- but yesterday a King!
And arm'd with Kings to strive --
And now thou art a nameless thing:
So abject -- yet alive!
Is this the man of thousand thrones,
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones,
And can he thus survive?
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.
(...) The Desolator desolate!
The Victor overthrown!
The Arbiter of others' fate
A Suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope
That with such change can calmly cope?
Or dread of death alone?
To die a prince -- or live a slave --
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!
His harsh view of Napoleons actions did not deter him from visiting the carriage when it was exhibited in Piccadilly. He was so taken by it, that he ordered a duplicate of the carriage for his personal use. He made a few changes, reflecting his status as a literary man and an epicure, rather than a general. Where Napoleon kept his field-glasses, maps and military equipment, Byron placed complete dining facilities and a library. It cost the already financially embarrassed Lord 600 guineas. When he had to flee England because of his debts, he ensured the carriage was sent out before him. And even then, what had been good enough for Napoleon did not satisfy Byron. Though the carriage was ‘huge’, it ‘was not found sufficiently capacious for his baggage and suite; and he purchased a calèche at Brussels for his servants. [1]
Bullock’s canny advertising and publicity ensured that the crowds coming to see the exhibition soon became news in their own right. In March, 60,000 people had seen the carriage, by March the number had risen to 200,000. The foremost caricaturists of the day Thomas Rowlandson and George Cruikshank mocked the scene, implying that the visitors were making an exhibition out of themselves.
Cruikshank’s illustration has a very interesting detail. It shows a rather desolate looking man, clutching a handkerchief, who is addressing the Emperor’s bust in the corner of the room: ‘Oh! Mon dear Empereur, dis is de shattering sights’. It is tempting to assume Cruikshank must have meant to portray Johannes Horn, as he would be the only person who would address Napoleon in this way. If it is indeed Horn, this is the only illustration there is of this elusive young man, though the accuracy of a portrait by a caricaturist is of course doubtful. At least it proves that Horn’s presence fired the imagination. This is also seen in the poem the English novelist Laetitia Matilda Hawkins devoted to the coachmen of Napoleon.
Two coachmen me, when Emperor, drove,
Poor plain John Horne was one ;
The next, all human praise above !
Th' immortal Wellington.
Two diffrent ways they drove me forth,
(My heart, O still thy thrillings !)
The former drove me to the north,
The latter to St. Helens.[18]
Cruikshank’s illustration draws the attention to another matter as well: the universal appeal of the carriage. Military men and fashionable ladies attended the exhibition, but Cruikshank also shows a rather plainly dressed couple who comment on the ‘zaber gashes’, indicating that ‘country bumpkins’ also paid their shilling. London had a population of about one million in 1816 and nearly a quarter of a million came to see the carriage while it was exhibited there. That was an astounding success.
Johannes Horn and the carriage were destined to go another mile together. William Bullock decided to give the exhibition a new lease of life in the provinces. It seems this had been part of the bargain when he bought the carriage from the Prince Regent. The London exhibition closed on Friday, 23 August 1816, just over a year after Napoleon’s final defeat.
[1] Pryse Lockhart Gordon, Personal memoirs: or, Reminiscences of men and manners at home and abroad ... London 1830, 328. Digitized by Google.
[1]Clement Shorter, Napoleon and his Fellow Travellers, London 1908, p. 295 http://www.archive.org/stream/napoleonandhisf00wardgoog#page/n324/mode/2up
[2]Ibidem, 36
[3]Frederick Lewis Maitland, Narrative of the surrender of Buonaparte and of his residence on H.M.S Bellerophon, 1826, p 211.
[4]http://www.earsathome.com/letters/Previctorian/napoleon.html
[5]Leigh Hunt, The Examiner, 501. Digitized by Google Books.
[6]http://www.thenrgroup.net/theme/sthelena.htm
[7]Western Antiquary, p. 275. http://www.archive.org/stream/westernantiquar00wriggoog/westernantiquar00wriggoo
[8]Arnhemse Courant, 20-07-1815, digitized by the Koninklijke Bibliotheek (http://kranten.kb.nl)
[9] Wellington, Arthur W, and Arthur R. W. Wellington. Supplementary Despatches and Memoranda of Field Marshal Arthur, Duke of Wellington, K.g. London: J. Murray, 1858, 206.
[10]This is an understandable mistake, General Kellerman who particularly distinguished himself at Waterloo, being a much higher-ranking and well-known Prussian than Von Keller.
[11] William Jerdan. Men I Have Known. London: G. Routledge and sons, 1866, 74.
[12]Michael P. Costeloe, William Bullock. Connoisseur and Virtuoso of the Egyptian Hall: Piccadilly to Mexico (1773-1849), Bristol 2008.
[13]Combined description taken from: A description of the costly and curious military carriage…etc. by William Bullock; The Times; Blackwood’s Magazine; Rudolph Ackerman, Repository of Arts, 2nd Series, I (February 1816). 99-103; Fr. Winwar, ‘Napoleon’s military carriage’, in: The Carriage journal, 5 (1967) 1, 16-23.
[14]Costeloe, William Bullock, 95.
[15]The fact that Horn was still alive must have been an unpleasant surprise for Von Keller. He was spared any awkward questions on his dealings with the carriage in London, because after he returned, he was transferred to another regiment.
[16]Narrative, p. iii
[17]Ibidem, p. iv
[18]Laetitia Matilda Hawkins, Memoirs, anecdotes, facts, and opinions, Volume 1, 358. Digitized by Google.