Pathway to Japanese Literature

At that time, Saint Helena Island was said to harbor some terrible malefic influence—those who came would inevitably perish by their second year.

A British officer stationed on Saint Helena for security purposes wrote the following letter to his family in London.

The memory that Africa's continent lay five hundred leagues (two thousand nautical miles) to the east alone barely protected us from the brink of madness.

An island isolated from all shipping routes of the South Pacific, placed like a speck upon the boundless sea.
A barren island of no use to any mariner save those encountering storms near the equator.
Dark valleys and rocky mountains.
There were nothing but steep slopes—not a single toise of flat ground to be found.
For six months, a hot fog like steam billowing from a boiler would hang oppressively as London's winter gloom, and when it cleared, the scorching equatorial sun would beat down directly to parch everything left exposed.

The natives were gloomy wretches who took no pleasure in anything done for them; as for vegetation, there were only spindly wild rubber trees.
The only things abundant there were rats as large as cats.
At night, they climbed to the treetops and devoured all the sleeping small birds.
The food consisted of wild goat meat and rotten fish.
Both sailors and soldiers could think of nothing but returning to Britain and prayed daily for Napoleon to die as soon as possible.
We could not speak as honestly as soldiers did, so we drank inferior rum and did nothing but fight.

Napoleon's quarters at Longwood—perched atop a five-hundred-meter mountain peak—stood as a wretched shack without window frames, resembling a jumble of shipwreck debris. A section of hallway had been partitioned with blankets to install a bathtub that served as his bathroom.

When Napoleon's predecessor was dismissed for showing excessive courtesy toward him, the notorious Hudson Lowe arrived as Governor ("governor" per the Century Encyclopedia but labeled "jailer" in France's Larousse) and imposed a rule requiring them to cover their own food expenses.
En route to Saint Helena, all their money, jewels, and bills had been confiscated. Having managed to hide only a small amount of gold, Napoleon and his entire retinue soon found themselves utterly penniless, forced to sell silver tableware and candlesticks to pay for food.

In 1816, Marshal Savary (Duke of Rovigo) wrote the following letter to the owner of a general store in George Town (the main settlement of Saint Helena).

“We currently have neither bread, coffee, nor sugar. For several days now, when it comes to drinking and eating, we have begun scrambling to get ahead of each other. You may find this unbelievable, but it is the truth.

“When the captain of the Malcolme came some time ago, he offered to pay 120 louis per silver plate. Is there no one who would purchase them at that same price? Under the Emperor’s orders, we ground down the eagle medallions, so they cannot serve as commemorative items. We would be most grateful if you could purchase them at the price of silver. Please entrust your reply to Fauphin. Since he is agile, Lowe is unlikely to discover him.
S”

Hudson Lowe was originally a tax collector in Naples who became Para's subordinate during the Congress of Châtillon, where he spread malicious rumors to disrupt the conference—a despicable trait that earned him favor and led to his appointment as Governor of Saint Helena, a distinctive figure who secured his place in history through his persecution of Napoleon.

Count de Las Cases, who wrote *The Saint Helena Diary* by transcribing Napoleon’s daily dictations, portrayed Hudson Lowe in this manner.

"His hair was an unpleasant carrot-red; his face perpetually flushed as though painted with rouge."
"He never looked anyone directly in the eye, instead peering stealthily from the corners with a fox-like gaze."
"Arrogant and quick to anger, he assumed a ghastly countenance when enraged."

In the spring of 1818, the nephew of Lord Bathurst, the Colonial Minister, stopped at Saint Helena on his return from the Cape of Good Hope.
Hudson Lowe said:
"You haven’t brought any letters addressed to Napoleon, have you?"

“I don’t have anything like that.”

“If you do such a thing—even you—I’ll send you to Cape of Good Hope prison and make sure you never return to Europe.”

The reason Hudson Lowe enforced such severity even regarding letters was:

“That bastard wastes away waiting for letters from his son and wife. I mean to strip him of every last comfort.”

he said.
When Bathurst inquired about Napoleon’s illness and asked about his condition, Lowe laughed and said,

“As for that illness, it would be ideal if he’d just waste away and die to the satisfaction of the doctors and inspectors. If he were to die of a stroke or such, having to write a death certificate would prove rather too convenient—both I and the government would find ourselves in a bind.”

There is a famous story that when Hudson Lowe first arrived at his post, he restlessly paced around the Longwood cottage and, upon seeing the rubber tree's string-like thin branches hanging over the fence, hastily ordered soldiers to cut them down.

The island's security was preposterously thorough—sentries stood at every shadowed spot, road, mountain ridge, and shore where ships might approach; watchtowers lined the coast; and any vessel venturing within twenty-four leagues would immediately enter their field of vision.
Two cruisers constantly patrolled the island’s perimeter, and every sailing ship and fishing boat was inspected before entering port.
The island’s fishing boats were transferred to naval custody at sunset and locked away—such was the arrangement.

At the entrance to Longwood stood sentries in four shifts who would follow Napoleon wherever he went during his evening walks, aiming their rifles threateningly if he attempted to enter unauthorized paths, as General Montolon wrote in *Memories of Saint Helena Island*.
“Notices were plastered everywhere with decrees such as: ‘Those who aid Napoleon’s escape shall be executed’; ‘No items may be sold without cash payment’; and ‘Anyone mediating or exchanging letters shall be exiled to the Cape of Good Hope colony in Africa.’”
“Because new proclamations were issued daily, the island’s residents eventually came to look forward to what new decree would appear tomorrow.”

Soldiers were strictly prohibited from speaking French.
When islanders visited Longwood, Deputy Governor Chase would stand beside them transcribing every conversation, only to have them tailed for some time afterward—such an intrusive nuisance that eventually no one went there anymore.
If anyone showed even the slightest kindness to Napoleon, they would be court-martialed or exiled to Africa, so the officers were on edge whenever they encountered members of his retinue, fearing they might be addressed.

It was not limited to security officers and island residents; even members of the retinue were punished without mercy in accordance with the laws and ordinances. General Savary and General Gourgaud with his wife were dispatched to Britain for failing to demonstrate proper deference to the Governor; Count de Las Cases found himself arrested solely for having entrusted a letter addressed to a London bank to a manservant called Scott—father and son alike being banished to the Cape of Good Hope.

Upon arriving in London, General Gourgaud and his wife along with General Savary visited various salons to denounce Saint Helena’s harsh conditions and Hudson Lowe’s tyrannical acts.

Figures such as Lord Holland, the Duke of Sussex, Thomas Moore, and Lord Byron—having trusted in the “offer of custody” and “taken refuge among the most noble of their enemies”—had vehemently denounced the Tory Party’s despicable methods: transferring Napoleon aboard the *Northern Bolland* off Portsmouth and spiriting him away to Saint Helena through tactics bordering on abduction. Yet as knowledge of his pitiable circumstances—which none could help but sympathize with—permeated society, rumors swept across Britain that Napoleon would never long submit to such unjust treatment and would inevitably soon escape the island.

“At the time (1817), the betting odds in London stood at eight to two.”
The question of when this might occur became a major topic across both continents, followed by diverse debates about methods to rescue Napoleon.
Napoleon’s brothers were being hounded by the Restoration government and found themselves too occupied with evasion to even contemplate rescuing him.
Naturally, all who ought to have exerted themselves had defected to the Restoration government, while the earnest young reserve officers seriously devising rescue plans—though brimming with zeal—lacked any capacity for execution.

In Britain, the Tory Party—which had long battled the Corsican ogre—withdrew, and the movement to rescue Napoleon became even more vigorous than in France; however, its core consisted of Byron-inspired students and romantic conspirators whose plans, much like Collin’s scheme to rescue him via hot-air balloon, bordered on mere empty commotion.

In America, Robert Fulton—who had received Napoleon’s patronage—devised a rescue plan using his third self-built steamship, the *Livingston*. However, steamships of that era were constructed for navigating the Hudson River: flat-bottomed and underpowered, making any proposition of venturing into open oceans utterly impossible.
The most zealous was Napoleon’s mother, Madame Letizia, who devised various plans one after another, but the Minister of Police, Fouché, interfered and thwarted them all.

After Napoleon’s downfall, having confirmed their prior claim to the Senegal region on Africa’s west coast at the 1815 peace conference, the Restoration government resolved to dispatch a grand expedition to Saint-Louis Island—aiming to reestablish colonies in Africa that had been lost for sixty years.

The three-masted warships Medusa, Argus, and Echo, along with the transport ship Loire—carrying Transport Commander Lieutenant Commander Chaumareys of the Navy, newly appointed Governor Colonel Schmaltz, Security Forces Commander Lieutenant Colonel Poincignon, engineers, scientists, clergymen, doctors, three companies totaling three hundred soldiers, and a colonization group—set sail from Île d'Aix off France's western coast on June 17, 1816 (the year after Napoleon was exiled to Saint Helena). However, the great warship Medusa carrying Commander Chaumareys ran aground on the Arguin Reef off Africa's western coast at 3:00 PM on July 2 and was wrecked.

The 147 soldiers from two companies who escaped on an improvised raft split into two factions and engaged in a ferocious struggle, continuing their horrific drift while killing and cannibalizing each other until only fifteen men remained in the end.
This is said to be the most notorious maritime disaster in history, and a famous painting by Géricault titled *The Raft of the Medusa* hangs in the Louvre Museum in Paris.

This maritime disaster had been universally blamed on the incompetence of Transport Commander Lieutenant Commander Chaumareys by sources such as the Senegal Archives, Rochefort Archives, and others; however, *The Causes of the Horrific Shipwreck off the West African Coast in 1816*, published in Antwerp, Belgium in 1843—
upon reading the written testimony titled *Confession*—revealed that the true cause lay in an unexpected place.

This written testimony, bearing the pseudonym Saint-Louis, is believed to have been authored by Naval Ensign Auguste Rang, Lieutenant Commander Chaumareys’ adjutant—a conclusion drawn from various contextual factors.
It was written seven years after the shipwreck in 1823, though publication came a full two decades later.

On the 28th, they arrived at Madeira Island; on the 29th, they reached Tenerife Island of the Canary Islands and came ashore in the afternoon.
While strolling through an unusual island town enveloped in lush thickets, Captain Renaud and Assistant Surgeon Savigny caught up and said they wished to speak.

So they went to the shore and sat down on the sand, whereupon Captain Renaud—

“There’s something we absolutely need your help with,” he said in a hushed tone, broaching an unexpected matter—an outlandish conspiracy to seize the Medusa, sail to Saint Helena, rescue Napoleon, and establish a kingdom in Senegal.

“The Medusa carries ninety thousand francs in gold coins as development funds.”
“We have engineers and scientists.”
“Once we bring His Majesty there, the Emperor will handle the rest.”

“That I understand, but how exactly do you plan to rescue His Majesty the Emperor? And is there an operational plan for that?”

Then Captain Renaud noted that we had three newly built warships—the Medusa, Echo, and Argus.
The aged Conquérant and Tricolore were no concern.
He unabashedly laid out this precarious plan: while we engaged the guard ships in naval combat at Sunday Bay to draw their attention, the transport ship Loire would enter windward Prosper Bay carrying troops and disembark them from the western cliffs.
As for naval combat, the Medusa’s 24-pound cannons could never stand against the batteries; she’d be sunk before getting within twenty leagues.
While they had three or more companies of trained regular soldiers, we were a motley assembly of less than 150 recruits—Spaniards, Italians, and Black men—and saw no conceivable path to victory; yet, judging that voicing honest objections or standing alone would both prove perilous at this juncture, I pledged my cooperation.

Upon returning to the Medusa, I was introduced to the ringleader's faction, and under the foremast's awning we discussed detailed arrangements for the rebellion.
We decided Captain Renaud would defeat Colonel Pâquis to assume command of the land forces, Assistant Surgeon Savigny would distract the Governor and incite the colonists to revolt, while I would handle intimidating Chaumareys and confining him to his cabin.

When I entered Chaumareys' cabin at the appointed time, Chaumareys lay collapsed drunk on his berth still wearing his redingote, snoring with a peaceful expression.

That such grave responsibility for transporting the expedition had been entrusted to this dull-witted old man stemmed from the deplorable attitude of the Restoration government—excessive leniency and favor shown toward émigrés of the Revolutionary and Imperial eras—but as I observed Chaumareys' foolishly innocent sleeping face, I lost all desire to bring further misery upon this aged soul.

I shook Chaumareys awake, explained the general situation of the rebellion currently unfolding aboard the Medusa, and then said:

“Neither resistance nor persuasion constitutes a viable strategy. Considering Napoleon’s potential resurgence, it is essential to artfully maintain dual allegiances. Yet to preserve plausible deniability with both factions, we must invoke forces beyond nature’s law. Should we orchestrate circumstances for the warship’s sinking or destruction, the matter would resolve itself effortlessly. By fortune’s hand, we are due to pass Arguin Reef tomorrow afternoon—let us deliberately ground ourselves upon it. As we near the equator within five hours, command unlimited drink for the Equator Ceremony banquet. While revelry consumes all, I shall stealthily guide us shoreward.”

Around ten o'clock, the Equator Ceremony began.
They took turns performing comic farces, drank alcohol, and made a great commotion.

At six o'clock the following morning, the African coast came into view off the port side.
Those versed in geography began shouting "Danger! Danger!" fearing they would run aground.
At eight o'clock in the morning, Chaumareys ceremoniously halted the ship to take soundings.
The lead showed eighty to ninety fathoms depth over a seabed of clay-strewn sand.
Chaumareys shrugged his shoulders and imperturbably set a south-southeast course.

Around noon commenced an Equator Ceremony grander than the previous day's revelries, but at 3:15 PM came a dreadful shudder.
The Medusa turned her bow into the wind and grounded herself upon the reef.

Other plans had likely been underway, but Napoleon died in 1821.

"May 5th—on this day, countless trees fell. In the midst of a raging storm and torrential rain, precisely at 6:10 PM as dusk approached—Forward!—came the thunderous command, and thus at fifty-two years of age did he conclude his august existence."
(Antonmarchi, *The Demise of His Imperial Majesty and Its Detailed Report*)

Before long, rumors spread across both continents that it was not Napoleon who had died on Saint Helena, but his exact double—a comparse (a wordless stand-in).

Where did such rumors originate?
It happened thus.
In Antonmarchi’s *The Demise of the Emperor and Its Detailed Report*, he wrote that when Napoleon breathed his last, Bertrand’s young son—affectionately nicknamed “Little Napoleon”—collapsed weeping on the floor in his grief, while Bertrand and his wife attended to the remains “filled with the pious sorrow of Joseph and Mary taking Christ down from the cross.”
Yet no such scene appears in the “Notes” of Henry Moubray, surgeon aboard the cruiser *Conquérant* who witnessed the deathbed.
Napoleon’s corpse was handled “like a donkey’s carcass” with cold indifference, while Abbé Vignali performed the last rites “as if rushing through some loathsome task.”
Hastily conducted with half-hearted prayer recitations—the shoddiness proved utterly infuriating.
This macabre spectacle left an uncanny impression on the attending officers and military doctors, who upon returning to Britain divulged every detail without restraint.

Then, beginning around the following year, written accounts, letters, and the like concerning Napoleon’s "new life" began to be published in the Netherlands and Italy.
The term "new life" referred to Napoleon’s second existence—having escaped Saint Helena and now living somewhere—and this material circulated widely in France and Britain, where it was avidly read.
In France especially, over the nearly century-long span during which the nation had violently swayed between extremes—from the fall of the Louis dynasty through revolution, the First Empire, the Restoration of Monarchy, and into the Second Empire—court-appointed historians had shamelessly manipulated history with particular malice, while citizens had grown utterly weary of censored publications. It must have struck them to the very core.

While these must have been unbearable for historians and fastidious types, such works continued to be published one after another, culminating in 1928 with comprehensive three-volume collections like *Napoleon’s Stand-In Library* and *The Complete Works of the False Napoleon*.

Napoleon's physiognomy was in fact archetypal—commonly found among Northern German noble families, with hydrocephalus patients often bearing his exact likeness. In Dunglison's medical taxonomy, this "Napoleonic countenance" became one of three major pathological classifications alongside the "hysterical visage" and "leonine features."

Among those in Napoleon’s inner circle were figures bearing striking resemblance to him—the Duke of Wagram, Marshal Berthier, Chamberlain Montreal, and Menneval.
Years prior, when Abel Gance was producing his film *The Eagle’s Child* (Napoleon II) and sought extras to portray Napoleon based on Gros’s *Napoleon in Egypt*...
...the story goes that sixteen men matching this exact likeness appeared—a complication that deepened when it emerged this double was reportedly a descendant of Marshal Michel Duroc, whom Napoleon had called “France’s courage, heart’s friend.”
Theories proliferate: that Napoleon’s supplementary codicil dated the 24th—following his initial bequest to the Duroc family on the 15th—serves as proof; or that Colonel François Robeaud—brother of Marshal Georges Robeaud who distinguished himself at Nesselungen before vanishing at Waterloo—had long served as a body double due to his uncanny resemblance; others suggest a Corsican-born distant cousin or an actor named Lefebvre.
As for escape methods—descending Longwood’s rear cliffs to Windward Bay (Prosper Bay) and fleeing via brigantine to Ascension Island; disguising himself among natives bound for Martinique; accounts differ whether this occurred at dawn, dusk, or amidst tempestuous seas.

The "Napoleon’s New Life" theory spawned numerous alternative accounts of his death year and location—such as dying of illness on Africa’s west coast on July 15, 1830; being shot dead by a sentry before the gates of Schönbrunn Palace in Austria on August 15, 1823; or perishing on Martinique Island (the birthplace of the former empress), in Brussels, Belgium, or Bern, Switzerland.

Now, examining the record titled "Transcribed from the Burial Register of Notre-Dame-de-Lourdes Cemetery, Port-Royal Parish, French Canada" compiled in the book *Unpublished Manuscripts Concerning N.B.'s New Life*,

1830

February 21: Count of France, Former Emperor N.B., deceased.
Consecrated by Priest Louis Envan.
Sacrament of the Eucharist, Holy Communion, and Anointing of the Sick.

The 22nd: Dr. Antonmarchi, death mask (creation of death mask).

The 23rd: Funeral ceremony, holy sand requiem.

Thus, it is recorded that Napoleon—nine years after an impostor Napoleon had died on Saint Helena—peacefully concluded his sixty-one-year lifespan in a settlement of French Canada established by Jacques Cartier.

It was a 121-page quarto booklet published in 1842 in Civitavecchia, Papal States, with the phrase *Les manuscrits inédits* enclosed within a rose vine arabesque pattern at the top of its title page and *sur laseconde-vie de N.B.* written in Latin script beneath.

"Dialogue with Hudson Lowe, Governor of Saint Helena Island"

“Testimony from Saul Rambaud, Island Escapee”

"June 1816: Rumors Among the Aix Islanders Concerning the Medusa"

“July 22, 1819: The Fire at Longwood, N.B.’s Residence, and Its Aftermath as Witnessed by the Captain of the Transport Ship Massanière”

In this manner were gathered abundant minor records—diaries, letters, memoranda—though professional historians undertook no comprehensive narratives or broad syntheses whatsoever—their very stock-in-trade.
These writings from diverse individuals across separate locales were merely jumbled together without annotation—yet through collating them all came natural understanding of Napoleon’s escape from Saint Helena and his eventual arrival in French Canada.
You may draw conclusions at your discretion; this method seemed cunningly devised to evade all accountability.

“July 22, 1819: The Fire at Longwood, N.B.’s Residence, and Its Full Account as Witnessed by the Captain of the Transport Ship Massanière”

On July 22, when the three of us—myself, James, and Vilman—went out for a stroll in Slane Valley and began ascending toward Pic Diane, around noon we saw smoke rising in what appeared to be the direction of Longwood. Hearing voices shouting “Fire! Fire!”, we hurriedly climbed up the cliff path to find the northern wing of Longwood shrouded in smoke, with soldiers and retainers rushing about in confusion—but upon noticing us,

“Come here, everyone! Come here! Help us put out the fire quickly!” he shouted.

The fire had apparently started in the North Wing’s kitchen—perhaps from an overturned oil pot—and fierce flames were racing along the wooden walls, threatening to break through to the roof.

As we drew water from a spring about thirty toises below and rushed up, a small-statured man emerged calmly from Longwood’s front entrance—wearing a green coat with red collar and cuffs, white cashmere trousers, one hand clasped behind his back. Bareheaded, he tilted his large, round head crowned with russet-tinged chestnut hair forward and entered a tent pitched some distance away in the garden. A tall, distinguished old man in a navy-blue coat adorned with a golden oak-leaf marshal’s insignia hurried after him, trotting close behind. It is said that Napoleon does not resemble his portraits, but the Napoleon we saw was the spitting image of those very portraits.

We each carried a bucket and were making our way toward the kitchen at the end of the corridor when billowing smoke caught our attention—it was rising from a hole in the floor of the room across the way. Hurriedly climbing down the ladder, we discovered in the dim corner of what had once been a granary—now scattered with straw debris—a man of about fifty seated on a chair. Dressed in white sleepwear with Turkish-style red slippers, his head swathed in a large white handkerchief, he sat smoking a cigarette while exuding a pungent scent of eau de Cologne, as though he had just emerged from bathing. What astonished us was not his presence, but rather the cigarette smoke itself.

The man had not noticed us standing nearby, reading a newspaper through his monocle, but suddenly raised his face, furrowed his brows to stare intently at our faces, and abruptly—

“Coccorione!” he shouted.

We gasped.
It wasn’t that we were frightened.
What surprised us was something else entirely.
The person glaring at us had a sphinx-like face ivory-white, encircled by a pale halo, with a large round head crowned by thick chestnut hair that abundantly framed his forehead—in short, there stood Napoleon in nightclothes right before our eyes, the very Napoleon we had just watched enter the garden tent seven toises away.

We had no recollection of how we escaped from there.
After the fire was extinguished, we withdrew to Slane Valley and spent some time wordlessly gazing at one another, until we came to clearly understand what was now beginning to unfold at Longwood.
We too had long entertained various imaginings.
Even so, this secret would surely have remained preserved forever had there been no fire.

We solemnly vowed never to disclose this matter for the rest of our lives.

There were two fires at Longwood.
The first occurred on July 19, 1816.
The second occurred on July 22, 1819.
The former is recorded in Count de Las Cases’s *Saint Helena Diary*, and the latter in Marchand’s *Memorandum*.

The small room in front of the kitchen had been exclusively used by Count de Las Cases until his exile, with his son Emmanuel living in the granary below.

Be that as it may, who was the "Napoleon" that the Captain of the Massanière had seen in the dim granary?

Marchand's "Memorandum" for 1819 contains the following entry.

July 22: Dr. Antonmarchi dispatched by Madame Letizia, along with three Corsican fellow countrymen of the Emperor,

Mario Gentzio

Emilio Monti

Cesare Rosselli

Arrived from Corsica for a sick visit.

Same month, 27th: The three fellow countrymen departed the island.

The fire occurred on July 22—two days after three fellow countrymen had arrived from Corsica—so it stood to reason that "the Napoleon in the granary" was one of those three individuals.
"Coccorione" is a Corsican dialect term meaning something like "rude person" or "miscreant."

Next is the memorandum of Henry Mopland, Surgeon General attached to HMS Conqueror, who assumed his post on March 14, 1818.

“Notes on the Medical Examinations Conducted on October 16, 1818 and May 5, 1821”

1. 14th, 5:00 PM: Visited Stokoe of HMS Conqueror.
Greetings upon appointment.
Stokoe remarked that I too had come to a dreadful place.

The story goes that his predecessor O’Meara had been sent to Cape Town Prison on the grounds of delivering newspapers to Napoleon.
Various explanations were provided regarding the relationship between the Imperial faction and the Governor’s faction.
(Stokoe was of the Imperial faction).
The problem was that whenever Stokoe submitted an honest clinical report, Arnott of the Governor’s faction would invariably file a contradictory one.
“General Bonaparte remains in perfect health yet feigns illness.
He appears to be devising various means for escaping Saint Helena Island,” etc.

2. Stokoe had been appointed exclusive physician at the Emperor’s request.
Given existing precedents, it was necessary to proceed with caution.
Stokoe insisted that should Arnott overturn the diagnosis yet again, his position would become untenable—he therefore requested my presence as witness during the joint examination.

3. October 16, 10:00 AM: Proceeded to Longwood with Stokoe.
11:00 AM: Conducted clinical examination.
Abnormal hepatic swelling observed.
Patient reported pain.
Lower extremities exhibited coldness.
Diagnosed inflammatory disease.
Suspected abscess formation.
Environmental maladaptation noted.
Concurred with Stokoe’s findings and endorsed the diagnostic report.

(Stokoe had served as Napoleon’s exclusive physician until late 1818 but was dismissed on grounds of “being overly familiar with Napoleon” and repatriated to London aboard the Tricolore on January 10, 1819. Court-martial. Mopland was also disciplined for the same reason. Demoted from his position as a military surgeon and relegated to the Cape Colony for a term of two years. He was reinstated to HMS Conqueror on February 18, 1821.)

1. May 5, 1821, 3:00 PM: Notification of Napoleon’s critical condition was received.
Departed with three colleagues while braving the storm.
After July 1819, Dr. Antonmarchi had been appointed as the exclusive physician.
It had been three years since we last went to Longwood.

2. A report was received from Dr. Antonmarchi.
Later, the four conducted a clinical examination.
No hope of recovery.
At 6:10 PM, Napoleon died.

3. Around 6:40 PM, Governor Hudson Lowe arrived with Vice Governor Chase.
This marked his first visit since February 1818.
He removed the face cloth to look at Napoleon’s countenance and gave a bitter smile.
"Is this Napoleon?"
"I know everything!" he declared and stormed off indignantly.

4. 10:00 PM on the same day: Autopsy conducted.
Surgeon in charge: Dr. Antonmarchi.
Penetrating ulcer observed in the greater curvature and body [of the stomach].
Lesser curvature and anterior wall exhibited a prominently elevated neoplastic carcinoma.
The liver appeared vividly sanguine and structurally intact, displaying no indications of prior pathology.

5. Given this prominent swelling, it should have been possible to palpate externally two years prior.
Moreover, the absence of residual disease traces in the liver remains inexplicable.

6. From a physician’s perspective, while the facies (face) is that of the Emperor, the corpus (body) must be said to be entirely that of another person.

Next comes Pierre Durecu’s written account.
Pierre Durecu was the owner and captain of the three-masted schooner Susanna, engaged in trade on Saint-Louis Island in French Africa’s Senegal from 1814 to 1817.
On October 6, 1820, he went to Grande Bassam in Portuguese Africa to export mahogany.
The purpose was to sell bargain-priced African mahogany as Honduran mahogany in France.

"The Emperor and the Hundred Days' Voyage
and Jean Lafitte’s Island Life"

When rounding Grande Bassam's sandbar and landing, he was surprised to find two Europeans wearing gray Ludangotes standing before what appeared to be a slave-trading warehouse.

When Durecu greeted the men and asked why they were in such a place, they replied that they were Corsicans who had crossed to America with Jacques Cartier, but three years prior had come to Senegal to procure black slaves, been shipwrecked off Guinea, and drifted in a lifeboat until washing ashore here.

Durecu accepted their account at face value but found it peculiar that despite having resided there for nearly three years, they had made no provisions against the harsh climate and their clothing showed little wear.

Ten days later, when the mahogany loading was completed, he went to bid farewell at the cottage, where the two men cordially invited him onto the veranda.
From behind the curtain came the sound of someone pacing about, though no figure could be seen.

As Durecu sat in the chair and happened to look around, he noticed an "M" incorporated into the Baroque-style carvings on the chair’s back, while the tablecloth also bore an "M" monogram in raised embroidery.

When Durecu was in Saint-Louis, he had been requested by the Governor to retrieve 90,000 francs in public funds from the safe of the wrecked Medusa.
Though unsuccessful in that endeavor, he had retrieved considerable installed furniture and remembered it well.
He had pretty much deduced this group’s identities through this, but chose not to mention it.

They continued with casual conversation for a while, until the one who had introduced himself as Mario said, "Might we trouble you to have your ship take the three of us to America?"
"If you would consent, we shall pay in advance 20,000 francs in gold coins per person as passage fare."

He had intended to take the mahogany to Rochefort, but Boston would do just as well.
When Durecu agreed, the other man stood up and went off, brought out four leather bags in two trips, and piled up gold coins on the table.
Durecu took one of the gold coins in his hand and examined it. The thin tarnish—as if weathered by salt—made him unable to dismiss the thought that this might be part of the gold coins from the Medusa.

The next day, around eight in the morning, three Corsicans came aboard the ship, but when Durecu saw the man at the front, he trembled violently.
Having seen the Emperor’s true likeness numerous times in magic lantern shows in Marseille and Toulon, Durecu now clearly understood who stood before him.

That afternoon, the Susanna set sail for Rochefort, but Durecu surrendered his cabin under the pretense of "providing accommodations commensurate with wages."
However, he neither showed undue respect nor treated him with neglect.
In any case, he thought it unwise to let the other party realize that he had recognized Napoleon.

Napoleon rarely left his cabin. At ten in the morning he took breakfast; after eating he would sleep or read, then take lunch at two o'clock.
At night he played "Twenty-One" with two companions.
Even when encountering Durecu on deck, he neither turned to look nor invited him to dine - yet far from resenting this, Durecu lay awake nights thrilling at transporting the world's emperor aboard his own vessel.

On November 17, they approached Trinidad Island.
Around two o'clock in the afternoon, the helmsman came to Durecu and said that since a schooner had crossed astern and gone to windward, they needed to be cautious.

This area was known for treacherous waters.
With Europe stabilizing after the Battle of Waterloo as its final conflict, crews from thousands of privateer ships found themselves unemployed and turned to piracy. Among them was Jean Lafitte, a fierce French pirate who established a kingdom within the Gulf of Mexico and plundered the waters near the Bahamas.

Around four o'clock, the schooner sailed obliquely and swiftly closed in to windward, now about half a mile away. All masts were clustered at the stern; it was a proper Baltimore clipper with an astonishingly large mainsail flying the Colombian flag.

Since resistance seemed futile, the Susanna lowered her sails and came to a stop, whereupon three boats carrying some forty pirates soon rowed up to the schooner. The first to board was a resolute man of thirty-two or thirty-three wearing a colonial-style military uniform adorned with gold braid and two pistols holstered at his waist with leather bands like a French officer—the very image of Lafitte that Durecu had long heard described.

As Durecu stood before the room where Napoleon was, Lafitte approached with his men and said, “Open that.”
Durecu spread his arms and declared, “No one has the right to enter this room.
“Especially not pirates!” he shouted.
Durecu saw Lafitte’s henchmen raising a large knife, but then everything went black.

When he came to after some time, the ship’s condition had completely transformed.
Not a single crew member was visible; pirates were at the helm station, departing from Trinidad’s harbor while sailing alongside the schooner.

As Durecu stood dumbfounded, Lafitte happened to pass by.
When Durecu stopped Lafitte and asked what would become of the Susanna, Lafitte said, “We’ll have to burn your ship outside the harbor—but rest assured you’ll be compensated. You will transfer to our ship. You’ll have to put up with some inconvenience for about forty days.”

When Durecu inquired about the Susanna’s crew, Jean Lafitte replied, “They’ve gone exactly where they needed to go.”

It was unclear whether that meant heaven or Marseille.
At least until Durecu died, he never saw a single one of them.

Durecu was crammed into a narrow cell aboard Lafitte’s ship.
He had no freedom of movement, but he was treated with the utmost courtesy, and the meals were decent.
The ship seemed to be constantly heading north, and the temperature dropped slightly each day.
On the twenty-seventh day, the ship stopped.
Durecu did not know where this was, but cross-referencing the cabin thermometer reading ten degrees with January’s isotherm, he judged they were north of Saint Lawrence.

Two days later, the ship began sailing south again, and on the thirtieth day thereafter, he was finally released from the room and set foot on land.
It was a small island called Mouton in the Gulf of Mexico.
Durecu was kept on that island until 1830, and in May of that year, he was courteously escorted to Rochefort.

Was it true that Napoleon had escaped from Saint Helena?
Countess Bertrand, who remained loyal to Napoleon until the end and is remembered for it, sent a letter in 1819 to her friend Caroline Klüdenel—widow of Russian diplomat Klüdenel and lady-in-waiting to Empress Dowager Anna—in Moscow, which read:

“We have finally won.”
“N.B. has escaped from Saint Helena.”

Napoleon had secluded himself in his room and ceased meeting with anyone since around August 1819.
According to Vice-Governor Chase's "memorandum," until then a British gardener named Carlton had served as a spy, reporting Napoleon's daily activities to Hudson Lowe, but after Napoleon dismissed Carlton, all leads were entirely lost.

Around that time, Hudson Lowe muttered, "Is Napoleon even on this island? Even God wouldn’t know."
Chase wrote that he muttered this.

By what means did he escape the island?
It is thought to have been an ordinary and commonplace method.
On the morning of July 24, the three Corsicans went to the Governor’s residence at Plantation House to bid farewell and, seen off by Montron (Hudson Lowe being absent), proceeded by boat from Sunday Bay’s landing to the Greenwich.

Frédéric Masson, who had continued his research on Napoleon since 1871 and authored a twenty-volume biography, wrote in *Napoléon inconnu* (Frédéric Masson “Napoléon inconnu” Vol. II):

“Napoleon’s escape from Saint Helena would have been absolutely impossible without Hudson Lowe’s tacit consent”—this statement by Frédéric Masson in *Napoléon inconnu* is correct.

At the end of 1818, it is recorded in Chase’s “memorandum” that Hudson Lowe received a confidential directive from Colonial Secretary Lord Bathurst ordering him to tacitly permit Napoleon’s departure from the island, leaving him both enraged and dejected.

Until then, Hudson Lowe had persistently visited Longwood at all hours—early morning or late night—to torment Napoleon, but from May 1819 until the day of Napoleon’s death nearly three years later, he never once went to Longwood again and ceased all mention of Napoleon.
Had Hudson Lowe known of Napoleon’s departure from the island, he would have found it utterly absurd and never would have felt inclined to visit Longwood.

Antonmarchi had been missing since 1821, but nine years later, in August 1830, he appeared in Paris with Napoleon’s death mask.
As it is reasonable to assume Napoleon’s remains also returned to France shortly thereafter, the heart enshrined beneath the great dome of Paris’s former Hôtel des Invalides within a tomb of blood-red Egyptian marble is not that of the imposter Napoleon who died on Saint Helena, but rather that of the true Napoleon who perished in Canada in 1830.

In 1840, twenty years later, Britain decided to repatriate Napoleon’s remains to France, exhumed from the tomb in the Valley of Suren and ceremoniously delivered aboard HMS *Bellerophon*.
Louis Philippe came to Rochefort Port to welcome them and held grand celebrations, but if Napoleon’s escape from the island were true and all involved parties knew it, one can only imagine how indescribably absurd this ceremony must have been.