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In the waning strands of evening, Napoleon, Emperor of the French rode in a black coach and in a black mood. As the horses pulled his vehicle along, he observed the tiny rivulets of rain as they washed down the carriage window. The light drizzle fanned across the glass, adding its influx of moisture to the spidery web of minuscule streams. Each pale, silver streak joined, separated and rejoined in an endless tapestry of watered complexity. Yet, as the carriage bolted along on the muddy road, Napoleon could see a revealing pattern, a simplistic and unbending desire of the water, to obey its nature, flowing steadily, following the only path it knew.

Through each of Napoleon’s breaths that fogged the cold pane, he delved into the rain’s design a kind of epic fairy tale, a daydream really of times past and other solitary carriage rides where he had wondered how the water took on the look of living arteries and veins or perhaps the branches of an ancient oak. In this moment and in this new perspective, he pondered with amusement just how much these silvering strands reminded him of the marching columns of troops rolling over a far away countryside.

Plunging deeper into this trance, he saw these little tributaries moving ever forward, constant and unstoppable in their longing to reach their journey’s end. He grandiosely mused, there were far too many meanings as to what his own fortune could mean, had really meant where his journey would likewise come to a conclusion. There were just too many memories matched with an equal share of glories and regrets. At least the water knew in its heart where to go, what the flow of its fate meant.

He was jerked from his gaze by the unevenness of the road. The panel was washed anew with fresh water and with it the illusion faded. Napoleon thought about how many times he had stared out just such a window, on so many campaigns, on so many roads throughout the continent, his Europe. He wondered just why he had never before seen the meanings for what they were? Napoleon sniffed out a laugh at the irony, or better yet, at the hilarity of life and how desperately he could use the amusement right now. Taking his mind’s cue at the humor, he let out a distinct and forced bellow of laughter.

"Ha!" He shouted to no one.

It was followed by another and then another until what was at first acting began to be genuine mirth. Napoleon laughed and giggled at the absurdity of this place, this world, at the very fact that through it all he could be giddy like a schoolgirl. His glee was so enjoyable that the merriment brought tears to his eyes, which made their way down his wind-chapped cheeks to fall on his great, gray cloak. He could taste the saltiness and brushed them off with one last deep chuckle, sighing with relief. The tears’ wet paths grew cold on his face. At this sensation, Napoleon wrapped his wool mantle tighter around himself to ward off the impeding frigid dampness that permeated the carriage compartment. He watched as the air from his breathing turned to steam and quickly vanished. Rubbing his hands together, he commented to himself that it was indeed cold, but not nearly the worse he had felt. No, not so nearly.

The coach continued at a wandering pace along the puddle-strewn road towards Jamestown, the colonial capital of His Britannic Majesty’s Island possession of St. Helena. It was a prison really, a wave racked, barren rock in the middle of aquatic desert far in the South Atlantic. Like Prometheus, Napoleon was to be chained there as punishment by the gods for giving man the fire of revolution, a human endeavor that had begun as a dream and ended where no prophet, oracle, poet or playwright could ever have foreseen. That was tragedy he realized, not a comedy at all. Those droplets of laughter were shed for the fallen hero of this epic. He thought if he were a Greek playwright that is how one should pen his own story for greatest possible effect. Personally, Napoleon wished he had died at Moscow before he knew defeat. However, that seemed so long ago. He waved his hand to the frosty air in a gesture of dismissal.

Sitting up in the carriage’s leather padded bench, Napoleon heard the change in the pace of the horse’s hooves and the distinct noise of the wheels as they moved from muddied gravel to the plopping sound of a cobblestone path. He surmised there was not much time now. Thirty days by ship and a wet, ten-minute carriage ride to his new prison home. He reflected on this moment and his wellspring of emotions. Was this fear? No, he had felt that…very much so. This was dreadful anticipation. This was a lingering doubt of just what was next for him in a life already teeming with greatness of events and deeds. This was an emotion that had never crept into his heart.

The horse master could be heard commanding the beasts to slow as they rounded the last bend in the road. Napoleon straightened his hat on his head and pulled on his knitted gloves. They had been gift from his wife, Empress Marie Louise, given to him before the Russian campaign, before everything changed. They had kept his fingers warm then, but they did nothing for the coldness that consumed him now. No cloth, fur or warm tears of laughter could render his depressed soul from the clammy clutches of this place, this time.

Taking one last look out the window, he saw a gathering group of local dignitaries and townsfolk. The coach had stopped at the Government House, the home and seat of power for the island Governor, his jailer. Napoleon could see that the building and its grounds were perched high upon a boulder strewn cliff. Everything on St. Helena was far elevated above the surrounding water. On the horizon, he watched for a few moments as the sun began to gently dip into the sea, the blood red light, its fire being slowly extinguished by the watery depths.

"No matter for you old Spartan. Go ever forward," he whispered under his breath. He steeled himself to face this new enemy.

Leaning forward, Napoleon opened the carriage door so rapidly as to knock the attending lackey to the ground. Napoleon bounded out of the carriage and looked left then right at the entourage gathered to greet him. His countenance was one of fierce observation. Ever of a martial mindset, he was taking in his position and just who he was to face in this new kind of battle. Napoleon turned to the lackey, a British private; he offered his hand to help him up. In his scarlet tunic, the private stared back dumbfounded at the proffered assistance from such a man. Napoleon helped pull the man, a boy really, up to his feet. He dusted some of the wet soot from the young soldier, an underfed Irishman.

"Better, no?" said the Napoleon in broken English.

Thinking of nothing better to do, the boy popped to attention in a rigid salute. This was more out of fear then discipline, which is indeed strong in all British troops. "Much sir. Thank you, sir. I mean yes, sir," stuttered and stumbled the soldier in a reply filled with a rich Celtic brogue.

Napoleon smiled and turned his attention to the horseshoe shaped group of gatherers. "If all you English soldiers had fallen as quickly at Waterloo, perhaps we no meet today, eh?"

The group quickly burst into respectful laughter. Napoleon thought this was a good sign. Start with fear then friendship.

A moment went by.

Then another. Awkwardness began to creep into the crowd as they began to fidget and shift their feet. Although lagging years behind the fashions on the continent, these gentlemen, ladies and townsfolk were dressed in what amounted to their best attire. That of course was to be expected in this far away land. Napoleon continued to stand there, withstanding the stares of astonishment, fear, awe and respect. Not knowing what else to do, he put his arms behind his back and interlaced the fingers in an at-ease position. The light mist had started to form a tiny film of water on his coat and on his lips. The brackish taste of the sea was unmistakable.

Nothing.

Just the trapped gazes of the people.

All eyes were on him.

He returned the look, but only straight forward. His eyes fixed on a point beyond them, towards the coast and setting sun. He filled his lungs with the cold, damp air and let it draw out in a long deep sigh. Someone took cue from this and moved forward out of the crowd. He was dressed in the uniform of the British navy, resplendent with its gold piping and lace. He was Admiral Cockburn and in almost one single bound he covered the few feet separating the on lookers and their new guest. He raised his arm in a crisp military salute. Removing his hat in one smooth maneuver, Cockburn returned his arm to his uniformed side. Water poured out of the brimmed headgear onto the drive.

"Messier Bonaparte, it is an honor to welcome you to the island of St. Helena.

I trust your boat’s journey was a pleasant one."

Napoleon fought down the urge to throttle Cockburn. The first official words spoken to him on this retched rock had just been stated in such a way as one might ask a person how their holiday sojourn or trip from Calais to Paris might have been. He reeled back for this precipice of anger and answered with great cordiality and in his hampered English.

"His Britannic majesty’s ship and crew are a credit to his fighteen forces."

"Messier is too kind. If you would care to speak in your native tongue, myself and my staff can accommodate you as we all can converse with ease in French." Cockburn offered.

"Thank God!" mumbled Napoleon to himself, "Merci Admiral Cockburn."

With a slight bow to his guest’s gratitude, Cockburn gestured that they should all move inside and away from the inclement weather. The crowd parted like the waters to Moses. Napoleon took the point in leading the group on the short walk up the stone steps and into the house to begin this play’s final act. The drizzle continued to wave in upon the dispersing gallery of onlookers. They slopped through the puddles and trivial runoff streams in the road while on their journeys back home away from this surreal stage. Far off on the horizon, the setting sun pealed off its last red beams and sunk into Poseidon’s realm.

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