The Black Wart in the South Atlantic
To understand the psychological annihilation of Napoleon Bonaparte, one must first confront the geography of his prison. St. Helena does not welcome visitors; it confronts them. Rising violently from the South Atlantic, 1,200 miles from the nearest continental landmass (Angola) and 1,800 miles from Brazil, it is a geological fortress of black basalt.
Whether you approach by the slow churn of the RMS St. Helena (now retired) or the turbulent descent of a modern aircraft, the island appears first as a "black wart" on the endless blue canvas of the ocean. There are no white sandy beaches here to soften the blow. The coastline is a perimeter of sheer vertical cliffs, rising hundreds of feet straight out of the crashing surf, acting as walls that require no guards.
This was the calculation made by the British government in 1815. Elba, his previous place of exile in the Mediterranean, had been a hotel. St. Helena was a coffin. The choice of this jagged rock was not merely strategic; it was punitive. It was designed to impose a specific kind of "intellectual vertigo"—the crushing realization that for the man who once redrew the map of Europe, his world had shrunk to a volcanic dot 10 miles long and 6 miles wide. Here, the dampness acts as a second skin, and the silence is loud enough to drive a man mad.
The Landing: Jamestown and the Vertical Wall
Arrival in Jamestown, the capital, offers no relief from the claustrophobia. The town is wedged into a narrow, deep volcanic cleft. The sun shines here, but the steep valley walls block the horizon, forcing the eye upward. It is a town swallowed by the earth.
Dominating the view is the formidable "Jacob's Ladder," a stone staircase of 699 steps that slices straight up the cliff face. It serves as an immediate, physical testament to the island's verticality. To stay in Jamestown is to be at the bottom of a well. For Napoleon, however, the British had a worse fate in mind: the plateau.
The Golden Cage: The Interlude at The Briars
Before the crushing reality of his permanent prison set in, there was a brief, deceptive autumn. Upon his arrival in October 1815, while his permanent residence was being renovated, Napoleon was lodged at The Briars pavilion, a small estate owned by the Balcombe family.
This interlude is crucial to understanding the tragedy that followed because it highlights what was lost. At The Briars, the Napoleon exile St Helena narrative briefly touches on the domestic. He was not yet fully the prisoner; he was the exotic guest. He spent his evenings playing whist and engaging in boisterous games with the family's teenage daughter, Betsy Balcombe.
"He was the most good-natured, kind and indulgent of men... I never saw him out of temper." — Betsy Balcombe
In this golden cage, situated in a sheltered valley where the bougainvillea bloomed and the air was warm, Napoleon retained a flicker of his humanity. He teased Betsy, cheated at cards, and laughed. It was the last time history records the Emperor truly at ease. But the British authorities, specifically the new Governor, viewed this familiarity with suspicion. The Emperor was becoming too human, too likeable. He needed to be moved to the high ground.
The Transfer to Hell: Longwood House
In December 1815, the trap snapped shut. Napoleon was moved to Longwood House, situated on the windswept Deadwood Plain. The location was a masterstroke of passive-aggressive cruelty.
Longwood House history is a chronicle of meteorological torture. Situated on a high plateau, the house was exposed to the relentless southeast trade winds. It was frequently shrouded in a thick, wet mist that the British euphemistically called "liquid sunshine." The house itself was a converted cowshed and barn, hastily renovated to house the former master of the Tuileries Palace.
The contrast was absolute. The floors were rotten, allowing rats—thousands of them—to scurry beneath the floorboards. The damp was so pervasive that green mold formed on the boots if they were left out overnight. Playing cards stuck together from the humidity. The atmosphere was one of "Oceanic Gothic"; the wind howled down the chimney, the candles flickered constantly, and the smell of mildew was the scent of the Emperor's final years. This was the "Damp Hell" where the British intended for him to rot.
The Petty Tyrant: Sir Hudson Lowe
Every tragedy requires a villain, and history provided a caricature of bureaucratic anxiety in the form of Sir Hudson Lowe. Arriving as Governor in 1816, Lowe was a man possessed by a single, terrifying thought: he must not be the man who let Napoleon escape.
Lowe was rigid, humorless, and deeply insecure. He represented the "Bureaucratic Absurdity" of the exile. While Napoleon had commanded armies of hundreds of thousands, Lowe commanded a garrison of meticulous rules. He was terrified of the prisoner's charisma.
The relationship between the two men descended into a war of attrition. Lowe increased the guard, limited Napoleon's riding area, and censored his mail. He demanded to see Napoleon daily to verify his presence, a demand Napoleon refused to gratify, locking his doors and forcing Lowe's officers to peek through windows like voyeurs. Lowe was not a jailer of iron bars, but of red tape. He smothered his prisoner in petty restrictions, turning the grand tragedy of exile into a squalid dispute over household expenses.
The War of Etiquette: "General" vs. "Your Majesty"
The most potent weapon in this psychological war was a name. The British government, refusing to recognize the legitimacy of the French Empire, decreed that the prisoner was to be addressed only as "General Bonaparte."
To Napoleon, this was an attempt to erase the last fifteen years of history—Austerlitz, Jena, the Code Napoléon. It was a denial of his very identity. He fought back with stubborn, regal silence. He refused to open letters addressed to "General Bonaparte." If a British officer dared to use the title, he was ignored.
The pettiness reached absurd heights. When Napoleon’s supply of his favorite Vin de Constance ran low, Lowe restricted the allowance. They fought over the amount of firewood used to heat the damp rooms. It was a humiliating reduction: the man who had once distributed kingdoms to his brothers was now fighting a civil servant over a bottle of wine.
Life in the Shadows: The Spy Holes and Surveillance
As the perimeter tightened, Longwood House became a panopticon. A regiment of soldiers camped nearby, their red coats visible through the mist. Sentries were posted around the house at sunset, forming a literal ring of steel that did not break until dawn.
To preserve his sanity and his dignity, Napoleon engaged in his own form of counter-surveillance. He had holes cut into the shutters of the drawing-room. These "spy holes" allowed him to arrange his telescope and observe his guards, the approaching visitors, and the semaphore signals without being seen himself.
It is a haunting image: the Emperor of the French, standing in the dark, one eye pressed to a hole in the wood, watching the world that had rejected him. It was a reversal of power dynamics—the prisoner claiming the right to see without being seen—but it was also a profound admission of his impotence.
The Poisoned Walls: Arsenic and Atmosphere
By 1817, the damp and the depression began to take a physical toll. Napoleon grew bloated, pale, and lethargic. His legs swelled, and he suffered from agonizing stomach pains. For years, conspiracy theorists have engaged with the keyword Cause of Napoleon’s death arsenic, suggesting the British slowly poisoned him.
Modern science offers a theory that is less conspiratorial but equally grim. In the 1960s, analysis of Napoleon's hair showed high levels of arsenic. However, the culprit was likely not a British assassin, but the house itself. The drawing room at Longwood was papered in a rich, fashionable green pattern. The pigment used was "Scheele’s Green," which contained copper arsenite.
In the humid, moldy environment of Longwood, a chemical reaction likely occurred, releasing trimethylarsine gas into the air. The "Golden Cage" had poisoned walls. While stomach cancer is the official cause of death (mirroring his father's death), the toxic environment of St. Helena undoubtedly hastened his demise, weakening his constitution as he breathed in the walls of his prison.
The Literary Factory: Dictating the Legend
Napoleon was a realist. He realized early in his exile that he would never leave the island alive. If he could not conquer Europe with the sword, he would conquer the future with the pen. Longwood House became a literary factory.
Working with Count Emmanuel de Las Cases, he dictated the Mémorial de Sainte-Hélène. This was not merely a memoir; it was a carefully crafted piece of propaganda. In it, Napoleon reinvented himself. He stripped away the dictator and presented himself as the liberal saviour of Europe, a Prometheus chained to a rock by the reactionary British monarchies.
"My downfall raises me to infinite heights." — Napoleon
He knew that his suffering was his greatest asset. By enduring the petty tyranny of Hudson Lowe and the misery of the climate, he was transforming himself into a martyr. He was writing the script for the Bonapartist revival that would eventually sweep his nephew, Napoleon III, to power. He won the propaganda war from beyond the grave.
The Death of the Emperor
On May 5, 1821, the atmosphere of St. Helena matched the moment. A violent storm battered the island, ripping up the gumwood trees at Longwood and shaking the rat-infested foundations of the house.
Lying on his narrow camp bed—the same bed he had used during his campaigns—Napoleon breathed his last. His final words, muttered in delirium, were a disjointed summary of his life's loves: "France... l'armée... tête d'armée... Joséphine." (France... the army... head of the army... Josephine.)
The storm passed, leaving a silence that felt heavier than the wind. The "General" was dead. The British garrison breathed a collective sigh of relief, but for the French exiles, the world had ended.
The Nameless Tomb: A Final Insult
Even in death, the "Bureaucratic Absurdity" continued. Napoleon had requested to be buried on the banks of the Seine, but if that was impossible, in a quiet spot in Sane Valley on St. Helena, near a spring where he used to get his water.
The burial took place with full military honors—the British garrison finally saluting the soldier, if not the Emperor. But when it came time to seal the tomb, a dispute arose over the inscription. The French retinue wanted the single name: NAPOLEON. The British Governor, adhering to his rigid instructions to the end, insisted on NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. He would not allow the imperial mononym.
Neither side yielded. The result was a tragic compromise: the stone was left entirely blank. For nearly twenty years, the most famous man in the world lay under a slab of stone without a name, in a valley of willows, guarded by a British sentry.
The Aftermath: The Return of the Ashes
The island did not hold him forever. In 1840, in a grand gesture of reconciliation known as the Retour des Cendres, the British allowed the French to exhume the body. The tomb was opened, and to the shock of those present, Napoleon’s body was found in a state of near-perfect preservation—another detail that fueled the arsenic myth (arsenic acts as a preservative).
He was taken back to Paris and entombed in Les Invalides. But St. Helena remained. When the purple coffin left the wharf at Jamestown, the island fell into a deep slumber. It had served its purpose. It was now a graveyard without a body, a stage without a lead actor.
Visiting St. Helena Island: The Logistics of Remoteness
Today, Visiting St Helena island is a pursuit for the true history enthusiast or the collector of extremities. For centuries, the only access was the Royal Mail Ship (RMS) St. Helena, a voyage of five days from Cape Town. That era ended in 2018.
Now, the island is accessible by air, but it remains one of the most difficult destinations on earth to reach. The logistics serve as a modern reminder of the isolation Napoleon faced. It is not a place you stumble upon; it is a place you must commit to finding.
The "Useless" Airport Controversy
The transition to air travel brought its own chapter of absurdity, worthy of the Napoleonic era. In 2016, the British government completed a £285 million airport on the island. However, upon completion, test flights revealed a severe problem: "wind shear."
The same treacherous winds that tormented Napoleon at Longwood battered the cliff-top runway, making it dangerous for large commercial jets to land. For a time, the media dubbed it "The World's Most Useless Airport." St Helena airport logistics became a case study in engineering hubris.
Today, the airport functions, but only for smaller Embraer jets capable of handling the turbulence, flying in weekly from Johannesburg. The pilot must possess special certification to land on the cliff edge. The difficult approach ensures that St. Helena never feels like a tourist trap; it remains a fortress.
France in the Atlantic: The French Domains
Once you navigate the winds and land on the rock, you discover a geopolitical oddity. French properties on St Helena—Longwood House, the Tomb in Sane Valley, and The Briars pavilion—are the property of the French Republic.
In 1858, Napoleon III purchased these sites from the British. They are administered by a French Honorary Consul and are, legally and spiritually, pockets of France in the South Atlantic. When you step over the threshold of Longwood, you are stepping onto French soil. The tricolour flies over the garden. It is a strange, reverent experience to see the symbols of the Republic maintained so immaculately in the middle of a British Overseas Territory.
Exploring the Island: Beyond Napoleon
While the Emperor is the main draw, the island offers a rugged beauty that demands attention. Jacob’s Ladder Jamestown remains the supreme challenge. Tourists and locals alike attempt the climb of the 699 steps. It is a punishing ascent, but the view from the top—looking down into the cleft of Jamestown—provides the best perspective on the island’s fortress-like nature.
Visitors also encounter Jonathan, a Seychelles Giant Tortoise residing at the Governor’s residence, Plantation House. Hatched circa 1832, Jonathan is the oldest known living land animal. While he arrived just after Napoleon’s death, he serves as a living bridge to that era, a slow-moving witness to the passage of time on a rock where time seems to stand still.
Reflections at the Empty Tomb
The emotional climax of a visit is not Longwood, with its suffocating walls, but Napoleon’s tomb Sane Valley. The walk down to the site is quiet, shaded by ancient trees and giant ferns.
The tomb is empty, yet it possesses a "Melancholy Reverence" that the grandiose tomb in Paris lacks. Here, you are confronted with the reality of his death—the loneliness, the silence, the blank stone. Visitors still leave bouquets of flowers on the iron railing. It is a pilgrimage to the death of ambition. Standing there, the silence of the valley presses in, the same silence that Napoleon endured for five and a half years.
Conclusion: The Victory of the Pen
St. Helena was designed to be an oubliette, a place where Napoleon would be forgotten. The British strategy was one of erasure. They denied him his title, they hid him behind walls of rock and fog, and they buried him in a nameless grave.
Yet, in a final twist of irony, the island accomplished the exact opposite. If Napoleon had retired to a country estate in England or America, he would have become a curiosity, a fat, retired general telling war stories. He would have become ordinary.
St. Helena made him a tragic hero. The suffering, the "Oceanic Gothic" atmosphere, the petty persecution by Hudson Lowe—all of it provided the necessary ingredients for the myth of martyrdom. The British killed the man, but the island saved the legend.
As you leave the island, watching the black cliffs recede once more into the Atlantic mists, you realize the ultimate truth of St. Helena: It was not a prison; it was a pedestal.
Frequently Asked Questions
Why was Napoleon exiled to St. Helena and not somewhere closer?
The British government chose Napoleon's exile on St. Helena for one primary reason: absolute isolation. After his escape from Elba (which was only a short sail from Italy), the Allies needed a prison without bars that nature itself would guard. Located 1,200 miles from the nearest landmass in the South Atlantic, St. Helena was chosen because the sheer vertical cliffs and the vast ocean made escape physically impossible.
Was Napoleon poisoned by the British?
The cause of Napoleon’s death remains a subject of intense historical debate. While conspiracy theories suggest he was slowly poisoned with arsenic by a British assassin, modern science points to a more "atmospheric" killer. The green wallpaper in Longwood House contained "Scheele’s Green" (copper arsenite). In the damp, moldy climate of the island, this wallpaper likely released toxic arsenic gas, which Napoleon inhaled daily. It was likely the environment, not a person, that poisoned him.
Can you visit Longwood House today?
Yes. Longwood House history is preserved as a museum owned by the French government. It has been restored to look exactly as it did in 1821, complete with the original furniture and the billiards table. Visitors can walk through the damp rooms where the Emperor dictated his memoirs and see the "spy holes" he cut in the shutters.
How do you get to St. Helena now that the ship is retired?
Visiting St. Helena island is now possible by air, though it remains difficult. Following the retirement of the RMS St. Helena, Airlink now operates weekly flights from Johannesburg (JNB) to St. Helena Airport (HLE). Due to the remoteness and weather conditions, it is still considered an "extreme travel" destination.
Is St. Helena Airport really the "World's Most Useless Airport"?
This nickname was coined by the media in 2016 due to severe "wind shear" issues that prevented large Boeing 737s from landing. However, the airport is operational today. St. Helena airport logistics were solved by using smaller Embraer E190 jets that can handle the turbulence. It is no longer useless, but landing there is still considered a thrilling experience for aviation enthusiasts.
Is Napoleon’s body still on St. Helena?
No. While you can visit Napoleon’s tomb in Sane Valley, it is empty. His body was exhumed in 1840 during the Retour des Cendres (Return of the Ashes) and transported to Paris, where it now rests under the dome of Les Invalides. However, the empty tomb on St. Helena remains a profound site of pilgrimage, maintained beautifully by the French domains.
What are the "French Domains" on St. Helena?
It is a unique geopolitical quirk that French properties on St. Helena exist within a British Overseas Territory. Longwood House, The Briars Pavilion, and the Tomb in Sane Valley are the private property of the French Republic, purchased by Napoleon III in 1858. They are administered by a French Honorary Consul. When you step into the gardens of Longwood, you are technically on French soil.
Sources & References
- Le Mémorial de Sainte-Hélène
- Napoleon: A Life
- The Assassination of St. Helena Revisited
- St Helena Tourism: Napoleon on St Helena
- BBC News: The 'useless' airport finally welcomes first flight
- Recollections of the Emperor Napoleon
- Napoleon and the Doctor: The St. Helena Story
- The New York Times: St. Helena, a Trip to the End of the World
- St Helena Government: Visiting St Helena
- Nature: Arsenic in Napoleon's Wallpaper
- The Black Room at Longwood: Napoleon's Exile on Saint Helena
