Carolly Erickson - Josephine: A Life of the Empress

Josephine

ALSO BY CAROLLY ERICKSON

The Records of Medieval Europe
Civilization and Society in the West
The Medieval Vision
Bloody Mary
The First Elizabeth
Mistress Anne
Great Harry
Our Tempestuous Day: A History of Regency England
Bonnie Prince Charlie
To the Scaffold: The Life of Marie Antoinette
Great Catherine
Her Little Majesty: The Life of Queen Victoria

Josephine

A LIFE OF THE EMPRESS

Carolly Erickson

ST. MARTINS GRIFFIN NEW YORK

JOSEPHINE: A LIFE OF THE EMPRESS . Copyright 1998 by Carolly Erickson. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY. 10010.

DESIGN BY NANCY RESNICK

www.stmartms.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Erickson, Carolly, 1943

Josephine : a life of the empress / Carolly Erickson.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references.

ISBN 0-312-20001-3 (he)

ISBN 0-312-26346-5 (pbk)

I. Josephine, Empress, consort of Napoleon I, Emperor of the French, 17631814. 2. EmpressesFrance Biography. 3. Napoleon I, Emperor of the French, 17591821Relations with women. 4. FranceMoral conditionsHistory18th century. I Title.

DC2I6.I.E75 1999
944.0592dc2I
[B]

98-32077
CIP

10 9 8 7 6 5

Contents

Into the Wind-House

There was a stillness in the heavy, humid air and smoke from the cooking fires rose slowly straight upward into the cloudy sky a long way before drifting off sharply to the north. The trade winds had ceased. No comforting puff of air stirred the thick leaves of the breadfruit trees, and in the cane fields, where a hundred near-naked slaves bent to the work of harvest, slashing at the cane stalks with long sharp knives, the heat by mid-morning was like an oven.

It was the thirteenth of August, 1766, a month into the hivernage, the season of storms and rain. On the craggy, mountainous island of Martinique in the western Antilles, clouds were piling up and an eerie darkness was gathering. In the slave quarters there were whispers that a bad storm was coming, for the Carib chiefs had announced that the skies were ominous and everyone knew that on the night before, at sunset, a blood-red light had been glimpsed at the horizon in place of the usual emerald greena portent of death.

It is the ioallou, the slaves told one another and their Creole masters repeated the warning in their own tongue. It is the ouracan.

Out in the wide bay of Fort-Royal, the clear turquoise water had turned opaque, and by noon the ocean was choppy with whitecaps and an angry surf crashed noisily on the beach. Ships riding at anchor at the harbor mouth began to dance crazily in the swell, and nearer the shore, fishermen hurried to bring their boats ashore, dragging them up far from the beach and tying them to the wide stalks of palm trees with thick ropes.

By early afternoon a leaden twilight had descended, and a harsh wind off the ocean had begun to whistle through the cane fields. Cows bellowed and pawed the earth restlessly, chickens deserted their coops to seek refuge amid the rocks on the mountainside. Seabirds flocked together and flew toward the center of the island, away from the coast, and the brackish streams were full of fish swimming up from the ocean, seeking protection from the churning waters.

Though the overseer had not yet given the order to stop work the field hands paused in their labors and sniffed the air. It reeked of sulphur. They looked up, and saw, threaded among the thick dark clouds, fine streaks of silver lightning. Then the first large drops of rain began to fall, spattering on the red earth with a sound so loud it made talk impossible.

In the plantation of Trois-Ilets on the lower slopes of Morne Ganthaume, Joseph Tascher decided that it would be unwise to wait any longer. He had to get his family to safety. His wife Rose-Claire was in no condition to undergo hardship of any kind. For several weeks she had been in bed expecting to deliver her third childa child Joseph fervently hoped would be a son. The black midwives were in attendance, prepared to deliver the child if the doctor from Fort-Royal was unable to arrive at the plantation in time, and both the babys grandmothers, the aristocratic Franoise Tascher and the iron-willed Irishwoman Catherine Brown, who on her marriage had become Catherine des Sannois, had made the trip to Trois-Ilets in order to be in attendance when Josephs heir was born.

Joseph ordered a cart brought from the stable and helped his anxious wife into it, along with his daughters Yeyette and Catherine, aged three and not quite two, who clutched their slave nursemaids in fear, and his mother and mother-in-law, and the six-year-old boy Alexandre who had been living with the family since his birth. Into the cart went a few belongings, the womens jewelry and the few heirlooms they had thought to snatch hurriedly on their way out. Joseph took one last look around, then ordered the driver to go as quickly as possible to the wind-house.

Every plantation in Martinique had a wind-house, an all but impregnable structure with stone walls six feet thick and no windows, built deep into the hillside where no storm, no matter how fierce, could penetrate. Massive wooden doors, made from hardwood cut in the rain forest higher up on the slopes, opened into a dark, cavernous room that could hold several dozen people and supplies of food and water. In this refuge, secure behind the stout wooden doors, they would wait out the storm.

In the high watchtower at the edge of the cane fields, the bell began to ring, sounding the alarm. Work ceased, and the field hands rushed at once to their huts, gathered their children and a few provisions, and made their way to the sugar mill. The other buildings on the plantation were dilapidated and neglected, but the stone-walled sugar mill, built several generations earlier in more prosperous times, was still sturdy. It would stand up to the ioallou.

More cartloads were sent to the wind-house, full of candles and lanterns, baskets of salted fish and cassavas and loaves made from manioc flour, large red earthenware vessels full of fresh water and molasses beer. The midwives brought their knives and cords and charms made of dried palm leaves, blessed by the healers, to ward off zombies.

By early evening the plantation was in total darkness, and the rain was falling in sheets, swelling the streams and flooding the fields. Hour by hour the wind grew in force and violence, churning the bay into high waves and surging breakers. In the shelter where the Tascher family and their house slaves were waiting out the storm, the thick wooden doors began to bulge outward and tug against the ropes that restrained them. Joseph and the other men took turns pulling on the ropes with all their force, fighting the terrible outward sucking of the wind.