It is well for an historian not to tell more than he knows, a
principle which has guided our pen from the inception of this work to
this point, and which must continue to the bitter end. We shall be
relentless and truthful to the last, even though in so doing we are
compelled to overthrow all historical precedent.
Bonaparte arrived at St. Helena in October, 1815. He had embarked,
every one supposed, with the impression that he was going to America,
and those about him, fearing a passionate outbreak when he learned
the truth, tried for a time to convince him that he had taken the
wrong steamer; then when they found that he could not be deceived in
this way, they made allusions to the steering-gear having got out of
order, but the ex-Emperor merely smiled.
"You cannot fool me," he said. "I know whither I am drifting. I
went to a clairvoyant before leaving Paris, who cast a few dozen
horoscopes for me and they all ended at St. Helena. It is
inevitable. I must go there, and all these fairy tales about wrong
steamers and broken rudders and so on are useless. I submit. I
could return if I wished, but I do not wish to return. By a mere
speech to these sailors I could place myself in command of this ship
to-day, turn her about and proclaim myself Emperor of the Seas; but I
don't want to.
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