But Napoleon was in no mood to be hurried. He had resented being subjected to the rude public gaze the previous night, he considered his room at the lodgings inferior, there was no private garden, and he was outraged to find a huddle of locals pointing at him and shouting as he passed a window. He took his time getting ready in his Chasseurs uniform; when he and General Bertrand emerged, they found the admiral already on his horse, irritable at being forced to wait.

As the party of riders ascended the Sidepath that morning, the horses found the gradient heavy going. Valet Marchand recalled in his memoirs that the emperor looked across the valley and ‘saw a small house located in a site that seemed pleasant and picturesque. He was told it belonged to Mr Balcombe; he continued on his way but proposed to stop there on his return; he preferred in effect to stay in its little hut, if Longwood was not habitable, to the house in town where he could not move without being stared at by passers-by.’6

Napoleon knew about the governor’s residence, Plantation House, a handsome Georgian mansion set in gardens and parkland. He indicated that it would be an acceptable home for himself and his retinue, but was told that a prisoner could not enjoy superior accommodation to the governor, and in any case the East India Company had specifically precluded it. Nor was the castle in Jamestown an option; it was the administrative centre, the admiral himself was staying there, and it opened directly onto the marina and the shipping roads. Great Britain was prepared to grant ‘the General’ certain comforts and freedoms, but not at any place with access to the sea.

The group rode beside bare rocky slopes studded with aloe, cactus and prickly pear. But as they climbed higher the air became cooler and the hillsides greener, the narrow track sheltered by cedars and cypresses, pines and firs. They circled a yawning crater known as the Devil’s Punchbowl and came out onto a wind-blasted plateau. This was the location of the rickety collection of buildings Bonaparte and his retinue were to occupy.

Marchand observed drily that the emperor ‘was not particularly enchanted with the house that enjoyed no shade or water, and was exposed to the southeast wind that prevailed there constantly and was quite strong at the present time’.7 The house had gaping holes in the walls, rats’ droppings on the floors and manure smells exuding from underneath. Bonaparte said that repairs would take months and that he doubted whether any projected improvements could ever make the place attractive. The only advantage he could see was the extensive plateau for horse riding.

They descended by the Sidepath and Bonaparte reminded the admiral of his wish to see The Briars. Marchand recorded that on their way there, ‘the Emperor told him that if the good man of the house had no objection to his staying in the pavilion, which was twenty-five paces from the house, he preferred to stay there than return to the town’.8 Napoleon’s suggestion was surprisingly modest, but the admiral knew that the merchant was in fact willing to let the whole house and he no doubt recognised that this could provide a temporary solution.

The Balcombe children sighted the riders coming down the slope towards The Briars, and the man they most dreaded was with them. Betsy felt so anxious ‘that I wished to run and hide myself until they were gone’, but her mother bade her stay, for she spoke French better than anyone in the family, having excelled in it at school.

The party came through the gates and, as there was no carriage road right up to the house, Admiral Cockburn and General Bertrand politely dismounted. However, the imperious figure in the green Chasseurs uniform clearly felt no compunction about staying on his mount, ‘his horse’s feet cutting up the turf on our pretty lawn’.

The grown-up Betsy—Mrs Lucia Elizabeth Abell—wrote of that first meeting between her thirteen-year-old self and the most malignant figure of the age:

How vividly I recollect my feelings of dread, mingled with admiration, as I now first looked upon him whom I had learned to fear so much. His appearance on horseback was noble and imposing. The animal he rode was a superb one; his colour jet black; and as he proudly stepped up the avenue, arching his neck and champing his bit, I thought he looked worthy to be the bearer of him who was once the ruler of nearly the whole European world.

Napoleon’s position on horseback, by adding height to his figure, supplied all that was wanting to make me think him the most majestic person I had ever seen. His dress was green and covered with orders, and his saddle and housings were crimson velvet richly embroidered with gold. He alighted at our house and we all moved to the entrance to receive him.

On a nearer approach, Napoleon, contrasting, as his shorter figure did, with the noble height and aristocratic bearing of Sir George Cockburn, lost something of the dignity which had so much struck me on first seeing him. He was deadly pale, and I thought his features, though cold and immovable and somewhat stern, were exceedingly beautiful.9

The deposed ruler of half the world was gracious when introduced to Mrs Balcombe and the two girls. Balcombe himself was upstairs in bed with a bad attack of gout.

Betsy barely noticed the admiral, in his full dress uniform, nor General Comte de Henri-Gatien Bertrand, a slightly built but distinguished officer with heavy eyebrows, long side whiskers and a thin tonsure of hair. All her attention was focused on Napoleon. He stepped into the drawing room and seated himself in one of their little cottage chairs, his shrewd glance appraising the furnishings. He complimented Mrs Balcombe on the attractiveness of her home and engaged in small talk, probably with the admiral as interpreter. Betsy did not have to translate after all, and recalled that she shamelessly scrutinised Napoleon, observing his pallid complexion, his fine, silky hair, his neat dimpled hands and, most of all, the beauty of his clear blue-grey eyes. When he smiled at her, revealing teeth stained from eating licorice, she had to suppress a giggle.

But soon the point of the visit became clear, and Napoleon’s proposal was put to William Balcombe upstairs. Marchand described the eager response: ‘When they arrived at the house, the request was made to the owner, confined to his bed by gout, who agreed wholeheartedly; he even wanted to give over the whole of his house. The Emperor thanked him but refused to accept; he replied that he would with pleasure occupy the pavilion, which was detached from the main house, provided that the family’s habits were not disturbed.’10

This was remarkably considerate of Bonaparte towards a family he had never met before, and in fact such fine concern was unnecessary, as we know from Balcombe’s correspondence that he was more than willing to let the whole house for a handsome return and may have been disappointed not to do so. The Briars was well situated for security, a mile from the sea, bordered by a mountain on one side and a yawning gorge on the other, and the main building would have accommodated Napoleon and his principal companions, with the pavilion for a few of the servants.