As Napoleon emerged from the companionway the lieutenant of the watch gave a quick nod to the midshipman standing by the blackboard easel. The youngster snatched up a rag and hurriedly erased Eating Lunch, and then chalked up, in big letters, On deck, for the benefit of the thousands of spectators aboard the swarm of small boats bobbing on the sea surrounding HMS Bellerophon. As those aboard the boats turned to read the new notice some stood and scanned the deck of the warship for the first sign of the great man. For the last week the harbour had been packed with local people and those who had travelled some distance just for the chance to catch sight of the Frenchman who had threatened to humble Britain for the last fifteen years.

Napoleon straightened up as he emerged on deck and nodded a greeting to the lieutenant. Behind him came his small coterie of staff officers, and the party climbed the short flight of stairs on to the quarterdeck of the seventy-four-gun warship. At first Captain Maitland had tried to insist that the French officers stick to the port side of the quarterdeck, leaving the starboard side free for the ship’s captain and his officers. However, Napoleon had ignored the instruction and wandered where he willed, asking endless questions about the operation of the warship of those officers who spoke French. Maitland was not on board today. He had gone ashore and taken a room in an inn favoured by naval officers to await fresh instructions concerning his prisoner. Ever since Napoleon had arrived on the deck of the ship, surrendering himself to the protection of his most inveterate enemy, the British had not known what to do with him. Maitland had reported Napoleon’s presence to the senior admiral on station, who had ordered him back to England to refer the matter up the chain of command. Now Napoleon’s fate was being decided by the government in London.

Crossing to the side of the warship he gazed down over the thousands of spectators who had come to see him. He smiled and raised his hat in greeting and there was a ragged chorus of cheers from his audience.

De Las Cases, Napoleon’s secretary, shook his head. ‘The English make strange enemies, sire. You seem to be as popular with them as their own monarch.’

‘Well, I must ensure their continued good will,’ Napoleon replied quietly as he raised his hat again and waved it at a party of young women aboard a small yacht that had somehow slipped through the screen of guard boats which were rowing swiftly to cut the yacht off. ‘I have no desire to be handed into the custody of my enemies on the continent.’