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Not 1066 again! Should we ditch our obsession with dates?
From 1066 to 1918, our obsession with battles, elections and even voyages of discovery risks distorting a true understanding of the past
In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. That, at least, is what the famous rhyme tells us. Memorising such dates is a common experience of being taught history – a cliché superbly lampooned by the witty 1930 book 1066 and All That. “History is not what you thought,” its preface suggested. “It is what you can remember.” Accordingly, as per its subtitle, it offered a “Memorable History of England, Comprising All the Parts You Can Remember, Including 103 Good Things, 5 Bad Kings and 2 Genuine Dates.” Conspicuously, though, “two out of the four dates originally included were eliminated at the last moment” because “they are not memorable.” Though evidently both humorists, the book’s authors – Punch writers WC Sellar and RJ Yeatman – were making a serious point. History has long been thought to be concerned with preserving the past. The 12th-century historian and Byzantine princess Anna Komnene observed how “time in its irresistible and ceaseless flow carries along on its flood all created things and drowns them in the depths of obscurity”. Her solution was the study of history, which “forms a very strong bulwark against the stream of time”. This is a powerful idea – one that perhaps moved King Charles I, moments before his execution in January 1649, to utter a last single word to William Juxon, the former bishop of London, instructing him: “Remember.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/1066-and-all-that-later-edition-CMYKWeb-Ready-dfb5326.jpg" width="2295" height="1530" alt="The cover of a book, with the title 1066 And All That across the top, and two men standing side by side in green and pink clothing" title="The 1930 book 1066 and All That wittily parodied the conventional approach to teaching history in schools at that time (Image by Amazon)" /> But do our efforts to remember really require us to do something so trivial as memorising dates? More radically, do the historical events these dates mark even matter? The Oxford English Dictionary leaves little room for doubt. Its definition of an event is “something that happens or takes place, especially something significant or noteworthy”. History is often taught as a succinct sequence of such occurrences – those accepted as important moments, neatly knitted together to explain the present. Indeed, for many historians, especially those preoccupied with political, constitutional or military matters, the practice of history itself involves assessing the importance of events by examining their causes, contexts and consequences, considering how they represent change or continuity over time. Yet almost no archaeologist would approach the past in such terms. Nor would many of today’s social, economic or cultural historians. In the 20th century, proponents of the Annales school, named for a scholarly journal, famously considered events relatively insignificant. French historian Fernand Braudel (1902–85) argued that events were simply “surface disturbances, crests of foam that the tides of history carry on their strong backs”. Has the importance given to events been overstated? Should we, therefore, put less emphasis on learning dates? Are there better ways of understanding history? The first issue to consider is just how ‘important’ dates are selected. If we are told that some day or year is more noteworthy than another, who decided this? It would be appealing to be able to say that the established chronology has been objectively selected by balanced, skilled historians, and arrived at through years of scrupulous scholarship and vigorous debate. Yet history is a human thing, written and argued over for all kinds of reasons. Even if such matters are really decided by historians – instead of, say, politicians or poets – we are all equally flawed, prone to error and liable to misinterpret the past through a panoply of biases, conscious or not. Moreover, humans are social animals and have consequently evolved to value convention, tradition and the received wisdom of our ancestors. Most of us simply accept the established chronology. Such a shared history can indeed function as a powerful bond cementing the otherwise disparate identities of social groups. To reinforce this sense of the collective, past incidents thought worthy of remembrance were once upon a time written in stone – literally. The Parian Marble, a fragment of a stele found on the island of Paros and now displayed in the ancient Greek section of Oxford’s Ashmolean Museum, is inscribed with a neat chronology of events and their dates from 1582 BC to 299 BC in our terms. These include the fall of Troy, purportedly in 1209–1208 BC, and the rather more reliably dated battle of Marathon in 490 BC. The stele’s text, similar to the earlier ‘Sumerian King List’ housed in the nearby Mesopotamian gallery, fuses myth with history. Such objects represent early examples of a phenomenon that has become increasingly common in the past two centuries or so. With the rise of nation states, backstories have been created for their “imagined communities”, as Anglo-Irish political scientist Benedict Anderson famously dubbed nations in 1983. These stories typically rest on simple historical narratives, ideally sprinkled with a few inspirational national heroes and some key dates. In the UK, a chronology of past rulers plays a major role. Reigns became surrogates for eras, suffused with each ruler’s character. Looking back, for example, we see all those who were alive between 1837 and 1901 as ‘Victorians’. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/GettyImages-815264642cmykWeb-Ready-2ce7a55.jpg" width="3569" height="2379" alt="A 2017 re-enactment of the 1410 battle of Grunwald. Poles and Lithuanians see this victory over the German Teutonic Order as a turning point in their national stories (Image by Getty Images)" title="A 2017 re-enactment of the 1410 battle of Grunwald. Poles and Lithuanians see this victory over the German Teutonic Order as a turning point in their national stories (Image by Getty Images)" /> Battles are often key parts of national stories. Like Marathon for the ancient Greeks, the battles of Hastings in 1066 and Agincourt in 1415 are considered important to the English. For the British more generally, Trafalgar in 1805 and Waterloo in 1815 are significant. In Serbia, the notoriously bloody battle of Kosovo in 1389, in which forces led by Prince Lazar Hrebeljanović squared up to an invading Ottoman army under the command of Sultan Murad I, has been endlessly mythologised. Lithuanians and Poles still celebrate victory over the German Teutonic Order at the battle of Grunwald in 1410. But few dates and events are as significant as national narratives suggest, battles least of all. Why? Because battles, though certainly rare and dramatic moments, are seldom, if ever, decisive at ending wars so can’t be imbued with much causal importance. Even after Hastings, at which much of the English ruling class was killed, it took William the Conqueror many years to bring England truly under Norman rule, a period notorious for the so-called Harrying of the North (1069–70). Likewise, the greatly celebrated clash at Agincourt (1415), which owes much of its fame to William Shakespeare, saw the mass slaughter of French nobility – but it was not until 1420 that Henry V forced Charles VI to agree to recognise the Plantagenet claim to the French throne under the Treaty of Troyes. Read more | Do you know the correct date of Magna Carta? Here’s why you might be wrong Yet such totemic dates are repeatedly reinforced by that staple of public history and national myth-making: the commemoration of anniversaries. These appear to be good moments to reconsider the past and revive enthusiasm for historical enquiry, but there’s a built-in problem: at least outwardly, nobody involved questions the real significance of the events marked – that would defeat the exercise. It is understandable that, on occasion, people wish to memorialise the loss of their loved ones in wars or other disasters. In general, however, anniversaries reflect current concerns and as such are profoundly unhelpful when it comes to understanding what happened in the past. Admittedly, some moments appear to have been so overwhelmingly important that they demand our attention. For Europe, the fall of Constantinople to the Turks in 1453 seems epochal. In China, the final defeat of the Song dynasty by the forces of Kublai Khan in 1279 has a similar significance. Yet these events represent the culmination of long and complex processes. Seen in this light, the events themselves were largely symbolic. Surely, you say, the arrival of Christopher Columbus in the Americas in 1492 had massive historical consequences. Well, one can quibble over whether his first voyage itself achieved much – likewise his three further transatlantic expeditions in 1493–96, 1498–1500 and 1502–04, for that matter – despite being catastrophic for the indigenous Taíno people of the Caribbean. Columbus thought – and continued to think for the rest of his life – that he was exploring east Asia. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/GettyImages-599969077cmykWeb-Ready-7d51147.jpg" width="4272" height="2848" alt="A painting of a man dressed in a white shirt with a brown cloak, and a dark hat" title="This 1519 portrait reputedly depicts Christopher Columbus. Did his first transatlantic voyage in 1492 really have such world-changing consequences? (Image by Getty Images)" /> The world indeed changed thereafter as it gradually fused into what, in 1974, the American economic historian and sociologist Immanuel Wallerstein termed the “modern world-system”, but this was not an inevitable consequence of Columbus’s first voyage. After all, Europeans had been in the Americas before. The Norseman Leif Erikson is thought to have reached North America around AD 1000, and a Norse settlement excavated at L’Anse aux Meadows in Newfoundland, Canada seems to support this. So it is of far greater historical significance that pivotal processes occurred after 1492 – but not after 1000. This is a point made in Alfred W Crosby’s groundbreaking 1972 book The Columbian Exchange, a foundational text of environmental history that charted the seismic global effects of the intercontinental transfer of plants, animals, diseases and cultures. Such developments can be shown to be genuinely transformative to people’s lives, from the food they ate to the diseases that afflicted them. By contrast, traditional chronology often neglects the experiences of a broad spectrum of people. Not everyone was present at battles or on voyages of discovery. Indeed, most humans who have ever lived were peasants who wrested their subsistence from the soil. For these people, few experiences were shared beyond a restricted locality, especially in periods when speeds of travel were slow and communication limited. Nearly all people must have been ignorant of what we now assert, after the fact, were key events. Others would have been simply indifferent. According to the historian De Lamar Jennsen, the Spanish Armada – King Philip II of Spain’s unsuccessful project to invade England in summer 1588 – was the “worst kept secret in Europe”. Yet research suggests that, far from striving to achieve victory for their country in some epic national struggle, during the Armada many English sailors and merchants were more preoccupied with selling food and other supplies to the enemy than with fighting them. Perhaps the key problem is that narrative history gives us a false sense of order, in part by playing to our innate tendency to identify and interpret patterns. It suggests that big events necessarily have big consequences. This completely fails to account for the unpredictable nature of the world through which we move. Seemingly insignificant factors can and do have a disproportionate impact on history. As the proverb has it in James Baldwin’s version: “For want of a nail the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; for the want of a horse the battle was lost; for the failure of battle the kingdom was lost; and all for the want of a horseshoe nail.” Conversely, apparently important things can turn out to be irrelevant. To return to Columbus, how are we to frame the decision of Queen Isabella I of Castile and King Ferdinand II of Aragon to support him, having equivocated for years over whether to stump up the cash to fund his voyage west? Some cite the fall of Granada to Christian forces in January 1492 – marking the end of Islamic rule on the Iberian peninsula, which gave the co-ruler monarchs both confidence and the promise of more secure finances – as the key explanation for their change of heart. Assuming this were true, we could equally portray what happened as the result of the Arab Nasrid dynasty, which ruled the Emirate of Granada for more than 250 years, carelessly losing control of their territory. In the latter reading, Wallerstein’s modern world-system was in a sense created “for want of a nail”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/GettyImages-128261385cmykWeb-Ready-6731e0e.jpg" width="3941" height="2628" alt="A photograph of a courtyard under tall, intricate archways with several columns throughout" title="The Court of the Lions in the Alhambra, Granada. That city’s fall in January 1492 arguably led to the European colonisation of the Americas. But it’s an episode that can be framed in different ways, argues Robert Blackmore (Image by Getty Images)" /> As should be becoming clear, questioning the assumptions that underpin so much conventional narrative history has serious implications. This forces you, for example, to recognise that the lowliest peasant may have been as significant as an emperor or king, and that their relative impact on history was not necessarily proportionate to their immediate influence. “The ruler’s power was rarely effective,” Danish historian Patricia Crone put it, “even within such sphere of competence as he did enjoy.” Braudel hauntingly evoked a “historian who takes a seat in Philip II’s chair and reads his papers” and is transported into “a world of strong passions” but one “unconscious of the deeper realities of history, of the running waters on which our frail barks are tossed like cockleshells”. Yet such is our wish to impose order on a complex world that we have frequently reached for elaborate explanations for erratic ‘nonlinear’ outcomes, among them the capricious will of deities, the movements of celestial bodies, even conspiracy theories. In truth, because our evidence of the past is so incomplete, we are unlikely ever to pinpoint true cause and effect. Despite this, we still tend to look for what Annales school historian Marc Bloch called “the idol of origins”. Countless books claim to trace the roots of anything from states and religions to sports. Even the aforesaid Parian Marble located the birth of agriculture to 1409–08 BC when the goddess Demeter supposedly invented grain crops. In practical terms, though, nothing has any origin in history. “For most historical realities,” Bloch wrote in the early 1940s, “the very notion of a starting point remains singularly elusive.” As we have shown, we cannot even be sure that the origin of the Columbian Exchange was Columbus himself. Read more | A thousand years ago, the Vikings had a shock encounter with Native Americans that ended in disaster Indeed, trying to frame this story, we could be more radical and go back even before the time of Leif Erikson – perhaps all the way back to 14,800 years ago, when the Bering Strait Land Bridge was last rendered impassable and Asia was fully separated from the Americas. But where do you stop? Rather than there being actual origins, all things were and are constantly in the course of being made through a process of emergence. As Bloch argued, “A historical phenomenon can never be understood apart from its moment in time. This is true of every evolutionary stage, our own and all others.” So how, then, are we to approach history without straightforward narratives? There are any number of options. Some historians, such as those of the Annales school, have examined historical structures – social, political and economic – rather than events to explain change, frequently over the long term. This approach has often been fused with the so-called histoire des mentalités (history of attitudes), which endeavours to understand the perspectives of those in the past in their own terms. Meanwhile, some social and economic historians have used Marxist theory and framed conflict between social classes as explaining change. Others have put the emphasis on demography and land use. Today, in a time of climate change, many historians are interested in understanding past societies’ interactions with their environments. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/GettyImages-122317088cmykWeb-Ready-15b2d1a.jpg" width="3708" height="2472" alt="An image showing four people dressed in wool skins and carrying spears, walking across a large" title="An illustration depicts Asian hunters migrating across the Bering Strait Land Bridge. The strait becoming impassable some 15,000 years ago was a vital juncture in global history (Image by Getty Images)" /> Each new approach has inevitably attracted criticism for its own alleged oversimplification and misrepresentation of the past. British historians, in particular, were notoriously hostile to the Annales school. Geoffrey Elton of the University of Cambridge, for example, held to his focus on events, with disdain for nearly all scholarship outside the study of power politics. It is said that his colleague Maurice Cowling would privately exclaim: “Annales is balls!” Despite such intransigence, though, new ideas did spread. Going forward, future historians will doubtless find even more innovative forms of historical enquiry using formidable artificial intelligence-driven tools. Read more | Do you know all the major periods in British history? To be clear, though they make less of specific events, new approaches are not necessarily histories without dates. Peter Laslett, in his pioneering 1965 work of social history The World We Have Lost, even began with one: “In the year 1619 the bakers of London applied to the authorities for an increase in the price of bread.” Though Laslett pinpoints a moment that might seem banal when compared with a great battle, coronation or discovery, we should arguably accord such granular details equal attention for what they tell us of our ancestors’ priorities. Their world, like our own, was a practically infinite morass of events and dates whose relative importance and interrelationships were vastly more uncertain than we impulsively suppose. History is not, as one student in Alan Bennett’s 2004 play The History Boys put it, “just one f****** thing after another”. Rather, as the sixth-century historian and bishop Gregory of Tours began his Historia Francorum (History of the Franks), “A great many things keep happening.” Faced with this truth, should we not stop presenting history as neat, ordered and, as such, unrepresentative of how our forebears experienced it? Ultimately, we cannot preserve the past inside the present. Explorers such as Columbus and rulers such as Charles I or Philip II will eventually be forgotten, just as we will all one day be swept away by the stream of time. Trying to understand this process, not learning dates, is the true art of history. Kings and queens are not innately important; neither are great battles. All things are transient. As the 11–12th-century Persian poet and scientist Omar Khayyam put it, it is far better we “think, in this batter’d caravanserai [a refuge for travellers] whose doorways are alternate night and day; how sultan after sultan with his pomp, abode his hour or two, and went his way”. This article was first published in the November 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
7 things you (probably) didn’t know about the Napoleonic Wars
Jem Duducu, author of The Napoleonic Wars in 100 Facts, reveals seven things you might not have known about the 25 years (or so) of conflict...
What were the Napoleonic Wars? The Napoleonic Wars were a series of conflicts that occurred from 1803 to 1815, fought between France under Napoleon and a series of coalitions of European powers. Though the Napoleonic Wars are often seen as a clash of European powers fighting for dominance over the European continent, in many ways they were also an example of a global conflict before the outbreak of the First World War in 1914. The Napoleonic Wars are usually numbered by the coalitions that were raised against Napoleonic France between 1803 and 1815: The War of the Third Coalition, 1805–06 The War of the Fourth Coalition, 1806–07 The War of the Fifth Coalition, 1809 The War of the Sixth Coalition, 1813–14 The War of the Seventh Coalition, also known as the Hundred Days, 1815 What of the wars of the first and second coalitions? These precede the Napoleonic Wars, both being part of the French Revolutionary Wars of the 1790s. Read more | Napoleonic Wars timeline: the key dates you need to know Why did the Napoleonic Wars happen? There are many explanations, but you could consider the Napoleonic Wars to be a consequence of the French Revolutionary Wars, which concluded with the 1802 Peace of Amiens. These wars had left France in a commanding strategic position in Western Europe, “something that no other European power could tolerate, because it appeared to threaten their own strategic security”, says Michael Rapport, reader in modern European history at the University of Glasgow, who spoke to us about the Napoleonic Wars on the HistoryExtra podcast. “Any peace – which occurred in 1802 through the Treaty of Amiens – was going to be really a truce.” That peace broke down in 1803. “The Peace of Amiens wasn't really honoured by either side,” he says. Neither side really trusted each other.” Who was Napoleon? The Napoleonic Wars are named after a single man – Napoleon Bonaparte. How did a young, inexperienced artillery officer from Corsica rise to such a position of military prominence, not to mention Emperor of France? It took Napoleon just six years from being a relative unknown in 1793 to taking personal rule of France through a coup d’etat in 1799, something Rapport believes that it is no small part thanks to the French Revolution itself. “What the revolution did was it unlocked careers in the army, in government and in law to talent, rather than to birth and status,” he says. “Even though he was noble and he was never barred from the officer corps, the chances of him maybe advancing really high up were probably slimmer than they would have been if it hadn't been for the French Revolution.” War itself provided opportunities. Staggering death rates among officers plus the loss of royalists created opportunities for advancement – if you were politically motivated that is (“Napoleon, initially at least – wore some Republican credentials fairly visibly,” notes Rapport.) Read more about the rise and fall of Napoleon How did the Napoleonic Wars end? In March 1814, the allied powers of the Sixth Coalition occupied Paris, prompting Napoleon’s abdication on 11 April. He was exiled to Elba, an island home to some 12,000 people just off Italy’s Tuscan coast, to live out his days as its sovereign. And that should have been the end of that. Napoleon was held in high esteem even after his abdication, and so when he and 700 of his followers escaped from Elba back to France, he quickly gained support. Among the most totemic was his former marshal turned royalist commander, Michel Ney. Sent to intercept Napoleon, Ney had promised to bring him back to Paris in an iron cage; instead he joined his army of 6,000 to Napoleon’s. So began the Hundred Days, Napoleon’s final roll of the dice. Realising that he could not sit still in Paris, lest the powers of Europe join and assault him en masse, he went on the offensive – culminating in the battle of Waterloo. Waterloo was Napoleon’s final defeat, at the hands of Britain and Prussia. He was forced to abdicate once more, and banished anew – this time he was exiled to St Helena, an East India Company possession deep in the Atlantic, where he remained until his death in 1821. How many people died during the Napoleonic Wars? Five million people died in the Napoleonic Wars between 1803 and 1815, notes Rapport. “It's an estimate, but it's the best estimate we have,” he says. “In terms of the size of the European population at the time, that is the same number, proportionately, as in the First World War.” Michael Rapport is reader in modern European history at the University of Glasgow and the author of The Napoleonic Wars: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford University Press, 2013). He was speaking to Jon Bauckham On the podcast | The Napoleonic Wars: Everything you wanted to know Seven facts about the Napoleonic Wars… The young Napoleon showed little promise The Bonapartes (Buonapartes in Italian) originated in Italy, but Napoleon was born into a branch of the family that moved to Corsica [an island in the Mediterranean Sea belonging to France]. His parents were both of minor Corsican nobility and had married young. The couple had had another son called Napoleon four years before the more famous one, but the child died in infancy. Growing up in Corsica, Napoleon’s first language was Italian, not French. However, as his family was well off (by Corsican standards), he and his brother Joseph were sent to military academies in France. Read more | What killed Napoleon Bonaparte? Napoleon did not fit in particularly well. While he did learn French, he spoke it with an accent that betrayed his roots, and he was teased for sounding like a peasant. Furthermore, the other boys came from well-connected and more affluent families, and while they were good at dancing, Napoleon’s skills lay in gardening. It was not a promising start for a boy who, at various times, dreamed of becoming an officer in the French navy or an artillery instructor in the Ottoman Empire. How different history would have been had he taken one of those routes. Aged 15, Napoleon was admitted to the elite École Militaire in Paris. This was a huge honour, which turned into a disaster when his father died of stomach cancer while Napoleon was in his first year. The young cadet was now expected to be the family’s chief source of income, while at the same time attending one of the most expensive schools in France. The situation forced him to complete the two-year course in just one, and while he came only 42nd in a class of 58, graduation meant he could become a commissioned officer just after his 16th birthday. By 1791, as war was about to break out across Europe, Napoleon, still a second lieutenant stationed in a sleepy garrison town, went on leave to see his family in Corsica. This was about as unexceptional a start to a military career as can be imagined. No one could have predicted that within 10 years Napoleon would be the most feared military commander in Europe, and later would become one of the greatest generals in history. Read more | Your guide to the Seven Years' War The royal navy attacked a city France was courting Denmark and Norway in 1801, and, if they could be persuaded to join the fight, it looked like Russia might also join them. The possibility that Denmark might attack the British mainland could not be contemplated – something had to be done. Step forward Admiral Parker, who was sent to carry out some very British gunboat diplomacy (ie turn up with some warships and force a settlement). It wasn’t necessarily meant to be a shooting war. When the royal navy arrived, the Danish fleet was moored against the gun batteries and naval defences of the city, so a frontal assault would have been impossible. However, Parker’s subordinate was Vice Admiral Nelson, who was just the right mix of brilliant, brave and mad. He attacked the weaker southern end of the Danish defences, which resulted in a brutal artillery duel between land and sea. Parker lacked Nelson’s grit and, on seeing the devastating effect of close-quarter cannon fire, signalled the retreat. Nelson replied with a signal that acknowledged the order, but did nothing. Instead, he lifted his telescope to his blind eye and said to his flag-captain, Thomas Foley: “You know, Foley, I only have one eye. I have the right to be blind sometimes.” Read more | 5 facts you (probably) didn’t know about Nelson’s navy With that, he continued to press his attack. In the heat of the battle, Nelson was seen to be carefully preparing a letter for the terms of Copenhagen’s surrender – amid the roar of cannons, the screams of men and the sound of splintering wood. This forced at least one of his officers to conclude that Nelson had lost his mind, but Nelson calmly explained that if he was seen to have the time and the conditions to prepare a decent letter, it would make the Danes think they weren’t causing as much damage as they were. It was remarkable logic, and an example of the ultimate cool head under fire. The ruse worked, and Copenhagen surrendered. Remarkably, no royal navy ships were sunk; however, around 1,000–1,200 British crew were either killed or wounded. The Danes suffered 50 per cent more casualties and lost three ships, including their flagship, the Dannebrog, when it exploded. After this short but bloody encounter, the two nations agreed an armistice. Following this, Parker sailed the fleet to Sweden in an attempt to persuade it to break away from the armed neutrality league that had been set up in the Baltic, but the Swedes declined his offer. As a result of Parker’s wavering at Copenhagen, followed by his rather lacklustre display in Sweden, he was relieved of duty, and Nelson was promoted to vice-admiral. All sides understood the ‘propaganda war’ The Napoleonic Wars were not the first to use the medium of print for propaganda purposes – The Times, for example, started in 1785 as The Daily Universal Register, was not above bias. But this particular era of conflict excelled at printing scurrilous opinions and defamatory cartoons. The leaders of the age knew the power of the press. As Napoleon once said: “Four hostile newspapers are more to be feared than a thousand bayonets.” However, it wasn’t just opinion pieces that influenced; imagery was often more powerful and lingered longer. Napoleon understood this, and became known for self-aggrandisement. The famous painting of him crossing the Alps (painted by the French artist Jacques-Louis David between 1801 and 1805), for example, shows a strongly idealised view of the real crossing that Napoleon and his army made across the Alps. Napoleon also made sure his coronation as emperor was immortalised in oil paintings, and both he and his wife, Josephine, commissioned regal portraits of themselves in their splendid imperial robes. While Napoleon didn’t plan his own tomb, it continued the themes of power and supremacy – this time with Napoleon as an Adonis; a god among men. Brilliant general he assuredly was, but physically Napoleon was a little on the pudgy side, and had a crooked nose. Napoleon had the twin advantages of being both a general and an absolute ruler; he was able to dictate and control the French press. Britain did not provide its monarchs and leaders with the same benefits; it had a freer press, and parliamentary democracy meant magazines could draw witheringly satirical cartoons of friend and foe alike. For example, Napoleon’s nickname, ‘Boney’, was a British invention designed to conjure antipathy. At the time, it was thought that having some meat on your bones was a good thing; therefore, horrible old ‘Boney’ was a wraith to be feared or mocked. ‘Boney’ stood in stark contrast to the famous John Bull cartoon popularised first by British print makers. Bull was the national personification of England; a plump, down-to-earth patriot and beer lover. Napoleon is often portrayed as compensating for his lack of stature with comically large hats and boots. But to set the record straight, Napoleon wasn’t short. This misunderstanding arose because French measurements were different to British ones, and we now know that Napoleon was a little taller than the average man of his time (although he would probably have looked diminutive standing next to someone like the Duke of Wellington). The idea that Napoleon was short still exists to this day, all thanks to British propaganda from 200 years ago. The best way to defeat Spain was to invade Argentina By 1806, Britain had been at war almost constantly for well over a decade. Its continental allies were continually being humbled by French armies, and Britain’s own contributions to the war thus far had been mainly naval victories. However, William Pitt and Sir Home Riggs Popham (the British royal naval commander) had been mulling over for a year or so ideas to weaken France’s main ally, Spain. Spain’s South American empire was largely undefended. Trying to resist a British invasion there would take Spanish troops away from the resources that Napoleon could use in Europe. So, in short, it was decided (by Popham, without authorisation) that the best way to win a war against France in Europe was to invade Argentina in South America. These operations were referred to as the British invasions of the Río de la Plata. Britain achieved early success when it captured Buenos Aires – one of the key cities in the area – and held it for more than a month. When the invaders were ejected, it wasn’t thanks to the arrival of Spanish troops, but an uprising of the local population. In 1807, the British responded by sending a larger invasion force – this time successfully storming Montevideo, where they stayed for a few months just to prove a point. Shortly afterwards, the British sent a third force back to Buenos Aires, but after heavy fighting with a combined force of Spanish soldiers standing side-by-side with the local militia, they were pushed back and suffered more than 50 per cent casualties. The British lost this campaign. It was an ambitious plan that had assumed resistance could only be achieved by Spanish regular troops. In fact, it was the bravery of the locals that saved Río de la Plata from becoming part of the British empire. The repercussions of this attempted invasion were unforeseen by everyone. The Spanish were, at first, overjoyed that their colonies had resisted so resolutely. However, those same colonies felt their actions had earned them the right to be considered the equal of their colonial masters in Spain. The Spanish were, at this time, also having serious trouble with a French invasion of their own country, so could do little. By 1810, the South American colonies felt confident enough to carry out their own revolution (the May Revolution), which removed the Spanish Viceroy and set up a local government for the first time. This led, in July 1816, to the declaration of independence for the United Provinces of South America, which later became known as Argentina. At the time, some of the ex-Spanish colonies were at war with each other but, overall, shrugging off the old colonial overlord was seen as beneficial. The irony then was that while Britain lost the campaign, it achieved its goals of weakening Spain and distracting Spanish priorities and forces. Another irony is that today in Argentina, Britain’s actions of 1806–7 are seen as the trigger for independence, and are widely considered to have been a good thing. Nobody expected the Spanish Inquisition to end The story of the Spanish Inquisition [a tribunal established in 1478 by Catholic Monarchs Ferdinand II of Aragon and Isabella I of Castile, intended to maintain Catholic orthodoxy in their kingdoms] is a long and complex one. However, the first area to come under its scrutiny was in 12th-century France. The more notorious version of these religious enquiries into potential heretics or apostates started in Spain in the late 15th century, and never really went away until the 19th century. The French Revolution (which began in 1789) sparked real concerns in Spain. King Charles IV worried about how his people might regard the wealth and power not only of the monarchy, but also of the church. With this in mind, he took steps to clip the wings of the Spanish Inquisition. A number of the monolithic Catholic organisations were anathema to the enlightenment ideals of revolutionary France, and there were a number of times Napoleon (and others) dismantled century old ‘Holy Cows’ in the name of modernity. Read more | What triggered the French Revolution? When the French invaded Malta they had ended the Hospitallers; a religious organisation founded in the Middle Ages. Napoleon also abolished another ancient organisation, the Holy Roman Empire, the argument being that it too was a remnant of a theocratic past incompatible with a new Europe. So it should therefore come as little surprise that once the French invaded Spain, it was Joseph Bonaparte who tried to abolish the Spanish Inquisition once and for all. However, Bonaparte was king of Spain from 1808 to 1813, which wasn't long enough to overthrow all the old ways. Consequently, by 1814 the inquisition was back in business. The last person to be killed by the Spanish Inquisition was a teacher in 1826, for suggesting so-called heretical ideas. The inquisition was officially abolished in 1834. The showdown at Waterloo was delayed due to rain With the battles of Quatre Bras and Ligny fought on 16 June 1815, and all the main forces still in roughly the same area, it would have been safe to assume that the next clash would be on the 17th. However, there were surprises in store for everyone. First of all, Marshall Ney, Napoleon’s right-hand man returned to Quatre Bras to fight the second round of this encounter… except that when he got there, he found that Wellington had largely moved on. The challenge then was to find the allied positions and engage. However, while a brief skirmish did take place between the British and French on the 17th, it quickly faded as the heavens opened and torrential rain lashed all the armies for hours. A year earlier, Wellington had been in this very region, and had recognised that a ridge with a reverse slope would be the perfect defensive position for a battle, should one ever take place in the area. Now was the time, and he positioned his forces both along and behind the ridge, located near the small Belgian town of Waterloo. Read more | How the French won Waterloo (or think they did) Wellington spent the night at a Waterloo inn, impatiently waiting for communication from the Prussian leader Blücher. It finally came at around 2am. After that, Wellington was wide awake and spent the rest of the night consulting with his officers and sending out orders. Blücher’s message had been delayed while he argued with his subordinate, Gneisenau, about how their forces could effectively work with Wellington’s. Blücher knew that a concentration of troops was the best bet to beat Napoleon; however, Gneisenau distrusted the British. Meanwhile, Napoleon was unusually indecisive. Grouchy had not advanced as fast as he’d hoped, and in the middle of the night Napoleon was seen going for a walk. He sent ambiguous orders to Grouchy who, instead of coming to his aid, continued to advance towards Wavre. Napoleon bedded down in a farmhouse and, in the morning, had fine breakfast with his officers. When they expressed concerns about Wellington – the only major allied general Napoleon had yet to face on the battlefield – Napoleon admonished them by saying: “Just because you have all been beaten by Wellington, you think he's a good general. I tell you Wellington is a bad general; the English are bad troops, and this affair is nothing more than eating breakfast.” On the morning of 18 June, Napoleon delayed the start of battle as he waited for the ground to harden after the downpour of the previous day. This, he believed, would make it easier to reposition his artillery, and would allow better conditions for cavalry movements. He gave Ney operational command and could be seen sitting in an armchair, miles from the front line. It seems that Napoleon had been, once again, struck down with illness, and his haemorrhoids made it impossible for him to remain in the saddle for the whole day. Waterloo was not the final battle against France Conflicts are messy. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that there is no neat ending to this period of warfare. Waterloo was undeniably the most pivotal battle of this campaign, and it shattered Napoleon’s authority – less than a week after the battle, Napoleon abdicated. But the fighting had been in Belgium, and the race was now on to get to the French capital to ensure an allied army was present to oversee the dismantling of Napoleonic power and the return of Louis XVIII. Read more | What is the significance of Waterloo? The French, however, didn’t see things in quite the same way. They had around 65,000 troops in the area [25,000 others had been killed or wounded at Waterloo, and 9,000 captured], and French General Vandamme led part of that army out to meet the approaching Prussians at a small town to the south of Paris. Wellington’s forces were also on their way, so quite what Vandamme was hoping to achieve is uncertain. He might not have been able to win in the long run, but in the short term he’d be damned if he’d allow Blücher to march to the capital without a fight. The allies had come in a southerly direction because Paris’s main defences had been constructed north of the Seine. The battle was a Prussian/French affair because Vandamme chose to attack Blücher, rather than Wellington. Battle commenced on 2 July 1815 around the town of Issy and the commanding heights of Meudon. That night a council in Paris discussed whether it was time to surrender; however, it was Davout, one of Napoleon’s most loyal and talented marshals, who dug in his heels and insisted that Vandamme should try to oust the Prussians from their position. The next day the French attacked the Prussians (who by now had barricaded themselves in) with artillery fire. Then the French infantry advanced. After fierce fighting, the French were driven back, only to regroup and try to break the Prussians once more. This attempt also failed, and for the rest of the day the French alternated between pounding the Prussians with cannon fire and then surging forwards with an infantry assault. But the French never threw everything they had into any assault. Vandamme, for reasons unknown, never fully committed to the battle, and because of this the Prussians were able to hold their positions (despite high casualties). Ultimately, the French were forced to retreat back to Paris. The Prussians pursued Vandamme’s retreating men, and some forward units even clashed with the French rear guard in the Parisian suburbs. This was quickly followed by a unilateral French ceasefire, and by now, Wellington had linked up with Blücher. Allied negotiators met French representatives at the Palace of St Cloud, chosen as a relatively neutral location. It was here that Paris formally surrendered in a hastily created document now rather formally known as ‘The Convention of St Cloud’. Ironically, the palace was destroyed by German troops the next time the Prussians attacked Paris, in 1870. In summary, the Napoleonic Wars are like most of history – a swirling mass of facts, with areas that simply don’t fit into an easy narrative. But they shaped the political and cultural landscapes from Egypt to Russia and from Argentina to Belgium. Today, their legacy reverberates throughout Europe and beyond. The above facts are abridged versions taken from Jem Duducu’s The Napoleonic Wars in 100 Facts (Amberley Publishing, 2015). Find out more, and you can also follow him on X (formerly Twitter) @JemDuducu This article was first published by HistoryExtra in June 2015
Admiral Lord Nelson: 10 days that created a legend
The iconic naval victories of Admiral Lord Nelson (1758-1805) made him a British hero. Quintin Colville and James Davey pick out the moments in Nelson's life that propelled him to greatness
9 April 1777: The ambitious teenager shows his potential Passing the lieutenant’s examination was a hurdle that everyone with ambitions to become a commissioned officer in the Royal Navy had to clear. Nelson was 18 years old when he appeared before the panel to be tested on diverse aspects of his service knowledge. Meeting with success, he wrote to his brother soon afterwards with the news that he had been appointed lieutenant on a frigate, the Lowestoffe. “So I am now left in [the] world to shift for myself,” he continued, “which I hope I shall do, so as to bring Credit to myself and Friends.” Perhaps chief among those friends was Nelson’s uncle, Maurice Suckling. A captain himself, and promoted to the important position of controller of the navy in 1775, Suckling had carefully guided Nelson’s youthful footsteps, finding commanding officers who would promote his advancement and broaden his operational experience. Indeed, the two ships in which Nelson began his naval service as a boy in 1771 – Raisonnable and Triumph – were both captained by Suckling. Six years later, this key supporter also sat on the board that examined Nelson for his lieutenant’s commission. Patronage was, of course, part of the bedrock of 18th-century British society, and Nelson was typical of the wider officer corps in seeking to benefit from a powerful contact. However, influence was rarely the sole basis of naval success. It was professional knowledge that the examination was designed to probe, and the patron who backed a dunderhead jeopardised his own reputation in the short or long term. 11 March 1787: Nelson marries into wealth and respectability The 10 years of peace that followed the American War of Independence put Nelson’s naval career on hold. In 1787 he married Frances ‘Fanny’ Nisbet, a young widow from a wealthy plantation family on Nevis (one of the Leeward Islands). Contemporaries described her as pretty and artistic, though intellectually unremarkable. Prince William Henry, the future William IV and a fellow naval officer, gave the bride away. Privately, the prince wrote more critically to Samuel Hood, saying “poor Nelson is over head and ears in love… I wish him well and happy, and that he may not repent the step he has taken”. Contrary to much subsequent opinion, the marriage was for many years a happy one. With Nelson often away at sea for long periods, the couple corresponded frequently, their letters showing an affectionate, if formal, relationship. The marriage was a good match for Nelson. Still young, without prize money and relatively unknown, it brought him a degree of respectability. It also offered the prospect of substantial wealth, for Frances stood to inherit a significant estate from her uncle. The newlywed couple spent the next five years in England, with Nelson periodically – and unsuccessfully – petitioning the Admiralty for a command. With the navy reduced to a minimum footing, there were too few active ships for even a promising naval officer. Residing over a hundred miles from London, in Norfolk, and seemingly forgotten by the naval establishment, he lived the life of a country gentleman, waiting for his opportunity. 1 February 1793: Nelson goes to war with the French More than any other event, the outbreak of war between Britain and France changed Nelson’s life. His career was seemingly going nowhere – but then, all of a sudden, the deteriorating relationship between the two nations transformed his prospects. Since the outbreak of the French Revolution in 1789, Britain had watched nervously as the political regime grew more extreme, and revolutionary armies marched across Europe. The French invasion of the Low Countries in late 1792 and the execution of Louis XVI in January 1793 heightened British fears. As the two nations edged closer to war, the British government began to mobilise its navy in preparation, and on 6 January 1793 Nelson was given command of the 64-gun ship Agamemnon. On 1 February 1793, France declared war on Britain, a turn of events that would be the making of Horatio Nelson. He was immediately sent to the Mediterranean, where he learnt from one of the most able commanders in the fleet, Lord Hood. In the following years, he saw service across the Mediterranean, and won a reputation as a promising officer. He was given his first independent squadron command, blockading the French and Italian coast, and supporting the Austrian army. Nelson also secured the attention of Admiral Sir John Jervis, the commander-in-chief of the Mediterranean fleet. Then, in April 1796, Jervis promoted him to the rank of commodore. In the following years, in the crucible of war, Nelson would go from being one of many hundreds of ambitious officers, to the nation’s greatest admiral. 14 February 1797: A high-risk manoeuvre pays spectacular dividends Nelson’s actions at the battle of Cape St Vincent saw him catapulted onto the national stage for the first time. On 14 February 1797, Sir John Jervis intercepted a Spanish fleet off the coast of southern Portugal. Nelson recognised that Jervis’s expansive tactical manoeuvre could not be completed, and that the enemy fleet would soon escape. He took his ship, the Captain, out of the line of battle and attacked the leading Spanish ships, closely followed by Culloden, under the command of his friend and rival Thomas Troubridge. An intense fight ensued; amid the broadsides, Nelson’s ship came alongside the San Nicolas. Seizing the opportunity, Nelson launched a daring boarding attempt, which forced the ship’s surrender. He then executed a successful boarding of a second Spanish ship, the San Josef, which had also become entangled. 5 facts you (probably) didn’t know about Nelson’s navy Nelson’s decision to take his ship out of the line was a risky endeavour. Had the action failed he could have faced a court-martial for disobeying orders. No one though, not least Jervis, could deny that he had played an important role in winning the battle: of the four ships captured, two had been taken by Nelson. Nelson took steps to ensure that his deeds would be read about across Britain. In a canny public relations exercise, he sent home his own account of the battle, which gave a dramatic description of his actions. As a result, his successes were widely reported in the press and, in recognition of his chivalry, he was made a knight of the Bath. 25 July 1797: A Spanish musket ball creates a one-armed icon A pinned and empty sleeve is as indicative of Nelson as a hand thrust into a waistcoat is of Napoleon Bonaparte. However, the events that led to this instantly recognisable injury are rather less familiar. Fresh from his dazzling exploits at the battle of Cape St Vincent, Nelson was given command of a squadron and ordered to capture Spanish merchant vessels, and their cargoes of bullion, at Santa Cruz on Tenerife. The first assault was directed at the forts to the east of the town and was a total failure. The second, led by Nelson himself, was a landing force of sailors and marines aimed at the town. It fared even worse, and the severe cost in casualties included the admiral. Nelson’s right arm was shattered by a musket ball, and his life may have been saved by the actions of his stepson, Josiah Nisbet, who staunched the bleeding with neckerchiefs used as tourniquets. Back on board his flagship, Theseus, Nelson’s arm was immediately amputated by the surgeon Thomas Eshelby on 25 July. His return to active command of the squadron was remarkably rapid, but a letter in the collections of the National Maritime Museum – the first he wrote with his left hand – reveals the despair and self-doubt that the injury provoked in him. Addressed to his superior, Admiral Jervis, it reads: “I am become a burthen to my friends and useless to my Country,” and continues: “I become dead to the World I go hence and am no more seen.” Horatio Nelson has gone down in history as the ultimate naval officer: a natural leader, an exceptional strategist, a figurehead determined to sail at the front of the battle. So what is his connection to the phrase 'turn a blind eye'? 21 May 1798: Disaster at sea provides a salutary lesson Nelson’s successes as a naval officer owed much to the professionalism of the institution in which he served, and his own concerted efforts to hone his knowledge and expertise. The latter involved plenty of mistakes but, crucially, he strove to learn from them. One of the most significant was an incident in 1798, when Nelson’s flagship, the Vanguard, was dismasted in a storm while serving in the Mediterranean. While the blame lay as much on his flag captain, Edward Berry, the incident served to highlight the questionable seamanship of both officers. Vanguard was towed to safety by the Alexander, whose captain, Alexander Ball, had reduced his sails during the storm, and so preserved his rigging. Coming only a year after his glorious actions at Cape St Vincent, and at a time when he had recently been promoted to rear-admiral, the incident threatened to severely blot Nelson’s professional reputation. He wrote a long, self-critical letter to his commanding officer, Lord St Vincent (formerly Sir John Jervis), taking full responsibility for the incident, and blaming it on his “consummate vanity”. He had learned an important lesson: while higher rank provided opportunities for fame and glory, an officer neglected his duties as a seaman at his peril. “I hope,” wrote Nelson, “it has made me a better officer as I believe it has made me a better man.” Just over two months later, Nelson would demonstrate this in the most dramatic manner possible. 1 August 1798: The Nile turns a British hero into a global superstar If the battle of Cape St Vincent had made Nelson famous, then his success at the battle of the Nile turned him into an international celebrity. After a long and frustrating search, Nelson finally tracked down a French fleet that had escaped from Toulon to Aboukir Bay in Egypt. The 13 French ships of the line that had escorted Napoleon’s army to Egypt lay anchored in what they believed was a strong position across the bay. Taking a calculated risk, Nelson ordered an attack. As the British ships approached, Captain Thomas Foley of the Goliath noticed that there was room on the landward side of the French line, and was followed by the next four ships. The remainder of the fleet attacked the French from the seaward side, doubling the attack on the enemy’s ships by assailing them from both directions. The battle raged into the night; French ships surrendered in turn, and by the following morning 11 had capitulated or been destroyed. Only two ships of the line had managed to escape. The battle of the Nile was Nelson’s most decisive victory. French naval power had been virtually removed from the Mediterranean, while Napoleon’s army was left stranded in Egypt. News of the battle crossed Europe: Haydn wrote the Nelson Mass, while the victory encouraged the formation of a second European coalition against France. The triumph was celebrated across Britain, where a vast array of commemorative material ranging from ribbons and pipes to domestic furnishings hailed Nelson’s achievements. 22 September 1798: Nelson embarks on his great love affair Nelson had encountered Lady Hamilton once before. Ordered to Naples in the summer of 1793, the then little-known captain of the Agamemnon was entertained at the residence of the British minister, William Hamilton, and his glamorous wife. By then, Emma Hamilton already enjoyed European fame as an artist’s model, a singer, and also for her ‘attitudes’: neoclassical tableaux vivants that she performed to immense acclaim. The 35-year-old officer was doubtless flattered by her company. A great deal had changed in the interval before their second encounter in 1798. As victor of the Nile, Nelson was now at the centre of the national and international stage himself. Emma realised that, following the crushing defeat of the French fleet in Aboukir Bay, his arrival in Naples was an unprecedented opportunity to enhance her own celebrity by association. She wrote him a letter of gushing adulation: “My dress from head to foot is alla Nelson… Even my shawl is in blue with gold anchors all over. My earrings are Nelson’s anchors; in short, we are be-Nelsoned all over.” When Nelson’s flagship, Vanguard, dropped anchor on 22 September, Emma made a dramatic appearance on deck where, in Nelson’s words, she “fell into my arms more dead than alive”. The love affair that followed was the defining relationship of his later years and – as Nelson grew ever more cold and distant to his estranged wife, Fanny – a goldmine for caricaturists. However, for Victorian commentators determined to find only a desire for duty and service burning in their warrior exemplars, it posed something of a challenge. Horatio Nelson’s letters to his lover Emma Hamilton offer an unparalleled insight into the mind of the naval hero. This is Nelson in his own words, and they reveal his thinking on everything from fame and politics to war and romance... 21 October 1805: Tragedy and triumph at Trafalgar The day that cost Nelson his life was the culmination of his professional career. On 19 October, word arrived that the combined French and Spanish fleets sheltering in Cadiz harbour were putting to sea. Shortly after daybreak on the 21st, Nelson saw the enemy masts crowding the horizon. The ensuing battle of Trafalgar was one that Nelson had been determined to engineer, and which he exploited as fully as possible. Nelson perfectly understood the altered realities of war in the Napoleonic era: in his words, it was “annihilation that the Country wants, and not merely a splendid victory”. His tactics – in part novel, in part adapted from precedent – were rigorously directed to that end, and had been communicated to his captains in the weeks before the battle. Nelson ordered his fleet to form two divisions. Sailing straight at the enemy line, these would smash through their formation, precipitating a close-range, pell-mell, and above all decisive engagement. Trafalgar, a futile victory? Why Nelson’s triumph didn’t turn the tide on Napoleon However, approaching at barely walking pace it took hours of nerve-shredding anticipation before the two forces met. Nelson spent some of that time composing a prayer in his private journal and adding a codicil to his will petitioning the nation to provide for Emma. When battle came, it unfolded much as he predicted. Nelson was struck by a musket ball at 1.15pm. The manner of his death later that afternoon – with triumph by then assured – might almost have been scripted by him too. The undress uniform coat he wore that day is, and will remain, a treasure of the National Maritime Museum’s collections. News of the battle, which took place on 21 October 1805, didn't reach the Admiralty until 6 November. So why did news of Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar take so long to reach England? <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2005/10/GettyImages-629457381-0d82b6a.jpg" width="4643" height="3058" alt="A painting by Louis Philippe Crepin depicting the battle of Trafalgar, 1805. (Photo by Universal History Archive/UIG via Getty Images)" title="A painting by Louis Philippe Crepin depicting the battle of Trafalgar, 1805. (Photo by Universal History Archive/UIG via Getty Images)" /> 9 January 1806: A nation venerates its fallen hero This was a day that cemented Nelson’s status as a national icon. News of Trafalgar had reached Britain in early November 1805, and jubilation at the victory was mixed with mourning for Nelson’s loss. George III approved a state funeral and, on 5 January 1806, the Painted Hall at the Royal Hospital in Greenwich was thrown open for the public to view Nelson’s coffin. On 8 January, a grand funeral procession began. Nelson’s body was carried upriver in a state barge to Whitehall Stairs. Surrounded by ceremonial craft, and with thousands thronging the banks of the Thames, it was a spectacle matched only by the events of the following day. Early that morning the coffin commenced its final journey – this time through the streets of London – mounted on a funeral carriage designed to resemble a warship. Its destination was St Paul’s Cathedral, and a service crowded with politicians and dignitaries. At its climax the coffin descended into the crypt, and a party of Victory’s seamen, tasked with placing one of the ship’s flags with Nelson, chose instead to tear off pieces as mementos. With war still raging against Napoleon, it is certain that the funeral’s ceremonial magnificence was stage-managed to stiffen national resolve. Nonetheless, it also revealed the wide and unforced social resonance of Nelson’s life and achievements. As Lady Bessborough recalled: “The moment the Car appear’d which bore the body, you might have heard a pin fall, and without any order to do so, they all took off their hats.” Dr Quintin Colville and Dr James Davey are curators of naval history at the National Maritime Museum. This article was first published in the November 2013 issue of BBC History Magazine
Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson: a rebel with a cause
British naval hero Horatio Nelson was a rebel, a lover and a leader, whose life was marked by victory at sea and scandal on shore. Julian Humphrys charts the course of his life
Britain has had its fair share of heroes, but very few have commanded the same affection that Nelson did. “We do not know whether we should mourn or rejoice. The country has gained the most splendid and decisive Victory that has ever graced the naval annals of England; but it has been dearly purchased. The great and gallant NELSON is no more.” With these words, The Times summed up the mood of the nation, for the news of Nelson’s death at the battle of Trafalgar was met with an outpouring of public grief that wouldn’t be matched until the death of Diana, Princess of Wales, nearly 200 years later. His loss was felt particularly keenly in the Navy. Admiral Collingwood, Nelson’s normally reserved second-in-command, wept at the news, while a boatswain’s mate on board Victory cried so much that he was unable to pipe the men to quarters. When Nelson’s coffin was taken for burial in St Paul’s Cathedral a few weeks later, huge crowds of mourners showed up to line the streets. Horatio Nelson early life and early career Horatio Nelson was born seven weeks prematurely, on 29 September 1758 in the Norfolk village of Burnham Thorpe, where his father was the parish priest. Although he was hurriedly baptised because nobody expected him to live, Nelson survived, but in 1767, when he was just nine, his mother died. It was an event that would leave a permanent mark on his personality. He developed into an engaging, impulsive boy with a strong religious faith who craved affection, attention and approval – characteristics that he would carry with him to his grave. In 1771, aged just 12, he joined the Royal Navy with the help of his uncle, Captain Maurice Suckling. He spent most of his teenage years at sea, sailing thousands of miles from the Bay of Bengal to the Arctic, and surviving not only a severe bout of malaria but also, if the stories are to be believed, a brush with a polar bear. Promoted to captain at the age of 20, Nelson spent eight years in command of a succession of frigates – fast, lightly armed warships that were the Navy’s eyes and ears. As they frequently operated independently, Nelson gained valuable experience in decision-making. Not that those decisions were always right. When the American War of Independence ended, he was given command of HMS Boreas and sent to the West Indies. He soon alienated the locals by overzealously enforcing a trade embargo with the newly independent colonies, and annoyed his superiors by lecturing them on their duty. General Shirley, the governor of Antigua, was unimpressed, replying “Old respectable officers of high rank, long service and of a certain life are very jealous of being dictated to in their duty by young Gentlemen whose service and experience do not entitle them to it.” He also mishandled a delicate situation involving the commander of HMS Pegasus, Prince William Henry (later William IV), who was involved in a dispute with his first lieutenant. Unwilling to alienate a potentially powerful patron, Nelson allowed the young prince to flout naval rules. This time it was the Admiralty who were unimpressed, and between 1788 and 1793, Nelson found himself lingering on half pay in England, and without any naval employment. While in the West Indies, Nelson had married Frances Nisbet, an attractive young widow he’d met on the island of Nevis. According to Prince William Henry, who gave the bride away, Nelson was “over head and ears in love”, but he privately doubted whether it would last, writing that he hoped Nelson “may not repent the step he has taken.” The couple spent the next five years in England together, much of it at Burnham Thorpe. Frances, who had lived all her life in the West Indies, hated the bitter Norfolk winters, while Nelson became frustrated as the years passed without a ship to command. Moreover, although Frances already had a son by her first marriage, the couple were still childless. Nelson enters the Navy Nelson’s years of inactivity ended in 1793 when war broke out with Revolutionary France. He was given command of a battleship, HMS Agamemnon, and sent to join the Mediterranean fleet under Lord Hood. It was Nelson’s big opportunity, and he was determined to seize it. “If it is a sin to covet glory,” he wrote, “I am the most offending soul alive.” In 1794, Nelson took part in the capture of Corsica. While fighting on land at Calvi he lost almost all the sight in his right eye when he was hit in the face by gravel thrown up by a French cannonball. It was the first of a number of serious wounds suffered by Nelson – proof that while his thirst for glory might expose the men under him to risks, they were risks that he himself was willing to take. In March 1795, Nelson took part in his first fleet battle, off Genoa, and gave the much larger Ça Ira such a pounding that she was easy prey to the British on the following day. The British had the upper hand, but when Admiral Hotham broke off the action after only two ships had been captured, Nelson was frustrated and angry. Nelson wasn’t interested in damaging the enemy; he wanted their complete annihilation and, as he would prove in the future, he was prepared to take risks to achieve it. The following year saw Nelson given command of a small squadron of ships off the Italian coast. He blockaded French-held ports and captured the islands of Elba and Capraia. These exploits earned him the respect of men like Sir John Jervis, the new commander of the Mediterranean fleet, but Nelson believed that his achievements were being ignored back at home. Nelson's famous battles and famous injuries The year 1797 gave him the opportunity to secure the public recognition he craved. On 14 February, Jervis took on the Spanish at Cape St Vincent. Displaying the kind of urgency so lacking in Hotham, he ordered his ships to make straight for a gap in the Spanish line, splitting the enemy fleet in two. Nelson played a leading role in the ensuing victory, taking his ship, the Captain, out of the line to thwart a dangerous Spanish manoeuvre. More was to come. When Nelson saw that two Spanish ships, the San Nicolás and the San Josef, had collided and become entangled, he brought the Captain alongside the San Nicolás and then led a boarding party to capture her before crossing her deck to seize the San Josef. It was a quite unprecedented feat. Nelson was well aware that none of this would have been possible without the support of his captains, and was quick to thank them. But he was equally quick to ensure that this time his actions were not overlooked. He wrote his own, unofficial, account of the battle and sent it for publication back home. It instantly captured the public imagination and made him a national hero. Five months later, Nelson suffered his worst ever defeat when he led a naval force in a disastrous land assault on Santa Cruz de Tenerife. A quarter of his men became casualties, and Nelson himself had his right arm amputated after it was shattered by a musket ball. Racked by guilt at the losses he’d incurred and in great pain from his wound, Nelson sank into a deep depression. His mood wasn’t helped by his belief that “a left-handed admiral will never be considered useful”. But Jervis stood by him, the wound eventually healed and, helped by the popular adulation he was now receiving, Nelson’s flagging spirits revived. The following April, he was sent to the Mediterranean with 13 battleships to hunt down the French. On 1 August 1798, he found their fleet anchored in Aboukir Bay and immediately prepared to attack. The battle that followed was Nelson’s most decisive victory. Whereas most admirals at the time looked to keep a tight control on their fleets, Nelson was the opposite. He trusted his captains implicitly and, after making sure they understood his plans, he allowed them the flexibility to decide how best to carry them out. It was a philosophy that paid dividends. When Captain Thomas Foley of the Goliath realised that the water between the French and the shore was deep enough to sail in, he led his ship down the landward side of the French fleet. Three other ships followed him while Nelson led a second attack down the seaward side. One by one, the French vessels were overwhelmed by superior numbers and gunnery and, with the wind against them, the ships at the other end of their line could do nothing but wait for their inevitable destruction. In the end, 11 out of the 13 French battleships were destroyed or captured. The victory secured British naval supremacy in the Mediterranean and left Bonaparte’s army stranded in Egypt. The nation went wild with delight. It seemed that the ‘Hero of the Nile’, as Nelson was now dubbed, could do no wrong. Horatio Nelson and Emma Hamilton Nelson had been wounded in the head during the battle, and he sailed to Naples to recuperate. Greeted as a hero and feted by the Neapolitan court, he stayed with the British ambassador, Sir William Hamilton, and Emma, his beautiful wife. What was initially intended to be a short visit lasted nearly two years, and cast a cloud over both Nelson’s personal life and his professional career. Neglecting his wider military responsibilities, he became increasingly embroiled in the murky world of Neapolitan politics. In doing so he found himself drawn into a vicious civil war, and his involvement in the execution of Francesco Carriacolo, a prominent republican leader, further tarnished his reputation. Eventually, Nelson was summoned home, having been pointedly told by Earl Spencer: “You will be more likely to recover your health and strength in England than in… a foreign court, however pleasing the respect and gratitude shown to you for your services.” And then there was Emma Hamilton. She nursed him back to health, they shared dangers together, and eventually became lovers. The desire for an unblemished hero led later generations to blame Emma for the affair, but the reality was more complicated. Nelson was certainly not innocent, and had already had at least one lover since his marriage to Frances. In any event, the attraction was more than sexual. Emma doted on Nelson, mothering him and encouraging him. They also seem to have shared a sense of humour. When Nelson was rewarded for his victory at the Nile with a barony rather than the viscountcy he thought he deserved, Emma wrote to him, “If I was King of England, I would make you the most noble, puissant Duke Nelson, Marquis Nile, Earl Alexandria, Viscount Pyramid, Baron Crocodile and Prince Victory.” The pair did little to hide their relationship, and soon it was the talk of a scandalised London. When Nelson returned to England with both the Hamiltons in tow, Frances demanded that Nelson choose between her and his lover. Nelson chose Emma, who by now was carrying his child. After arranging a generous financial settlement for her, he cut his heartbroken wife out of his life and refused to see her or even write to her again. The Naples affair had done Nelson’s reputation no good whatsoever. Many considered his infatuation with Emma undignified and ridiculous, while the Admiralty saw him as a loose cannon, not to be trusted. As a result, when a fleet was sent to Copenhagen in 1801 to break up an ‘armed neutrality’ among the Baltic States, the cautious Admiral Parker was given overall command with Nelson as his deputy. When negotiations with the Danes failed and the British resorted to force, it was Nelson who led the attack. It was a tricky battle. The Danes fought stubbornly, and some of Nelson’s ships ran into difficulties in the shallow waters. Parker hoisted a signal ordering a withdrawal. Nelson ignored it and continued the action, gaining the upper hand over the Danes and then securing a favourable truce. He returned home with his professional reputation restored, and for the next 18 months he spent much of his time with Emma, Sir William and his daughter, Horatia, in the house Emma had found for him in Merton. Nelson's death at Trafalgar When in May 1803 a brief peace with France came to an end, the stage was set for Nelson’s last campaign. For 18 months, Nelson, now commander of Britain’s Mediterranean fleet, blockaded the French fleet under Admiral Villeneuve in Toulon, but in February 1804 the French slipped away. Their plan was to create a diversion by threatening Britain’s Caribbean possessions before heading back to unite with other French and Spanish ships and sailing up the Channel to support an invasion. Nelson chased them to the West Indies, causing them to sail back to European waters where, blocked by Admiral Calder, they took refuge in Cádiz harbour. The invasion was cancelled, but the French and Spanish ships in Cádiz remained a threat, and Nelson was given the job of destroying them. After spending a breathless 25 days on shore with Emma, Nelson rejoined his fleet and on 21 October 1805, at Trafalgar, he won his last and most famous victory. HMS Victory lost 57 men that day. One of them was Nelson. The nation mourned a hero; those who knew him mourned a man. Contemporaries might smile at his vanity, frown at his love life, and worry about his impulsiveness, but it was impossible not to be inspired by this brave, earnest, passionate little man. Nelson was a true leader, warm and friendly to his brother officers and approachable to his men. Captain Duff of HMS Mars summed up the views of many people when he wrote: “He is so good and pleasant a man, that we all wish to do what he likes, without any kind of orders.” Want to learn more about Horatio Nelson's life and naval career? Here are some of our most popular articles... Admiral Lord Nelson: 10 days that created a legend Lord Nelson and slavery: Nelson’s dark side 5 facts you (probably) didn’t know about Nelson’s navy Julian Humphrys is a historian and battlefields expert This content first appeared in the January 2017 issue of History Revealed
Since his death in British custody on the island of St Helena in 1821, the claims that Napoleon Bonaparte was either murdered or spirited off the island have never completely gone away. Siân Rees examines these theories in detail, exploring the many deaths of Napoleon
“My death is premature. I have been assassinated by the English oligopoly and their hired murderer.” These were the spiteful words of Napoleon Bonaparte when he dictated his last will and testament in April 1821. One of history’s most accomplished manipulators, Napoleon was a man who took his vendettas to the grave. The day after his death in British custody on 5 May 1821, 16 observers attended the autopsy, seven doctors among them. They were unanimous in their conclusion: Napoleon had died of stomach cancer. Nevertheless, the doubts Napoleon had fomented about what ‘really’ happened have never quite gone away: did the British government hasten his death? Did French rivals slip poison into his wine? Was it even Napoleon who died in Longwood House in May 1821? For nearly two centuries, all these questions and more have been discussed, disputed and recycled. Born to a Corsican family of modest means in 1769, by 1811 Napoleon Bonaparte ruled 70 million people and dominated Europe. Four years later, his dynastic, political, imperial and military dreams were shattered and he was exiled to St Helena, a remote island in the South Atlantic, under British guard. There, until his death he and his cooped-up, fretful household lived in a rambling villa called Longwood House. A slow death That death did not come suddenly. For months Napoleon suffered from abdominal pain, nausea, night sweats and fever. When he was not constipated he was assailed by diarrhea; he lost weight. He complained of headaches, weak legs and discomfort in bright light. His speech became slurred. The night sweats left him drenched. His gums, lips and nails were colourless. Briefly, he got it into his head that he was being poisoned, but then he decided he had the same cancer that had killed his father, and that all medical help was useless. On 4 May 1821, he lost consciousness. On 5 May, news went out to a shocked world that the great man was dead – and the questions began. The first conspiracy theorist was the Irish doctor Barry O’Meara, who had been ship’s surgeon on HMS Bellerophon when Napoleon surrendered to her captain after the battle of Waterloo, and became Napoleon’s personal physician. O’Meara tended the ex-emperor for three years, until he made the bombshell claim that the British governor of St Helena, Sir Hudson Lowe, had commanded him to “shorten Napoleon’s life”. He was, unsurprisingly, sacked. Bad manners and a game of thrones: inside the court of Napoleon Bonaparte Sir Hudson was eminently well-cast as a sneering British villain, which is the version that has come down through history and, not by coincidence, the version that Napoleon wanted the world to believe. Napoleon had a cunning plan to escape St Helena by claiming its unhealthy climate was fatally weakening him, and using Dr O’Meara’s medical authority in support. O’Meara fell for his patient’s famous charm and obediently backed up his claims: in 1818, he accused Governor Lowe of attempting to hasten Napoleon’s death, and in 1822, he published a book claiming the British government had been determined to eliminate all possibility of another Napoleonic comeback. Many people suspected O’Meara was right, but nobody could prove it. No method yet existed to prove the presence of arsenic in a corpse, and Napoleon’s was, in any case, buried in four coffins and under a large slab of rock. If Napoleon had been murdered, it looked as if the killer had got away with it – until, that was, a pipe-smoking Swedish dentist came across the story some 100 years later and took up where O’Meara had left off. What if Napoleon had won the Battle of Waterloo? Professor Alan Forrest considers whether Napoleon's victory at Waterloo would have been enough to secure a remarkable return to power – or if it would only have delayed the inevitable... <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2010/09/GettyImages-804444342-38a4fe0.jpg" width="600" height="413" alt="Napoleon watches on as the fighting at Waterloo unfolds in this 1843 painting" title="Napoleon watches on as the fighting at Waterloo unfolds: in real history, the clash would leave his army routed (Photo by Historica Graphica Collection/Heritage Images/Getty Images)" /> Was Napoleon murdered? When the private papers of Napoleon’s valet de chambre were published in the 1950s, offering intimate accounts of the emperor’s final days, Dr Sten Forshufvud believed he had spotted a smoking gun. Of 31 symptoms of arsenic poisoning discovered by scientists since 1821, Napoleon presented 28, so Forshufvud asked a Scottish university to conduct a newly-invented arsenic-detection test. Neutron activation analysis (NAA) was carried out on hairs from Napoleon’s head dated to 1816, 1817 and 1818 – he was a prodigious gifter of locks – and revealed fatally high levels of arsenic in his system. O’Meara, it seemed, had been right: Napoleon had been murdered – but by whom? Why Napoleon merits the title 'the Great' Canadian bodybuilding millionaire Ben Weider (discoverer of the young Arnold Schwarzenegger) was arriving at the same conclusion by means of a different method. Convinced that Napoleon had been ‘done in’, Weider had combed the many memoirs written by members of the Longwood household for clues. When he and Dr Forshufvud collated evidence of the symptoms described in the memoirs and compared them with the peaks and troughs of arsenic absorption displayed by the NAA analysis, they believed they had evidence of doses administered at intervals over several years. Their uncompromisingly-titled book Assassination at St Helena also named a new suspect: Napoleon’s old companion Charles Tristan, marquis de Montholon, a shady character whose wife Napoleon had seduced, who was desperate to get off the island and who stood to gain personally from the will. The restored Bourbon kings of France (who had as much interest as the British in keeping Napoleon down) had (they claimed) threatened to make Montholon’s embezzlement of military funds public if he did not agree to slip Napoleon an arsenical Mickey Finn [a laced drink]. Was Napoleon poisoned with arsenic? This colourful theory did not convince everyone, however: even if arsenic had killed Napoleon, this did not mean someone had killed Napoleon with arsenic. In the 1980s the poisoning debate veered in a different direction, theorising that Napoleon could simply have absorbed enough arsenic from his environment to kill him off. A 19th-century house was saturated in arsenic: cosmetics, hair tonic, cigarettes, sealing wax, cooking pots, insect-repellent powders, rat poison, cake icing – all were toxic. When a Newcastle University chemist experimented on a scrap of Longwood wallpaper stolen by a 19th-century tourist, he discovered poisonous gases exhaled by a mould growing behind it could even have contributed to napoleon’s fatal decline. Later researchers tested hairs from Napoleon’s son; his first wife, the Empress Josephine; and 10 living persons, and concluded that Europeans in the early 19th century had up to 100 times more arsenic in their bodies than the average person living now. Inanimate guilty parties suddenly swarmed the crime scene. The ‘murder school’ was having none of it. For several years, the two schools of thought slugged it out with tests and counter-tests: the FBI, Scotland Yard, the Strasbourg Forensic Institute, the laboratories of the Paris police – all carried out tests, and all confirmed that high levels of arsenic had been present in Napoleon’s system, but still no one could definitely answer the question of how the poison had got there. Is Napoleon's tomb empty? Meanwhile, a second debate rumbled away in the background: substitution. The idea of the substitute emperor has been used in films and novels and certainly, Napoleon’s more besotted admirers were (and are) sure that he lived on – and that the man who died on 5 May was someone else. The most startling version of the substitution theories claims that Napoleon never went to St Helena at all: that a double was dispatched in his place while the ex-emperor retired to Verona and peaceably sold spectacles, until he was shot attempting to scale the walls of an Austrian palace to see his young son. Sadly, the tale has no documentary basis whatsoever. The year when fear of Napoleon stalked the land As Britain's military fortunes ebbed and flowed in the run-up to Waterloo, the public mood routinely swung from joy to horror and back again, writes Jenny Uglow... A second substitution theory revolves around Jean-Baptiste Cipriani, butler at Longwood until his death in February 1818 during a hepatitis epidemic, and buried nearby. The ‘Cipriani school’ claims that the British secretly dug up Napoleon’s body in the late 1820s for inexplicable reasons of their own. When faced with a French request in 1840 to disinter Napoleon and bring him back to Paris, the British therefore hurriedly dug Cipriani up and dropped him into Napoleon’s empty tomb. Why, the ‘Cipriani school’ has demanded, did the British officer in charge allow the French observers present to see the body only at midnight, by torchlight? Why would he not allow sketches to be made? Why was the coffin only opened for two minutes before it was shut up again and taken aboard the French frigate? Fake death masks, rotting socks, disappearing facial scars, the position of viscera-holding vases – the details claimed and denied are too many to go into here, but kept Napoleonic studies happy for years. In 1969, the bicentenary of Napoleon’s birth, a French journalist even published a deliberately sensational ‘appeal’ to the British: Anglais, rendez-nous Napoleon! (Give us back Napoleon!) His startling contention was that the British royal family had had Napoleon reburied in Westminster Abbey, the ultimate insult. The more prosaic truth is that Napoleon’s body (almost) certainly lies under the dome of Les Invalides in Paris. However, until French authorities allow the coffin to be opened for tests, theories will continue to swirl – some in respectable books and some in the more excitable corners of the internet – about the ultimate fate of one of history’s most fascinating characters. Siân Rees is author of The Many Deaths of Napoleon Bonaparte This content was first published by HistoryExtra in July 2016
Napoleon Bonaparte: facts about his life, death and career
Napoleon Bonaparte (1769-1821) is considered to be one of history's greatest military leaders. He rose to prominence during the French Revolution (1787–99) and served as emperor of France from 1804 to 1814, and again in 1815. Napoleon is remembered today for his role in the Napoleonic Wars (1803–15), and his defeat at the battle of Waterloo on 18 June 1815. But how much do you know about him?
When was Napoleon born? 15 August 1769, in Corsica. When did Napoleon die? 5 May 1821, on the Atlantic island of St Helena | Read more about what killed Napoleon What is Napoleon remembered for? Many things, but in particular his roles, which included Emperor of the French, during the Napoleonic Wars (1803–15), and his defeat at the battle of Waterloo on 18 June 1815. Who were his family? Napoleon was the second of eight surviving children born to Carlo Maria Buonaparte (1746–85), a lawyer, and Letizia Ramolino Buonaparte (1750–1836). The Buonapartes were minor Corsican nobility. Napoleon was twice married: to Joséphine de Beauharnais, from 1796–1810, and Marie Louise, [later known as Marie Louise, Duchess of Parma], from 1810–1821. His second wife bore him a son, Napoleon II. Napoleon acknowledged one illegitimate son, Charles Léon (b 1806), but may have had further unacknowledged illegitimate offspring. Napoleon's height: how tall was the French emperor? If there's one thing Napoleon Bonaparte is known for, it's that he was short – and very unhappy about it. But how tall was he really? What was Napoleon's childhood like? Although Napoleon’s parents were members of minor Corsican nobility, the family was not affluent. Educated at French military academies, which he attended on scholarships, Napoleon was poor compared to his classmates, who came from wealthy, well-connected families. Having grown up in Corsica, Napoleon’s first language was Italian, not French, and he was teased for allegedly sounding like a peasant. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2015/06/Blurry-872a682.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="General Bonaparte at Arcole, 17 November 1796', (c1797). From the Musee National, Chateau de Versailles. (Photo by Ann Ronan Pictures/Print Collector/Getty Images)" title="General Bonaparte at Arcole, 17 November 1796', (c1797). From the Musee National, Chateau de Versailles. (Photo by Ann Ronan Pictures/Print Collector/Getty Images)" /> When did he begin his military career? Aged 15, Napoleon was admitted to the elite École Militaire in Paris, but was forced to complete the two-year course in just one after his father died of stomach cancer, leaving Napoleon as the family’s chief source of income. He became a commissioned officer just after his 16th birthday. As war was about to break out across Europe, Napoleon was still a second lieutenant stationed in a sleepy garrison town, and went on leave to see his family in Corsica. What were Napoleon’s early achievements? In July 1792 Napoleon was promoted to captain in the regular army, and in 1796, having helped to suppress a royalist insurrection against the revolutionary government in Paris, he was made commander of the French army in Italy. Napoleon’s national profile was bolstered dramatically by his numerous critical victories against the Austrians and his marriage to Joséphine de Beauharnais, whose first husband, Alexandre de Beauharnais, was famously guillotined during the Reign of Terror, a period of violence following the onset of the French Revolution. In November 1799, Napoleon became first consul, and worked to establish a European empire under his military dictatorship. He centralised the government, reinstated Roman Catholicism as the state religion, instituted education reforms, and managed the creation of the Bank of France. When did Napoleon become emperor of France? Napoleon triumphed over the Austrians at Marengo in 1800, and then negotiated a general European peace (which established French power on the continent). In 1802 Napoleon proclaimed himself consul for life, and two years later he became emperor of France. How did Napoleon gain control over Europe? But the peace Napoleon had negotiated was short-lived – by 1803 Britain had resumed war with France, later joined by Russia and Austria. Britain’s naval victory at the battle of Trafalgar in 1805 forced Napoleon to abandon his plans to invade England, and he turned his attention instead to Austro-Russian forces, which he defeated at the battle of Austerlitz later that year in what is considered to be one of his greatest victories. Napoleon gained much new territory in the years that followed, which seemingly gave him control of Europe. The Holy Roman Empire was dissolved, and Napoleon's relatives and loyalists were installed as leaders in Italy, Naples, Spain and Sweden, as well as Holland and Westphalia – territories newly created by Napoleon. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2015/06/Blurry2-8e84f61.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="Joséphine de Beauharnais, the first wife of Napoléon Bonaparte (1763-1814) in 1801. Found in the collection of the Musée national des châteaux de Malmaison et de Bois-Préau. (Photo by Fine Art Images/Heritage Images/Getty Images)" title="Joséphine de Beauharnais, the first wife of Napoléon Bonaparte (1763-1814) in 1801. Found in the collection of the Musée national des châteaux de Malmaison et de Bois-Préau. (Photo by Fine Art Images/Heritage Images/Getty Images)" /> How did Napoleon's first marriage end? In 1810 Napoleon arranged for the annulment of his childless marriage to Joséphine, and married Marie-Louise, the 18-year-old daughter of the emperor of Austria. She gave birth to a son, Napoleon II (aka the King of Rome) the following year. Why did Napoleon go into exile? From 1810, the tide began to turn against Napoleon: France suffered several military defeats that drained resources, and in 1812 Napoleon oversaw the catastrophic failed invasion of Russia. France was forced to retreat, and of the original 400,000 frontline troops, fewer than 40,000 returned. Paris fell in March 1814, and Napoleon went into exile on the island of Elba, over which he was given sovereignty. Meanwhile, his wife and son went to Austria. How did Napoleon return to power? But in February 1815, after less than a year in exile, Napoleon escaped from Elba and marched on the French capital, and victoriously returned to power. This prompted Britain, Prussia, Russia and Austria to declare war. His success was short-lived: he governed for a period now known as the Hundred Days – a brief second reign brought to an end by the battle of Waterloo in June 1815. When and where did Napoleon die? Following his humiliating defeat at Waterloo, Napoleon was exiled to Saint Helena, where he died in 1821, aged 51, most likely from stomach cancer, though exactly 'what killed Napoleon' has long been a subject of speculation. Where is Napoleon buried? Napoleon was buried on the island and his remains were not returned to France until 1840. Napoleon’s remains are entombed in a crypt at Les Invalides in Paris, where other French military leaders are interred. This article was first published on HistoryExtra in June 2015
Helen Berry gives a lecture on the extraordinary story of an 18th-century foundling, George King
In a lecture she delivered at our 2019 Chester History Weekend, Helen Berry shares an extraordinary story from her book Orphans of Empire: The Fate of London’s Foundlings – of the 18th-century orphan George King, who was abandoned at London’s Foundling Hospital and went on to a remarkable life.
The battle of Trafalgar, hour by hour: what happened and why did Britain win?
Admiral Nelson spent 10 months hunting the French fleet. Finally, as it left Cadiz, he had his chance to destroy forever Napoleon's hopes of invading Britain. Tim Clayton describes the dramatic clash between 60 warships when in October 1805 the two sides met at last
Trafalgar was fought against a background of fear. An eight-year struggle with revolutionary France had ended in 1802 but war had broken out again in 1803. The undefeated French General Napoleon Bonaparte had been building up forces and constructing barges on the Channel coast. Spain reluctantly entered the war as an ally of France late in 1804. By spring 1805 Napoleon, newly crowned Emperor, had his Armée d’Angleterre poised for conquest. He launched an elaborate plan to lure British ships to the West Indies before massing his fleet in the Channel. The admiral entrusted with the operation, Pierre Villeneuve, succeeded in losing Nelson, then fought an inconclusive battle with a British squadron sent to intercept him off northern Spain. 7 things you (probably) didn’t know about the Napoleonic Wars Judging his ships too frail to continue on to Boulogne where Napoleon was waiting impatiently, Villeneuve fell back on Vigo and then to the Spanish naval base of Cadiz, a strongly fortified harbour where the fleet might be refitted. His decision was influenced by Admiral Gravina, his more experienced Spanish colleague, who had secret orders forbidding him from taking part in an invasion of Britain. Furious at the admiral’s failure to appear, Napoleon decided to strike instead against the Austrians and Russians who had made an alliance with Britain. In late August he commenced a lightning march that culminated in the tremendous French victory at Austerlitz on 2 December. By 28 September, when Nelson took command of the British fleet blockading Cadiz, the threat of immediate invasion no longer existed. Villeneuve’s fleet received new orders to sail into the Mediterranean. Even at Cadiz men and supplies were hard to find and it was October before the ships were ready to leave. Villeneuve knew that the Emperor was displeased with him and rumours of his imminent replacement had reached the press. However, the Spanish view and that of the French officers was to wait behind the defences of Cadiz, until bad weather provided an opportunity to put to sea without fighting. Trafalgar, a futile victory? Nelson's triumph didn't turn the tide on Napoleon, says Sam Wills Watching and waiting Nelson withdrew his fleet towards the Portuguese coast, leaving an advance squadron of frigates to watch Cadiz, and a chain of ships to pass their signals to him. Nelson expected the French and Spanish fleet to come out when the weather broke and urged maximum vigilance. If there was to be a battle, he had a plan and he explained it to all his captains over dinner on 29 and 30 September. Battle tactics of the 150 years prior to Trafalgar concentrated on “the line”. Ships of the line, large warships well-armed with guns down each side but vulnerable on bow and stern, would be arranged in line to stand and fight the enemy’s line by firing broadsides. Breaking the enemy’s line was becoming a standard British tactic. In the simplified version of Nelson’s plan employed on the day, the fleet fought in two divisions, one under Nelson, the other under Collingwood. Collingwood was at liberty to direct his own ships within the guidelines of the general plan. The divisions would approach in column in order to conceal the point of attack. To further confuse the enemy Nelson would probably steer for the foremost enemy ships. Then, using a signal created for the occasion, he would instruct Collingwood to manoeuvre into line abreast to attack the rear 12 ships of the enemy line. Each ship would seek to pass the stern of its opponent, raking her and then engaging from the leeward (the side furthest from the wind). Having led the enemy vanguard (or van, ships at the front of the line) to expect an attack, Nelson would actually break the line close to the centre, where he expected the enemy admiral to be. He had powerful three-deckers massed at the front of his line. Collingwood’s leading ships were also heavily armed. Together, Nelson and Collingwood would destroy the centre and rear of the enemy before the van could intervene to save them. These complex evolutions would show off the skill of the British seamen, whilst employing it to devastating effect. To minimise the time during which the approaching ships took enemy fire without being able to reply, the British would attack under full sail. Everything would be done at top speed. Why did Britain win at Trafalgar? The main reason why the British fleet won was the superior training and discipline of the crews. They had been at sea for years and most had been together in the same ship for at least two years. They knew their drills and worked as a team. While most French and Spanish ships had recent experience at sea and in battle, some Spanish ships had inexperienced crews who had only served together for a few weeks. There was no shortage of skilled seamen in British ships to make the instant corrections to speed and direction that enabled the ship to manoeuvre into an advantageous position. Nearly every duel involving manoeuvre during the battle was won by the British. The sole clear exception was the French Pluton’s victory over Mars. Having got into a position where more guns could be brought to bear, British gunnery was usually more effective. The rate of fire of most British crews was probably superior and they also had technical advantages. The casting of their guns and quality of their powder were both better. Fewer guns blew up and shot went faster. Most British ships were relatively heavily armed compared with their opponents. The replacement of long guns with heavy-calibre carronades on the quarterdeck, poop and forecastle of British ships gave them a great advantage in close range killing power. Finally, despite the weather, Nelson’s plan worked. Dumanoir was confused and the centre and rear were overwhelmed before the van could intervene. The race to engage the enemy On 2 October Nelson sent six of his best ships to Gibraltar for supplies. This proved the catalyst. Villeneuve’s latest information told him that Nelson had only 21 ships, giving the Franco-Spanish 33 an advantage that might be enough to balance their inferior training. With his honour impugned by accusations of cowardice and a hint from his friend Marine Minister Decrès that he should act fast, Villeneuve put to sea before his replacement arrived from Paris. Warned by his scouts, Nelson raced towards the Strait of Gibraltar, reaching it well ahead of the enemy whose favourable wind had faded away. The next day was rough, but the British frigates maintained contact while the fleet moved out to sea. At dawn on 21 October the British saw the Combined Fleet eleven miles away, approaching Cape Trafalgar and still heading for the Strait. During the night the wind had dropped away to almost nothing, and Nelson’s plan became much more dangerous, his ships advancing at walking pace being vulnerable to enemy fire for much longer. Nelson weighed up the odds, reckoning the westerly swell and the smoke of their own guns would reduce the accuracy of enemy gunnery. The country wanted an annihilating victory; Admiral Calder, who had fought Villeneuve in July, was court martialled for not pressing home his attack. Nelson decided he must fight. It was apparent to all that the leading ships would inevitably take heavy punishment. Nelson and Collingwood both chose to lead their divisions, setting an example to any captains who might now think that the plan had become too hazardous. Nelson: 10 days that created a legend Villeneuve anticipated that Nelson would attempt to break his line in more than one place and isolate groups of ships. He ordered 21 ships – to match Nelson’s strength – to form a defensive line of battle in close order, to absorb the shock of Nelson’s attack. Admiral Gravina, with 12 of the best ships, was to intervene wherever he thought most effective. With a shortage of skilled seamen and a surfeit of good soldiers Villeneuve intended to fight at even closer quarters than Nelson. His men had been trained to clear enemy decks and then board, turning the sea battle into a land battle. In this manner Rome had defeated the superior seamen of Carthage. Villeneuve’s first disquieting observation was that Nelson had 26 ships, not the 21 he had hoped for. One more, Africa, was approaching from the north, having got lost during the night. For tight manoeuvre lack of wind was even more of a problem for his own inexperienced seamen than it was for the British. The ships had great difficulty getting to their place in the line: there were gaps and overlaps. Seeing Nelson apparently threatening his rear, Villeneuve ordered the fleet to veer round, so that it now faced towards Cadiz. This created even more confusion in the line, especially in what was now the rear, where Gravina’s freedom to act was compromised by the entanglement of his ships with the rear of the line of battle. Gravina may have sought to use one of his two squadrons to extend the line to match Nelson’s while doubling up with the second, but the result was so confused that it is difficult to work out what he had in mind. Nine of the most overrated battles in history (and one underrated one) The battle: hour by hour 6.00 am At dawn the British see the enemy fleet 11 miles away. Nelson signals his ships to form in column and sail first east north east, then east. 8.45 am Villeneuve, commander of the French and Spanish Combined Fleet, has countered the threat to his rear by reversing direction. Collingwood signals to get into a line of bearing since lack of wind will stop them forming line abreast later. Nelson heads towards the enemy van, concealing his final point of attack. 11.45 am Villeneuve hoists his flag and orders his ships to open fire. As Victory comes under fire she replies and then changes course to starboard, running down the enemy line towards the centre. Unable to see through the smoke, Dumanoir, Villeneuve’s second-in-command, assumes the assault is still directed at him. 12.10 pm Collingwood’s Royal Sovereign breaks the line astern of Spain’s Santa Ana. Admiral Collingwood has broken the line too far forward, giving his ships more opponents than Nelson intended. 12.45 pm Victory passes the stern of France’s Bucentaure and collides with her Redoutable, punching a hole that is exploited by Britain’s Neptune and the ships following. In a neat manoeuvre Neptune, Leviathan and Conqueror deliver successive raking broadsides through Bucentaure’s stern. 1.15 pm Nelson is shot by a musketeer on Redoutable and is carried below mortally wounded. The French crew masses on deck to storm aboard Victory, but the British Téméraire, out of control, collides with Redoutable. Grape and cannister from her carronades and 18-pounders massacre the French crew. 1.30 pm Most of Bucentaure’s guns have been knocked over or masked by fallen rigging. Villeneuve signals to his van ships to turn round. He tries to sail from danger but the ship will not respond. He finds all the boats shattered by shot. He surrenders a quarter of an hour later. 1.45 pm Dumanoir finally orders his ships to turn back. In the light winds they have difficulty reversing direction and it is half an hour before Captain Hardy on Victory responds with a signal to Nelson’s ships to come to the wind on the port tack. 2.20 pm About this time enemy ships Santísima Trinidad, Redoutable, Fougueux, Santa Ana, Algésiras and Monarca all surrender. The battle in the centre is clearly going in favour of the British. Admiral Gravina, who leads the Spanish fleet, is wounded. 3.00 pm Belleisle, the only British ship in serious danger of defeat, is rescued. Argonauta (Spanish), Swiftsure (French), and Bahama (Spanish) surrender. The area to the rear of centre is collapsing. 4.30 pm Another six ships have surrendered. Dumanoir ceases fire and steers away towards the Straits of Gibraltar; Gravina hoists signal for ships to follow him and makes for Cadiz. According to Victory’s log this was when Nelson died. 5.30 pm Intrépide (French) and Neptuno (Spanish) have surrendered. France’s Achille blows up. The advance into battle Once Villeneuve had reversed order, Collingwood found himself, as intended, opposite the enemy rear. Realising that in very light wind the dramatic showpiece evolution into line abreast was impossible Collingwood signalled his captains to form a line of bearing, effectively producing a diagonal row of ships facing forwards. It was a very ragged line: the ships approached in groups, moving as fast as they could. Slower ships were left behind, while one or two may not have been moving quite so swiftly as they should. As Collingwood raced ahead, Nelson led his roughly formed column towards the enemy van. Most crews took some form of early lunch. At 11.45 with Collingwood’s Royal Sovereign within close range, Villeneuve ordered his ships to open fire and hoisted his flag, finally revealing his position. Collingwood’s leading ships took heavy fire as they came in. Nelson continued to steer towards Admiral Dumanoir, commander of the Franco-Spanish van. Some time after his own ship came under fire he replied with his starboard (the right side looking forward) broadside, then he turned his ship towards Villeneuve’s and sailed down the enemy line towards him, gradually closing with it. Successive British ships, including the approaching Africa maintained Dumanoir’s impression that he was under attack. Soon after midday Collingwood broke the line and took on the Spanish three-decker Santa Ana. Since this was not the 12th but the 16th ship from the rear, he gave the captains following a tougher task than had been intended. Belleisle broke through and was surrounded by several ships. Mars was prevented from breaking the line and then disabled by France’s Pluton, her captain killed. But the leading ships held out. Eventually, as more British ships joined the untidy melee, they overwhelmed the enemy, capturing or driving off the French and Spanish ships. Victory had taken severe casualties and was barely under control when she passed the French flagship Bucentaure and collided with Redoutable, punching a hole in the line. Neptune led Leviathan and Conqueror through the gap and they completed the destruction of the French flagship and the mighty Spanish Santísima Trinidad. The battle between Victory and Redoutable was typical of several close fights. Redoutable’s men cleared Victory’s decks with grenades and small arms fire. Nelson was one of the last officers to fall; unlike luckier colleagues, he was fatally wounded. A ball fired from the mizen top lodged in his spine and for three hours he lay dying, his lungs filling with blood. Having cleared Victory’s top deck, Redoutable’s crew massed to board but at that moment the British ship Téméraire crashed into Redoutable’s other side; a volley from her 32-pounder carronades massacred the French crew. Dumanoir turned his ships too late. In the light winds they had great difficulty going about. Those that tried to save their admiral were cut off and defeated. Dumanoir sheered off towards Gibraltar, while the wounded Gravina led those ships that could escape back to Cadiz. Towards sunset the French ship Achille blew up, bringing the battle to a close. Collingwood now commanded 44 ships, many riddled with holes and with no masts. He had 10,000 prisoners, many wounded. A strengthening wind was blowing towards a rocky shore and the barometer was plummeting. Nelson had ordered the ships to anchor but Collingwood cancelled this. By morning they were strung out in deteriorating weather. In the afternoon one prize sank and one drove ashore. Three French ships were recaptured and several Spanish ships headed for Cadiz, British prize crews combining with the Spanish or French to keep the ships afloat. Q&A: Why did news of Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar take so long to reach England? On 23 October the French and Spanish sallied from Cadiz and recovered Santa Ana and Neptuno. Algésiras, Aigle and Bucentaure also escaped, though Bucentaure was wrecked off Cadiz. Collingwood took the ships he had with him north to meet them, but they returned to Cadiz. That night in Cadiz Bay fierce gusts of winds dismasted three ships and drove two ashore. Collingwood feared that more prizes might escape. Most of the ships were now in relatively safe open water to the north of Cadiz but some were anchored dangerously close to the shore south of Chipiona. Collingwood decided to take the men off the remaining prizes and then sink them. British crews went out in boats in towering seas to take their erstwhile enemies from ships that were, in several cases, just about to founder. The storm reached its height on the night of 24 October and continued at fearsome intensity for more than 24 hours. The French Indomptable sank in Cadiz Bay with around 1,000 drowned. Five more ships were wrecked on shore. The storm caused almost as many deaths as the battle. The Britons who survived the wreck of their prize were treated with generosity by the local population, who were shocked by the scale of the disaster and grateful to the British for their efforts in saving lives. The Spanish predicted the destruction of the British fleet. It is a tribute to British seamanship that none of these ships foundered. In the end the British brought four badly damaged prizes into Gibraltar, but the storm completed the work of the battle and the enemy fleet was more or less destroyed. Historian and writer Tim Clayton is co-author, with Phil Craig, of Trafalgar: The Men, the Battle, the Storm (Hodder and Stoughton, 2004) This article was first published in the October 2005 issue of BBC History Magazine
A visit to HMS Victory, Nelson's flagship at Trafalgar
Laid down in the 18th century, Nelson’s flagship at the 1805 Battle of Trafalgar is the oldest naval vessel still in commission. Take a glimpse inside with BBC History Revealed…
Portsmouth’s Historic Dockyard houses a wealth of treasures for naval fans – from the Victorian battleship HMS Warrior to the National Museum of the Royal Navy. One of its most treasured attractions holds the btitle of the world’s oldest naval ship still in commission as well as arguably being the most famous British warship: HMS Victory. The Victory was ordered in 1758 as part of a plan by British Prime Minister William Pitt the Elder to create a new fleet of ships, of which the Victory would be the largest. Designed to carry 100 guns, the name was chosen with some apprehension – the previous Victory had been wrecked in the English Channel in 1744. Around 6,000 trees were used to build the Victory, which was launched on 7 May 1765 from Chatham Royal Dockyard. The dock gates had to be hewed down as the ship, at 51 feet wide, was too big to fit through. Britain didn't "rule the waves" after the battle of Trafalgar, says historian Sam Willis History explorer: HMS Victory and the Georgian navy What is the significance of Waterloo? The ship was put in reserve, as Britain was not involved in any conflicts at the time. That changed when France became involved in the American War of Independence in 1778. The vessel was swiftly mobilised and, in March 1778, put into active duty as the flagship of Admiral Augustus Keppel for the First Battle of Ushant – a skirmish between British and French forces, just off the island of Ushant, close to Brittany. The clash ended indecisively. The Second Battle of Ushant in 1781, in which the Victory also took part, was more successful: in that instance, the British fleet managed to capture 15 French ships and more than 1,000 soldiers who were part of a convoy sending supplies to the West Indies. The following year, the ship successfully escorted a supply convoy through a French and Spanish blockade during the Great Siege of Gibraltar. The Anglo-Spanish War – part of the French Revolutionary Wars – would see the Victory’s next battle as the flagship of Admiral Sir John Jervis. At the Battle of Cape St Vincent in 1797, the British forces defeated the Spanish who. vastly outnumbered them. On her return to Britain, the Victory was found to be in urgent need of repair, and so she was earmarked for conversion into a hospital ship for French and Spanish prisoners of war. The refit didn’t take place: soon after HMS Impregnable was lost in 1799, and the admiralty found itself short of a first-rate ship of the line. The Victory underwent an extensive restoration to make it fit for active service once more. By 1803, it was ready to face its greatest test. None of its previous battles come close to the Victory’s most triumphant hour – the 1805 Battle of Trafalgar. On 19 October. 1805, French Admiral Pierre- Charles Villeneuve sailed his fleet from the Spanish port of Cadiz, bound for Naples. Two days later, close to Cape Trafalgar in southwest Spain, the British, commanded by Horatio Nelson aboard the Victory, met him in battle. In a risky move, Nelson split his fleet into two, causing confusion amongst the enemy and winning a decisive victory. Nelson’s unusual tactics saw 22 French and Spanish ships captured or destroyed, while the British did not lose any. Trafalgar would be Nelson and the Victory’s last major glimpse of battle – while leading the attack, Nelson was fatally shot through his left shoulder blade, the musket ball breaking his spine. He was carried below and heard the battle was won before taking his last breath. After Trafalgar, the Victory was recommissioned in 1808 to lead the fleet in the Baltic but by the 1830s, it had been relegated to a stationary flagship for the Royal Navy. In 1922, the ship was placed in dry dock to be repaired and restored to how it would have looked during Nelson’s time. Portsmouth was heavily bombed during World War II, with an air raid causing some damage to the ship, although much of the Victory that Nelson would have known has miraculously survived. This article is taken from the August 2019 issue of BBC History Revealed
Britain didn't "rule the waves" after the battle of Trafalgar, says historian Sam Willis
The battle of Trafalgar is today remembered as "one of the greatest naval clashes in history" – but how much does this claim stand up to scrutiny? Historian and broadcaster Sam Willis offers a provocative take on one of the Royal Navy's finest hours
The battle of Trafalgar is today remembered as "one of the greatest naval clashes in history" – but how much does this claim stand up to scrutiny? In his article 'Trafalgar: a futile victory?' – available in the August issue of BBC History Magazine – historian Sam Willis argues that Trafalgar was not defined by the strength of the British navy, but instead by the death of its greatest naval hero: Horatio Nelson. “British naval dominance wasn’t the reason that Trafalgar became famous,” writes Willis. “The events of October 1805 were celebrated both for the sheer scale of the battle and for the fact that it was all wrapped up in the story of the death of Britain’s greatest naval hero. Nelson’s funeral was a national show, only comparable to that of Princess Diana in 1997.” Trafalgar, a futile victory? Why Nelson's triumph didn't turn the tide on Napoleon Why did news of Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar take so long to reach England? 9 of the most overrated battles in history (and one underrated one) What happened at the battle of Trafalgar? The events of Trafalgar are well known, with the British victory remaining a landmark in naval history more than 200 years later. It took place in 1805 during the Napoleonic Wars (c1801–1815), a series of conflicts between France and other European powers. In May 1805, Britain’s nemesis – the French emperor Napoleon – had recently been crowned king of Italy in Milan. He was determined to dominate Europe, but faced opposition from the Third Coalition (Britain, Russia and the Holy Roman Empire). Listen | Sam Willis discusses the battle of Trafalgar and challenges misconceptions about the importance of the battle in the war against Napoleon On 21 October 1805, 33 of Napoleon’s ships faced off against 27 British vessels to the west of Cape Trafalgar, Spain. It was a resounding victory for the British Royal Navy, who – under the command of national hero Admiral Lord Nelson until his death part way through the battle – annihilated Napoleon’s combined Franco-Spanish fleet and halted his plans to conquer Europe. “One of the greatest naval clashes in history” The numbers involved at the battle of Trafalgar were remarkable, with the total firepower of both armies amounting to more than 13 times those fought with at Waterloo, fought ten years later. “The British fleet had 2,148 guns; the French and Spanish 2,632. Nelson’s Victory had 821 people on board; the British fleet approximately 17,000 and the French and Spanish 30,000,” explains Willis. “This is why Trafalgar rightly stands as one of the greatest naval clashes in history.” But, the historian argues, the decisive British victory had less of an impact than might be expected. “Don’t get me wrong, Trafalgar was a significant victory,” he writes. “It strengthened considerably Britain’s hand in the Napoleonic Wars. Perhaps the biggest dividend of Nelson’s triumph was the removal of Spain as a naval power.” The situation on land, however, “went from bad to worse” in the immediate aftermath of the battle. And just a few weeks later, Napoleon won “the greatest of all his military victories” at the battle of Austerlitz. What killed Napoleon Bonaparte? 7 things you (probably) didn’t know about the Napoleonic Wars Napoleon Bonaparte: facts about his life, death and career And did Britain really ‘Rule the Waves’ following its success at Trafalgar? “Not really,” suggests Willis. “The entire French Brest fleet took no part at all in the battle, and there was another unscathed squadron in Rochefort. “In fact, if you’re searching for the British action that inflicted the greatest damage on Napoleon’s navy, you may have to look beyond not just Trafalgar but fleet battles altogether, and consider other types of naval operations.” Sam Willis is a historian, archaeologist and broadcaster who has presented TV series for the BBC and National Geographic. You can read his full argument in the August issue of BBC History Magazine – now on sale or available online for magazine subscribers. Rachel Dinning is Digital Editorial Assistant at HistoryExtra.com.