Mrs. Hugh Fraser

Naples in Anarchy—Entrance of Austrians—Murat’s Repulse by Napoleon and by Louis—His Demon of Ill-luck—Ship-wrecked—Aid in Corsica—Emperor of Austria’s Proposal—Attempt Against Naples—Murat Betrayed into Ferdinand’s Hands—Murat’s “Trial”—Letter to His Wife—Before His “Judges”—A Brave Death—Ferdinand, the “Butcher King.”

No sooner was Caroline on board than the city broke out again and anarchy reigned, until the Austrians sent in some troops in answer to the frantic appeals of the magistrates, and these, with the British marines, set upon the mob, killing a hundred or more of the worst of them before order was restored.

The riot and the subsequent slaughter had apparently no effect upon the people’s feelings, for on the very next day they illuminated the city gorgeously and the sound of their merriment could be heard out at sea. All the ships in the harbour were dressed, even that one which sheltered Caroline and her followers, and on the 23d the Austrians entered with Crown Prince Leopold of Bourbon at their head, who graciously acknowledged the howls of the crowd. Everything that suggested Murat—flags, statues, pictures—was destroyed, and Caroline, from the deck of the British ship, watched the general jubilation over her husband’s fall.

Joachim, passing Gaeta, saw his standard still flying from that fortress, and, even then, would have landed and joined the garrison had he been permitted to do so, but the port was blocked up with vessels and he was forced to proceed on his way.

He reached FrÉjus on the 28th of May, but, as the shore became clearer and the outline of the coast grew into the horizon, the hopes with which he had left Caroline began to weaken, and he became oppressed with a sense of helplessness, seeming to feel that he was struggling against hopeless odds. The sight of the country he had once served so well, and where his name had been a household word—he was known as “the Achilles of France”—struck chill upon his heart. He had loved his mistress, and had never counted the cost, but he had sided against her, too, and, as he well knew, a country, like a woman, forgets a thousand acts of devotion in the face of one affront. He had no friends there any more, save, perhaps, his brother-in-law; but Napoleon had a woman’s memory for past wrongs, too, and, though his letters had been full of affection while the issue of his own attempt was still problematical, now that he had succeeded, he could repay to the uttermost farthing.

He might need Murat to lead the cavalry—nay, as it seemed, he must need him, for he could not, surely, allow a personal spite to prevent him from using that weapon of weapons when the hilt of it was held out to him! Murat was not the only one, either. Ney had sworn to bring the Emperor back in a cage like a wild beast—and he had taken Ney to his heart as soon as they met. Marmont had deliberately gone over to the enemy—taking his corps with him. Indeed, of all Napoleon’s former adherents it might be said that only Soult had proved to be the true mettle, for he had not laid down his arms till after the Emperor had descended from the throne, and he had fought his last fight, with as high a courage and as steadfast a heart as his first.

Soult had never surrendered, nor had he ever allowed it to be said that force of arms had compelled him to submit to the Allies. He had obeyed the decision of his countrymen, and that was all.

The evil days upon which he had fallen had eaten into Murat’s self-confidence badly, and he dared not even proceed to Paris, but remained at Toulon. From there he wrote to FouchÉ, whom he still imagined to have kindly feelings towards him—FouchÉ—because in his prosperity he had befriended him.

“You know,” he wrote, “the motive and the result of the war in Italy. Arrived in France, I now offer my arm to the Emperor and trust that Heaven may allow me to atone for the disasters of the King by the success of the Captain.”

FouchÉ presented the letter to Napoleon without comment, and the latter read it. “What treaties of peace have I concluded with the King of Naples since the war of 1814?” he asked, handing it back, and FouchÉ bowed himself out.

Murat remained at Toulon, growing daily more hopeless, although the inhabitants treated him with great respect. But he had passed the point where the respect or otherwise of private citizens could affect him. Then came Waterloo, and the South of France took on the political aspect of the unhappy kingdom which he had just quitted. The Monarchists rose and smote out right and left, massacring their political opponents and looting everything that those unfortunates left behind them. Marshal Brune, who had previously been sent by the Emperor to maintain order in the South, was torn to pieces by a mob, and Joachim was forced to hide himself as best he could from the “White Terror,” which was overrunning the land.

From his hiding-place, he wrote again to FouchÉ, but that adaptable gentleman was now Minister to Louis XVIII, and vouchsafed no answer. FouchÉ was one of those human chameleons that fit themselves into any colour-scheme, and all the wars, plots, revolutions, and Armageddons of the past years had passed him by. He had just succeeded in betraying Wellington, to whom he had promised Napoleon’s plan of campaign, by sending the plans and then taking steps to see that the messenger was delayed long enough on the frontier to make the delivery of them useless; and now he was more monarchist than the poor old monarch himself, hunting out his late associates mercilessly. Murat begged for a passport to England, but no notice was taken of his appeal. In despair and having escaped, by what seemed to be a miracle, from the hands of the Marquis de la RiviÈre, who owed his life to Joachim’s favour, he wrote to Louis himself, requesting FouchÉ to deliver his letter. But FouchÉ sent no word, and no answer came from Louis, who probably never saw the letter at all; and, seeing no other hope for him, Murat resolved to go to Paris and place himself in the hands of the Allied Sovereigns. They could not, in reason, blame him for doing to them that which they had all, at various periods during the past twenty years, done to one another. He had been a great figure—a greater figure than any of them. They had now no reason for betraying his confidence; and they were neither vengeful nor bloodthirsty. He would be safer with them than among his own countrymen. His idea was to travel by sea—for to attempt a land journey would have been something not far removed from suicide—to Havre de GrÂce, whence he could make his way to Paris with little risk. So, having made arrangements for a vessel, and chosen a wild and unfrequented part of the coast and a dark night for his embarkation, he set out.

But the vessel, for some reason or other, did not arrive at the spot that night and Murat was compelled to retire among the rocks and vineyards for shelter, and here he remained, hoping against hope, until the darkness gave way to the summer dawn, and the light from the faint topaz-coloured east on the waters showed nothing that looked like the craft he had bargained for.

Perhaps it was meant, that crushing disappointment, for there is no saying, in the light of the conditions which reigned at the Capital, whether he would ever have reached the Sanctuary of the Allies at all. The White Terror, a plague as fierce and irresponsible as the Red one of a quarter of a century earlier, was raging uncontrolled and uncontrollable, and the deeds of Murat, as King of Naples in 1814, would not have counted then, for the Emperor’s broken Marshal. FouchÉ’s agents very nearly caught him that time, and he had to fly from cover to cover like a hunted hare; but he escaped from them, and a while later slipped away in a little ship that was bound for Corsica.

Even now the demon of his ill-luck, still unsatiated, continued to pursue him, for after two days a storm overtook them which forced them to lower their single, three-cornered sail, and let the boat run under bare poles for a day and a half, at the end of which time, when the little ship was filling rapidly, they were picked up by the Corriera, on her way to Bastia. A large French vessel which they had spoken a few hours earlier had refused to have anything to do with them, and when this other one, more charitable, came alongside, Murat, uncovering his face, told the Captain his name.

“A Frenchman,” he said. “I speak to Frenchmen, and, nearly shipwrecked, I ask aid from those who are themselves out of danger.”

Greatly to his surprise and his gratification, he was treated with every honour and welcomed on board as a king, and, the next day, he landed at Bastia.

He had come at a moment when Corsica was in the throes of a civil war of its own, between the followers of the Bourbons, the adherents of Napoleon, and a party who, sitting on the fence between, called themselves Independents. Many of Murat’s old-time companions-in-arms had been natives of Corsica, and, the Napoleonists and Independents being in the majority, they called upon Joachim to help them crush the remainder and rule over the island afterwards. This was the sort of invitation which the fiery cavalryman was always only too ready to accept, and his heart soared into the heavens!

One begins to understand the reason why Napoleon could hold all Europe down, when one reads the adventures of Murat and Ney and Soult. Even when the Great Force behind them was removed, and they were struggling single-handed, while the least and weakest chance remained to continue fighting, they would fight. They never counted the odds, they never parleyed with a compromise, repeated defeats never cooled their courage; they would follow as hard upon the faintest ray of hope as they had galloped into the blazing sunlight of an assured victory.

It was not long before Joachim became the object of the deepest suspicion to such authorities as still remained in Corsica and he removed himself to Vescovado, and thence to Ajaccio, with the enthusiastic assistance of the discontented element in the island. Once more, under the action of the popular support, he began to feel a king, and frequently remarked that, if strangers rallied to him in this fashion, the Neapolitans might be expected to rise en masse at his appearance. “I accept it as a happy augury!” he exclaimed.

It seems incredible that, after his experience among them, Joachim should have an illusion left about his late subjects. But he evidently had, and he determined to descend upon Salerno, where three thousand of his former troops were quartered. They were, he was sure, discontented with the Bourbons—being what they were, they were bound to be discontented with any sort of established authority—and with these he expected to march towards Avellino, increasing his following as he went, throwing a panic into the capital before him; in fine, repeating the Napoleonic performance, and seating himself firmly upon the throne before the Austrians could descend upon him.

He had completed his arrangements, when he received a letter from Maceroni, informing him that the latter was upon his way to Ajaccio, and that he was bringing good news with him.

He waited a day for him, and Maceroni, when he appeared, presented Murat with a note written in French:

It was signed by Metternich, and dated from Paris, on the 1st of September.

But Joachim, in spite of his friend’s entreaties, would have none of it.

“Quem Deus vult perdere, prius dementat.” Joachim’s soul was aflame now and he spoke contemptuously of the offer.

“A prison, then,” he cried, “is to be my asylum! A prison is a tomb, and nothing remains for a King who has lost his throne but the death of a soldier. You have come too late, Maceroni. I have already determined on my fate.... If I fail, imprisonment must be the natural consequence, but I will never consent to drag out the miserable remnant of my days in slavery. Bonaparte resigned the throne of France, yet he returned to it in the same way which I now attempt.... I have not resigned my throne or forfeited my right, therefore a fate worse than imprisonment would be contrary to human justice; but be assured that Naples shall be my St. Helena!”

On the night of the 28th of September, the forlorn hope embarked at Ajaccio. The weather was mild and clear, the sea calm, and both the troops and their leader happy and confident. They did not know that Ferdinand had had intelligence of every move that Joachim had made since his landing in Corsica, through one of Joachim’s own servants, a man of the name of Cabarelli. This man, who owed everything that he possessed to Murat’s kindness, accosted him at Ajaccio, and, while offering himself to his old master’s service, begged him not to attempt the crazy enterprise. In this he was acting according to his orders, for the Neapolitan Government was frightened; but, having discovered, doubtless from Joachim’s own rash words, that he was bent upon the affair and would allow nothing to stop him, Cabarelli forwarded to his employers Joachim’s entire plans, preparations, and movements.

The only thing that he did not learn was the destination of the little force, and the lack of that knowledge prevented Ferdinand from taking any steps towards dealing with Joachim when he should arrive. Ferdinand was afraid, too, of any rumour spreading, for Murat had still many friends in the Kingdom and he, Ferdinand, had none.

For a week all went well with the expedition, but on the seventh day a storm arose which lasted for three days and which scattered the little fleet hopelessly. Joachim’s boat chanced to find its way into the Gulf of Santa Eufemia, and Joachim, after some hesitation, resolved to stake all upon the throw and land at Pizzo, with the twenty-eight men remaining to him.

This was on the 8th of October. It was a festa and, in consequence, the militia were paraded in the market place, when the party came ashore. No sooner were these on land than they raised Murat’s standard and advanced upon the town, shouting, “Long live King Murat!”

But there was no response and the onlookers remained silent. It was as though a cold mist had settled upon the sunny morning, and Murat hastened on to Monteleone, where he trusted to the gratitude of the citizens for many favours which he had done them in the past. But two Bourbon adherents—a certain Captain Trentacapilli and an agent of the Duke dell’ Infantado—hastily collected a following of men and weapons and met Joachim on the road, where they opened fire upon him.

He, however, did not return their fire, but only saluted them, whereupon, taking heart from his inaction, they fired again, killing one and injuring another of his followers. The remainder prepared to defend themselves, but Joachim prevented them.

Now a crowd began to collect, and very soon the only avenue of escape for Joachim was by the steep cliff, down which he ran, hailing, as he arrived upon the beach, his ship, which was still but a little distance from the land. His captain, Barbara, though—another upon whom Joachim had lavished every sort of kindness and whom he had raised from nothing at all to the rank of a Baron—paid no heed to him and sailed away with the booty which he had on board.

Then Joachim, despairing at last, attempted to make his escape in a small skiff which lay on the beach; but it was too heavy for him to move, and the next moment Trentacapilli and his rabble were upon him, striking him in the face and tearing off the jewels which he wore upon his cap and breast, and bellowing their insults at him while he was being led up to the grey, straggling castle; and only when he was inside the gates and out of sight did their howling cease.

A tiny light penetrated through the gloom that surrounded him when Captain Stratti, upon hearing who the prisoner was, treated him with marked deference and respect, addressing him as “Majesty” and securing for him the best room that he could. General Nunziante also, upon arriving, paid him every mark of respect, and endeavoured, as far as it was possible for him to do, to show his sympathy for the unfortunate and betrayed captive.

This treatment appears to have restored Murat considerably, and that night he slept soundly and peacefully. No idea of the sort of vengeance which Ferdinand and his abominable government were preparing for him appears to have entered his head, and he still seems to have thought it possible to come to some arrangement with that royal hyena, for he remarked to Nunziante, the day before his execution, that it would be easy to come to an accommodation with Ferdinand by the latter yielding to him the Kingdom of Naples and by his yielding to Ferdinand his claims to Sicily.

Ferdinand, in the meanwhile, having recovered from the nightmare of terror which had seized him upon the receipt of the news of Joachim’s landing at Pizzo, allowed his joy and relief full play. At first he wanted to imprison every one who could even be suspected of a suspicion in the direction of Muratism, but his courage failed him, and he had to content himself with despatching Canosa—who may I think, without injustice, be classed among the three or four worst and most despicable characters that ever infested that sunny land—into Calabria with carte blanche to represent his master.

The order for Murat’s execution was sent down by signal telegraph, and, that done, a court-martial was composed to try him! Seven “judges” were chosen, three of whom, besides the Procurator General, had been raised from poverty and obscurity and loaded with money and honours by Murat himself; and, in order to save themselves from any taint of common gratitude or even decency, which might bring them into disfavour with their present sovereign lord, they first of all thanked the latter humbly for deigning to make use of them, and, by their bearing and remarks during the trial, made it impossible for Murat to sit in the same room with them, even had he desired to do so.

In the round tower, Joachim spent the last night of his life, mercifully undisturbed by the knowledge of the Court which was to go through the farce of trying him. It was long after daylight when Nunziante entered, so softly that the sleeping man did not awaken. Nor did Nunziante arouse him—an act of charity which must surely have been put to his credit when the long roll-call summoned him in his turn!

On Joachim’s awakening and opening his eyes, Nunziante broke the news of his approaching trial as gently as possible.

“I am lost, then!” exclaimed Murat. There were tears in his eyes, and Nunziante himself was unable to speak for emotion, but he brought his prisoner pen and paper.

In the letter he placed some locks of hair.

With infamous cynicism, a defender had been appointed for him before the Court, but Murat, rising above his misery, rejected the melancholy foolery with a contempt the expression of which must have cut into the horny feelings of his Judges and left them sore for many a long day.

He was their King, he told them, but went on to observe: “If I am to be tried in the light of a Marshal of France, I may be tried by a Council of Marshals; if as a General, by Generals. But before I descend so low as to submit to the decision of the Judges who have been selected many pages must be torn from the history of Europe!”

To Storace, who had been appointed to defend him, and who now begged to be allowed to do what he could, Joachim replied:

“You cannot save my life. Allow me to save my dignity. I forbid you to speak in my defence.”

Storace, who, with Stratti and Nunziante, appears as one of the three rays of human light in the whole horrid affair, left him sadly, as the magistrate entered and with gusto proceeded to torment the victim with questions. But he did not get very far before Joachim turned upon him.

“I am Joachim Murat,” he replied, “King of the Two Sicilies and your King. Leave me and relieve my prison of your presence!”

It seems to have occurred to him that, possibly, Ferdinand was revenging himself now for the murder of the Duc d’Enghien—for he mentioned the tragedy and swore to Stratti that he had had no hand in it. He had been Governor of Paris when the young Duke was kidnapped and shot, but he could have done nothing to save him. Murat was speaking the truth. The Duc d’Enghien was murdered by Talleyrand, who devised the whole affair and drove Napoleon into giving the order by suggesting the result of it upon the Royalists who had, then, made several attempts upon the First Consul’s life.

Murat then thanked Stratti for his kindness and begged to be left alone, when he crossed his arms on his breast and stared at the portraits of his family. His first notice of the sentence which had been pronounced upon him came through a priest, whose name was Masdea. The latter, as he told Joachim, had had cause to be grateful to him in the past for some unexpected help in the building of a Church, and it was that which had induced him to brave the displeasure of Joachim’s enemies now. He assured Joachim that his prayers would be offered up for the repose of his soul, and begged him to prepare himself as a Christian to appear before his Maker; and Joachim did so, Masdea says, with philosophic resignation.

The “Court” by now had its sentence ready:

Joachim seemed to be very little interested in the reading of his doom. Except for an occasional glance of cold contempt, he paid no attention to the herald or his message.

Then he was led down some stone steps into a sort of court, which may be seen to this day, and placed against the wall on the left of the foot of the stairs.

He refused to have his eyes bound and looked calmly on while the muskets of the firing party were being loaded. When all was ready, he straightened himself up and looked steadily at his executioners.

“Spare my face,” he said, “and aim at my heart.”

So died Joachim Murat, in the forty-eighth year of his life, and he met his end with a fearlessness and dignity which shone the brighter for the squalid surroundings in which he displayed them.

There is a story still current in the Penisola that, after his death, his head was cut off, by Ferdinand’s order, and carried to Naples, in order that the “Butcher King” might be sure that his gallant enemy was no more.

One would have imagined that the gruesome proof would have satisfied him and, having seen it, he would have been content to bury it decently. But the report goes on to say that nothing would induce him to part with it afterwards and that he kept it in a specially constructed case, under lock and key, by the side of his bed. Here, whenever his crazy panics seized him, he could open the box and finger the head and reassure himself again.

And all this happened, not in the time of Caligula or Tiberius, but three years before the birth of Queen Victoria.