#the consulate

“He is thin and of low stature; his countenance, though meager and sallow, is extremely animated, his eyes black and piercing, his hair black and cropped, his dress remarkably plain.”

Nathaniel Philips’ description of Napoleon at the Notre-Dame Cathedral on Easter Sunday in 1802:

“Bonaparte bowed in response to the applause of the populace. His carriage was drawn by eight superbly decorated horses. The great bell of Notre-Dame, which had been silent 10 years, was rung.”

Portrait of Napoleon from the same year, by Antoine-Jean Gros

Back in the day when I had more time and patience, I used to review every Horrible Historical Novel I could find, which grew to a rather daunting task, since most HF of the past ten years churned out by American and a few British scribblers is utter crap. I do not want to compete with Dear Citizen Pixel, and I can't begin to hold a candle to her reviews, which are replete with charm, information, wit, and excellent analyses on many levels.

But if you are interested in pure historical demolition and snark of steroids, then look no further. I'm posting a review I did in 2015 of a book set during the apparently popular 1803 pre-and post Treaty of Amiens era, full of brave, intrepid British spies and dastardly French of any stripe. So pour a glass of wine and settle back. This will take a while. Killing the Bee King

PJ Royal [now re-issued with the author’s name as Jaymie Royal. Either way, she can’t write. And she owns the publishing company, Regal Publishing.]

My Review:

What’s not to like about a massive, 530-page tome with a cast of notables on both sides of the English Channel, not to mention spies, secrets, beautiful women, cunning politicians, a youthful former prime minister, and a choleric emperor? In a book so lengthy and complex, although it covers just two months, November and December of 1803, what about the history portion in this work of historical fiction? The author assures us in her blog dated September 29, 2012, that “Every aspect of the book that could be historically accurate…was.” And she says in another blog dated June 16, 2014, that she has provided “…a historical environment saturated with authentic detail that lends a vibrancy to the narrative without weighing it down unduly.” She includes a prologue for the book entitled “Historical Background: An Optional Read. England and France, November 1803,” to set the stage for the events in the novel. At the novel’s end we find an “Epilogue: The Historical Record,” where the author reminds us that she “sought to maintain the highest degree of historical accuracy throughout the course of this novel—from plants and architectural façades, to fashions, to food-stuffs. Many of the characters contained herein are historical figures, and their depicted appearance and personalities were also based on extensive research.” She admits, however, allowing herself the “fictional tweak” of placing Napoleon’s “self-coronation as emperor” in 1803, rather than in December 1804.

I quoted the author’s claims concerning the historical accuracy of this book because with so much insistence on accuracy, from plants to people and all points between, I was appalled at the extent of errors from first to last, big ones, little ones, and middling ones. Anyone with a scintilla of knowledge about the Napoleonic era, from the establishment of the Consulate in November 1799 until Waterloo in June 1815, would see them at once. No amount of pretentiousness, no faux literary prose as thick as treacle and as false as saccharine can disguise these bloopers. No pretending that this is some great literary work with its tortured, turgid sentences, images, metaphors, and other linguistic jetsam and flotsam clogging every paragraph and page can disguise the fact that the history is unrecognizable. The standard argument offered by some authors and fans of their work that “It’s only fiction!” or “That’s why it’s called historical fiction!” cannot logically prevail when the author makes such a concerted and repetitive case for her accuracy. Worse, I think, is the disservice done to readers who believe they’ve been treated to “the real story” not only with regard to historical events and people but also to the respective social and cultural milieu. I noticed that most reviewers have mentioned the “meticulous research” and the “mammoth amount of research” that allegedly went into this book without, unfortunately, understanding how very flawed on so many levels the history actually is. They were all swayed by what they believed was a fine literary style and use of language.

You have no obligation whatever to believe me or accept my opinion, and you certainly don’t need to read this review. However, this novel has 108 chapters bookended between a prologue and an epilogue, and every chapter has at least one or more errors of historical fact, language, social convention, political usage, or even physical location—I’d never before used the Notes/Marks feature on my Kindle as much as I did for this book. Thus I’ll cite concrete examples from the book, and you are free to decide whether you care that the author’s claims of accuracy cannot be sustained.

Let’s begin with the “Historical Record.” Right out of the box we get the mangled “Armée d’Englaterre,” apparently the author’s phonetic version of the correct French “Armée d’Angleterre.” Then we have the old canard of ‘“A nation of shopkeepers,’ Napoleon derisively said,” when the quote comes from Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations, Book IV, Section vii, published in 1776 This is followed in quick succession by references to “the English Isles,” and how Britain was facing her greatest challenge while she was “bereft of allies.” Apparently the author forgot to notice that Britain declared war on France on May 18, 1803, so the alleged lack of allies must not have mattered too much. However, for those who care, Britain had already laid the groundwork for the Third Coalition with Austria and Russia, with Sweden joining the next year.

The “Cast of Characters” also provides an occasion for mirth, and a bit of head-scratching. There’s Wolfe Trant, the Irish rebel supposed to be Wolfe Tone, leader of the United Irishmen, but since Tone committed suicide in 1798 while in a British prison, I guess his doppelgänger Trant carries on here in ghostly form. Malcolm Dundas is the substitute for Henry Dundas, who was one of William Pitt the Younger’s advisors and minister or war for a time, but under no circumstances would Dundas call Pitt “Will,” and Pitt would never address his subordinate as “Mal.” I forgot—one would actually have to know something about these persons in real life, and about social conventions of the time, to know how wrong that is. My favorite is General John Moore, who the author claims “served in the Seven Years’ War and the War for American Independence.” She also alleges Moore was in at least twenty-four battles/engagements/skirmishes, many of them in and around Charleston. Moore was a young lieutenant during the American war, but he spent most of the time in Nova Scotia, with a couple of forays as far south as Maine. However, since he was born in 1761, and the Seven Years’ War ended in 1763, I suppose Moore’s involvement was limited to waving his rattle at the enemy. William Brunskill was no more a “school friend” to William Pitt than he was the “warden of Newgate Prison.” He was the official executioner of London—executions there were carried out at Newgate—and of Middlesex and Surrey.

The villain of the piece, of course, is Napoleon—isn’t he always? Here he is “the self-appointed emperor of the French,” which ignores the May 14, 1804, Senatus Consultum naming him emperor, or the national plebiscite confirming it. Charles Maurice de Talleyrand, often referred to throughout as the “duc de Talleyrand,” which is wrong on many levels, is supposed to be conspiring with the British to overthrow Napoleon because he is “disillusioned with Napoleon’s self-aggrandizing strategies,” a claim as factually incorrect in 1803 as is Talleyrand’s title. Joseph Fouché was not Napoleon’s “commissioner of police”—this was Paris, not New York, and the correct title was minister of police. Finally, we are presented with Jeanne Récamier, Parisian “society hostess,” traveling under the alias of “Primrose” as one of five leaders of the “French Resistance.” I truly feel sorry for the real Mme Récamier, a beautiful if somewhat emptyheaded woman who hosted salons from time to time, didn’t much care for Napoleon, but never lifted a perfectly manicured finger against him, to be portrayed in such a silly and implausible fashion. The worst part, of course, is this alleged “French Resistance,” a term used exclusively during WWII, and never at any time to denote opposition to Napoleon. Quelle horreur!

The author admits she “tweaked history” to place Napoleon’s coronation as emperor —or self-appointment to the position—in 1803. She never explains why, not that it matters, because all the history that flows from the decision to place the action of the novel in November and December 1803 is just wrong. All of it. I have an embarrassment of riches to choose from to illustrate what is nothing more than Bad History, something easily avoided by an eighth-grader spending three hours with Wikipedia. This author’s alleged ten years’ worth of research was time wasted.

A number of events occur during these last two months of 1803 that didn’t occur in the real historical world at this time, or even close. A group of Chouans, supposedly led by Georges Cadoudal, attempted to assassinate Napoleon by blowing up a barrel filled with gunpowder. Cadoudal ordered a number of assassination attempts, but he did not plan or participate in this plot, known as the Infernal Machine, which occurred on December 24, 1800, when First Consul Bonaparte was on his way to the Opéra. The seminal event leading to the establishment of the First Empire was the execution of the duc d’Enghien at Vincennes on March 21, 1804, not December 13, 1803. The duke was extradited—or kidnapped, if you prefer—from Coblenz on the Rhine, and not from his fiancée’s house somewhere in Switzerland. Talleyrand was minister of foreign affairs in 1803, and not plotting to overthrow Napoleon or, more historically correct, First Consul Bonaparte; he was most assuredly not Prince de Bénévente [1806], vice-grand elector [1807], or referring to Napoleon as dung in a silk socking [1808]. Napoleon did not assume the Iron Crown of Lombardy until May 1805. By November/December 1803 it is quite incorrect to say that thousands and thousands of men had perished under the Napoleonic regime—the only battles fought since Bonaparte became first consul in November 1799 were Marengo in June 1800, Hohenlinden in December 1800, although that was Moreau's battle, and in Egypt between the British and the remnants of the French army in 1801. Similarly the claim that men in their thousands—have to love the hyperbole here—were mutilating themselves to avoid conscription is false in 1803, but true to a much smaller extent after 1812. All the fatuous mentions of campaigns in Poland [1807], or the Imperial Guard having served loyally in more than twenty campaigns by the end of 1803 and earning the sobriquet of Les Grognards, are beyond belief. Thus the author did not “tweak” one bit of history—she mangled the entire historical narrative.

Remember that there is more to this novel than mere history—there are all those wonderfully accurate bits about “food-stuffs,” and “architectural façades,” and plants and fashions, right? Well, not at all. Here are just a few examples in the “food-stuffs” category: One did not begin a formal dinner with duck breast, no matter if it is sautéed; eau de vie is a colorless brandy made from fruit and not cognac from Brodiers; and there is no such thing as a “bottle of local kir,” when kir is made by combining crème de cassis and white wine and served in a glass as an aperitif, but not until the 20thcentury. [I just made myself a glass of kir royale, with champagne rather than white wine, so I can finish this review.] With regard to plants, it is certainly not true that the streets of Paris were lined with beech trees—those grow in northern forests for the most part. The streets were and are lined with plane trees, sometimes known as sycamores. Fashions don’t fare particularly well, either. The Duchess of Devonshire, le dernier cri in London fashion, is shown wearing what can only be described as an Ancien Régime style in 1803, while the female aristocrats gracing Talleyrand’s gatherings wear “stiff brocade.” There are also “elegant fashions behind gleaning glass” in a shop on the “Rue Fliette.” Well, no. Bolts of fabric, perhaps, but not ready-made dresses, and not on a street that does not—or did not—exist, at least spelled that way.

The world of architecture, whether in the artistic sense or as specific real estate is equally risible. Andrea Palladio had no more to do with the Tuileries Palace than Frank Lloyd Wright—the palace was the creation of Philippe d’Orme, with nary a trace of “neoclassicism.” Some forgettable character, an aristo named Adelaide, complained to Talleyrand about having to move out of the Louvre because Napoleon was turning it into an art museum. The fact is that the National Convention declared the Louvre to be a museum for the citizens of Paris on August 10, 1793, to coincide with the anniversary of the fall of the monarchy; the Directory added to the artistic treasures in the museum; it was closed for repairs from 1797 until 1801, and reopened with lots of new items from the First Italian Campaign and the Egyptian Campaign. So where Adelaide actually lived is indeed a mystery. Joséphine de Beauharnais’s house on the rue Chantereine was never “confiscated” by Napoleon before or after they were married, it never was in such a state of disrepair as the author claims, and it was never, ever used as a meeting place by the members of the alleged “French Resistance.”

This last architectural tidbit is so wonderful that it truly deserves its very own paragraph. The alleged spy Wolfe Trant/Tone/Whatever is fleeing from the Bad Guys through streets in Paris—many of which are misspelled, misnamed, or non-existent in 1803, as they are throughout this novel—and arrives at the Hotel de Ville, a “slightly disreputable establishment that rose pompously from the banks of the Seine. It overlooked the Place de Grève…that lately served as the home of Madame la Guillotine….Despite the notoriety of its location, indeed perhaps because of it, the hotel was immensely popular. It offered cheap rooms….” It scarcely matters that the guillotine was not anywhere near the Place de Gréve but at the Place de la Révolution further west. What matters is that this “hotel” didn’t rent rooms—it was the City Hall of Paris, and had been, in that very location, since 1357. In fact, every city hall in France, no matter the size of the city, town, or village, is called the Hôtel de Ville. And not one of them, large or small, rents rooms for anything other than the occasional civic gathering. Mon Dieu!

Just a few more jewels—or cubic zirconia, in this case. The author claims two people reviewed her use of French. I hope they didn’t charge for the service, since this novel is replete with errors, either in the use of words like lorgneurs instead of lorgnette, not knowing that “rue” is never capitalized, failing to distinguish masculine and feminine noun/adjective endings., and so forth. Although she didn’t say she had a firm historical grasp on social interactions of the time—the two months in 1803—I’d say the author missed that lesson completely. I already pointed out that Pitt and Dundas were not, nor would they ever have been, on a first-name basis. Lady Hester Stanhope, Pitt’s niece, would not have addressed Dundas or Wolfe Trant/Tone by their Christian names or asked them to call her “Hester.” Even more egregious, I think, is having Lady Hester say, “He is bloody miserable!” or “No bloody end!’ I do not believe any of us can imagine the Duchess of Devonshire, at a gathering in her London home, walking up to a guest and saying, “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Georgiana….” And finally, there is the matter of William Pitt the Younger, standing in “the pulpit” of the House of Lords and reading a letter about the Irish Question. Pitt was not a peer of the realm, and therefore spoke only in the House of Commons.

There is so much more, folks, at least twice as many truly amazing examples of sheer awfulness as the ones I’ve highlighted here, but I’m done. I’d be surprised if anyone actually reads through this review. But I feel better for having written it , because there is nothing I loathe more than someone trumpeting about his/her historical accuracy in a period I know very well and producing instead a veritable welter of arrant nonsense. And what I detest the most is that readers often believe that it’s all true because they are told that it is.

Purdy Napoleon

Bonaparte. Premier Consul de la République Française. / Bonaparte. First Consul of the French Republic.

By Jean-Baptiste Compagnie