The Monsters of St. Helena: A Novel - Softcover

Brooks Hansen is the author of The Chess Garden and Perlman's Ordeal, and of Caeser's Antler's, a novel for young readers. He lives in New York City.

Excerpt from The Monsters of St. Helena by Brooks Hansen. Copyright © 2003 by Brooks Hansen. To be published in January, 2003 by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC. All rights reserved.
October 12-An alarm gun fires on Ladder Hill, and though it is a mile away, Betsy jolts.

"Hold still," says Sarah, lips gripping the pins in her mouth. "You're gonna get stuck."

"I don't see why they have to do that. I'm sure it woke up Father."

Sarah doubts that but doesn't say.

They are out on the veranda of the bungalow, and Betsy is wearing a ball gown intended for her sister, Jane, who is sixteen, two years older. There is no upcoming occasion, but the fabric came in a few days ago, and Sarah, who serves as nanny to both Jane and Betsy, needed someone to stand inside; Jane is off somewhere, reading to their brothers.

"But this isn't how I'd have mine," says Betsy. She is looking down at the collar and the brown silk. "Mine would be blue, in the first place"-a good choice, as blue will show better against her hair, which is a tangle of blond curls. "Royal blue, like Miss Wilkes's. And I want it not like this, so high, but down from the shoulder, and with white flowers."

Sarah shakes her head.

"Why not?"

"Flowers wilt, get dirty."

"No, but listen-made of paper. I saw in Solomon's shop. You can make them out of paper. And mine would be white flowers, like the Briars."

Sarah sucks her teeth in objection, but Betsy does not notice, or care enough to stop.

"And I bet when there is a ball, she won't even dance-Jane. She doesn't like it. I'd dance. You know who they say is the finest dancer?"

Sarah does not answer. They say Mrs. Wilkes, the Governor's second wife, is the finest dancer on the island, but Betsy does not answer herself either, for just now she notices there are two men descending the lane that leads down from the inland path. It's hard to see them in the speckled light beneath the banyans, but they are officers, in red, no doubt come to see her father.

Sarah removes the needles from her mouth and stands as they come upon the lawn.

"Ma'am. Miss."

Betsy says nothing.

"Mr. Balcombe in?"

"He is," says Sarah.

"He's resting," says Betsy.

The Captain looks at her impersonally. "We have intelligence of some importance to communicate."

"I'll see if he's up, Officer." Sarah offers a slight bow as she leaves.

The men stare straight out while they wait, almost as though Betsy weren't there, but they can't help glancing around at the property. All visitors do. The house itself is not so much, an Indian bungalow with a small upper story. It is the setting which is so exceptional. To the east is a nameless but no-less-proud precipice; to the south looms Peak Hill; westward the land falls off just as dramatically, making way for the stream and cataract. Coddled there, safe and cool, their home sits in a lush green pocket of trees and flowers-pomegranate, myrtle, shaddock, fruit trees of every imaginable kind, and a gated garden with more flowers than Betsy could possibly name.

She observes the officers intently, squinting with one eye, waiting to see if they will look at her.

The lead officer tilts his head to the west. "Is that a waterfall?"

She nods.

"Keeps it nice and cool, eh?"

She nods, and just then Toby comes around the side of the house. Toby is the gardener, older than her father, and a Malay. He sees the officers but doesn't stop until he comes to one of the briar bushes, the one beside the front steps. He touches the petals of a flower and murmurs something to himself. He throws a handful of dirt in his basket and continues on to the gated garden.

"Primrose?" asks the second officer, nodding at the flower.

Betsy shakes her head with unveiled disdain. "Briar rose," she says. "That's our name, briars. The Briars."

The officer nods, and now Betsy's father comes out. He is in his coat, not disheveled, but awakened, plump and sleepy, with matted hair.

The first officer steps up. "We have intelligence of some importance to communicate."

Her father has gathered as much. He asks Sarah to bring some tea, then escorts the officers out to the pavilion, across the lawn and up the narrow path. He is still limping.

The pavilion itself is almost all windows, but perched too high on the knoll for Betsy to see. Even on her toes all she can make out are the tops of the men's heads.

"Whom is Father talking to?" Jane has come around from the side of the house, with book in hand, and Alexander and Nicholas on either side.

"Officers," says Betsy. "There must be someone coming. I hope it isn't Colonel Burton again."

Jane turns, and only now does she notice that Betsy is wearing her new dress and that the hem is dragging on the floor. She frowns, which is as much as Jane is ever liable to do, but just then the door barks open up at the pavilion again. The men are coming back. As they emerge from the narrow path, Betsy can see the officers look no different, but her father is blushing.

"Father, what is it?"

"Where is your mother?" He nods the boys to go find her, and the men ascend the veranda. Sarah comes out with the tea and pours them all cups while they wait, but Betsy still can't tell: Are they worried or thrilled?

"Who is it, Father?"

"Betsy." He notices her dress too now, loose and pinned. "Perhaps you'd feel more comfortable if you changed."

Betsy shakes her head, and now her brothers are back with her mother. The officers introduce themselves. Her mother is polite, but wary. She can feel it too: The men are keeping something very large. They all turn to Betsy's father, who clears his throat by habit.

"It seems the island is expecting a visitor," he says, with his usual flat smile. He clears his throat again. "Yes, it seems that Napoleon Bonaparte has been captured-"

Her mother lifts her hand to her mouth as if he had spoken the devil's name. Betsy herself can hardly follow what he says next, except that Napoleon Bonaparte, the cause of all war and strife, has been captured and is coming to St. Helena. They are bringing him here, to keep.

"But I thought he already was captured," she says. "I thought they had him in the Mediterranean."

"Yes." Her father refers the question to the officers. "Captain Dunbar may be able to explain better than I."

They offer the Captain a chair. All sit, except for the second officer, and Alexander, who takes Jane's lap. Then Captain Dunbar proceeds to tell them what he knows. It was true, Bonaparte had been imprisoned on a small island in the Mediterranean, called Elba. He stayed there for three months but then escaped with a small battalion of men. He landed on the southern coast of France and started marching up to Paris, but Betsy doesn't really understand this part so well. Captain Dunbar seems to say that on the way he'd recollected his army, or they'd been waiting for him, and by the time they got to Paris there were so many of them the Bourbons simply gave up.

"But who is this man?" says her mother. "What does he want?"

"Margaret." Her father shakes his head imperceptibly, then turns back to Captain Dunbar, who continues.

Bonaparte then took his army into Belgium, he says, but this is all more than they can fathom at once. Mrs. Balcombe and Jane have gone white. Even Captain Dunbar seems fazed by what he's saying. It was General Wellington who finally stopped them-General Wellington, who stayed here once, in the pavilion. He surrounded the French at a place called Waterloo and defeated them. Captain Dunbar said that Bonaparte was subsequently taken into British custody, and he would be arriving in Jamestown in a matter of days.

"But how could he do all that?" Betsy blurts. "How was he able to escape? And why weren't there people to stop him?"

Jane seconds the question, and once again Captain Dunbar is made to explain what he knows, from the beginning. He does his best not to excite their fears, but the harder he tries not to say it, the clearer it becomes: Napoleon Bonaparte is obviously a demon of some kind, or a sorcerer. How else could a man march all the way to Paris and there not be one person to stop him?

Betsy has imagined him since she was a little girl: a gangly giant in a black cocked hat, long arms and legs, and a little body like a spider. He had a great long nose and one eye in the middle of his forehead, shooting flame. She knows this isn't how he really looks, but as the Captain goes back over the story, she cannot help thinking of it, this monstrous spiderlike creature who'd cast a spell on all the French, and they had simply followed him, like the rats of Hamelin. Thank heavens for General Wellington. Thank heavens for England.
fs20"But why here?" she asks.

The Captain looks at her. "It was decreed," he says.

He does not know.

Her mother asks where they plan to keep him, but Captain Dunbar does not know this either, only that the boat is on its way, with two men-of-war attending and a third coming from somewhere else. Fifteen hundred men, he says. In a matter of days.

"But don't they have to ask?" says Betsy. "It doesn't seem fair."

No one answers this. Her mother's hand is to her breast, and all the blood has gone from her face. Betsy has never seen her so pale. It would frighten her, but her father is lit pink.

He stands. "I should go tell Mr. Fowler," his business partner in Jamestown. Betsy can tell, her mother doesn't want him to go, but he isn't paying attention. He asks the officers to wait for him, then goes in to fetch his coat, not limping in the least.

* * *

October 13-Teatime. The island landscape is such that outside of Jamestown, the houses tend to be fairly widespread and hidden from one another. It requires more than a casual interest to go calling, but today there is much more than a casual interest, and as te...