Journal of Napoleon Bonaparte

Saint Helena, 1815–1821

October 17, 1815 – Longwood House, Saint Helena

So this is it.

An island lost in the Atlantic mist — a barren rock guarded by winds, warships, and indifference. Saint Helena. Once, I crossed empires in weeks. Now it takes hours to walk from one end of my world to the other.

They house me in a damp villa called Longwood. The roof leaks. The furniture is crude. The climate is hostile. I am watched, counted, catalogued. The British call me “General Bonaparte.” They hope to shrink me with words.

But I remain Napoleon — in mind, if not in might.

1816 – Days Without Dates

Time no longer moves in days, but in loops.

I wake early, ride a little. Dictate to Las Cases or Bertrand. Walk alone. Repeat. The sea is my only horizon. I name the rocks and trees myself. The guards do not understand: I am not trying to reclaim power.

I am trying to remember who I was before power.

The silence here is not peace. It is exile made flesh.

1817 – Letters That Go Nowhere

I write memoirs. Letters. Thoughts. Sometimes I address them to no one. Or to France. Or to the future.

They call me a tyrant. A warmonger. They forget the law I gave them, the bridges, the codes, the order after revolution. I reigned in a time of chaos, and they blame me for thunder.

Let them. History does not belong to the living.

It belongs to those who shape it.

1818 – Illness Begins

My stomach burns. Food no longer satisfies. Sleep flees like a coward.

The doctors argue. English medicine, French medicine — none of it works. I endure. I study Caesar, Hannibal, Alexander. I speak to shadows more than men.

Sometimes, I walk to a cliff and stare at the sea, imagining sails where there are none.

1819 – Memories Return Like Tides

Paris. Arcole. Marengo. Austerlitz. Moscow. Elba. Waterloo.

Names come like bells in fog. Faces blur — Josephine’s smile, my mother’s frown, the gaze of my son. I wonder if the boy remembers me. If he knows what I tried to make of the world.

I wonder what he dreams of.

April 1821 – I Am Shrinking

I can feel my body receding.

The pain is constant now. I no longer dress in uniform. I no longer write. I speak to no one. My world has narrowed to a bed, a window, and a clock that ticks without mercy.

But in my mind, the drums still roll. The cannons still roar. And France still waits, eternal and golden, just beyond the veil.

May 5, 1821 – The Final Entry

Today, I shall die.

I feel it. It is not terror — it is release. I have lived as few ever will. I have seen the world crack beneath my will, then mend in my absence. I have known love, and war, and the bitter silence that follows both.

They will say I died a prisoner. Let them.

I die !

Napoleon.

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