From the Publisher

"Think, my dear -- just think what it will be like, to be known as the girl who freed the great Napoleon Bonaparte!"

Fourteen-year-old English girl Betsy Balcombe and her family have an unusual houseguest: Napoleon Bonaparte, former emperor of France and the most feared man on earth. Once lord and master to eighty-two million souls, now, in 1815, Napoleon is a captive of the British people. Stripped of his empire and robbed of his young family and freedom, he is confined to the forbidding, rat-infested island of St. Helena.

The one bright star in Napoleon's black sky is Betsy, a blazingly rebellious teenager whose family is reluctantly housing the notorious prisoner. Betsy is the only foreigner Napoleon's ever met who is not impressed by him -- and Napoleon is more than intrigued.

An unexpected alliance is formed. And a remarkable friendship between emperor and girl spawns gossip, and inspires Betsy to hatch a daring and dangerous scheme that could threaten both their lives and shake entire empires to their foundations.

Publishers Weekly

"Rabin takes the inspiration for her entertaining if farfetched account of Napoleon Bonaparte's final years from the life of a real British 14-year-old, Betsy Balcombe," wrote PW. "A light read for those who like their lessons served with a large dollop of froth." Ages 10-14. (Apr.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.

Heidi Hauser Green - Children's Literature

Fourteen-year-old Betsy Balcombe does not mind living on the remote island of St. Helena. While her father and his comrades call it "Hell in the South Atlantic," Betsy enjoys a level of freedom there that she did not know when locked up at the boarding school she had attended in London. Although she doesn't like the threatening façade of the island's mountains, Betsy thrives on her island adventures. The year is 1815. Napoleon has been defeated at Waterloo, and the British authorities have decided to move him to the isolated island. For a time, the once-grand emperor will stay with the Balcombe family. In spite of the nearly two thousand British troops who guard his every move, the prickly Napoleon strikes up a friendship with the intriguing, willful Betsy. Despite a bumpy start, their unexpected alliance deepens. When the stern, vengeful Governor Lowe comes to oversee Napoleon's confinement, the pair face a seemingly insurmountable obstacle. Still, over the scant years of their friendship, Betsy comes to some important realizations about her own growth, and Napoleon comes to terms with his difficult confinement. Staton Rabin's fictionalized tale is a fast-paced blend of humor and adventure. Readers interested in historical tales and strong heroines will find much to like in this story. 2004, Margaret K McElderry/Simon & Schuster, Ages 10 to 14.

School Library Journal

Gr 5-9-Betsy Balcombe has just returned to her remote island home of St. Helena from boarding school in London. At 14, she is a headstrong, adventure-seeking young lady. She gamely faces the challenge of playing host to Napoleon Bonaparte, who is exiled on the forbidding island after his capture at Waterloo. The only member of her family who is not timid around the former emperor of France, Betsy strikes up an unlikely friendship with "Boney" that surprises both of them. Rabin presents an interesting and intimate look at the life of one of history's most famous men. The relationship between Betsy and Napoleon is well captured and satisfying, and the historical details are well researched. However, some of the plot seems improbable, such as when Betsy watches her brothers' tutor die in a horrible accident that is partly her fault, only to be dancing and flirting at a ball a few days later. Still, this daredevil protagonist engages in many thrilling escapades, from a hot-air balloon flight to a horserace. An author's note fills in some of the details about the real Betsy Balcombe.-Anna M. Nelson, Seabrook Library, NH Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

The bare bones of this inventive historical fiction is the unique friendship between Napoleon Bonaparte and 14-year-old Betsy Balcome, whose English family lived on St. Helena, where Napoleon was imprisoned. It's the characterization of the two that puts flesh on the bones, craftily molding their personalities, as both of them really existed. Betsy's insouciance and spunk was a match for "Boney's" imperial nature and elite intelligence; they were kindred spirits both feeling imprisoned. From 1815-18 Betsy tried to invent ways for him to escape, including a daring attempt at building a hot-air balloon with silk dresses. Some plot developments are a bit contrived, though based on historical documentation, as the author's notes cite. This fascinating story plays both with and against the stereotype of Napoleon. Even readers who don't know of Bonaparte will be caught up in the interplay between girl and emperor and the surrounding drama of the world's history-and their own. (Historical fiction. 10-14)

Product Details

• ISBN: 141691336X
  
• ISBN-13: 9781416913368
• Format: Mass Market Paperback, 304pp
• Publisher: Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing
• Pub. Date: March 2006
• Edition Description: Reprint
• Sales Rank: 108,511
• Age Range: 12 and up

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Read an Excerpt

I opened my bedroom window and inhaled -- deeply, joyfully. That familiar, intoxicating odor: night on St. Helena. The sickly-sweet smell of guava and roses hung in the air like ether, just as I'd remembered it. Who would have thought I'd be so glad to return to the place my father and his navy comrades called "Hell in the South Atlantic"?

It was the autumn of 1815. I had been home again at the Briars just three days, from Hawthorne Boarding School in London. I'd shocked my parents by not misbehaving once since my return to St. Helena. Perhaps they believed the knuckle-rapping, head-thumping headmistress of Hawthorne had finally knocked some sense into their younger daughter. I began to wonder it myself. Blast! Had I lost my sense of adventure? Would I go soft and ladylike and marry some vain, boot-polished officer of the Fifty-fourth Regiment or His Majesty's Navy -- as my sister Jane hoped to do?

Just then two booms of the cannon from the port at Jamestown -- the signal for a ship's arrival -- broke the stillness. And I knew I remained the Betsy Balcombe of yore. Older, yes. Wiser, perhaps. But never, never willing to settle for a life that's "Tedious-as-Hell in the South Atlantic"!

I threw on my bed jacket and grabbed hold of my ladder -- the vine that had, over the years, crept bravely up the red brick walls of the Briars and to the very edge of my windowsill. It was many a night that the vine had been my ladder to adventure. Thank heaven Toby hadn't trimmed it back during my long absence!

I slipped a little as I climbed out the window, and Jane woke with a start. She gave a quiet, girlish scream. I looked over at her, and she was sitting upin her white lacy canopy bed, the covers pulled tight under her chin. I had one leg out the window. My sister glared at me, stern as the headmistress of Hawthorne.

"I'll tell...," Jane threatened coolly.

"Still the little tattler," I said, shaking my head. Jane was sixteen -- two years older than I; old enough to keep secrets.

"You're going into Jamestown, aren't you?"

"Go back to sleep, Jane. If you don't, you'll make your eyes all puffy and you'll turn ugly so none of the young officers will want to marry you."

"Betsy!"

"Good night, Jane."

It was too late for her to stop me. I was already out the window and halfway down the vine. Jane would never think of spoiling her pretty hands by attempting to climb down after me.

I jumped the last few feet to the ground. Then I peered around the corner of the Briars to see who was about. Most of our slaves had already returned to their cabins for the night. Most of the soldiers had turned in too, though there seemed to be a few more sentries on watch than usual.

I rounded the corner of the Briars and dashed to the moon-shaded side of the Pavilion veranda. Suddenly, I heard footsteps in the dank leaves nearby. I froze, listening, trying to quiet my winded breathing so it wouldn't betray me.

"Is me. Only me, missy."

Toby! I'd forgotten the old man liked to stroll by night in the gardens he tended by day. He liked to drink a bit of the island rum too. Not enough to get drunk, though. I breathed a sigh of relief.

"You go for the walk at night -- like old time, missy, yes?"

"Yes." I still couldn't see him, but I smelled the rum on his breath. I knew he'd be smiling broadly at me with those remarkably white teeth I used to think were a string of pearls from the seas off his native Haiti.

"Miss Jane with you?"

I laughed. "What do you think?"

"Didn't think yes, missy," he said, chuckling softly. "Didn't think yes."

Toby had been with my family for years and had seen Jane and me grow up. But I knew I was his favorite -- even more than the boys.

After a moment he whispered hoarsely: "Ship is here, in Jamestown. Do you know?"

"I heard the signal."

Toby fell silent. Then he sighed and whispered seriously: "All will be very different, St. Helena now. Everything soon change, missy, yes?"

I didn't know what Toby meant. He often said things that sounded mysterious. I knew the island slaves to be very superstitious, so I never took much notice.

"Your papa ask me to cut vines all over," he said with a chuckle. "I leave the one outside missy's window for you coming home."

So Toby knew how I'd escaped from my room at night, and he'd kept my secret! I'd always felt he was one of the few people who understood me.

"Thank you, Toby!"

"Hush!" he whispered. "You wake family all, no Jamestown, no ship to see for missy."

"Good night, Toby," I whispered back, and ran toward Jamestown.

Copyright © 2004 by Staton Rabin

Chapter Two

The warm trade winds of St. Helena gently caressed my legs as I ran -- the silent greeting of my old friend, the night. My nightgown rippled, billowed in front of me, filled with the breeze like a great white mainsail. The wind picked up speed, whistling over the jagged edges of the dark, towering mountains all around me. They stood, lined up rocky shoulder to rocky shoulder in their gray, impenetrable armor like ancient warriors, spears of granite piercing the night sky. St. Helena's mountains overwhelmed, even terrified, her visitors: "The Rock," "The Fortress," even "Hell" or "Purgatory" were names by which the island had come to be known. Even residents of St. Helena had no kinder names for her.

I confess I did not like the mountains by day, much less by night. At times they seemed to lean inward, threatening to crush any poor human insect who dared to pass below. Tonight was such a night. And yet, as I ran over the gently sloping valleys -- the grazing pastures of the island's small herds of sheep and cows -- I felt safe. The grassy hills were a great green cove, a haven where the rocky warriors could not pass. Confidently, I sailed on.

Freedom! It had been so long since I'd tasted its sweetness. Hawthorne had been more of a prison than a boarding school for girls: sundown curfews, grease-laden suppers I would gladly have swapped for the murderer's "bread and water," and sour-dispositioned matrons who watched over us like guard hounds.

I neared Plantation House, the magnificent white-columned governor's mansion. The majestic building stood idle and dark, as it had for many years. It was as if it were a glorious crystal chandelier -- with all its candles snuffed. I'd always wondered why the East India Company, for which my father was superintendent of public sales, had assigned him to the Briars instead of to the more opulent and unoccupied Plantation House. The thought angered me.

Half a mile to Jamestown, I began to grow weary. I was no longer accustomed to such activity. Running had not been part of the headmistress's prescribed course of study for young ladies!

I regretted that I could not have ridden my horse Belle into Jamestown, but she was suffering from a sore tendon and I did not want to risk laming her. In the future, when she reached maturity, I hoped to run her in the Deadwood Races.

Exhausted, I trudged on.

Jamestowners were ordinarily the last residents of St. Helena to retire each night. The town was a center of unrestrained activity and unchecked impulses. Still, I was surprised at what I heard and saw when I passed the old stone clock tower and arrived in the center of town.

Hundreds of people were dashing to and fro, squealing like greased pigs hunting for cover. I was in danger of being trampled, so I ran into the alleyway next to Porteous' Inn and stood on a fish crate, where I could watch the crowd in relative safety. People were cramming themselves into buildings, struggling to pass six or eight abreast through the narrow doorways. Doors slammed after them, one following another like pistol shots along the long row of brown, wood-frame houses. Heavy padlocks -- rarely used on St. Helena -- were slapped onto shop entrances by nervous proprietors. Frantic women closed and locked shutters on upstairs windows, pulled down parchment shades, and extinguished their oil lamps. The lights of Jamestown were going out like dying fireflies.

Of those people who remained in the street, most were men; they were shouting and had gathered in a large group. A few held muskets.

I didn't know what to make of all the commotion. No one seemed to be in any condition to be asked what the trouble was. If St. Helena was being attacked, then surely the soldiers would have been alerted. But no soldiers were to be seen. Perhaps it was a slave rebellion, similar to the one Toby told me had broken out on Haiti close to twenty-five years ago.

Then, suddenly, I heard the voice of a small boy coming from behind a rum keg discarded outside the inn. He seemed to be talking to a companion.

I crept nearer and peered over the top of the huge barrel. There were two children -- a boy of approximately nine years of age and a younger girl who resembled him and was probably his sister. They were too preoccupied to notice me. They were street urchins, crouched low in their patchwork tatters, faces smeared with grime. The boy was gleefully relating a tale to the girl, who was pale with fright.

"And Boney eats three white goats every day...," the boy said, "and little children...." Trembling, the girl tried to edge away from him, but he caught her by her dirty hair and held her fast. His face took on an even more sinister aspect. "Only English ones," he whispered loudly into her ear. She whimpered. "Only girls!"

The girl screamed, jumped up, and ran down the alley, her brother close at her heels. I laughed, thinking of how many times I had terrified my own younger siblings, Willie and Alexander, with fairy stories. But who was "Boney"? I didn't recall having heard that tale before.

I turned around in time to see one of the Jamestown men passing oil-soaked rags wound on top of sticks to his comrades. Then he touched a burning acacia branch to his stick until the top exploded in orange flame. Though I was standing more than five yards away, I could feel the heat of that torch as it sent thick, black smoke and fumes of burning whale oil into the air. The torch was used to light another -- this, another -- and on and on through the crowd of men the flame was passed rapidly from torch to torch until all were lit. Then the men marched together in the general direction of the sea. With all the chaos, I'd almost forgotten about the ship's arrival! I wondered whether the men, too, were headed toward her. I followed them.

I gathered my bed jacket closer around me to ward off the cool, coastal breeze. A sizable crowd had gathered on the rocky beach -- not just the Jamestowners, but rough-looking types from other parts of the island as well. There were armed soldiers, too: on the beach, up in the hills -- I'd never seen so many. They must have been called from their posts all over St. Helena. But why? Were they expecting trouble?

The great ship strained at her anchor in rough seas, three hundred yards offshore. I tried to make out the sea-worn letters on her hull: N-O-R-T...Northumberland! She was British, to be sure -- a tattered Union Jack fluttered from a jackstaff on her bowsprit -- and a battleship, at that. At least a dozen guns sprouted from her barnacled sides. Well, I reasoned, at least we aren't being attacked by foreigners. But what if pirates had taken over the ship?

A large landing boat packed with men and horses was already on its way from the Northumberland. It was still too far away to see any details. The crowd surged toward the water, and the British soldiers, bayonets fixed to their muskets, urged them back.

A leathery old man wearing a buckskin smithy's apron stood next to me, peering out to sea through a spyglass. His face was as red as pomegranate seeds, with deep brown creases around his mouth and neck. He was a Yamstock -- a native St. Helenian. They all had that wind-battered look to them. He aimed his glass at the approaching landing boat.

"Who are they?" I asked the Yamstock.

He put his spyglass under his arm and turned to look at me. The man had only one eye! The right socket was empty, and the lid appeared to have been sewn shut.

He cocked his head at a peculiar angle and stared at me a long time, in a way that made me sorry I hadn't thought to change into something more substantial than my nightgown before leaving the Briars.

"Who wants t'know?" he said in a voice halfway between a gargle and a growl.

"Betsy. Betsy Balcombe."

He stared at me again and made a strange clucking noise with his tongue. "See fer yerself," he said, handing me the spyglass.

I put the cold brass to my eye. The boat and its passengers looked terribly small. I couldn't see any details.

Then, without warning, the Yamstock rudely yanked the glass from my hands. I was stunned and disappointed. Crazy old man!

"Yer got the thing turned wrong way round!" he growled, handing it back to me, this time with the eyepiece facing the proper direction.

"Hmmm...," I said, aiming it at the boat again. I could see the men in the boat very clearly now.

"What d'yer see with those pretty young eyes o'yers?" the Yamstock asked, a bit contemptuously.

"Horses, sailors...and oarsmen."

"Aye! Go on."

The moonlight seemed to be fading. I strained to see.

"And...officers. One of them's tall...gray-haired. With fancy whiskers and uniform."

"Aye. That'd be the adm'ral," the Yamstock said.

"Admiral? Which one?"

"Go on, I say! What else?"

I took the spyglass away from my eye. The Yamstock's bullying was beginning to annoy me.

"Go on!" he snapped.

I scowled at him for his rudeness. Still, I was anxious to learn who was on the boat. So I placed the glass against my eye. I looked through it a long time in silence. A cloud had drifted in front of the moon, and I could no longer see anything worth mentioning. The Yamstock grew impatient with me.

"Well? Well? D'yer see some men what don't look like limeys?"

The clouds shifted again, and the moon shone brightly over the ocean.

This time when I looked at the boat, I noticed a group of men -- officers it seemed -- I hadn't seen before. They wore strange uniforms. And what was this? There were a few ladies on board too! They wore fancy long dresses of a style unfamiliar to me, and they had silk shawls wrapped around their shoulders. The men and women seemed to be engaged in serious discussion.

"Yes," I said to the Yamstock. "Foreigners. Some ladies, too."

He laughed -- an unpleasant, raspy sound.

"Aye!" he said.

I studied the group of foreigners. One man puzzled me. He was small and stood as straight as a measuring stick, but apart from the others, and spoke to no one. No one tried to speak to him. He was the only man on board who was still facing away from the shore. Instead, motionless, hands clasped tightly behind his back, he stared out across the sea.

"One of the men -- I can't see his face," I said. "He's wearing a big bicorne hat. And he's shorter than the others."

"Ahhh!" the Yamstock exulted. "That'd be Boney!" He snatched the spyglass from me and looked through it.

Boney. That name again! So he wasn't just a character in a children's fairy tale! He was real. But who was he?

"Is he a pirate?" I asked the Yamstock.

"A pirate?" he said with a snarl, never taking his eye from the glass. "Aye! And a murderer. Ravisher of women, too!"

"Why are they bringing him here?"

The Yamstock turned toward me and glowered with his one eye. "Aye, they should o' hung that little French disease from London Tower and let the rats make short work o' what was left!"

The Yamstock jammed the spyglass into his apron pocket and stomped away, without a word of farewell.

I was tired and eager to return to the Briars. But having come this far, I was anxious to get a better look at the little Frenchman. I'd never seen a real pirate before!

The clock in Jamestown's stone tower struck the hour. By the first stroke, the landing boat from the Northumberland had moored. By the fifth and last stroke, the passengers began to disembark. The order of their exit seemed to have been well planned. First, armed British sailors, sea legs wobbly from their long voyage, tumbled out onto the beach like crabs. As soon as they were able, they formed two neat columns facing each other. Next came navy officers and their orderlies, who helped the foreign ladies out of the boat. The ladies seemed very relieved to be on dry land.

Then, on horseback, came the silver-haired Admiral in his striking black uniform and gold-fringed epaulets. His chest was littered with war medals. He reminded me of the pictures I'd seen of the great English Admiral Nelson, painted to pay tribute to him after he'd died defeating the French at Trafalgar. Of course, unlike Nelson, this fellow had whiskers -- and both of his arms.

Then came the foreign officers and orderlies in stiff blue uniforms with red cuffs and white sashes. They waited patiently in formation by the side of the boat. Staring straight ahead, their faces were expressionless.

The crowd of onlookers, which had up to this point watched the scene unfold in near silence, became restless. They began to murmur and press toward the boat. Once more the soldiers held them at bay. The Jamestown men raised their torches high into the air so they could get a better view of the boat. There was a growing sense of anticipation in the air -- excitement of an almost tangible sort. I hadn't felt anything like it since the day I'd stood with a crowd outside the palace in London, hoping for a glimpse of the prince regent.

I began to wonder whether there wasn't some member of the royal family aboard. Surely a pirate wasn't worthy of all this attention -- not even if he were Jean Lafitte himself! But it was apparent that only one passenger remained aboard: the little Frenchman. Up close he looked even smaller and less impressive than I'd supposed. I was more than a little disappointed. The man was about to mount his horse -- a magnificent black charger, trimmed in red and gold -- but hesitated. He slid his small, black-booted heel from the stirrup and turned to face the murmuring crowd. As they saw him, they grew louder -- more fearful and hostile. The Jamestown men pushed past the soldiers, gave out a yell -- almost a war cry -- and marched down the beach to within a few yards of the boat. There they waited and watched.

The crowd's behavior seemed to have a strange and powerful effect upon the Frenchman. He took a slow, deep breath that seemed to infuse him with electric energy. His gray eyes flashed fire; his jaw set in rigid determination. Life flooded into his face and limbs, adding such strength and presence to his appearance that it hardly seemed he could be the same man he was a moment before. He actually seemed to grow taller before my very eyes!

The Frenchman mounted his charger, and the horse stepped onto shore. A few of the Jamestown men shouted things at him that I couldn't understand. Unbeknownst to the British soldiers, one Jamestowner had raised and aimed his musket at the unarmed Frenchman. I tried to yell, but no sound came out. The Frenchman caught sight of the Jamestowner and stared at him with steely intensity. Incredibly, the man lowered his musket as if compelled to do so by an invisible power. Then the Frenchman's gaze swept slowly over the crowd like the beam from a lighthouse. A hush fell upon the crowd. To a man, they fell back, clearing a wide path for the Frenchman. And suddenly, I understood who this man, capable of inspiring such terror, must be.

Bonaparte! Was there any man more feared and hated in all of Europe -- in all of history? General Bonaparte. Emperor Bonaparte. What on earth was he doing on St. Helena? Small wonder Jamestown was in such an uproar!

The countries of Europe had been at war with one another for as far back into my childhood as I could remember. I had never known exactly what all the fighting was about. Perhaps, as in most wars, no one really did. But there was one name that was always mentioned in connection with it; one man mocked and condemned again and again in the British gazettes; one name that was never merely spoken, but spat -- especially by the London matrons who had lost sons in the war. One man blamed for everything from British debt to British dysentery: Napoleon Bonaparte, emperor of France.

He was rumored to have massacred prisoners of war and even the weak and wounded among his own troops. He was said to have kept a harem in Egypt and a dozen mistresses in every country he conquered. And more than once I'd heard that he'd stolen and sold his wife's jewels to finance his military campaigns. What was fact and what was fiction? I did not know. I'd never paid much attention during Miss Bosworth's history lessons at school. What did I care what happened last week, much less a year or twenty ago? As for the newspapers, only the results of the horse races interested me. I supposed I knew as much of Bonaparte as I cared to -- as much as most Englishmen did. And like most my age, I could think back to my childhood and remember the little ditty my mother whispered in my ear as she tucked me in at night:

Good night, small one --

Be good and pray with all your precious heart, That day will dawn without a trace of vicious Boney-parte!

Ah! So that's where the name "Boney" came from!

It had been only several months since word had come to us in London of Bonaparte's defeat at the Battle of Waterloo; I was sure I'd heard the last of him. I recall at the time some of the girls at Hawthorne were discussing possible methods of disposing of him. One of them actually proposed baking him into a tureen of French liver pâté and serving him to King George! And now, these several months later, it occurred to me that perhaps St. Helena was, in a sense, serving as that tureen. Perhaps this was the King's chosen method of disposing of the vanquished Emperor Napoleon. Not a bad choice, at that. If I had an enemy I wished to see rot, I'd ship him posthaste to St. Helena!

The long procession from the Northumberland wended its way up the beach. Bonaparte on his charger passed by close enough for me to smell the horse sweat. His face and body were brilliantly illuminated by the torches of the Jamestowners who lined his path. He looked not unlike the portraits I'd seen of him in London. Oh, he was a bit fatter, and I was surprised to see how yellowish and waxy the skin on his plump, round face appeared. But then, most portraits tend to flatter their subject. The short, green military jacket with red collar and piping, the fine white linen vest and breeches, the cumbersome black hat that seemed a bit too large for his small features, even the silver Star of Honor pinned to his breast -- all were precisely as depicted in the gallery portraits and newspaper engravings. Bonaparte's eagle eyes stared straight ahead seeming to see everyone -- and yet no one -- as he advanced through the silent crowd. For their part, their attention was fixed solely on the emperor. No one took any notice of the British admiral nor of any of the others. Where, I wondered, was the admiral taking him? By the look of things, it was difficult to determine just who was leading whom!

Not long before the sun began to peek over the mountains on St. Helena, the procession passed from my view. I was suddenly too weary to follow.

It was so far to the Briars that I decided to sleep out a few hours and return home as soon as I awoke. I was accustomed to doing this and to slipping back into the Briars unnoticed. Mercifully, my family were late risers. As long as I returned before ten o'clock, they'd be none the wiser.

I had little trouble finding a proper bed. Next to a barn, not far from the beach, stood a rusty wheelbarrow -- just my size! And now, for a mattress: I loaded the barrow with hay, which I'd pulled from the bales stacked nearby. Then I climbed aboard. I daresay it made a finer resting place than that "bed of nails" they gave me at Hawthorne!

I watched the last star of night fade into the sunrise. Then I shut my eyes and thought about my encounter with Emperor Napoleon. Too bad, I mused, I can't tell Jane about it. I couldn't trust her to keep mum. And besides, I could imagine just how she'd react. I'd tell her the whole incredible story of my adventure, including the fact that I'd stood near enough to the most feared man on earth to have reached out and touched him. And what would Jane say? Good heavens, Betsy! You slept in a wheelbarrow?

I laughed myself to sleep.

Copyright © 2004 by Staton Rabin

Read a Sample Chapter

Betsy and the Emperor

Margaret K. McElderry Books

Chapter One

I opened my bedroom window and inhaled -- deeply, joyfully. That familiar, intoxicating odor: night on St. Helena. The sickly-sweet smell of guava and roses hung in the air like ether, just as I'd remembered it. Who would have thought I'd be so glad to return to the place my father and his navy comrades called "Hell in the South Atlantic"?

It was the autumn of 1815. I had been home again at the Briars just three days, from Hawthorne Boarding School in London. I'd shocked my parents by not misbehaving once since my return to St. Helena. Perhaps they believed the knuckle-rapping, head-thumping headmistress of Hawthorne had finally knocked some sense into their younger daughter. I began to wonder it myself. Blast! Had I lost my sense of adventure? Would I go soft and ladylike and marry some vain, boot-polished officer of the Fifty-fourth Regiment or His Majesty's Navy -- as my sister Jane hoped to do?

Just then two booms of the cannon from the port at Jamestown -- the signal for a ship's arrival -- broke the stillness. And I knew I remained the Betsy Balcombe of yore. Older, yes. Wiser, perhaps. But never, never willing to settle for a life that's "Tedious-as-Hell in the South Atlantic"!

I threw on my bed jacket and grabbed hold of my ladder -- the vine that had, over the years, crept bravely up the red brick walls of the Briars and to the very edge of my windowsill. It was many a night that the vine had been my ladder to adventure. Thank heaven Toby hadn't trimmed it back during my long absence!

I slipped a little as I climbed out the window, and Jane woke with a start. She gave a quiet, girlish scream. I looked over at her, and she was sitting up in her white lacy canopy bed, the covers pulled tight under her chin. I had one leg out the window. My sister glared at me, stern as the headmistress of Hawthorne.

"I'll tell...," Jane threatened coolly.

"Still the little tattler," I said, shaking my head. Jane was sixteen -- two years older than I; old enough to keep secrets.

"You're going into Jamestown, aren't you?"

"Go back to sleep, Jane. If you don't, you'll make your eyes all puffy and you'll turn ugly so none of the young officers will want to marry you."

"Betsy!"

"Good night, Jane."

It was too late for her to stop me. I was already out the window and halfway down the vine. Jane would never think of spoiling her pretty hands by attempting to climb down after me.

I jumped the last few feet to the ground. Then I peered around the corner of the Briars to see who was about. Most of our slaves had already returned to their cabins for the night. Most of the soldiers had turned in too, though there seemed to be a few more sentries on watch than usual.

I rounded the corner of the Briars and dashed to the moon-shaded side of the Pavilion veranda. Suddenly, I heard footsteps in the dank leaves nearby. I froze, listening, trying to quiet my winded breathing so it wouldn't betray me.

"Is me. Only me, missy."

Toby! I'd forgotten the old man liked to stroll by night in the gardens he tended by day. He liked to drink a bit of the island rum too. Not enough to get drunk, though. I breathed a sigh of relief.

"You go for the walk at night -- like old time, missy, yes?"

"Yes." I still couldn't see him, but I smelled the rum on his breath. I knew he'd be smiling broadly at me with those remarkably white teeth I used to think were a string of pearls from the seas off his native Haiti.

"Miss Jane with you?"

I laughed. "What do you think?"

"Didn't think yes, missy," he said, chuckling softly. "Didn't think yes."

Toby had been with my family for years and had seen Jane and me grow up. But I knew I was his favorite -- even more than the boys.

After a moment he whispered hoarsely: "Ship is here, in Jamestown. Do you know?"

"I heard the signal."

Toby fell silent. Then he sighed and whispered seriously: "All will be very different, St. Helena now. Everything soon change, missy, yes?"

I didn't know what Toby meant. He often said things that sounded mysterious. I knew the island slaves to be very superstitious, so I never took much notice.

"Your papa ask me to cut vines all over," he said with a chuckle. "I leave the one outside missy's window for you coming home."

So Toby knew how I'd escaped from my room at night, and he'd kept my secret! I'd always felt he was one of the few people who understood me.

"Thank you, Toby!"

"Hush!" he whispered. "You wake family all, no Jamestown, no ship to see for missy."

"Good night, Toby," I whispered back, and ran toward Jamestown.

Copyright © 2004 by Staton Rabin

Continues...

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Excerpted from Betsy and the Emperor by Staton Rabin Copyright © 2004 by Staton Rabin. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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