The Emperor who conquered Europe was packed off by the British to a rock in the South Atlantic, where his stomach, his house and his enemies finished the job
LONGWOOD HOUSE, ST HELENA, 5 May 1821 – Napoleon Bonaparte, who had once ruled more of Europe than anyone since Charlemagne, died at around eleven minutes to six in the evening in a damp, rat-infested house on one of the most remote islands on earth. He was fifty-one. His last words are usually given as something about France and the army, and then he was gone. The British, who had put him there, held a post-mortem, shrugged, and went home for tea. The argument about what killed him has been going ever since.
Stomach Cancer or Arsenic? The Great Napoleon Murder Mystery
The official autopsy, carried out by a team of doctors the day after his death, found a large ulcer on the stomach wall that had eaten through to the lining. The doctors recorded it as a cancerous condition, and it fits neatly with the fact that his father, Carlo Bonaparte, died of stomach cancer too. That, for most modern historians, is the sensible answer. The article on the death of Napoleon goes through the competing theories at length.
But a conspiracy theory has always been more fun. Since the 1960s, a succession of enthusiasts have claimed to find arsenic in samples of his hair, and a story has taken hold that he was poisoned, perhaps by a British agent or a French courtier. Others point out that the green wallpaper in his house contained a pigment called Scheele’s green, a copper arsenite, which could release poisonous fumes in the damp climate. Wallpaper as the murder weapon is, you must admit, an excellent twist.
What Would a Modern Oncologist Do?
If it was stomach cancer, the outlook depends on how early it is caught. A modern patient with Napoleon’s symptoms, the stomach pain, the vomiting, the weight loss and the exhaustion, would be sent for an endoscopy and a scan. If the tumour was still localised, surgeons could remove part or all of the stomach, followed by chemotherapy. If it had spread, as it probably had by 1821, the treatment would be about prolonging and easing life. Either way, Napoleon would have had a good deal more time than the three months of misery he endured, and he’d have received a lot less mercury.
The Calomel Disaster
That’s a serious point. In the last weeks of his life, his doctors prescribed calomel, a mercury-based purgative, and then a huge dose of it, as a last resort. It’s widely believed that the treatment hastened his death by upsetting his body’s electrolyte balance. Some historians have gone further and said the doctors, who were desperate to prove he wasn’t ill, simply killed him with a laxative. The Emperor of the French, in other words, was finished off by a purgative. There’s no more fitting way for a man who left the world in such a mess.
A Damp Island Full of Rats and Resentment
Let’s not forget where he was. After his defeat at Waterloo in 1815, the British shipped Napoleon to St Helena, an island so remote that the journey from England took about two months. His residence, Longwood House, was a draughty building on a windswept plateau, badly damp and plagued by rats. The governor, Sir Hudson Lowe, was a humourless sort of man who spent much of his time restricting the Emperor’s movements and quarrelling over his title. Napoleon, who liked to be addressed as Emperor, was only ever allowed “General Bonaparte”. A man could be forgiven for developing a stomach problem in such circumstances.
The Hand in the Waistcoat
Every history of Napoleon eventually gets to the pose. In dozens of portraits, he stands with one hand tucked inside his waistcoat, a stance that became his trademark. People have long joked that he was holding his stomach, and a modern doctor might well agree, since a stomach ulcer is the sort of thing that makes a man clutch his abdomen in public. The truth is less dramatic: the pose was a standard gentleman’s pose of the day, and it appears in portraits of many other men. But “man with a sore stomach tries to look imperial” is a nicer story. A doctor reading the Britannica biography of Napoleon I will tell you that the pain and the pose might be a coincidence, and you will not be disappointed to learn it.
What If Napoleon Had Lived Longer?
The Emperor in 1821 was a spent force, with no army, no country and no allies. A healthier Napoleon would have been a bored, middle-aged man on a rock, dictating his memoirs and annoying the governor. There was, however, a persistent rumour that he might be rescued and restored. A longer-lived Napoleon would have kept European diplomats awake at night for another decade. In the end, the British were probably relieved when the problem solved itself. If you want to see how nervous they were, remember that they kept a guard on the Emperor’s body until it was buried.
The Verdict: A Cancer We Could Treat and a Wallpaper We Could Strip
A modern hospital would have given Napoleon a fighting chance and a much more comfortable death. A modern building inspector would have condemned Longwood House. The whole story, in the end, is a reminder that conquering Europe is no protection against damp walls and bad doctors. Napoleon lost at Waterloo, and then he lost to a stomach. Both defeats were, in their way, entirely avoidable.
Humorous Observations
- He conquered most of Europe and was beaten in the end by wallpaper, if you believe the conspiracists.
- The British put him on a remote rock to make sure he’d cause no more trouble, and he did exactly that, only slowly.
- A man who once crowned himself emperor was forced to be called “General”, which is surely a medical condition.
- The hand-in-waistcoat pose is either a fashion statement or an early antacid.
- Sir Hudson Lowe turned bureaucratic spite into an art form.
- Calomel is the only laxative in history to be blamed for the end of an empire.
- The rats at Longwood House are the only creatures who ever ruled the Emperor.
- If a modern gastroenterologist had seen him before Waterloo, Wellington might have been the one writing memoirs on a rock.
Cyndi Himmelstiere is a satirical journalist at Prat.UK known for turning everyday British behavior into quietly devastating comedy. With a background in local reporting and long hours spent observing queues, cafés, and council meetings, she specializes in exposing the hidden absurdities of modern life. Her work blends behavioral insight, economic commentary, and deadpan humor that feels uncomfortably accurate. Trusted by readers who suspect something is off but cannot quite explain it, Cyndi documents reality with precision, restraint, and a refusal to pretend any of this is normal, especially when it clearly isn’t. She is the author of Could Modern Doctors Have Saved History’s Greats?
