Gary Crawford - June 2011

 

The Bonaparte Threat
by
Gary Crawford

 

Dukes, earls, viscounts, counts, barons in America? Not in these United States! The founders of our republic wanted nothing to do with the titles of nobility that were so prevalent throughout Europe. They recognized that the special privileges that accompany such titles posed a threat to our democracy and, being hereditary honors, served to create permanent class distinctions.
Accordingly, laws prohibiting titles of nobility appeared early in our country, in several provincial charters and state constitutions. When our national Constitution was written, titles expressly were prohibited. Article 1, Section 9, Clause 8 reads:
No Title of Nobility shall be granted by the United States:  And no Person holding any Office of Profit or Trust under them, shall, without the Consent of the Congress, accept of any present, Emolument, Office, or Title, of any kind whatever, from any King, Prince, or foreign State.
Note that two issues are being addressed here. The first sentence prohibits the federal government from granting of titles, but the second sentence touches on another concern — the question of loyalties. Our founders wanted no American holding a position of power to be in the pay of a foreign state and recognized that conferring a title often was the best way for a monarch to reward someone for services rendered.
The very next clause (Article I, Section 10, Clause 1) also mentions titles, prohibiting the individual states from granting them. Despite these provisions, less than ten years after the Constitution was adopted in 1788, proposals began to circulate to strengthen the Constitution on this point. Some wanted to close the “without the consent of Congress” loophole and prevent any future Congress from allowing exceptions to the no-titles policy. Every suggestion was to tighten the policy, no one proposed loosening it. Eventually, the draft of a Constitutional amendment began circulating through Senate committees. Finally, on January 18, 1810, a very tough amendment was introduced in the Senate.
At this point, the Gentle Reader may be wondering what all this has to do with us. It turns out that there are several Maryland connections to this story, and here is the first of these. The “titles of nobility” amendment was put forward by Sen. Philip Reed of Maryland.
Reed’s proposal was a tough one. The Constitution already prohibited the granting of titles, but his amendment would penalize citizens for accepting them, from anyone. The concept was simple: Accept a title or any other present from a foreign power and you lose your citizenship. Here is the full text:
If any citizen of the United States shall accept, claim, receive or retain any title of nobility or honour, or shall, without the consent of Congress, accept and retain any present, pension, office or emolument of any kind whatever, from any emperor, king, prince or foreign power, such person shall cease to be a citizen of the United States, and shall be incapable of holding any office of trust or profit under them, or either of them.
Congress acted surprisingly quickly, passing the Senate by a 19 to 5 vote. By May 1st, it had sailed through the House by an even wider margin, 87 to 3. The proposed Thirteenth Amendment then was sent off for consideration by the state legislatures during their fall sessions. For the Constitution to be amended, the proposal would need to be ratified by three-quarters of them. In 1810, the U.S.A. consisted of 17 states, so the magic number was thirteen.
Two hundred years later, we may wonder what all this fuss was about. Titles of nobility certainly are contrary to our egalitarian principles, but why go to all this bother? Our Senator Reed and many others in Congress feared something. But what was threatening the nation at this time? Were there people with titles, people already in America or who might come to America, who might move into positions of influence and power?
Unfortunately, few records exist of the arguments put forward, pro or con, but we can guess. For years, the U.S. had been struggling with various international issues, particularly those relating to the freedom of the seas. These conflicts led first to the undeclared “Quasi-War” (1797-1801) with France, our former ally, and, a few years later, to our second war with Great Britain (1812-14). The proposed Thirteenth Amendment seems to arise from concerns about tangled loyalties with these two countries — and tangles there were.
Much of the concern may have centered on the imperial ambitions of the Corsica-born self-crowned Emperor of France, Napoleon Bonaparte. And yes, there was a Maryland connection. Unlikely as it may seem, there was a Bonaparte living in Baltimore at the time. Actually, there were two Bonapartes. It really is a most improbable story.
The youngest of Napoleon’s siblings was Girolamo, Jérôme in French. The teenager was known in the French court as “Fifi” for his fondness for fine clothes, parties, and especially girls. Big brother Napoleon, then First Consul of France, decided that military service might be good for Jérôme and had him appointed to the French navy in the Caribbean. While on duty there he met Joshua Barney, an American fellow officer then in service under French colors. In 1802, Jérôme was promoted to second lieutenant and given command of the 16-gun sloop-of-war brig, the Epervier (Sparrowhawk) on patrol in the Caribbean.
The Epervier sailed back for France in July of 1803. Jérôme was not aboard, however. He had gotten into his head the idea of visiting America rather than returning to France. Napoleon flatly denied permission, not wishing to give Jérôme any opportunities for mischief, but the willful Jérôme went anyway. Leaving his ship in Martinique, he took passage for New York with a secretary, a doctor and several servants. He presented himself to a surprised French consul and was enthusiastically welcomed by New York society. About the only person he knew in America, however, was Joshua Barney, who promptly invited Jérôme to visit his home in Baltimore. And here is the second Maryland connection.
Barney introduced Jérôme to Baltimore society, where he cut a dashing figure. Baltimoreans were delighted to have a relative of Napoleon in their midst. And though Jérôme spoke no English, he hardly needed to. He was elegant, nearly royalty, and downright beautiful.
And, of course, he also was brother to First Consul Napoleon, whom many here much admired at that time. A Talbot County gadfly, Jacob Gibson, was a big Napoleon fan. In addition to Sharp’s Island, Gibson owned several properties on the Eastern Shore that he named after Napoleonic victories. One such property in St. Michaels was named for the Battle of Marengo, a village in Italy where Napoleon defeated an Austrian army, whence the street in St. Michaels takes its name — giving us our third Maryland connection.
Sometime in the early fall, Jérôme attended a party given by Samuel Chase, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence and by then an associate justice on the U.S. Supreme Court. Another guest was William Patterson, who with Robert Morris had helped to finance the Revolutionary War. Patterson now was an influential merchant and shipper, eminently respectable, and the second wealthiest man in Maryland after Charles Carroll of Carrollton. With Patterson that night were his wife and their 18-year-old daughter Elizabeth, already a popular socialite and a noted beauty.
According to one description, Betsy, as she was known to her friends, was “stunningly beautiful, with a svelte figure, creamy complexion and wonderfully expressive brown eyes.” Her high spirits had earned her the title the Belle of Baltimore, but she yearned for the world beyond Baltimore. Betsy had a flair for the latest and most revealing Paris fashions and, perhaps just as important, she also knew a bit of French.
The two teenagers were introduced, and sparks flew. At another social event a few days later, Jérôme’s gold chain somehow got thrown around her neck, entangling the two together; Elizabeth later said she took it is a sign. The romance quickly developed, and within weeks he proposed and she accepted. Her father initially approved of the match, but then he received an anonymous letter that gave details of Jérôme’s scandalous past. Patterson tried for weeks to prevent the marriage, but Betsy would not be put off. She declared, “I would rather be the wife of Jérôme Bonaparte for an hour, than the wife of any other man for life.”
Only after she threatened to elope did Patterson relent, but he insisted that the knot be tied tight. He arranged for them to be married by the Mayor of Baltimore in a civil ceremony and by John Carroll, the first Catholic bishop in America. The weddings took place on Christmas Eve, 1803, just a few weeks after Jérôme had turned 19. Despite the season, one guest remarked that the bride’s dress was so flimsy that it would fit in his pocket.
The Bonapartes set up housekeeping in Baltimore, where they became the talk of the town. Elizabeth scandalized provincial American society by wearing ever more daring dresses, “so transparent her body could be seen through the material,” a practice to which her husband apparently had not the slightest objection.
Everyone seemed satisfied with the marriage, even the Bonaparte family, except for one — and it was his approval that really mattered. Napoleon was furious with Jérôme, for he intended each of his siblings to marry into European royal families. When he learned of Jérôme’s marriage to a common American, Napoleon demanded that he return to France immediately — and without “Miss Patterson,” thank you. They chose to remain in Baltimore, though they sent appeals by every means available in an effort to persuade the First Consul to relent.
That spring,1804, the French Senate offered Napoleon the title “Emperor of the French.” He accepted without hesitation, and a huge coronation ceremony was planned for December. Jérôme and Elizabeth decided to attend this huge event. Jérôme was confident that Napoleon, once he finally met her, would accept his lovely sister-in-law.
Sadly, we’ll never know, for, from this point on, everything went wrong for the young couple. Their ship was struck by a storm as they were leaving Baltimore and sank in the harbor with their belongings, wedding presents, and gold. Barely escaping with their lives, they tried again some weeks later. This time their ship was turned back by the British Navy. Finally, William Patterson directed one of his own ships to take them over, but by this time they had missed the great Coronation. More troubling, upon arrival in Portugal, they learned that Betsy was unwelcome in Europe by order of the Emperor. The Portuguese authorities denied her permission to land.
Napoleon was then in Italy, crowning himself the King of Rome. Jérôme decided that they should split up. He would go to Rome and plead their case in person, while Elizabeth would wait in Amsterdam. The separation must have been tearful. By now they knew that Elizabeth was carrying a child — the Emperor’s nephew.
Elizabeth never saw Jérôme again. Denied landing permission in Amsterdam, Elizabeth crossed the Channel to London, where she took up lodgings to await news. When news finally came, it was not good. In Rome, Napoleon gave Jérôme a flat ultimatum: Give up Elizabeth or be financially ruined forever. Overwhelmed, Jérôme conceded. When Pope Pius VII refused to annul the marriage, Napoleon simply had the French courts declare the marriage invalid. In July, Jérôme Napoleon Bonaparte was born in England —Elizabeth called him Bo — and they soon returned to Baltimore. This is how there happened to be two Bonapartes in Maryland in 1810.
The rest of the tale is quickly told. Jérôme became King of Westphalia in 1807 and married Catherine of Württenberg; upon her death, he married a third time, and died in 1860. His American son, Jérôme remained in Baltimore, where he married an American woman, much against his mother’s wishes (she wanted him to marry royalty), and fathered two sons, Jérôme II and Charles.
Elizabeth never remarried. After Napoleon’s fall in 1815, she turned her back on America and moved to Europe for 25 years, always insisting she was a princess, the lawful wife of Jérôme Bonaparte and a member of the Bonaparte family. Napoleon never acknowledged her or her offspring as Bonapartes, none were ever listed in the line of succession, and no one was granted a title. Until his abdication in 1814, Napoleon did, however, provide “Miss Patterson” with 60,000 francs annually. Like her father, Elizabeth invested wisely and outlived her son. When she died in 1879 at age 95, she left one and a half million dollars to her two grandsons.
Speaking of no titles, whatever happened to the Thirteenth Amendment? Ten states had ratified the amendment by the end of 1811, and in February of 1812, Massachusetts approved. Just two more states were needed. But then New York voted no, and in April Louisiana joined the union, raising the number needed to 14. New Hampshire voted yes, but no other state approved the measure. With only 12 approvals, it died.
We may never know whether the Baltimore Bonapartes were part of what prompted Senator Reed to put forward his amendment. It is worth pointing out, however, that the very first state to ratify was (you guessed it) Maryland, which makes our fourth connection.
None of the American Bonapartes ever received a title, but would it have mattered if they had? Did any of them ever rise to a position of power? As a matter of fact, yes. One certainly did, and he provides us with our fifth Maryland connection to this curious tale.
Elizabeth and Jérôme’s grandson Charles Bonaparte was born and raised in Baltimore. After a career in law, he served with distinction in a variety of roles. In 1905 he joined Theodore Roosevelt’s cabinet as the 37th Secretary of the Navy. The following year, Roosevelt appointed him the Attorney General of the United States. One final irony occurred in 1908. While Attorney General, Charles established the Bureau of Investigation. So, yes, our FBI was founded by the grand-nephew of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.
Charles Bonaparte was put to rest in Baltimore’s Loudon Park Cemetery. He lies less than eight miles away from our sixth and last Maryland connection.

Gary Crawford and his wife, Susan, operate Crawford’s Nautical Books, a unique bookstore on Tilghman’s Island.