Say what you will about Napoleon B(u)onapart(é). Two hundred years after his final and resounding defeat, a man puts on his hat and rides out into the field in front of thousands of cheering spectators who seem likely as not to think that Wellington is a kind of boot.
If I'd known you didn't have to martyr yourself to be eternally remembered, I'd have volunteered to get packed off to St. Helena so people could write poems about me, too. What a raw deal.