Napoleon Bonaparte’s ambition to conquer Europe is legendary, but lesser-known is his fleeting interest in Australia—a land he reportedly dreamed of claiming as Terre Napoléon (Napoleon’s Land) during the early 1800s. While the Corsican general never launched an invasion, French expeditions under his rule mapped Australia’s southern coast, planting seeds of imperial fantasy that withered amid British naval dominance and logistical nightmares.
The idea emerged in 1800, when Napoleon, fresh off seizing power in France, eyed global expansion. French explorer Nicolas Baudin was dispatched in 1800 to survey Australia, then known as New Holland, with secret orders to assess its colonization potential. Baudin’s ships, Géographe and Naturaliste, charted vast stretches of the southern coastline, dubbing features like the “Napoleon Peninsula” (modern-day Fleurieu Peninsula) and “Terre Napoléon” (now South Australia and Victoria). French maps from 1811 even labeled much of southern Australia with these grandiose names, though British settlements soon overwrote them.
Napoleon’s fascination wasn’t purely territorial. Scientists aboard Baudin’s expedition collected thousands of plant and animal specimens, including the first kangaroo skeleton sent to Europe. The mission’s naturalist, François Péron, urged Napoleon to colonize Australia, praising its “inexhaustible riches” and strategic position. But by 1803, Napoleon’s focus had shifted to invading Britain and fighting continental wars. Australia became a backburner project, left to gather dust alongside his Egyptian campaign plans.
The logistical hurdles were laughably immense. France lacked the naval power to challenge Britain’s hold on Australia after Captain James Cook’s 1770 claim. Napoleon’s fleet, already strained blockading England, couldn’t spare ships for a 15,000-mile voyage. Plus, colonizing a continent teeming with unfamiliar flora, fauna, and Indigenous resistance required resources he’d squandered in Russia. As historian Geoffrey Blainey quipped, “Napoleon couldn’t even keep his boots dry in Moscow—Australia would’ve swallowed him whole.”
The Terre Napoléon maps, however, sparked a brief cold war of cartography. British explorer Matthew Flinders, racing Baudin to circumnavigate Australia, was imprisoned by the French in Mauritius for six years, delaying his own map’s publication. Flinders later griped in his diary about French “theft” of his discoveries, though both sides plagiarized liberally. Today, the only remnant of Napoleon’s Aussie ambition is a smattering of French place names—like the Buonaparte Coast—and a lot of “what if” musings.
The humor here is historical irony. Picture Napoleon, who couldn’t conquer rainy Russia, daydreaming about a sunburnt continent filled with hopping marsupials. Or French colonists trying to explain kangaroos to Parisian elites: “They’re like deer, but they box!” The real kicker? France ended up with a few Pacific islands and a failed penal colony in Western Australia—hardly la gloire Napoleon craved.
So, while the Australian dream fizzled, it underscores Bonaparte’s boundless audacity. The man reshaped Europe’s borders, crowned himself emperor, and still found time to ponder renaming a continent. Had he succeeded, today’s Aussies might sip café au lait in “Napoleonville” and blame him for their croissant addiction. Instead, they’ve got Vegemite—a spread even the French wouldn’t claim.
