The Travelling Dead

Bizarre stories of how historical figures (and their body parts) have been transported across borders for centuries.

Some people travel with backpacks. Some carry duty-free perfume and overpriced Toblerones. And then there are those who’ve packed up the odd skull, a few fingers, or an entire embalmed corpse and crossed a border or two like it’s the most natural thing in the world. History, it seems, is full of body-snatching road trips, and the stories are equal parts fascinating and morbid. Some of them read like gothic fiction. Others resemble Monty Python sketches with more embalming fluid and far fewer punchlines. The obsession with famous remains isn’t just a quirk of old times either—there’s a whole economy of relics, remains and reputation still swirling beneath the polished surface of modernity.

Let’s start with Napoleon, because if anyone was going to end up in multiple places at once, it would be the man who tried to conquer most of Europe. After his death in exile on the island of Saint Helena in 1821, his body made quite the journey. The French demanded he be brought back to Paris in what they called the retour des cendres (return of the ashes). Except there were no ashes, just one very dead emperor. His body was exhumed, inspected (still in remarkably good condition, apparently), and then shipped across the sea with full military honours, eventually landing under the dome of Les Invalides. But the truly bizarre bit? There’s a persistent rumour that his penis was separated from his body during an autopsy and has been passed around by collectors ever since. Currently, it might be in New Jersey. Yes, that New Jersey. Because what else would you keep next to your collection of Revolutionary War musket balls and vintage baseball cards? The relic was described once as looking like a “maltreated strip of leather,” which is maybe the most tactful way to put it.

Then there’s the case of Saint Catherine of Siena, a 14th-century mystic who really made a name for herself by convincing the Pope to move the papacy back to Rome. When she died, her followers in Siena wanted a relic. So they tried to smuggle her head from Rome. The story goes that they placed it in a sack and were stopped at the city gates. When the guards inspected the bag, all they saw were rose petals—divine intervention or a clever sleight of hand? Either way, her mummified head is still on display in Siena today, looking serenely unimpressed by the whole ordeal. Her thumb also made the rounds and can be found elsewhere, because apparently one bit wasn’t enough. Other parts of her reportedly ended up in Venice and Florence, meaning she became a spiritual frequent flyer without moving a muscle. These pieces were often used to bless people, inspire awe, or settle theological disputes, because nothing says divine authority like a travel-worn saint’s pinky.

You can’t talk about travelling body parts without mentioning Galileo. The great astronomer died in 1642, and nearly a century later, his admirers decided he deserved a proper monument. During the exhumation, someone thought it’d be a great idea to pocket one of his fingers. Or three. His middle finger now stands upright in a museum in Florence, giving what can only be interpreted as a posthumous gesture of defiance to the Church that once condemned him. Somewhere between relic and anatomical trolling. There’s something poetic about the man who pointed out the heavens being remembered via a rogue digit. A few other bones, including a tooth, were also taken and now sit in velvet-lined boxes, as if that makes the whole thing less ghoulish. And yet, tourists flock to the museum to take selfies with the skeletal digit like it’s the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Thomas Paine, the revolutionary thinker who fired up both the American and French revolutions with his pamphlets, didn’t get to rest easy either. He died in New York in 1809 and was buried on his farm, but a decade later, an eccentric Englishman named William Cobbett decided Paine deserved a proper British burial. So he dug him up, packed his remains in a trunk, and shipped them across the Atlantic. The plan was to give him a hero’s welcome. Instead, the bones got lost. Possibly sold, possibly scattered. Today, there’s no official grave, just rumours of bits of Paine turning up in odd places—like his jawbone in a private collection. Because nothing says Enlightenment like DIY resurrection. Some claim his ribs were made into cane handles. The revolution continues—just more limply. Cobbett’s grand plan fizzled when the British public refused to care. Imagine carting bones halfway across the world only to discover nobody’s interested in your reanimated political idol.

And then there’s the delightfully weird story of Jeremy Bentham, the philosopher who believed in utilitarianism and also in being useful after death. In accordance with his wishes, his body was preserved and placed in a wooden cabinet called the “Auto-Icon.” Dressed in his own clothes, with a wax head because the real one didn’t turn out quite right, he’s been sitting at University College London for over a century. Occasionally, he’s wheeled into meetings. For a while, his real mummified head sat between his feet, until it was locked away for being too disturbing. You can still request to see it, though you may have to explain yourself. Or justify it with a dissertation proposal. Bentham also famously requested his body be present “as usual” at university board meetings, a request the university continues to honour in spirit if not legality. Imagine turning up to defend your thesis and finding a philosopher corpse watching. Apparently, he’s even had his clothing changed for special occasions. No word on whether he gets dry-cleaned.

Let’s not forget Oliver Cromwell, who managed to make a bit of a posthumous mess. After dying of natural causes in 1658, he was buried with full honours. But when the monarchy came back into fashion, Charles II decided to make a statement. Cromwell’s body was exhumed, hanged, and decapitated. His head ended up on a spike outside Westminster Hall, where it stayed until a storm blew it down. It then passed through various collectors, at one point even used as a rather grim conversation starter at Cambridge, before finally being buried in 1960. Allegedly. The precise burial spot remains uncertain, possibly because no one wanted to put a plaque on it. The rest of his body? No one really knows. It might still be floating around somewhere beneath Westminster. Or perhaps hiding out with Napoleon’s more delicate parts. Some say the head was once hidden in an attic in Kent, wrapped in a velvet bag like some grim medieval bowling ball.

Eva Perón, Argentina’s beloved First Lady, also went on a bizarre journey after her death in 1952. Her embalmed body was meant to be displayed forever, saint-like. But when a military coup ousted her husband, the new regime decided that even her corpse was too politically charged. They smuggled it out of the country and buried it under a false name in Milan, Italy. Years later, it came back to Argentina after another political shuffle. The body, still mostly intact, now lies in Buenos Aires, hopefully staying put. She even had a decoy body made to confuse potential grave robbers. As you do. At one point, her body was allegedly kept in a cupboard in a military officer’s house, because nothing says stable governance like hiding martyred political icons in the pantry. And while she now rests in a heavily fortified tomb, there are still guards and surveillance, just in case history tries to repeat itself in high-definition.

The heart of Richard the Lionheart had its own itinerary. After his death in 1199, his body was divided: the heart to Rouen, the entrails to Chalus, and the rest to Fontevraud Abbey. The heart, embalmed with herbs and packed like medieval Tupperware, stayed in Rouen Cathedral. It was rediscovered in the 19th century during renovations. Turns out even in death, he couldn’t settle on a single resting place. And let’s not forget this was a man who once ordered someone to be flayed alive, so maybe the dismemberment was karmic. Historians even analysed the remnants of his heart and found traces of frankincense, showing that not only was he revered in life, but perfumed in death. That’s dedication. It’s also quite the flex to have your internal organs strategically buried across a kingdom like medieval loyalty points.

It’s all wonderfully unsettling. Borders may divide nations, but they’ve never been much of an obstacle for a determined corpse. Whether it’s for science, politics, veneration, or just plain curiosity, the afterlife—at least for the historically notable—can be surprisingly mobile. So next time you go through customs, just be glad you’re not declaring a philosopher’s head or an emperor’s missing anatomy. And if your suitcase smells of rose petals and formaldehyde? Maybe don’t ask too many questions. You might just be standing next to history’s most awkward souvenir.