FOOTNOTES:
[5] The Emperor Charles V., in disparagement of the capital City of his rival, used to delight in saying, "Je peux mettre tout Paris dans mon Gand." Ghent, on the Continent, is always spelt and pronounced Gand, the same as gant, glove.
[6] I write it not grammatically, but as they pronounced it, with a strong emphasis on the last letter.
[7] It was not expected at that time that Belgium would be the theatre of war, but that the Allies would advance into France.
[8] Afterwards, on our return to Brussels, I observed an inscription on one of these fountains, purporting, that the Czar, Peter the Great, having drunk too freely of wine, fell into its waters. The day and year are mentioned. It was, I think, about a century ago.
[9] [The 32nd and 44th should be added.—Ed.]
[10] Consisting of the 28th, 32nd, 79th, 95th, a battalion of the 1st, or Royal Scots, the 42nd, 92nd, and the 2nd battalion of the 44th, and a battalion of Hanoverians. It was the first division which arrived, and, during the principal part of the day, it was the only part of the British army engaged.
[11] Since writing the above, I have found that the names of these officers were Lieutenant-General Bourmont and Colonel Clouet. [See Appendix, A.]
[12] Ney, in his own account of this battle, says, "in spite of my exertions, in spite of the intrepidity and devotion of my troops, my utmost exertions could only maintain me in my position till the close of the day." He then complains grievously of having had only three divisions to fight against the British, and boasts of what he would have done if he had had five.—Vide Marshal Ney's Letter.
[13] Subsequently, the news of the defeat and retreat of the Prussians obliged the Duke of Wellington also to retreat, to keep open the communications with Blucher.
[14] Not even imagination could form an idea of the dreadful sufferings that the unfortunate soldiers of the French and Prussian armies, who were wounded in the battles of the 15th and 16th of June, were condemned to endure. It was not until nearly a week afterwards that surgical aid, or assistance of any kind, was given to them. During all this time they remained exposed to the burning heat of the noonday sun, the heavy rains, and the chilling dews of midnight, without any sustenance except what their importunity extorted from the country people, and without any protection even from the flies that tormented them. Numbers had expired; the most trifling wounds had festered, and amputation in almost every instance had become necessary. This, and every other necessary operation, was hastily and negligently performed by the Prussian surgeons. The description I heard of this scene of horror, from some respectable Belgic gentlemen who were spectators of it on the Wednesday following, is too dreadful to repeat.
[15] This was, I find, only a proof of my ignorance; I afterwards learnt that wooden palisades add greatly to the strength of fortifications.
[16] Afterwards Marquis of Anglesey
[17] At one time, as we afterwards learned, the Duke had scarcely a single aide-de-camp left to dispatch with orders. All around him fell dead, or wounded. His preservation was miraculous. As he himself reverentially declared after the battle, "The finger of God was upon me."
[18] No doubt the gallantry of every British regiment was equally praiseworthy, but few had such opportunities of displaying it. And we naturally enough heard of the exploits of the brave Highland regiments which had nearly been cut to pieces, and the remains of which, all wounded, had reached Antwerp.
[19] [See Appendix, B.]
[20] The road from Brussels to the field of battle was not for some time considered safe, on account of the number of deserters who had taken shelter in the woods, and issued forth, sometimes alone, and sometimes in a gang, to rob passengers and plunder the defenceless cottages and farm-houses of the surrounding country. Neither property nor life certainly could be considered safe at the mercy of these armed desperadoes; but I never heard of any well-authenticated murder that they committed: and from all the inquiries I made, I believe that most of the horrible stories we heard of their enormities were entirely devoid of truth; and that the mischief, even in the way of plunder, they did, was very much exaggerated. Even at the time we went to the field, great apprehensions were entertained by many people of these lawless deserters. Large parties of these were brought in two or three times a week, during our stay in Brussels. They consisted of Belgic, Nassau, and Brunswick soldiers. There was some difficulty in procuring proper places of confinement for them. They were generally sent to the neighbouring Maisons de Force; what eventually was to be their punishment, or what has been their fate, I have never been able to learn.
[21] It is remarkable that every village in this part of the country has a French name, except Waterloo, which is pronounced by the natives—according to the fashion of the London Cockneys—Vaterloo; the letter W being the exclusive property of the British people—with the exception of the aforesaid Cockneys, who resign all claim to it.
[22] Cæsar's celebrated bulletin, "Veni, vidi, vici," was more concise, but not quite so unassuming.
[23] La Haye Sainte (the holy hedge). It gives its name to the farm-house of La Haye Sainte. I could not hear from any of the country people why it was distinguished by the epithet "Sainte." They did not seem to have any tradition respecting it.
[24] An order had been issued not to fire at the enemy's field-pieces, but at the troops. However, during the latter part of the action, a young officer of artillery, out of patience with the destruction caused among his men, and particularly with the loss of Captain Bolton, his friend and brother officer, from the fire of some guns opposite, levelled his cannon at them, and had the satisfaction to see the French artillerymen, and officers who commanded them, fall in their turn. At that moment he was accosted suddenly by the Duke of Wellington, whom he had no idea was near—"What are you firing at there?" The artillery officer confessed what he was about. "Keep a good look out to your left," said the Duke, "you will see a large body of the enemy advancing just now—fire at them." They soon perceived a tremendous number of the Imperial Guards, the élite of the army, advancing with great order and steadiness to attack the British. The moment they appeared in view, the officer to whom the Duke had spoken, directed against them such a tremendous and effective fire, that they were mowed down by ranks. This gallant young officer had volunteered his services, and was one of the brigade attached to the second division of our army.
[25] It is, however, a remarkable fact, and does additional honour to the resolute, invincible constancy of British soldiers, that nearly all the officers, and the whole of the privates of the British army, were ignorant that there was any expectation of the arrival of the Prussians. Indeed, many of them never knew till after the battle was over that they had joined.
[26] In this part of Belgium, the wheat had this year grown to full five feet in height, and rye upwards of six feet: great quantities of the latter are grown, for it answers to the liberal definition of oats by Dr. Johnson, and is the food of men in England, and of horses in Flanders; nay, it is actually baked into bread for their use, and regularly given them at the inns where they stop to bait. Several soldiers of the Highland regiments who had got into a field of this gigantic rye on the 16th, were shot without even being able to see their enemy.
[27] Buonaparte slept at the farm of Caillon, near Planchenoit.
[28] These memorable beech-trees, pierced through and through with balls, have been since all cut down by the owner of Château Hougoumont!!!
[29] In other pits the corpses of the French had also been burned. About eight thousand of the French army fell in the attack of Hougoumont.
[30] That Buonaparte pretended to believe those troops to be French, although he must have known the contrary, is unquestionably true. Marshal Ney, in his account of the battle, states that he received a message from the emperor, brought by General Labedoyère, to inform him "that the French corps under Marshal Grouchy had arrived in the field, and attacked the left wing of the British and Prussians united. General Labedoyère rode along the lines, spreading this intelligence through the whole army."—Vide Marshal Ney's Letter. [See Appendix, C.]
[31] This statement too is confirmed by Marshal Ney, who said, "that Buonaparte had entirely disappeared before the end of the battle." Let it be remembered that Ney's letter was written exactly a week after the battle, while Napoleon was still emperor, and still in Paris, and, if his statement was not true, a thousand witnesses could have contradicted it.
[32] The Duke himself reverentially said afterwards, "The finger of God was upon me."
[33] It was near seven o'clock when this circumstance happened. The Prussians had not appeared. The regiments which he led to the charge were the 71st, the 52nd, and the 95th. He also repeatedly rallied the Belgic regiments, and sometimes vainly exerted himself to make them face the enemy.
[34] [See Appendix, D.]
[35] It was with a heart saddened by feelings which did him honour, that the Duke of Wellington returned from the battle. The letters which he wrote to the relations of the distinguished officers who had fallen, prove how truly he felt what he sorrowfully said, that "there is nothing more melancholy than a victory—except a defeat." I cannot resist inserting the following simple and affecting extract from one of his letters, written on the morning after the battle. "I cannot express to you," he writes, "the regret and sorrow with which I look around me, and contemplate the losses which I have sustained. They have quite broken me down. The glory resulting from such actions, so dearly bought, is no consolation to me."
The extract in the text is taken "From Circumstantial Details Relative to the Battle of Waterloo," which was written by the author to explain "A Panoramic Sketch of the Field of Battle," by her sister, both of which were published by J. Booth, London, in August, 1815, for the benefit of the Waterloo Fund.
[36] It is on the left of the road in going towards Waterloo, behind the farm-house of La Haye Sainte. But this tree, which ought to have been for ever sacred, has been CUT DOWN!!!
[37] Some soldiers' wives were, however, actuated by better motives, and, like the matrons of Hensberg, in times of old, seemed to think their best treasures were their husbands. Many of them rushed forward and carried their wounded husbands off the field at the hazard of their own lives. The wife of a sergeant in the 28th was severely wounded in two places by a shell, which struck her as she was carrying off her wounded husband. This anecdote was related to me by an eye-witness of the circumstance. The woman (respecting whom I inquired since my return to England) has, I understand, been allowed a pension from Chelsea Hospital. I heard of several similar instances of heroic conjugal affection; and I myself saw one poor woman, the wife of a private in the 27th, whose leg was dreadfully fractured by a musket-ball in rescuing her husband. When struck by the ball she fell to the ground with her husband, who was supposed to be mortally wounded, but she still refused to leave him, and they were removed together to the rear, and afterwards sent to Antwerp. The poor man survived the amputation of both his arms, and is still alive. The woman, who was then in a state of pregnancy, has, since her return to this country, given birth to a child, to which the Duke of York stood godfather.
A TRIBUTE
TO THE
MEMORY OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
WRITTEN THE DAY AFTER HIS FUNERAL.
19th November, 1852.
The great Arthur, Duke of Wellington, whose latest achievements in war form the subject of the preceding pages, is no more. Long, long will the nation mourn the greatest, the most irreparable loss it ever sustained. The last sad and solemn scene has passed away. That great and wondrous man, who was its stay, its pride and glory, has been borne to his honoured tomb, amidst those splendid obsequies and funeral pomps with which his grateful country vainly sought to evince her unbounded admiration, her devoted love, and her profound veneration, for him who was her deliverer and preserver; to whom she owed her unprecedented triumphs in war—her prolonged blessings in peace.
"His funeral pall has been borne by nations—not by the nations he enslaved, but the nations he liberated;—the truncheons of eight armies have dropped from his grasp, and they were borne in the funeral procession by the companions and allies of his arms and victories."[38] But, nobler far, he was followed to the grave by the blessings and the tears of millions; and he, alone, amidst all the great generals and conquerors of the earth, merits the proud eulogium, that he was at once a true patriot and a benefactor to his species.
Eloquence has vainly exhausted itself in enumerating his merits and services; but words are powerless to speak his praises. They are felt in the hearts of the people of England. Never did a chieftain, a conqueror, a hero, descend to the tomb so universally honoured and lamented. All ranks, all ages, all parties, unite in one unanimous sense of sorrow and bereavement. Every man seems to feel that he, personally, has lost a benefactor, a protector—almost a parent. And as the light of the sun is not missed until it is withdrawn, so even his value was not perhaps fully felt until he was lost.
But he is gone! "Quenched is that light which was the leading star to guide every Briton on the path of duty and honour."[39] His name is surrounded by a pure halo of glory—not that ordinary vulgar glory which is the meed of the mere conqueror. No! the "hero of a hundred fights," who never knew defeat, sought not, valued not such glory; nay, more, he despised it; he never even named "its very name."[40] His watchword was Duty, and the path of duty, honour, and patriotism, he trod. What a striking contrast did his career present to that of Napoleon, who sought that vain, false glory, through fields of fire and carnage, crushing the nations beneath his iron yoke, to aggrandise his selfish ambition, and reign the despot of a devastated world! How striking is the fact, that at the very time when, by the mysterious decree of Providence, a Buonaparte was sent to desolate and enslave the world, a Wellesley was given to save and deliver it!—the one, the Destroyer; the other, the Preserver. They seemed like the Incarnate Principles of Evil and of Good; but the Good triumphed: the conqueror and deliverer of distracted and bleeding Europe became its Pacificator; and through long years of peace and prosperity the nations which he saved from tyranny and ruin, have had reason to bless the name of Wellington.
Will it yet be permitted to one British heart—simply "An Englishwoman," who witnessed the most eventful scenes of his glorious campaigns, and proudly watched from first to last his high unblemished career—to offer, with the deepest veneration, a humble tribute of high and holy admiration upon the tomb of that hero whom, through life, her heart has worshipped.
The One True Hero! unequalled in the annals of history—unsurpassed even in the creations of Romance; He, who never headed the battalions of his countrymen except in a just and righteous cause, and never once failed to lead them on to victory and honour; He, who was not only the "Victor of Victors," the greatest of Conquerors, but also the greatest Pacificator the world ever saw—for he used the triumphs of War only to obtain the blessings of Peace;—He, whose first thought in victory was mercy, whose first care was to ensure, not the spoils, but the protection of the vanquished;—He, who, when he sheathed his conquering sword, consecrated the powers of his mighty genius, his mind, and life, to the welfare of his country; who worked her weal through evil report and good report, unmoved by the cabals of Faction, the intrigues of Power, and the slanders of Malignity;—He, whose Spirit, whilst he lived, was our Shield and Buckler, our Stay and Support; his counsels our best resource; his name our tower of strength; and his very existence our surest defence.
Alas, for England! Woe! woe to our country! The grave has closed over him; but his sacred ashes shall still guard our land. Around his honoured tomb every British heart will rally to rout and vanquish the hostile foe who dares to set foot on British ground. Every heart will be roused, every arm raised to repel the insult. His name shall be our everlasting panoply of defence; his life, his example, his memory, shall live in our hearts, and to the latest posterity England's proudest boast shall be the name of Wellington.