Numbers of poor wounded Highlanders were patiently sitting in the streets, shaded from the powerful rays of the sun. We had a good deal of conversation with several of the privates of the 42nd and 92nd regiments, and their account of the battle was most simple and interesting. They seemed not to have the smallest pride in what they had done; but to consider it quite as a matter of course; they uttered not the smallest complaint, but rather made light of their sufferings, and there was nothing in their words or manner that looked as if they were sensible of having done anything in the least extraordinary; nothing that laid claim to pity, admiration, or glory. The carnage among the French, both on the 16th and 18th, in their encounter with the Highland regiments, was described to us as most dreadful. The cuirassiers, men and officers, horses and riders, were rolled in death, one upon another, after the British charge with the bayonet. In vain the French returned to the attack with furious valour and reinforced numbers. Their utmost efforts could make no impression on the impenetrable squares of the infantry, and the spiked wall of the British embattled bayonets; and when they retired from the ineffectual attack, the brave Highlanders, with loud cries of "Scotland for ever!" rushed among them, bore down all resistance, and scattered their legions like withered leaves before the blast of autumn.
It is but justice to these gallant men to say, that it was not from themselves we heard this relation of their own deeds. They could not be induced to speak of what they had done, but it was repeated on every side; it was the theme of every tongue. The love and admiration of the whole Belgic people for the Highlanders are most remarkable. Whenever they heard them mentioned, they exclaimed, "Ah! ces braves hommes! ces bons Ecossais! ils sont si doux—et si aimables—et dans la guerre!—ah! mon Dieu! comme ils sont terribles!" They never speak of them without some epithet of affection or admiration. Their merits are the darling topic of their private circles, and their figures the favourite signs of their public-houses; in short, they are the best of soldiers and of men, according to the Belgians—nothing was ever like them, and the idea they have of their valour is quite prodigious.[18]
The sufferings of the wounded, however, did not form the only affecting sight that Antwerp presented. The deep, the distracting grief of the unfortunate people whose friends had perished, and the heart-rending anxiety of those who vainly sought for intelligence of the fate of those most dear to them, were amongst the most distressing parts of the many mournful scenes we witnessed. Of those friends for whose safety we were deeply solicitous, we could gain no information, and the suspense, dreadful as it was, we, as well as thousands, were obliged to endure. But our anxiety, our sorrows, seemed light indeed in comparison with those of others: there were few who had not some near friend or relative to deplore, and Antwerp was filled with heart-broken mourners, whom the victory of yesterday had bereft of all that made life dear to them. In the same hotel with us was poor Lady de Lancey, a young and widowed bride, upon whom, in all the hopes of happiness—in the very flower of youth—unacquainted with sorrow, and far from every friend, the heaviest stroke of affliction had fallen unprepared. But three little days ago, she seemed to be at the summit of felicity, and now she was bereaved of every earthly hope. She bore the intelligence of her irreparable loss with astonishing firmness. I did not wonder that she refused to see every human being, for no earthly power could speak consolation to misery such as hers. In vain I tried to forget her—I could not banish her from my remembrance; and often, during our long wanderings in the distant regions of Holland, when I was far from her, and far from all that might have recalled her to my remembrance, among other sights and other scenes, her early misfortunes wrung my heart with the deepest sorrow.
But whatever might be the grief and anxiety of individuals, the universal joy was unbounded. It is impossible to describe the effects of this victory upon all ranks of people. Every human heart seemed to beat in sympathy; every countenance beamed with joy; every tongue spoke the language of exultation. As the terror and despair of the Belgians had been excessive, their transport was now vehement and overflowing, and their volubility not to be imagined. We went into several shops, and the people, unable to restrain themselves, poured out upon us the fulness of their joy, their astonishment, their gratitude, their admiration, and their praise. Totally forgetful of their interests, they thought not of selling their goods; they thought of nothing—they could do nothing but talk of the battle and the British, and it was with difficulty we could get them to show us what we wanted: nay, more than once we were actually obliged to go away without doing anything, from the impossibility of making them attend to the business of selling and buying.
But sometimes the expression of their feelings was so simple, so natural, and so touching, and there was so much of truth and naïveté, both in their manner and their words, that it was impossible to hear them without emotion. The French they loaded with execrations; and their hatred, their indignation, and their bitter feelings of their wrongs, said more than volumes of eloquence, or even facts could have done, in condemnation of the conduct of their late masters. All the English merchandise, and all colonial produce, imported even before it was decreed to be a crime, were seized, carried from their shops and warehouses, and burnt before their eyes in the Place Verte. No remuneration, no indemnity whatever was given them; and by this single act of wanton tyranny, hundreds of industrious families were reduced to beggary. Heavy exactions and continual contributions were levied, and the weight of these fell upon the most industrious and respectable orders of the people. "All that we had they took," was said again and again to us, "and if we had had thousands more, it would have all gone." They ruined the commerce, the manufactures, the trade of the country, and then they drained the poor inhabitants of their property. They shut up the sources of wealth, and then called on them for money. They blocked up the fountain, and then asked for its waters. Like Egyptian task-masters, they took from them the materials, and then demanded their work. They expected them to make "bricks without straw." The French soldiers lived at free-quarters upon the people, and the Belgic youths were marched away to fight in foreign wars. The oppressed people were subject to the unrestrained rapine and brutal insolence of the French soldiery, of which they durst not complain. It was unsafe even to murmur. Not only the liberty of the press, but the liberty of speech was denied them. Any unfortunate person convicted of holding intercourse with England was imprisoned, and some of them (we were told), by way of example, were shot.
We happened to go into a little stationer's shop, kept by a widow and her three daughters, who received us almost with adoration because we were English. They all began to talk at once, and relieved their minds by pouring out a torrent of invectives against those detested tyrants, "Ces fléaux du genre humain," as they called them. All their goods had been seized; their shop (which was not then a stationer's) completely stripped of its contents, under the pretence of its being filled with British and colonial produce, which they said was not the case; and a considerable quantity of continental manufactures had also been carried away. "But that was nothing," the poor mother said, as she wiped the tears from her eyes, "that she could have borne, for though it seemed heavy at the time, she thought less of it now;—but her five sons (fine handsome young men, they were, as ever a mother bore), her five sons were all taken for soldiers, and perished in the French wars; some in the retreat from Russia, and some in the subsequent campaign in Germany." The tears streamed down the cheeks of one of these young women, as she spoke to me of her "poor brothers." I can give no idea of the bitterness, the rancour, the hatred, and above all, the volubility of the abuse which these poor women poured out against the French.
We got away from them with difficulty; and though the deep sense of their own wrongs rankled in their minds, and aggravated the resentment and detestation which they must naturally feel towards the authors of so much misery, yet we found the same sentiments, in greater or in less degree, among all the Belgians with whom we conversed, or whom we heard conversing. I had always understood that the French (and Napoleon in particular) were highly popular in Antwerp, but from some most respectable old-established merchants, both British and Belgic, we learned that the inhabitants were decidedly hostile to the French, and that they were both feared and hated by all, excepting the very dregs of society, and those individuals who had made fortunes under their administration.
In the course of our rambles we had many conversations with various people whom we never saw before, and I suppose shall never see again. We met a wounded officer who had been taken prisoner by the French. He said, that after repeatedly threatening to kill him, and loading him with abuse, they actually knocked him on the head with the butt-end of a musket, and left him for dead upon the field: he came, however, to himself, and effected his escape. His face was most frightfully swelled, and so bruised, that it was every shade of black, and blue, and green; his head was entirely tied up with white handkerchiefs and bloody bandages, and in my life I never saw a more battered object. He had his arm in a sling; but he was by much too rejoiced at his escape to care about his wounds or bruises. He told us, what then I could scarcely believe, that the French had killed many of our officers whom they had taken prisoners, and that they had piked numbers of the wounded. The truth of these brutal murders, disgraceful to humanity, and even more dishonourable and more barbarous than the worst cruelty of savages, were unhappily, afterwards, too indisputably proved.
In our progress through the streets we could not resist stopping to speak to such of the poor wounded soldiers as seemed able to talk, and who looked as if they would thank us even for a word of kindness, much to the amazement of Mr. D., an Antwerp merchant, who was walking about with us, to "show us the lions," as he said. However, he waited most patiently, while Mrs. H., my sister, and I talked to ensigns, sergeants, corporals, and common soldiers, who were all, more or less, wounded or disabled.
"We have got six of those wounded soldiers billeted upon us," said Mr. D., as we walked on, "but I must get them boarded out somewhere, for they would be very troublesome in the house." "Troublesome!" I exclaimed. "Yes! you know they would be very troublesome in a house, though I suppose the surgeons will look after their wounds, and all that; they will cost me" (I forget how many guelders he said) "a week, but I would rather pay it" (with a strong and proud emphasis upon the word pay) "than have them in the house, it would be so very disagreeable."