On the 22nd July, 1814, we anchored at Spithead, the sailors cheering us and manning the yards as we went ashore. As soon, however, as we landed at our destination, he requested of me to assist him in his search. After tramping up and down and around Portsmouth, in vain, we at last made a stand in High Street—indeed he was growing almost desperate with disappointment—and here he made random inquiries of every person he met. This eventually drew a crowd of women of all ages about him but not one could answer his inquiry. He was on the point of giving it up altogether, when an old woman on crutches, from the rear of the crowd, casting a very shrewd keen look at him, asked him to repeat the name, “Mary S——n,” shouted my friend. “Ah!” exclaimed the hag, rather musingly, “if you will just inquire at No.—, near the Post-office, at the back of the street, you will, I think, find the party you require,” casting up her eye as she finished her directions. Away we hurried, some five or six women straggling after us, and in a few minutes found ourselves at the door of a small neat-built cottage. After knocking—every moment seemed an hour to my poor friend, until the door was opened—a pretty-looking little girl, of about ten years of age, inquired his errand.
“Does Mrs. S——n,” asked the sergeant, and paused to look at the child, “does Mary S——n live here?” “Yes,” said the little girl, starting with surprise, “that’s my name.”
“Right,” exclaimed the sergeant, clasping the astonished little one in his arms, and dashing into a side room well sprinkled with children. “Where, where’s your mother?” The words were scarcely uttered, than a shrill shriek was heard from the inner apartment, and at the same moment the mother rushed before us, and gazing on him fell instantly into a fit of hysterics. My poor friend looked perplexed; his features alternately changing from doubts to fears, with uncertain satisfaction. The little one was in an instant out of the house, and returned in a short time, leading in a square, well-made, good-looking man, in appearance a carpenter.
The facts were stubbornly plain to every one. The children, the comfortable, respectable air of the place, were too plain; and the two husbands now stood within range of each other, with nostrils dilated in agony, and hands clenched, awaiting an expected onset. I think I never saw two better models of manhood in its prime, wrought up to melancholy and indescribable excitement. The two men, as it were, dug their eyes into each other, and then on the shrieking woman, who in recovering a little clung, as if for refuge, to the carpenter.
My poor comrade, hitherto on the rack of suspense, now suddenly drew breath, and taking a skipping-rope which his daughter held in her hand, threw it lightly over his wife’s neck. “Now,” said he, in a somewhat collected tone, “Now, Mr. Carpenter, as it appears that Mary, who was my wife, has decided on her choice, suppose we have a bargain on the matter? It’s no use our skirmishing about in this manner any longer; (and I have no doubt of your abilities,”) pointing to the children, who crowded round the parents and opposite the sergeant. “With Mary’s consent, as she seems to prefer your manner of doing business, suppose you clinch the bargain with a sixpence, and take her to you altogether?” The money was handed out in a moment, and as quickly passed between the sergeant’s teeth, while he employed both hands to withdraw his sash aside, and taking from his pocket a guinea, which throwing into his only daughter’s lap, left the scene, closed the door, and hurried into a small public-house across the street.
“Come, landlord, a pot of your sixpenny,” throwing down the ill-fated bit of silver, “and take that for your settlement; and Ned,” said he, turning to me, “call for your likings.” He grasped the vessel as the landlord handed it, and swallowed the whole at a draught, like a man who had thirsted for a week; smacked his lips, in conclusion of the barter, cast two or three glances up and down his person, then rubbing his hands smartly together, strutted up the street as if nothing whatever had annoyed him.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Quartered in Dover—Receive our new clothing, &c.—May, 1815—Receive orders to embark for Ostend—We arrive safe—Bruges—Ghent—Brussels—15th of June—Belong to the fifth division under General Picton—Descend the wood of Soignies to Waterloo—Duke of Wellington arrives from Brussels—Battle of Waterloo—I receive a wound in my right hand, shatters one of my fingers—Return to Brussels—The pretty house-keeper—The child—Its dead mother—Genappe—Scenes on the road to Brussels—Arrival at Brussels—Numbers of wounded in the streets—Kindness and attention of the Brussels’ ladies—The fair surgeon.
Safely returned to England, and quartered in Dover barracks, our men soon forgot the fatigues of the Peninsular campaigns; and being joined by a batch of recruits, and supplied with new clothing, the old soldiers once more panted for fresh exploits; for their souls were strong for war, and peace became irksome to them—nor were they long disappointed. In the beginning of May, 1815, we received orders to embark at Dover for Ostend, where we arrived safe; from thence we proceeded through Bruges to Ghent in open boats by the canal: here we halted a few days, and then marched to Brussels, where we remained several weeks, not even dreaming an enemy was near us.
On the 15th of June, as I retired to bed, at the hour of eleven o’clock at night, I heard bugles sounding and drums beating through different parts of the city. Equipping myself as quickly as possible, and entering the market-place, I found the whole of our division assembling. I then belonged to the fifth division, under the command of General Sir Thomas Picton. Being orderly non-commissioned officer of the company at the time, I received orders to draw three days’ rations for the men, the chief part of this was left behind, as none but old soldiers knew its value, or felt inclined to take part with them; some of the men, however, cursed their hard fate for not taking away a portion. All things arranged, we passed the gates of Brussels, and descended the wood of Soignies, that leads to the little village of Waterloo. It was the 16th—a beautiful summer morning—the sun slowly rising above the horizon and peeping through the trees, while our men were as merry as crickets, laughing and joking with each other, and at times pondered in their minds what all this fuss, as they called it, could be about; for even the old soldiers could not believe the enemy were so near. We halted at the verge of the wood, on the left of the road, behind the village of Waterloo, where we remained for some hours; the recruits lay down to sleep, while the old soldiers commenced cooking. I could not help noticing while we remained here, the birds in full chorus, straining their little throats as if to arouse the spirits of the men to fresh vigour for the bloody conflict they were about to engage in. Alas! how many of our brave companions, ere that sun set, were no more! About nine o’clock, the Duke of Wellington with his staff, came riding from Brussels and passed us to the front; shortly afterwards, orders were given to the Rifles to fall in and form the advanced-guard of our division, and follow. We moved on through the village of Waterloo, and had not proceeded far, when, for the first time, we heard distant cannon; it was, I believe, the Prussians engaged on our extreme left.