Josh, like myself, had no ties—no one to bring him brandy, &c.; but wider awake, and better acquainted with the world, in the bustle of a dark night, he had laid himself at his length on the inside of a cart, and there awaited the current of fortune.
One or two women in search of their husbands he particularly knew, and knowing also their spouses, he replied to their inquiries in as exact an imitation of their voices, as one could reasonably give a man credit for. The result was, that the bottle was instantly handed into his hiding-place. Josh took sundry deep gulps, while the duped woman continued anxiously walking by the side of the wheels, wishing to heaven that the daylight, or some other light, would enable her to enjoy the sight of her better half. The dénouement of the cheat came with the return of the empty flask, and a sincere hope from Josh that her husband would find enough liquor left—and not be wounded at all—at all.
The disappointment and rage of the woman only gave rise to a burst of merriment, in which the wounded men joined heartily, and the circumstance travelled forward, among her companions, and accompanied the cart the whole of the way to Brussels.
The next morning I proceeded slowly onward, for my wound, as yet, had not been dressed. I could not help remarking on my way through the woods, droves of Belgians, and even English, with fires lighted, busily cooking, having left their comrades in contest with the enemy, and apparently nothing the matter with them.
On my arrival at Brussels, and going to my quarters, I found it so crowded with Belgian officers and men (some of them quite free from wounds), that I could get no reception. It was about six o’clock in the evening of the 18th. I was entering the large square, and gazing on some hundreds of wounded men who were there stretched out on straw, when an alarm was given that the French were entering the city; in a moment all was in an uproar; the inhabitants running in all directions, closing their doors, and some Belgian troops in the square, in great confusion; loading my rifle, I joined a party of the 81st regiment who remained on duty here during the action. The alarm, however, was occasioned by the appearance of about 1700 or 1800 French prisoners, under escort of some of our dragoons.
The panic over, I partook of a little bread and wine, and lay down for the night on some straw in the square; and in spite of the confusion and uproar, occasioned by the continual arrival of waggons loaded with wounded men, I slept soundly. In the morning the scene surpassed all imagination, and baffles description: thousands of wounded French, Belgians, Prussians and English; carts, waggons, and every other attainable vehicle, were continually arriving heaped with sufferers. The wounded were laid, friends and foes indiscriminately, on straw, with avenues between them, in every part of the city, and nearly destitute of surgical attendance. The humane and indefatigable exertions of the fair ladies of Brussels, however, greatly made up for this deficiency; numbers were busily employed—some strapping and bandaging wounds, others serving out tea, coffee, soups, and other soothing nourishments; while many occupied themselves stripping the sufferers of their gory and saturated garments, and dressing them in clean shirts, and other habiliments; indeed, altogether careless of fashionable scruples, many of the fairest and wealthiest of the ladies of that city, now ventured to assert their pre-eminence on the occasion. It was enough that their ordained companions were in need, to call forth the sympathies that ever must bind the sexes to mutual dependance.
One lady I noticed particularly, she was attended by a servant bearing on his shoulder a kind of pannier, containing warm and cold refreshments: her age I guessed about eighteen, and the peculiarity of the moment made her appear beyond the common order of humanity. She moved along with an eye of lightning, glancing about for those whom she thought most in need of her assistance. A tall Highlander lay near her as she hurried along, and drew her attention with a deep groan, arising from the anguish of a severe wound in the thick part of the thigh. The soldier fixed his eye with surprise on her, as in a twinkling she knelt at his side, and gently moving aside his blood-stained kilt, commenced washing the wounded part; the Scotchman seemed uneasy at her importunity. But with the sweetest voice imaginable, she addressed him in English, with, “Me no ashamed of you—indeed, I will not hurt you!” and the wounded man, ere he could recover his rough serenity, found his wound bandaged, and at ease, under the operations of his fair attendant. Such acts as these must ever draw forth our admiration.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Brussels’ hospitals—The British and French soldiers under amputation—I lose my finger—Another loss also—I leave the hospital and am removed to the Provost Guard—The Belgian marauders bared to the skin—The point of honour—Sensation produced on their comrades—The Belgian regiment under arms—Guard-house surrounded—Narrow escape—Removal of the Belgians—Assassination of a French Count by a Cossack officer—Medals sent from England—Consequent dissensions—Poor Wheatley—Quarters at Mouvres—Augustine—An old acquaintance—A rival—Augustine leaves her father’s house—Pursued—Her father’s despair—Removal to Cambray—The regiment receives orders to embark for England—We part.
I remained in Brussels three days, and had ample means here, as in several other places, such as Salamanca, &c., for witnessing the cutting off legs and arms. The French I have ever found to be brave, yet I cannot say they will undergo a surgical operation with the cool, unflinching spirit of a British soldier. An incident which here came under my notice, may in some measure show the difference of the two nations. An English soldier belonging to, if I recollect rightly, the 1st Royal Dragoons, evidently an old weather-beaten warfarer, while undergoing the amputation of an arm below the elbow, held the injured limb with his other hand without betraying the slightest emotion, save occasionally helping out his pain by spirting forth the proceeds of a large plug of tobacco, which he chewed most unmercifully while under the operation. Near to him was a Frenchman, bellowing lustily, while a surgeon was probing for a ball near the shoulder. This seemed to annoy the Englishman more than anything else, and so much so, that as soon as his arm was amputated, he struck the Frenchman a smart blow across the breech with the severed limb, holding it at the wrist, saying, “Here, take that, and stuff it down your throat, and stop your damned bellowing!”