“The British front was a mile broad. Skirmishing began between the English light troops and the French tirailleurs; Sir George Wood firing the first gun on the advancing columns of Jerome Buonaparte. The château of Hougomont was the key of the English position, and Jerome made a desperate attack upon it. The place was ably defended, and, first and last, not less than a thousand English, and nearly ten thousand French fell at Hougomont. It was awful work, but the British bore it bravely.”
“Ay, there were more French killed than there were English.”
“The first attack of the French not succeeding, they made a second: this was in the centre of the British line. The cannon roared like thunderclaps, and the French cuirassiers came on like a whirlwind; but for all that they were withstood by the British troops, who rolled back the bloody tide of war. For a time the French occupied a farm-house, called La Haye Sainte, but they were dislodged with shells and cannon-balls, suffering dreadfully. Before this took place, however, they acted a cruel part. Five hundred German riflemen defended La Haye Sainte until they had no ammunition left, and the place was set on fire. Well, when the French got possession they gave no quarter: every man of the German rifle-corps was bayonetted. The English troops at last won the day. Lord Anglesey, the royal-greys, and the Enniskilling, distinguished themselves. ‘When will we get at them!’ cried out the Irish troops. Brave Picton fell at the head of the ‘fighting fifth,’ but the French were routed. Two thousand prisoners and two eagles were taken, besides the killed and the wounded.”
“It was no use to try to beat the English, for the longer the French fought the worse it was for them.”
“Not satisfied, the French made a third and last attack. This was on the British right, and Wellington was obliged to form his troops into squares. The French cuirassiers were desperate, but their attacks were fruitless. All that men could do was done by them, but British hearts and British hands were too strong to be conquered. Ten thousand men on the part of Wellington, and fifteen thousand on the side of Buonaparte, lay dead upon the field. Marshal Ney led on the French bravely. Never was a braver soldier. The old French guards, the flower of the army, dashed forward, and the carnage was dreadful. The 27th British regiment had four hundred men mowed down in square, without their pulling a trigger. The 92nd regiment routed a French column when only two hundred strong, and the 33rd regiment was almost cut to pieces,—still they stood their ground. Wellington looked at his watch, longing for night, or the approach of the Prussians. At last came the critical moment. ‘The hour is come!’ cried Wellington, closing his telescope, and leading on the troops.”
“But where was Buonaparte?”
“When Buonaparte saw his old guard in confusion he turned pale. ‘They are mingled together,’ said he, ‘and all for the present is lost.’ He then clapped his spurs to his horse, flying in full gallop from the field. The fight went on, but the French were beaten back at all points. The Prussians came up, and Buonaparte’s army was entirely routed. What a sight was the battle-plain! The ball and the bullet, the sword and the bayonet had done their work, and infantry and cavalry, men and horses, muskets, swords, harness, baggage, and dismounted artillery, were mingled together; the wounded, the dead, and the dying, lay in heaps, and in the space of a few miles fifty thousand men and horses bestrewed the plain. The battle had been fought, and the victory had been won. The sun of Napoleon’s glory had set for ever, and the glittering diadem had fallen from his brow. Before the battle Buonaparte was an Emperor, but Waterloo rolled back upon him the tide of war, crushing his armed legions, rending his colours, trampling on his eagles, wresting the sceptre and the baton from his hand, tearing the epaulettes from his shoulders, and sending him forth with a Cainlike mark on his brow, a flying fugitive on the face of the earth.
“The battle of Waterloo, which was won—to say nothing of God’s goodness—by forethought, prudence, knowledge, self-possession, confidence, and superior tactics on the part of the commander, and by obedience, steadiness, promptitude, endurance, and invincible courage on the part of the officers and men, cost England much; much in treasure, and more in manly hearts; but it is fair to look at both sides of the question. It has been followed by a twenty-seven years’ peace; and if we had not endured the one, it is uncertain if we should ever have enjoyed the other.”
“You have told us a great deal about soldiers and sailors.”
“I might tell you a great deal more, boys, for an old soldier is not soon tired in talking of his native land, or of the bold hearts that have bled in her service. The battle of Trafalgar, where Nelson fell, is the most important sea-fight, and the battle of Waterloo, which I have just described, is the most famous engagement by land, in English history. Many a disabled seaman from the one, has found an asylum in Greenwich Hospital, and many a wounded soldier from the other has shouldered his crutch in Chelsea College. These two places of retreat for disabled soldiers and sailors have been long held in high estimation. At Chelsea, you may see the grey-headed veterans, sitting in the sun, and at Greenwich, the weather-beaten old tars, seated under the trees in the park, talking over their adventures, and fighting their battles over again. I can fancy that I now see them grouped together, with a flag flying over their heads, bearing underneath the crown of Victoria the motto, ‘Old England for ever! Soldiers and Sailors! Wellington and Nelson! Waterloo and Trafalgar!’