In the spring of 1852 the most popular sight of London was Telbin’s “Diorama of the Campaigns of Wellington.” On the battlefields themselves, with Napier’s History of the Peninsular War in his hand, Ford had traced each move in the struggle between the English and French in Spain. He had read every book which bore upon the subject; from the lips of men who themselves had seen or taken part in the contest, he had gathered details unknown to the historians; and he adored the Duke as the greatest of Englishmen. From many of the places which the war had made famous he had brought away his own sketches, and four of the pictures (“The Night of the Battle of Talavera,” “The Capture of Ciudad Rodrigo,” “The Victory of Salamanca,” “The Victory of Vitoria”) were painted from his drawings. He also contributed the descriptive letterpress, which was printed as A Guide to the Diorama of the Campaigns of the Duke of Wellington (London, 1852). His lively descriptions of the battlefields are so vigorous that the following extract from a rare book may be read with interest. It explains a picture of “A Convoy intercepted by Partizans.”
The predatory system of Napoleon, in forcing the countries he invaded to nourish his armies, necessarily sapped the foundations of military discipline and good conduct. This increased the French difficulties of subduing the Peninsula, which cannot be done with a small army, and where a large one must starve i Polf separated from magazines. The Massenas, who trusted to gaining their ends by impetuous advances, did not or would not attend to organised supplies, the sinews of war. Strong only when in position, and with no hold on the soil or hearts of the nation, their convoys, few and far between, were always exposed to be cut off by roving bands who waged a guerilla, or little war, which, congenial to their country—broken and rugged, and to their character—warlike but not military, was conducted with infinite perseverance, energy, skill, daring, valour, and success. Lord Wellington, who knew by experience the impossibility of any Spanish army, “in want of everything at the critical moment,” carrying on a regular war, pronounced their partizanship the real and best national power. Unparalleled in a contest of shifts and devices, and without discipline or drill, the Guerilleros waged a war to the knife; and circumventing the invader by fair means and foul, avenged in his heart’s blood wrongs too many ever to be forgotten, too great ever to be forgiven. These hornets swarmed around every movement, and displaced a force equal to 30,000 men, who were required to patrol roads and keep communications open. The success of these irregulars sustained the flame of Spain’s patriotism, amid the disgrace and defeats of her regular armies. The French, who smarted, executed them as robbers, because, forsooth, they wore no uniform. Can a Marshal’s embroidery transform spoilers of church and cottage into heroes, or its want degrade the honest defender of altar and hearth into a bandit? Throughout the war, the surprises of French convoys afforded scenes no less frequent than picturesque. Down Alpine defiles and amid aromatic brushwood, the long lines of laden mules, cars, and mounted escorts tracked their tangled way, now concealed in rocks and thickets, now glittering in the sun and giving life to the loneliness; then, in the most perilous point of passage and behind loosened crags lurked the partizans; every blunderbuss loaded and cocked, every finger on the trigger, every knife unclasped, each breathlessly awaiting the signal; nor ever was priest or monk wanting to shrive the souls, and hold out immediate paradise to these humble crusaders, who fell gloriously in the holy war for God, King and country. Honour eternal to these noble sons of Spain! However wild, undisciplined and oriental their resistance, it rises grandly, an example to the world, now the crimes and follies of their unworthy leaders in cabinet and camp have sunk into deserved oblivion.
Just now (Ford writes to Addington, May 7th, 1852) the old Tory’s Duke of Wellington’s Campaign Libretto is much talked of at the Palace. Think of the F.M. going there in personâ, pulling out his shilling, and buying a book, and carrying it off.
The old Duke (he adds, May 11th) has been to the Diorama, and was much pleased, especially with Lisbon, Salamanca, Vitoria, and Sorauren. When the squares at the concluding Waterloo began to move, he quite fought his battles over again.
The Queen is illustrating the Diorama, the guide in hand.
Ford also notes that a large-paper copy had been bought by Lord Malmesbury, then the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. He was especially pleased with this purchase, because he was endeavouring to obtain, through Addington, a nomination to the Diplomatic Service for his only son, Francis Clare Ford. On leaving Eton, Clare Ford had entered the 4th Light Dragoons. But military life was not to his taste: he had sold out of the Army in June 1851, and was now studying in France. By Addington’s advice a formal letter was written for submission to the Foreign Secretary.
I am most anxious (wrote Ford) to start my only son in diplomacy, to be followed up as his profession. You know the youth. He was at Eton, has learnt the world in the course of soldiering, speaks and writes French excellently, is a clever artist, gentlemanlike and good-looking, can keep a secret, and is aged twenty-three. Hereafter he will have an independent fortune.
I am fully aware that I have no right to apply to Lord Malmesbury on private or public grounds; but, at least, I have always been, and in the worst of times, a good Tory with pen and by mouth.
Across the letter which Addington wrote recommending Clare Ford, Lord Malmesbury scribbled in pencil: “If the son is as clever as the father, he deserves advancement. I have put him down, and hope to name him.” In due course the nomination came. Writing to Addington, July 10th, 1852, Ford says:
I really hardly know how to thank you enough. But I do feel it greatly, and hope you believe that. Nothing could be more gentlemanlike than Lord Malmesbury. In the middle of dinner—I sat next to him—he said: “Let’s have a glass of champagne together and drink your son’s health, whom I have just appointed an attaché to Naples.”