Taken by conscription from 1793 to 1813:
But these figures do not include hundreds of thousands of young men that were induced, by nice soft talk, to voluntarily join the army, to gain distinction under their beloved pet corporal, as they were wont to call Napoleon. Many of them did well, as nearly all his marshals rose from butchers, publicans, tinkers, or shoemakers; in fact, many of them from the lowest of the low. Their actions bespoke their origin as soon as they were in power, either in Germany, Spain, or Portugal.
Europe had been convulsed in a death-struggle, in the iron grasp of revolutionary France, for twenty-two years. The map of Europe was completely upset. Kingdoms were shaken to their foundations. New kingdoms were formed at pleasure, to suit the whims of this restless tyrant. Old England, with her unconquerable fleet, was the only Power which had escaped the ravages of war. A merciful God, who neither slumbers nor sleeps, had built a hedge round about us. “The prayer of a righteous man,” we are told, “availeth much;” and thousands and tens of thousands of honest hearts, both publicly and privately, daily supplicated a throne of grace for His powerful aid: “From war, good Lord, deliver us.” Napoleon was a wonderful man, with an eagle eye. He fastened victory after victory, triumph after triumph, to his standards. He was endowed with a large mind, an iron will, and a cold heart. Nelson was the first man that thwarted his plans. The destruction of his fleet at the Nile was a heavy blow. To replace that fleet, a secret treaty was entered into with the Danes. The whole of their fleet was to have been placed at the disposal of this iron-minded man, to assist in the invasion of our beloved isle. But again our God warded off the blow. Our Government were not napping; they found it all out just in time to despatch our one-eyed, one-armed hero, Nelson, to Copenhagen. The whole of the Danish fleet was demanded. It was a daring stroke; but, reader, sharp diseases require sharp remedies. It was life or death with us as a nation. The brave Danes would not comply, but fought for it, and lost all, except their honour. It was here that the darling hero of England put his glass to his blind eye, and said he could not see the signal. He did not want to see it. His answer to the distasteful signal was: “Nail my signal to the mast-head for closer action.” Thus he crushed the enemy’s fleet, and once more nailed victory to the flag which is second to none. Napoleon was mad with rage, to see his plans again frustrated by these detested Albions. The next crushing blow this dauntless hero gave the tyrant was at Trafalgar. It was a death-stroke to this eagle-eyed usurper. It swept his flag and his allies from the sea, and proclaimed to the nations of the earth that Britain ruled on sea. This triumph, my young readers must know, was purchased by our noble hero’s life-blood. It was on the field of Austerlitz, with the Russians and their Allies completely crushed, that Napoleon said to those around him: “Gentlemen, all we want now are fleets and commerce.” He had hardly pronounced the words, when he received the news of the annihilation of his fleets, and those of his allies, by Nelson at Trafalgar; and that the hero was dead. He was completely dumbfounded. His first words were: “Would to God that man had been dead ten years ago.” Our darling hero was in life not immaculate; but it was evident to all thinking men that this dauntless hero was the instrument in the hands of God to combat infidelity. Our statesmen soon converted enemies into allies, and stuck to Napoleon like a good bull-dog until he was worried out, and landed in safety on the isle of Elba, under a faithful promise of peace and good-will to all. It was soon found that this tyrant could not slumber in the uneasy pomp at Elba. The whole of the representatives of Europe were now at Vienna, in Congress, squabbling over the spoil of dismembered Europe. When the astounding news of Napoleon’s flight from Elba was announced to that body by Count Talleyrand, all disputes were at once thrown overboard. All were unanimous that this restless usurper should be crushed, with all those that supported him. No time was to be lost, for nearly all the French army had joined him. His name had such a charm, that tens of thousands of veterans, whom the prisons of the continent and ours had let loose, at once rushed to his standards. It was plain to all, that, in order to put him down, Europe must combine—that it would be a death-struggle. The old shouts of Vive l’Empereur resounded across the frontier as a challenge to Europe. It was at once agreed that the British should furnish 125,000 men. Her magnificent fleets were to blockade all French ports, or destroy all that dare to put to sea. Prussia was to put into the field, within three months, 236,000 men; Austria, with as little delay as possible, 300,000 men; Russia, 225,000 men; the smaller German States, 150,000 men; Holland, 50,000 men; Spain and Portugal, 200,000 men. Thus Napoleon would have to combat Europe combined, with 1,286,000 men in arms—all in the pay of this glorious old isle. It cost us just one hundred and ten millions sterling to finally rid Europe of this tyrannical monster. It was plain to all that the British, supported by Prussia, were to be the advance guard of the hosts of Europe. It is not my intention to go into the oft-told tale of Waterloo; but a short explanation of Marshal Grouchy’s movements, I hope, will set some right; together with some of the leading features of that historic red field. In plain language, Grouchy simply obeyed strictly Napoleon’s instructions—he was well aware of the implicit obedience to orders which Napoleon exacted—without even attempting to form an opinion of his own. His orders were, to follow up the Prussians, to attack them, and never to lose sight of them. The terrible battle of Wavre was fought the same day as that of Waterloo. General Thielman’s corps of Prussians fought it out to the bitter end, and kept Grouchy’s men fully employed all day. It was not until seven p.m. that Grouchy received orders to manœuvre on St. Lambert. Up to this, Grouchy’s army had been repulsed and driven back no less than thirteen times during that terrible day. They fought from four a.m. till midnight, and then the bridge of Wavre remained in the hands of the Prussians. The slaughter was terrible. Marshal Blücher knew well that his rear was attacked; but that heroic old veteran knew also that it was not at Wavre that the fate of Europe was to be decided, but at Waterloo; and, with the true spirit of a general, he resolved to sacrifice Thielman’s corps, if necessary, in order to destroy Napoleon’s army at Waterloo. All minor objects had to stand in abeyance. The brave General Thielman not only kept Grouchy back, but beat him at all points. The terrible combats at Quatre Bras and Ligny had already shown up the quality of the troops under the different commanders. Napoleon’s army was composed principally of veterans of a hundred fields; they were almost strangers to defeat. Victory had followed victory, and they felt confident their beloved pet corporal’s star was still in the ascendant. They felt proud in once more following their all-conquering Emperor, who had so often led them on to victory.
As far as Quatre Bras was concerned, Napoleon’s invincible pets were handled very roughly by Sir Thomas Picton’s division and the Guards, and victory was once more nailed to our glorious old flag. My readers must not lose sight of the fact that Sir Thomas Picton had just completed a long dreary march of twenty-two miles. The Brunswickers were holding on manfully, well knowing that the thin red line was advancing to their assistance. Every regiment of Sir Thomas’s division particularly distinguished itself. The conduct of the “Old Slashers” (28th) was sublime. They threw themselves into square as the cuirassiers were approaching. But, suddenly, all appeared to be lost: they were assailed on three sides at once. All was calm; not a voice was heard but that of Sir Thomas Picton, who was inside the square. This noble old hero called out, “Twenty-eighth! remember Egypt.” The next word was from its Colonel: “Twenty-eighth! Ready—fire!” and down came the proud horsemen, or they were scattered in all directions. None but resolute, cool men, would ever have won that bloody field. The enemy had upwards of five thousand splendid horse on the field. We had none—nothing but a few guns and stubborn infantry. It was “do or die,” until the Guards and other reinforcements came up. But it was plain to all that the brunt of the fighting would have to be borne by the British, Hanoverians, and Brunswickers. That rascal, Napoleon, was again victorious over the Prussians the same day at Ligny; but old Marshal Blücher, although defeated, was not subdued, as the sequel will prove. He retired in good order from the field of carnage, leaving nothing but heaps of slain for the victor. Although our conquering commander had defeated Marshal Ney, he was compelled to retire, as his flank was exposed to Napoleon’s eagle eye by the retreat of the Prussians. On that night, our victorious General found means to have an interview with old Marshal Forward (Blücher). The great conqueror was yet to be met; heavy stakes were yet to be fought for; the great contest of twenty-two years was yet to be decided. It was worth a “brush.” It was liberty against military despotic slavery; infidelity against Christianity. Our commander well knew that, in point of numbers and experience, his army was much inferior to that of the enemy. He had only about 50,000 upon whom he could rely, and most of them consisted of recruits who had never seen a shot fired. Wellington estimated the enemy at about 80,000 or 90,000 men, after deducting their loss in the two battles just fought. He informed the fire-eating old Blücher of his victory over Marshal Ney, and that he would accept battle with the conqueror of Europe on the plains of Waterloo, if he (Blücher) would only promise to support him with one or two corps. The dauntless old hero at once promised to support His Grace, not with one or two corps, but with his whole army; that he would be on the field, on Napoleon’s flank, by one o’clock, and that the two armies would crush the restless tyrant. It was enough; Blücher had pledged his word in honour. The spoilt child of fortune had now two resolute men to face, who, with all their followers, might die, but never yield. And during that dreadful butchery, as hour after hour rolled on, and attack after attack were driven back with frightful slaughter, the dauntless cuirassiers, who had frequently ridden through Russians, Austrians, Prussians, Spaniards, and Portuguese, were repulsed time after time, and driven in headlong confusion from our squares. One commander sent to His Grace the Duke of Wellington for assistance. The answer was, “Tell him I have none; he and I, with every Briton on this field, must conquer or die.” “Enough; we will share his fate, my men.” Napoleon’s old Guards, that had decided in his favour almost every field their pet corporal had won, were formed up for the final attack. As for fear, they did not know what it was; with them, it was death or victory. Napoleon came part of the way with them. They were, in this instance, made to believe that they were advancing to an assured victory, with the heroic Marshal Ney as their leader. They advanced with deafening shouts of “Vive l’Empereur.” The Guards, grim-faced as they were, had to bow to the all-conquering British bayonet. They were driven back by our Guards and the 52nd with a terrible rush, by that never-failing weapon. The intrepid Marshal Ney tried to find death, but could not. Six o’clock had struck. The hero of a hundred fields might well get a little uneasy, and turn his glass in the direction from which he expected assistance. One corps of Blücher’s army had been on the field since 4 p.m., and the enemy fought desperately to keep old Marshal Forward from joining in the fight. Wellington’s confidence in the lion-hearted old veteran was not misplaced on this trying occasion. He proved to the world that he was worthy to lead the vanguard of that host which was combating for the independence of Europe. His men sank to their ankles, and their artillery to the axles, in mud, complaining that they could not get on. The horses could not move the guns. These horsemen at once put their shoulders to the wheels, until they were completely exhausted, and sank down in the mud. Blücher then addressed them: “My children, you must get on; you would not have me break my word. Courage! my dear children; courage!” and at once sounded the charge. This had the effect. The roar of the firing at Waterloo told them plainly that a dreadful battle was being fought. The old veteran again told them that he was leading them on to victory. “Forward, children! Forward!” About 7 p.m. the lion-hearted Blücher burst with all the fury of the king of the forest upon the flank of the great conqueror. The last attack of Napoleon’s redoubtable Guards were just recoiling in confusion from our victorious bayonets. The last hour of Napoleon’s Empire had struck. The disturber of the peace of Europe that morning issued a most striking proclamation to his army, which roused it to the highest possible state of fanatic madness. Perhaps he thought it was needed, as they were about to face the detested Albions. He concluded his fiery address thus: “For every Frenchman who has a heart, the moment has arrived to conquer or die.” It was received with wild fanatic shouts of “Vive l’Empereur,” which resounded for miles, and struck terror into the hearts of thousands who were under Wellington’s standard as Allies. Well, the gauntlet was thrown down at the feet of the deliverer of Spain and Portugal. I would here note that the raw, undisciplined recruits of Great Britain have, on more than one occasion, been compared with the rustics who fought so desperately on the fields of Bautzen and Lutzen, when the great conqueror exclaimed: “What! will these rustics not leave me a nail?” The only difference was, our lads at Waterloo were dressed as soldiers; and the Germans fought and died in the dress they came from the plough:—
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“None from his fellow starts; But playing manly parts, And like true British hearts Strike close together.”—Drayton. |
Well, the gauntlet was picked up by one who had on many a field proved more than a match for the best of Napoleon’s generals. They were to “conquer or die.” Let us just see what sort of example this hero sets. When the Old Guards were driven back, the hero of so many fields became as pale as death; and the last words, on the last field of him who had been the cause of millions coming to an untimely end, were not “Gentlemen, it now behoves us to die with honour,” but “All is lost! let us save ourselves”—bolting clean off the field like a ——. Charity forbids us to stigmatise the hero of so many fields with the worst name a soldier could go to rest with. But this we will say: On this important occasion he lost his head.[52] His Grace the Duke of Wellington was not addicted to any display, or ostentatious language; but he said, after the battle was over, that if he had had with him the old seasoned veterans that won the fields of Salamanca or Vittoria, in place of the motley mass he had—which he could not, for the lack of discipline, manœuvre with—he would have chased the whole French army off the field long before Blücher reached it. But, as it was, he had much to be thankful for. Nothing that he had ever witnessed could surpass the inflexible struggle of such raw material. In plain language, they were sprigs of true Britons. Shoulder to shoulder they stood for hours, and faced shot and shell: shoulder to shoulder they died where they stood, overpowered, but not defeated. They were, on some parts of the field, broken and crushed, but not subdued; and as soon as their immortal chief gave the signal, the survivors advanced, shoulder to shoulder, with levelled steel, and with a cheer which told Napoleon’s vaunting legions “that all was lost,” and that the sons of liberty were the victors. The last hour of Napoleon’s Empire had struck.
It is a clear proof that the bravest of the brave are, at times, apt to lose all control of themselves. He (Napoleon) had stood for hours and witnessed his columns of attack, both horse and foot, driven back with frightful slaughter, by the very people he had formed such contemptible ideas of—except at sea. And to put the climax on the whole, his redoubtable Old Guards, who had decided almost every field in his favour up to the conquest of Leipsic, driven back in confusion, with our bayonets uncomfortably close to them. He learned to respect the British before he died, and acknowledged that we had the best infantry in the world. At times, during the eventful day, things looked gloomy. No force on earth seemed capable of resisting the heroes of Jena, Wagram, Austerlitz, Dresden, and even some that had escaped the carnage of Borodino, Beresina, Eylan, Friedland, Salamanca, Vittoria, and the routs from Kutczback and Leipsic. Strong brigades of infantry were reduced to a few hundreds. Many of the regiments were reduced to mere skeletons. But our squares still stood as firm as if rooted in the earth, frequently closing up as their ranks were thinned. For hours, the British left and centre was the theatre of a terrible conflict. The enemy’s horse, more than 12,000 strong, in great part clad in glittering armour, dashed at the guns and squares with unparalleled enthusiasm and vehement cries of Vive l’Empereur. In one attack there were seventy-seven squadrons engaged; the first line composed of cuirassiers in burnished steel: the second, the red lancers of the Guard, in brilliant uniform: the third, the chasseurs of the Guard, in rich furred costume of green and gold, with huge black bearskin hats on their heads. Never was there a more sublime military spectacle witnessed. But with all their enthusiasm, vain were all their attempts to break that stubborn infantry. With deadly aim they stretched these proud horsemen on the plain, while the remainder recoiled in disorder out of the frightful strife.[53] Frequently, during this terrible slaughter, both commanders exposed themselves to almost certain death, in the midst of the storm of shot and shell, grape and canister. Although fired at point-blank, the brave cuirassiers, with deep gaps or chasms in their ranks, again and again dashed at the squares, but instantly a deadly volley of musketry would strike hundreds of these dauntless men on the plains, until a complete rampart of dead and wounded men and horses lay around the squares. The total loss of the Allies during this short campaign—from the 15th to the 19th of June—was, British and King’s German Legion, 12,068; Hanoverians, 2,036; Belgians, 4,038; Brunswickers, 1,508; Nassau (or Dutch), 634; total, 20,290. The Prussian loss at Ligny, Wavre, and Waterloo was 33,120. At the crowning victory, their loss was 6,998. The French army was almost destroyed: their loss at Waterloo alone was over 40,000; then their loss at the terrible combats of Ligny, Quatre Bras, and Wavre was not much short of 30,000 more. The wreck of Napoleon’s veterans who re-crossed the Sambre and regained their own country, at once dispersed as an army. The few remaining cavalry and artillery sold their horses and made their way home. The boasting army had received a death-blow. It was repeatedly proved during the Peninsula campaigns that the British soldier could hold their own against vastly superior numbers. The invincible obstinacy which he inherits was displayed on field after field; and the crowning victory over the great chief (Napoleon) on the plains of Waterloo was a fitting sequel of Albuera, Salamanca, and Vittoria. The flight of the crest-fallen conqueror and the rout of his chosen veterans of the Imperial Guard, proclaimed his Grace the Duke of Wellington the greatest captain of his age. His army (although largely composed of raw recruits) had the honour of being unconquerable: it proved Great Britain to be one of the greatest of military powers—in her wealth, in her manhood, and in her self-sacrifice—and silenced the disgraceful croakers that almost worshipped at the shrine of Napoleon, yet calling themselves Britons. But we feel proud to know that the vast majority of Britons glory in the noble achievements of their sires and themselves, which have built up this vast Empire, now “second to none.”
Thus my readers will see that the great conqueror was rolled up by the advanced guard, before the other Powers had time to get up. His Grace the Duke of Wellington and old Marshal (Forward!) at once marched on Paris. The French talked very loudly about burying themselves in the ruins of Paris; but as soon as Wellington and Blücher’s standards were seen on the heights, they capitulated. Marshal Blücher at once retaliated a little on his own account, demanding one hundred million francs (four millions sterling) for the pay of his troops. He had not forgotten how his country had been impoverished and insulted after the battle of Jena. Could that stern old veteran have laid hands upon Napoleon, he would have made short work of him; and, but for the advice of Wellington, some of the most ornamental parts of the city would have been blown up. In due course, the allied sovereigns arrived in Paris, with their huge armies. The French authorities were compelled to find food, shelter, and pay for nearly one million of men, with 100,000 cavalry, for several months. Sixty-one millions sterling was demanded as an indemnity for the hundred days’ freak. It was but just that guilty, insulting France should feel the rod of retribution. Nothing wounded their pride so much as the demand for all the trophies of war which Napoleon and his Marshals had plundered Europe of. The iron sword of justice entered their inmost soul. It told them in language not to be misunderstood that conquest had now reached their doors; that they were not permitted to plunder the nations of the world with impunity, without punishment. The list of articles of rarity claimed by Prussia alone, which had been stolen from her palaces and noblemen’s mansions, occupied fifty-three closely printed pages. Spain came next with a long list; then Austria, Russia, Portugal, Italy, and Holland. Each had their demands. If the articles claimed were not forthcoming, their value was demanded. Great Britain was the only Power in Europe that had nothing to claim. The indemnity was divided among the different nations. Our share—which was no small slice—our forefathers relinquished; it covered a multitude of sins. They said we were not half so bad as we had been painted. An Army of Occupation of 150,000 men was left in France for three years, under His Grace the Duke of Wellington, to be paid, fed, housed, and clothed at the expense of the French. They were made up of 30,000 of each nation—Russia, Prussia, Austria, British, and the smaller German States. This taught our neighbours to be civil, and gave peace to Europe for nearly forty years. We had been the direct instrument, in the hands of God, in striking the tyrant down, and giving liberty to Europe. But in this death-struggle for independence a debt was incurred and handed down to us as a legacy of eight hundred and forty millions seven hundred and fifty-eight thousand seven hundred and eighty-one pounds sterling. But we are free from the oppressor, and are indebted to no foreign country. As Britons we can hold up our heads, and tell the biggest and best of the European nations to stand off. We fear none but God. The Quakers and Shakers may talk, but unless the Briton has degenerated wonderfully, our fleet would hold its own, defending our coasts; and with our teeming population, we would soon let Europe see whether we could muster an army or not. I have no wish to foster a bellicose spirit. God forbid! We know enough of war to know the value of peace. But there is no necessity to get alarmed about our defenceless state; for if we could do nothing else, we would send to Lancashire for some thousands of their lads to purr[54] them a bit, and there are more Nelsons now than there were in 1804. Marshal Soult (Napoleon’s pet General) once said that he knew the English—that they were the very d——l in close quarters. “Stick to them, my lads!” has been shouted in the writer’s ears in the thick of more than one fight.[55]
Such, dear reader, has been the heroic conduct of the sons of Albion, and our sister isle, Ireland, either by land or sea, when the honour of our glorious old flag of liberty has been at stake, that all friends or foes have had to admire. The great conqueror, Napoleon, in speaking of the British soldier, said that England had the best infantry in the world, that they could dispute the palm of victory with the best veteran troops in Europe, and whoever attacks such good troops as Great Britain produces, without a positive assurance of success (by overwhelming odds), send them to certain destruction. He had had bitter experience of our stubborn infantry, and the terrible charges of our heavy horse; he had learned to respect us; and I think we can say without egotism, that the present generation are true chips of that unconquerable stubborn race which have carried Old England (or rather, Great Britain) through thick and thin. Reader, do not get alarmed: there are as good men now as ever our fathers or grandfathers were, and would hit as hard for the honour of our glorious Empire as they did. Only treat them fairly with good leaders, and the biggest bullies in Europe would find the sons of the United Kingdom a tough lot to handle. The British soldier or sailor had need be made of tough material: most of his life is spent exposed to the pestilential climates, to say nothing of the trials and hardships of warfare. Tommy Atkins may grumble sometimes, but he is there when wanting, and woe to the enemy he can close with.