“In a short half-hour the French and Prussian authorities were assembled. The hussars received orders to march away instantly, and we were to change our quarters the next day. Before we did so, however, rendezvous was taken and kept by several hussar officers, on the one hand, and by Lieutenant Sebottendorf, his second, Merkatz, and six others of our regiment, on the other, to fight the matter out. Sebottendorf and his opponent, who had commenced the dispute, also began the fight. They walked up to the barriers, fixed at ten paces; the Frenchman’s shot knocked the cap off the head of our comrade, who returned the fire with such cool and steady aim, that his opponent fell dead upon the spot. Another hussar instantly sprang forward to take his turn with Merkatz. I looked about for my young antagonist; but no one had seen him since the previous day, nor did the French officers know whom I meant; so it is possible that, favoured by the confusion of the previous day, he had donned a uniform to which he had no right. There was no more fighting, however. After long discussions and mutual explanations, matters were peaceably arranged. The officer who had caused the strife, alone bore the penalty. He was carried away by his comrades, and we repaired to our new cantonments. The brave Von Sebottendorf had vindicated with fitting energy and decision the fame and honour of the Prussian officer.”
The month of February, 1815, witnessed the return to Germany of Von Rahden’s battalion. A soldier’s home is wherever the quarters are best; and it was with many regrets that the Baron and his comrades left the pleasant cantonments and agreeable hospitality of gay and lively France, for the dull fortress of Magdeburg. The Baron shudders at the bare recollection of the unwelcome change, and of the subsequent reduction of his regiment to the peace establishment. Nor, according to his account, did any very hearty welcome from their civilian countrymen console the homeward-bound warriors for stoppage of field-allowance and diminished chance of promotion. They were received coldly, if not with aversion. Instead of good quarters and wholesome food, bad lodgings and worse rations fell to their share. Stale provisions, the leavings, in some instances, of the foes from whom they had delivered Germany, were deemed good enough for the conquerors of Kulm and Leipzig. Fatigue duties replaced opportunities of distinction, economy and ennui were the order of the day, and, amongst the disappointed subalterns, for whom the war had finished far too soon, but one note was heard, a sound of discontent and lamentation. It was the first opportunity these young soldiers had of learning that the man-at-arms, prized and cherished when his services are needed, is too often looked upon in peace time as a troublesome encumbrance and useless expense.
Suddenly, however, and most unexpectedly, came the signal for renewed activity. On the 29th of March, intelligence reached Magdeburg that Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and, after a triumphant march of twenty days, had resumed his seat upon the imperial throne. Joyful news for the ambitious subaltern, eager for action and advancement; less pleasant tidings to the old officer, who believed his campaigns at an end, and hoped tranquilly to enjoy his well-earned promotion. Cockade and sabre instantly rose in public estimation; and those who, a day previously, had cast sour glances at the neglected soldier, now lauded his valour and encouraged his aspirations. Forgetting the toils and perils of recent campaigns, old Blucher’s legions joyfully prepared for another bout with the Frenchman. Once more the march was ordered Rhine-wards; and, on the 18th April, Von Rahden and his battalion crossed that river at Ehrenbreitstein.
An accident, the overturn of a carriage, by which he was severely hurt, separated the Baron, for some time, from his regiment. He rejoined it at Liege; to the great surprise of all for his death had been reported, and his name struck off the strength. The officers gave him a dinner,—the men welcomed his appearance on parade with a triple hurra. Happy in these proofs of his fellow-soldiers’ esteem he looked forward joyfully and confidently to the approaching struggle. It soon came. In the night of the 15th June the alarm sounded: Bülow’s corps hastily got under arms, and marched to the assistance of Prince Blucher. Front three in the morning till one in the afternoon they advanced without pause or slackening; then a short halt was ordered. The sound of Blucher’s cannon was plainly heard. He was hard pressed by the French: but a burning sun and a ten hours march had exhausted the strength of Bülow’s troops; rest and refreshment were indispensable. It was not till eleven at night that they reached Gembloux, and there met the old field-marshal’s disordered battalions in full retreat from the disastrous field of Ligny.
Of the battle of Waterloo, the Baron of course saw but the close. Nevertheless he had a little hard fighting and received a wound at the taking of Planchenoit, which was full of French troops, principally grenadiers of the guard. “The order was given. ‘The second regiment will take the village by storm.’ My brave colonel was the first man in the place; but he was also the first killed: a shot from a window knocked him over. Notwithstanding this loss, in an instant we were masters of the village. At its farther extremity was the churchyard, surrounded by a low wall, and occupied by two battalions of the old Imperial Guard. Hats off! He who has fought against them will know how to admire them. Like a swarm of bees, my regiment, whose ranks had got disordered during the short fight in the village, dashed forward with lowered bayonets against the cemetery. We were within fifteen paces of it. ‘Shoulder arms!’ cried the French commander. More than once had the guardsmen found the sign of contempt profit them, by confusing their antagonists, and startling them into a hasty and irregular discharge. This time it did not answer; in five minutes the churchyard was ours. Scarcely had we won, when we again lost it. Thrice did it change hands, and the ground was heaped with dead. The third encounter was terrible—with the bayonet, just below the lime trees that shaded the cemetery gate. We officers took the muskets of the fallen, and fought like common soldiers. Some of the French officers followed our example; others, standing in the foremost rank, did fearful execution with point of sword. Here fell my dearest friend, thrust through the heart; I sprang forward to revenge his death, when a bronzed hero of the Pyramids shot me down.” The wound was not very severe; and, although the ball could not be extracted, the Baron, after a month’s stay at Brussels, was able to rejoin his battalion, then quartered in Normandy. Thence, early in August, he marched to Paris, to take share in the grand ceremony of blessing the colours of the Prussian regiments.
“On a splendid summer’s day, (2d September, 1815,) 25,000 to 30,000 Prussians, comprising the whole of the guards, six infantry and six cavalry regiments of the line, were formed up in the Champ de Mars in one great square. In its centre was an altar, composed, military fashion, of drums, and covered with red velvet, upon which lay the Iron Cross. The Emperors Alexander and Francis, our noble king, and all the generals of the Allies, stood around and listened bareheaded to the impressive thanksgiving offered up by Chaplain Offelsmeyer. Here the colours of the various regiments, surmounted by the Iron Cross, and having the Alliance ribband—white, black, and orange—and the ribband of the medal cast out of captured artillery for ‘Prussia’s brave warriors’ fluttering from their staves, received, in the hands of our king and his imperial friends, a high and rare consecration.” As the blessing was spoken over the lowered colours, a numerous park of artillery fired a royal salute, and then, in review order, the troops defiled before the King of Prussia. “When the infantry of the line had passed, the officers were allowed to fall out and look on, whilst the guards and grenadiers marched by. It was a splendid sight, especially at the moment when the two emperors, at the head of their Prussian grenadier regiments, lowered swords, and paid military honours to our King.” The honours of the day were for Frederick William the Third; and the sovereigns of Russia and Austria, Baron von Rahden tells us, reined back their horses and kept a little in rear, that they might not seem to appropriate a share of them. “Only one soldierly figure, astride, proud and stately, upon a splendid charger, had taken post on the same line with the King of Prussia, some twenty paces to his right. Alone, and seemingly unsympathizing, he beheld, with thorough British phlegm, the military pageant. It was the Duke of Wellington, the bold hero of Eastern fight, the prudent general in the Peninsula, the fortunate victor of Waterloo. Accident and the crowd brought me close to his horse’s breast; and, with the assurance of a young man who feels himself an old and experienced soldier, I contemplated his really lofty, and proud, and noble appearance. I should find it very difficult to describe the Duke as he then was. Not that one line has been effaced of the impression stamped upon my memory whilst I stood for more than half an hour scarce three paces from his stirrup. But tame and feeble would be any portrait my pen could draw of the flashing eagle eye, the hawk’s nose, the slightly sarcastic expression of the pointed chin, and compressed, seemingly lipless, mouth. His hair was scanty and dark; neither moustache nor whisker filled and rounded his thin oval physiognomy. His high forehead, that noblest feature of the masculine countenance, I could not see, for a long narrow military hat, with a rather shabby plume, was pressed low down upon his brows. For two reasons, however, the impression the English leader that day made upon me, was not the most favourable: I was vexed at his placing himself thus intentionally apart from, and on the same line with my king; and then it seemed to me unnatural that his deportment should be so stiff, his bust so marble-like, and that at such a moment his features should not once become animated, or his eye gleam approval.”
This was not the last sight obtained by the Prussian lieutenant of the British field-marshal. In 1835 Baron von Rahden came to London. During the siege of Antwerp he had served as a volunteer under General Chassé, and had drawn a large military tableau or plan of the defence of the citadel. This he had dedicated to the King of Holland, and now wished to confide to an English engraver. To facilitate his views, Chassé gave him an introduction to the Duke. We will translate his account of the interview it procured him. He went to Apsley House in Dutch uniform, his Iron Cross and medal, and the Prussian order of St. Anne, upon his breast, the latter having been bestowed upon him for his conduct at Waterloo, or La Belle Alliance, as the Prussians style it. He was introduced by an old domestic, who, as far as he could judge, might have been a mute, into a spacious apartment.
“I had waited almost an hour, and became impatient. I was on the point of seeking a servant, and causing myself to be announced a second time, when a small tapestried door, in the darker part of the saloon, opened, and a thin little man, with a stoop in his shoulders, dressed in a dark blue frock, ditto trousers, white stockings, and low shoes with buckles, approached without looking at me. I took him for servant, a steward, or some such person, and inquired rather quickly whether I could not have the honour to be announced to the Duke. The next instant I perceived my blunder; the little stooping man suddenly grew a head taller, and his eagle eye fixed itself upon me. I at once recognised my neighbour on the Champ de Mars. Rather enjoying my confusion, as I thought, the Duke again turned to the door, and, without a word, signed to me to follow him. When I entered the adjoining room he had already taken a chair, with his back to the light, and he motioned me to a seat opposite to him, just in the full glare from the plate-glass windows. We conversed in French; I badly, the Duke after a very middling fashion. With tolerable clearness I managed to explain what had brought me to London, and to crave the Duke’s gracious protection. In reply the Duke said that ‘He greatly esteemed General Chassé, who had fought bravely at Waterloo under his orders: that he was pleased with his defence of Antwerp,’ &c. At last he asked me ‘by whom my plan,’ which lay upon the table beside him, and which he neither praised nor found fault with, ‘was to be engraved.’
“‘Chez M. James Wyld, géographe du roi,’ was my somewhat over-hasty answer.
“‘Géographe de sa Majesté Britannique,’ said the Duke, by way of correction.