In traversing La Grande Place, I was attracted to a kind of military vehicle, by the voice of plaintive distress appealing for my succour, reiterating the word compatriote. On approaching, I beheld a handsome and interesting-looking female, in equestrian costume;—by her side were two servants, and two very fine saddle-horses. A tent, and some baggage-wagons, belonging to some regiment, appeared to be included in her train. She announced herself to me as the wife of Captain ----, aid-de-camp to General C----: by some mistake of orders, fatal to her peace of mind, the baggage of her husband's regiment had not been included in the general orders for following the army. Anguish was expressed on her fine countenance. She knew only that we were victorious; but she knew not whether her husband was to be numbered with the dead, or with the living. She was without resource, and unacquainted with the French language. She appealed to my protection, and pointed to her servants to corroborate her statement. Fatigued in mind as I was, yet how impossible to hesitate an instant! I immediately conducted her to the librarian, who gave me a room; and I sent for refreshments, and fain would have persuaded her to attempt seeking some repose; but her mental sufferings were too great to permit her to remain tranquil. She declared that nothing should prevent her following the army to Paris, beseeching me to obtain permission for her to ride on with the first detachment that quitted the city. I was obliged to comply, for there is no reasoning with the anxious mind of an attached wife! and I presented myself before our choleric commandant. Being in black, I was mistaken for a hapless widow, and all pressed to offer me service. I found Captain W----, who immediately interested himself, and I had the supreme pleasure of not only obtaining an escort, but of receiving the certain assurance of her gallant husband's safety. She spent the evening with us, and created a general interest. She had accompanied her husband in the campaigns in Spain, soon after a marriage purement d'inclination. Captain ---- had been brought up to the Bar; but the mania of war seized him, and he preferred figuring in the Army List, and practising military tactics, to studying Burn's Justice and Blackstone's Commentaries. She would not lose sight of her new friend; and at four o'clock on Tuesday morning I conducted her to the Porte de Namur, where I found the promised escort with two officers, to whom I could assign her with confidence. She sprang into her saddle with an alacrity, that expressed she was going to join the husband of her affection; and she promised to present him to me in Paris.
Old C----, one of the "all-talented Whigs," who you know is half a buffoon, was a torment to us during the fearful period of the three days—running to and fro, standing in every body's way, seeking and reporting news, exclaiming, "but the battle cannot be lost—I do not see the army in retreat," &c. &c. At length, the battle over, England victorious, the Duke on Monday rode quietly into Bruxelles, to make arrangements for the wounded, &c. C---- rushes to his apartment to make his compliments.
"Thirty thousand men lost!" replied the Duke.
"But what a victory!"
"Thirty thousand men killed!—hard case!"—still answered the Duke, with his usual simplicity of expression when speaking of his own exploits. C----, who knew not what diffidence was, nor could discover its merits in another, retreated in evident disappointment at his compliments of felicitation having the appearance of being so little appreciated; almost doubtful, whether Wellington was in truth a hero, or whether the battle was really gained!
The interiors of the churches are divided in stalls, the wounded placed in them on layers of straw, and women and surgeons are seen administering to their ills. The Belgians have thrown open their houses, and officers and soldiers are promiscuously placed in their decorated salons, and served with equal assiduity. The French seemed to have fought with redoubled rancour on these terrible days; even the nature of the wounds are without parallel in history. The light carts I saw preparing some weeks since, were sent off to the frontiers; therefore, to add to the sufferings of these brave men, they are brought in upon the rough wagons employed in agriculture. This is the sixth day, and they are still arriving in all kinds of conveyances. Our carriage was stopped in la Rue de Montagne last evening; the cause originated in two wagons filled with the wounded and the dying, recently discovered! Some of the inhabitants, with candles, were groping anxiously, in search of their relations, and administering various restoratives to those they knew not, until another church could be hastily prepared to receive them. Hundreds of French prisoners are brought in,—many of them quite boys, and in peasants' habits, apparently forced by cruel conscriptions to become warriors malgré eux, and forming a remarkable contrast to those hardy and athletic frames, who seem destined by nature for the military career. Here were these poor recruits, a few weeks since dragged from their native hearths, constrained by regal power to illustrate themselves by the sword—when their hearts and characters were formed for domestic cares, and those agricultural labours which sweetened their rustic meal, and only trying to evade their direst enemy—the recruiting-sergeant of Napoleon!
But there is another distinctive mark in those veteran French soldiers, whom we see conveyed into Bruxelles, wounded and prisoners. They seem to retain a ferocious expression, even at the moment of sinking into the feebleness of death, and while every human succour is rendering to them. They cast a furtive glance around, and their countenances indicate all the horror of their minds at their late reverses, and to be thinking less of the bodily pains they are enduring, than of their incapability to revenge themselves upon their victors! Such was the scene exhibited this morning on the steps of the hotel opposite to my apartment.