Britons! before other scenes are disclosed to your view, take one retrospective glance at this glorious, this instructive, spectacle. Let your imagination carry you to the rear of that celebrated position, and a little to the left of the Charleroi road. Behold, in the foreground, on the right, a British Line of Cavalry advancing to the charge, exulting in the consciousness of its innate courage, indomitable spirit, and strength of arm. Whilst you are admiring the beautiful order and perfect steadiness of their advance, your eyes are suddenly attracted by the glittering splendour of a Line of horsemen in burnished coats of mail, rising above the brow, and now crowning the summit of the ridge. They are the far famed Cuirassiers of France, led on by a Kellermann; gallant spirits that have hitherto overcome the finest troops that could be brought against them, and have grown grey in glory. Trumpets sound the charge; in the next instant your ears catch the low thundering noise of their horses' hoofs, and your breathless excitement is wound to the highest pitch as the adverse Lines clash together with a shock which, at the moment, you expect must end in their mutual annihilation. Observe the British, how they seem to doubt, for a second, in what manner to deal with their opponents. Now they urge their powerful steeds into the intervals between the necks of those of the Cuirassiers. Swords, brandished high in air, gleam fitfully in rapid succession throughout the Lines, here clashing together, there clanging against helmets and cuirass which ring under their redoubled strokes. See! the struggle is but a moment doubtful—the Cuirassiers, seemingly encumbered by their coats of mail, are yielding to superior strength, dexterity, and bravery combined—men and horses reel and stagger to the earth—gaps open out in their Line—numbers are backing out—others are fairly turning round—their whole Line now bends, and breaks asunder into fragments—in the next moment they appear, as if by a miracle, to be swept from off the crest of the position, and being closely and hotly pursued by the victors, the whole rushing down the other side of the ridge, are snatched from your view.
Your attention is now irresistibly drawn to that part of the foreground immediately facing you; where you have barely time to catch sight of a Line of British Infantry just as it forces its way through the hedge that runs along the crest of the ridge, to charge a Column advancing up the other side. At the moment the shouts that proclaim its triumph reach your ear, you are struck by the majestic advance, close to your left, of another Line of British horsemen. These halt just under the brow of the ridge. In their Left Front your eye now also embraces a Line of British Infantry; whilst at the same time you see the heads of two hostile Columns, issuing through the hedge, and crowning the ridge amidst shouts of "Vive l'Empereur!" The one nearest to you, finding no immediate opposition to its further advance, is rapidly establishing itself on the Height: the other is instantly met by a small but daring band of Scotch Highlanders. A struggle ensues; the furthest Column is concealed from your view by the smoke in which it is suddenly enshrouded; but at the very moment when doubts arise in your mind as to the result, the Cavalry rushes forward, and, passing through intervals opened out for it by the Infantry, which immediately follows in pursuit, charges both these heads of Columns, cutting them up, as it were, root and branch; and then bounding through the hedge, the whole disappear as if by magic. Now let your imagination, keeping pace with the intensity of feeling excited by such a scene, carry you up to the summit of the ridge.
Behold, at once, the glorious spectacle spread out before you! The Dragoons are in the midst of the Enemy's Columns—the furious impetuosity of their onslaught overcomes all resistance—the terror stricken masses, paralyzed by this sudden apparition of Cavalry amongst them, have neither time nor resolution to form Squares, and limit their defence to a feeble, hasty, straggling fire from their ill cemented edges—a flight, commencing from the rearmost ranks, is rapidly augmented by the outward scattering occasioned by the continually increasing pressure upon the front—the entire slope is soon covered with the dispersed elements of the previously attacking force—parties of Infantry are hurrying over the brow of the ridge to aid others of the Cavalry in securing the prisoners—3,000 of these are swept to the rear, and two Eagles are gloriously captured.
From the momentary contemplation of these trophies, your eyes instinctively revert to the course of the victors, whom you now perceive in the middle distance of the view—a broken Line of daring horsemen, rushing up the opposite Heights. Their intoxicating triumph admits of no restraint. They heed not the trumpet's call to halt and rally; but plunging wildly amidst the formidable Line of Batteries ranged along the French position, they commence sabring the Gunners, stabbing the horses, and seem to clear the ground of every living being. But physical efforts, however powerfully developed and sustained, have their limit: exhausted nature yields at length; and their fiery steeds, subdued, not by force but by exhaustion, retire with lagging faltering pace. You look in vain for a Support—there is none—but your eye is suddenly caught by the fluttering lance flags of a Column of the Enemy's Cavalry, approaching from the left, and you become nervously alive to the danger that awaits the valiant band of heroes, who are only now made sensible of the necessity of retiring to collect and rally their scattered numbers. Seeing no Support ready to receive them, and becoming aware of the near approach of hostile Cavalry, they make a last and desperate effort. Those who are best mounted, and whose horses are least blown, succeed in regaining the Allied position unmolested; but a very considerable number are overtaken by the Lancers, with whom they now contend under a fearful disadvantage in point of speed and order.
But mark! a rescue is at hand—a gallant line of friendly Cavalry throws itself against the Right Flank of the Lancers, the further portion, or Left, of that Line first dashing through and scattering an unsteady mass of Infantry, the sole remaining Column out of the entire attacking force that has yet kept together. The tide of destruction now sets in strongly against the Lancers. Their pursuit is checked. The Heavy Dragoons are relieved from the pressure. A mêlée ensues; but you are not kept long in suspense; for in another moment this newly arrived force, making good its way, succeeds in driving the Lancers in confusion down to the foot of the valley. The arena in your front is speedily cleared of both friends and foes—the discharge of rockets, which now attracts your attention, appears like a display of fireworks in celebration of the glorious triumph—the affair has terminated.
But stay to witness the concluding part of the scene. Observe the splendidly attired group entering upon the right, just above La Haye Sainte. It is headed by one whom you cannot for a moment mistake—the illustrious Wellington. Lord Uxbridge, returning from his brilliant charge, now joins the Duke, while the whole Corps Diplomatique et Militaire express in the strongest terms their admiration of the grand military spectacle of which they have been spectators. Among them are representatives of nearly all the continental nations, so that this glorious triumph of your valiant countrymen may be said to have been achieved in the face of congregated Europe. Honour, imperishable honour, to every British soldier engaged in that never to be forgotten fight! When Britain again puts forth her strength in battle, may her Sovereign's Guards inherit the same heroic spirit which animated those of George, Prince Regent, and inspire them with the desire to maintain in all their pristine purity and freshness the laurels transmitted to them from the Field of Waterloo; and when the soldiers of the three United Kingdoms shall again be found fighting side by side against the common Enemy, may they prove to the world that they have not degenerated from the men of the "Union Brigade,"[11] who by their heroic deeds on that great day, so faithfully represented the military virtues of the British Empire!
Anglesey
FOOTNOTES:
[10] The Dutch-Belgians having been posted in Line on the exterior slope, where, from the circumstance of their having been the only Troops of the Anglo-Allied Left Wing so distinctly visible to the Enemy, they became exposed in an especial manner to the destructive effects of the formidable array of French Batteries, which continued playing over the heads of the attacking columns. The losses of Bylandt's Brigade on the 16th had already thinned, and in a measure disorganised, its ranks; but those which it suffered on this occasion were terrific, and the numerous gaps that so rapidly presented themselves along the Line, as well as the number of superior Officers that were observed to fall, could scarcely fail to produce a prejudicial effect among these raw troops. Their confidence in their own power of resistance had also been very considerably shaken, by the circumstance of their having been deployed in a two-deep Line; instead of having been allowed to assume the three-deep formation to which they had previously been accustomed. In this affair, Perponcher had two horses shot under him. Bylandt was wounded, as were also Colonel Van Zuylen van Nyefelt, Lieutenant Colonel Westenberg who commanded the 5th Battalion of Dutch Militia, and several other Officers.
Had the British soldiers been fully aware of all these circumstances, their feelings would assuredly not have been so greatly roused against the Dutch-Belgians as they were on this particular occasion. But they had neither time nor opportunity for reflection. They only saw the hurried and confused retreat; and this, at such a moment, would have equally exasperated them, had the troops so retiring been British.
That Picton, who could perceive all that was passing along the exterior slope, should have given vent to his irritation in the remark he made to Captain Tyler, is more surprising; but it must be borne in mind, that his habitual reliance upon his own British infantry, with which he felt that he could attempt anything, usually led him to make but little allowance for the failure or discomfiture of troops in general under almost any circumstances.
[11] Sir William Ponsonby's Brigade was thus designated from the circumstance of its having consisted of an English Regiment, the Royals; a Scotch Regiment, the Greys; and an Irish Regiment, the Inniskillings.