Brief Summary of Events for Four Years preceding the Battle of
Waterloo--Author’s Narrative resumed at that Period--Preparation
of Troops for the Battle--Skirmishing preceding its Commencement
--Reception of the News at Brussels--Departure of the English for
the Field of Battle--Disposition of the Forces--Attack upon
Hougomont--Progress of the Battle--Arrival of the Prussian
Reinforcements--Charge of the Old Guard--Flight of the French.
These four years thus spent to me were days of quiet, unmarked by
aught that would interest my readers; but four years more eventful,
more fraught with heavy consequences of good or ill to Europe, have
seldom--perhaps never--been numbered in her eventful history. The
victorious banners of France were waving on every battle-field on the
continent. Wagram and Jena, Austerlitz and Friedland, echoed back
the glory of the conqueror’s name; and kings and emperors, in whose
veins flowed the blood of the Cæsars, had esteemed it an honor to
claim alliance with the plebeian child of Corsica. But the Russian
bear and the English lion had not yet yielded to his claims; and,
gathering his vast and victorious armies, he led them to face a
sterner enemy and a more subtle foe than they had ever yet contested.
Half a million of men, firm and confident in their own resources,
had crossed the Niemen under Bonaparte’s approving eye. A few months
later, and the remnant of that scattered army, in rags, wan and
ghastly, staggered, like a band of spectres, over that same river.
No human might had struck them down; but the ice of winter and the
deep snows of the north, which the fur-clad Russian glories in, had
been the signal of death to the light-hearted child of vine-clad
France. He who had left France at the head of such glorious armies
had returned to his capital alone with his own brave heart and iron
courage, to find there that the arms and gold of the allies had done
their work.
From Spain, the French had retreated step by step. Ferdinand,
soiled, even in his youth, with flagrant crimes, had returned amid
rejoicings and banquets to his capital, to sink still deeper in
shame and contempt the Bourbon name, and to reward with dungeons
and tears and blood the brave hearts that had struggled so long and
nobly for his kingdom. Joseph had fled before him on foot, scarcely
escaping with his life from that kingdom, which might, indeed, have
taken a glorious place among the nations, had he had the courage or
ability to carry out, in the spirit that dictated them, the great
and far-seeing plans of his brother. On every side the nations
turned their arms against the falling emperor, until, at length, he
who had disposed in his palace of the thrones of Europe had only
left one small island, which must have seemed to him but a child’s
bauble, in view of the past. He _would_ not rest here, and the
events of the hundred days had roused again the world to arms. The
prestige of his name had won back the allegiance of the French, and
thousands had, as in days of yore, collected around his standard. The
battle which should decide the fate of Europe drew on. France stood
alone, on the one side, with her veteran troops, and her memories
of glorious victories, and, more than all, her emperor; and on the
other were the united forces of England and the continent. Napoleon
was confident of victory. On the 14th of June, in his own resistless
eloquence, he thus addressed his army, the last he was ever destined
to command:--“Soldiers, this day is the anniversary of Marengo and
Friedland, which twice decided the destiny of Europe. Then, as after
the battle of Austerlitz, as after the battle of Wagram, we were too
generous. We believed in the oaths and protestations of princes, whom
we left on their thrones. Now, however, leagued together, they aim
at the independence and the most sacred rights of France. They have
committed the most unjust aggressions. Let us, then, march and meet
them. Are not we and they still the same men? Soldiers, at Jena,
against these same Prussians, now so arrogant, you were one to three;
and at Montmirail, one to six. Let those among you who have been
captives to the English describe the nature of their prison-ships,
and the horrible sufferings they endured. The Saxons, the Belgians,
the Hanoverians, the soldiers of the Confederation of the Rhine,
lament that they are obliged to use their arms in the cause of
princes who are the enemies of justice and the rights of all
nations. They know that this coalition is insatiable. After having
devoured twelve millions of Poles, twelve millions of Italians, one
million of Saxons, and six millions of Belgians, it now wishes to
devour the states of the second rank in Germany.
“Madmen! a moment of prosperity has bewildered them! The oppression
and humiliation of the French people are beyond their reach; if they
enter France, they will find their tomb there! Soldiers, we have
forced marches to make, battles to fight, and dangers to encounter;
but, if we are firm, victory will be ours. The rights, the honor, the
happiness of the country, will be recovered. To every Frenchman who
has a heart, the moment is now arrived when he should either conquer
or die.”
The plan which Napoleon had laid down was, by a rapid advance,
to force his way between the armies of Wellington and Blucher
combined,--to attack one with the mass of his forces, while he
detached troops to keep the other in check. Let us now turn our
attention to the allies.
They had combined their whole strength at and near Brussels. The army
of Blucher, at this time, numbered about one hundred thousand men.
These occupied Charleroi, Namur, Givet and Liege. The headquarters
of the Anglo-Belgian army, under Wellington, were at Brussels. This
army numbered seventy-six thousand men; but thirty-five thousand
of these, however, were English, the flower of the Peninsular army
having been sent to America. The remainder were Hanoverians, Dutch
and Belgians. The right of the Prussian army communicated with the
left of the English; their commanders having so arranged their
troops, that wherever the attack of the French should be made, they
might support each other. They could not doubt that Napoleon’s mark
was Brussels, but as yet it had been impossible for them to learn
by which of the four great routes he intended to force his passage.
Several prisoners had been taken, but these either could not or
would not communicate the intelligence our commander was so desirous
to obtain. On the morning of the 15th, however, the movements of
the French unfolded their designs. Their second corps crossed the
Sambre, and drove in Zeither’s out-posts, who fell back on Fleurus
to concentrate with the Prussian corps. They were hastily followed
by the French army. The emperor’s purpose was then to crush Blucher,
before he could concentrate his own forces, much less be assisted by
the troops under Wellington. Immediately Zeither, who had the command
at Charleroi, sent out despatches to all the commanders of Blucher’s
army, summoning them to his aid. Then gallantly marshalling the men
who were under his command, they held their ground bravely, though
with great loss, until, finding it impossible longer to withstand,
they fell back in good order, on a position between Ligny and Armand,
where Blucher now awaited Napoleon’s attack, at the head of his
whole army. Though the emperor’s plan of beating the Prussian army
in detail had failed, he might still prevent the conjunction of his
forces with Wellington’s. He continued his march, therefore, on the
main road to Brussels from Charleroi. At Frasnes, some Nassau troops
had been stationed. These were, however, obliged to retire before the
French, who followed them as far as Quatre Bras, or four arms,--a
farm, so called because the roads from Charleroi to Brussels, and
from Namur to Nivelles, here cross each other. Here the French halted
for the night.
Lord Wellington, as I have said, held his head-quarters at Brussels.
Not a rumor of Napoleon’s onward movement had, as yet, reached him.
That gay city presented many attractions to our gallant officers, and
festivals and parties had followed each other in quick succession.
On that very night the Duchess of Richmond gave a splendid ball, and
it was as gayly attended by the British officers as if the French
had been on the Seine, instead of the Sambre. Wellington himself
was there. Sir Thomas Picton, too, our own brave commander in the
Peninsular campaign, who had but that day arrived from England, also
met his brother officers in this festal scene. The festivities were
at their height, when an officer in splashed and spattered uniform
presented himself at the door, and asking for the duke, communicated
to him the startling intelligence. For some moments the iron duke
remained in deep reflection, his countenance showing a resolution
already taken. Then, in a low and steady voice, he gave a few
directions to a staff-officer, and again mingled in the festivities
of the hour. But, before the ball was ended, the strains of courtly
music were drowned in the louder notes of preparation. The drum had
beat to arms, and the bugle summoned the assembly, while the Highland
bagpipe added its wild and martial call to the field. All were soon
prepared and under arms, and the fifth division filed from the park
with the Brunswick corps, and directed their course to the forest of
Soignes.
Three o’clock pealed from the steeple-bells. All was now quiet; the
brigades, with their artillery and equipage, were gone, the crash of
music was heard no longer, the bustle of preparation had ceased, and
an ominous and heart-sinking silence succeeded the noise and hurry
ever attendant on a departure for the field of battle.
These incidents have been so beautifully described by Byron, that we
cannot resist the temptation to quote the passage:
“There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium’s capital had gathered then,
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell.
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell.
“Did you not hear it? No! ’twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined!
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet,
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet!
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,--
As if the clouds its echo would repeat,--
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before.
Arm! arm! it is, it is the cannon’s opening roar!
“Ah! then, and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness.
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs,
Which ne’er might be repeated;--who could guess
If evermore should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!”
By two o’clock the Duke of Wellington had left Brussels, and
before light he reached Bry, at which place Blucher was stopping,
and there the plan of the day was agreed upon. Napoleon resolved,
with his own troops, to attack the Prussian army, because that had
concentrated all its strength, while forty-five thousand men, under
Ney, were to give battle to the English. At early dawn, on the
16th, hostilities were renewed. The morning, however, was occupied
in slight skirmishes, in which the soldiers in both armies showed
their bravery. The main contest between the English and the French
commenced about three in the afternoon. The French were drawn up
among growing corn, so high as nearly to conceal them from sight. The
seventy-ninth and forty-second regiments were thus taken by surprise,
and nearly destroyed. Out of eight hundred men, but ninety-six
privates and four officers escaped. At night the English general
had possession of Quatre Bras. The number of killed and wounded on
the side of the allies was five thousand. Blucher fought as stern
a battle, but with less success. He had eighty thousand men, while
Napoleon was opposed to him with ninety thousand. The French and
Prussians felt for each other a mortal hatred, and little quarter was
either asked or given. When the night of the 16th closed around them,
thirty-five thousand men were left on the field of battle,--twenty
thousand of the Prussians, and fifteen thousand French. Blucher had
been forced to retire in the direction of Wavre, and so skilfully
were his movements made that it was noon on the 17th before Napoleon
discovered his retreat. As soon as Wellington learned that Blucher
had retreated, he gave orders to fall back from Quatre Bras to the
field of Waterloo. A heavy rain had fallen all day, and made the
roads almost impassable with mud. The English soldiers were wearied
with their day’s labor, and discouraged by the command to retreat;
but their spirits revived when, on reaching their bivouac for the
night, they were informed that the battle should be given on the
next day. We found little comfort, however, in our night’s position;
for, as the darkness closed in, the rain fell in torrents, and was
accompanied by heavy thunder.
The soldiers themselves, although no temptation would have been
strong enough to have induced them to turn away from the morrow’s
battle, still could not but feel the solemnity of the hour.
Thousands of those who had bivouacked with them the preceding night,
in health and spirits, were now cold and lifeless on the field of
battle. The morrow’s action could not be less severe, and in such an
hour it was not in human nature to be entirely unmindful of home and
friends, whom it was more than probable we should never see again.
For my own part, my thoughts reverted to my dear parents, and I could
not but remember that, had I not disregarded their wishes, I should
now have been in safety with them. My disobedience appeared to me in
a very different light from what it had formerly done; but I resolved
to conceal my feelings from every one. I was just endeavoring to
compose myself to sleep, when my comrade spoke to me, saying that
it was deeply impressed on his mind that he should not survive the
morrow; and that he wished to make an arrangement with me, that if he
should die and I should survive, I should inform his friends of the
circumstances of his death, and that he would do the same for me, in
case he should be the survivor. We then exchanged the last letters we
had received from home, so that each should have the address of the
other’s parents. I endeavored to conceal my own feelings, and cheer
his, by reminding him that it was far better to die on the field of
glory than from fear; but he turned away from me, and, with a burst
of tears, that spoke the deep feelings of his heart, he said, “_My
mother!_” The familiar sound of this precious name, and the sight
of his sorrow, completely overcame my attempts at concealment, and
we wept together. Perhaps I may as well mention here, that we had
not been in the action twenty-five minutes when he was shot down
by my side. After my return to England, I visited his parents, and
informed them of the circumstances of his death; and I can assure
my readers that it was a painful task. We were not alone in our sad
feelings. The fierce contest of the elements, the discomforts of our
position, and the deep gloom which covered every object, all served
to deepen in every heart those feelings which, I venture to say, even
the bravest will experience in the stillness and silence of a night
preceding a battle.
With the early dawn of morning all the troops were in motion.
Wellington was to commence the action, while Blucher, with all his
army, with the exception of a single corps left to contend with
Marshal Grouchy, marched to support him.
Our troops were drawn up before the village of Mont St. Jean, about
a mile and a half from the small town of Waterloo, on a rising
ground, which descended, by a gentle declivity, to a plain a mile in
breadth, beyond which rose the opposite heights of La Belle Alliance.
The first line was composed of those troops on whose discipline and
spirit the duke could most rely. These were the British, three corps
of Hanoverians and Belgians, and the men of Brunswick and Nassau. The
second line consisted of those whose courage and bravery were more
doubtful, and those regiments that had suffered most severely the
preceding day. Behind both of these lay the horse. Four roads crossed
each other in this position, affording great facilities for the
movements of the armies. It included, also, the chateau and houses
of Hougomont, and the farm-house and enclosures of La Haye Sainte,
which were very strongly occupied, and formed important outworks of
defence. The whole front of the British army extended, in all, about
a mile.
The army of the French, meanwhile, had been marching all night, and
many of them did not reach the heights of La Belle Alliance until
late on the morning of the 18th. Napoleon had feared that the English
would continue their retreat to Brussels. It was, therefore, with
much pleasure that he saw them drawn up on the opposite heights. “At
last, then,” said he, “at last I have these English in my grasp.”
Eighty thousand French soldiers were seen moving, in close massive
columns, on the crest of the height, as they took up their several
positions for the day. When all was arranged, Bonaparte rode along
the lines, reviewing his troops; and when he had finished, and
turned to ride away, a loud shout of “Vive l’Empereur” rolled after
him, which shook the field on which they stood. He then ascended
an observatory, a little in the rear, where he could overlook both
lines, and from this point directed the battle. It was an eventful
hour in the history of this great man; and he felt, as did also his
troops, how much depended on the issue of the day. Victory alone
would give the courage necessary to send out reinforcements from a
country where scarcely any were left but old men and youth. Defeat
would be decisive of the emperor’s fate. These thoughts nerved the
hearts of the French, and they fought with unexampled impetuosity.
About ten o’clock the action was commenced, by an attack upon the
gardens and wood of Hougomont. They were particularly anxious to gain
this post, as it commanded a large part of the British position.
It was furiously and incessantly assailed by the French, and as
gallantly defended by the English, under General Byng. The French
pushed up to the very walls of the chateau, and thrust their bayonets
through the door; but the Coldstream Guards held the court-yard with
invincible obstinacy, and the enemy were at length compelled to
retire, leaving fourteen hundred men in a little orchard, beside the
walls, where it does not seem so many could be laid. Every tree in
the wood was pierced with balls, their branches broken and destroyed,
and the chateau itself set on fire by the shells. Travellers inform
us that the strokes which proved so fatal to human life have not
affected the trees; for, though the holes still remain, their verdure
is as beautiful as ever. Beneath those trees, and in the forsaken
garden, flowers continue to bloom. The rose-trees and the vines,
crushed and torn in the struggle, have flowered in new beauty, and
offer a strong contrast to the piles of bones, broken swords, and
shattered helmets, that lay scattered among them.
When Napoleon saw that he had failed in taking Hougomont, he
strengthened his attack upon the main lines. Most of the British had
been drawn up in squares, not quite solid, but several files deep,
and arranged like the squares on a chess-board; so that, if any of
the enemy’s cavalry should push between the divisions, they could
be attacked in the rear, as well as in front. When, therefore, the
French artillery opened upon them, and whole ranks were mowed down,
the chasms were instantly filled, and not a foot of ground lost. But
such was the impetuosity of the French onset, that the light troops,
drawn up in front of these squares, were driven in, and the cavalry,
which should have supported them, fled on every side. The Brunswick
infantry now opened their fire upon the French cavalry, with a
coolness and intrepidity that made dreadful gaps in their squadrons,
and strewed the ground with men and horses that were advancing to
the charge. But the courage of the French did not desert them. Their
artillery played, at the distance of one hundred and fifty yards, on
the British squares, with dreadful execution. Their object was to
push back the right wing of the British, and establish themselves
on the Nivelles road. But the courage of their opponents rendered
these efforts unavailing; and the struggle here at length subsided,
to rage with greater fury in other parts of the field. A strong body
of French infantry advanced, without firing a shot, to the position
occupied by Sir Thomas Picton and Kempt. They had gained the heights,
when Sir Thomas, forming his division into a solid square, advanced
to the charge with such effect, that, after firing one volley, the
French retreated. That volley, however, proved fatal to our brave
commander. A musket ball struck him in the temple, and he expired
without a struggle. After his fall, it was ascertained that he had
been wounded on the 16th, but had carefully concealed it from every
one but his servant. His wound, for want of surgical assistance, had
assumed a very serious aspect.
Again the French pressed on, and, attacking the Highland division,
drove them back in great disorder. But the brigade of heavy cavalry
now came to their assistance, and again the assailants fell back. A
column, two thousand strong, bore down upon the 92d regiment, which
immediately formed itself into a line, and, charging on the foe,
broke their centre. The French were now reinforced by their cavalry,
and the British by the brigade of heavy dragoons. A contest then
ensued which has hardly a parallel in modern warfare. The determined
valor of the British, however, conquered, and the French retired
behind their infantry. It was at this time that Sir William Ponsonby
was killed. He led his brigade against the Polish lancers, and took
two hundred prisoners; but, riding on in advance of his troops, he
entered a newly-ploughed field, when his horse stuck in the mire,
and he found it impossible to proceed. At this instant, a body of
lancers rode up. Sir William saw that his fate was inevitable. He
took out his watch and a picture, and desired some one near to send
them to his wife. A moment after, he fell, pierced with seven lance
wounds.
At the farm of La Haye Sainte, the French succeeded in cutting off
the communication of the German troops stationed there, and put them
all to the bayonet. Here they maintained their position, until the
final attack in the evening. The combat now raged with unabated fury.
Every inch of ground was disputed on both sides, and neither gave way
until every means of resistance was exhausted. The field of battle
was heaped with the dead; and yet the attack grew more impetuous, and
the resistance more obstinate. The continued reverberations of more
than six hundred pieces of artillery, the fire of the light troops,
the frequent explosions of caissons blown up by shells, the hissing
of balls, the clash of arms, the roar of the charges, and the shouts
of the soldiery, produced a commingling of sounds whose effect it
would be impossible to describe. Still, the contest raged on. After
the advantage gained at La Haye Sainte, Napoleon threw the masses
of both infantry and cavalry upon the British centre, which was now
exposed. The first battalions gave way under their impetuous attack,
and the French cavalry rushed on to carry the guns on the plains. An
English ambuscade ran to receive them. The slaughter was horrible.
Neither party yielded a step. Three times the French were on the
point of forcing their position, and three times they were driven
back. They cut to pieces the battalions of the English, who were slow
or unskilful in their movements, but could make no impression on the
squares. In vain were their repeated attacks. They were repulsed,
with the most sanguinary fury.
Napoleon now advanced the whole centre of his infantry, to assist
the cavalry. They pressed on with an enthusiasm that overpowered all
resistance, and, for the moment, carried all before them. It was at
this critical period that our noble commander showed himself worthy
of a nation’s honor. Everywhere in the thickest of the fight, he was
seen cheering by his presence those who were almost ready to fail. He
seemed to bear a charmed life. Balls flew thick and fast around him,
and his staff-officers fell on every side; yet he moved on unharmed.
His unwearied exertions were at length successful in arresting the
progress of the French, and in wresting from them the advantages they
had gained. Again the attack on the chateau of Hougomont was renewed.
The cuirassiers poured the strength of their charge upon the 30th
regiment, who received them in a square, and immediately deployed
into a line, that the effect of their fire might be more fatal, while
the instant re-formation of the square protected them, in a degree,
from the next charge of the enemy. Leaving, at length, the 30th
regiment, they rushed on to the 69th, and succeeded in reaching them
before their square was formed which enabled them to commit dreadful
slaughter. Before the British cavalry could rush to their relief,
only a few brave soldiers remained to effect their escape. Then,
retiring to their former position, the fire from three hundred pieces
of artillery was poured upon the whole line of the allies. The effect
of this fire was very destructive. One general officer reported to
Wellington that his brigade was reduced to one-third of its original
numbers, and that a temporary cessation was necessary to the very
existence of his troops. “What you propose,” was the answer of the
duke, “is impossible. You, I, and every Englishman on the field, must
die in the spot we now occupy.” “It is enough,” replied the general;
“I, and every man under my command, are determined to share your
fate.”
Numerous were the instances on each side, among both officers
and men, of self-sacrifice to save their fellow-soldiers. But,
notwithstanding the gallant defence of the British, their situation
now became critical in the extreme. The first line of their troops
had suffered severely, and those brought up to assist them could not
always be relied on. One Belgian regiment, which the duke himself was
leading to the contest, fled from the first fire, and left the duke
to seek for more devoted followers. Another, being ordered to support
a charge, was so long in doing it, that the duke sent word to their
commander, either to advance immediately, or to draw off his men
altogether. He thanked his Grace for the permission, and started for
Brussels, alarming the town with a report that the French were at his
heels.
The Duke of Wellington felt and expressed the greatest anxiety.
He exerted himself to the utmost to cheer his men; but, as he saw
how fatal were the French charges, he said to one of the officers
near him, “O that night, or Blucher, would come!” Napoleon saw, at
last, as he imagined, that the contest was nearly won. Already were
couriers sent off to Paris to announce to its anxious multitudes that
victory had crowned his efforts. Already had the shouts of victory!
victory! passed from rank to rank among the French, as they saw the
lines of the English tremble and fall back. But now a sound was heard
which stilled, for a moment, even the fierce tumult of the battle. It
was the voice of the trumpet, announcing the arrival of fresh troops;
and the most intense anxiety pervaded every heart, to learn to what
army they belonged. Both parties felt that the answer must decide
the fate of the day. Marshal Grouchy had been stationed, with thirty
thousand men, to control the movements of the Prussian army; and, in
case of a severe engagement, he was to advance with his men to assist
Napoleon. At daybreak, an aide-de-camp was sent, commanding him to
be in readiness at a moment’s warning. Soon after, another followed,
requesting him to march immediately to the scene of action. At ten
o’clock, he had not moved from his encampment. Still, Napoleon’s
confidence in him was unshaken. “He has committed a horrible fault,”
said he; “but he will repair it.” Every hour he had expected his
arrival; and now, when the first files of the new army emerged from
the wood, he felt almost certain that his hopes were realized. But
the Prussian standard was unfurled, and the English, with loud cheers
and renewed courage, returned to the charge. Even then, Napoleon
persisted in believing that the Prussian army was only retreating
before the marshal, and that he would soon appear on the field. He
was mistaken.
Grouchy, if report may be believed, corrupted by British gold,
remained in inglorious safety in his camp. He himself always
maintained that he believed the small detachment of the Prussian
army which remained near him was the whole of their force; and that,
though the very ground under him was shaken by the reverberation of
the continued discharges of artillery, he was acting up to his orders
in remaining to check the Prussians. Be this as it may, his conduct
decided the fate of the day.[2] “The destiny of Europe hung on the
feeble intellect of a single man; and his sluggish arm, in its tardy
movements, swept crowns and thrones before it, overturned one of the
mightiest spirits the world ever nurtured, and set back the day of
Europe’s final emancipation half a century. In a moment, Napoleon
saw that he could not sustain the attack of so many fresh troops,
if once allowed to form a junction with the allied forces; and so he
determined to stake his fate on one bold cast, and endeavor to pierce
the allied centre, with a grand charge of the Old Guard, and thus,
throwing himself between the two armies, fight them separately. For
this purpose, the Imperial Guard was called up, which had remained
inactive during the whole day, and divided into two immense columns,
which were to meet at the British centre. That under Reille no
sooner entered the fire than it disappeared like mist. The other
was placed under Ney,--the bravest of the brave,--and the order to
advance given. Napoleon accompanied them part way down the slope,
and, halting for a moment in a hollow, addressed them in his furious,
impetuous manner. He told them that the battle rested with them, and
he relied on their valor. ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ answered him, with a
shout that was heard all over the field of battle.
“The whole continental struggle exhibited no sublimer spectacle than
this last effort of Napoleon to save his sinking empire. Europe had
been put upon the plains of Waterloo to be battled for. The greatest
military energy and skill the world possessed had been tasked to the
utmost during the day. Thrones were tottering on the ensanguined
field, and the shadows of fugitive kings flitted through the smoke of
battle. Bonaparte’s star trembled in the zenith,--now blazing out in
its ancient splendor,--now suddenly paling before his anxious eye.
At length, when the Prussians appeared on the field, he resolved to
stake Europe on one bold throw. He saw his empire rest on a single
charge. The intense anxiety with which he watched the advance of
that column, and the terrible suspense he suffered when the smoke
of battle wrapped it from his sight, and the utter despair of his
great heart when the curtain lifted over a fugitive army, and the
despairing shriek rung on every side, ‘La garde recule,--la garde
recule,’ make us for a single moment forget all the carnage, in
sympathy with his distress.
“Nothing could be more imposing than the movement of that grand
column to the assault. That guard had never yet recoiled before
a human foe, and the allied forces beheld with awe its firm and
terrible advance to the final charge. For a moment the batteries
stopped playing, and the firing ceased along the British lines,
as, without the beating of a drum or the blast of a bugle to cheer
their steady courage, they moved in dead silence over the plain.
The next moment the artillery opened, and the head of that gallant
column seemed to sink into the earth. Rank after rank went down, yet
they neither stopped nor faltered. Dissolving squadrons and whole
battalions disappearing, one after another, in the destructive fire,
affected not their steady courage. The ranks closed up as before,
and each treading over his fallen comrade, pressed firmly on. The
horse which the gallant Ney rode fell under him; and he had scarcely
mounted another, before it also sunk to the earth. Again and again
did that unflinching man feel his steed sink down, until five had
been shot under him. Then, with his uniform riddled with bullets,
and his face singed and blackened with powder, he marched on foot,
with drawn sabre in hand, at the head of his men. In vain did the
artillery hurl its storm of fire and lead into that living mass. Up
to the very muzzles they pressed, and, driving the artillery-men
from their own pieces, pushed on through the English lines. But, at
that moment, a file of soldiers, who had lain flat upon the ground
behind a low ridge of earth, suddenly arose and poured a volley in
their very faces. Another and another followed, till one broad sheet
of flame rolled on their bosoms, and in such a fierce and unexpected
flow that human courage could not withstand it. They reeled, shook,
staggered back, then turned and fled. Ney was borne back in the
refluent tide, and hurried over the field. But for the crowd of
fugitives that forced him on, he would have stood alone, and fallen
on his footsteps. As it was, disdaining to give way, though the whole
army was flying, that noble marshal formed his men into two immense
squares, and endeavored to stem the terrific current; and would have
done so, had it not been for the thirty thousand fresh Prussians that
pressed upon his exhausted ranks. For a long time, those squares,
under the unflinching Ney, stood, and let the artillery plough
through them. But the fate of Napoleon was writ, and though Ney
doubtless did what no other man in the army could have done, the
decree could not be reversed. The star that blazed so brightly over
the world went down with honor and in blood, and the ‘bravest of the
brave’ had fought his last battle. It was worthy of his great name;
and the charge of the Old Guard at Waterloo, with him at their head,
will be pointed to by remotest generations with a shudder.”
Soon after Sir Robert Picton had received his death wound, while
our shattered regiment was charging on the French column, a bullet
pierced my left arm, the first wound I ever received in all my
engagements,--the mark of which is now plainly visible,--which
obliged me to fall back. I bled very freely; and this weakened me so
much, that, finding it impossible to continue my retreat over the
pile of dead and wounded with which the field was covered, I fell
among them. Here I lay for a few moments, endeavoring to recover my
exhausted strength. But here my situation was as dangerous as that of
those advancing to the charge. Balls were flying in every direction
around me, sometimes striking in the earth, soaked with the recent
rains, and throwing it in every direction; but oftener falling on the
wounded, who might yet have had a chance for life, and crushing them
in a yet more terrible death. Many a poor fellow, who had fallen from
wounds, and the weakness induced by exertion, with the loss of blood,
was trampled to death by the advancing cavalry. It was this, combined
with an earnest desire to see the progress of the battle, that
induced me to endeavor to change my location. I rose, and with great
difficulty proceeded but a few steps, when a second ball entered my
thigh, which again brought me to the ground. Scarcely had I fallen
the second time, when a company of Scotch Greys made a charge upon
the French troops, not ten rods from where I lay. I then gave up all
hope of ever leaving that battle-field, and expected never to rise
again. Already, in imagination, I felt “the iron heel of the horse”
trampling out my little remnant of life. The contest raged fearfully
around us. Shots were exchanged thick and fast, and every moment but
heightened the horrors of the scene. The blood flowed rapidly from my
wounds, and my doom seemed inevitable. An old tattered handkerchief
was all that I could procure to stop the rapidly exhausting
hemorrhage. With my remaining hand and teeth I succeeded in tearing
this into strips, and stuffed it into my wounds with my fingers as
best I could. This arrested the crimson tide in some degree. I knew
not how severe my wounds might be; but, even if a chance of life
remained from them, I knew full well that I was exposed every moment
to share the fate of those who lay around me. Friends and enemies
fell on every side, and mingled their groans and blood in one common
stream. Our lines were driven back, and our brave men compelled to
yield the contest. Rivers of blood were poured out, and regiments of
brave men were cut down in rapid succession. Nothing could exceed
the bravery of the combatants on both sides. But the French light
troops had this advantage of the English,--they could load and fire
more rapidly than their enemies. The duke was compelled to see his
plans frustrated, and his lines cut to pieces and driven back by the
emperor’s troops. Victory seemed already decided against us. Our men
were fleeing--the enemy advancing with shouts of victory. The fate
of the day seemed settled, and to us soldiers it was so. It was not
possible to rally the men to another charge. But, at the moment when
all seemed lost, a bugle, with drum and fife, was heard advancing
with rapid step. All supposed it to be Grouchy’s regiment of fresh
troops, ready to follow up the victory, and completely destroy the
remnant of the duke’s forces. Consternation now filled every mind,
and confusion and disorder reigned. But the Prussian colors were seen
hoisted, and it was then announced that Blucher, with thirty thousand
men, was at hand. A halt, or rally, and renewed hopes animated every
breast. This was the lucky moment, and the fate of the day was at
once changed. Report charges Grouchy with being corrupted and bought
by English gold,--that he sold himself to the allied forces, and thus
gave them the victory,--for, had he come at that time, we should
have been completely destroyed. Grouchy never entered the fight, or
rendered Napoleon any assistance whatever. He was made immensely
rich, and spent his life in the English possessions. He has ever
been regarded as the man who sold his country and himself to the
allies. His life was neither peaceful or happy. He died in 1848. That
Wellington never gained the victory at Waterloo by fair and honorable
means, is not and cannot be asserted. But gold accomplished what
neither the iron duke or his numerous allies could accomplish by
military prowess and skill. Napoleon would have gained the victory of
Waterloo, had not treachery and bribery done their work. I must own
the truth, although it be the lasting disgrace of my nation. I fought
hard against Napoleon, and for my king. My hands were both blistered
and burned black by holding my gun, which became so hot, the flesh
was nearly burnt off the palms of both my hands. While I lay upon the
ground covered with blood, unable to move, some one, more able than
the rest, shouted, “The French are retreating. Blucher, with thirty
thousand fresh troops has arrived, and is pursuing.” This glad sound
enabled me to raise my head, and soon, with great joy, I saw that the
French were truly falling back, and that our troops were following.
Again I felt that I had another chance for life; and this thought
gave me strength to reach my knapsack, from which I took a silk
handkerchief, and with my teeth and right hand succeeded in tearing
it, as I did the one before, and binding up tightly my wounds. This
stopped the flow of blood while I remained perfectly still; but the
least movement caused it to gush forth afresh. A little distance
from me was a small hill, and under its shelter I should be in
comparative safety. O, how I longed to reach it! Again and again I
attempted to rise; but every attempt was useless, and I was about
resigning myself to my fate, when I observed, only a short distance
from me, a woman with a child in her arms. This woman belonged to the
company of camp-followers, who were even now engaged in stripping the
dead and wounded, with such eager haste, that they often advanced too
near the contending columns, and paid with their lives their thirst
for gold. In my travels it has often been my lot to witness the birds
of prey hovering over the still living victim, only waiting till its
power of resistance is lost, to bury their beaks in the writhing and
quivering flesh, to satisfy their thirst for blood. I could think of
nothing else, as I saw those wretches, reckless of their own lives,
in their anxiety to be first on the ground, and lost to all feelings
of humanity for others, stripping from the yet warm dead everything
of value upon their persons; not hesitating to punish with death even
the least resistance on the part of the wounded, and making sport
of their groans and sufferings. This woman came quite near to me.
She stooped to take a gold watch from the pocket of an officer. As
she raised herself, a shell struck the child, as it lay sleeping in
her arms, and severed its little body completely in two. The shock
struck the mother to the ground; but, soon recovering herself, she
sat up, gazed a moment upon the disfigured remains of her child,
and, apparently unmoved, continued her fiendish work. Thus does
war destroy all the finer feelings of the heart, and cherish those
passions which quench even the pure flame of a mother’s love for her
helpless and dependent child. To this woman I appealed for help; and,
with her assistance, succeeded in reaching the little hill to which I
have alluded, and remained there in safety until the fate of the day
was fully decided.
Between eight and nine o’clock that night the last of the French
troops had withdrawn from the field, which had been fatal to so many
thousands of human beings. The clouds and rain, which had rendered
the preceding night so uncomfortable, had disappeared, and the full
moon shone in unclouded splendor. The English army, or, at least,
that remnant of them left alive, wearied out by the exhausting scenes
of the day, had returned to their bivouac of the night preceding,
while the Prussians, under Blucher, continued the pursuit of the
flying and panic-stricken French.
History informs us that the horrors of that night exceeded even
the tremendous scenes of the day. The French were in complete
confusion. Carriages and horsemen marched over the fainting and
exhausted infantry. The officers tried in vain to rally their men,
that they might retreat in order. The first flash of a Prussian gun
would scatter them, in the wildest confusion. Thousands fell in
the confusion of the retreat, and thousands more were crushed to
death, or drowned in crossing the rivers. Napoleon himself but just
escaped with his liberty. His carriage was stopped, his postilion and
coachman killed, and the door of his coach torn open just in season
to witness his escape from the other side. While Blucher led on the
Prussians in this murderous pursuit, the Duke of Wellington again
led his army upon the field of battle. The wild tumult and confusion
which had pervaded it through the day was now stilled, but the groans
of the wounded and the shrieks of the dying were heard on every side.
The English re-trod the battle-field, and searched out their wounded
comrades, and hastily dressed their wounds. They then constructed
litters, and on these carriages were the sick and wounded borne to
the hospitals of Brussels and Antwerp.
I have somewhere read a description, written by an eye-witness of
the scenes of the night and following day, which I will beg leave of
my readers to transcribe here. He says: “The mangled and lifeless
bodies were, even then, stripped of every covering--everything of the
smallest value was already carried off. The road between Waterloo
and Brussels, which passes for nine miles through the forest of
Soigny, was choked up with scattered baggage, broken wagons and dead
horses. The heavy rains and the great passage upon it rendered it
almost impassable, so that it was with extreme difficulty that the
carriages containing the wounded could be brought along. The way was
lined with unfortunate men, who had crept from the field; and many
were unable to go further, and laid down and died. Holes dug by the
wayside served as their graves, and the road for weeks afterwards was
strewed with the tattered remains of their clothes and accoutrements.
In every village and hamlet,--in every part of the country for thirty
miles round,--the wounded were found wandering, the Belgian and
Dutch stragglers exerting themselves to the utmost to reach their
own homes. So great was the number of those needing care, that,
notwithstanding the most active exertions, the last were not removed
to Brussels until the Thursday following.
“The desolation which reigned on the scene of action cannot be
described. The fields of corn were trampled down, and so completely
beaten into the mire that they had the appearance of stubble. The
ground was completely ploughed up, in many places, with the charge
of the cavalry; and the horses’ hoofs, deep stamped into the earth,
left the traces where many a dreadful struggle had been. The whole
field was strewed with the melancholy vestiges of devastation:
soldiers’ caps, pierced with many a ball,--eagles that had ornamented
them,--badges of the legion of honor,--cuirasses’ fragments,--broken
arms, belts, and scabbards, shreds of tattered cloth, shoes,
cartridge-boxes, gloves, Highland bonnets, feathers steeped in mud
and gore,--French novels and German testaments,--scattered music
belonging to the bands,--packs of cards, and innumerable papers of
every description, thrown out of the pockets of the dead, by those
who had pillaged them,--love-letters, and letters from mothers
to sons, and from children to parents;--all, all these, and a
thousand-fold more, that cannot be named, were scattered about in
every direction.”
The total loss of the allies, during the four days, was sixty-one
thousand and five hundred, and of the French forty-one thousand.
EUROPE
AND
THE ALLIES OF TO-DAY.