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JOURNAL
OF THE
WATERLOO CAMPAIGN
JOURNAL
OF THE
WATERLOO CAMPAIGN
KEPT THROUGHOUT THE CAMPAIGN OF 1815
BY THE LATE
GENERAL CAVALIÉ MERCER
COMMANDING THE 9TH BRIGADE ROYAL ARTILLERY
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. I.
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCLXX
_The Right of Translation is reserved_
PREFACE.
This work--the ‘Journal of the Campaign of 1815’--was written by my
father in its present form about forty years ago, from rough notes
jotted down every evening after the scenes and events of the day
were over. It has no pretension to be an account of the military
operations of the war, but merely a diary of the writer’s own
impressions--what he saw and felt while with the army, from the first
landing in Belgium to the final embarkation for England. Of the great
battle, no other description than that of the part taken in it by
his own troop of Horse-Artillery, or those corps in his immediate
vicinity, is given; but from its very nature as a diary, the tedium
of out-quarters, the fatigues of the march, and the hardships of the
bivouac, are made present, as it were, to the reader. My father
having been a very good amateur artist, was much struck, of course,
by new and picturesque scenes, consequently has described them _con
amore_, and in considerable detail. The author himself belonged to
a military race; all his family were either in the army or navy. He
was the second son of General Mercer of the Royal Engineers, who,
after serving on Sir H. Clinton’s staff during the American War of
Independence, was more than twenty years commanding engineer in the
West of England, where his honourable character procured him many
friends. My father (also a general officer at the time of his death)
was born in 1783, and passing as usual through the Military Academy
at Woolwich, obtained a commission in the Royal Artillery at sixteen,
and was sent to Ireland at the time of the Rebellion. In 1808 he went
to the river Plate to join Whitelock’s unfortunate expedition, and
covered the retreat from Buenos Ayres. This proved a most unhappy
affair for him; for having been in South America, he was prevented
from partaking in the glorious campaigns of the Peninsula, and only
saw foreign service again in the campaign of Waterloo. After the
peace, he was placed upon half-pay. In 1824 he was ordered to Canada,
having the brevet rank of major (I should have noticed that at
Waterloo he only held the rank of second captain, although commanding
a troop--Sir Alex. Dickson, whose troop it was, being otherwise
employed). In 1837, being then a lieutenant-colonel, he was again
sent to North America, and commanded the artillery in Nova Scotia
at the time when the Maine boundary-line threatened to terminate in
a war between this country and the United States. He subsequently
commanded the garrison at Dover, after which he retired from active
service, although, being colonel-commandant of the 9th Brigade of
Royal Artillery, he was never placed on the retired list. From that
time to the period of his death, at the advanced age of eighty-five,
he continued to reside at Cowley Cottage, near Exeter.
Another addition to the numerous books which have been published
about Waterloo will hardly seem out of place at a time when the
subject has been revived both here and in France. It would seem
that men’s interest in this great “World Battle” is as strong now
as fifty years ago; and although this little contribution will not
elucidate any of the questions that are agitated, still (as far as
memory serves) it is the first account of the campaign given to the
world by an artillery officer, and may add another stone to the cairn
raised to the glory of the British army and its immortal chief. At
any rate, the surviving veterans of this stirring epoch will rejoice
to go again over the scenes of their younger days; while the lovers
of peace will congratulate themselves on the cessation of such strife
between two noble nations, whose last (and may it continue to be the
last) hostile _rencontre_ took place upon the plain of Waterloo.
CAVALIÉ A. MERCER.
TRIPOLI, SYRIA.
CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
Preparations for Departure--Reports of Fugitives--Embarkation
and Departure--The Voyage--Off the Coast--First View of
Ostend--Aspect of the Coast--Ostend Harbour--Its Dangers--
Unceremonious Landing of Dragoon Horses, 1
CHAPTER II.
Confusion at Landing--Scene on Shore--Difficulties--Confusion
on the Beach--A Catastrophe--The Town by Night--Difficulties
of the March--Night Quarters--A Pleasant Change--Return
to Ostend--Waiting to Start--Costumes of the Natives--Scenes
in the Town--A Wreck--Fearful Scene--Impressions of Ostend, 14
CHAPTER III.
Change of Scenery--Arrival at Ghistel--Our Quarters there--Again
on the March--Arrival at Bruges--Our Hotel--First
Impressions of Bruges--Present and Past--The Stadthouse
and Cathedral--Mass in the Cathedral--The Worshippers--The
Ramparts--Dinner, 32
CHAPTER IV.
Eccloo--Arrival at Ghent--Our Quarters there--My Host--My
Quarters--Louis XVIII. and his Court--French Officers--Marshal
Marmont--French Deserters--Ghent--Street Architecture--The
Place D’Armes--Flemish Postilions--View
from the Citadel--The Corn-Market--The Hôtel de Ville--Meat
and Vegetable Markets--General Order and Cleanliness--A
Suppressed Monastery--The Cathedral--A Royal
Mass--Domestic Architecture--An Interior--Comfortable
Quarters--Numbers of Priests--Costumes--Character of the
People--Immorality--German and English Cavalry, 46
CHAPTER V.
Again on the March--The Pays de Waes--Lokeren--A Village
Curé--Dendermonde--My Quarters at St Gille--View from
my Windows--Kindness of the Natives--A Flemish Farmhouse--
Fertility of the Land--At Dinner--Our Host--Attachment
to Napoleon--Peace and War--Flemish Teams--Cattle
and Sheep--Dendermonde, 78
CHAPTER VI.
Excursion to Alost--Aspect of the Place--We Lose our
Way--Again on the Move--Parting with my Hostess--A Last
Breakfast--On the March--Change of Scenery--Views
from the Hills--Beauty of the Country--Arrival at
Strytem--The Château--Our Quarters there--Comfortless
Prospect--Family Portraits--Choosing our Quarters--A
Private Chapel--Increasing Comfort--Our Mess-Room--Karl--His
History--His Acquirements--An Interruption--The
Maire and his Following--A Garde-Champêtre--A Scene--M.
L’Adjoint’s Speech--Our Answer to it--I am peremptory--The
Deputation in a Fright--The Mayor in Safe
Keeping--Petit Jean--A Sleepless Night, 100
CHAPTER VII.
Occupations at Strytem--Our Fare--The Country round Strytem--
Beauty of the Scenery--Rich Cultivation--The Flemish
Farmers--Farming Establishments--Execrable Roads--Drunkenness--
Frog Concerts--Draining the Moat--Result of the Experiment--The
Duc de Berri--His Brutality--A Dog-Chase--Disposition of the
Troops--Visitors from England--The Duc de Berri again--Artillery
at Waterloo--Our Equipment--Our Organisation, 138
CHAPTER VIII.
My Difficulties--Plundering--The Duke and the Rocket Troop--
Ride to Ninove--Ninove--The great Monastery--A ruined
Convent--Liederkerke--Aspect of the Country--A Character--The
Lord of Gaesbeke--The Château de Gaesbeke--My Reception--The
Marquis D’Acornati--Interior of the Château: its desolate
Aspect--The Kitchen--The Grounds: their Beauty--Variety of
Views--History of the Château--Career of its Owner--His
Singularities--His Mode of Life--Visits to the Grounds, 163
CHAPTER IX.
Visit to Hal--Return to Strytem--Start for Brussels--First View
of Brussels--Its Internal Aspect--The Park--The Ramparts--The
Hôtel de Ville--The Cathedral--The Bruxellaises--The
Allée-Verte--Prince D’Aremberg--A Mistake--Anticipations
of the Campaign, 194
CHAPTER X.
Cavalry Review--The Duc de Berri again--His Unceremonious
Reception--The Duke and Blucher--Dinner after the Review--
Strytem again--New Species of Game--Change of Quarters--A
Death--Visit from our Host--Our Landlord--A Spy--Approaching
Departure, 212
CHAPTER XI.
Order to Advance--Preparations--Farewell to Strytem--On the
March--News from Brussels--Halt at Enghien--Doubts as
to my Route--Uncertainties--Braine le Comte--Still without
Orders--Beauty of the Scenery--We are left alone--Sounds
of Distant Battle--Pressing on--Nivelle--Excitement in the
Town--Signs of Battle--Fugitives from the Field--A Wounded
Highlander--Belgian Gasconading, 230
CHAPTER XII.
At Quatre Bras--Our Bivouac--Morning after the Battle--Our
Position--The Battle-Field--Position of the French--
Skirmishing--An Alarm--The Retreat--Aspect of the Field--A
Memento of Battle--Alone on the Field--Inactivity of the
Enemy--Their Advance--Orders and Counter-Orders--Napoleon--A
Storm--Our Danger--Our Narrow Escape--Our Retreat--Arrival
at Genappe--The Enemy again--In Action with them--The Rocket
Brigade--An Eccentric Missile--Panic among the Brunswickers--
Take up Position--Rejoin the Army--Bivouac for the Night--
Discomforts--Comfortless Night--Speculations as to the
Morrow--A Godsend, 253
CHAPTER XIII.
Morning of Battle--Survey of the Field--Alarm of Battle--
Commencement of the Battle--Orders at last--Take up Position--
The Field of Battle--View from our Position--Our
own Position--We open Fire--Our first Casualty--An Alarmed
Doctor--Death of Captain Bolton--A Wounded Horse--A Cavalry
Charge--Our Situation--Advance of Cavalry--Dangerous
Mistake--New Position--The Brunswickers--Danger of Panic--
Advance of Cavalry--Their Retreat--Our first Death--
Skirmishers--Attack Renewed--Effect of our Fire--The Cavalry
again Repulsed--A Narrow Escape--A third Attack and Repulse--
The Duke--Heavy Fire--Fearful Losses--Further Escapes--A
Remonstrance--Our Losses--Victory--Arrival of Prussians--The
Field by Moonlight--The Prussian Bivouac--Moonlight Thoughts, 291
CHAPTER XIV.
Preparing to Move--The Field by Morning--The Wounded--The
French Wounded--An Ingrate--A Grenadier à Cheval--A
Welcome Feast--Visitors from Brussels--Visit to Hougoumont--A
Contrast--Garden of the Château--A Striking
Oration--A Noble Enemy--A Keepsake--A Recognition--On
the March--A Comfortable Bivouac--Resume our March--Block
before Nivelles--Reception in the Town--Aspect of
the Town--Arrival of Prisoners--We get on at last--Belgic
Infantry--Our Bivouac--Rejoin the Army--The Greys and
Highlanders--Aspect of the Country--We Cross the Frontier--Our
first Night in France, 338
JOURNAL
OF THE
WATERLOO CAMPAIGN.
CHAPTER I.
The return of Napoleon from Elba, though a surprise to many, was far
from being so to those who, well aware of his restless disposition,
his insatiable ambition, and the enthusiastic attachment of the
French soldiery to his person and fortunes, had scarcely expected
that he would have remained so long as he actually did without some
new attempt at disturbing the general peace.
The steps taken on this occasion by the different European
Powers--their preparations for a renewal of the bloody scenes so
lately ended--are out of my province. They belong to the historian,
and not to the simple journalist, whose affair it is to confine
himself strictly to those transactions in which he was himself a
participator; or at most to glance at those more general subjects,
merely to give connection to his narrative and make it better
understood.
At the time the news of this extraordinary event arrived, the troop
of horse-artillery which I commanded was stationed at Colchester;
and the reductions necessary to put us on a peace-establishment had
already commenced, when the order arrived for our being immediately
equipped again for foreign service. To do this effectually, another
troop, then in the same barracks, was broken up, and we got the
picked horses of both, thus making it the finest troop in the
service; and such diligence was used, that although our equipment
fell little short of a complete reorganisation, Major Sir A. Fraser,
commanding the horse-artillery in Colchester, was enabled to report
on the third day that the troop was ready to march at a moment’s
warning.
Meantime the town of Colchester (situated as it is on the great road
from Harwich to London) presented a scene of bustle and anxiety
seldom equalled--couriers passing to and fro incessantly, and
numerous travellers, foreign and English, arriving day and night from
the Continent, many travelling in breathless haste, as if fearful,
even here, of Napoleon’s emissaries.
The reports spread by these fugitives were various and contradictory,
as might be expected.
According to some, Louis XVIII. had been arrested in Paris; according
to others, he had sought refuge in the Pays Bas; and again, it was
asserted that his Majesty was at Ostend, awaiting permission to pass
the sea and return to his old and secure quarters in England.
In the midst of all this, on the 8th April, the post brought our
order to march forthwith to Harwich, there to embark for Ostend--an
order received with unfeigned joy by officers and men, all eager to
plunge into danger and bloodshed, all hoping to obtain glory and
distinction.
On the morning of the 9th, the troop paraded at half-past seven
o’clock with as much regularity and as quietly as if only going to
a field-day; not a man either absent or intoxicated, and every part
of the guns and appointments in the most perfect order. At eight,
the hour named in orders, we marched off the parade. The weather was
fine, the scenery, as we skirted the beautiful banks of the Stour,
charming, and the occasion exhilarating.
Near Manningtree we halted a short time to feed our horses, and then,
pursuing our route, arrived at Harwich about three o’clock in the
afternoon. Here we found the transports--the Adventure, Philarea,
and Salus, in which last I embarked--awaiting us; but the tide being
unfavourable, although we immediately commenced operations, we only
succeeded in embarking the horses of one division and those of the
officers; the remainder were therefore put up in the barracks for the
night. As might be expected, the little town of Harwich presented a
most animated spectacle. Its narrow streets of modest houses, with
brick trottoirs, were crowded with soldiers--some, all over dust,
just arrived; some, who had already been a day or two in the place,
comparatively at home, lounging about in undress; others, about to
embark, hurrying along to the beach with baggage and stores; sailors
marketing, or rolling about half-seas-over; country-people bringing
in vegetables and the like, and towns-people idling at their windows,
or in groups at corners of the streets--in short, the usual picture
incident on such occasions.
The morning of the 10th was foggy, which much retarded us, since
it was necessary to embark the horses in flats to be taken off to
the transports, not easily found in the fog. However, by noon all
were on board, and without any serious accident, although a sailor
was somewhat hurt in endeavouring to recover a horse that had fallen
overboard. In the afternoon our guns, carriages, &c., were embarked;
but as the wind blew right into the harbour, the agent would not
attempt to get out, and we adjourned to Mr Bull’s comfortable house
(the Three Cups), there to pass our last evening in England in the
enjoyment of a good dinner, and perhaps for the last time to sleep in
good beds.
About two P.M. on the 11th, a light breeze from the N.W. induced our
agent to get under way, and we repaired on board our respective ships
with every prospect of a good and speedy passage. In this, however,
we were disappointed, for the breeze dying away as the sun went down,
we anchored, by signal, at the harbour’s mouth, just as it got dark.
The evening was splendid. A clear sky studded with myriads of stars
overhead, and below a calm unruffled sea, reflecting on its glassy
surface the lights of the distant town, the low murmuring sounds
from which, and the rippling of the water under the ships’ bows,
were the only interruptions to the solemn stillness that prevailed
after the people had retired to their berths. In our more immediate
neighbourhood stretched out the long, low, sandy tract, on the
seaward extremity of which the dark masses of Landguard fort could
just be distinguished.
With daybreak on the morning of the 12th came a favourable wind,
though light, and again we took up our anchors and proceeded to sea.
For some distance, after clearing the harbour, our course lay along
the Suffolk coast, and so near in that objects on shore were plainly
discernible. To us, who had long been stationed at Woodbridge, only a
few miles inland, this was highly interesting. We knew every village,
every copse, every knoll--nay, almost every tree. There were the
houses in which we had so oft been hospitably entertained; there were
the sheep-walks on which we had so often manœuvred; and there in the
distance, as we passed the mouth of the Deben, our glasses showed us
the very barrack on the hill, with its tiled roofs illumined by the
noontide sun. About Bawdsey we left the coast, and steered straight
over, with a light but favourable wind: the low sandy shores of
Suffolk soon sank beneath the horizon. At noon fell in with a fleet
of colliers bound for the river, and soon after saw the Sunk-Sand
Light; when, as the wind had died away and the tide was setting us
towards the bank, we anchored until the flood-tide. During the night
a light breeze right aft, and smooth water, enabled us to make good
progress; but towards morning (13th) the wind had very considerably
increased, and although the coast was not in sight, we were sensible
of its neighbourhood from the number of curious heavy-looking boats
plying round us in all directions, having the foremast, with its huge
lug-sail, stuck right up in the bow, or rather inclining over it.
From one of these boats we soon procured a pilot--a little sturdy
fellow, with a full, good-humoured countenance, and his breast
decorated with a silver medal bearing the impress of an anchor, like
our porters’ tickets, the badge of his calling.
The poor fellow was hardly on deck ere he was surrounded and assailed
by innumerable questions--“Where is Buonaparte?” “Where is the French
army?” “What are the English about?” “Has there been any fighting?”
&c. &c. Of this he understood or heard only the word “Buonaparte,”
and therefore to all kept repeating, “Il est capôte,” accompanied
by a significant motion of the hand across the throat, at the same
time showing much anxiety to get rid of his tormentors and proceed
to business, which he did with such earnestness as soon gave us to
understand there must be more than ordinary difficulty in entering
the port of Ostend. The first and principal care was the getting up a
hawser and coiling it on deck, the use of which we were soon to learn.
Meanwhile we had been approaching the coast, which, though still
invisible, the pilot informed us was not distant. The first
intimation of the truth of this was the appearance of the church
tower and lofty lighthouse of Ostend; and we had brought about half
their height above the horizon before land began to show itself,
which it did in a number of isolated and rounded yellow hummocks, and
at the same time the houses of the town became distinctly visible.
With that impatience and excessive curiosity always felt upon
approaching for the first time a strange land, especially under the
present interesting state of things, all our glasses were directed
to the coast, which we were rapidly nearing and hoped soon to reach,
when, to our great disappointment, the pilot ordered the vessel to be
hove to, and we found that the tide would not permit our running for
the port before two P.M. Numbers of ships, brigs, and schooners were
lying-to as well as ourselves, and others continually arriving.
Nothing, certainly, could be more repulsive than the appearance
of the coast--sand-hills as far as the eye could reach, broken
only by the grey and lugubrious works and buildings of Ostend, and
further west by the spires of Mittelkerke and Nieuport, peering
above the sand-hills. The day, too, was one little calculated to
enliven the scene. A fresh breeze and cloudy sky; the sea black,
rough, and chilly; the land all under one uniform cold grey tint,
presenting scarcely any relief of light and shadow, consequently
no feature. Upon reconnoitring it, however, closer, we found that
this forbidding exterior was only an outer coating to a lovely gem.
Through the openings between the sand-hills could be seen a rich
level country, of the liveliest verdure, studded with villages and
farms interspersed amongst avenues of trees and small patches of
wood. An occasional gleam of sunshine breaking out and illumining it,
communicated to it a dreamy appearance that was very pleasing, and
tended to revive our spirits, drooping from the gloomy aspect of the
coast.
A black-looking mass of timber rising from the waters off the
entrance of the harbour, and which we understood to be a fort, now
became the principal object of our attention. As the tide rises the
depth of water is announced by different flags hoisted on this fort;
and we were delighted when at last that (a red one) indicating the
necessary depth for our ship was hoisted, and we bore up for the
harbour mouth.
The harbour of Ostend is an artificial one, formed by _jetées_ of
piles projecting as far as low-water mark. The right, on entering,
is merely a row of piles running along in front of the works of the
town; but on the left is a long mole or _jetée_, on the extremity of
which is a small fort. Behind this mole, to the north-east, the shore
curving inwards forms a bight, presenting an extent of flat sandy
beach on which the water is never more than a few feet deep, even at
the highest tides. A tremendous surf breaks on this whenever it blows
from the westward. As the flood-tide sets past the harbour mouth
with great rapidity, a vessel attempting to enter with a westerly
wind is in danger of being swept beyond it and thrown on the beach
just mentioned. And this we now discovered was the cause of the
anxiety displayed by our pilot, and for which we could not before
account. In approaching the harbour, we steered as if going to run
the ship ashore on the broad stone glacis of the town, which extended
into the water all along the sea-front. Even with this precaution
we were drifted so much to leeward that, instead of shooting into
the harbour, we went bump upon the _jetée_.[1] The poor pilot raved
and jumped about like a madman, but there still was method in his
madness; and now we discovered the use of the hawser he had coiled
upon deck, for passing the end of this to the Belgic soldiers, who
upon the shock immediately ran out of their guard-room, the vessel
was saved from swinging round (as she otherwise would have done) and
falling ashore on the beach beyond, stern foremost, and soon dragged
within the influence of the current setting up the harbour.
Our attention, before engaged by our perilous situation, was now
directed to new and exhilarating objects on the other side, where
the works of the town arose immediately from the sands. These were
crowded with spectators, and, being Sunday, all in their best; so
that the sun, just peeping out as we shot along, imparted to the
scene quite an air of gaiety; and to us it was also a novel one. I
remember being mightily struck with the head-dress of the women, so
different from what we had been accustomed to see at home, and the
comparison was certainly not in favour of my fair compatriots. With
these the fashionable coiffure was a large low _poke_-bonnet, which
I had always fancied very becoming; but there is no describing how
this sunk into meanness and deformity in a moment when I cast my
eyes on the elegantly tapering, high-crowned straws of the _belles_
on the rampart, encircled sometimes with two, and even three, rows
of gay ribbon or artificial flowers. These gave them such a lofty
commanding air, and withal was so light and graceful. But bonnets
were not allowed long to occupy my attention. Followed by a crowd of
other craft of all sorts and sizes, we shot rapidly along towards
that part of the harbour where a dense assemblage of shipping filled
up its whole breadth, and forbade further progress, so that one
wondered what was to become of the numerous vessels in our wake.
The mystery was soon explained, for each having attained the point,
turning her prow to the town, ran bump on the sands, and there stuck
fast. Those immediately above us had just arrived, and from them
a regiment of Light Dragoons was in the act of disembarking by
throwing the horses overboard, and then hauling them ashore by a long
rope attached to their head-collars. What a scene! What hallooing,
shouting, vociferating, and plunging! The poor horses did not appear
much gratified by their sudden transition from the warm hold to a
cold bath.