THE DUCHESS OF RICHMOND’S BALL.
Whether we regard the illustrious and distinguished personages who thronged
around, or we think of the portentous moment in which it was given, the
Duchess of Richmond’s ball, on the night of the 15th of June, 1815, was not
only one of the most memorable, but, in its interest, the most exciting
entertainment that the memory of any one now living can compass.
There is always something of no common interest in seeing the bronzed and
war-worn soldier mixing in the crowd of light-hearted and brilliant
beauty. To watch the eye whose proud glance has flashed over the mail-clad
squadrons now bending meekly beneath the look of some timid girl; to hear
the voice that, high above the battle or the breeze, has shouted the
hoarse word “Charge!” now subdued into the low, soft murmur of flattery or
compliment. This, at any rate, is a picture full of its own charm; but when
we see these heroes of a hundred fights; when we look upon these hardy
veterans, upon whose worn brows the whitened locks of time are telling,
indulging themselves in the careless gayety of a moment, snatched as it
were from the arduous career of their existence, while the tramp of the
advancing enemy shakes the very soil they stand on, and where it may be
doubted whether each aide-de-camp who enters comes a new votary of pleasure
or the bearer of tidings that the troops of the foe are advancing, and
already the work of death has begun: this is, indeed, a scene to make the
heart throb, and the pulse beat high; this is a moment second in its proud
excitement only to the very crash and din of battle itself. And into this
entrancing whirlwind of passion and of pleasure, of brilliant beauty
and ennobled greatness, of all that is lovely in woman and all that is
chivalrous and heroic in man, I brought a heart which, young in years, was
yet tempered by disappointment; still, such was the fascination, such the
brilliancy of the spectacle, that scarcely had I entered, than I felt a
change come over me,--the old spirit of my boyish ardor, that high-wrought
enthusiasm to do something, to be something which men may speak of, shot
suddenly through me, and I felt my cheek tingle and my temples throb, as
name after name of starred and titled officers were announced, to think
that to me, also, the path of glorious enterprise was opening.
“Come along, come along,” said Power, catching me by the arm, “you’ve not
been presented to the duchess. I know her. I’ll do it for you; or perhaps
it is better Sir Thomas Picton should. In any case, _filez_ after me, for
the dark-eyed senhora is surely expecting us. There, do you see that dark,
intelligent-looking fellow leaning over the end of the sofa? That is Alava.
And there, you know who that is, that _beau ideal_ of a hussar? Look how
jauntily he carries himself; see the careless but graceful sling with which
he edges through the crowd; and look! Mark his bow! Did you see that,
Charley? Did you catch the quick glance he shot yonder, and the soft smile
that showed his white teeth? Depend upon it, boy, some fair heart is not
the better nor the easier for that look.”
“Who is it?” said I.
“Lord Uxbridge, to be sure; the handsomest fellow in the service; and there
goes Vandeleur, talking with Vivian; the other, to the left, is Ponsonby.”
“But stay, Fred, tell me who that is?” For a moment or two, I had some
difficulty in directing his attention to the quarter I desired. The
individual I pointed out was somewhat above the middle size; his uniform of
blue and gold, though singularly plain, had a look of richness about it;
besides that, among the orders which covered his breast, he wore one star
of great brilliancy and size. This, however, was his least distinction; for
although surrounded on every side by those who might be deemed the very
types and pictures of their _caste_, there was something in the easy but
upright carriage of his head, the intrepid character of his features, the
bold and vigorous flashing of his deep blue eye, that marked him as no
common man. He was talking with an old and prosy-looking personage in
civilian dress; and while I could detect an anxiety to get free from
a tiresome companion, there was an air of deferential, and even kind
attention in his manner, absolutely captivating.
“A thorough gentleman, Fred, whoever he be,” said I.
“I should think so,” replied Power, dryly; “and as our countrymen would
say, ‘The Devil thank him for it!’ That is the Prince of Orange; but see,
look at him now, his features have learned another fashion.” And true it
was; with a smile of the most winning softness, and with a voice, whose
slightly foreign accent took nothing from its interest, I heard him
engaging a partner for a waltz.
There was a flutter of excitement in the circle as the lady rose to take
his arm, and a muttered sound of, “How very beautiful, quelle est belle,
c’est un ange!” on all sides. I leaned forward to catch a glance as she
passed; it was Lucy Dashwood. Beautiful beyond anything I had ever seen
her, her lovely features lit up with pleasure and with pride, she looked in
every way worthy to lean upon the arm of royalty. The graceful majesty of
her walk, the placid loveliness of her gentle smile, struck every one
as she passed on. As for me, totally forgetting all else, not seeing or
hearing aught around me, I followed her with my eye until she was lost
among the crowd, and then, with an impulse of which I was not master,
followed in her steps.
“This way, this way,” said Power; “I see the senhora.” So saying, we
entered a little boudoir, where a party was playing at cards. Leaning on
the back of a chair, Inez was endeavoring, with that mixture of coquetry
and half malice she possessed, to distract the attention of the player. As
Power came near, she scarcely turned her head to give him a kind of saucy
smile; while, seeing me, she held out her hand with friendly warmth, and
seemed quite happy to meet me.
“Do, pray, take her away; get her to dance, to eat ice, or flirt with you,
for Heaven’s sake!” said the half-laughing voice of her victim. “I have
revoked twice, and misdealt four times since she has been here. Believe me,
I shall take it as the greatest favor, if you’ll--”
As he got thus far he turned round towards me, and I perceived it was Sir
George Dashwood. The meeting was as awkward for him as for me; and while a
deep flush covered my face, he muttered some unintelligible apology, and
Inez burst into a fit of laughter at the ludicrous _contretemps_ of our
situation.
“I will dance with you now, if you like,” said she, “and that will be
punishing all three. Eh, Master Fred?”
So saying, she took my arm as I led her toward the ball-room.
“And so you really are not friends with the Dashwoods? How very provoking,
and how foolish, too! But really, Chevalier, I must say you treat ladies
very ill. I don’t forget your conduct to me. Dear me, I wish we could move
forward, there is some one pushing me dreadfully!”
“Get on, Ma’am, get on!” said a sharp, decided voice behind me. I turned,
half smiling, to see the speaker. It was the Duke of Wellington himself,
who, with his eye fixed upon some person at a distance, seemed to care
very little for any intervening obstruction. As I made way for him to pass
between us, he looked hardly at me, while he said in a short, quick way,--
“Know your face very well: how d’ye do?” With this brief recognition he
passed on, leaving me to console Inez for her crushed sleeve, by informing
her who had done it.
The ball was now at its height. The waltzers whirled past in the wild
excitement of the dance. The inspiriting strains of the music, the sounds
of laughter, the din, the tumult, all made up that strange medley which,
reacting upon the minds of those who cause it, increases the feeling
of pleasurable abandonment, making the old feel young, and the young
intoxicated with delight.
As the senhora leaned upon me, fatigued with waltzing, I was endeavoring to
sustain a conversation with her; while my thoughts were wandering with my
eyes to where I had last seen Lucy Dashwood.
“It must be something of importance; I’m sure it is,” said she, at the
conclusion of a speech of which I had not heard one word. “Look at General
Picton’s face!”
“Very pretty, indeed,” said I; “but the hair is unbecoming,” replying to
some previous observation she had made, and still lost in a revery. A
hearty burst of laughter was her answer as she gently shook my arm,
saying,--
“You really are too bad! You’ve never listened to one word I’ve been
telling you, but keep continually staring with your eyes here and there,
turning this way and looking that, and with a dull, vacant, and unmeaning
smile, answering at random, in the most provoking manner. There now, pray
pay attention, and tell me what that means.” As she said this, she pointed
with her fan to where a dragoon officer, in splashed and spattered uniform,
was standing talking to some three or four general officers. “But here
comes the duke; it can’t be anything of consequence.”
At the same instant the Duke of Wellington passed with the Duchess of
Richmond on his arm.
“No, Duchess; nothing to alarm you. Did you say ice?”
“There, you heard that, I hope!” said Inez; “there is nothing to alarm us.”
“Go to General Picton at once; but don’t let it be remarked,” said an
officer, in a whisper, as he passed close by me.
“Inez, I have the greatest curiosity to learn what that new arrival has to
say for himself; and if you will permit me, I’ll leave you with Lady Gordon
for one moment--”
“Delighted, of all things. You are without exception, the most
tiresome--Good-by.”
“Sans adieu,” said I, as I hurried through the crowd towards an open
window, on the balcony outside of which Sir Thomas Picton was standing.
“Ah, Mr. O’Malley, have you a pencil? There, that’ll do. Ride down to
Etterbeeck with this order for Godwin. You have heard the news, I suppose,
that the French are in advance? The Seventy-ninth will muster in the Grando
Place. The Ninety-second and the Twenty-eighth along the Park and the
Boulevard. Napoleon left Fresnes this morning. The Prussians have fallen
back. Zeithen has been beaten. We march at once.”
“To-morrow, sir?”
“No, sir, to-night. There, don’t delay! But above all, let everything be
done quietly and noiselessly. The duke will remain here for an hour longer
to prevent suspicion. When you’ve executed your orders, come back here.”
I mounted the first horse I could find at the door, and galloped with top
speed over the heavy causeway to Etterbeeck. In two minutes the drum beat
to arms, and the men were mustering as I left. Thence I hastened to the
barracks of the Highland Brigade and the 28th Regiment; and before half an
hour, was back in the ball-room, where, from the din and tumult, I guessed
the scene of pleasure and dissipation continued unabated. As I hurried up
the staircase a throng of persons were coming down, and I was obliged to
step aside to let them pass.
“Ah, come here, pray,” said Picton, who, with a lady cloaked and hooded
leaning upon his arm, was struggling to make way through the crowd. “The
very man!”
“Will you excuse me if I commit you to the care of my aide-de-camp, who
will see you to your carriage? The duke has just desired to see me.” This
he said in a hurried and excited tone; and the same moment beckoned to me
to take the lady’s arm.
It was with some difficulty I succeeded in reaching the spot, and had only
time to ask whose carriage I should call for, ere we arrived in the hall.
“Sir George Dashwood’s,” said a low, soft voice, whose accents sank into
my very heart. Heaven! it was Lucy herself; it was her arm that leaned on
mine, her locks that fluttered beside me, her hand that hung so near, and
yet I could not speak. I tried one word; but a choking feeling in my throat
prevented utterance, and already we were upon the door-steps.
“Sir George Dashwood’s carriage,” shouted the footman, and the announcement
was repeated by the porter. The steps were hurried down; the footman stood
door in hand; and I led her forward, mute and trembling. Did she know me? I
assisted her as she stepped in; her hand touched mine: it was the work of a
second; to me it was the bliss of years. She leaned a little forward; and
as the servant put up the steps, said in her soft, sweet tone, “Thank you,
sir. Good-night.”
I felt my shoulder touched by some one who, it appeared, was standing close
to me for some seconds; but so occupied was I in gazing at her that I paid
no attention to the circumstance. The carriage drove away and disappeared
in the thick darkness of a starless night. I turned to re-enter the house,
and as I did so, the night lamp of the hall fell upon the features of
the man beside me, and showed me the pale and corpse-like face of Fred
Hammersley. His eye was bent upon me with an expression of fierce and fiery
passion, in which the sadness of long-suffering also mingled. His bloodless
lips parted, moved as though speaking, while yet no sound issued; and his
nostril, dilating and contracting by turns, seemed to denote some deep and
hidden emotion that worked within him.
“Hammersley,” said I, holding out my hand towards him,--“Hammersley, do not
always mistake me?”
He shook his head mournfully as it fell forward upon his breast, and
covering his arm, moved slowly away without speaking.
General Picton’s voice as he descended the stairs, accompanied by Generals
Vandeleur and Vivian, aroused me at once, and I hurried towards him.
“Now, sir, to horse. The troops will defile by the Namur gate, and meet me
there in an hour. Meanwhile tell Colonel Cameron that he must march with
the light companies of his own and the Ninety-second at once.”
“I say, Picton, they’ll say we were taken by surprise in England; won’t
they?” said a sharp, strong voice, in a half-laughing tone from behind.
“No, your Grace,” said Sir Thomas, bowing slightly; “they’ll scarcely do so
when they hear the time we took to get under arms.”
I heard no more; but throwing myself into the saddle of my troop horse,
once more rode back to the Belle Vue to make ready for the road.
The thin pale crescent of a new moon, across which masses of dark and inky
clouds were hurrying, tipped with its faint and sickly light the tall
minarets of the Hotel de Ville, as I rode into the Grande Place. Although
midnight, the streets were as crowded as at noonday; horse, foot, and
dragoons passing and hurrying hither; the wild pibroch of the Highlander;
the mellow bugle of the Seventy-first; the hoarse trumpet of the cavalry;
the incessant roll of the drum,--mingled their sounds with the tide of
human voices, in which every accent was heard, from the reckless cheer of
anticipated victory, to the heart-piercing shriek of woman’s agony. Lights
gleamed from every window; from the doors of almost every house poured
forth a crowd of soldiers and townsfolk. The sergeants, on one side,
might be seen telling off their men, their cool and steady countenances
evidencing no semblance of emotion; while near them some young ensign,
whose beardless cheek and vacant smile bespoke the mere boy, looked on with
mingled pride and wonder at the wild scene before him. Every now and then
some general officer with his staff came cantering past; and as the efforts
to muster and form the troops grew more pressing, I could mark how soon we
were destined to meet the enemy.
There are few finer monuments of the architecture of the Middle Ages than
the Grande Place of Brussels,--the rich façade of the Hôtel de Ville, with
its long colonnade of graceful arches, upon every keystone of which some
grim, grotesque head is peering; the massive cornices; the heavy corbels
carved into ten thousand strange and uncouth fancies; but finer than all,
the taper and stately spire, fretted and perforated like some piece of
silver filigree, stretches upward towards the sky, its airy pinnacle
growing finer and more beautiful as it nears the stars it points to.
How full of historic associations is every dark embrasure, every narrow
casement around! Here may have stood the great emperor, Charles the Fifth,
meditating upon that greatness he was about to forego forever; here from
this tall window, may have looked the sad and sickly features of Jeanne
Laffolle, as with wandering eye and idiot smile she gazed upon the gorgeous
procession beneath. There is not a stone that has not echoed to the tread
of haughty prince or bold baron; yet never, in the palmiest days of ancient
chivalry, did those proud dwellings of the great of old look out upon a
braver and more valiant host than now thronged beneath their shadow. It was
indeed a splendid sight, where the bright gleams of torch and lantern threw
the red light around, to watch the measured tread and steady tramp of the
Highland regiments as they defiled into the open space; each footstep as it
met the ground, seeming in its proud and firm tread, to move in more than
sympathy with the wild notes of their native mountains; silent and still
they moved along; no voice spoke within their ranks, save that of some
command to “Close up--take ground--to the right--rear rank--close order.”
Except such brief words as these, or the low muttered praise of some
veteran general as he rode down the line, all was orderly and steady as
on a parade. Meanwhile, from an angle of the square, the band of an
approaching regiment was heard; and to the inspiriting quickness of “The
Young May Moon,” the gallant Twenty-eighth came forward and took up their
ground opposite to the Highlanders.
The deep bell of the Hôtel de Ville tolled one. The solemn sound rang out
and died away in many an echo, leaving upon the heart a sense of some
unknown depression; and there was something like a knell in the deep
cadence of its bay; and over many a cheek a rapid trace of gloomy thought
now passed; and true--too true, alas!--how many now listened for the last
time!
“March! march!” passed from front to rear; and as the bands burst forth
again in streams of spirit-stirring harmony, the Seventy-ninth moved on;
the Twenty-eighth followed; and as they debouched from the “Place” the
Seventy-first and the Ninety-second succeeded them. Like wave after wave,
the tide of armed men pressed on, and mounted the steep and narrow street
towards the upper town of Brussels. Here Pack’s Brigade was forming in the
Place Royale; and a crowd of staff officers dictating orders, and writing
hurriedly on the drum-heads, were also seen. A troop of dragoons stood
beside their horses at the door of the Belle Vue, and several grooms with
led horses walked to and fro.
“Ride forward, sir, to the Bois de Cambre,” said Picton, “and pivot the
troops on the road to Mont St. Jean. You will then wait for my coming up,
or further orders.”
This command, which was given to me, I hastened to obey; and with
difficulty forcing my way through the opposing crowd, at length reached the
Namur gate. Here I found a detachment of the Guards, who as yet had got no
orders to march, and were somewhat surprised to learn the forward movement.
Ten minutes’ riding brought me to the angle of the wood, whence I wrote a
few lines to my host of the Belle Vue, desiring him to send Mike after me
with my horses and my kit. The night was cold, dark, and threatening; the
wind howled with a low and wailing cry through the dark pine-trees; and as
I stood alone and in solitude, I had time to think of the eventful hours
before me, and of that field which ere long was to witness the triumph or
the downfall of my country’s arms. The road which led through the forest of
Soignies caught an additional gloom from the dark, dense woods around. The
faint moon only showed at intervals; and a lowering sky, without a single
star, stretched above us. It was an awful and a solemn thing to hear the
deep and thundering roll of that mighty column, awakening the echoes of
the silent forest as they went. So hurried was the movement that we had
scarcely any artillery, and that of the lightest calibre; but the clash and
clank of the cavalry, the heavy, monotonous tramp of infantry were there;
and as division followed after division, staff officers rode hurriedly to
and fro, pressing the eager troops still on.
“Move up there, Ninety-fifth. Ah, Forty-second, we’ve work before us!” said
Picton, as he rode up to the head of his brigade. The air of depression
which usually sat upon his careworn features now changed for a light and
laughing look, while his voice was softened and subdued into a low and
pleasing tone. Although it was midsummer, the roads were heavy and deep
with mud. For some weeks previously the weather had been rainy; and
this, added to the haste and discomfort of the night march, considerably
increased the fatigue of the troops. Notwithstanding these disadvantages,
not a murmur nor complaint was heard on any side.
“I’m unco glad to get a blink o’ them, onyhow,” said a tall, raw-boned
sergeant, who marched beside me.
“Faith, and may be you won’t be over pleased at the expression of their
faces, when you see them,” said Mike, whose satisfaction at the prospect
before him was still as great as that of any other amidst the thousands
there.
The day was slowly breaking, as a Prussian officer, splashed and covered
with foam, came galloping up at full speed past us. While I was yet
conjecturing what might be the intelligence he brought, Power rode up to my
side.
“We’re in for it, Charley,” said he. “The whole French army are in march;
and Blucher’s aide-de-camp, who has arrived, gives the number at one
hundred and fifty thousand men. The Prussians are drawn up between St.
Amand and Sombref, and the Nassau and Dutch troops are at Quatre Bras, both
expecting to be attacked.”
“Quatre Bras was the original rallying spot for our troops, was it not?”
said I.
“Yes, yes. It is that we’re now marching upon; but our Prussian friend
seems to think we shall arrive too late. Strong French corps are already at
Fresnes, under the command, it is said, of Marshal Ney.”
The great object of the British commander-in-chief was to arrive at Quatre
Bras in sufficient time to effect his junction with Blucher before a battle
should be fought. To effect this no exertion was spared: efforts almost
super-human were made; for, however prepared for a forward movement, it was
impossible to have anticipated anything until the intentions of Napoleon
became clearly manifest. While Nivelles and Charleroi were exposed to him
on one side, Namur lay open on the other; and he could either march upon
Brussels, by Mons or Halle, or, as he subsequently attempted, by Quatre
Bras and Waterloo. No sooner, however, were his intentions unmasked, and
the line of his operations manifested, than Lord Wellington, with an energy
equal to the mighty occasion that demanded it, poured down with the whole
force under his command to meet him.
The march was a most distressing one; upward of three-and-twenty miles,
with deep and cut-up roads, in hot, oppressive weather, in a country almost
destitute of water. Still the troops pressed forward, and by noon came
within hearing of the heavy cannonade in front, which indicated the
situation of the battle. From this time aide-de-camp followed aide-de-camp
in quick succession, who, from their scared looks and hurried gestures,
seemed to bode but ill-fortune to the cause we cared for. What the precise
situation of the rival armies might be we knew not; but we heard the French
were in overwhelming numbers; that the Dutch troops had abandoned their
position; the Hanoverians being driven back, the Duke of Brunswick--the
brave sovereign of a gallant people--fell charging at the head of his black
hussars. From one phrase which constantly met our ears, it seemed that
the Bois de Bossu was the key of the position. This had been won and lost
repeatedly by both sides; and as we neared the battle-field a despatch
hurriedly announced to Picton the importance of at once recovering this
contested point. The Ninety-fifth were ordered up to the attack. Scarcely
was the word given, when fatigue, thirst, and exhaustion were forgotten;
with one cheer the gallant regiment formed into line, and advanced upon
the wood. Meanwhile the Highland Brigade moved down towards the right; the
Royals and the Twenty-eighth debouched upon the left of the road; and in
less than half an hour after our arrival our whole force was in action.
There is something appalling, to the bravest army, in coming up to battle
at the time that an overwhelming and conquering foe are carrying victory
triumphantly before them: such was our position at Quatre Bras. Bravely and
gloriously as the forces of the Prince of Orange fought, the day, however,
was not theirs. The Bois de Bossu, which opened to the enemy the road to
Brussels, was held by their tirailleurs; the valley to the right was rode
over by their mounted squadrons, who with lance and sabre carried all
before them; their dark columns pressed steadily on; and a death-dealing
artillery swept the allied ranks from flank to flank. Such was the field
when the British arrived, and throwing themselves into squares, opposed
their unaided force to the dreadful charges of the enemy. The batteries
showered down their storms of grape; Milhaud’s Heavy Dragoons, assisted by
crowds of lancers, rushed upon the squares, but they stood unbroken and
undaunted, as sometimes upon three sides of their position the infuriated
horsemen of the enemy came down. Once, and once only, were the French
successful; the 42d, who were stationed amidst tall corn-fields, were
surrounded with cavalry before they knew it. The word was given to form
square; the Lancers were already among them, and fighting back to back, the
gallant Highlanders met the foe. Fresh numbers poured down upon them, and
already half the regiment was disabled and their colonel killed. These
brave fellows were rescued by the 44th, who, throwing in a withering
volley, fixed bayonets and charged. Meanwhile the 95th had won and lost the
wood, which, now in the possession of the French tirailleurs, threatened to
turn the left of our position. It was at this time that a body of cavalry
were seen standing to the left of the Enghien road, as if in observation.
An officer sent forward to reconnoitre, returned with the intelligence that
they were British troops, for he had seen their red uniforms.
“I can’t think it, sir,” said Picton. “It is hardly possible that any
regiment from Enghien could have arrived already. Ride forward, O’Malley,
and if they be our fellows, let them carry that height yonder; there are
two guns there cutting the 92d to pieces.”
I put spurs to my horse, cleared the road at once, and dashing across
the open space to the left of the wood, rode on in the direction of the
horsemen. When I came within the distance of three hundred yards I examined
them with my glass, and could plainly detect the scarlet coats and bright
helmets. “Ha,” thought I, “the 1st Dragoon Guards, no doubt.” Muttering
to myself thus much, I galloped straight on; and waving my hand as I came
near, announced that I was the bearer of an order. Scarcely had I done so,
when four horsemen, dashing spurs into their steeds, plunged hastily out
from the line, and before I could speak, surrounded me. While the foremost
called out, as he flourished his sabre above his head, “Rendez-vous!” At
the same moment I was seized on each side, and led back a captive into the
hands of the enemy.
“We guess your mistake, Capitaine,” said the French officer before whom I
was brought. “We are the regiment of Berg, and our scarlet uniform cost us
dearly enough yesterday.”
This allusion, I afterwards learned, was in reference to a charge by a
cuirassier regiment, which, in mistaking them for English, poured a volley
into them, and killed and wounded about twenty of their number.