WATERLOO.
Napoleon’s first intention was to open the battle by an attack upon the
extreme right; but Ney, who returned from an observation of the ground,
informed him that a rivulet swollen by the late rains had now become a
foaming torrent perfectly impassable to infantry. To avoid this difficulty
he abandoned his favorite manoeuvre of a flank movement, and resolved to
attack the enemy by the centre. Launching his cavalry and artillery by the
road to Brussels, he hoped thus to cut off the communication of the British
with their own left, as well as with the Prussians, for whom he trusted
that Grouchy would be more than a match.
The reserves were in consequence all brought up to the centre. Seven
thousand cavalry and a massive artillery assembled upon the heights of La
Belle Alliance, and waited but the order to march. It was eleven o’clock,
and Napoleon mounted his horse and rode slowly along the line; again the
cry of “Vive l’Empereur!” resounded, and the bands of the various regiments
struck up their spirit-stirring strains as the gorgeous staff moved along.
On the British side all was tranquil; and still the different divisions
appeared to have taken up their ground, and the long ridge from Ter-la-Haye
to Merke-braine bristled with bayonets. Nothing could possibly be more
equal than the circumstances of the field. Each army possessed an eminence
whence their artillery might play. A broad and slightly undulating valley
lay between both. The ground permitted in all places both cavalry and
infantry movements, and except the crumbling walls of the Château of
Hougoumont, or the farm-house of La Haye Sainte, both of which were
occupied by the British, no advantage either by Nature or art inclined to
either side. It was a fair stand-up fight. It was the mighty tournament,
not only of the two greatest nations, but the two deadliest rivals and
bitterest enemies, led on by the two greatest military geniuses that the
world has ever seen; it might not be too much to say, or ever will see.
As for me, condemned to be an inactive spectator of the mighty struggle,
doomed to witness all the deep-laid schemes and well-devised plans of
attack which were destined for the overthrow of my country’s arms, my state
was one of torture and suspense. I sat upon the little rising ground of
Rossomme; before me in the valley, where yet the tall corn waved in ripe
luxuriance, stood the quiet and peaceful-looking old Château of Hougoumont,
and the blossoming branches of the orchard; the birds were gayly singing
their songs; the shrill whistle of the fatal musketry was to be heard; and
through my glass I could detect the uniform of the soldiers who held the
position, and my heart beat anxiously and proudly as I recognized the
Guards. In the orchard and the garden were stationed some riflemen,--at
least their dress and the scattered order they assumed bespoke them such.
While I looked, the tirailleurs of Jerome’s Division advanced from the
front of the line, and descending the hill in a sling trot, broke into
scattered parties, keeping up as they went a desultory and irregular fire.
The English skirmishers, less expert in this peculiar service, soon fell
back, and the head of Reille’s Brigade began their march towards the
château. The English artillery is unmasked and opens its fire. Kellermann
advances at a gallop his twelve pieces of artillery; the château is
concealed from view by the dense smoke, and as the attack thickens, fresh
troops pour forward, the artillery thundering on either side; the entire
lines of both armies stand motionless spectators of the terrific combat,
while every eye is turned towards that devoted spot from whose dense mass
of cloud and smoke the bright glare of artillery is flashing, as the
crashing masonry, the burning rafters, and the loud yell of battle add
to the frightful interest of the scene. For above an hour the tremendous
attack continues without cessation; the artillery stationed upon the height
has now found its range, and every ringing shot tells upon the tottering
walls; some wounded soldiers return faint and bleeding from the conflict,
but there are few who escape. A crashing volley of fire-arms is now heard
from the side where the orchard stands; a second, and a third succeed, one
after the other as rapid as lightning itself. A silence follows, when,
after a few moments, a deafening cheer bursts forth, and an aide-de-camp
gallops up to say that the orchard has been carried at the point of the
bayonet, the Nassau sharp-shooters who held it having, after a desperate
resistance, retired before the irresistible onset of the French infantry.
“A moi! maintenant!” said General Foy, as he drew his sabre and rode down
to the head of his splendid division, which, anxious for the word to
advance, was standing in the valley. “En avant! mes braves!” cried he,
while, pointing to the château with his sword, he dashed boldly forward.
Scarcely had he advanced a hundred yards, when a cannon-shot, “ricocheting”
as it went, struck his horse in the counter and rolled him dead on the
plain. Disengaging himself from the lifeless animal, at once he sprang to
his feet, and hurried forward. The column was soon hid from my view, and I
was left to mourn over the seemingly inevitable fate that impended over my
gallant countrymen.
In the intense interest which chained me to this part of the field, I had
not noticed till this moment that the Emperor and his staff were standing
scarcely thirty yards from where I was. Napoleon, seated upon a gray,
almost white, Arabian, had suffered the reins to fall loosely on the neck
as he held with both hands his telescope to his eye; his dress, the usual
green coat with white facings, the uniform of the _chasseurs à cheval_,
was distinguished merely by the cross of the legion; his high boots were
splashed and mud-stained from riding through the deep and clayey soil; his
compact and clean-bred charger looked also slightly blown and heated, but
he himself, and I watched his features well, looked calm, composed, and
tranquil. How anxiously did I scrutinize that face; with what a throbbing
heart did I canvass every gesture, hoping to find some passing trait of
doubt, of difficulty, or of hesitation; but none was there. Unlike one who
looked upon the harrowing spectacle of the battle-field, whose all was
depending on the game before him; gambling with one throw his last his only
stake, and that the empire of the world. Yet, could I picture to myself one
who felt at peace within himself,--naught of reproach, naught of regret to
move or stir his spirit, whose tranquil barque had glided over the calm sea
of life, unruffled by the breath of passion,--I should have fancied such
was he.
Beside him sat one whose flashing eye and changing features looked in every
way his opposite; watching with intense anxiety the scene of the deadly
struggle round the château, every look, every gesture told the changing
fortune of the moment; his broad and brawny chest glittered with orders and
decorations, but his heavy brow and lowering look, flushed almost black
with excitement, could not easily be forgotten. It was Soult, who, in his
quality of major-general, accompanied the Emperor throughout the day.
“They have lost it again, Sire,” said the marshal, passionately; “and see,
they are forming beneath the cross-fire of the artillery; the head of the
column keeps not its formation two minutes together; why does he not move
up?”
“Domont, you know the British; what troops are those in the orchard? They
use the bayonet well.”
The officer addressed pointed his glass for a moment to the spot. Then,
turning to the Emperor, replied, as he touched his hat, “They are the
Guards, Sire.”
During this time Napoleon spoke not a word; his eye ever bent upon the
battle, he seemed to pay little if any attention to the conversation about
him. As he looked, an aide-de-camp, breathless and heated, galloped up.
“The columns of attack are formed, Sire; everything is ready, and the
marshal only waits the order.”
Napoleon turned upon his saddle, and directing his glass towards Ney’s
Division, looked fixedly for some moments at them. His eye moved from front
to rear slowly, and at last, carrying his telescope along the line, he
fixed it steadily upon the far left. Here, towards St. Lambert, a slight
cloud seemed to rest on the horizon, as the Emperor continued to gaze
steadfastly at it. Every glass of the staff was speedily turned in that
direction.
“It is nothing but a cloud; some exhalation from the low grounds in that
quarter,” whispered one.
“To me,” said another, “they look like trees, part of the Bois de Wavre.”
“They are men,” said the Emperor, speaking for the first time. “Est-ce
Grouchy? Est-ce Blucher?”
Soult inclines to believe it to be the former, and proceeds to give his
reasons; but the Emperor, without listening, turns towards Domont, and
orders him, with his division of light cavalry and Subervic’s Brigade, to
proceed thither at once. If it be Grouchy, to establish a junction with
him; to resist, should it prove to be the advanced guard of Marshal
Blucher. Scarcely is the order given when a column of cavalry, wheeling
“fours about,” unravels itself from the immense mass, and seems to
serpentine like an enormous snake between the squares of the mighty army.
The pace increases at every moment, and at length we see them emerge from
the extreme right and draw up, as if on parade, above half a mile from the
wood. This movement, by its precision and beauty, attracted our entire
attention, not only from the attack upon Hougoumont, but also from an
incident which had taken place close beside us. This was the appearance
of a Prussian hussar who had been taken prisoner between Wavre and
Planchenoit; he was the bearer of a letter from Bulow to Wellington,
announcing his arrival at St. Lambert, and asking for orders.
This at once explains the appearance on the right; but the prisoner also
adds, that the three Prussian corps were at Wavre, having pushed their
patrols two leagues from that town without ever encountering any portion of
the force under the command of Grouchy. For a moment not a word is spoken.
A silence like a panic pervades the staff; the Emperor himself is the first
to break it.
“This morning,” said he, turning towards Soult, “the chances were ninety to
one in our favor; Bulow’s arrival has already lost us thirty of the number;
but the odds are still sufficient, if Grouchy but repair the _horrible
fault_ he has committed.”
He paused for a moment, and as he lifted up his own hand, and turned a look
of indignant passion towards the staff, added, in a voice the sarcasm of
whose tone there is no forgetting:--
“Il s’amuse à Gembloux! Still,” said he, speaking rapidly and with more
energy than I had hitherto noticed, “Bulow may be entirely cut off. Let
an officer approach. Take this letter, sir,” giving as he spoke, Bulow’s
letter to Lord Wellington,--“give this letter to Marshal Grouchy; tell him
that at this moment he should be before Wavre; tell him that already, had
he obeyed his orders--but no, tell him to march at once, to press forward
his cavalry, to come up in two hours, in three at farthest. You have but
five leagues to ride; see, sir, that you reach him within an hour.”
As the officer hurries away at the top of his speed, an aide-de-camp from
General Domont confirms the news; they are the Prussians whom he has before
him. As yet, however, they are debouching from the wood, and have attempted
no forward movement.
“What’s Bulow’s force, Marshal?”
“Thirty thousand, Sire.”
“Let Lobau take ten thousand, with the Cuirassiers of the Young Guard, and
hold the Prussians in check.”
“Maintenant, pour les autres,” this he said with a smile, as he turned his
eyes once more towards the field of battle. The aide-de-camp of Marshal
Ney, who, bare-headed and expectant, sat waiting for orders, presented
himself to view. The Emperor turned towards him as he said, with a clear
and firm voice:--
“Tell the marshal to open the fire of his batteries; to carry La Haye
Sainte with the bayonet, and leaving an infantry division for its
protection, to march against La Papelotte and La Haye. They must be carried
by the bayonet.”
The aide-de-camp was gone; Napoleon’s eye followed him as he crossed the
open plain and was lost in the dense ranks of the dark columns. Scarcely
five minutes elapsed when eighty guns thundered out together, and as the
earth shook and trembled beneath, the mighty movement of the day began its
execution. From Hougoumont, where the slaughter and the carnage continued
unslackened and unstayed, every eye was now turned towards the right. I
knew not what troops occupied La Haye Sainte, or whether they were British
who crowned the heights above it; but in my heart how fervently did I pray
that they might be so. Oh, in that moment of suspense and agonizing doubt,
what would I not have given to know that Picton himself and the fighting
Fifth were there; that behind that ridge the Greys, the Royals, and the
Enniskilleners sat motionless, but burning to advance; and the breath
of battle waved among the tartans of the Highlanders, and blew upon the
flashing features of my own island countrymen. Had I known this, I could
have marked the onset with a less failing spirit.
“There goes Marcognet’s Division,” said my companion, springing to his
legs; “they’re moving to the right of the road. I should like to see the
troops that will stand before them.”
So saying, he mounted his horse, and desiring me to accompany him, rode to
the height beside La Belle Alliance. The battle was now raging from the
Château de Hougoumont to St. Lambert, where the Prussian tirailleurs, as
they issued from the wood, were skirmishing with the advanced posts of
Lobau’s Brigade. The attack upon the centre, however, engrossed all my
attention, and I watched the dark columns as they descended into the plain,
while the incessant roll of the artillery played about them. To the right
of Ney’s attack, D’Erlon advanced with three divisions, and the artillery
of the Guard. Towards this part of the field my companion moved. General le
Vasseur desired to know if the division on the Brussels road were English
or Hanoverian troops, and I was sent for to answer the question. We passed
from square to square until at length we found ourselves upon the flank of
D’Erlon’s Division. Le Vasseur, who at the head of his cuirassiers waited
but the order to charge, waved impatiently with his sword for us to
approach. We were now to the right of the high road, and about four hundred
yards from the crest of the hill where, protected by a slight hedge,
Picton, with Kempt’s Brigade, waited the attack of the enemy.
Just at this moment an incident took place which, while in itself one of
the most brilliant achievements of the day, changed in a signal manner my
own fortunes. The head of D’Erlon’s column pressed with fixed bayonets up
the gentle slope. Already the Belgian infantry give way before them. The
brave Brunswickers, overwhelmed by the heavy cavalry of France, at first
begin to waver, then are broken; and at last retreat in disorder up the
road, a whirlwind of pursuing squadrons thundering behind them. “En avant!
en avant! la victoire est ènous,” is shouted madly through the impatient
ranks; and the artillery is called up to play upon the British squares;
upon which, fixed and immovable, the cuirassiers have charged without
success. Like a thunderbolt, the flying artillery dashes to the front;
but scarcely has it reached the bottom of the ascent, when, from the deep
ground, the guns become embedded in the soil, the wheels refuse to move. In
vain the artillery drivers whip and spur their laboring cattle. Impatiently
the leading files of the column prick with their bayonets the struggling
horses. The hesitation is fatal; for Wellington, who, with eager glance,
watches from an eminence beside the high road the advancing column, sees
the accident. An order is given; and with one fell swoop, the heavy cavalry
brigade pour down. Picton’s Division deploys into line; the bayonets glance
above the ridge; and with a shout that tells above the battle, on they
come, the fighting Fifth. One volley is exchanged; but the bayonet is now
brought to the charge, and the French division retreat in close column,
pursued by their gallant enemy. Scarcely have the leading divisions fallen
back, and the rear pressed down upon, or thrown into disorder, when the
cavalry trumpets sound a charge; the bright helmets of the Enniskilleners
come flashing in the sunbeams, and the Scotch Greys, like a white-crested
wave, are rolling upon the foe. Marcognet’s Division is surrounded; the
dragoons ride them down on every side; the guns are captured; the drivers
cut down; and two thousand prisoners are carried off. A sudden panic seems
to seize upon the French, as cavalry, infantry, and artillery are hurried
back on each other. Vainly the French attempt to rally; the untiring enemy
press madly on; the household brigade, led on by Lord Uxbridge, came
thundering down the road, riding down with their gigantic force the mailed
cuirassiers of France. Borne along with the retreating torrents, I was
carried on amidst the densely commingled mass. The British cavalry, which,
like the lightnings that sever the thunder-cloud, pierces through in every
direction, plunged madly upon us. The roar of battle grew louder, as hand
to hand they fought. Milhaud’s Heavy Dragoons, with the 4th Lancers, came
up at a gallop. Picton presses forward, waving his plumed hat above his
head; his proud eye flashes with the fire of victory. That moment is his
last. Struck in the forehead by a musket-ball, he falls dead from the
saddle; and the wild yell of the Irish regiments, as they ring his
death-cry, are the last sounds which he hears. Meanwhile the Life Guards
are among us; prisoners of rank are captured on every side; and I, seizing
the moment, throw myself among the ranks of my countrymen, and am borne to
the rear with the retiring squadrons.
As we reached the crest of the hill above the road, a loud cheer in the
valley beneath us burst forth, and from the midst of the dense smoke a
bright and pointed flame shot up towards the sky. It was the farm-house La
Haye Sainte, which the French had succeeded in setting fire to with hot
shot. For some time past the ammunition of the corps that held it had
failed, and a dropping irregular musketry was the only reply to the
incessant rattle of the enemy. As the smoke cleared away we discovered that
the French had carried the position; and as no quarter was given in that
deadly hand-to-hand conflict, not one returned to our ranks to toll the
tale of their defeat.
“This is the officer that I spoke of,” said an aide-decamp, as he rode up
to where I was standing bare-headed and without a sword. “He has just made
his escape from the French lines, and will be able to give your lordship
some information.”
The handsome features and gorgeous costume of Lord Uxbridge were known
to me; but I was not aware, till afterward, that a soldier-like,
resolute-looking officer beside him was General Graham. It was the latter
who first addressed me.
“Are you aware, sir,” said he, “if Grouchy’s force have arrived?”
“They have not; on the contrary, shortly before I escaped, an aide-de-camp
was despatched to Gembloux, to hasten his coming. And the troops, for they
must be troops, were debouching from the wood yonder. They seem to form a
junction with the corps to the right; they are the Prussians. They arrived
there before noon from St. Lambert, and are part of Bulow’s Corps. Count
Lobau and his division of ten thousand men were despatched, about an hour
since, to hold them in check.”
“This is great news,” said Lord Uxbridge. “Fitzroy must know it at once.”
So saying, he dashed spurs into his horse, and soon disappeared amidst the
crowd on the hill-top.
“You had better see the duke, sir,” said Graham. “Your information is too
important to be delayed. Captain Calvert, let this officer have a horse;
his own is too tired to go much farther.”
“And a cap, I beg of you,” added I in an undertone, “for I have already
found a sabre.”
By a slightly circuitous route we reached the road, upon which a mass
of dismounted artillery-carts, baggage-wagons, and tumbrils were heaped
together as a barricade against the attack of the French dragoons, who more
than once had penetrated to the very crest of our position. Close to this
and on a little rising ground, from which a view of the entire field
extended, from Hougoumont to the far left, the Duke of Wellington stood
surrounded by his staff. His eye was bent upon the valley before him, where
the advancing columns of Ney’s attack still pressed onward; while the fire
of sixty great guns poured death and carnage into his lines. The Second
Belgian Division, routed and broken, had fallen back upon the 27th
Regiment, who had merely time to throw themselves into square, when
Milhaud’s cuirassiers, armed with their terrible long, straight swords,
came sweeping down upon them. A line of impassable bayonets, a living
_chevaux-de-frise_ of the best blood of Britain, stood firm and motionless
before the shock. The French _mitraille_ played mercilessly on the ranks;
but the chasms were filled up like magic, and in vain the bold horsemen of
Gaul galloped round the bristling files. At length the word, “Fire!” was
heard within the square, and as the bullets at pistol-range rattled upon
them, the cuirass afforded them no defence against the deadly volley. Men
and horses rolled indiscriminately upon the earth. Then would come a charge
of our clashing squadrons, who, riding recklessly upon the foe, were in
their turn to be repulsed by numbers, and fresh attacks poured down upon
our unshaken infantry.
“That column yonder is wavering. Why does he not bring up his supporting
squadrons?” inquired the duke, pointing to a Belgian regiment of light
dragoons, who were formed in the same brigade with the 7th Hussars.
“He refuses to oppose his light cavalry to cuirassiers, my lord,” said an
aide-de-camp, who had just returned from the division in question.
“Tell him to march his men off the ground,” said the duke in a quiet and
impassive tone.
In less than ten minutes the “Belgian regiment” was seen to defile from the
mass and take the road to Brussels, to increase the panic of that city by
circulating and strengthening the report that the English were beaten, and
Napoleon in full march upon the capital.
“What’s Ney’s force; can you guess, sir?” said the Duke of Wellington,
turning to me.
“About twelve thousand men, my lord.”
“Are the Guard among them?”
“No, sir; the Guard are in reserve above La Belle Alliance.”
“In what part of the field is Bonaparte?”
“Nearly opposite to where we stand.”
“I told you, gentlemen, Hougoumont never was the great attack. The battle
must be decided here,” pointing as he spoke to the plain beneath us, where
Ney still poured on his devoted columns, where yet the French cavalry rode
down upon our firm squares.
As he spoke, an aide-de-camp rode up from the valley.
“The Ninety-second requires support, my lord. They cannot maintain their
position half an hour longer with out it.”
“Have they given way, sir?”
“No--”
“Well, then, they must stand where they are. I hear cannon towards the
left; yonder, near Frischermont.”
At this moment the light cavalry swept past the base of the hill on which
we stood, hotly followed by the French heavy cuirassier brigade. Three
of our guns were taken; and the cheering of the French infantry, as they
advanced to the charge, presaged their hope of victory.
“Do it, then,” said the duke, in reply to some whispered question of Lord
Uxbridge; and shortly after the heavy trot of advancing squadrons was heard
behind.
They were the Life Guards and the Blues, who, with the 1st Dragoon Guards
and the Enniskilleners, were formed into close column.
“I know the ground, my lord,” said I to Lord Uxbridge.
“Come along, sir, come along,” said he, as he threw his hussar jacket
loosely behind him to give freedom to his sword arm. “Forward, my men,
forward; but steady, hold your horses in hand, threes about, and together,
charge!
“Charge!” he shouted; while as the word flew from squadron to squadron,
each horseman bent upon his saddle, and that mighty mass, as though
instinct with but one spirit, dashed like a thunderbolt upon the column
beneath them. The French, blown and exhausted, inferior besides in weight,
both of man and horse, offered but a short resistance. As the tall corn
bends beneath the sweeping hurricane, wave succeeding wave, so did the
steel-clad squadrons of France fall before the nervous arm of Britain’s
cavalry. Onward they went, carrying death and ruin before them, and never
stayed their course until the guns were recaptured, and the cuirassiers,
repulsed, disordered, and broken, had retired beneath the protection of
their artillery.
There was, as a brilliant and eloquent writer on the subject mentions, a
terrible sameness in the whole of this battle. Incessant charges of cavalry
upon the squares of our infantry, whose sole manoeuvre consisted in either
deploying into line to resist the attack of the infantry, or falling back
into square when the cavalry advanced; performing those two evolutions
under the devastating fire of artillery, before the unflinching heroism of
that veteran infantry whose glories have been reaped upon the blood-stained
fields of Austerlitz, Marengo, and Wagram, or opposing an unbroken front
to the whirlwind swoop of infuriated cavalry. Such were the enduring and
devoted services demanded from the English troops; and such they failed not
to render. Once or twice had temper nearly failed them, and the cry ran
through the ranks, “Are we never to move forward? Only let us at them!” But
the word was not yet spoken which was to undam the pent-up torrent, and
bear down with unrelenting vengeance upon the now exulting columns of the
enemy.
It was six o’clock; the battle had continued with unchanged fortune for
three hours. The French, masters of La Haye Sainte, could never advance
farther into our position. They had gained the orchard of Hougoumont; but
the château was still held by the British Guards, although its blazing
roof and crumbling walls made its occupation rather the desperate stand of
unflinching valor than the maintenance of an important position. The smoke
which hung upon the field rolled in slow and heavy masses back upon the
French lines, and gradually discovered to our view the entire of the army.
We quickly perceived that a change was taking place in their position. The
troops, which on their left stretched far beyond Hougoumont, were now moved
nearer to the centre. The attack upon the château seemed less vigorously
supported, while the oblique direction of their right wing, which, pivoting
upon Planchenoit, opposed a face to the Prussians, all denoted a change in
their order of battle. It was now the hour when Napoleon, at last convinced
that nothing but the carnage he could no longer support could destroy the
unyielding ranks of British infantry; that although Hougoumont had been
partially, La Haye Sainte completely won; that upon the right of the road
the farm-houses Papolotte and La Haye were nearly surrounded by his troops,
which with any other army must prove the forerunner of defeat,--yet still
the victory was beyond his grasp. The bold stratagems, whose success the
experience of a life had proved, were here to be found powerless. The
decisive manoeuvre of carrying one important point of the enemy’s lines, of
turning him upon the flank, or piercing him through the centre, were here
found impracticable. He might launch his avalanche of grape-shot, he might
pour down his crashing columns of cavalry, he might send forth the iron
storm of his brave infantry; but though death in every shape heralded their
approach, still were others found to fill the fallen ranks, and feed with
their hearts’ blood the unslaked thirst for slaughter. Well might the
gallant leader of this gallant host, as he watched the reckless onslaught
of the untiring enemy, and looked upon the unflinching few who, bearing the
proud badge of Britain, alone sustained the fight, well might he exclaim,
“Night or Blucher!”
It was now seven o’clock, when a dark mass was seen to form upon the
heights above the French centre, and divide into three gigantic columns,
of which the right occupied the Brussels road. These were the reserves,
consisting of the Old and Young Guards, and amounting to twelve
thousand,--the _élite_ of the French army,--reserved by the Emperor for
a great _coup-de-main_. These veterans of a hundred battles had been
stationed from the beginning of the day, inactive spectators of the fight;
their hour was now come, and with a shout of “Vive l’Empereur!” which rose
triumphantly over the din and crash of battle, they began their march.
Meanwhile aides-de-camp galloped along the lines announcing the arrival of
Grouchy, to reanimate the drooping spirits of the men; for at last a doubt
of victory was breaking upon the minds of those who never before, in the
most adverse hour of fortune, deemed _his_ star could be set that led them
on to glory.
“They are coming; the attack will be made on the centre, my lord,” said
Lord Fitzroy Somerset, as he directed his glass upon the column. Scarcely
had he spoken when the telescope fell from his hand, as his arm, shattered
by a French bullet, fell motionless to his side.
“I see it,” was the cool reply of the duke, as he ordered the Guards to
deploy into line and lie down behind the ridge, which now the French
artillery had found the range of, and were laboring at their guns. In front
of them the Fifty-second, Seventy-first, and Ninety-fifth were formed; the
artillery stationed above and partly upon the road, loaded with grape, and
waited but the word to open.
It was an awful, a dreadful moment. The Prussian cannon thundered on our
left; but so desperate was the French resistance, they made but little
progress. The dark columns of the Guard had now commenced the ascent, and
the artillery ceased their fire as the bayonets of the grenadiers showed
themselves upon the slope. Then began that tremendous cheer from right
to left of our line, which those who heard never can forget. It was the
impatient, long-restrained burst of unslaked vengeance. With the instinct
which valor teaches, they knew the hour of trial was come; and that wild
cry flew from rank to rank, echoing from the blood-stained walls of
Hougoumont to the far-off valley of La Papelotte. “They come! they come!”
was the cry; and the shout of “Vive l’Empereur!” mingled with the out-burst
of the British line.
Under an overwhelming shower of grape, to which succeeded a charge of
cavalry of the Imperial Guard, the head of Ney’s column fired its volley
and advanced with the bayonet. The British artillery now opened at half
range, and although the plunging fire scathed and devasted the dark ranks
of the Guard, on they came, Ney himself on foot at their head. Twice the
leading division of that gallant column turned completely round, as the
withering fire wasted and consumed them; but they were resolved to win.
Already they gained the crest of the hill, and the first line of the
British were falling back before them. The artillery closes up; the
flanking fire from the guns upon the road opens upon them; the head of
their column breaks like a shell; the duke seizes the moment, and advances
on foot towards the ridge.
“Up, Guards, and at them!” he cried.
The hour of triumph and vengeance had arrived. In a moment the Guards were
on their feet; one volley was poured in; the bayonets were brought to
the charge; they closed upon the enemy; then was seen the most dreadful
struggle that the history of all war can present. Furious with
long-restrained passion, the Guards rushed upon the leading divisions; the
Seventy-first and Ninety-fifth and Twenty-sixth overlapped them on the
flanks. Their generals fell thickly on every side; Michel, Jamier, and
Mallet are killed; Friant lies wounded upon the ground; Ney, his dress
pierced and ragged with balls, shouts still to advance; but the leading
files waver; they fall back; the supporting divisions thicken; confusion,
panic succeeds. The British press down; the cavalry come galloping up to
their assistance; and at last, pell-mell, overwhelmed and beaten, the
French fell back upon the Old Guard. This was the decisive moment of the
day; the duke closed his glass, as he said,--
“The field is won. Order the whole line to advance.”
On they came, four deep, and poured like a torrent from the height.
“Let the Life Guards charge them,” said the duke; but every aide-de-camp on
his staff was wounded, and I myself brought the order to Lord Uxbridge.
Lord Uxbridge had already anticipated his orders, and bore down with four
regiments of heavy cavalry upon the French centre. The Prussian artillery
thundered upon their flank and at their rear. The British bayonet was in
their front; while a panic fear spread through their ranks, and the cry of
“Sauve qui peut!” resounded on all sides. In vain Ney, the bravest of the
brave, in vain Soult, Bertrand, Gourgaud, and Labedoyère, burst from the
broken, disorganized mass, and called on them to stand fast. A battalion
of the Old Guard, with Cambronne at their head, alone obeyed the summons;
forming into square, they stood between the pursuers and their prey,
offering themselves a sacrifice to the tarnished honor of their arms. To
the order to surrender they answered with a cry of defiance; and as our
cavalry, flushed and elated with victory, rode round their bristling
ranks, no quailing look, no craven spirit was there. The Emperor himself
endeavored to repair the disaster; he rode with lightning speed hither and
thither, commanding, ordering, nay, imploring, too; but already the night
was falling, the confusion became each moment more inextricable, and the
effort was a fruitless one. A regiment of the Guards, and two batteries
were in reserve behind Planchenoit. He threw them rapidly into position;
but the overwhelming impulse of flight drove the mass upon them, and they
were carried away upon the torrent of the beaten army. No sooner did the
Emperor see this his last hope desert him, than he dismounted from his
horse, and drawing his sword, threw himself into a square, which the first
regiment of Chasseurs of the Old Guard had formed with a remnant of the
battalion. Jerome followed him, as he called out,--
“You are right, brother; here should perish all who bear the name of
Bonaparte.”
The same moment the Prussian light artillery rend the ranks asunder, and
the cavalry charge down upon the scattered fragments. A few of his staff,
who never left him, place the Emperor upon a horse and fly through the
death-dealing artillery and musketry. A squadron of the Life Guards, to
which I had attached myself, came up at the moment, and as Blucher’s
hussars rode madly here and there, where so lately the crowd of staff
officers had denoted the presence of Napoleon, expressed their rage and
disappointment in curses and cries of vengeance.
Cambronne’s battalion stood yet unbroken, and seemed to defy every attack
that was brought against them. To the second summons to surrender they
replied as indignantly as at first; and Vivian’s Brigade was ordered to
charge them. A cloud of British horse bore down on every face of the
devoted square; but firm as in their hour of victory, the heroes of Marengo
never quailed; and twice the bravest blood of Britian recoiled, baffled and
dismayed. There was a pause for some minutes, and even then, as we surveyed
our broken and blood-stained squadrons, a cry of admiration burst from our
ranks at the gallant bearing of that glorious infantry. Suddenly the tramp
of approaching cavalry was heard; I turned my head and saw two squadrons of
the Second Life Guards. The officer who led them on was bare-headed; his
long dark hair streaming wildly behind him, and upon his pale features,
to which not even the headlong enthusiasm of battle had lent one touch of
color. He rode straight to where I was standing, his dark eyes fixed upon
me with a look so fierce, so penetrating, that I could not look away.
The features, save in this respect, had almost a look of idiocy. It was
Hammersley.
“Ha!” he cried at last, “I have sought you out the entire day, but in vain.
It is not yet too late. Give me your hand, boy. You once called on me to
follow _you_, and I did not refuse; I trust you’ll do the like by _me_. Is
it not so?”
[Illustration: DEATH OF HAMMERSLEY.]
A terrible perception of his meaning shot through my mind as I clasped his
clay-cold hand in mine, and for a moment I did not speak.
“I hoped for better than this,” said he, bitterly, and as a glance of
withering scorn flashed from his eye. “I did trust that he who was
preferred before me was at least not a coward.”
As the word fell from his lips I nearly leaped from my saddle, and
mechanically raised my sabre to cleave him on the spot.
“Then follow me!” shouted he, pointing with his sword to the glistening
ranks before us.
“Come on!” said I, with a voice hoarse with passion, while burying my spurs
in my horse’s flanks, I sprang on a full length before him, and bore down
upon the enemy. A loud shout, a deafening volley, the agonizing cry of the
wounded and the dying, were all I heard, as my horse, rearing madly upward,
plunged twice into the air, and then fell dead upon the earth, crushing me
beneath his cumbrous weight, lifeless and insensible.
The day was breaking; the cold, gray light of morning was struggling
through the misty darkness, when I once more recovered my consciousness.
There are moments in life when memory can so suddenly conjure up the whole
past before us, that there is scarcely time for a doubt ere the disputed
reality is palpable to our senses. Such was this to me. One hurried glance
upon the wide, bleak plain before me, and every circumstance of the
battle-field was present to my recollection. The dismounted guns, the
broken wagons, the heaps of dead or dying, the straggling parties who on
foot or horseback traversed the field, and the dark litters which carried
the wounded, all betokened the sad evidences of the preceding day’s battle.
Close around me where I lay the ground was marked with the bodies of our
cavalry, intermixed with the soldiers of the Old Guard. The broad brow and
stalwart chest of the Saxon lay bleaching beside the bronzed and bearded
warrior of Gaul, while the torn-up ground attested the desperation of that
struggle which closed the day.
As my eye ranged over this harrowing spectacle, a dreadful anxiety shot
through me as I asked myself whose had been the victory. A certain confused
impression of flight and of pursuit remained in my mind; but at the moment,
the circumstances of my own position in the early part of the day increased
the difficulty of reflection, and left me in a state of intense and
agonizing uncertainty. Although not wounded, I had been so crushed by my
fall that it was not without pain I got upon my legs. I soon perceived
that the spot around me had not yet been visited by those vultures of the
battle-field who strip alike the dead and dying. The distance of the place
from where the great conflict of the battle had occurred was probably the
reason; and now, as the straggling sunbeams fell upon the earth, I could
trace the helmet of the Enniskilleners, or the tall bearskin of the Scotch
Greys, lying in thick confusion where the steel cuirass and long sword of
the French dragoons showed the fight had been hottest. As I turned my eyes
hither and thither I could see no living thing near me. In every attitude
of struggling agony they lay around; some buried beneath their horses, some
bathed in blood, some, with clinched hands and darting eyeballs, seemed
struggling even in death; but all was still,--not a word, not a sigh, not a
groan was there. I was turning to leave the spot, and uncertain which way
to direct my steps, looked once more around, when my glance rested upon
the pale and marble features of one who, even in that moment of doubt and
difficulty, there was no mistaking. His coat, torn widely open, was grasped
in either hand, while his breast was shattered with balls and bathed in
gore. Gashed and mutilated as he lay, still the features wore no trace of
suffering; cold, pale, motionless, but with the tranquil look of sleep, his
eyelids were closed, and his half-parted lips seemed still to quiver in
life. I knelt down beside him; I took his hand in mine; I bent over and
whispered his name; I placed my hand upon his heart, where even still the
life blood was warm,--but he was dead. Poor Hammersley! His was a gallant
soul; and as I looked upon his blood-stained corpse, my tears fell fast and
hot upon his brow to think how far I had myself been the cause of a life
blighted in its hope, and a death like his.