WELLINGTON.
“_Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,_
_As fits an universal woe,_
_Let the long long procession go,_
_And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,_
_And let the mournful martial music blow:_
_The last great Englishman is low._”
IT is a bleak November day in the year 1852. Vast multitudes, most of
them in the garb of mourning, throng the streets of London, and stand
for hours waiting for a great funeral procession to pass by. The muffled
bells of the churches are tolling a knell, cannon are booming their last
farewells, buildings are draped with black, the flags fly at half-mast,
and all business is suspended. Now you see the long procession
approaching, soldiers with reversed arms leading the way, and marching
with slow, reluctant step to the roll of drums and the solemn wail of
the “Dead March.” Behind them come men representing all the rank,
talent, and dignity of Great Britain, as well as the distinguished
mourners which foreign sovereigns have sent to represent them on the
solemn occasion. Many of the older spectators barely stifle their sobs
as a riderless steed is led by, with reversed jack-boots in the
stirrups. He who has bestridden this war-charger was well known to them.
They remember all his greatness in the past; they recall him as a
familiar figure in the streets and in Parliament. But, hush! here is the
towering car upon which lies all that remains of him. Every head is
bared, and in deep, solemn silence the sad pageant passes.
“All is over and done:
Render thanks to the Giver,
England, for thy son.
Let the bell be toll’d.
Render thanks to the Giver,
And render him to the mould.
Under the cross of gold
That shines over city and river,
There he shall rest for ever,
Among the wise and the bold.”
Side by side with that Mighty Seaman, “saviour of the silver-coasted
isle,” they bury the Great Duke “to the noise of the mourning of a
mighty nation.”
Who was this Great Duke, and why does “sorrow darken hamlet and hall” at
his passing? Let the story of his life and fame be told.
Arthur Wellesley, afterwards Duke of Wellington, was born in 1769, less
than four months before Napoleon. His father was the Earl of Mornington,
an Irish peer, and Dublin still shows the house, 24 Upper Merrion
Street, where he was born. In 1787, when eighteen years of age,
Wellesley became an ensign in the army, but was at first quite
undistinguished, and was, indeed, considered dull, idle, and rather
frivolous. Not until 1793, when he was appointed to the command of his
regiment, did he show that he had found the vocation in which he was to
win such renown.
In 1798 his eldest brother sailed for India as governor-general, and
Arthur Wellesley accompanied him. Soon afterwards he was given a
military command, and speedily proved himself a most active and
successful general. In 1805 Wellesley was back in England, and for the
next few years he was employed in various capacities. During the year
after his return he became a member of Parliament, and was frequently
consulted on military matters by the ministry of the day.
The little kingdom of Portugal was almost the last European nation which
refused to join Napoleon. He therefore overran the country and entered
Lisbon. The king was deposed, and Joseph, Napoleon’s brother, was placed
on the throne. Thus the whole Iberian Peninsula passed into Napoleon’s
power. These high-handed proceedings roused the nations to another
struggle against him. An insurrection broke out in Spain and Portugal,
which even Napoleon could not stamp out. The British Government eagerly
seized the opportunity of waging a land-war with Napoleon. Arms and
money were sent to the Spaniards, and on August 1, 1808, an army was
landed in Portugal. Wellesley was given the command of a force of some
9,000 men, and was instructed to assist either the Spaniards or the
Portuguese at his discretion. He sailed on the 12th of July, and,
landing his men, moved towards Lisbon. This was a bold step, for the
French general, Junot, had been in occupation of the Portuguese capital
since November.
On the 21st of August he defeated Junot on the hillside at Vimiera, and
Lisbon would have been captured and the whole French army destroyed had
Wellesley been permitted to pursue. A superior officer, however, had now
arrived, and Wellesley was no longer first in command. Nevertheless, so
decisive was the fight that Junot offered to leave Portugal altogether,
provided he and his troops were permitted to return unmolested to
France. This offer was accepted, greatly to the annoyance of the British
people, who were sorely disappointed that the whole French army had not
been captured.
Wellesley and his superior officer were recalled and tried for not
capturing Lisbon. The latter was deprived of his command; the former was
sent back to Portugal. And now Wellington began that long, dogged
struggle known as the Peninsular War, a six years’ contest in which he
displayed wonderful generalship, foresight, and tenacity, and finally
drove the French out of Spain and captured Toulouse. Before it was over
he had been raised to the peerage, and as Viscount Wellington was
universally regarded as Britain’s greatest soldier.
In the fourth year of Wellington’s struggle in Spain the Tsar Alexander,
tired of submitting to Napoleon’s mastery, defiantly opened his ports to
trade with Britain. Napoleon thereupon declared war on him, and marched
a vast army of 600,000 men into Russia. A miserable, crushed remnant of
20,000 men was all that struggled back to Germany. This terrible blow
led to a general rising of European powers against Napoleon. Russia,
Prussia, Austria, and Sweden allied their forces, and Napoleon found
himself beset on all sides, and with no army to meet his foes.
After the first outburst of dismay, France rallied to him as of old, and
gave him the new army for which he asked. The terrible waste of life
during the stormy years since the Revolution had pressed heavily on his
people, and now half-grown lads of seventeen were called to the
standards. They came willingly, and once more the old enthusiasm
prevailed. Within six months Napoleon had 200,000 men ready to meet the
Russians and Prussians on the Elbe. Twice he smote the allies, and
forced them to seek an armistice. Then the fortune of war abandoned him,
and at Leipzig, in what the Germans call “the battle of the nations,” he
was defeated and forced to retreat to France.
By this time success had crowned Wellington’s efforts in Spain. He had
made satisfactory soldiers of the Portuguese, and the Spaniards had
greatly improved. While Napoleon was marching into Russia, Wellington
had stormed Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, and had won a great battle at
Salamanca, where he “beat 40,000 men in forty minutes.” This battle was
his masterpiece. “There was no mistake,” he said; “everything went as it
ought, and there never was an army so beaten in so short a time.”
Then Wellington took Madrid, which had been four years in the hands of
the enemy; but as the French massed their forces against him, he had to
retire towards the Portuguese border. In 1813 he attacked the French at
Vittoria, routed them, cut off their retreat, and drove them back across
the Pyrenees with the loss of every cannon and wagon which they
possessed. While the allies were swarming into France, Wellington, with
100,000 veteran troops, stood ready to fall upon her.
The end now rapidly approached. Napoleon struggled heroically with the
remnant of the army which had been defeated at Leipzig, but in vain.
Time after time he checked the invaders; but numbers triumphed at last,
and the allies entered Paris on March 31, 1814, where the fickle
populace received them with shouts of joy.
Napoleon was now sent to the little Italian island of Elba, where he
played at being king for eight or nine months. All the time he was
watching affairs in France very closely and was biding his time. In 1814
ambassadors from nearly all the Powers assembled at Vienna to settle the
affairs of Europe. There were constant wrangles, and at one time the
tension was so acute that war seemed likely to break out again.
Suddenly, on March 7, 1815, a messenger arrived with news that
immediately ended their quarrels and, in the face of a new and alarming
danger, brought them shoulder to shoulder. The Tsar said to Wellington,
who was one of the commissioners, “It is for you to save Europe.” What
had happened?
Napoleon had landed in France, and was making a triumphant progress
towards Paris. The Bourbon Government, which had been installed by the
Powers, melted away like snow before the summer sun. Everywhere
Napoleon’s old soldiers donned the cockade and flocked to his standards.
Whole regiments deserted; the wonderful fascination which the emperor
exercised upon his followers once more asserted itself. Marshal Ney, who
had promised King Lewis to bring back the invader in an iron cage, fell
a victim to the charm of his old chief as soon as he met him. Lewis and
his friends fled the country, and Napoleon once more occupied the
Tuileries. During the next hundred days he displayed all his old energy
and daring. By the 13th of June he had nearly 200,000 men available for
war.
Meanwhile the Powers had not been idle. They bound themselves to raise a
million armed men, and never to rest from their labours until Napoleon
was finally crushed. In a few months an overwhelming force of allies
would be marshalled. In the meantime, the only troops available were
those of the British and Prussian armies, now in Belgium, and commanded
by Wellington and Blücher respectively.
Now let us pay a visit to the most renowned battlefield in all the
world, the field on which the destinies of Europe were changed and the
great Emperor of the French was hurled from a throne to a prison and a
grave. We are in the village of Waterloo, eleven miles south of
Brussels, the capital of Belgium. Leaving Waterloo, we traverse a road
bordered on both sides by houses, and after having walked a couple of
miles we arrive at the village of Mont St. Jean. Here two roads meet,
both of which cross the battlefield.
Now we push on beyond the cross-roads to an obelisk in memory of the
Germans who fell in the battle. A quarter of a mile to the right rises
the mound of the Belgian Lion. It is two hundred feet in height, and was
thrown up on the spot where the Prince of Orange was wounded in the
battle. Surmounting it is a lion made out of the metal of captured
French cannon. We ascend the mound, and facing south find ourselves in
the best position to survey the battlefield. Unfortunately, the levels
of the ground have been much altered by the earth removed to form the
mound. Still from our coign of vantage we may get a good general idea of
the position occupied by both armies on June 18, 1815.
We are now on the ridge of a long chain of low hills with gentle slopes.
On this ridge Wellington extended his first line of troops. The ridge,
as you will observe, is narrow, so that the second line was enabled to
occupy a sheltered position on the sloping ground behind us. One mile
distant, across a shallow valley, is another line of hills. These were
occupied by the French. Now notice a farmhouse on the main road to our
left. This is La Haye Sainte, which was occupied by German troops, and
protected the allied centre. Follow the road across the battlefield, and
you will come to the farm of La Belle Alliance. During the greater part
of the battle Napoleon took up his station a little to the right of this
house, where a French monument now stands. Were you to push on along
this road for seven or eight miles you would come to Quatre Bras (“four
arms”), from which place two roads lead to the river Sambre.
Now look along the road to our right front and observe the chateau of
Hougoumont, which was an old ruined place even in 1815. This building,
which still bears traces of the fearful scenes that took place about it,
was on the right of the allied line, and formed the key to the position.
Hougoumont was strengthened by Wellington, and though continually
assaulted was never captured. Had Napoleon once gained possession of it,
the battle would probably have had quite a different ending. Now that we
have surveyed the chief points of interest on the field, let us turn to
the battle itself.
By the beginning of June Napoleon had concentrated one hundred and
twenty thousand men on the Sambre at Charleroi, ready to advance when he
should arrive to take command. Wellington’s army was scattered in
various places from Nivelles westward, while Blücher’s was extended from
the same place eastward. Wellington’s plan was to unite his forces with
those of Blücher at Quatre Bras, and block Napoleon’s advance. Napoleon,
however, was determined to prevent the allied generals from uniting
their forces. His plan was to fall upon them before they could
concentrate, and defeat them piecemeal.
When Blücher reached Ligny, with eighty thousand men, Napoleon met him,
and a desperate battle ensued in which the Prussian general suffered
terrible loss, but, still undefeated, retreated in good order on Wavre,
so that he might join Wellington at Waterloo, according to a previous
arrangement which he had made with Wellington. Napoleon thought that the
Prussians were retreating on the Rhine, and detached thirty-three
thousand men under Grouchy to hang on their rear. Grouchy missed the
Prussians, and his troops took no part in the great battle.
On the same day Ney, with twenty thousand men, appeared before Quatre
Bras, where only ten thousand British and an equal force of Belgians had
been able to assemble. The Belgians fled before the French cavalry, but
the British infantry kept up a dogged resistance while corps after corps
was hurried up. At the close of the day Ney saw that he was outnumbered,
and withdrew, while Wellington retreated to the line of heights upon
which we are now gazing.
Napoleon now pushed on to measure swords with Wellington in person for
the first time. On Sunday morning, the 18th of June, the two armies
faced each other. As Napoleon looked across the valley and saw the
British redcoats on the rising ground opposite, he cried, “I have them.”
He had good reason to believe that he would win. His forces numbered
between seventy and eighty thousand men, and he was superior both in
guns and in cavalry to his foes. Wellington had about sixty-seven
thousand men; but his British troops were mainly raw recruits, and the
rest of his forces were very mixed, and included the Belgians who had
already fled before the French cavalry.
The preceding night had been wet and stormy, and when morning broke
Napoleon considered the ground too heavy for cavalry. He therefore
delayed the opening of the battle until between eleven and twelve in the
forenoon. This delay was fatal. Time was most important to both
commanders. Napoleon knew well that he must beat Wellington before
Blücher could join him; Wellington, on the other hand, was determined to
hold his ground to the last man, so as to give the Prussians time to
come up in force and settle the issue of the day.
The battle began with a fierce attack on Hougoumont; but it was held
right manfully by the British Guards, and though the French won the
gardens and orchards, they could not drive the defenders from the
buildings. Then Napoleon sent his heavy columns against the British
left, but they were utterly routed. His third effort was against the
British centre, which he tried to break by heavy artillery fire and
furious cavalry charges.
The British formed square, and, though assailed for five hours, held
fast. They seemed, said an onlooker, “rooted” to the earth. Every
attempt to pierce them failed, until even the British privates saw the
uselessness of the attempt, and cried, as Napoleon’s squadrons charged
them, “Here come those fools again.” Every attempt to take the ridge was
repulsed with terrible slaughter. At last, in the thick of the fighting,
the cannon of the advancing Prussians were heard, and Napoleon made one
last desperate effort to break the British line.
La Haye Sainte was captured about six in the evening, and Napoleon’s
cannon were now so near that Wellington’s centre was in dire danger.
Blücher was rapidly drawing near, and already he was threatening the
French right and rear. Like a desperate gambler, Napoleon now staked all
on a charge of the Old Guard. A little after seven he gave the word, and
six thousand of his veterans, led by Marshal Ney, were hurled at the
long-tried British. As the French rushed up the slope, the British
Guards, who had been lying down behind the top of the ridge, sprang to
their feet and poured a volley into the enemy. Their columns wavered,
and our soldiers charged with the bayonet, hurling the enemy down the
hill in utter confusion. Soon after eight o’clock the Prussians made
their appearance on the scene, and speedily Napoleon found himself
assailed on his flank by forty thousand men.
At this juncture, “on the ridge, near the Guards, his figure standing
out amidst the smoke against the bright north-eastern sky, Wellington
was seen to raise his hat with a noble gesture—the signal for the
wasted line of heroes to sweep like a dark wave from their covered
positions, and roll out their lines and columns over the plains. With a
pealing cheer the whole line advanced just as the sun was sinking.” In
vain the French Guards rallied, only to be swept away by the fierce
British charges. When darkness fell, the whole French army was in
flight. The Prussians went in hot pursuit, and before long the proud
French army of the morning was almost annihilated. Wellington and
Blücher had lost twenty-two thousand men. The French loss will never be
known.
The battle was decisive; the long struggle was at an end; and Napoleon’s
star had set. He put spurs to his horse, and rode hard through the
midsummer night to escape capture. Fearing death at the hands of the
Prussians, he surrendered himself to the captain of the British
man-of-war _Bellerophon_. The British Government banished him to the
lonely isle of St. Helena, where he languished in captivity until his
death in 1821.
But what of the victor of Waterloo—
“Foremost captain of his time,
Rich in saving common sense,
And, as the greatest only are,
In his simplicity sublime.”
He was no callous victor, regarding his men merely as pawns in the great
game. When he learnt the death-roll of the battle he burst into tears.
Scarcely one of those who had fought side by side with him in the
Peninsula remained to share the joy of victory. To the end of his days
he was an ardent advocate of peace. “Only those who have seen it,” he
said, “can possibly know how terrible war is.” The nation’s gratitude
flowed out to him as a river; the meanest intelligence could appreciate
the overwhelming importance of the victory which he had won. Never did
such vast issues rest on a single battle; never did Britain stand so
high among the nations as after Waterloo. All possible honours were
heaped upon him. He received the thanks of both Houses of Parliament and
a vote of £200,000 wherewith to purchase the estate of Strathfieldsaye;
while foreign nations vied with each other in awarding him gifts and
titles.
He was but forty-six years of age when the crowning victory of his life
was accomplished, and for the next quarter of a century he was rightly
regarded as one of the pillars of the State. In 1828 he became Prime
Minister; but though wise, moderate, and inspired by a high sense of
duty, he did not prove himself a great statesman. At one time he was
actually the subject of the nation’s wrath; but as the years went by he
recovered all his old popularity, and that without striving in the least
to regain it.
He died in his eighty-third year, and you already know how this “last
great Englishman” was borne to his grave amidst sorrowing crowds. And
here, side by side with Nelson, we leave him—the two great captains of
the British race, who teach to all future times that the “path of duty”
is “the way to glory.”
[Illustration: =The Meeting of Wellington and Blücher after the Battle of
Waterloo.=
(_From the fresco by Daniel Maclise, R.A., in the Houses of
Parliament._)]
[Illustration: =QUEEN VICTORIA IN HER CORONATION ROBES.=
(_From the picture by Sir George Hayter in the Royal Collection._)]
[Illustration]