HARRY SMITH AND HIS WIFE START TOGETHER FOR THE WATERLOO
CAMPAIGN—GHENT—BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
My wife and I and my brother Charles were to start in a chaise at
three o’clock the next morning. I never saw my poor father suffer so
much as at thus parting from three of us at once, and feeling that his
companion, my wife, was lost to him. He said, “Napoleon and Wellington
will meet, a battle will ensue of a kind never before heard of, and I
cannot expect to see you all again.”
We reached Harwich in the afternoon, found West, his horses, and
all our things right, and went to the Black Bull, from whence I
had embarked years before for Gottenburgh. There we found my old
acquaintance, the landlord, Mr. Briton, a man as civil as full of
information. He said I had no chance of embarking at Harwich, unless I
freighted a small craft that he would look out, and fitted it up for my
horses.
Next day I came to terms with the skipper of a sloop of a few tons’
burden, himself and a boy the crew. I couldn’t help thinking of the
74’s and frigates in which I had been flying over the ocean. We
measured it, and found there was just room for the horses, and a hole
aft, called a cabin, for my wife and self and brother. I did not intend
to embark the horses till the wind was fair—a fortunate plan, for I
was detained in the Black Bull by foul winds for a fortnight. The wind
becoming fair, in the afternoon we embarked all our traps. Mr. Briton
amply provided us with provisions and forage, and brought his bill for
myself, wife, brother, two grooms, five horses, lady’s maid, sea stock,
etc. I expected it to be fifty or sixty pounds; it was twenty-four
and some shillings, and we had lived on the fat of the land, for
having been half-starved so many years, when once in the flesh-pots of
England, we revelled in a plenty which we could scarcely fancy would
last.
A gentle breeze carried us over to Ostend in twenty-four hours,
where we landed our horses by slinging them and dropping them into
the sea to swim ashore. My wife’s noble mare, which we called the
“Brass Mare” after her son of that ilk, when in the slings and in
sight of the shore, neighed most gallantly, and my wife declared it
an omen of brilliant success. We went to the great inn of Ostend. The
difference between it and our late bivouac, the Black Bull, is not to
be described. I found an English horse-dealer there. I bought two mules
of him and a stout Flanders pony for our baggage, and in three days we
were _en route_ for Ghent, stopping one night at Bruges, where was an
excellent inn, and the best Burgundy I had drunk up to that hour. My
wife was delighted to be once more in campaigning trim.
When we reached Ghent we found Sir John Lambert had reached it the day
before. Louis XVIII. was there, his Court and idlers, and Ghent was in
as great a state of excitement as if the Duke of Marlborough was again
approaching. I found our Brigade were all New Orleans Regiments—three
of the best regiments of the old Army of the Peninsula, the 4th, 27th,
and 40th, and the 81st in garrison at Brussels. We were ordered to be
in perfect readiness to take the field with the warning[70] we had been
so many years accustomed to.
Louis held a Court while we were there. I was near the door he entered
by. He was very inactive, but impressive in manner. He laid his hand on
my shoulder to support himself. His great topic of conversation was how
delighted he was to see us, and how much he was indebted to our nation.
A more benign countenance I never beheld, nor did his subsequent reign
belie the benignity of his expression.
While at Ghent I waited on Sir John Lambert every morning just after
breakfast for orders. On one occasion we heard a voice thundering in
the passage to him, “Hallo there, where the devil’s the door?” I went
out, and to my astonishment saw our noble friend Admiral Malcolm. “Why,
where the devil has Lambert stowed himself? The house is as dark as
a sheer hulk.” He was delighted to see us, and sang out, “Come, bear
a hand and get me some breakfast; no regular hours on shore as in the
_Royal Oak_.” He had been appointed to the command of the coast. He
was very much attached to the Duke. During our stay at Ghent we had
Brigade parades almost every day, and my General, an ex-Adjutant of the
Guards, was most particular in all guard mountings, sentries, and all
the correct minutiæ of garrison. The three regiments were in beautiful
fighting trim, although the headquarters ship with the Grenadiers, the
27th, had not arrived from America. Poor 27th! in a few days they had
not two hundred men in the ranks.
As we anticipated, our march from Ghent was very sudden. In an hour
after the order arrived we moved _en route_ for Brussels. We reached
Asche on the afternoon of the 16th June. The rapid and continuous
firing at Quatre Bras, as audible as if we were in the fight, put us in
mind of old times, as well as on the _qui vive_. We expected an order
every moment to move on. We believed the firing to be at Fleurus. As we
approached Brussels the next day [17 June], we met an orderly with a
letter from that gallant fellow De Lancey, Q.M.G., to direct us to move
on Quatre Bras.
In the afternoon, after we passed Brussels, the scene of confusion,
the flying of army, baggage, etc., was an awful novelty to us. We were
directed by a subsequent order to halt at the village of Epinay, on
the Brussels side of the forest of Soignies, a report having reached
his Grace that the enemy’s cavalry were threatening our communication
with Brussels (as we understood, at least). The whole afternoon we
were in a continued state of excitement. Once some rascals of the
Cumberland Hussars, a new Corps of Hanoverians (not of the style of our
noble and gallant old comrades, the 1st Hussars), came galloping in,
declaring they were pursued by Frenchmen. Our bugles were blowing in
all directions, and our troops running to their alarm-posts in front of
the village. I went to report to Sir John Lambert, who was just sitting
quietly down to dinner with my wife and his A.D.C. He says very coolly,
“Let the troops——; this is all nonsense; there is not a French soldier
in the rear of his Grace, depend on it, and sit down to dinner.” I set
off, though, and galloped to the front, where a long line of baggage
was leisurely retiring. This was a sufficient indication that the alarm
was false, and I dismissed the troops and started for the _débris_ of
a magnificent turbot which the General’s butler had brought out of
Brussels. This was in the afternoon.
Such a thunderstorm and deluge of rain now came on, it drenched all
that was exposed to it, and in a few minutes rendered the country deep
in mud and the roads very bad. All night our baggage kept retiring
through the village.
In the course of the night, Lambert’s Brigade were ordered to move
up to the position the Duke had taken up in front of the forest of
Soignies, and our march was very much impeded by waggons upset,
baggage thrown down, etc. [18 June]. We met Sir George Scovell, an
A.Q.M.G. at head-quarters, who said he was sent by the Duke to see the
rear was clear, that it was choked between this and the Army, and the
Duke expected to be attacked immediately; our Brigade must clear the
road before we moved on. Our men were on fire at the idea of having to
remain and clear a road when an attack was momentarily expected, and
an hour would bring us to the position. The wand of a magician, with
all his spells and incantations, could not have effected a clear course
sooner than our 3000 soldiers of the old school.
This effected, General Lambert sent me on to the Duke for orders.
I was to find the Duke himself, and receive orders from no other
person. About 11 o’clock I found his Grace and all his staff near
Hougoumont. The day was beautiful after the storm, although the
country was very heavy. When I rode up, he said, “Hallo, Smith, where
are you from last?” “From General Lambert’s Brigade, and they from
America.” “What have you got?” “The 4th, the 27th, and the 40th; the
81st remain in Brussels.” “Ah, I know, I know; but the others, are
they in good order?” “Excellent, my lord, and very strong.” “That’s
all right, for I shall soon want every man.” One of his staff said,
“I do not think they will attack to-day.” “Nonsense,” said the Duke.
“The columns are already forming, and I think I have discerned where
the weight of the attack will be made. I shall be attacked before an
hour. Do you know anything of my position, Smith?” “Nothing, my lord,
beyond what I see—the general line, and right and left.” “Go back and
halt Lambert’s Brigade at the junction of the two great roads from
Genappe and Nivelles. Did you observe their junction as you rode up?”
“Particularly, my lord.” “Having halted the head of the Brigade and
told Lambert what I desire, ride to the left of the position. On the
extreme left is the Nassau Brigade[71]—those fellows who came over to
us at Arbonne, you recollect.[72] Between them and Picton’s Division
(now the 5th) I shall most probably require Lambert. There is already
there a Brigade of newly-raised Hanoverians, which Lambert will give
orders to, as they and your Brigade form the 6th Division. You are the
only British Staff Officer with it. Find out, therefore, the best and
shortest road from where Lambert is now halted to the left of Picton
and the right of the Nassau troops. Do you understand?” “Perfectly, my
lord.” I had barely turned from his Grace when he called me back. “Now,
clearly understand that when Lambert is ordered to move from the fork
of the two roads where he is now halted, you are prepared to conduct
him to Picton’s left.” It was delightful to see his Grace that morning
on his noble horse Copenhagen—in high spirits and very animated, but
so cool and so clear in the issue of his orders, it was impossible not
fully to comprehend what he said; delightful also to observe what his
wonderful eye anticipated, while some of his staff were of opinion the
attack was not in progress.
I had hardly got back to Lambert, after reconnoitring the country and
preparing myself to conduct the troops, when the Battle of Waterloo
commenced. We soon saw that where we should be moved to, the weight of
the attack on Picton would be resisted by none but British soldiers.
For a few seconds, while every regiment was forming square, and the
charge of Ponsonby’s Brigade going on (which the rising ground in
our front prevented us seeing), it looked as if the formation was
preparatory to a retreat. Many of the rabble of Dutch troops were
flying towards us, and, to add to the confusion, soon after came a
party of dragoons, bringing with them three eagles and some prisoners.
I said to General Lambert, “We shall have a proper brush immediately,
for it looks as if our left will be immediately turned, and the brunt
of the charge will fall on us.” At this moment we were ordered to
move to the very spot where the Duke, _early in the morning_, had
expected we should be required. Picton had been killed, Sir James Kempt
commanded on the left of the road to Genappe, near La Haye Sainte;
his Division had been already severely handled, and we took their
position, my old Battalion of Riflemen remaining with us.
The Battle of Waterloo has been too often described, and nonsense
enough written about the Crisis,[73] for me to add to it. Every moment
was a crisis, and the controversialists had better have left the
discussion on the battle-field. Every Staff officer had two or three
(and one four) horses shot under him. I had one wounded in six, another
in seven places, but not seriously injured. The fire was terrific,
especially of cannon.
Late in the day, when the enemy had made his last great effort on
our centre, the field was so enveloped in smoke that nothing was
discernible. The firing ceased on both sides, and we on the left knew
that one party or the other was beaten. This was the most anxious
moment of my life. In a few seconds we saw the red-coats in the centre,
as stiff as rocks, and the French columns retiring rapidly, and there
was such a British shout as rent the air. We all felt then to whom the
day belonged. It was time the “Crisis” should arrive, for we had been
at work some hours, and the hand of death had been most unsparing.
One Regiment, the 27th, had only two officers left—Major Hume, who
commanded from the beginning of the battle, and another—and they were
both wounded, and only a hundred and twenty soldiers were left with
them.
At this moment I saw the Duke, with only one Staff officer remaining,
galloping furiously to the left. I rode on to meet him. “Who commands
here?” “Generals Kempt and Lambert, my lord.” “Desire them to get into
a column of companies of Battalions, and move on immediately.” I said,
“In which direction, my lord?” “Right ahead, to be sure.” I never saw
his Grace so animated. The _Crisis_ was general, from one end of the
line to the other.
That evening at dark we halted, literally on the ground we stood on;
not a picquet was required, and our whole cavalry in pursuit. Then
came the dreadful tale of killed and wounded; it was enormous, and
every moment the loss of a dear friend was announced. To my wonder,
my astonishment, and to my gratitude to Almighty God, I and my two
brothers—Tom, the Adjutant of the 2nd Battalion Rifle Brigade, who had,
during the day, attracted the Duke’s attention by his gallantry, and
Charles, in the 1st Battalion, who had been fighting for two days—were
all safe and unhurt, except that Charles had a slight wound in the
neck. In the thunderstorm the previous evening he had tied a large silk
handkerchief over his stock; he forgot to take it off, and probably
owed his life to so trifling a circumstance. There was not an instance
throughout the Army of _two_ brothers in the field escaping.[74] We
were three, and I could hardly credit my own eyes. We had nothing to
eat or drink. I had some tea in my writing-case, but no sugar. It had
been carried by an orderly, although in the ranks. He found me out
after the battle, and I made some tea in a soldier’s tin for Sir James
Kempt, Sir John Lambert, and myself; and while we were thus regaling,
up came my brother, of whose safety I was not aware.
Captain McCulloch of the 95th Regiment wished to see me. He was a
dear friend whom I had not seen since he was awfully wounded at Foz
d’Aruz [Foz de Aronce] on Massena’s retreat, after having had seven
sabre-wounds at the Coa, in Massena’s advance, and been taken prisoner.
He was in a cottage near, awfully wounded. I found him lying in great
agony, but very composed. “Oh, Harry, so long since we have met, and
now again under such painful circumstances; but, thank God, you and Tom
are all right.” I had brought all my remaining tea, which he ravenously
swallowed. The ball had dreadfully broken the elbow of the sound arm,
and had passed right through the fleshy part of his back, while the
broken bone of the arm previously shattered at Foz d’Aruz was still
exfoliating, and very painful even after a lapse of years. I got hold
of a surgeon, and his arm was immediately amputated. When dressed, he
lay upon the stump, as this was less painful than the old exfoliating
wound, and on his back he could not lie. He recovered, but was never
afterwards able to feed himself or put on his hat, and died, Heaven
help him, suddenly of dysentery.
No one, but those who have witnessed the awful scene, knows the horrors
of a field of battle—the piles of the dead, the groans of the dying,
the agony of those dreadfully wounded, to whom frequently no assistance
can be rendered at the moment; some still in perfect possession of
their intellect, game to the last, regarding their recovery as more
than probable, while the clammy perspiration of death has already
pounced upon its victim; others, again, perfectly sensible of their
dissolution, breathing into your keeping the feelings and expressions
of their last moments—messages to father, mother, wife, or dearest
relatives. Well might Walter Scott say—
“Thou canst not name one tender tie
But here dissolved its relics lie.”
Often have I myself, tired and exhausted in such scenes, almost
regretted the life I have adopted, in which one never knows at any
moment how near or distant one’s own turn may be. In such dejection
you sink into a profound sleep, and you stand up next morning in fresh
spirits. Your country’s calls, your excitement, honour and glory,
again impel, and undauntedly and cheerfully you expose that life which
the night before you fancied was of value. A soldier’s life is one
continued scene of excitement, hope, anticipation; fear for himself he
never knows, though the loss of his comrade pierces his heart.
Before daylight next morning [19 June] a Staff officer whose name
I now forget, rode up to where we were all lying, and told us of
the complete _déroute_ of the French, and the vigorous pursuit of
the Prussians, and that it was probable that our Division would
not move for some hours. At daylight I was on horseback, with a
heart of gratitude as became me, and anxious to let my wife know
I was all right. I took a party of each Regiment of my Division
with me, and went back to the field; for I was now established as
Assistant-Quartermaster-General.
I had been over many a field of battle, but with the exception of
one spot at New Orleans, and the breach of Badajos, I had never seen
anything to be compared with what I saw. At Waterloo the _whole_ field
from right to left was a mass of dead bodies. In one spot, to the
right of La Haye Sainte, the French Cuirassiers were literally piled
on each other; many soldiers not wounded lying under their horses;
others, fearfully wounded, occasionally with their horses struggling
upon their wounded bodies. The sight was sickening, and I had no means
or power to assist them. Imperative duty compelled me to the field of
my comrades, where I had plenty to do to assist many who had been left
out all night; some had been believed to be dead, but the spark of life
had returned. All over the field you saw officers, and as many soldiers
as were permitted to leave the ranks, leaning and weeping over some
dead or dying brother or comrade. The battle was fought on a Sunday,
the 18th June, and I repeated to myself a verse from the Psalms of that
day—91st Psalm, 7th verse: “A thousand shall fall beside thee, and ten
thousand at thy right hand, but it shall not come nigh thee.” I blessed
Almighty God our Duke was spared, and galloped to my General, whom I
found with some breakfast awaiting my arrival.
So many accounts and descriptions have been given of the Battle of
Waterloo, I shall only make one or two observations. To those who say
the ultimate success of the day was achieved by the arrival of the
Prussians, I observe that the Prussians were part of the whole on which
his Grace calculated, as much as on the co-operation of one of his own
Divisions; that they ought to have been in the field much sooner, and
by their late arrival seriously endangered his Grace’s left flank;
and had Napoleon pushed the weight of his attack and precipitated
irresistible numbers on our left, he would have forced the Duke to
throw back his left and break our communication with the Prussians. The
Duke’s army was a heterogeneous mass, not the old Peninsular veterans;
young 2nd Battalions most of them, others intermixed with the rabble
of our allied army. Thus the Duke could not have counter-manœuvred on
his left, as he would have been able with his old army; and we had one
Division under Colville far away to our right.
Napoleon fought the battle badly; his attacks were not simultaneous,
but partial and isolated, and enabled the Duke to repel each by
a concentration. His cavalry was sacrificed early in the day. If
Napoleon did not desire to turn our left flank, and the battle is to
be regarded as a fight hand to hand, he fought it badly.
By a general attack upon our line with his overpowering force
of artillery, followed up by his infantry, he might have put
_hors-de-combat_ far more of our army than he did. His cavalry would
have been fresh, and had he employed this devoted and gallant auxiliary
late in the day as he did early, his attempts to defeat us would have
been far more formidable.
His artillery and cavalry behaved most nobly, but I maintain his
infantry did not. In proof, I will record one example. On the left,
in front of the 5th Division, 25,000 of the Young Guard attacked in
column. Picton was just killed, and Kempt commanded. It is true this
column advanced under a galling fire, but it succeeded in reaching
the spot where it intended to deploy. Kempt ordered the Battalion
immediately opposite the head of the column to charge. It was a poor
miserable Battalion compared with some of ours, yet did it dash like
British soldiers at the column, which went about. Then it was that
Ponsonby’s Brigade got in among them, and took eagles and prisoners.
As a battle of science, it was demonstrative of no manœuvre. It was no
Salamanca or Vittoria, where science was so beautifully exemplified:
it was as a stand-up fight between two pugilists, “mill away” till one
is beaten. The Battle of Waterloo, with all its political glory, has
destroyed the field movement of the British Army, so scientifically
laid down by Dundas, so improved on by that hero of war and of drill,
Sir John Moore. All that light-troop duty which he taught, by which
the world through the medium of the Spanish War was saved, is now
replaced by the most heavy of manœuvres, by squares, centre formations,
and moving in masses, which require time to collect and equal time to
extend; and all because the Prussians and Russians did not know how to
move quicker, we, forsooth, must adopt their ways, although Picton’s
Division at Quatre Bras nobly showed that British infantry can resist
cavalry in any shape. It is true the Buffs were awfully mauled at
Albuera, but what did my kind patron, Sir William Stewart, order them
to do? They were in open column of companies right in front, and it
was necessary at once to deploy into line, which Sir William with his
light 95th had been accustomed to do on any company: he orders them,
therefore, to deploy on the Grenadiers; by this the right would become
the left, what in common parlance is termed “clubbed;” and while he
was doing this, he kept advancing the Grenadiers. It is impossible
to imagine a battalion in a more helpless position, and it never can
be cited as any criterion that a battalion must be in squares to
resist cavalry. At the Battle of Fuentes d’Oñoro, the overwhelming
French cavalry, having rapidly put back our very inferior force, were
upon a regiment of infantry of the 7th Division, to the right of the
Light Division, before either were aware. The French advance of the
Chasseurs Britanniques, I think (it was _one_ of the mongrels, as we
called those corps, anyhow), was imposing, heavy, and rapid (I was
close to the left of our infantry at the time), but it made not the
slightest impression on the regiment in line; on the contrary, the
Chasseurs were repulsed with facility and loss.
But to return to our narrative. A party was sent to bury the dead of
each regiment as far as possible. For the Rifle Brigade, my brother
Charles was for the duty. In gathering the dead bodies, he saw among
the dead of our soldiers the body of a French officer of delicate mould
and appearance. On examining it, he found it was that of a delicate,
young, and handsome female. My story ends here, but such is the fact.
What were the circumstances of devotion, passion, or patriotism which
led to such heroism, is, and ever will be, to me a mystery. Love,
depend upon it.
That afternoon we moved forward by the Nivelles road. I had to go into
my General’s room. I was not aware he was there, and entered abruptly.
He was changing his shirt, when I saw he had received a most violent
contusion on his right arm. It was fearfully swelled (in those days
our coat-sleeves were made very large), and as black as ebony from the
shoulder to the wrist. “My dear General,” I said, “what an arm! I did
not know you had been wounded.” “No, nor you never would, if accident
had not shown you.” He made me promise to say nothing, about which I
compromised by saying, “To no one but to a surgeon, whom you must see.
An arm in that state, if inflammation succeed, might slough, and you
would lose it.” The General would not see a surgeon, and thank God he
got well.
But turn we now to the poor wife. I left her at daylight on the 18th,
prepared to get on her horse and go to Brussels, to await the result of
the storm of war which I had prepared her for. Her tale of wonder must
form a separate and distinct narrative.