JUANA’S STORY.[75]
When the troops had moved forward on the morning of the 18th June, I,
as you directed, got on my horse and went to Brussels, intending to
await the result of the pending battle. On arrival I found my baggage
and servant in the great square, and an order had just arrived for the
whole of the baggage of the army to move on the road towards Antwerp,
and afterwards to cross the canal about five miles from Brussels, at a
village on the Antwerp side. On reaching the village I dismounted, the
baggage was unloaded, and West was endeavouring to get something for
me to eat in the inn. It was about five o’clock. Suddenly an alarm was
given that the enemy was upon us. West brought my mare to the door as
quickly as I could run downstairs, but from the noise, confusion, and
everything, my horse was perfectly frantic. West succeeded in tossing
me up, but my little pug, Vitty, was still below. I said, “Now, West,
give me my dog;” when, as he put her into my lap, I dropped my reins.
West, knowing I always gathered up my reins before I jumped up, let go,
and off flew the mare with such speed that, with the dog in my lap, it
was all I could do for some time to keep my seat. I had the snaffle
rein in my hand, but I could not restrain her; the curb rein was flying
loose, and I couldn’t stoop to get hold of it. She flew with me through
the streets of Malines, across a bridge over the river, the road full
of horses and baggage, still flying away, away, until I was perfectly
out of breath. I saw a waggon upset lying immediately before me across
the road, and I knew that if I could not turn her on one side, I must
inevitably be knocked to pieces. The mare would not answer my snaffle
rein, and I felt her charge the waggon as at a fence to leap it. The
height was beyond the spring of my horse. As the animal endeavoured
to leap, the loose curb rein caught. This brought her at once to a
halt, and I was precipitated on her head, pug and all. I had come at
this rate eight miles, over a road covered with mud and dirt. The mare
was as much out of breath as I was. I managed to get back into the
saddle, and felt that now was my only chance to get hold of the curb. I
succeeded in doing so, and we were then on terms of equality.
Having righted my habit, I looked back and saw some five or six men on
horseback, whom of course I construed into French Dragoons, although,
if I had considered a moment, I should have known that no Dragoon could
have come the pace _I_ did; but I was so exhausted, I exclaimed,
“Well, if I am to be taken, I had better at once surrender.” The first
horseman proved to be one of my servants, riding one of the Newmarket
horses, having taken the animal from West against his orders. The
others were a Commissary, an officer of the Hanoverian Rifles, and an
officer, I regret to say, of our own Hussars. I addressed myself to
the Hussar, who appeared the oldest of the party. “Pray, sir, is there
any danger?” (I had forgotten almost all the little English I knew in
my excitement.) “Danger, mum! When I left Brussels the French were in
pursuit down the hill.” “Oh, sir, what shall I do?” “Come on to Antwerp
with me.” He never pulled up. During the whole conversation we were
full gallop. One of the party says, “You deserve no pity. You may well
be fatigued carrying that dog. Throw it down.” I was very angry, and
said I should deserve no pity if I did.
Our pace soon brought us to Antwerp, where the Hussar was very civil,
and tried to get me a room in one of the hotels. This he soon found
was impossible, as all the English visitors at Brussels had fled
there. We must now go to the Hôtel de Ville and try for a billet.
Whilst standing there, the officer having gone inside, I was an object
of curious attention. I was wet from head to foot with the black mud
of the high-road. On my face the mud had dried, and a flood of tears
chasing each other through it down my cheeks must have given me an
odd appearance indeed. While standing on horseback there, an officer
of the English garrison, whom I did not know (he must have learnt my
name from my servant) addressed me by name. “Mrs. Smith, you are in
such a terrible plight, and such is the difficulty of your getting
in anywhere, if you will come with me, I will conduct you to Colonel
Craufurd, the Commandant of the Citadel; his wife and daughters
are most kind and amiable people, and readily, I know, would they
contribute with happiness anything to your comfort.” My situation was
not one to stand on delicacy. I therefore promptly accepted this offer,
leaving my kind Hussar in the Hôtel de Ville. When I arrived, nothing
could exceed the kindness of all, which was as striking at the moment
as it seems to me now. I was stripped from a weight of mud which, with
my long riding-habit, I could hardly move under. A shower of hot water
again showed my features, and I was put in the clothes of good Mrs.
Craufurd, a very tall woman; and in these comfortable dry clothes I was
nearly as much lost as in the case of mud I had been washed out of.
The hospitality of this night ought to have soothed me, but the agony
of hope, doubt, and fear I was in absorbed every other feeling,
although I was so sensible of kindness.
The next day [19 June] the officer who had so kindly brought me to
Colonel Craufurd came to tell me a great quantity of baggage was
momentarily arriving: could I give him any directions or clue to find
mine? In about an hour he returned with my spare horses, old trusty
West, who had never left anything behind, my baggage, and my maid.
In the afternoon we heard of the battle having been fought and won,
but no news of my husband. So, contrary to the wishes of my kind host
and hostess, I ordered my horse to be ready at three o’clock in the
morning to rejoin my husband, whatever shape fate had reduced him to.
It was all I could do to resist the importunity of those kind people
who wished me to remain. But at three o’clock [20 June] West and I
were on horseback, desiring baggage, servants, and horses to follow.
In conversation with West, I ascertained that at the village we fled
from, my mattrass, and in it my dressing-case (bought on a Sunday
at Weeks’[76]) with all my fortune, two Napoleons, had been left in
the inn. When I arrived, I asked the landlord of the little wretched
inn about it. He pretended he knew nothing, but old cunning West got
information in the stable-yard, and gave a boy five francs to conduct
him to the hayloft where my treasure was. West soon transported what
he called _ours_ to me, and upon opening it, I found my important
dressing-case there untouched. I had something in the shape of
breakfast. In the mean time my servants had arrived, the lost mattrass
was restored to the baggage, and West and I, in light marching order,
started for Brussels. We were only five miles away, and arrived by
seven in the morning.
Seeing some of our Rifle soldiers, with an eagerness which may be
imagined, I asked after my husband, when to my horror they told
me that Brigade-Major Smith of the 95th was killed. It was now my
turn to ask the “Brass Mare” to gallop, and in a state approaching
desperation I urged her to the utmost speed for the field of battle to
seek my husband’s corpse. The road from Brussels to the field almost
maddened me, with wounded men and horses, and corpses borne forward to
Brussels for interment, expecting as I was every moment to see that
of my husband, knowing how he was beloved by officers and soldiers.
The road was nearly choked which was to lead me to the completion, as
I hoped, of my life; to die on the body of the only thing I had on
earth to love, and which I loved with a faithfulness which few can
or ever did feel, and none ever exceeded. In my agony of woe, which
of course increased as my expectations were not realized (it was now
Tuesday), I approached the awful field of Sunday’s carnage, in mad
search of Enrique. I saw signs of newly dug graves, and then I imagined
to myself, “O God, he has been buried, and I shall never again behold
him!” How can I describe my suspense, the horror of my sensations,
my growing despair, the scene of carnage around me? From a distance
I saw a figure lying; I shrieked, “Oh, there he is!” I galloped on.
“No, it is not he! Find him I will, but whither shall I turn?” O ye in
peaceful homes, with every comfort around you, you wonder how I did
not sink under my afflictions, a foreigner in a strange land, thus at
once bereft of my all! I will tell you. Educated in a convent, I was
taught to appeal to God through Jesus Christ. In this my trouble I did
so. At this moment, as a guardian angel, a dear and mutual friend,
Charlie Gore, A.D.C. to Sir James Kempt, appeared to me. In my agony
and hope, hope alone of finding the body, I exclaimed, “Oh, where is
he? Where is my Enrique?” “Why, near Bavay by this time, as well as
ever he was in his life; not wounded even, nor either of his brothers.”
“Oh, dear Charlie Gore, why thus deceive me? The soldiers tell me
Brigade-Major Smith is killed. Oh, my Enrique!” “Dearest Juana, believe
me; it is poor Charles Smyth, Pack’s Brigade-Major. I swear to you, on
my honour, I left Harry riding Lochinvar in perfect health, but very
anxious about you.” “Oh, may I believe you, Charlie! my heart will
burst.” “Why should you doubt me?” “Then God has heard my prayer!”
This sudden transition from my depth of grief and maddening despair
was enough to turn my brain, but Almighty God sustained me. Gore told
me he had returned to Brussels to see poor Charlie Beckwith, who had
lost, or must lose, his leg; and that he was then in the act of looking
for the grave of our mutual friend, poor Charlie Eeles. Gore said, “I
am now going to Mons: can you muster strength to ride with me there?”
I said, “Strength? yes, for anything now!” and we reached Mons at
twelve o’clock at night. I had been on the same horse since three in
the morning, and had ridden a distance from point to point of sixty
miles; and after all the agony, despair, relief, and happiness I had
gone through in one day, I ate something, and lay down until daylight
next morning [21 June], when I rapidly pushed on to Bavay, on my really
wonderful thoroughbred mare.
I first met Sir John Lambert, who showed me where Enrique was to be
found. Until I saw him, I could not persuade myself he was well, such
a hold had my previous horror taken of my every thought and feeling.
Soon, O gracious God, I sank into his embrace, exhausted, fatigued,
happy, and grateful—oh, how grateful!—to God who had protected him, and
sustained my reason through such scenes of carnage, horror, dread, and
belief in my bereavement.
[_Narrative resumed._]
I was afterwards told all this, and I could not but reflect on what we
had all gone through since the morning we had parted with my father,
and how his prediction of a terrific struggle had been verified. Our
adventures formed the subject of a long letter, and from him came one
soon after.
“Never did I receive two letters with such pleasure as your two last
after the glorious Battle of Waterloo. For three of you, my sons, to
have been so hotly engaged, and to have come off unhurt, must not have
been chance or fate; but Providence seems to have watched over you all
and protected you. How grateful ought we all to be to the Almighty God!
I assure you my prayers have ever been offered up to the Throne of
Grace for the protection of you all, and a safe return to England.”
This letter is now on my table before me, fresh as when written,[77]
while the author, God bless him, has mixed with the earth to which
all must return. He lived to the age of 87, and died in Sept. 1843, a
strong and healthy man until within a few months of his dissolution. It
is difficult to say whether he was the more proud of having three sons
at Waterloo, or grateful to Almighty God for their preservation.