The day on which the battle of Waterloo was fought seemed to have been
chosen by some providential accident for which human wisdom is unable
to account. On the morning of the 18th the sun shone most gloriously,
and so clear was the atmosphere that we could see the long, imposing
lines of the enemy most distinctly. Immediately in front of the
division to which I belonged, and, I should imagine, about half a mile
from us, were posted cavalry and artillery; and to the right and left
the French had already engaged us, attacking Huguemont and La Haye
Sainte. We heard incessantly the measured boom of artillery,
accompanied by the incessant rattling echoes of musketry.
The whole of the British infantry not actually engaged were at that
time formed into squares; and as you looked along our lines, it seemed
as if we formed a continuous wall of human beings. I recollect
distinctly being able to see Bonaparte and his staff; and some of my
brother officers using the glass, exclaimed, "There he is on his white
horse." I should not forget to state that when the enemy's artillery
began to play on us, we had orders to lie down, when we could hear the
shot and shell whistling around us, killing and wounding great numbers;
then again we were ordered on our knees to receive cavalry. The French
artillery--which consisted of three hundred guns, though we did not
muster more than half that number--committed terrible havoc during the
early part of the battle, whilst we were acting on the defensive.