conceive the dreadful, the overwhelming anxiety of being so near such
eventful scenes, without being actually engaged in them; to know that
within a few leagues the dreadful storm of war is raging in all its
horrors, and the mortal conflict going forward which is to decide the
glory of your country, and the security of the world:--to think that
while you are sitting in passive inactivity, or engaged in the most
trifling occupations, your brave countrymen are fighting and falling in
the uncertain battle, and your friends, and those whose fate you may
deplore through life, perhaps at that very moment breathing their last;
to be surrounded by misery that you cannot console, and sufferings that
you cannot relieve; to wait, to look, to long in vain for intelligence;
to be distracted with a thousand confused and contradictory accounts
without being able to ascertain the truth; to be at one moment
elevated with hope, and the next depressed with fear; to endure the
long-protracted suspense--the deep-wrought feelings of expectation--the
incessant alarms, the ever-varying reports--the dreadful rumours of
evil--Oh! it was a state of misery almost too great, too agonising for
human endurance! Never--never shall I forget the torturing suspense,
the intense anxiety of mind, and agitation of spirit, in which this
day was passed. In the midst of all that could interest the mind and
charm the fancy, and surrounded by all that, at any other time, would
have afforded me the highest gratification, I could neither see, hear,
observe, admire, nor understand anything; I could think of nothing
but the battle. In vain I tried to distract my thoughts, or to force
my attention even for a moment to other things: the situation of our
army, their danger, their success, their sufferings, and their glory,
were for ever present to me. Unable to rest, we wandered mechanically
about the town, regardless of the frequent heavy showers of rain, and
of the deep and dirty streets, anxiously awaiting the arrival of news
from the army--though well aware that for many hours nothing could
be known of the event of the battle. With a view to dissipate our
fruitless anxiety, and as a shelter from the rain, we visited several
cabinets of paintings: but I beheld the noblest works of art, and the
finest monuments of departed genius, with indifference. Not even the
sublime touches, the affecting images, and the unrivalled productions
of Guido, and Raphael, and Rubens; not all the force, the pathos, and
the expression of their powerful genius, could at this moment charm or
even interest me; for I had no power to feel their beauties.
Every faculty of our minds was absorbed in one feeling, one thought,
one interest;--we seemed like bodies without souls. Our persons and our
outward senses were indeed present in Antwerp, but our whole hearts and
souls were with the army.
In the course of our wanderings we met many people whom we knew, and
had much conversation with many whom we did not know. At this momentous
crisis, one feeling actuated every heart--one thought engaged every
tongue--one common interest bound together every human being. All
ranks were confounded; all distinctions levelled; all common forms
neglected. Gentlemen and servants; lords and common soldiers; British
and foreigners, were all upon an equality--elbowing each other without
ceremony, and addressing each other without apology. Ladies accosted
men they had never before seen with eager questions without hesitation;
strangers conversed together like friends, and English reserve seemed
no longer to exist. From morning till night the great Place de Maire
was completely filled with people, standing under umbrellas, and
eagerly watching for news of the battle; so closely packed was this
anxious crowd, that, when viewed from the hotel windows, nothing
could be seen but one compact mass of umbrellas. As the day advanced,
the consternation became greater. The number of terrified fugitives
from Brussels, upon whose faces were marked the deepest anxiety and
distress, and who thronged into the town on horseback and on foot,
increased the general dismay, while long rows of carriages lined the
streets, filled with people who could find no place of shelter.
Troops from the Hanseatic towns marched in to strengthen the garrison
of the city in case of a siege. Long trains of artillery, ammunition,
military stores, and supplies of all sorts incessantly poured in, and
there seemed to be no end of the heavy waggons that rolled through the
streets. Reports more and more gloomy reached our ears; every hour only
served to add to the general despondency. On every side we heard that
the battle was fought under circumstances so disadvantageous to the
British, and against a preponderance of force so overpowering, that
it was impossible it could be won. Long did we resist the depressing
impression these alarming accounts were calculated to make upon our
minds; long did we believe, in spite of every unfavourable appearance,
that the British would be victorious. Towards evening a wounded officer
arrived, bringing intelligence that the onset had been most terrible,
and so immense were the numbers of the enemy, that he "did not
believe it was in the power of man to save the battle." To record the
innumerable false reports we heard spread by the terrified fugitives,
who continually poured into the town from Brussels, would be endless.
At length, after an interval of the most torturing suspense, a wounded
British officer of hussars, scarcely able to sit his horse, and faint
from loss of blood, rode up to the door of the hotel, and told us the
disastrous tidings, that the battle was lost, and that Brussels, by
this time, was in the possession of the enemy. He said, that in all the
battles he had ever been engaged in, he had never witnessed anything at
all equal to the horrors of this. The French had fought with the most
desperate valour, but, when he left the field, they had been repulsed
by the British at every point with immense slaughter: the news of
the defeat had, however, overtaken him on the road; all the baggage
belonging to the army was taken or destroyed, and the confusion among
the French at Vittoria, he said, was nothing to this. He had himself
been passed by panic-struck fugitives from the field, flying for their
lives, and he had been obliged to hurry forward, notwithstanding his
wounds, in order to effect his escape. Two gentlemen from Brussels
corroborated this dreadful account: in an agitation that almost
deprived them of the power of utterance, they declared that when they
came away, Brussels presented the most dreadful scene of tumult,
horror, and confusion; that intelligence had been received of the
complete defeat of the British, and that the French were every moment
expected. The carnage had been most tremendous. The Duke of Wellington,
they said, was severely wounded; Sir Dennis Pack killed; and all our
bravest officers killed, wounded, or prisoners. In vain we inquired,
where, if the battle was lost, where was now, and what had become of
the British army?--"God alone knows," was the answer. The next moment
we heard from a gentleman who had just arrived, that before he left
Brussels, the French had actually entered it; that he had himself seen
a party of them; and another gentleman (apparently an officer) declared
he had been pursued by them more than half way to Malines!
Dreadful was the panic and dismay that now seized the unfortunate
Belgians, and in the most piercing tones of horror and despair they
cried out, that the French would be at the gates before morning. Some
English people, thinking Antwerp no longer safe, set off for Breda,
late as it was. Later still, accounts were brought (as we were told)
by three British officers, confirming the dreadful tidings of defeat;
it was even said that the French were already at Malines. We believed,
we trusted that these reports of evil were greatly exaggerated; we did
not credit their dreadful extent, but that some terrible reverse had
befallen the British army it was no longer possible to doubt. During
the whole of this dreadful night, the consternation, the alarm, the
tumult, the combination of horrid noises that filled the streets, I
shall never forget. The rapid rolling of the carriages, the rattle of
artillery, and the slow, heavy motion of the large waggons filled with
wounded soldiers, which incessantly entered the town, were the most
dismal of all.
Of the bitter agony, the deep-seated affliction that now overwhelmed
us, it would be in vain to speak. There are feelings in the human
heart that can find no utterance in words, and which "lie too deep for
tears:" and the conviction that the British army had been defeated--the
dreadful uncertainty of its fate--and the heart-piercing sight of
my brave, my unfortunate wounded countrymen returning from the lost
battle in which their valour had been exerted, and their blood been
shed in vain, awakened sensations which no visible emotion, no power
of language could express; but which have left an impression on my
mind that no lapse of time can efface. No private calamity, however
great, that had befallen myself individually, could have afflicted me
with such bitter anguish as I now suffered. The image of the British
troops retreating before a conquering, an insulting, a merciless
enemy--defeated, perhaps cut to pieces: the idea of their misfortunes
and their sufferings--of the wounded abandoned to perish on the fatal
field; the misery of thousands; the distress in which it would plunge
my country; the years of war and bloodshed, and all the dreadful
consequences it would bring upon the world, incessantly haunted my mind
during this long night of misery. Overpowered by three days and nights
of extreme fatigue, anxiety, and agitation, I fell at times into a sort
of unquiet slumber; but my busy fancy still presented the horrid images
of terror and distress, and repeatedly I started up from uneasy sleep
to the dreadful consciousness of waking misery. Oh! it was a night of
unspeakable horror--
"Nor when morning came
Did the realities of light and day
Bring aught of comfort: wheresoe'er we went
The tidings of defeat had gone before;
And leaving their defenceless homes, to seek
What shelter walls and battlements might yield,
Old men with feeble feet, and tottering babes,
And widows with their infants in their arms
Hurried along: nor royal festival,
Nor sacred pageant--with like multitude
E'er fill'd the public way:--all whom the sword
Had spared--fled here!"--_Southey's Roderick._
With a heavy heart, I rose and dressed myself, and went out before
eight o'clock, attended only by our old valet de place, who with a
sorrowful countenance awaited me at the foot of the stairs. From him,
and from the master of the hotel, who were both on the watch for news,
I learned that no official intelligence had been received, no courier
had arrived: but no doubt was entertained of the truth of the dreadful
reports of the night, and the events of every hour seemed to give full
confirmation of the worst. I traversed the gloomy streets, anxiously
gazing at every melancholy careworn countenance I met, as if there I
could read the truth. I was struck to the heart with horror by the
sight of the heavy loaded waggons of wounded soldiers which incessantly
passed by me; while litters borne silently along on men's shoulders
gave dreadful indications of sufferings more severe, or nearer their
final termination; nor were they less painful to the thoughts from
being unseen. Imagination perhaps conjured up sufferings more dreadful
than the reality--sufferings at which my blood ran cold.
Wholly forgetful of some business I had to transact, which I had
undertaken for a friend before leaving England, I hurried through the
streets with the vague hope of hearing some decisive intelligence;
certain that anything, even the knowledge of the worst, would be
preferable to this state of wretchedness and torturing suspense. At
last, without intending it, I found myself near the Malines gate.
Conducted by the old valet, I turned into a narrow street on my
right, where, to my inexpressible astonishment, I saw five wounded
Highland soldiers who, in spite of the bandages which enveloped their
heads, arms, and legs, were shouting and huzzaing with the vociferous
demonstrations of joy. In answer to my eager questions, they told
me that a courier had that moment entered the town from the Duke of
Wellington, bringing an account that the English had gained a complete
victory, that the remains of the French army were in full retreat, and
the English in pursuit of them.
To the last hour of my life, never shall I forget the sensations of
that moment. Scarcely daring to credit the extent of this wonderful,
this transporting news, I did, however, believe that the English had
gained the victory; believed it with feelings to which no language
can do justice, and which found relief in tears of joy that I could
not repress. For some minutes I was unable to speak. The overpowering
emotions which filled my heart were far too powerful for expression;
but the boon of life to the wretch whose head is laid upon the block
could scarcely be received with more transport and gratitude. The
sudden transition from the depth of despair to joy unutterable, was
almost too great to be borne.
In the mean time the Highlanders, regardless of their wounds, their
fatigues, their dangers, and their sufferings, kept throwing up their
Highland bonnets into the air, and continually vociferating,--"Boney's
beat! Boney's beat! hurrah! hurrah! Boney's beat!" Their tumultuous joy
attracted round them a number of old Flemish women, who were extremely
curious to know the cause of this uproar, and kept gabbling to the
soldiers in their own tongue. One of them, more eager than the rest,
seized one of the men by his coat, pulling at it, and making the most
ludicrous gestures imaginable to induce him to attend to her; while
the Highlander, quite forgetting in his transport that the old woman
did not understand Scotch, kept vociferating that "Boney was beat, and
rinning away till his ain country as fast as he could gang." At any
other time, the old Flemish woman, holding the soldier fast, shrugging
up her shoulders, and making these absurd grimaces, and the Highlander
roaring to her in broad Scotch would have presented a most laughable
scene--"Hout, ye auld gowk," cried the good-humoured soldier, "dinna
ye ken that Boney's beat--what, are ye deef?--dare say the wife--I say
Boney's beat, woman!" When the news was explained to the old women
they were in an ecstasy almost as great as that of the Highlanders
themselves, and the joy of the old valet was quite unbounded. These
poor men were on their way to the hospital, but they did not know which
way to go; they were ignorant of the language, and could not inquire.
I thought of sending the valet de place with them, who was extremely
willing to conduct "ces bons Ecossois," as he called them, but then I
could not easily have found my own way home; so the valet de place,
the soldiers, and I, all went to the hospital together. Our progress
was slow, for one of them was very lame, another had lost three of the
fingers of his right hand, and had a ball lodged in his shoulder. Some
of them were from the Highlands, and some from the Lowlands, and when
they found that I came from Scotland, and lived upon the Tweed, they
were quite delighted. One of them was from the Tweed as well as myself,
he said, "he cam' oot o' Peeblesshire."
After parting with them close to the hospital, I returned homewards,
and by the time I reached the Place de Maire it was thronged with
multitudes of people, who seemed at a loss how to give vent to their
transport. One loud universal buzz of voices filled the streets; one
feeling pervaded every heart; one expression beamed on every face: in
short, the people were quite wild with joy, and some of them really
seemed by no means in possession of their senses. At the door of our
hotel the first sight I beheld among the crowds that encircled it, was
an English lady, who had apparently attained the full meridian of life,
with a night-cap stuck on the top of her head, discovering her hair
in papillotes beneath, attired in a long white flannel dressing-gown,
loosely tied about her waist, with the sleeves tucked up above the
elbows. She was flying about in a distracted manner, with a paper
in her hand, loudly proclaiming the glorious tidings, continually
repeating the same thing, and rejoicing, lamenting, wondering, pitying,
and exclaiming, all in the same breath. From an English gentleman
whom I had met, I had already learned all the particulars that were
known; but this lady seized upon me, repeated them all again and again,
interrupting herself with mourning over the misfortunes of poor Lady de
Lancey, pitying Lady F. Somerset, rejoicing in the victory, wondering
at the Duke's escape, lamenting for Sir Thomas Picton, and declaring,
which was incontestably true, that she herself was quite distracted.
In vain did her maid pursue her about with a great shawl, which
occasionally she succeeded in putting upon her shoulders, but which
invariably fell off again the next moment.
In vain did another lady, whose dress and mind were rather more
composed, endeavour to entice her away--she could not be brought to
pay them the smallest attention, and I left her still talking as
fast as ever, and standing in this curious déshabille among gentlemen
and footmen, and officers and soldiers, and valets de place, and in
full view of the multitudes who thronged the great Place de Maire. An
express had arrived, soon after eight o'clock, bringing the Duke of
Wellington's bulletin, dated Waterloo, containing a brief account of
the glorious battle. But from private letters and accounts we learnt
that the triumph of the British arms had indeed been complete. After
a most dreadful and sanguinary battle, which lasted from ten in the
morning till nine at night, the French at length gave way, and fled
in confusion from the field, leaving behind them their artillery,
their baggage, their wounded, and their prisoners. The certainty of
this great, this glorious victory, won by the heroic valour of our
countrymen in circumstances so disadvantageous; the fall of the enemy
of Britain and of mankind; the deliverance of Europe; the peace of the
world, and, above all, the glory of England, rushed into my mind; and
every individual interest, every personal consideration, every other
thought and feeling, were swallowed up and forgotten.
The contest had been dreadful--the carnage unexampled in the bloodiest
annals of history. The French army had been nearly annihilated, and
our loss was tremendous. The greatest part of our gallant army, the
best, the bravest of our officers, were among the killed and wounded.
Sir Colin Halket, Generals Cooke and Alten, Sir Dennis Pack, the
Prince of Orange, Lord Uxbridge,[16] and Lord Fitzroy Somerset,
were severely wounded. Sir Thomas Picton, Sir William Ponsonby, Sir
Alexander Gordon were killed. Sir William de Lancey had also been
killed by a cannon-ball while in absolute contact with the Duke, whose
escapes seemed to have been almost miraculous. Unmindful, perhaps
even unconscious, of the showers of shot and shell, he had stood
undaunted from morning till night in the thickest of the battle,
coolly reconnoitring with his glass the motions of the enemy, issuing
his orders with the utmost precision, and everywhere present by his
promptitude, coolness, and presence of mind. Almost all his staff
officers were either killed or wounded.[17] Lady M. showed us the
official bulletin; it contained a most brief and modest account of
the victory, announcing scarcely any particulars, and mentioning the
names only of a very few of the principal officers who were among the
sufferers.
In a few hours the town was crowded with the wounded. The regular
hospitals were soon filled, and barracks, churches, and convents were
converted into temporary hospitals with all possible expedition. Tents
were pitched in a large piece of open ground near the citadel, and
numbers of these unfortunate sufferers were carried there: but nothing
could contain the multitude of wounded who continually entered the
town. Numbers were lying on the hard pavement of the streets, and on
the steps of the houses; and numbers were wandering about in search of
a place of shelter. Nothing affected me more than the quiet fortitude
and uncomplaining patience with which these poor men bore their
sufferings. Not a word, not a murmur, not a groan escaped their lips.
They lay extended on their backs in the long waggons, their clothes
stained with blood, blinded by the intolerable rays of the sun, in
silent suffering; while every jolt of the waggons seemed to go to one's
very heart. Numbers on foot, almost sinking with fatigue and loss of
blood, were slowly and painfully making their way along the streets.
Officers supported on their horses, and almost insensible, with faces
pale as death, and marked with agony, and those dreadful litters, whose
very appearance bespoke torture and death, were passing through every
street.
Never shall I forget the impression that the sight of my poor wounded
countrymen made upon my mind. When I saw their sufferings, and thought
of their deeds in arms, of their dauntless intrepidity in the field,
and of the immortal glory they had won, tears of pity, admiration, and
gratitude burst from my heart, and I looked at the meanest soldier
returning, covered with wounds, from fighting the battles of his
country, with a respect and admiration which not all the kings and
princes of the earth could have extorted from me.
If such were the horrors of the scene here, what must they be on the
field of battle, covered with thousands of the dead, the wounded, and
the dying! The idea was almost too dreadful for human endurance; and
yet there were those of my own country, and even of my own sex, whom I
heard express a longing wish to visit this very morning the fatal field
of Waterloo! If, by visiting that dreadful scene of glory and of death,
I could have saved the life, or assuaged the pangs, of one individual
who had fallen for his country, gladly would I have braved its horrors;
but for the gratification of an idle, a barbarous curiosity, to gaze
upon the mangled corpses of thousands; to hear the deep groans of
agony, and witness the last struggles of the departing spirit--No!
worlds should not have bribed me to have encountered the sight: the
consolation of being useful, alone could have armed one with courage to
have witnessed it. Nothing could exceed the humanity and kindness of
the Belgic people to those poor sufferers who now crowded the streets.
Unsolicited they took them into their own houses; sent bedding to the
hospitals; resigned their own rooms to their use; provided them with
every comfort, and administered to their wants as if they had been
their own sons. One old lady alone, who was the sole inhabitant of a
large house, refused to take in two wounded officers; the Commandant,
on hearing of this, immediately billetted six private soldiers upon
her. But, notwithstanding the praiseworthy activity and exertion which
were used to accommodate them, it was long, long indeed, before they
could all be taken care of. We grieved that we had no house to shelter
them, and no power to give them any essential relief. Money was to them
as useless as the lump of gold to Robinson Crusoe in his desert island:
we could not act by them the part of the good Samaritan, nor could we,
like the heroines of the days of chivalry, bind up and dress their
wounds, for in our ignorance we should only have injured them, and the
most stupid hospital mate could perform that office a thousand times
better than the finest lady.