Chapter XIX.

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.”