CHAPTER V

THE HIGHLANDERS AT WATERLOO

Anton's account of the retreat from Quatre Bras to Waterloo, of the camp on the historic ridge through the falling rains and blackness of the night before the great battle, and of the tumult and passion, the perils and the triumph, of the memorable day, has many merits. But it is marred by a perfect paroxysm of apostrophes to posterity, to the spirits of the fallen, to freedom, to all sorts of more or less heroic and non-existent abstractions. In describing the struggle in which he was a microscopic and almost nameless actor, Anton feels it necessary to mount on the tallest literary stilts available, and walking on stilts is not usually a very graceful performance. Anton's account of the battle, in a word, recalls the famous description of a Scotch haggis. It contains much good substance, but in a very confused and planless state. His story, indeed, only becomes intelligible by virtue of generous omissions. Here is Anton's tale of the march from Quatre Bras:--

"On the morning of the 17th the unclouded heavens began to present the approach of day, our usual signal to rise from our sky-canopied bed. We started to arms and took up a new line on the field, facing our yet silent foe. Here, after arranging our ranks and equalising the companies, we piled our arms, and commenced to prepare our yesterday's dinner, which served us for an excellent breakfast.

"The men not thus engaged were now busily employed in burying the dead, and those who had been attending the wounded in the adjoining houses had not neglected the interest of their respective messes. Besides our own allowances of meat which we had brought from Brussels, there was not a mess without a turkey, goose, duck, or fowl floating in the seething kettle; and an abundance of vegetables from the neighbouring gardens helped to add to the richness of the soup which was preparing, and which we got good time to take, and for this we were truly thankful, for we were very hungry.

"A passing fog hung over the plain a short time, but soon disappeared, and left us with a cloudless sky. A general retrograde movement now took place, and we retired on the main road by which we had advanced from Brussels.

"It was with regret that many of us left that field, on which some of our men lay breathing their last. Among this number was a young man whose wound was in his forehead, from which the brain protruded. In this state he had lain on the field during the night; his eyes were open, with a death film over them; two of his comrades were watching the last throb of his expiring breath before they would consign his body to the grave, already opened to receive it, when the call to arms made us leave him on the field to the hands of strangers.

"The sun shone brightly on our arms as we left the fields of Quatre Bras, and passed the farms round which the remains of some thousands of brave men, British, Brunswick, Belgic, and French, were interred; and many yet lay scattered over the fields, and may have remained hidden amidst the grain which still continued standing, until the sickle or the scythe laid the fields bare.

"The enemy did not as yet seem to notice our movement, and we continued our march until we had passed the village, half-way to Waterloo. Here we turned off the road to our right, formed in columns, and halted; and, short as that halt was, it afforded time for one of our regiments to hold a drum-head court-martial and carry the sentence into effect on the spot. Examples of this kind are absolutely necessary, whatever philanthropists may say to the contrary. They tend to preserve regularity, order, and discipline; and although an individual may suffer a punishment which is debasing and cruel, yet it is better that this should be awarded and inflicted than to see hundreds fall victims to the rapacity that might ensue from not timely visiting the aggressor with punishment.

"We had now attained the undulating height of Mont St. Jean, and Wellington said, 'We shall retire no farther.' The thunder ceased to roll its awful peals through the heavens, the thick embodied clouds deployed, spread wide, and half dissolved in drizzly mist, but, as if doubtful of man's resolves, resumed again their threatening aspect, as if to secure our halt."

At Waterloo Sir Denis Pack's brigade--the 1st, 42nd, 44th, and 92nd--formed part of Picton's division, and held the line immediately to the left of the great Brussels road. It was on this part of Wellington's battle-front that Napoleon launched his first great infantry attack--D'Erlon's corps, four close-massed columns--over 13,000 bayonets in all--with the fire of seventy-four guns sweeping the path in their front as with a besom of flame.

The story of how Picton's slender lines met this mighty onfall, shook the French columns into retreat with actual bayonet push, and how the Life Guards, Inniskillings, and Greys swept down the slope and utterly wrecked D'Erlon's swaying battalions is one of the most dramatic passages in the story of the famous day.

Anton's account of the night before Waterloo is graphic:--

"Our lines now formed behind the long-extended ridge of Mont St. Jean, having the village of Waterloo a mile or two in our rear, and at no less a distance the dark forest of Soignes, which extends to Brussels. The right of our front British line extended beyond Hougoumont as far as Merke Braine; the left is said to have extended to Wavre! Sir T. Picton's division consisted of the 28th, 32nd, 79th, and the 95th (rifle corps), under the command of Sir James Kempt; and the 1st, 42nd, 44th, and 92nd Regiments, under the command of Sir Denis Pack, extended from the left of the Brussels road to a copse on a rising ground which probably overlooked the whole field. The extensive farm-houses and offices of La Haye Sainte were to the right of the division, but in front and on the right side of the road.

"Before us was a line of Belgic and Dutch troops; a narrow road, lined with stunted quickset hedges, runs between this line of foreigners (or I may, with more justice, say natives) and us. This road commands a view of the enemy's position, and the side next to us is the artillery's post; the hedges in front form a feeble cover from the enemy's view, but no defence against his shot, shell, or musketry.

"Our line, being on the slope next to Waterloo, was hidden from the enemy, who took up his position on the heights of La Belle Alliance, parallel to those of St. Jean: a valley corresponding to those wavy heights on either side divides the two armies, a distance of about half a musket-shot intervening between the adverse fronts.

"We piled our arms, kindled fires, and stood round the welcome blaze to warm ourselves and dry our dripping clothes. Midnight approached, and all the fields towards the artillery's post were hid in darkness, save what the fitful gleams of our fires cast over them. Silence prevailed, and wet although we were, we were falling asleep sitting round the fires or stretched on scattered branches brought for fuel. At this time a very heavy shower poured down upon us, and occasioned some movement or noisy murmur in the French army or line of Belgians. This induced our sentries to give an alarm. In an instant each man of the brigade stood by his musket; the bayonets were already on the pieces, and these all loaded, notwithstanding the rain. We stood thus to our arms for nearly an hour, sinking to our ankles amongst the soft muddy soil of the field, when the alarm was found to be false, and we again sat or lay down to repose.

"Long-looked-for day at last began to break; we stood to our useless arms for a few minutes, and then began to examine their contents. The powder was moistened in the piece and completely washed out of the pan. The shots were drawn, muskets sponged out, locks oiled, and everything put to rights."

Anton's description of the actual on-coming of the French and of the charge of the Greys is in his worst style; turgid, windy, unreal. Yet it is the story of a man who actually plied 'Brown Bess' in the central passion of the fight, and ran in with levelled bayonet on D'Erlon's Grenadiers, and cheered the gallant Greys as they rode past on their famous charge. Had Anton told his tale with the prosaic simplicity of De Foe or the stern realism of Swift, we might have had a battle picture memorable in literature. As it is, we must be thankful for small mercies. The present reader at least shall be spared Anton's incessant apostrophes:--

"Now, on our right, Napoleon urged on his heavy columns, while a like movement was made against our left. The guns opened their war-breathing mouths in thundering peals, and all along the ridge of Mont St. Jean arose one dense cloud of smoke.

"France now pushed forward on the line of our Belgic allies, drove them from their post, and rolled them in one promiscuous mass of confusion through the ranks of our brigade, which instantly advanced to repel the pursuers, who came pushing on in broken disorder, in the eagerness of pursuit, till obstructed by the hedge and narrow road, while a like obstruction presented itself to us on the other side. We might have forced ourselves through as the Belgians had done, but our bare thighs had no protection from the piercing thorns; and doubtless those runaways had more wisdom in shunning death, though at the hazard of laceration, than we would have shown in rushing forward upon it in disorder, with self-inflicted torture. The foe beheld our front and paused; a sudden terror seized his flushed ranks. We were in the act of breaking through the hedge, when our general gave orders to open our ranks. In an instant our cavalry passed through, leaped both hedges, and plunged on the panic-stricken foe. 'Scotland for ever!' burst from the mouth of each Highlander as the Scots Greys pass through our ranks.

"What pen can describe the scene? Horses' hoofs sinking in men's breasts. Riders' swords streaming in blood, waving over their heads, and descending in deadly vengeance. Stroke follows stroke, like the turning of a flail in the hand of a dexterous thresher; the living stream gushes red from the ghastly wound. There the piercing shrieks and dying groans; here the loud cheering of an exulting army, animating the slayers to deeds of signal vengeance upon a daring foe. It was a scene of vehement destruction, yells and shrieks, wounds and death; and the bodies of the dead served as pillows for the dying.

"A thousand prisoners are driven in before our cavalry as they return over the corpse-strewn field, and the loud shouts of ten thousand soldiers welcome the victors back. But long and loud are the enthusiastic cheerings of the proud Highlanders as they greet the gallant Greys' approach. 'Glory of Scotland!' bursts spontaneously from the mouth of each Highlander, while rending shouts of 'England!' or 'Ireland!' welcome the 1st and Inniskilling Dragoons, and echo along the lines. This dreadful charge made by our cavalry in our immediate front gave an impulse bordering on enthusiasm to our spirits that nothing could depress. But the enemy, as if dreading more than common opposition at this spot, forbore to press upon it during the remaining part of the day.

"The right and left both sustained the impetuous onset of Napoleon's cavalry, and these on each occasion met with powerful opposition, and were driven back in wild confusion. But on the right and centre he seems to urge his greatest force throughout the whole day. La Haye Sainte is one pool of blood; against it Napoleon's artillery incessantly play, and columns of infantry are urged on to drive the brave defenders out. But these meet them with fire and steel, and repel them with determined resolution. Here a never-ceasing combat rages throughout the day, and forms an interesting object in the general picture of the field. Hougoumont is no less a scene of slaughter; there, every effort is made to obtain possession and to break in upon our right wing. Sometimes in the heat of a charge they rush past its bounds, but meet with wounds or death as they fly back; for it is only when the enemy occasionally pursues his apparently victorious course beyond his lines and past our guns that he gets a view of our columns or lines of infantry, which immediately take advantage of his disordered front, and drive him back, with immense loss, beyond our guns and down the descent; they then retire to their well-chosen ground and send out a company or two of skirmishers from each regiment to keep up a never-ceasing fire, save when driven back on their respective columns in those repeated charges.

"The sun, as he hastens down, bursts through the hazy clouds and gleams in brightness over the long-contested field. It is the setting sun of Napoleon's greatness.

"The loss of the regiment this day was trifling, if compared with that which it sustained on the 16th at Quatre Bras: we had only six men killed; one captain, three lieutenants, and thirty-three rank and file wounded. Brussels, which had been kept in a state of excitement since the night of the 15th, heard the glad tidings of the result of the battle, and the doors were opened wide for the reception of the bleeding soldiers, who had been conveyed thither on waggons or had dragged their maimed limbs along the way without assistance. The poor women, who had been forced back to the rear of the army when the battle commenced, were hurried amidst the mingled mass of fugitives, panic-struck batmen, mules, horses, and cattle, back to the gates of Brussels; but on entering, found no friendly hand stretched out to take them off the streets.

"Night passes over the groaning field of Waterloo, and morning gives its early light to the survivors of the battle to return to the heights of St. Jean, on purpose to succour the wounded or bury the dead. Here may be seen the dismounted gun, the wheels of the carriage half sunk in the mire; the hand of the gunner rests on the nave, his body half-buried in a pool of blood, and his eyes open to heaven, whither his spirit has already fled. Here are spread, promiscuously, heaps of mangled bodies--some without head, or arms, or legs: others lie stretched naked, their features betraying no mark of violent suffering.

"The population of Brussels, prompted by a justifiable curiosity, approach the field to see the remains of the strangers who fell to save their spoil-devoted city, and to pick up some fragment as a memorial of the battle, or as a relic for other days. Of these the field affords an abundant harvest; cuirasses, helmets, medals, swords, pistols, and all the various weapons of destruction in military use, besides the balls and bullets, which may be ploughed up a thousand years hence. Here also are hundreds of blankets, ripped-up knapsacks, torn shirts, stockings, and all the simple contents of the fallen soldiers' kits. Letters and memoranda of the slain strew the field in every direction, which are picked up by the curious and carefully preserved."

IV

WITH THE GUNS AT WATERLOO

IV.--WITH THE GUNS AT WATERLOO

Mercer, the author of the "Journal of the Waterloo Campaign," came of a soldierly stock. His father belonged to the Royal Engineers, served on the staff of Sir Henry Clinton in the American War of Independence, and rose to the rank of general. Cavalie Mercer, with whose book we are concerned, was born in 1783, passed through the Military Academy at Woolwich, obtained a commission in the artillery at sixteen, and had not reached the retired list when he died at the age of eighty-five. But though his career as a soldier was long and honourable, it cannot--except for the three great days of Quatre Bras and Waterloo--be called very inspiring.

Mercer's first military service was in Ireland at the time of the rebellion. War is always hateful, but its blackest form is civil war. Mercer was next unfortunate enough to take part in the most ignoble expedition known to British arms--Whitelocke's shameful and unhappy performance at Buenos Ayres. This was the worst school imaginable for a young soldier, but Mercer had fine military gifts, and though he was shut out from the Peninsular campaigns, when he made his appearance on the field of Waterloo he showed himself to be an artillery officer of very fine quality--cool, skilful, and gallant. He served after the peace in North America, and commanded the artillery in Nova Scotia in the troubled days of the Maine boundary-line dispute, when it seemed likely that England and the United States would drift into war.

Mercer's long military career found its climax in the three memorable days of June 16-18, 1815; and the splendours and terrors, the bloodshed and the triumph of those mighty battles are vividly reflected in his pages.