CONCLUDING CHAPTER.

THE COST OF WAR.

For the information of such of my readers as have neither the time nor the opportunity of diving into history, I will now give a historic outline of the enormous cost of war in blood and treasure, principally in the campaigns of 1812-13-14 and 1815. Europe, disunited, had been conquered by Napoleon; the only Power setting him at utter defiance being this glorious old isle. Our forefathers had repeatedly assisted the continental nations with enormous sums of money, and arms to combat this tyrant; but lacking unity, and having to confront a master-mind in generalship, at least fifty years before his time, this all-conquering General rolled them all up in detail. In fact the whole of continental Europe was fascinated with a craven-hearted dread of the conqueror’s supposed irresistible power. His very name was worse than a nightmare to thousands. His terrible legions, his invincible legions, the famed and dreaded legions, were the whole talk of Europe. And I am sorry to record it, that there were then, as now, thousands of foolish chicken-hearted men, calling themselves Britons, that predicted our entire destruction as a nation. The redoubted Massena boasted that he would drive all the English leopards into the sea, or cut them to pieces. He commanded an army of veterans, who had marched from victory to victory, from triumph to triumph. But this redoubtable Marshal of France, “the spoilt child of fortune,” received a very awkward lesson from the detested Albions and the boys of the Green Isle, for no regiment on grim Busaco’s iron ridge distinguished themselves so much as the 88th Connaught Rangers. They hurled the boasting legions of Napoleon over the rocks in grand style, well thrashed the invincibility out of the conquerors of Austerlitz, Jena, and Wagram, and largely helped to nail victory to that flag which was, and is now, second to none, and made some of the croaking know-all gents hide their heads. The spell of French invincibility was rudely dissipated, and the designs of the tyrant as regards Spain and Portugal were baffled. We say now, shame on all those that would try to traduce the reputation of those that struggle upon field after field for life or death, for national independence, national honour and happiness. Old England knows nothing of the horrors and miseries of war, the massacres and violations of mothers, wives, and daughters. No! her domestic happiness, human loves, and human friendships are never interrupted or broken; and on each revolving Sabbath, her church bells invite all, rich and poor, to the house of prayer and thanksgiving. Our victorious General, Wellington, repeatedly set the continental nations an example how to thrash Napoleon’s much puffed-up invincibles. “Stick to them, my men!” was often the cry. It was often death, but always victory for us. Austria and Russia were beaten on the one field of Austerlitz. Prussia threw down the gauntlet on the field of Jena, but was completely crushed, nearly all her fortresses being taken from her. She was humbled in the dust, and an indemnity of six hundred and forty million francs (a butcher’s bill of twenty-five million pounds sterling) demanded by the conqueror. This was enforced with merciless fury by the French, in addition to which an enormous host were quartered upon the conquered provinces, which shall be hereafter enumerated. Prussia was held by an iron grasp: close upon one hundred thousand of her noble sons having perished, and she lay prostrate at the conqueror’s feet. But still she fought out a death-struggle with the great conqueror, and on the bloody field of Eylan the conquering hero was brought to a stand. He could not advance, and would not retire; he was brought to the verge of destruction. This terrible battle, my young readers must know, was fought in the depth of winter, amidst ice and snow, and under unexampled horrors. The loss on both sides was immense. The Russians and Prussians lost twenty-five thousand, and the French thirty thousand; thus fifty-five thousand men, with thousands of horses, were weltering in blood in the midst of ice and snow, in a space of two leagues, both sides claiming the victory. Yet another terrible battle was fought at Friedland, in the depth of a Russian winter. The allies here were defeated. They lost seventeen thousand men and five thousand prisoners, with twenty guns. Napoleon was weakened by the loss of ten thousand. The two great Emperors met on a raft on the Niemen, and there made peace, dividing the known world between them. Almost the first words from the Emperor of Russia to the great conqueror were:[39] “I hate the English as much as you do, and am ready to second you in all your enterprises against them.” Napoleon’s answer was: “Peace is already made.” With Napoleon’s talents, he talked the Emperor into anything he liked. Now comes the great Northern Confederation. The whole of the North of Europe were compelled to declare war against Old England. All their ports were closed against us. Spain and Portugal threw in their lot against us. Thus we had the whole of Europe to combat. But our forefathers came out as true Britons. With our unconquerable fleet, and Nelson as our leader, we put the world in arms at defiance. The Confederation had a short life. We blockaded every port in Europe. The whole Danish fleet was taken or sunk at Copenhagen by that heroic Nelson. Proceeding at once to Cronstadt with his victorious fleet, he demanded a conference with the Russian Emperor. It was granted. The ever-victorious Admiral explained our demands. One of the Emperor’s advisers said at once to the Emperor; “Rather than submit to such humiliating terms, we had better have war to the knife.” The gauntlet was thrown down at the feet of him that shook the world with renown. Nelson’s reply was, “With all my heart. You shall have war to your heart’s content in less than one hour” (pointing to his victorious fleet). “Stay,” said the Emperor. They talked it over, and peace with us was signed, which meant war with France. Our victorious Nelson was one too many for the crafty Russians. In writing home, he said to our Minister at War: “I flatter myself that a British Admiral, with a good fleet at his back (he had nearly thirty sail) is the best man you could select to send to negotiate. Some of the Czar’s advisers did not like the terms. I at once gave the Emperor to understand that he could have peace on one hand, or war on the other (pointing to my fleet just outside the harbour). I found I had hit the nail fairly on the head, and at once made peace with the Emperor of all the Russias, and war with Napoleon. He has promised to declare, should that tyrant interfere with him.” Shortly after this, the terrible battle of Trafalgar was fought, which swept the French and Spanish flags from the sea. It was here that Nelson met a glorious death;[40] but this victory proclaimed the commercial death-blow of Napoleon. We say again, it was off the shoals of Trafalgar where the funeral pile of Napoleon’s greatness was witnessed. It frustrated all his deep laid schemes of subjugating us as a nation, and proclaimed that—

“Britain ruled the waves.”

Our forefathers could now laugh at Napoleon’s threats of invasion. The combined fleets of France and Spain were completely annihilated, and before he could attempt to reach our shores, a new fleet and a fresh set of seamen must be forthcoming. But our darling hero had purchased this last triumph with his blood. His name, however, still lives fresh in every true Briton’s heart, and his last signal will be handed down to our children’s children: “England expects that every man this day will do his duty.” Such language has frequently inspired our men amidst the storm of shot and shell, and England has often since had to acknowledge that her sons have done their duty. Europe struggled on under the iron grasp of Napoleon. Spain and Portugal declared war against the tyrant. Oceans of blood were spilt; millions of money that could have been put to good use were lavished upon war material. Russia, Austria, and Prussia again tried to stem the torrent of Napoleon’s conquest; but there was no unity in their camps, and the great conqueror beat them all in detail, up to this. The only time his victorious legions were beaten in the open field was when opposed by our thin red line. Napoleon’s much puffed-up invincibles were beaten, and had to retire from every field on which our conquering general, Wellington, planted his standard. We never once met the enemy in a pitched battle, either by land or sea, but to beat them. The sons of Albion, side by side with the undaunted sons of the Emerald Isle, set an example to Europe. Before the Moscow campaign took place, the flower of the French army were opposed to us in the Peninsula, on the fields of Corunna, Albuera, Barrosa, Busaco, Douro, Fuentes de OÑoro, RoliÇa, Talavera, and Vimiera; and from 1812 to the end of the war, we met and rolled them up on all the following fields, or stormed their strongholds and took every one from them: Badajoz, Ciudad Rodrigo, Nive, Nivelle, Orthes, Pyrenees, San Sebastian, Salamanca, Toulouse, Vittoria, and Waterloo. Hundreds of thousands of men perished on the above fields. The poor inhabitants were butchered without mercy in cold blood, because they tried to do all they could to help their countrymen in arms. It was a war of extermination for freedom. This war cost us close upon two hundred millions sterling. The Spaniards and Portuguese were all in our pay. But we now approach Napoleon’s great campaign in Russia in 1812. He had, for a long time, been making preparations for it. Russia had set him at defiance, refusing to close her ports against our merchandise. Vast armies, with all kinds of warlike stores, were passing through Germany on to the Russian frontier during the early part of 1812. The great conqueror set out to join, as he thought, his invincible hosts. At Dresden, June 1812, he reached the climax of his earthly fame. He was the centre of attraction; four kings, innumerable princes and dukes, waited upon him: queens were maids of honour to Maria Louisa. But in a few short months this much-exalted hero had to confess that “from the sublime to the ridiculous was but a step.”

The humiliation of Prussia, the conquest of Austria, the dreadful spectacles that thousands who now surrounded Napoleon’s standard had witnessed on the bloody fields of Jena, Austerlitz, Wagram, Eylan, Friedland, with pyramids of friends and foes, bodies all around; with weeping mothers and smiling infants at their breasts, searching amidst the piles of dead for their loved ones. All were for a time forgotten. The conquerors were now to be seen side by side with the vanquished in the above disastrous fields which had struck Germany down. This all-conquering hero was now the king of kings, elevated to the highest pinnacle of fame, surrounded by his Old Guards and the terrible cuirassiers with Prince Murat at their head, who had frequently ridden over Russians, Austrians, Prussians, Spaniards and Portuguese. No power on earth seemed capable of stopping them. As often as their beloved Emperor appeared, the shouts of enthusiasm, with the cry of Vive l’Empereur,[41] rent the air, as they struck their sabres, confident of victory. He was now exalted to the skies, but (so much for human mutability) he proved that, from the exalted pinnacle of fame to the ridiculous was but a step. He invaded Russia without any provocation but ambition, in all the majesty of war, with the strongest and best equipped army that the world had then seen. It consisted of—

They had some desperate combats on various fields. The Russian army retired, fighting with desperation, when pressed too closely by Napoleon’s host. But 30,000 of the enemy perished, for want of food, before a shot, so to speak, was fired. The only great battle fought on the advance to Moscow was at Borodino, 7th September, 1812: and out of all Napoleon’s vast host, all he could bring into action, after waiting for days to collect stragglers, was 103,000 infantry, 36,000 cavalry, and 593 guns. The terrible battle raged from morning until night; the Russians were not beaten, but almost annihilated. Both sides fought with desperation; the one to save their hearths and homes, the other well knowing they had nothing to fall back upon. This field presented a terrible spectacle: huge masses of men having fought hand-to-hand all day. “Here,” said Napoleon, “is the field where the brave shall find a glorious death: the coward will perish in the deserts of Siberia.” The Russians lost 38 generals and 45,000 officers and men; prisoners and guns taken were about equal: the Russians lost 10 and took 13 guns. The victors (for the French justly claimed the victory, as the Russians retired during the night) lost 32 generals and 52,000 officers and men. All that was left to the boasting enemy was the bloody field, for the dead and dying lay in ghastly piles, friend and foe mixed together. The victors were in a worse plight than the vanquished; they had to lie down supperless on the field of gore, and get up breakfastless. The Russians had plenty to eat, and retired next day to Moscow. The enemy followed them up, and entered Moscow in triumph, amidst martial music and ringing shouts of Vive l’Empereur. A strange scene presented itself; not a living soul to meet the great conqueror. He was entering into a deserted city. All the inhabitants had fled. Moscow, with all its palaces and stately mansions, was abandoned to the foe. But it was soon enveloped in flames. Napoleon had expected that, as their capital was in his hands, he would have been able to dictate to the Emperor Alexander his own terms of peace. But no! he had fought his way for a thousand miles from the Niemen: he had beaten the Russian army: he had taken their capital, which was all in flames around him. But he could not subdue a brave nation, who had sworn to die to a man or conquer the great tyrant. The Spaniards and Portuguese, backed up by old England, had set Europe an example how to combat for their liberty. The noble heroism displayed in the defence of Saragossa had set Europe in a blaze. The orders of Alexander to his generals were, not to attempt to negotiate, but to fight to the death. The great conqueror was compelled to eat a large slice of humble pie, “and order a retreat” from the midst of a people he could not subdue.

It is a point of the highest importance, involving, as it does, a decisive refutation of the assertion so often repeated and handed down to our children, “that it was the cold in Russia which destroyed Napoleon’s grand army,” which crossed the Niemen, June, 1812. Out of this vast host under Napoleon’s immediate command, before a single flake of snow fell, 247,000 men and 92,000 horses had perished by the ravages of war and starvation. Other corps, under command of different marshals, suffered in proportion. As the army advanced, it got worse and worse. The great multitude of mouths destroyed Napoleon. Reinforcements kept joining the great conqueror at Moscow; and when the retreat commenced, he had more than replaced what he had lost at Borodino. They turned their faces towards the sunny south, laden with the spoil of Moscow. Napoleon thought of retiring by another road. But no, no. The Russians, now augmented to about 150,000 men, with nearly 50,000 cavalry, took up a strong position at Malo-Jaeoslowitz, and beat the conqueror. This field presented a horrible spectacle. The town was built of wood; and for hours desperate hand-to-hand fighting took place in its narrow streets, which, became completely choked with dead and dying, friend and foe. The houses on both sides the streets were enwrapt in flames. The guns (French) were ordered forward. They dashed on at a gallop, crushing over the heaps of both friend and foe, as they lay weltering in blood and flames. The Russians had not died for nothing. They, as brave men, died to save the honour of their homes, their wives, their mothers, and their daughters. They beat the tyrant, and compelled him to retire by a route that was already exhausted. The consequences of this bloody engagement were most disastrous to the French. There was no alternative for it now. It was most humiliating. He who had set Europe at defiance, must now retire by the wasted road via Smolensk. Guns and prisoners were captured every day. The Russian army hung upon their flanks and rear. To go into all the fights that took place during that terrible retreat would fill a large volume. The dreadful passage of the river Beresina, on the retreat, completed the ruin of the grand army. The Russian Commander-in-Chief, Kutusoff, shrank from the responsibility of facing the hero of so many fields. He had felt the weight of one hundred and fifty thousand men on the bloody field of Borodino. He did not know that it was but the wreck of the once grand army that was before him. Had he but posted his victorious army on the heights on the banks of that noble stream, Napoleon, with the remainder of his dejected, half-famished army, must have been all slain, drowned, or taken prisoners. Had Wellington been there, with such an army as the Russian chief commanded, the subsequent slaughter in the campaigns of 1813-14 and 1815 would have been avoided. Napoleon would most likely have met a soldier’s death. It was well ordained by an all-wise God. The nation that had defied the laws of God and man would not have been humbled, as they were subsequently, after the carnage of Leipsic and the rout at Waterloo. But the sight of his old Guards was enough; they had decided every field for the last twenty years where Napoleon commanded. The passage of the river was disputed by Kutusoff’s lieutenants (by his permission). The bloody struggle at the temporary bridges is almost beyond description. The Russian guns, planted on the heights, played with terrible effect upon the mass of the terror-stricken, confused multitude. In the midst of the confusion, one of the bridges broke, and all upon it miserably perished in the masses of floating ice. The frantic crowd (for discipline was all gone) at once rushed to the remaining bridge. The artillery and cavalry cut their way through their comrades, plunging, like the car of Juggernaut, through dead and dying. Thousands were mobbed into the river—now a raging torrent of floating ice. Heaven and earth seemed combined to destroy a nation of infidels; for the rain came down in torrents, converting a gentle stream into a raging torrent. In the midst of this dreadful scene, with the Russian guns firing as fast as possible upon the remaining bridge, it caught fire. Despair and misery now rendered the enemy desperate. Numbers rushed on to the burning bridge; it broke, and all were lost.

The scene now became awful. All retreat cut off, thousands must now die or surrender. The magnitude of the disaster to the French was manifest in the spring. Twelve thousand dead bodies were found washed up on the banks of the river, fourteen thousand more were killed, and sixteen thousand taken prisoners. Nearly all their artillery were lost. In the midst of this terrible scene, mothers were seen lifting their infants above their heads in the water, holding them up until they were exhausted, then sinking beneath the waves. An infant found near the gate of Smolensko, abandoned by its wretched mother, was adopted by the Old Guard. Carried between them, it was saved in the midst of the horrors of the Beresina. It was again seen on the bridge of Kowno, and finally escaped all the horrors of the retreat, and eventually met a soldier’s death, as colonel commanding the Zouaves, at the storming of the Malakoff. A number of men became mad from the frightful accumulation of disasters all around them; others were reduced to a state of idiocy. Their eyes were fixed; with a haggard look they marched on, not knowing what they were doing. Commands, outrageous blows—nothing could rouse them; and at night they would sink to the ground, and perish for want of food. Others would carelessly sit down upon the dead bodies of their comrades, and resign themselves to rest, to sleep, and death. Others marched on resolutely; but at length their limbs tottered, their steps became shorter, they fell behind their more robust comrades (tears often running down their cheeks); their knees smote each other, they staggered like drunken men, then fell to rise no more, completely exhausted for want of food. Others marched on, taking no notice. All at once symptoms of paralysis appeared, their knees shook, their arms fell from their hands, and they sank down by the wayside, with a fixed look, watching the crowd until they sank from exhaustion and died—cursing him who had been the cause of all their misery. When remonstrated with about his foolhardy march to Moscow to humble Alexander, by some of the heads of his army, and the head of the Roman Church, his answer was: “Do you think that the arms will drop from my soldiers’ hands?” They did, however, drop by thousands. One of his faithful Old Guard, looking death in the face, said to a comrade: “Your assistance is in vain, my friend;” then faintly murmured: “He has ruined us all. The only favour I ask is, to carry to my children these decorations (see that the enemies do not pollute them). I won them on the fields of Jena, Austerlitz, Eylan, Friedland, and Spain.” He then sank back and expired, for lack of the common necessaries of life. Others, their fingers and toes dropped off, from the extreme frost. Their arms fell to the ground, but they still staggered on until night. In every bivouac, hundreds of corpses were found sitting around what had been their watch-fires, stiff dead; to all appearance looking at each other—their eyes fixed. Others, that could not get near the fire, were found sitting back to back. They had devoured the last morsel of horse-flesh, their strength failed them, and they sank and died from starvation. Such a picture is only too true. These are what some madmen call the glories of war.

Shortly after the dreadful scene at the Beresina, Napoleon left his once grand army, now nothing but a confused rabble of all arms and followers mixed up. His superb cavalry were nearly all dismounted. Of guns they had but few. Murat, who now commanded, had nothing but horse-flesh to feed his starving followers with, and but little of that. The Cossacks of the Don were hovering all around them, hacking at all stragglers. No mercy was shown by these infuriated savages. Napoleon was now travelling through Poland, almost at lightning speed, on two rough sledges, accompanied with but three followers. He dashed through Germany, changing horses every twenty miles. The monster was not yet satisfied. He had not been the cause of enough misery. He carried the dreadful news to Paris of the destruction of his once Grand Army. He made (or tried to make) the Government believe that his army had conquered Russia, that it was still unconquerable, and that they were still superb. He acknowledged that nearly all his cavalry and artillery were destroyed by the extreme cold. He demanded 500,000 more men. “I will then,” he said, “give Alexander a few battles on the plains of Germany, and all will be restored. I have to thank England for all the misery which has overtaken us; but I will lay London in ashes yet.” He had yet to learn that London was to him sacred ground; that its people openly acknowledged daily the saving power of the great Architect of the Universe. He permitted the tyrant to go thus far, and no further; to show us and our children’s children, in days to come, the finger of His love: “I will be your God, and ye shall be my people. Fear not.” To go into all the desperate fights which took place after Napoleon’s departure, I could not. Murat kept picking up strong detachments of all arms that had been left to keep the communication open.

The invincibility was all thrashed out of Murat’s dejected, half-frozen, half-starved, half-clad followers. The heroic Marshal Ney (an Irishman) still commanded the rear guard. Four times it melted away, and as often this exemplary soldier re-formed another. At the gate of Wilna this unconquerable soldier, a prince and a Marshal of France, fought as a grenadier (which he was) with a musket. When called upon to surrender he exclaimed, “A Marshal of France may die, but never surrender.”[42] Such was the heroic Ney. History has not preserved a nobler instance of humanity than that displayed by the Emperor Alexander and his brother Constantine, at Wilna. The condition of the wounded and prisoners, till the arrival of Alexander, was horrible beyond conception. Huddled together in hospitals without fire, water, medicine, beds, or even straw, there they lay in hundreds, with their limbs shattered, or in the last stage of disease. Hundreds died every day, their bodies thrown out of the windows by those in attendance; but their places were immediately filled up by multitudes of others, who crawled or were carried into these abodes of wretchedness to draw their last breath, cursing him who had been the cause of all their misery. Hard biscuit, and but little of that, was all they had for food; their only drink was snow, carried to them by their comrades. The putrid smell of above six thousand bodies, which lay unburied, was unbearable. Into these hidden dens of living, tombs, the Emperor Alexander and his brother immediately on arrival entered. Steps were at once taken to stop these horrors; the dead putrefied bodies were at once collected, and burned or buried. They amounted to the astounding number of seventeen thousand, lying dead about the streets and hospitals. The total number that succumbed at Wilna was upwards of thirty thousand in a few weeks. This was the termination of a campaign of unexampled dangers and glory to the Russian arms, by deeds of unprecedented Christian mercy to a fallen foe. The wreck of the once grand army re-crossed the Niemen, and left the Russian territory, on the 13th December, 1812—about 20,000 of rag-tail, bob-tail, miserable wretches. It must have been humiliating to the remains of the Old Guard (about 800 strong) to be pursued by a detachment of Cossacks. But my readers must know that five-sixths of this motley army had never seen Moscow, or been within hundreds of miles of it. The last stand was made at the bridge of Kowno, by the rear-guard, under the intrepid Ney. He fired the last shot that drove his pursuers back; threw all spare arms into the Niemen, and retired with honour, covered with blood and mud, and black with powder; his clothing all in tatters, and his good sword still reeking with the blood of a Cossack. In that state, the hero presented himself to General Dumas, who was lying wounded a few miles from the frontier. “Who are you?” said the General, as he entered into the sick chamber. “I am the rear-guard of the grand army. I have fired the last musket shot on the bridge of Kowno, and have thrown into the river the last of our arms. I am Marshal Ney.”[43] When the truth came out, the grand army was accounted for as follows:—Killed in action, 130,000, including officers; taken prisoners, 48 generals, 5,000 officers, and 190,000 men. Nearly all the wounded were either taken or died; 132,000 officers and men died of fatigue and starvation; yet to add 110,000 Poles, killed or died of starvation and cold; 35,000 Austrians, and 18,000 Prussians—wings of the host—never were near Moscow, and not much engaged, retired to their own country. This nearly brings up the grand total, about 20,000 of the wreck being added. The Russian loss was as heavy, if not heavier, than that of the enemy. The noble lines of Johnson, on Charles XII., seem a poetic prophecy of the far greater catastrophe on Napoleon. By a few alterations they become descriptive of his fate:—

Madame de StaËl has well said that Providence never appeared so near human affairs as in this memorable year 1812. There was, as far as human eye could see, a special outpouring of Divine wrath. We see in Napoleon the greatness and weakness of puny man, his highest glory, and yet nothingness against the arm of the Great Geometrician of the universe.

It was in order to crush us as a nation that precipitated Napoleon and his host into the famine guarded wilds of Russia. Thousands, yea, hundreds of thousands of the working classes in this God-defended isle, will hardly be able to fathom the terrible calamities of the horrors of war in the retreat from Moscow, the only difference being most of the Russian sick and wounded returned to their colours, as they were nursed in the bosom of their friends. But even this terrible blow was not enough to subdue the great conqueror. Russia had been kept in the field by our inexhaustible funds. Arms, with all kinds of warlike stores, were shipped off to Russia by wholesale by us; and, but for the indomitable pluck of our forefathers, the whole of the continent of Europe would have been at the conqueror’s feet. Prussia was willing to strike for her independence, but she was powerless—she was bankrupt. All her main fortifications, with her capital, were in the hands of the enemy. Napoleon had boasted, after the crush at Jena, that he would make the princes and nobles of Germany beg their bread. Poor struggling Prussia was held by an iron grasp. Military contributions, which were extracted under pain of instant death, from its unhappy people during the year 1812, would exceed belief if it were not attested by authentic documents: 482,000 officers and men, and 80,000 horses, traversed Prussia’s whole extent. More than half this immense force were quartered above three months on the poor inhabitants; they were like a cloud of locusts, devouring all they could lay their hands upon, shooting all that dared to oppose them. We would say fervently, “God protect our beloved isle from the ravages of war.”

Our forefathers knew all this and far more, and had made up their minds that if they had to die, some one else should die with them. They would not die from tyranny, but sword in hand. It is not generally known that at the commencement of this terrible war in 1792, we raised in this glorious Old Isle of Freedom, by the operation of the ballot, 800,000 men, not for offensive warfare, but for defensive; and mind, our united population then was only about 15,000,000. But to proceed: In east Prussia alone, the enemy demanded and took by force 22,700 cattle, horses 70,000, carts and waggons 13,349. The weekly cost of one corps alone (Janot’s, 70,000 strong) was 200,000 crowns, or £50,000 sterling, the rest of the army being in proportion. These enormous contributions were exclusive of the war indemnity of 640,000,000 francs, which was rigidly exacted. In addition to all the above, the following was demanded and taken by force:—200,000 quintals[44] of rye, 24,000 of rice, 48,000 of dried vegetables, 200,000 bottles of brandy, 2,000,000 bottles of beer (I think I hear some one remark, they were a thirsty lot), 400,000 quintals of wheat, 650,000 of hay, 750,000 of straw, 6,000,000 pecks of oats, 44,000 oxen, 15,000 cavalry horses, 600,000 quintals of powder, 60,000 of lead, 3,600 waggons, harnessed, with drivers; hospital and field equipage for 20,000 men (sick and wounded). The Germans may well be vindictive, knowing all this and far more; for their wives and daughters were treated in such a manner that pen refuses to record it. If the unfortunate peasant or husband remonstrated, he was at once shot. They may well, I say, have thrown their scabbards away, determined to conquer or die. At Lutzen, Bautzen, Dresden, Leipsic, and a number of other fields, they fought with desperation. At Lutzen and Bautzen, thousands of the Prussians, Landwehr[45] (Militia), fought heroically in the clothing in which they came from the plough tail. Their loss was very heavy, but they died to try and save the honour of their mothers, their wives, and their sisters. Here we see the majestic might which slumbers in the peasant’s arm; their heroism was worthy of veteran soldiers; 15,500 Prussians fell, and 25,000 French lay upon the bloody field of Bautzen. “What!” said the spoilt child of fortune, “after such a butchery, will these Prussian rustics not leave me a nail? No results? no prisoners? no guns? Why, they rise from the dust. When will this be done. When will it end?”[46] It was on this field that the heroic Marshal Duroc[47] fell. The great conqueror was melted to tears. Taking the hand of his dying old comrade and pressing it to his heart: “Duroc,” said the great conqueror, “there is another world, where we shall meet again.” Memorable words, reader, wrung by anguish even from the child of infidelity. Again he exclaimed, “Another such victory, and I am undone.” No one dared to approach him. When appealed to for some urgent orders about the pursuit of the Allies, his answer was: “All to-morrow.” Murmurs, regrets, and despair were heard even among the most resolute. The Allies, backed up by British gold, arms, and munitions of war, here determined to fight it out to the bitter end; they might die, but not yield. The hero of Inkermann, Sir G. Cathcart, was in the thick of both battles. His conduct was the admiration of the Emperor Alexander. But at Lutzen and Bautzen the conqueror again fastened victory to the French eagle. The two fields cost him 40,500 officers and men. The undisciplined, raw material of Germany nobly faced Napoleon’s veterans. They made good use of the arms our people sent them. As soon as it was found out that Germany had made up its mind in earnest to fight for its liberty, old England at once gave the right hand of fellowship to the fatherland. They could but die; all they wanted was arms and money; and in two short months (from 18th March to 18th May) we sent to Germany, with a free heart, the following, besides keeping up Russia, Spain, and Portugal:—

And at the same time, we advanced Russia nearly £2,000,000 sterling. Austria, Prussia, and the smaller German States, Spain and Portugal, were again at this time assisted with the nice little sum of nearly £10,000,000 sterling more. And it must be remembered that at this date our population was only 18,000,000: yet we had an army of 753,375, all voluntarily enlisted for life, or twenty-one years, or as long as required, with a fleet that was well manned, that had and could bid defiance to the world in arms: with a Native army in India of 201,000. It was a death-struggle. Old England was the leader, and our forefathers came out in their true colours, determined to die hard. For humanity’s sake, I would advise foreigners to let the Lion in the Briton slumber; for if once roused, I have not the slightest hesitation in asserting that, with our present population in the British isles alone—now nearly 40,000,000—we could put into the field, and keep more men there, than any single State in Europe would like to face. That same invincible spirit is still in the Briton that stood by them on the fields of Albuera and Inkermann. It would be more profitable to die with honour in defence of our homes and those we love so well, than to be treated as the Germans were from 1806 to 1813. The reader need not be at all astonished at the huge armies the Germans keep up at present. If they have to die, they are going to do so sword in hand; but there will be a lot of broken heads, bloody noses, and wooden legs, among their foes. But again, shortly after the terrible battle of Bautzen, an armistice was signed by Napoleon and the Allies. It was nothing but a blind to gain time to bring up his reinforcements from the Rhine. In the meantime the Allies were not idle. Napoleon was trying all he could to get Austria to join his standard, but the star of England again prevailed. It was plain to all that the days of Austerlitz and Jena were past: there was now unity. We at once assisted Austria with 100,000 stand of arms, and accoutrements, and £10,000,000 sterling, to put her army in motion. Old Marshal “Forward!” (BlÜcher) had said long before this “that if Germany wanted their freedom, they must do as England had done from the first—rise to a man and fight for it.” And the old hero said to his king, “We must stick to them, and never stop combating until the enemy are routed out of the Fatherland.” He said what he meant, for he never sheathed his victorious sword until the great conqueror was hurled from power. Wellington’s victories, one after another, in the north of Spain and south of France had roused the whole German people. Napoleon might well say, “What a war! we shall all leave our remains here.” The fact is, the British, side by side with the heroic boys of the Green Isle, had set Europe an example; the benevolent hand of our forefathers had touched the Germans in a vital point. They said, “If a nation of bankers and shopkeepers can beat the conquering legions and roll them up on every field, so will we, or die in the attempt.” But we had again to assist the Continent to strike the fetters off. Russia, Austria, and Prussia again received as a loan, at one per cent., £3,000,000 each: Spain, and Portugal, £2,000,000 each: Sweden, £2,000,000: and Sicily, £600,000 sterling, besides warlike stores. And our own forces were augmented to 1,107,000 men in arms, with upwards of 1,000 ships of war, manned by 140,000 seamen and 31,000 marines; for our big cousins must kick up a row with us, thinking of taking Canada from us. But they came off second best, although millions of money were lavished, and thousands of men fell on both sides.

At this time, Warren Hastings was carrying on a war on a large scale in India, and slice after slice was being added to our dominions out there; and yet our population was only 18,052,044. Europe owes a debt of gratitude to old England; her liberty was the fruit of British liberality. The vast hosts which stemmed the torrent of conquest on the Elbe, and rolled it back to the gates of Paris, were armed, clothed, and paid by this nation,—this glorious old nation, that is second to none; that some short-sighted, weak-kneed old women—knaves—would fain make their children believe is going down the hill. We again would advise those who talk so loudly about our defenceless state, not to make fools of themselves. We shall not, I think, be found wanting more than our grandfathers were. And those that do not understand the true Briton, we would advise them to read a wee bit, or for ever hold their peace. Let our naval strength be doubled, if necessary. It is far better to be ready, not imbecile, in our vital point. We can do without butcher’s bills. We feel confident that our navy would hold their own. But let us proceed. Napoleon had once more collected a vast host around his standards on the plains of Dresden. The great conqueror once more throws down the gauntlet at the feet of Russia, Austria, Prussia, and Sweden. His army was composed of 467,947 infantry, 50,900 cavalry, 1,536 guns, with 35,000 artillerymen; in garrison strongholds, 80,300—total at Napoleon’s command 634,174, besides strong armies in the south of France. And in garrison he had yet upwards of 1,200,000 men to back him up; so that it required something more than short-sighted, weak-kneed old women to pull him from his exalted pinnacle. The Allies had in the field 721,383 men, with 1801 guns. All these forces were depending upon Mr. and Mrs. Bull’s inexhaustible long stocking. The terrible battle of Dresden was fought; it lasted two days. It is not my intention to describe it. Courage had done its best. But this rascal, Napoleon, was one too many for the Allies. He once more nailed victory to the French Eagle. It was not a crushing blow. The Allies retired from the field in good order. This was the last battle[48] on a grand scale the great conqueror ever won. The fruits of the victory were 13,000 prisoners (nearly all Austrians), 26 cannon, 18 standards, while 40,000 men lay in ghastly piles all over the bloody field. In the suburbs of Dresden the sight was heart-rending, dead and wounded lying in heaps, just as if eighty guns and ammunition waggons had dashed over them. Reader, these are some of the glories of war! Only a few days afterwards, the bloody field of Clum was fought.[49] The slaughter was terrible, for the numbers engaged. The enemy lost 18,000 men, 60 guns, 300 ammunition waggons, two eagles, and 5000 prisoners. This was an awkward blow, coming, as it did, from an army just defeated at Dresden.

The great conqueror’s race was run. He had made a good bid for heavy stakes, and had lost all, through Old England’s determined constancy. She was the instrument in the hands of God in successfully combating infidelity. Yet another terrible battle was fought at Kutczback. Marshals McDonald and Ney commanded, against the redoubtable BlÜcher. Napoleon’s pets again came off second best. Vast numbers, amounting to thousands, were charged with the bayonet into a raging mountain torrent, and drowned; the continued loud hurrahs telling the triumph of Germany. In trying to escape the infuriated cavalry, thousands more were engulfed, and swept away. In the morning, it was but about up to their knees, fordable at all points; but the flood-gates of heaven appeared to have opened to the destruction of the despisers of Christianity. The French were in overwhelming strength on the field. Things looked black for the struggling Germans; but, owing to the heavy rains, the enemy were divided, and nearly all those who had crossed the (to all appearance) diminutive rivulet, but now a raging torrent, were destroyed in presence of Marshal Ney—one that was second to none for intrepidity. The enemy lost in killed or drowned 28,000 men; 18,000 prisoners, and 103 guns fell into the hands of BlÜcher. The torrent receded as fast as it had risen, and the fire-eating old BlÜcher followed the retiring enemy up all night, capturing prisoners and guns at every stride. Altogether, the enemy were weakened by 58,000 officers and men, with 165 guns, and no end of ammunition waggons and standards. This was the most glorious triumph the Germans had yet had. It had a wonderful effect upon the hitherto victorious legions of Napoleon. It spoke volumes. It told them plainly that a terrible day of retribution had dawned. And it aroused the Allies to the highest pitch of excitement. Thousands and tens of thousands who had left their fatherland after the crush at Jena, and came to England, now solicited our Government to send them back to fight in the ranks of their fatherland. The Government nobly responded, and shipped them off in thousands, armed to the teeth. They cheered heartily for Old England and England’s King, as they sailed out of Harwich. Hundreds of them cried for joy, to think that the day of vengeance had dawned—that they would be able to wipe out the stain of insulted mothers and ruined sisters. Hundreds shouted out with all their might, “God bless Old England!” and shaking their swords and guns above their heads, they swore to conquer or die. It was no longer an army that Napoleon had to confront, but nations in arms. Princes, counts, dukes, poets, tinkers, and tailors, were all animated with the same determined resolution “to conquer or die.” And, reader, when a nation is unanimously determined to have their freedom, it is better to build a bridge of gold for them to pass over than to try and keep them in subjection. The following lines were composed and written by the German poet, Theodore Korwen, on the morning of his death, on the bloody field of Dresden:—

Fight followed fight in rapid succession. The great conqueror had not taught his marshals how to win fields; they were all beaten in detail. They were splendid leaders of divisions, so long as their great captain was at the helm. He could not give them brains. Marshal Soult was his right-hand man, but he had to go and try to stem the tide of Wellington, who was just one too many for him upon field after field. Defeat after defeat now began to tell upon the French, and from the great conqueror down to the drummer crept a secret feeling of distrust. It is true, Napoleon himself had not yet been beaten, but news was coming in almost daily that gave him a lot of disquietude. The news of Wellington’s triumph at Vittoria flew through Germany like wild-fire. The whole French army on that field were routed. They lost all their guns (151), 10,000 prisoners fell into our hands, and one million pounds sterling. King Joseph’s coach and all his State papers were part of the booty of this field. It caused the Spanish crown to fall from Joseph’s head, and swept the troops of the tyrant out of Spain.[50]

“Rule, Britannia,” and “God save the King,” were struck up all through the allied camp, which, re-echoing through the Bohemian mountains, told Napoleon plainly that Europe was united against him, and that the detested Albions had turned the tables upon him. Our forefathers had made up their minds to conquer or die; their strength, their shield, their stronghold, was in a Triune God. Europe was shaken to its foundations; duty, based on religion, was arrayed against talent destitute of God. Combat followed combat; but at Gross Beeren—another awkward field—Napoleon’s invincibles were again beaten. The field was covered with the slain, 10,000 of the enemy lying in ghastly piles. Thirteen guns, and 1,500 prisoners, fell into the hands of the Allies. Every German heart began to throb with emotion. The Saxons, who had hitherto fought in the ranks of the French, came over in a body from the ranks of the common enemy to fight in the ranks of the fatherland; and with bands playing and colours flying, at once turned about and slipped into their former comrades. But my readers must remember their comradeship was of a forced nature. Yet another terrible defeat was sustained by the heroic Ney, on the field of Dennewitz. The enemy here lost 13,000 officers and men, and 43 guns. Six thousand stand of arms were thrown away in order to accelerate their flight. The Allies lost 6,000—5,000 of whom were Prussians. Napoleon now began to see that his Marshals could not cope with the allied Generals. They were all beaten in detail; so he called them all in, with their armies, and retired on the memorable field of Leipsic, and there put the now united allied armies at defiance. As soon as it suited the plans and time of the allied Commander-in-Chief, this terrible battle commenced. It lasted for three days of unparalleled fighting. The stakes were heavy; freedom on one side, and despotic military slavery on the other. With ringing shouts, on the third day of this butchery, the allied armies advanced in massive columns to storm Napoleon’s last position. Under the eye of their beloved chief, the Old Guard fought with desperation, but it was all to no purpose; the great conqueror was defeated. A deep and rapid stream (the Elster) was behind him, with but one bridge. The Allies, who had carried the ramparts of Leipsic with a frightful slaughter, were now pell-mell after the foe. No quarter was given or taken. Thousands on both sides succumbed to the deadly thrust of the bayonet. The Allies, we must remember, were flushed with victory after victory. They had twenty years of cruel bondage to avenge. During this dreadful fight, the bridge—the only line of retreat open—was blown up. A terrible shriek of despair burst from thousands. All who had not crossed must die or surrender. Retribution had overtaken guilty, haughty, insulting France; she was being humbled to the dust.

It was on this field that the last representative of the royal line of Poland perished. “Gentlemen,” said that undaunted prince to the officers around him (drawing his sword), “it now behoves us to die with honour;” and plunging into the midst of a Russian column, he terminated a life of honour. It was one of the last scenes of this bloody drama, which was frightful on both sides. The brunt of the fighting, as will be noticed, fell upon the Russians:—

The enemy’s loss was terrible: 28 generals, 2,540 officers, and 60,000 men fell. Prisoners: 1 king (of Saxony), 24 generals, 4,000 officers, 68,000 men; 350 guns, 900 ammunition waggons, eagles and standards by wholesale. The blowing up of the bridge saved the wreck of Napoleon’s army; thousands were taken prisoners through it. But its destruction prevented the victorious allied cavalry from following up a beaten foe. The first-fruits of the victory was the sweeping of the French out of Germany, except those that were in the strong fortress. They all, to a man—now over 120,000 men—had to surrender in due course or die. The multitude of mouths soon ate up all their stores. Napoleon was now retiring with his half-famished, beaten, dejected army; three-fourths of those that had fought so bravely, then in life’s morning march, had perished or were captives. The army was more like a huge funeral procession than a warlike army—pressing on, pensive and silent. Many of them envied the lot of those who had fallen, for then they would not have witnessed the degradation of France. The Allies were in close pursuit of Napoleon, who did not attempt to stop until he had put the Rhine between him and his enemies. At the same time, Wellington was nailing victory after victory to our standard in the south of France. There was a lot of humble pie for Napoleon to eat. Mrs. Bull was the cook, with Pat for an assistant, whose conduct had often been the admiration of all, when our old flag was in danger.

As we have said, the Allied armies were in close pursuit of Napoleon’s legions, dejected and forlorn. 300,000 more men were demanded (food for powder) by Napoleon, but he was rolled up before the quarter of them could be brought up. The campaign of the great conqueror in France, in 1814, was sublime. With about 60,000 men, he kept at bay the huge armies of the Allies for months. Combat followed combat in rapid succession. If he could not strike out with that power he had done on former fields, on which his fame was built as an all-conquering general, he stung their huge armies terribly. The loss of the Allies was greater in this short campaign than Napoleon’s whole strength. But the Allies, in majestic strength, were now fast approaching Paris. The conqueror’s generalship was of no avail now. Guilty Paris was soon surrounded with an iron girdle, and tens of thousands, in their excitement, called upon their artillery to fire on Paris. But, no! the Emperor Alexander avenged mother Moscow by saving father Paris: and thus guilty, haughty Paris was saved from destruction in a true spirit of Christianity, which any thinking man must admire. But, in order to keep the Allies together, Mr. Bull had again to shell out with the nice little round sum of £12,000,000 sterling. That was the last stroke that pulled the usurper from the throne and sent him to the Isle of Elba, with the empty title of Empereur. Peace was now made with France. The tyrant was stricken down; but no indemnity had France to pay. Revolutionary France was humbled in the dust: her capital had been in the hands of her enemies, and her sons defeated on field after field; but their wives and daughters were respected. Infidelity had been conquered by Christianity. The whole of the Allied sovereigns, with their princes, marshals, and chief generals—some of the bravest of the brave—came to England after the peace of 1814, before returning to their own country, to do homage to our king, and to thank a free people, with a warm heart, personally, for their energy and indomitable perseverance: who had saved themselves by their firmness, and Europe by their example and generosity. But there were then, as now, thousands in Old England who knew well it was not our arm that saved us from bondage. She had an open Bible, and our forefathers were not at all ashamed to call God their Father: “O Lord, save Thy people, and bless Thine inheritance,” went straight up to the throne of grace from thousands of honest hearts daily. They acknowledged then, as now, that they were His people, His “chosen people,” His “inheritance.” They acknowledged before a wicked world that they were His “servants,” and that “none other fighteth for us but Thou, O God!”[51] And how could they say they had won the victory, now the time had come the tyrant was struck down? To give God all the praise, all denominations openly thanked an All-wise God fervently for His powerful aid. It belongs to our historians to recount the festivities of that joyous period. The Emperor Alexander, on visiting the Arsenal at Woolwich, with its acres of cannon, shot, shell, and all kinds of warlike implements ready, exclaimed: “Why, this resembles the preparation of a great nation for the commencement of a war, rather than stores still remaining at the termination of a struggle for very existence for twenty-two years.”

The following table will help my readers to see a little into the cost of war in blood, in France alone. Thousands, yea, hundreds of thousands of once happy homes were made miserable. No tongue can tell the amount of misery this terrible war had brought about. Mothers refused to be comforted, their darling boys being torn from their homes. Wives refused to be comforted for loved husbands torn from their bosoms. Thousands, and hundreds of thousands of orphans were left upon a cold world, all to gratify one man’s ambition for power.

Taken by conscription from 1793 to 1813:

But these figures do not include hundreds of thousands of young men that were induced, by nice soft talk, to voluntarily join the army, to gain distinction under their beloved pet corporal, as they were wont to call Napoleon. Many of them did well, as nearly all his marshals rose from butchers, publicans, tinkers, or shoemakers; in fact, many of them from the lowest of the low. Their actions bespoke their origin as soon as they were in power, either in Germany, Spain, or Portugal.

Europe had been convulsed in a death-struggle, in the iron grasp of revolutionary France, for twenty-two years. The map of Europe was completely upset. Kingdoms were shaken to their foundations. New kingdoms were formed at pleasure, to suit the whims of this restless tyrant. Old England, with her unconquerable fleet, was the only Power which had escaped the ravages of war. A merciful God, who neither slumbers nor sleeps, had built a hedge round about us. “The prayer of a righteous man,” we are told, “availeth much;” and thousands and tens of thousands of honest hearts, both publicly and privately, daily supplicated a throne of grace for His powerful aid: “From war, good Lord, deliver us.” Napoleon was a wonderful man, with an eagle eye. He fastened victory after victory, triumph after triumph, to his standards. He was endowed with a large mind, an iron will, and a cold heart. Nelson was the first man that thwarted his plans. The destruction of his fleet at the Nile was a heavy blow. To replace that fleet, a secret treaty was entered into with the Danes. The whole of their fleet was to have been placed at the disposal of this iron-minded man, to assist in the invasion of our beloved isle. But again our God warded off the blow. Our Government were not napping; they found it all out just in time to despatch our one-eyed, one-armed hero, Nelson, to Copenhagen. The whole of the Danish fleet was demanded. It was a daring stroke; but, reader, sharp diseases require sharp remedies. It was life or death with us as a nation. The brave Danes would not comply, but fought for it, and lost all, except their honour. It was here that the darling hero of England put his glass to his blind eye, and said he could not see the signal. He did not want to see it. His answer to the distasteful signal was: “Nail my signal to the mast-head for closer action.” Thus he crushed the enemy’s fleet, and once more nailed victory to the flag which is second to none. Napoleon was mad with rage, to see his plans again frustrated by these detested Albions. The next crushing blow this dauntless hero gave the tyrant was at Trafalgar. It was a death-stroke to this eagle-eyed usurper. It swept his flag and his allies from the sea, and proclaimed to the nations of the earth that Britain ruled on sea. This triumph, my young readers must know, was purchased by our noble hero’s life-blood. It was on the field of Austerlitz, with the Russians and their Allies completely crushed, that Napoleon said to those around him: “Gentlemen, all we want now are fleets and commerce.” He had hardly pronounced the words, when he received the news of the annihilation of his fleets, and those of his allies, by Nelson at Trafalgar; and that the hero was dead. He was completely dumbfounded. His first words were: “Would to God that man had been dead ten years ago.” Our darling hero was in life not immaculate; but it was evident to all thinking men that this dauntless hero was the instrument in the hands of God to combat infidelity. Our statesmen soon converted enemies into allies, and stuck to Napoleon like a good bull-dog until he was worried out, and landed in safety on the isle of Elba, under a faithful promise of peace and good-will to all. It was soon found that this tyrant could not slumber in the uneasy pomp at Elba. The whole of the representatives of Europe were now at Vienna, in Congress, squabbling over the spoil of dismembered Europe. When the astounding news of Napoleon’s flight from Elba was announced to that body by Count Talleyrand, all disputes were at once thrown overboard. All were unanimous that this restless usurper should be crushed, with all those that supported him. No time was to be lost, for nearly all the French army had joined him. His name had such a charm, that tens of thousands of veterans, whom the prisons of the continent and ours had let loose, at once rushed to his standards. It was plain to all, that, in order to put him down, Europe must combine—that it would be a death-struggle. The old shouts of Vive l’Empereur resounded across the frontier as a challenge to Europe. It was at once agreed that the British should furnish 125,000 men. Her magnificent fleets were to blockade all French ports, or destroy all that dare to put to sea. Prussia was to put into the field, within three months, 236,000 men; Austria, with as little delay as possible, 300,000 men; Russia, 225,000 men; the smaller German States, 150,000 men; Holland, 50,000 men; Spain and Portugal, 200,000 men. Thus Napoleon would have to combat Europe combined, with 1,286,000 men in arms—all in the pay of this glorious old isle. It cost us just one hundred and ten millions sterling to finally rid Europe of this tyrannical monster. It was plain to all that the British, supported by Prussia, were to be the advance guard of the hosts of Europe. It is not my intention to go into the oft-told tale of Waterloo; but a short explanation of Marshal Grouchy’s movements, I hope, will set some right; together with some of the leading features of that historic red field. In plain language, Grouchy simply obeyed strictly Napoleon’s instructions—he was well aware of the implicit obedience to orders which Napoleon exacted—without even attempting to form an opinion of his own. His orders were, to follow up the Prussians, to attack them, and never to lose sight of them. The terrible battle of Wavre was fought the same day as that of Waterloo. General Thielman’s corps of Prussians fought it out to the bitter end, and kept Grouchy’s men fully employed all day. It was not until seven p.m. that Grouchy received orders to manoeuvre on St. Lambert. Up to this, Grouchy’s army had been repulsed and driven back no less than thirteen times during that terrible day. They fought from four a.m. till midnight, and then the bridge of Wavre remained in the hands of the Prussians. The slaughter was terrible. Marshal BlÜcher knew well that his rear was attacked; but that heroic old veteran knew also that it was not at Wavre that the fate of Europe was to be decided, but at Waterloo; and, with the true spirit of a general, he resolved to sacrifice Thielman’s corps, if necessary, in order to destroy Napoleon’s army at Waterloo. All minor objects had to stand in abeyance. The brave General Thielman not only kept Grouchy back, but beat him at all points. The terrible combats at Quatre Bras and Ligny had already shown up the quality of the troops under the different commanders. Napoleon’s army was composed principally of veterans of a hundred fields; they were almost strangers to defeat. Victory had followed victory, and they felt confident their beloved pet corporal’s star was still in the ascendant. They felt proud in once more following their all-conquering Emperor, who had so often led them on to victory.

As far as Quatre Bras was concerned, Napoleon’s invincible pets were handled very roughly by Sir Thomas Picton’s division and the Guards, and victory was once more nailed to our glorious old flag. My readers must not lose sight of the fact that Sir Thomas Picton had just completed a long dreary march of twenty-two miles. The Brunswickers were holding on manfully, well knowing that the thin red line was advancing to their assistance. Every regiment of Sir Thomas’s division particularly distinguished itself. The conduct of the “Old Slashers” (28th) was sublime. They threw themselves into square as the cuirassiers were approaching. But, suddenly, all appeared to be lost: they were assailed on three sides at once. All was calm; not a voice was heard but that of Sir Thomas Picton, who was inside the square. This noble old hero called out, “Twenty-eighth! remember Egypt.” The next word was from its Colonel: “Twenty-eighth! Ready—fire!” and down came the proud horsemen, or they were scattered in all directions. None but resolute, cool men, would ever have won that bloody field. The enemy had upwards of five thousand splendid horse on the field. We had none—nothing but a few guns and stubborn infantry. It was “do or die,” until the Guards and other reinforcements came up. But it was plain to all that the brunt of the fighting would have to be borne by the British, Hanoverians, and Brunswickers. That rascal, Napoleon, was again victorious over the Prussians the same day at Ligny; but old Marshal BlÜcher, although defeated, was not subdued, as the sequel will prove. He retired in good order from the field of carnage, leaving nothing but heaps of slain for the victor. Although our conquering commander had defeated Marshal Ney, he was compelled to retire, as his flank was exposed to Napoleon’s eagle eye by the retreat of the Prussians. On that night, our victorious General found means to have an interview with old Marshal Forward (BlÜcher). The great conqueror was yet to be met; heavy stakes were yet to be fought for; the great contest of twenty-two years was yet to be decided. It was worth a “brush.” It was liberty against military despotic slavery; infidelity against Christianity. Our commander well knew that, in point of numbers and experience, his army was much inferior to that of the enemy. He had only about 50,000 upon whom he could rely, and most of them consisted of recruits who had never seen a shot fired. Wellington estimated the enemy at about 80,000 or 90,000 men, after deducting their loss in the two battles just fought. He informed the fire-eating old BlÜcher of his victory over Marshal Ney, and that he would accept battle with the conqueror of Europe on the plains of Waterloo, if he (BlÜcher) would only promise to support him with one or two corps. The dauntless old hero at once promised to support His Grace, not with one or two corps, but with his whole army; that he would be on the field, on Napoleon’s flank, by one o’clock, and that the two armies would crush the restless tyrant. It was enough; BlÜcher had pledged his word in honour. The spoilt child of fortune had now two resolute men to face, who, with all their followers, might die, but never yield. And during that dreadful butchery, as hour after hour rolled on, and attack after attack were driven back with frightful slaughter, the dauntless cuirassiers, who had frequently ridden through Russians, Austrians, Prussians, Spaniards, and Portuguese, were repulsed time after time, and driven in headlong confusion from our squares. One commander sent to His Grace the Duke of Wellington for assistance. The answer was, “Tell him I have none; he and I, with every Briton on this field, must conquer or die.” “Enough; we will share his fate, my men.” Napoleon’s old Guards, that had decided in his favour almost every field their pet corporal had won, were formed up for the final attack. As for fear, they did not know what it was; with them, it was death or victory. Napoleon came part of the way with them. They were, in this instance, made to believe that they were advancing to an assured victory, with the heroic Marshal Ney as their leader. They advanced with deafening shouts of “Vive l’Empereur.” The Guards, grim-faced as they were, had to bow to the all-conquering British bayonet. They were driven back by our Guards and the 52nd with a terrible rush, by that never-failing weapon. The intrepid Marshal Ney tried to find death, but could not. Six o’clock had struck. The hero of a hundred fields might well get a little uneasy, and turn his glass in the direction from which he expected assistance. One corps of BlÜcher’s army had been on the field since 4 p.m., and the enemy fought desperately to keep old Marshal Forward from joining in the fight. Wellington’s confidence in the lion-hearted old veteran was not misplaced on this trying occasion. He proved to the world that he was worthy to lead the vanguard of that host which was combating for the independence of Europe. His men sank to their ankles, and their artillery to the axles, in mud, complaining that they could not get on. The horses could not move the guns. These horsemen at once put their shoulders to the wheels, until they were completely exhausted, and sank down in the mud. BlÜcher then addressed them: “My children, you must get on; you would not have me break my word. Courage! my dear children; courage!” and at once sounded the charge. This had the effect. The roar of the firing at Waterloo told them plainly that a dreadful battle was being fought. The old veteran again told them that he was leading them on to victory. “Forward, children! Forward!” About 7 p.m. the lion-hearted BlÜcher burst with all the fury of the king of the forest upon the flank of the great conqueror. The last attack of Napoleon’s redoubtable Guards were just recoiling in confusion from our victorious bayonets. The last hour of Napoleon’s Empire had struck. The disturber of the peace of Europe that morning issued a most striking proclamation to his army, which roused it to the highest possible state of fanatic madness. Perhaps he thought it was needed, as they were about to face the detested Albions. He concluded his fiery address thus: “For every Frenchman who has a heart, the moment has arrived to conquer or die.” It was received with wild fanatic shouts of “Vive l’Empereur,” which resounded for miles, and struck terror into the hearts of thousands who were under Wellington’s standard as Allies. Well, the gauntlet was thrown down at the feet of the deliverer of Spain and Portugal. I would here note that the raw, undisciplined recruits of Great Britain have, on more than one occasion, been compared with the rustics who fought so desperately on the fields of Bautzen and Lutzen, when the great conqueror exclaimed: “What! will these rustics not leave me a nail?” The only difference was, our lads at Waterloo were dressed as soldiers; and the Germans fought and died in the dress they came from the plough:—

Well, the gauntlet was picked up by one who had on many a field proved more than a match for the best of Napoleon’s generals. They were to “conquer or die.” Let us just see what sort of example this hero sets. When the Old Guards were driven back, the hero of so many fields became as pale as death; and the last words, on the last field of him who had been the cause of millions coming to an untimely end, were not “Gentlemen, it now behoves us to die with honour,” but “All is lost! let us save ourselves”—bolting clean off the field like a ——. Charity forbids us to stigmatise the hero of so many fields with the worst name a soldier could go to rest with. But this we will say: On this important occasion he lost his head.[52] His Grace the Duke of Wellington was not addicted to any display, or ostentatious language; but he said, after the battle was over, that if he had had with him the old seasoned veterans that won the fields of Salamanca or Vittoria, in place of the motley mass he had—which he could not, for the lack of discipline, manoeuvre with—he would have chased the whole French army off the field long before BlÜcher reached it. But, as it was, he had much to be thankful for. Nothing that he had ever witnessed could surpass the inflexible struggle of such raw material. In plain language, they were sprigs of true Britons. Shoulder to shoulder they stood for hours, and faced shot and shell: shoulder to shoulder they died where they stood, overpowered, but not defeated. They were, on some parts of the field, broken and crushed, but not subdued; and as soon as their immortal chief gave the signal, the survivors advanced, shoulder to shoulder, with levelled steel, and with a cheer which told Napoleon’s vaunting legions “that all was lost,” and that the sons of liberty were the victors. The last hour of Napoleon’s Empire had struck.

It is a clear proof that the bravest of the brave are, at times, apt to lose all control of themselves. He (Napoleon) had stood for hours and witnessed his columns of attack, both horse and foot, driven back with frightful slaughter, by the very people he had formed such contemptible ideas of—except at sea. And to put the climax on the whole, his redoubtable Old Guards, who had decided almost every field in his favour up to the conquest of Leipsic, driven back in confusion, with our bayonets uncomfortably close to them. He learned to respect the British before he died, and acknowledged that we had the best infantry in the world. At times, during the eventful day, things looked gloomy. No force on earth seemed capable of resisting the heroes of Jena, Wagram, Austerlitz, Dresden, and even some that had escaped the carnage of Borodino, Beresina, Eylan, Friedland, Salamanca, Vittoria, and the routs from Kutczback and Leipsic. Strong brigades of infantry were reduced to a few hundreds. Many of the regiments were reduced to mere skeletons. But our squares still stood as firm as if rooted in the earth, frequently closing up as their ranks were thinned. For hours, the British left and centre was the theatre of a terrible conflict. The enemy’s horse, more than 12,000 strong, in great part clad in glittering armour, dashed at the guns and squares with unparalleled enthusiasm and vehement cries of Vive l’Empereur. In one attack there were seventy-seven squadrons engaged; the first line composed of cuirassiers in burnished steel: the second, the red lancers of the Guard, in brilliant uniform: the third, the chasseurs of the Guard, in rich furred costume of green and gold, with huge black bearskin hats on their heads. Never was there a more sublime military spectacle witnessed. But with all their enthusiasm, vain were all their attempts to break that stubborn infantry. With deadly aim they stretched these proud horsemen on the plain, while the remainder recoiled in disorder out of the frightful strife.[53] Frequently, during this terrible slaughter, both commanders exposed themselves to almost certain death, in the midst of the storm of shot and shell, grape and canister. Although fired at point-blank, the brave cuirassiers, with deep gaps or chasms in their ranks, again and again dashed at the squares, but instantly a deadly volley of musketry would strike hundreds of these dauntless men on the plains, until a complete rampart of dead and wounded men and horses lay around the squares. The total loss of the Allies during this short campaign—from the 15th to the 19th of June—was, British and King’s German Legion, 12,068; Hanoverians, 2,036; Belgians, 4,038; Brunswickers, 1,508; Nassau (or Dutch), 634; total, 20,290. The Prussian loss at Ligny, Wavre, and Waterloo was 33,120. At the crowning victory, their loss was 6,998. The French army was almost destroyed: their loss at Waterloo alone was over 40,000; then their loss at the terrible combats of Ligny, Quatre Bras, and Wavre was not much short of 30,000 more. The wreck of Napoleon’s veterans who re-crossed the Sambre and regained their own country, at once dispersed as an army. The few remaining cavalry and artillery sold their horses and made their way home. The boasting army had received a death-blow. It was repeatedly proved during the Peninsula campaigns that the British soldier could hold their own against vastly superior numbers. The invincible obstinacy which he inherits was displayed on field after field; and the crowning victory over the great chief (Napoleon) on the plains of Waterloo was a fitting sequel of Albuera, Salamanca, and Vittoria. The flight of the crest-fallen conqueror and the rout of his chosen veterans of the Imperial Guard, proclaimed his Grace the Duke of Wellington the greatest captain of his age. His army (although largely composed of raw recruits) had the honour of being unconquerable: it proved Great Britain to be one of the greatest of military powers—in her wealth, in her manhood, and in her self-sacrifice—and silenced the disgraceful croakers that almost worshipped at the shrine of Napoleon, yet calling themselves Britons. But we feel proud to know that the vast majority of Britons glory in the noble achievements of their sires and themselves, which have built up this vast Empire, now “second to none.”

Thus my readers will see that the great conqueror was rolled up by the advanced guard, before the other Powers had time to get up. His Grace the Duke of Wellington and old Marshal (Forward!) at once marched on Paris. The French talked very loudly about burying themselves in the ruins of Paris; but as soon as Wellington and BlÜcher’s standards were seen on the heights, they capitulated. Marshal BlÜcher at once retaliated a little on his own account, demanding one hundred million francs (four millions sterling) for the pay of his troops. He had not forgotten how his country had been impoverished and insulted after the battle of Jena. Could that stern old veteran have laid hands upon Napoleon, he would have made short work of him; and, but for the advice of Wellington, some of the most ornamental parts of the city would have been blown up. In due course, the allied sovereigns arrived in Paris, with their huge armies. The French authorities were compelled to find food, shelter, and pay for nearly one million of men, with 100,000 cavalry, for several months. Sixty-one millions sterling was demanded as an indemnity for the hundred days’ freak. It was but just that guilty, insulting France should feel the rod of retribution. Nothing wounded their pride so much as the demand for all the trophies of war which Napoleon and his Marshals had plundered Europe of. The iron sword of justice entered their inmost soul. It told them in language not to be misunderstood that conquest had now reached their doors; that they were not permitted to plunder the nations of the world with impunity, without punishment. The list of articles of rarity claimed by Prussia alone, which had been stolen from her palaces and noblemen’s mansions, occupied fifty-three closely printed pages. Spain came next with a long list; then Austria, Russia, Portugal, Italy, and Holland. Each had their demands. If the articles claimed were not forthcoming, their value was demanded. Great Britain was the only Power in Europe that had nothing to claim. The indemnity was divided among the different nations. Our share—which was no small slice—our forefathers relinquished; it covered a multitude of sins. They said we were not half so bad as we had been painted. An Army of Occupation of 150,000 men was left in France for three years, under His Grace the Duke of Wellington, to be paid, fed, housed, and clothed at the expense of the French. They were made up of 30,000 of each nation—Russia, Prussia, Austria, British, and the smaller German States. This taught our neighbours to be civil, and gave peace to Europe for nearly forty years. We had been the direct instrument, in the hands of God, in striking the tyrant down, and giving liberty to Europe. But in this death-struggle for independence a debt was incurred and handed down to us as a legacy of eight hundred and forty millions seven hundred and fifty-eight thousand seven hundred and eighty-one pounds sterling. But we are free from the oppressor, and are indebted to no foreign country. As Britons we can hold up our heads, and tell the biggest and best of the European nations to stand off. We fear none but God. The Quakers and Shakers may talk, but unless the Briton has degenerated wonderfully, our fleet would hold its own, defending our coasts; and with our teeming population, we would soon let Europe see whether we could muster an army or not. I have no wish to foster a bellicose spirit. God forbid! We know enough of war to know the value of peace. But there is no necessity to get alarmed about our defenceless state; for if we could do nothing else, we would send to Lancashire for some thousands of their lads to purr[54] them a bit, and there are more Nelsons now than there were in 1804. Marshal Soult (Napoleon’s pet General) once said that he knew the English—that they were the very d——l in close quarters. “Stick to them, my lads!” has been shouted in the writer’s ears in the thick of more than one fight.[55]

Such, dear reader, has been the heroic conduct of the sons of Albion, and our sister isle, Ireland, either by land or sea, when the honour of our glorious old flag of liberty has been at stake, that all friends or foes have had to admire. The great conqueror, Napoleon, in speaking of the British soldier, said that England had the best infantry in the world, that they could dispute the palm of victory with the best veteran troops in Europe, and whoever attacks such good troops as Great Britain produces, without a positive assurance of success (by overwhelming odds), send them to certain destruction. He had had bitter experience of our stubborn infantry, and the terrible charges of our heavy horse; he had learned to respect us; and I think we can say without egotism, that the present generation are true chips of that unconquerable stubborn race which have carried Old England (or rather, Great Britain) through thick and thin. Reader, do not get alarmed: there are as good men now as ever our fathers or grandfathers were, and would hit as hard for the honour of our glorious Empire as they did. Only treat them fairly with good leaders, and the biggest bullies in Europe would find the sons of the United Kingdom a tough lot to handle. The British soldier or sailor had need be made of tough material: most of his life is spent exposed to the pestilential climates, to say nothing of the trials and hardships of warfare. Tommy Atkins may grumble sometimes, but he is there when wanting, and woe to the enemy he can close with.

But we know well that there are now living in this glorious old isle, men calling themselves Britons, unpatriotic enough and un-English enough to depreciate and even to endeavour to crush those that have saved them from dishonour. Gentlemen, Englishmen, is this justice and Christian charity to those to whose heroic courage and devoted patriotism it is owing that the sacred soil of old England has been unprofaned by a foreign foe? Countrymen, your hearths and homes are inviolate, your national feelings uninsulted, your peace and happiness undestroyed. Whilst all the Continental nations of Europe have, in turn, had to drink to the dregs the cup of humiliation, Old England, under the protection of the Great I AM, and the indomitable pluck of her sons, has escaped the violence and dreadful visitations of war—all that the horrors, miseries, and devastation of evil passions of lust, rapine, and cruelty can inflict. We say again, happy England knows nothing of cruel war: she breaks her daily bread in peace; seed-time and harvest never fail; domestic happiness, human loves, and human friendships are never interrupted; and on each revolving Sabbath her church bells calmly and peacefully invite all, old and young, rich and poor, to the house of prayer and thanksgivings. I think most of my readers will say, Shame on all those that would try to traduce and humiliate the spirit of the British soldier or sailor who have for centuries proved to the world that they are true types of an undefeated race. These favoured isles know nothing about their homes in flames, their property pillaged, their mothers, their wives and daughters defiled and dishonoured, their children massacred before their eyes, themselves insulted; and should the broken-hearted husband open his mouth, shot or chopped to pieces. Thus far, these glorious old isles know nothing of the rough clash of war: know nothing of warfare but the sight of hostile standards as war trophies: know nothing of the roar of cannon or the roll of musketry: know nothing of weeping mothers with smiling infants at their breasts, searching amidst piles of dead for their loved ones. And surely her brave war-worn and patriotic defenders are entitled at least to your gratitude and good report, and not let them starve—

I appeal, “not for myself,” but for my comrades, to you, “Englishmen.”

Unity! Unity! “Unity is strength.” The great German Empire knows it well. The strongest nation in the world would think twice before they attacked them. They dwell together in unity. And we feel compelled to say, the man who tries to dismember our empire is no friend, but a traitor.

Before we close this book, just a few words upon Union. This dear old isle, with her glorious offspring—an empire such as this world has never seen before! of which Britons are so justly proud. Let us for a moment look for the past empires. Babylon, in the zenith of her power, where is she? Medo-Persia, in the plenitude of her far-reaching sway, where is she? Greece, in all her Alexandrian pride of conquest, where is she? Rome, in the cruel slavery of universal dominion, where is she? The great French Empire, as under Napoleon, with his military despotic power, where is it? The great Mogul Empire, with its despotic grinding power, where is it? They none of them trusted or looked to the strong arm of the Great I AM. We would point out that our glorious empire is larger, stronger, and better than them all. Larger in area, and with a population exceeding three hundred millions; stronger, in doing battle for the right; for when Britain draws the sword in a just cause, woe be to the enemy. The same unconquerable spirit is in the Briton, and the same unchanging God watches this little isle with a jealous eye. Let us be true to ourselves, and faithful to our father’s God, and we have nothing to fear. Better, because her laws are founded on the Book of books—Divine truth—fit for the universe. The first and the wisest thing for us to look to is the realization of the bond of universal brotherhood, binding our far-reaching empire in federal union, and making us what we now are, in race and blood—a perfect mighty whole. This, my dear reader, is no wild dream, but a thing that is certain of accomplishment, because the materials are all ready to hand. That hour will surely come, although we may not live to see it. So take heed. The blessings and advantages of such a union to the universe would be unspeakable. Let us ask ourselves why we occupy the position of eminence amongst the nations of the earth to-day? Why God cares for and watches over us so tenderly and unceasingly? Is it not, reader, that we are His people—set apart for the accomplishment of His high purpose? Why is it we do not keep up such huge armies as other nations?—that we are the beautiful isle of the sea, set apart by an all-wise God to proclaim the riches of His mercies to the children of men? To proclaim, I say, the glad tidings, that “there is but one Mediator between God and man—the Man Christ Jesus.” A man must be blind indeed not to see that the strength of Britain lies in the powerful arm of Him who spake a world into existence, and who said to the raging billows, “Peace! be still.” Britain, as a nation, has for many years openly acknowledged God in all her doings. Again, He has committed to our care the oracles of His divine will towards the children of men. He has honoured us before all the nations of the earth. In the history of mankind throughout all ages there is no parallel to our own case, where so vast an empire has come from such small beginnings. And just in proportion to our trust in God, so shall we be true to ourselves, and the rest of humanity. We are made up of a “multitude of nations.” We possess “the gates of our enemies.” Let us, then, march on, in the pleasant bonds of love, towards a higher life; the reward of which is set before us, and to all who love God and keep His commandments. So let our watchword be, Union! Union!! Union!!!—in the best interests of common humanity.

Now, how can we close our book better than by asking His blessing still to rest upon this glorious old isle. That He may still protect and bless her most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria; while we repeat the cry—“From war, good Lord deliver us.”

The reader, I hope, will overlook all imperfections, knowing this comes from the pen of one who has tried to do his duty upon many a hard-fought field, and who is ready to do it again, rather than see the flag—that glorious old flag!—that every honest Briton loves so well, trampled in the dust.

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THE END.

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FOOTNOTES:

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T. FORMAN AND SONS, PRINTERS, SHERWOOD STREET, NOTTINGHAM.

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