“Wolfe, where’er he fought, Put so much of his heart into his act That his example had a magnet’s force, And all were swift to follow whom all loved.” Once more you see a young soldier advancing. He is a hero of heroes, yet never was the soul of a hero enshrined in a more unhero-like frame. His features are homely, his hair is fiery-red, his shoulders are narrow, and his limbs are veritable spindle-shanks. But look at his eyes, and you will instantly forget his plain features and his rickety body. They are bright, searching, brimful of intelligence and vivacity, and speak eloquently of the indomitable spirit within. This is James Wolfe, the man who gave us Canada—“eldest daughter of the Empire”—that vast land of fertile prairie, dense forest, widespreading pasture, rich mines, unrivalled waterways, fine cities, and, above all, of a sturdy nation, heart-warm towards the mother-country, and eager to give her tangible proofs of kinship and affection. Wolfe gave Canada to the Empire at the price of his heart’s blood. In one “crowded hour of glorious life” he gave us the heritage of this majestic land, already the greatest and most prosperous of all British lands beyond the seas, and yearly advancing towards a mighty destiny. James Wolfe was a soldier from his youth. His father was an officer of distinction; his mother a woman of great sweetness and charm, deeply beloved by her two sons, of whom James was the elder. He was born on June 2, 1727, at Westerham in Kent. Of his brief boyhood’s days we know little—indeed, there are but meagre details of his whole life. We know, however, that he was a delicate, sensitive, highly-strung boy, who inherited his mother’s frailty though not her beauty. We know, too, that he saw little of his father, who was almost constantly absent from home on active service. Nevertheless, he was tenderly and judiciously reared by his devoted mother. When a mere schoolboy—a little over fifteen years of age—he became an ensign, and carried the colours in one of his Majesty’s regiments. From the beginning of his career he set himself to study the art of war, and at sixteen he was adjutant of his regiment, then serving in Flanders. He discharged his duties with great intelligence, and very early demonstrated his capacity for leading men. Even though an adjutant, he had not lost his schoolboy tastes, for we find him writing to his mother warmly thanking her for a plum-cake which she had sent him. At twenty-one he had seen seven campaigns, and was a major. He had been present at the victories of Dettingen and Culloden, and it is said that on the latter battlefield he proved the nobility of his nature by refusing to shoot a wounded Highlander when ordered to do so by “Butcher” Cumberland. It is also said that he recommended the enlistment of Highlanders as soldiers in the British army. This may or may not be true, but it is certain that the Highland regiments first began to win their great renown under his command. At thirty years of age he had acquired the reputation of a capable, active, zealous officer, but so far he had given little indication of the great fame which was soon to be his. In 1758 he first crossed the Atlantic; and here we may interrupt the narrative in order to explain the condition of affairs at that time in America. By the middle of the eighteenth century the British had established themselves in thirteen colonies along the Atlantic coast from Florida to Nova Scotia. The French had chosen Quebec as their capital, and had occupied Acadia (now the provinces of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick) and the valley of the St. Lawrence from the Atlantic to the Great Lakes. A new England and a new France had thus grown up in the New World. New England grew rapidly in population and wealth. New France also prospered, though in a lesser degree. Its progress was hindered by constant warfare with the Indians, by the trading enterprise of the British, and by the interference of the home government. The two white races constantly advanced their frontiers, and their outposts drew nearer and nearer to each other every year. Border strife between the rival nations soon became frequent. In 1690, for example, the British settlers invaded New France to revenge themselves for the plunder of certain frontier stations. The invaders were driven back, but for years afterwards the French and the British kept up an irregular warfare. During the War of the Spanish Succession a powerful British fleet which was protecting the colonies seized that part of Acadia now known as Nova Scotia. Though Britain had colonized the whole Atlantic seaboard from Florida to Nova Scotia, her territories had not advanced inland beyond the great barrier of the Alleghany Mountains. France, in addition to Canada, possessed the colony of Louisiana at the mouth of the Mississippi. She claimed that Louisiana stretched to the head-waters of the Mississippi and its tributary the Ohio. Had this claim been allowed, the British seaboard colonies would have been shut in on the west, and prevented from extending to the rich plains of the interior. Already the British needed elbow-room, for they numbered some 2,000,000, while the French in all the vast territory which they claimed could only muster 180,000. The French now proposed to link Louisiana with Canada by a chain of forts along the Mississippi and the Ohio. The three northern links in the chain were Fort Ticonderoga, at the end of Lake Champlain; Fort Niagara, near the great falls; and Fort Duquesne, on the Ohio River, where the great manufacturing town of Pittsburg now stands. The first and last of these forts were close to the English back settlements, which were constantly ravaged by Indians in the pay of France. In 1754, while Britain was ringing with the fame of Clive fresh from his great defence of Arcot, a party of Virginian militia made a dash at Fort Duquesne under the leadership of George Washington, soon to be the greatest name in American history. The attack, however, was unsuccessful. This was the beginning of the great struggle between the French and the British for the possession of North America. Next year General Braddock, who had been sent out to be commander-in-chief in America, marched against the French at the head of 2,200 British regulars and American settlers. He cut his way through almost impenetrable forest, but when eight miles from the fort fell into an ambuscade. The Indians and French were hidden in bushes and behind trees, and they poured volley after volley into the British ranks. The settlers wished to fight in the Indian fashion, and take cover behind the trees; but Braddock thought this mode of warfare cowardly, and so they fought in the open until so many of the British were killed that a retreat had to be sounded. Soon the retreat became a flight, and but for Washington and his Virginians, Braddock’s little army would probably have been cut off to a man. The consequences of this defeat were terrible. The French let loose the Indians on the outlying British settlements, and the woods rang with the screams of tortured victims. For a time France was supreme on the American continent. In 1758 the British outlook was black indeed, and at home men trembled in hourly expectation of a French invasion. England was in a very bad way indeed; but the hour found the man, and that man was William Pitt. He sketched out a bold plan of campaign in America. Simultaneous attacks were to be made on Fort Ticonderoga and Fort Niagara, and on Quebec, the key to New France. Pitt looked around for a general after his own heart. He found him in James Wolfe, a young soldier with the daring, skill, and determination to accomplish what the great statesman planned. Merit and merit alone decided Pitt’s choice, and a better choice was never made. Wolfe had just returned from the capture of the chief fort in Acadia, where as brigadier under General Amherst he had covered himself with glory, and had earned the proud title of “hero of Louisbourg.” When Pitt offered the command of the new expedition to Wolfe he jumped at the chance. “Mr. Pitt,” he said, “may dispose of my slight carcass as he pleases.” The Duke of Newcastle, then Prime Minister, was shocked at Pitt’s choice. He told the king that Wolfe was mad. “Mad is he?” said George; “then I hope he will bite some others of my generals.” On February 17, 1759, Wolfe sailed for Canada with a strong fleet and 9,000 troops. During the voyage he suffered tortures from sea-sickness. In May he was in the harbour of Louisbourg, and on the sixteenth of June he weighed anchor for Quebec, the troops cheering and the officers drinking this toast, “British colours on every French fort, port, and garrison in America.” Quebec, the most historic spot in all the New World, has not inaptly been called the Gibraltar of America. It stands on the nose of a rocky peninsula shaped like a bull’s head and facing eastward. On the south and east sides it rises by steep cliffs to a rocky summit. On south, east, and north it is defended by rivers: to the south flows the great St. Lawrence River, which expands on the east into a broad basin upon which the navies of the world might ride; while on the north the peninsula is protected by the estuary of the river St. Charles. The town itself consists of two parts—a lower town, which huddles by the water side, and an upper town, which climbs the cliffs. High on the summit is the grim and frowning citadel. Let us ascend to this historic fortress and gaze in admiration on the scene which unfolds itself. The lower town, with its steep streets, its old gabled houses, its public buildings, and numerous churches with their tin-covered cupolas and minarets, rises sharply from the water’s edge. Opposite to us, on the other side of the river, is Point Levis, and to the east is the beautiful Isle of Orleans. On our left, across the basin, is the Montmorency River, which hurls itself over a precipice to mingle its waters with those of the great river. To our right extend the famous Plains of Abraham, now purchased and preserved as a national park consecrated to great historical memories. Such is the Quebec of to-day. In the year 1759 it presented a much ruder aspect, though it was then lively and important, and had been made almost impregnable by walls, bastions, and fortified gates. Within this city Vaudreuil, its bombastic, corrupt governor, and his gang of unscrupulous officials kept up a feeble imitation of the luxurious court of France. They robbed the king, their master, and they robbed the Canadians committed to their protection. “Are the walls of Quebec made of gold?” asked Lewis when official after official returned to France bloated with wealth. New France was honeycombed with peculation and fraud, and there was but one honest, incorruptible man amongst the greedy horde. He was Lewis Joseph, Marquis of Montcalm, a soldier of unblemished repute and no mean scholar. His life was one long struggle with the governor, who thwarted him in every possible way, and arrogated to himself all the credit and honour which his noble colleague managed to win. Montcalm had early news of Wolfe’s errand, and he hastily collected every able-bodied man and every boy who could hold a gun within the walls of the town. “Never,” said he, “was Canada in a state so critical and full of peril.” Quebec was already strong by nature, and Montcalm proceeded to make it stronger still by art. Redoubts, batteries, and lines of entrenchment were thrown up along the lofty, curving shores from the St. Charles River to the Montmorency, and a boom of logs and hulks mounted with cannon barricaded the former river. Fourteen thousand men lined the earthworks, and one or two thousand more manned the guns of the fortress. When Wolfe arrived on the 21st of June, Quebec was well-nigh impregnable. Wolfe landed his men on the Isle of Orleans, and soon realized the desperate character of the task which he had undertaken. To take Quebec seemed impossible. The cliffs to his left were edged with palisades and capped with redoubts, while on his right was a far-extended line of entrenchments, ending at the foaming cataract of Montmorency. There seemed to be no chink in the wall of defence. For weeks Wolfe lay inactive, wearing himself to a shadow in the attempt to find a weak spot against which he might hurl his army. He seized Point Levis, and from it bombarded the city, only a mile away. Fierce as his fire was, it did nothing to help him to capture the place. At length, tired of inactivity, he attempted on the 31st of July to gain a footing on the north shore of the St. Lawrence by landing his men at the Montmorency Falls and climbing to the plateau above. In this he was successful; but though his guns now played on the flank of Montcalm’s entrenchments, the city of his desire was as far off as ever. “You may demolish the town,” said the bearer of a flag of truce, “but you shall never get inside it.” “I will take Quebec,” replied Wolfe, “if I stay here until November.” A frontal attack on the Beauport Heights was a complete failure, and Wolfe lost more than two hundred men. He was now almost worn out. His pale face and tall, lean form were no more seen going to and fro amongst his soldiers. He lay dangerously ill, and his life was almost despaired of. He felt his failure intensely, especially as news now arrived that the attacks on Ticonderoga and Niagara had been successful. Meanwhile the British fleet had accomplished a great feat. Despite a furious cannonade from the guns of Quebec, ship after ship had managed to sail up the river past the forts, and now were able to threaten the city from a position which the French believed to be unattainable by the enemy. On the 20th of August the young general was about again, and was diligently searching the steep, rocky shore above Quebec for a possible landing-place. At last, about three miles from the city, at a place now called Wolfe’s Cove, he discovered a goat track that wound up the wooded precipice for two hundred and fifty feet above the St. Lawrence. A French guard was stationed at the top, but Wolfe thought it could easily be surprised. Had he known that the captain in charge had gained a reputation for cowardice, and had allowed his men to go home to dig up their potatoes, his hopes would have been higher. At any rate he was now resolved to climb the Heights of Abraham and meet Montcalm’s army at the very gates of Quebec. Now let us pass on to the fateful night of September 13, 1759. Under cover of the darkness the British flotilla of boats moved silently with muffled oars towards the landing-place. Wolfe, who was in the leading boat, began in a low whisper to recite the beautiful lines of Gray’s “Elegy.” He came to the noble verse— “The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour; The paths of glory lead but to the grave.” “Now, gentlemen,” he said, “I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec.” The boats drifted on in death-like silence. Suddenly, as the tide bore them inshore and the mighty wall of rock loomed above them, they were sharply challenged by a sentry. “Qui vive?” he cried. A Highland officer replied in good French, “La France.” “Of what regiment?” demanded the sentry. “The Queen’s,” answered the Highlander, and the sentry was satisfied. A sigh of relief escaped from the commander, and the boats glided on. Presently another sentry challenged, but he too was deceived. In a few moments more the boats lightly ran aground in a little cove. The men disembarked silently and scrambled up the wooded precipice on their hands and knees. The French guard at the top was captured, and loud British huzzas proclaimed that at last a footing had been gained on the coveted spot. Before the day broke Wolfe had marshalled his men on the Heights of Abraham, and in the gray dawn they saw the city almost within their grasp. When they became visible, Montcalm was greatly alarmed. “This is a serious business,” he said. Bugles and mounted messengers called in his troops. To save the citadel he was obliged to abandon his entrenchments and give fight in the open. The battle that followed was singularly brief in duration, yet it settled the fate of Canada. The French advanced, firing rapidly; but the British reserved their fire until the enemy was within close range. Then a fearful hail of bullets sped from their muskets. The French wavered, and as the British reloaded and advanced, they turned and fled. Wolfe was wounded in the wrist as he led the charge, but he wrapped a handkerchief about the wound and pushed on. Soon after another bullet struck him in the breast. “Don’t let my men see me drop,” he said as they carried him to the rear. Here he lay, his eyes glazed, and his life fast ebbing away. Suddenly one of the little group about him cried, “They run; see, they run!” The dying man roused himself as though from sleep. “Who run?” he asked. “The enemy, sir,” was the reply; “they give way everywhere.” The dying flame of life flickered up for a moment, and he gave a clear, emphatic order for cutting off the retreat. This done, he turned on his side, murmuring, “Now God be praised, I die happy.” Wolfe was dead. His gallant foe, Montcalm, was also stricken down in the fight. “How long have I to live?” he asked of his surgeon. “Twelve hours, more or less,” was the reply. “So much the better,” said the dying man; “I shall not live to see the surrender of Quebec.” Before passing away, he wrote to the British commander beseeching him to show mercy to the townsfolk. “Do not let them perceive,” he said, “that they have changed masters. Be their protector, as I have been their father.” It is to Britain’s honour that she has observed this dying request of a great and good man with scrupulous care. The French Canadian of to-day would be the first to say that under the Union Jack he retains his faith and language, his old laws and cherished institutions, and that under British rule his liberty has been enlarged and his prosperity established. On September 18, 1759, the British flag was hoisted on the citadel of Quebec. At home the news was received with rapturous joy. “The whole nation rose up and felt itself the stronger for Wolfe’s victory.” The scattered remnants of the French fell back on Montreal, and in the next autumn they were surrounded and forced to surrender. The victory of the British was complete; the destiny of Canada was fixed for ever. A tribute to the joint memory of the two leaders who in death were not divided now stands in the public gardens of Quebec, and on the battlefield is a simple obelisk with the plain inscription, “Here died Wolfe, victorious.” And here we leave James Wolfe “alone with his glory.” He died, as he wished to die, a soldier’s death, and he leaves to future ages a noble example of high honour, strict integrity, and noble devotion to duty. DEATH OF WOLFE.
(From the picture by Benjamin West, P.R.A.) The Battle of Trafalgar, and the Victory of Lord Nelson over the French and Spanish Fleets, October 21, 1805.
(From the picture by Clarkson Stanfield, R.A., in the National Gallery of British Art.)
Chapter XVIII.
NELSON OF THE NILE. “Admirals all, for England’s sake, Honour be yours, and fame! And honour, as long as waves shall break, To Nelson’s peerless fame.” IT is a gray, melancholy spring day in the year 1771. You are at Chatham, looking on to the deck of his Majesty’s ship Raisonnable, commanded by Captain Maurice Suckling. The sixty-four is not yet ready for sea; her chief officers are not yet aboard. On the quay you see a thin, delicate-looking lad of twelve years of age dressed in a “middy’s” uniform. The wind bites shrewdly; the lad shivers in his thin jacket, and there is something like a tear in his eye. This morning his father left him in London to make the best of his way to Chatham and there join his ship. He has wandered about, friendless and alone, for hours; he is hungry, footsore, and weary, and he cannot discover the vessel to which he is posted. You feel sorry for the lonely little fellow, but his troubles are now over. A kindly officer accosts him, and brings him on board. The lad’s eyes gleam as he gazes on the ship which is to be his home. He glances down at the almond-white decks; he looks around at grinning lines of black cannon; he turns his eyes aloft to the symmetrical fabric of spars and sails and rigging. It is a wonder-world of delight. There is fascination everywhere—in the red muzzles of the guns, in their white tompions, in the petticoat trousers and long pigtails of the sailors. His young eyes, brilliant with intellect, dart hither and thither; he is astonished and delighted by all the novel sights which he sees. This frail weakling is Horatio Nelson, the proudest name in the naval annals of his land. He is to develop into the “unique sailor,” the great hero of his race, the man whose statue is decked with laurel and whose fame is eagerly commemorated year by year, though well-nigh a century has elapsed since he passed away. Horatio Nelson was born in the year before Wolfe captured Quebec. He was the son of a plain country parson with a quiver full of children and a modest income. The future hero first saw the light in the pleasant rectory of Burnham Thorpe, Norfolk. At nine years of age his mother died, and the weak, sickly lad grew up under the care of his grandmother. There was nothing remarkable about the boy’s school days, though many stories are told of his mischievous exploits, his fearlessness, and his high sense of honour. The best-known story relates that as a little boy he strayed from the house on a birds’-nesting excursion, and was absent so long that his grandmother grew alarmed and sent out servants to look for him. At length young Horatio was discovered sitting placidly by the side of a stream which he could not cross. When brought back his grandmother said, “I wonder that you were not driven home by hunger and fear.” “Fear! grandma,” said the boy. “Fear! what is that? I never saw it!” Truly the boy was father to the man. To the end of his life he never saw fear or knew what it meant. You already know that at twelve years of age Nelson began his naval career as a midshipman on board his uncle’s ship, the Raisonnable. At twenty-one he was a captain in the Royal Navy—“the merest boy of a captain,” as Prince William, afterwards William the Fourth, described him. Nevertheless, there was no better seaman or more gallant officer in the service. Now let us pass on to the year 1789, when Nelson was thirty-one years of age, and was regarded by those who knew him best as one of the finest commanders in the service. In this year that huge upheaval known as the French Revolution took place. For centuries the kings and nobles of France had grossly mismanaged the country and had bitterly oppressed the people. The State was well-nigh bankrupt, and the land was full of starving and despairing men. In July of this fateful year Paris rose, the Bastille, or State prison, was stormed, the prisoners were released, and the garrison slain. All over the country the peasants revolted, murdered the nobles, and burned their castles. The king was powerless to interfere, and the National Assembly, which had now seized the reins of power, passed laws sweeping away the privileges of the nobles and the rights of the Church. Before long the king and his family tried to escape from the country, but they were brought back and treated as prisoners. Meanwhile large numbers of the nobles had sought refuge abroad, and were urging foreign governments to declare war on France. When the German sovereigns threatened invasion, the French declared war against Austria and Prussia. Now we must introduce the most dominant figure of the modern world—Napoleon Bonaparte. He was born in Corsica in the year which saw the American colonists beginning to rise against the British Government. In the first year of American independence he was a “gentleman cadet” in the military school at Paris. Here he was chiefly noteworthy as a silent, haughty lad, full of self-love and of great ambition. He was studious and very fond of mathematics and geography, but his abilities were not striking. None of his teachers prophesied for him the astonishing genius which he afterwards displayed. When Nelson was twenty-seven years of age, Napoleon became a lieutenant of artillery. He was a zealous republican, and was placed in command of the artillery which was to besiege the naval port of Toulon, then in possession of the British, who had been called in by the royalist inhabitants of the town. Napoleon conducted the siege with such skill that the British were forced to evacuate the place, not, however, without burning the French fleet which lay in the harbour and destroying the arsenal. At this juncture Nelson was detailed to besiege certain coast towns of the island of Corsica. He captured Bastia and Calvi, but at the latter place he lost the sight of an eye. A period of dangerous and exhausting service followed. Napoleon was now in command of the army of Italy, and was at the beginning of his extraordinary career. He was marching along the narrow coast-road of the Riviera, and Nelson’s task was to harass his shoreward march. Scarcely a day passed without a skirmish of some kind with a battery, a gunboat, or an armed cruiser. Nelson’s force, however, was inadequate, and Napoleon accomplished his purpose. His victories in Italy were extraordinary, and speedily he was acclaimed on all hands as the greatest general of the republic. As he rose in fame and influence new vistas opened before him, and he soon perceived that the highest office in the State was his to grasp. Next he advanced into Austria itself, and carried all before him. When he was within eighty miles of Vienna the emperor begged for peace, and obtained it at the price of Belgium and Lombardy. Prussia now deserted the allies, and Holland and Spain had already purchased peace by promising the republic the use of their navies. Great Britain was in a state of “splendid isolation,” and all eyes turned to the fleet as the only hope of succour. The banks stopped cash payments, alarm was at its height, and Consols fell to fifty-one. Great Britain had her back to the wall. Before long, however, the British fleet had its first great success. On February 14, 1797—that glorious St. Valentine’s Day—Admiral Jervis won a splendid victory over the Spanish fleet off Cape St. Vincent. In that confused scene of roaring cannon, rolling clouds of smoke, crash of falling spars, shrieks of the wounded, and stormy huzzas of the half-naked sailors wrestling at the guns, Nelson stands out as the conspicuous figure of the day. At one time he was engaging nine Spanish ships. A little later he was abreast of the San Josef, pouring in such a murderous fire that speedily she was unmanageable. The San Nicolas drifted on to the San Josef, and Nelson manoeuvred to foul the San Nicolas. He hooked his sprit-sail yard into her rigging, and then boarded. The ship yielded, but at this moment a fierce fire of musketry was opened from the San Josef—only a jump away. Instantly Nelson and his men sprang aboard the San Josef, and as they did so a Spanish officer called out that the ship had surrendered. Thus on the deck of a Spanish man-of-war, which he had boarded across the deck of another then in his possession, Nelson received the swords of the vanquished Spaniards. Already he was the darling of his sailors and a source of pride to the nation. In a daring but unsuccessful attack on Cadiz he lost an arm, and sank into a state of deep depression, thinking that he had become a burden on his friends and useless to his country. For a time our little one-armed, one-eyed hero retired to a quiet country home; but on April 1, 1798, he was afloat in command of a fleet scouring the Mediterranean with orders to seek the French fleet, and use his best endeavours to take, sink, burn, and destroy it. After a long and anxious quest he at last discovered it anchored in Aboukir Bay. “We are moored in such a manner,” wrote the French admiral, “as to bid defiance to a force more than double our own.” How vain the boast was will shortly appear. The French ships were anchored in single file along the shore, with three miles of shoal water between them and the land, and the admiral believed that no man-of-war could possibly get to the shoreward of him. He had actually piled up his mess gear on the shoreward side of his ships, thus rendering the guns on that side unworkable. As the British fleet drew near, under a press of sail, during the afternoon of August 1, Nelson observed that the enemy’s ships were moored five hundred yards apart, so as to permit them to swing at anchor. Instantly he perceived that where the enemy’s ship could swing there was room enough for one of his squadron to anchor. The French were trapped, and Nelson cried, “Before this time to-morrow I shall have gained a peerage or Westminster Abbey!” Five ships with men in the chains, heaving the leads, now bore down, rounded the bows of the leading vessel, and got inshore of the French fleet. The rest of Nelson’s ships took up their stations on the seaward side, and at half-past six, just as the sun was setting, the action began. In twelve minutes the leading ship of the enemy was dismasted, and almost at the same instant the third ship of the line suffered the same fate. Black night came on at seven, and only the flash of guns, crimsoning the heavens, lit up the darkness. At half-past eight the fourth and fifth ships of the enemy’s line surrendered. At ten minutes past nine the flagship, the Orient, caught fire. She lay between two British ships, and was almost cut in halves by shot. Her gallant admiral lay dying on the deck, and every moment the flames raged higher. The burning of the Orient was the most terribly grand spectacle ever seen in naval warfare. Her magazine was full of powder, and an explosion was inevitable. Such, however, was the heroism of her crew that while the lower decks were in flames, her men continued to work the guns on the upper deck. Huge forked flames and living sheets of fire leapt up as though from the heart of a volcano. She had ceased to fire now, and the remnants of her crew crawled out on the spars like flies. The flames lit up the scene so vividly that even the Arabs could be seen on the shore. At a quarter past eleven she blew up with a thunderous roar, and the battle of the Nile was over. All that remained was to render the victory complete. By three in the morning two ships alone of that proud French fleet had escaped. Next morning Nelson, with a deep wound on his forehead, called the fleet to return public thanksgiving to Almighty God for the most decisive victory that has ever blessed British arms at sea. The number of the enemy taken, drowned, burnt, and missing was 5,225. On the English side 218 were killed and 677 wounded. Napoleon was at this time in Egypt, which he proceeded to conquer as the first step towards striking at India. The disaster at Aboukir Bay cooped him up in the East. He crossed the desert into Syria, and drove the Turks out of the southern part of the land. Before the walls of Acre, however, his victorious march was checked. The Turks within, and a British fleet under Sir Sidney Smith outside, completely baffled him. In later years Napoleon said, “That man made me miss my destiny.” But for Sir Sidney Smith, Napoleon would have been Emperor of the East. As it was, he was forced to raise the siege of Acre and retire into Egypt, where news reached him that the French armies had suffered some reverses. He left his army in Egypt to get home as best it might, and returned to France, where his friends arranged a revolution. On December 24, 1797, a new French constitution was proclaimed, and shortly afterwards Napoleon became First Consul. He took up his abode in the Tuileries, and was now on the direct highroad to the lofty position which he meant to attain. Napoleon had pledged his word to save France from her host of enemies, and in May 1800 he took the field once more. Crossing the Great St. Bernard Pass, never before traversed by a large army, he succeeded in planting himself in the rear of the Austrians, and at the battle of Marengo achieved a brilliant victory. Later in the year the French general, Moreau, crushed another Austrian army at Hohenlinden, and then Austria sued for peace. The Tsar Paul had already abandoned the allies, and now confessed to great admiration for Napoleon, who proceeded to form a league for the purpose of subduing Britain by striking at her trade. He persuaded the northern powers—Russia, Denmark, and Sweden—to mass their fleets and close all their ports against British ships. This was a deep-laid scheme, but it was doomed to failure. On March 12, 1801, Nelson left Yarmouth Roads as second in command to Sir Hyde Parker, a man of unflinching bravery but of no original ideas. The fleet which these admirals commanded was detailed to destroy the ships of the allies which lay at Copenhagen, backed by formidable batteries. Parker was irresolute as to the route to be taken through the dangerous channels that led to the town. “Let it be by the Sound, by the Belt, or anyhow,” cried Nelson, “only lose not an hour.” We cannot stay to recount the progress of the terrible battle that followed. When twenty of the enemy’s ships were almost destroyed, Nelson offered a truce, which was gladly accepted, and “All amidst her wrecks and her gore, Proud Denmark blest our chief That he gave her wounds relief; And the sounds of joy and grief Filled the shore.” In the very height of the engagement, Parker, greatly alarmed for the safety of his fleet, battered furiously by incessant broadsides, made the signal to retreat. Nelson’s attention was drawn to it. “What does it mean?” asked a colonel of marines standing by. “Why, to leave off action,” said Nelson; “but hang me if I do! You know,” he went on, “I have only one eye. I have a right to be blind sometimes.” Putting his telescope to his blind eye, he exclaimed, “I really do not see the signal.” So he nailed his colours to the mast, and in the midst of the most terrible cannonade to which a British fleet has ever been subjected, Nelson’s signal for “Close action” streamed high aloft, as clear to every man’s sight as a star in the sky. Napoleon had thus failed in his attack on the obstinate islanders, and he was now ready for a breathing-space in which to recruit his armies and build a navy powerful enough to beat Britain. Accordingly peace was signed, and Great Britain restored all the colonial conquests which she had made during the war, except Ceylon and Trinidad. This was all she gained from a struggle which had cost her thousands of lives, and had added two hundred and seventy millions to the National Debt. Before the ink was dry on the treaty, Napoleon was busy planning the establishment of a vast colonial empire, and aiming at the downfall of the one power which thwarted him at every turn. The English press bitterly attacked him, coarse and insulting caricatures of him were constantly appearing, and French exiles in England frequently plotted against him. He now demanded the suppression of the hostile newspapers and the expulsion of the plotters, but the British Government refused. Every day the relations between the two countries grew more and more strained, and the breaking-point was not far off. On May 12, 1803, war was again declared. Napoleon speedily forced Spain to join him, and then began preparations for an invasion of Great Britain. One hundred thousand men were marched to Boulogne, and every road by which the soldiers passed bore the signpost, “To England.” A huge flotilla of flat-bottomed boats was collected, and exercises in embarking and disembarking went on within sight of the white cliffs of Dover. “The Channel,” said Napoleon, “is but a ditch, and any one can cross it who has but the courage to try.” He meant to put his courage to the test as soon as the Channel was clear of the British fleet. From June 1803 to September 1805 his men were waiting the word of command to cross. It was never given. The prospect of invasion roused every patriotic man in Great Britain. Volunteers flocked to the standards, and soon, out of a nation of fifteen million souls, including the people of Ireland who were not allowed to volunteer, 300,000 men were in arms, besides 120,000 regular troops and 78,000 militia. The dockyards worked night and day, and before the end of the year one hundred and sixty-six new vessels had been added to the fleet. The fortresses were strengthened, martello towers were erected along the coast, and every possible preparation was made. Nevertheless the year 1803 was one of alarm and terror. Next year Napoleon attained the summit of his ambition—he crowned himself Emperor of the French. Still the projected invasion hung fire, and now Napoleon devised a plan for securing the six hours’ command of the Channel on which the success of his enterprise depended. His fleet was then in the harbour of Toulon, which was being watched by a British fleet, with Nelson in chief command for the first time. Napoleon ordered his ships to slip out of harbour and sail for the West Indies, in order to decoy Nelson away from Europe. Arrived at the West Indies, the French fleet was to put about and return with all speed for Brest, where an attack was to be made on the British squadron blockading that port while Nelson was far away. The defeat of the British squadron at Brest would clear the Channel, and then the grand invasion was to take place. The plan nearly succeeded. Villeneuve, the French admiral, did slip out of Toulon. Nelson was deceived, and went off on a false scent. When, however, news arrived that the French fleet had sailed for the West Indies, Nelson dashed after it in hot pursuit, and went half-way round the world and back again before he caught it up. Villeneuve had thirty-five days’ start, but Nelson arrived at Gibraltar on the return voyage only three days after the French fleet sighted Cape Finisterre. Here it found a British squadron under Admiral Calder. An indecisive battle took place; and though the result was considered in England as a failure, and almost a disgrace, it ended the grand invasion scheme. Villeneuve was obliged to put into Ferrol to refit, and, meanwhile, Nelson had arrived. Napoleon’s plan had failed, and Britain could breathe freely once more. In disgust, Napoleon broke up his camp at Boulogne, and rapidly marched his army across France into Germany, where he met the Austrians and Russians, who had formed a new league against him. Now began a series of triumphs which laid the Austrian empire open to the invaders. While Napoleon was rejoicing in his victories, terrible news reached him. The greatest sea-fight in the history of the world had been fought, and the combined fleets of France and Spain were no more. The beginning of the end had arrived for the “terror of Europe.” Villeneuve, with thirty-three Franco-Spanish vessels, lay in Cadiz harbour, and outside was Nelson with twenty-seven British ships. The French admiral had been stung to the quick by a bitter, taunting letter from the emperor, accusing him of cowardice. To vindicate his courage, Villeneuve gave the order to put to sea. On the morning of October 20, 1805, the fleets came in sight of each other. “The sun never rose on a grander and more impressive ocean-picture. As the courses and hulls of the hindmost of the British vessels floated up the sea-line, the blue girdle of the deep became a field of ships; giant structures bristling with guns, canvas swelling in clouds to the heavens from their tall sides black with grim and formidable defences, crowds of sailors motionless in expectation, quarter-decks glittering with uniforms, and stillness everywhere, broken only by the creaming wash of the bow-surge as it was shouldered off into yeast by the towering battleships.” At daybreak, after a night clouded with the presentiment that he would die on the morrow, Nelson arrayed himself in his full admiral’s uniform, and came on deck blazing with orders. Watching the fleet of the enemy forming line of battle, he exclaimed several times, “I’ll give them such a dressing as they never had before.” He advanced in two columns, intending to crash into the enemy’s line, thus breaking it and destroying the ships in the centre before those on the wings could come to their relief. Undoubtedly there was a plan of attack, though modern critics have questioned the fact. The battle perhaps looked like a “heroic scramble,” but behind the apparent confusion there was a subtle, daring, and unexpected plan. Just before the battle began Nelson went to his cabin, and there on his knees wrote a beautiful and touching prayer. Coming on deck again, he ordered that signal to be made which is his greatest bequest to his country—a signal which stirs the pulses of every true Briton even after the lapse of a century. High above the Victory’s deck flew the colours, and as the words, England expects every man to do his duty, were interpreted, a great huzza rose from the fleet. “Now,” said Nelson, “I can do no more. We must trust to the great Disposer of all events and to the justice of our cause.” The British ships now bore down, Collingwood in the Royal Sovereign being the first to engage. He was twenty minutes in the midst of a furious cannonade before he received support. The whole British fleet now came into action, but not near enough for Nelson, and he signalled, “Engage the enemy more closely,” and set the example by dashing into the enemy’s line. Seven or eight of the weathermost ships immediately opened a terrific fire on him. So fierce was it that for a few minutes the Victory made no reply. Her mizzen top-mast went over the side, her wheel was knocked away, and a double-headed shot killed eight marines at one stroke. Amidst this hail of death the hero moved with the utmost indifference. As a splinter tore the buckle from his shoe he remarked smilingly to his captain, “This is too warm work, Hardy, to last long.” But now the gallant old ship got to work, and with a broadside that disabled her immediate enemy, drove into the Redoutable so closely that the muzzles of the Victory’s guns touched the enemy’s side. At half-past one, when Nelson was walking the deck, a musket-shot from the Redoutable mizzen-top struck him, and he fell with his face to the deck. “They have done for me at last, Hardy,” he exclaimed. “I hope not,” answered the captain. “Yes,” said Nelson; “my backbone is shot through.” They bore him to the cockpit, and on the way he drew a handkerchief over his face that his sailors might not see him and be discouraged. The gloomy cockpit was a shambles, resounding with the groans of anguished men. Dr. Beatty flew to his side. “Ah, Mr. Beatty,” said Nelson, “you can do nothing for me. I have but a short time to live; my back is shot through.” And so it was. The decorations with which he had adorned himself were too good a mark for the French sharpshooters. The hero lay a-dying while the storm of crashing artillery continued to rage. High above the thunder came the huzzas of his seamen as ship after ship of the enemy struck. The dying man turned and smiled. “Will no one bring Hardy to me?” he asked, but the captain could not be spared. All the beauty, the magnanimity, and tenderness of Nelson’s disposition shone out in those dying hours. At last Hardy came. “Well, Hardy, how goes the day with us?” “Very well, my lord,” was the reply; “we have got twelve or fourteen of the enemy’s ships.” “I hope,” said Nelson anxiously, “that none of our ships have struck.” “No fear of that, my lord,” replied Hardy. And now the surgeon tearfully told him that his life was done. “God be praised,” he whispered. “Now I am satisfied. Thank God I have done my duty!” Nelson was dead. As his breath floated away, the cannonading ceased, and Trafalgar was won. Of the French and Spanish fleet that rose and fell upon the waves on that October morning all that remained was a huddle of hulks rolling helplessly in the trough of the sea, with the British colours flying on the stumps of the wreckage, and a trail of beaten ships staggering portwards for safety. Nelson had not spent his life’s blood in vain. He had ensured his land a century’s command of the sea, during which time she spread her empire far and wide, and developed her commerce to an extraordinary degree.
The Death of Nelson.
(By Benjamin West, P.R.A. By permission of the Corporation of Liverpool.) Napoleon on Board the “Bellerophon.”
(From the picture by W. Q. Orchardson, R.A., in the National Gallery of British Art. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.)
Chapter XIX.
WELLINGTON. “Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, As fits an universal woe, Let the long long procession go, And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, And let the mournful martial music blow: The last great Englishman is low.” IT is a bleak November day in the year 1852. Vast multitudes, most of them in the garb of mourning, throng the streets of London, and stand for hours waiting for a great funeral procession to pass by. The muffled bells of the churches are tolling a knell, cannon are booming their last farewells, buildings are draped with black, the flags fly at half-mast, and all business is suspended. Now you see the long procession approaching, soldiers with reversed arms leading the way, and marching with slow, reluctant step to the roll of drums and the solemn wail of the “Dead March.” Behind them come men representing all the rank, talent, and dignity of Great Britain, as well as the distinguished mourners which foreign sovereigns have sent to represent them on the solemn occasion. Many of the older spectators barely stifle their sobs as a riderless steed is led by, with reversed jack-boots in the stirrups. He who has bestridden this war-charger was well known to them. They remember all his greatness in the past; they recall him as a familiar figure in the streets and in Parliament. But, hush! here is the towering car upon which lies all that remains of him. Every head is bared, and in deep, solemn silence the sad pageant passes. “All is over and done: Render thanks to the Giver, England, for thy son. Let the bell be toll’d. Render thanks to the Giver, And render him to the mould. Under the cross of gold That shines over city and river, There he shall rest for ever, Among the wise and the bold.” Side by side with that Mighty Seaman, “saviour of the silver-coasted isle,” they bury the Great Duke “to the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation.” Who was this Great Duke, and why does “sorrow darken hamlet and hall” at his passing? Let the story of his life and fame be told. Arthur Wellesley, afterwards Duke of Wellington, was born in 1769, less than four months before Napoleon. His father was the Earl of Mornington, an Irish peer, and Dublin still shows the house, 24 Upper Merrion Street, where he was born. In 1787, when eighteen years of age, Wellesley became an ensign in the army, but was at first quite undistinguished, and was, indeed, considered dull, idle, and rather frivolous. Not until 1793, when he was appointed to the command of his regiment, did he show that he had found the vocation in which he was to win such renown. In 1798 his eldest brother sailed for India as governor-general, and Arthur Wellesley accompanied him. Soon afterwards he was given a military command, and speedily proved himself a most active and successful general. In 1805 Wellesley was back in England, and for the next few years he was employed in various capacities. During the year after his return he became a member of Parliament, and was frequently consulted on military matters by the ministry of the day. The little kingdom of Portugal was almost the last European nation which refused to join Napoleon. He therefore overran the country and entered Lisbon. The king was deposed, and Joseph, Napoleon’s brother, was placed on the throne. Thus the whole Iberian Peninsula passed into Napoleon’s power. These high-handed proceedings roused the nations to another struggle against him. An insurrection broke out in Spain and Portugal, which even Napoleon could not stamp out. The British Government eagerly seized the opportunity of waging a land-war with Napoleon. Arms and money were sent to the Spaniards, and on August 1, 1808, an army was landed in Portugal. Wellesley was given the command of a force of some 9,000 men, and was instructed to assist either the Spaniards or the Portuguese at his discretion. He sailed on the 12th of July, and, landing his men, moved towards Lisbon. This was a bold step, for the French general, Junot, had been in occupation of the Portuguese capital since November. On the 21st of August he defeated Junot on the hillside at Vimiera, and Lisbon would have been captured and the whole French army destroyed had Wellesley been permitted to pursue. A superior officer, however, had now arrived, and Wellesley was no longer first in command. Nevertheless, so decisive was the fight that Junot offered to leave Portugal altogether, provided he and his troops were permitted to return unmolested to France. This offer was accepted, greatly to the annoyance of the British people, who were sorely disappointed that the whole French army had not been captured. Wellesley and his superior officer were recalled and tried for not capturing Lisbon. The latter was deprived of his command; the former was sent back to Portugal. And now Wellington began that long, dogged struggle known as the Peninsular War, a six years’ contest in which he displayed wonderful generalship, foresight, and tenacity, and finally drove the French out of Spain and captured Toulouse. Before it was over he had been raised to the peerage, and as Viscount Wellington was universally regarded as Britain’s greatest soldier. In the fourth year of Wellington’s struggle in Spain the Tsar Alexander, tired of submitting to Napoleon’s mastery, defiantly opened his ports to trade with Britain. Napoleon thereupon declared war on him, and marched a vast army of 600,000 men into Russia. A miserable, crushed remnant of 20,000 men was all that struggled back to Germany. This terrible blow led to a general rising of European powers against Napoleon. Russia, Prussia, Austria, and Sweden allied their forces, and Napoleon found himself beset on all sides, and with no army to meet his foes. After the first outburst of dismay, France rallied to him as of old, and gave him the new army for which he asked. The terrible waste of life during the stormy years since the Revolution had pressed heavily on his people, and now half-grown lads of seventeen were called to the standards. They came willingly, and once more the old enthusiasm prevailed. Within six months Napoleon had 200,000 men ready to meet the Russians and Prussians on the Elbe. Twice he smote the allies, and forced them to seek an armistice. Then the fortune of war abandoned him, and at Leipzig, in what the Germans call “the battle of the nations,” he was defeated and forced to retreat to France. By this time success had crowned Wellington’s efforts in Spain. He had made satisfactory soldiers of the Portuguese, and the Spaniards had greatly improved. While Napoleon was marching into Russia, Wellington had stormed Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, and had won a great battle at Salamanca, where he “beat 40,000 men in forty minutes.” This battle was his masterpiece. “There was no mistake,” he said; “everything went as it ought, and there never was an army so beaten in so short a time.” Then Wellington took Madrid, which had been four years in the hands of the enemy; but as the French massed their forces against him, he had to retire towards the Portuguese border. In 1813 he attacked the French at Vittoria, routed them, cut off their retreat, and drove them back across the Pyrenees with the loss of every cannon and wagon which they possessed. While the allies were swarming into France, Wellington, with 100,000 veteran troops, stood ready to fall upon her. The end now rapidly approached. Napoleon struggled heroically with the remnant of the army which had been defeated at Leipzig, but in vain. Time after time he checked the invaders; but numbers triumphed at last, and the allies entered Paris on March 31, 1814, where the fickle populace received them with shouts of joy. Napoleon was now sent to the little Italian island of Elba, where he played at being king for eight or nine months. All the time he was watching affairs in France very closely and was biding his time. In 1814 ambassadors from nearly all the Powers assembled at Vienna to settle the affairs of Europe. There were constant wrangles, and at one time the tension was so acute that war seemed likely to break out again. Suddenly, on March 7, 1815, a messenger arrived with news that immediately ended their quarrels and, in the face of a new and alarming danger, brought them shoulder to shoulder. The Tsar said to Wellington, who was one of the commissioners, “It is for you to save Europe.” What had happened? Napoleon had landed in France, and was making a triumphant progress towards Paris. The Bourbon Government, which had been installed by the Powers, melted away like snow before the summer sun. Everywhere Napoleon’s old soldiers donned the cockade and flocked to his standards. Whole regiments deserted; the wonderful fascination which the emperor exercised upon his followers once more asserted itself. Marshal Ney, who had promised King Lewis to bring back the invader in an iron cage, fell a victim to the charm of his old chief as soon as he met him. Lewis and his friends fled the country, and Napoleon once more occupied the Tuileries. During the next hundred days he displayed all his old energy and daring. By the 13th of June he had nearly 200,000 men available for war. Meanwhile the Powers had not been idle. They bound themselves to raise a million armed men, and never to rest from their labours until Napoleon was finally crushed. In a few months an overwhelming force of allies would be marshalled. In the meantime, the only troops available were those of the British and Prussian armies, now in Belgium, and commanded by Wellington and BlÜcher respectively. Now let us pay a visit to the most renowned battlefield in all the world, the field on which the destinies of Europe were changed and the great Emperor of the French was hurled from a throne to a prison and a grave. We are in the village of Waterloo, eleven miles south of Brussels, the capital of Belgium. Leaving Waterloo, we traverse a road bordered on both sides by houses, and after having walked a couple of miles we arrive at the village of Mont St. Jean. Here two roads meet, both of which cross the battlefield. Now we push on beyond the cross-roads to an obelisk in memory of the Germans who fell in the battle. A quarter of a mile to the right rises the mound of the Belgian Lion. It is two hundred feet in height, and was thrown up on the spot where the Prince of Orange was wounded in the battle. Surmounting it is a lion made out of the metal of captured French cannon. We ascend the mound, and facing south find ourselves in the best position to survey the battlefield. Unfortunately, the levels of the ground have been much altered by the earth removed to form the mound. Still from our coign of vantage we may get a good general idea of the position occupied by both armies on June 18, 1815. We are now on the ridge of a long chain of low hills with gentle slopes. On this ridge Wellington extended his first line of troops. The ridge, as you will observe, is narrow, so that the second line was enabled to occupy a sheltered position on the sloping ground behind us. One mile distant, across a shallow valley, is another line of hills. These were occupied by the French. Now notice a farmhouse on the main road to our left. This is La Haye Sainte, which was occupied by German troops, and protected the allied centre. Follow the road across the battlefield, and you will come to the farm of La Belle Alliance. During the greater part of the battle Napoleon took up his station a little to the right of this house, where a French monument now stands. Were you to push on along this road for seven or eight miles you would come to Quatre Bras (“four arms”), from which place two roads lead to the river Sambre. Now look along the road to our right front and observe the chateau of Hougoumont, which was an old ruined place even in 1815. This building, which still bears traces of the fearful scenes that took place about it, was on the right of the allied line, and formed the key to the position. Hougoumont was strengthened by Wellington, and though continually assaulted was never captured. Had Napoleon once gained possession of it, the battle would probably have had quite a different ending. Now that we have surveyed the chief points of interest on the field, let us turn to the battle itself. By the beginning of June Napoleon had concentrated one hundred and twenty thousand men on the Sambre at Charleroi, ready to advance when he should arrive to take command. Wellington’s army was scattered in various places from Nivelles westward, while BlÜcher’s was extended from the same place eastward. Wellington’s plan was to unite his forces with those of BlÜcher at Quatre Bras, and block Napoleon’s advance. Napoleon, however, was determined to prevent the allied generals from uniting their forces. His plan was to fall upon them before they could concentrate, and defeat them piecemeal. When BlÜcher reached Ligny, with eighty thousand men, Napoleon met him, and a desperate battle ensued in which the Prussian general suffered terrible loss, but, still undefeated, retreated in good order on Wavre, so that he might join Wellington at Waterloo, according to a previous arrangement which he had made with Wellington. Napoleon thought that the Prussians were retreating on the Rhine, and detached thirty-three thousand men under Grouchy to hang on their rear. Grouchy missed the Prussians, and his troops took no part in the great battle. On the same day Ney, with twenty thousand men, appeared before Quatre Bras, where only ten thousand British and an equal force of Belgians had been able to assemble. The Belgians fled before the French cavalry, but the British infantry kept up a dogged resistance while corps after corps was hurried up. At the close of the day Ney saw that he was outnumbered, and withdrew, while Wellington retreated to the line of heights upon which we are now gazing. Napoleon now pushed on to measure swords with Wellington in person for the first time. On Sunday morning, the 18th of June, the two armies faced each other. As Napoleon looked across the valley and saw the British redcoats on the rising ground opposite, he cried, “I have them.” He had good reason to believe that he would win. His forces numbered between seventy and eighty thousand men, and he was superior both in guns and in cavalry to his foes. Wellington had about sixty-seven thousand men; but his British troops were mainly raw recruits, and the rest of his forces were very mixed, and included the Belgians who had already fled before the French cavalry. The preceding night had been wet and stormy, and when morning broke Napoleon considered the ground too heavy for cavalry. He therefore delayed the opening of the battle until between eleven and twelve in the forenoon. This delay was fatal. Time was most important to both commanders. Napoleon knew well that he must beat Wellington before BlÜcher could join him; Wellington, on the other hand, was determined to hold his ground to the last man, so as to give the Prussians time to come up in force and settle the issue of the day. The battle began with a fierce attack on Hougoumont; but it was held right manfully by the British Guards, and though the French won the gardens and orchards, they could not drive the defenders from the buildings. Then Napoleon sent his heavy columns against the British left, but they were utterly routed. His third effort was against the British centre, which he tried to break by heavy artillery fire and furious cavalry charges. The British formed square, and, though assailed for five hours, held fast. They seemed, said an onlooker, “rooted” to the earth. Every attempt to pierce them failed, until even the British privates saw the uselessness of the attempt, and cried, as Napoleon’s squadrons charged them, “Here come those fools again.” Every attempt to take the ridge was repulsed with terrible slaughter. At last, in the thick of the fighting, the cannon of the advancing Prussians were heard, and Napoleon made one last desperate effort to break the British line. La Haye Sainte was captured about six in the evening, and Napoleon’s cannon were now so near that Wellington’s centre was in dire danger. BlÜcher was rapidly drawing near, and already he was threatening the French right and rear. Like a desperate gambler, Napoleon now staked all on a charge of the Old Guard. A little after seven he gave the word, and six thousand of his veterans, led by Marshal Ney, were hurled at the long-tried British. As the French rushed up the slope, the British Guards, who had been lying down behind the top of the ridge, sprang to their feet and poured a volley into the enemy. Their columns wavered, and our soldiers charged with the bayonet, hurling the enemy down the hill in utter confusion. Soon after eight o’clock the Prussians made their appearance on the scene, and speedily Napoleon found himself assailed on his flank by forty thousand men. At this juncture, “on the ridge, near the Guards, his figure standing out amidst the smoke against the bright north-eastern sky, Wellington was seen to raise his hat with a noble gesture—the signal for the wasted line of heroes to sweep like a dark wave from their covered positions, and roll out their lines and columns over the plains. With a pealing cheer the whole line advanced just as the sun was sinking.” In vain the French Guards rallied, only to be swept away by the fierce British charges. When darkness fell, the whole French army was in flight. The Prussians went in hot pursuit, and before long the proud French army of the morning was almost annihilated. Wellington and BlÜcher had lost twenty-two thousand men. The French loss will never be known. The battle was decisive; the long struggle was at an end; and Napoleon’s star had set. He put spurs to his horse, and rode hard through the midsummer night to escape capture. Fearing death at the hands of the Prussians, he surrendered himself to the captain of the British man-of-war Bellerophon. The British Government banished him to the lonely isle of St. Helena, where he languished in captivity until his death in 1821. But what of the victor of Waterloo— “Foremost captain of his time, Rich in saving common sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.” He was no callous victor, regarding his men merely as pawns in the great game. When he learnt the death-roll of the battle he burst into tears. Scarcely one of those who had fought side by side with him in the Peninsula remained to share the joy of victory. To the end of his days he was an ardent advocate of peace. “Only those who have seen it,” he said, “can possibly know how terrible war is.” The nation’s gratitude flowed out to him as a river; the meanest intelligence could appreciate the overwhelming importance of the victory which he had won. Never did such vast issues rest on a single battle; never did Britain stand so high among the nations as after Waterloo. All possible honours were heaped upon him. He received the thanks of both Houses of Parliament and a vote of £200,000 wherewith to purchase the estate of Strathfieldsaye; while foreign nations vied with each other in awarding him gifts and titles. He was but forty-six years of age when the crowning victory of his life was accomplished, and for the next quarter of a century he was rightly regarded as one of the pillars of the State. In 1828 he became Prime Minister; but though wise, moderate, and inspired by a high sense of duty, he did not prove himself a great statesman. At one time he was actually the subject of the nation’s wrath; but as the years went by he recovered all his old popularity, and that without striving in the least to regain it. He died in his eighty-third year, and you already know how this “last great Englishman” was borne to his grave amidst sorrowing crowds. And here, side by side with Nelson, we leave him—the two great captains of the British race, who teach to all future times that the “path of duty” is “the way to glory.”
The Meeting of Wellington and BlÜcher after the Battle of Waterloo.
(From the fresco by Daniel Maclise, R.A., in the Houses of Parliament.) QUEEN VICTORIA IN HER CORONATION ROBES.
(From the picture by Sir George Hayter in the Royal Collection.)
Chapter XX.
VICTORIA THE GOOD. “Their thoughts shall be my thoughts, their aims my aim, Their free-lent loyalty my right divine; Mine will I make their triumphs, mine their fame, Their sorrows mine.” IT is five o’clock on a June morning in the year 1837. London is not yet awake, nevertheless four high officers of state are knocking lustily and ringing loudly at the outer gate of Kensington Palace. They have come straight from the deathbed of William the Fourth, and they have news of the highest importance for the young princess who resides within. But at this early hour of the day the whole palace is wrapped in slumber, and the knocking and ringing have to be repeated many times before the drowsy porter is awakened. You see him rubbing his eyes and reluctantly throwing open the gate. Now the little party, which includes the Primate and the Lord High Chamberlain, enters the courtyard, and another long wait follows. At length the distinguished visitors are admitted to a lower room of the palace, and there they seem to be quite forgotten. They ring the bell, and when it is answered the Lord High Chamberlain requests that the attendant of the Princess Victoria be sent to inform her Royal Highness that high officials of state desire an audience on business of the utmost importance. There is another long delay, and again the bell is rung, this time with pardonable impatience. The attendant of the princess is summoned, and she declares that her royal charge is in such a sweet sleep that she cannot venture to disturb her. “We are come on business of state to the Queen,” says the Lord High Chamberlain, “and even her sleep must give way to that.” A few minutes later the door opens again, and a young girl of eighteen, fresh as a newly-opened rosebud, enters the room. She has not waited to dress. Her hair falls loose upon her shoulders; she has hurriedly thrown a shawl round herself, and thrust her feet into slippers. There are tears in her eyes as she learns that her uncle the king is dead and that she is queen! At once she turns to the archbishop, and with simple, unaffected piety says, “Pray for me!” All kneel together, and the venerable prelate supplicates the Most High, who ruleth over the kingdoms of men, to give the young sovereign an understanding heart to judge so great a people. Thus Victoria, before she is out of her teens, takes up the arduous and exacting duties of her high office. Read the letters which she wrote in those early days to her relatives and statesmen, and you will marvel at the clear judgment, the strong will, and the sound common sense of the girl-queen. Her reign opens in times of national distress and political unrest, and below a certain social level there is no sentiment of loyalty to the Crown. But all this will suffer a wondrous change in the years that are to come. Prosperity hitherto undreamed of will bless the land, and year by year freedom will slowly broaden down from precedent to precedent; and through all the changes and chances of national life Victoria will play her part with a courage, steadfastness, and rectitude that will evoke universal approbation and passionate loyalty. The time will come when she will be the idol of her people, and the richest jewel in her crown will be a nation’s love.
SIXTY YEARS AFTER. “And ever when mid-June’s musk roses blow Our race will celebrate Victoria’s name, And even England’s greatness gain a glow From her pure fame!” You are in London on the twenty-second day of June in the year 1897, and again it is in festal array. The whole nation is making holiday to rejoice in the completion of sixty years of peace and prosperity under the beneficent sway of a dearly-loved queen. Ten years ago great public thanksgivings signalized her jubilee; now that she has occupied the throne longer than any of her predecessors, and has reigned for more years than any other monarch known to history, the nation’s delight and gratitude know no bounds. You are standing in a favoured position gazing on the front of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Afar off you hear the dull roar of cheering. The queen is making her progress through the capital of her vast Empire. She rides in state to-day amidst evidences of almost filial loyalty, and her eyes are wet with tears of love and gratitude as she perceives how dear she is to the hearts of her people. On the steps of the cathedral are the City Fathers, the Colonial Premiers, and a white-robed throng of bishops, priests, and choristers, the aged Archbishop of Canterbury at their head. The noise of cheering grows louder and louder, a troop of Household Cavalry clatters by, and you hear the loud cry, “The Queen! The Queen!” Every head is bared as the state carriage with its eight horses appears; the huzzas that go up from thousands of throats almost deafen you. And now the carriage halts, and the old archbishop offers simple and fervent thanks to Almighty God for the signal mercies vouchsafed through such long years to Victoria and her people. Then, as a climax, the whole concourse bursts into the strains of “God save the Queen.” Never has the National Anthem been so heartily sung, never before has it been so little of a demonstration and so much of a prayer. There is no lip-service here: Victoria’s throne is in the hearts of her people; she is theirs, and they are hers. Look at this little, old lady, whom all men, from duke to crossing-sweeper, are to-day hailing as their pride and joy. Look at her, and strive to realize the splendour of the great office which she has filled so long and so worthily. She is the sovereign lady of a dominion so wide in extent and so rich in resources that nothing like it has ever been seen before in the history of the world. Glance at the colonial procession which is even now wending its way through the streets, and you will marvel at the world-wide character of her sway. Here you see men of British race, dwellers in the most distant parts of the earth, all come from afar to grace their queen’s pageant, and all bearing themselves proudly in the eyes of their kinsfolk “at home.” Here, too, you see numerous foreign subjects of the queen, men of almost every variety of colour, creed, and language, equally proud to do her honour, equally ready to praise her beneficent sway. It is almost impossible for the aged monarch on this red-letter day of her life not to reflect on the wonderful changes which have transformed the world since that June morning sixty years ago when they waked her out of sleep and told her that she was queen. The vast Empire, for example, which has been so vividly brought before the minds of the British people to-day is very largely the creation of her reign. In extent it has nearly doubled itself since she came to the throne, and now covers almost one-fifth of the globe. In 1837 the colonial population was under 4,000,000. Now, excluding India, more than 18,000,000 of colonists are subject to her. India under her sway has doubled its native population, and to-day one-fifth of all the people on earth acknowledge her as their sovereign. The railways which have brought tens of thousands of visitors rapidly and cheaply to town were only in their infancy when she rode through London to her coronation, the steamships which have carried her brave colonials across countless leagues of sea were unknown. The electric telegraph, which is even now flashing the news of her pageant through thousands of miles of wire and cable to every part of the civilized world, was then but a toy. The penny post, which to-night will convey tens of thousands of letters to every town in the land and to most parts of her wide Empire, did not exist. There were no omnibuses, no tramcars, no district railways, no “twopenny tubes,” no motor cars. To-night London will blaze with electric lights. What a contrast to the flickering oil lamps of her childhood! And what a vast improvement has taken place in the condition of her people! She reflects that there is still plenty of poverty and misery in her land, but not a tithe of that which existed when she came to the throne. Wages are far better, food is far cheaper, housing has greatly improved, and men are kings to what they were. The barbarous old criminal laws have been abolished; work-people are no longer the helots of their masters; education is universal, and as free as air and sunlight; and every householder has a voice in the government of his country. She casts her mind back over sixty years, and rejoices that all things have worked together for this great good, and that the result is a proud, self-respecting, orderly, and deeply-patriotic people. Truly in retrospect her reign appears one long, triumphal march; yet there have been reverses, checks, and disasters in plenty, though shame never. War has been waged in almost every quarter of the globe, and plentiful laurels have been won. Her thoughts revert for a moment to the great struggle in the Crimea, which took place forty-three years ago, and to the splendid British courage and endurance there displayed. “Alma,” “Balaclava,” “Inkerman,” “Sevastopol”—what heroic memories these names recall to her! And then she remembers the terrible period of anxiety which followed, when the Sepoys rose, and India almost fell from our grasp. “Delhi,” “Lucknow,” “Cawnpore”—what anguish and heroism these names import! As for the rest of her wars, she rejoices to know that they have been, for the most part, punitive expeditions against savage neighbours and revolting tribesmen. How fervently she prays that peace at home and abroad may ever be the lot of her people! The great day draws to a brilliant close, and from end to end of the Empire runs her gracious message of gratitude:— “From my heart I thank my beloved people. May God bless them!”
Saving the Colours: An Incident of the Battle of Inkermann.
(From the picture by Robert Gibb, R.S.A. By permission of Mr. Bruce-Low.) In the neighbourhood of the Sandbag Battery the British Guards were surrounded by a strong Russian force, through which they cut their way, with the colours carried high as a rallying point. The moment selected for representation is that when the Guards are first entering their own lines. Queen Victoria at St. Paul’s.
(An Incident of the Diamond Jubilee. From a photograph.) Jessie’s Dream.
(From the picture by F. Goodall, R.A., in the Mappin Art Gallery. By permission of the Corporation of Sheffield.) Edward VII., King of Great Britain and Ireland and of the British Dominions beyond the Seas, Emperor of India.
Chapter XXI.
EDWARD THE PEACEMAKER. AND now let our pageant draw to a close with the figure of our present gracious and genial king. Long may he reign! He has laid his subjects under a deep debt of gratitude. Every inch a constitutional king, he has been by no means a mere figurehead of state, but a real and potent factor in the affairs of his land. His watchword has been Peace, and in its service he has won notable victories. It has been his great glory to bring the nations of Europe into closer friendship with this country than they have ever been before. Let us present Edward the Peacemaker in a characteristic scene. For two years seven months and nineteen days the British nation has been engaged in a desperate struggle with the Boers of the Transvaal Republic and Orange Free State, and the resources of the British Empire have been strained to the utmost. Then, one blessed May day, peace is signed at Pretoria, and with a great sigh of relief the British nation learns that the war is at an end. Three of the Boer generals, Botha, De la Key, and De Wet, come to England to meet the King. They have no knowledge of sovereigns and courts, and they have no experience to guide them in the presence of royalty. But their misgivings are speedily dispelled, for as they step on the deck of the royal yacht, King Edward comes forward to greet them with an ease and urbanity that is all his own. In simple, homely phrases he says that he is glad to meet them; he tells them that they have been brave enemies, and now he hopes they are to be good friends. And the Boer generals respond no less heartily. They reply that they hope so too; that they are happy to see him recovered from his illness; that their people had heard of it with great regret, and are glad to know that the Lord has given him back his health. Then they chat frankly and freely with him and the Queen—God bless her!—and thus he wins the hearts of these simple, brave men, who in the years to come shall be his loyal subjects, and shall add a new pillar of strength to the British Empire. As they leave the ship a friend asks, “And what are you going to tell our people about the King, Oom Koos?” “I shall tell them this: that I think that if we had sooner known the King, and the King us, many things might have been different.” Here is a kingly triumph indeed! We raise our hats as this royal lover of Peace passes by, and from our grateful hearts send up the prayer:
TRANSCRIBER NOTES Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed. Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur. Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout. Corrections to text: —“... Easter Sunday in the year 1491.” was corrected to 1471 to reflect the actual date of the Earl of Warwick’s death in battle. —“In the year 1788” was corrected to 1759 to reflect the year in which Wolfe sailed for Canada, arriving in Quebec in May that same year. [The end of The Pageant of British History by Sir (James) Edward Parrott] |
