21
The Fallen
The ‘butcher’s bill’ for Waterloo was high indeed. The French, as might be expected, suffered the heaviest casualties, amounting to approximately 25,000 killed and wounded on the 18th. Grouchy lost another 2,600 at Wavre. The Anglo-Dutch casualties numbered some 15,000, of which 10,000 were British, with the Netherlands army losing more than 4,000, and the Brunswick and Nassau contingents around 1,300. Prussian casualties numbered 7,000 at Waterloo and a further 2,500 were killed or wounded at Wavre.1
Ensign Gronow of the Guards was one of those who walked round the battlefield on the morning after the battle. He went on to record the following:
I visited Hougoumont, in order to witness with my own eyes the traces of one of the most hotly contested spots of the field of battle. I first came upon the orchard, and there discovered heaps of dead men, in various uniforms: those of the Guards in their usual red jackets, the German Legion in green, and the French dressed in blue, mingled together.
The dead and the wounded positively covered the whole area of the orchard; not less than two thousand men had there fallen. The apple-trees presented a singular appearance; shattered branches were seen hanging about their mother trunks in such profusion, that one might almost suppose the stiff-growing and stunted tree had been converted into the willow: every tree was riddled and smashed in a manner which told that the showers of shot had been incessant.2
Lieutenant Colonel William Scott, in his account of the Battle of Waterloo, provided his readers with a graphic description of the aftermath of the battle:
Scarce had the news of the victory reached Brussels, and the adjoining parts, before women lost to every sense of shame, and men, as callous in their hearts as these, on Sunday night repaired to the field of battle. The groans of death resounded on every side, and screams of agony, and many, who had been before enjoying all the luxuries of life, would have given at this moment all they possessed, for a cup of cold water, to touch their quivering lips. But instead of that, wretches were everywhere spread over the field, knocking out the brains of those who were disabled, of all nations, not from motives of humanity, but to rob them of what they might have about them. After this they would tear off the epaulets and lace from the clothes, and decorations of honour smeared with blood, made more dismal by the glimmering light of the moon; with weary steps they stole from body to body, and some of the common soldiers were also engaged in the same acts.
The fields were made slippery with blood, and here and there were seen horses limping, and seeking to find a blade of uncontaminated grass, but in vain. All the waters were tinged with blood, which still expressive of horror and ferocity, would in any other hearts have inspired an awful dread. – Everywhere were seen the fragments of guns, broken swords covered with blood and human hair, parts severed from the human body, here a carcase without an head, there a body without an arm, a leg, or jaw.
Death in all varieties of shapes stalked over the field. All distinctions had now ceased, and in promiscuous heaps lay the victors and the vanquished, German, Englishman, Dutch, Hanoverian, Belgian, Prussian, and Frenchman, all near each other silent as the grave, but before full of animosity, and desire of slaughter. The brave man and the coward lay side by side, the implorer for mercy, and he who refused it, the man who braved God and devil, and he, who had his prayer-book in his pocket, and uttered many a fervent ejaculation to his God and Saviour, the men who volunteered in such a business, and those, who were forced into the service, not from will, but through power.
In one short day, 60,000 persons were in the vigour and pride of youth, made mute forever, and their souls gone to that bourn, whence no traveller returns. Here also were found many who, forgetting the weakness and tenderness of their nature, were hunting over the dead, to have a last farewell look, of their slaughtered husbands, or if they could be happy enough to bind up their wounds, and save them, for themselves and family.
When the morning dawned what were the frightful appearances of those who had been murdering and robbing the dying, begrimed with blood, and carrying away a soldier’s coat filled with the treasure they had taken. As the numbers became augmented, the search was more eager – fingers and ears were cut off for the rings – some of these poor wretches were then alive and unable to carry off a sufficient number of heavy firelocks found in the field, you saw the women, laden with the ramrods, thinking them more valuable, and these were collected into piles. The clothes were now stripped from their naked bodies, and a new scene of horror displayed itself to those who had humanity to feel. But the wretch, the cause of all this slaughter was unmoved at such, or a worse sight; for in one Bulletin, he dares to say, ‘that the crimson blood contrasted with snow on the ground, had a beautiful effect,’ and ‘the battle of Ligny was like the representation of a Drama or play.’
How frightful became the scene, when a week after, the bodies began to turn black and putrify, and no longer could any features be recognized. A cadaverous smell issued from every part, and wounded horses fed upon the barks of trees. Here and there a head and arm appeared amidst the tumuli, and at that late period even many were found, who still moved upon the field of battle, when touched.3
This robbing of the dead was also noted by a reporter for the Caledonian Mercury, the edition in question being published on Monday, 27 July 1815:
With every possible diligence and care that could be used, many of the wounded lay two days upon the field of battle, before their wounds were dressed and they could be removed. The preference was, of course, given to our own gallant heroes, and a peremptory order was issued to that effect. Many days after the battle the fields of Waterloo continued to present great numbers of poor persons, particularly females, seeking for plunder. Every rag was searched, in expectation it could produce gold or silver, lace, or money.
Among the most common spoils were the eagles worn on the fronts of the caps of some of the French regiments. These, when broken off, were sold at Brussels for about two francs each. Among the French killed and wounded, were observed an immense number of letters from friends, relatives, and lovers, who have to lament their loss.
The number of deaths in the hospitals at Brussels was last week estimated at about thirty a day.
There was another side to this scene, where care and compassion for the wounded was foremost, but the vast number of severely wounded men was too great for the Belgian capital to handle and they were just left in the streets unattended:
We then saw humanity exerting herself, and the wounded of all nations placed into waggons, and conveyed to Brussels. Some few had crawled so far from the field of battle. But the numbers were so great, that neither the hospitals nor private houses, were sufficient to receive the wretched victims. The French too often were denied, admittance, and were seen perishing in the streets from hunger. The majority even of the English could not be received into houses, and lay in the open air. The hospitals were so crowded, that the legs, and arms, as they were taken off were thrown under the bed, and lay in putrified heaps.
In the same bed were seen the dying and the dead, and the same waggons were employed to bring in the wounded from the field of battle, and in carrying away for Christian burial the dead. Here was a man with a locke’d jaw, hungry, but incapable of eating, then a wound opened afresh, and the poor wretch was seen bleeding to death for the want of medical aid, otherwise employed. These wounds had been festering for many hours unattended.
Each countenance looked pale and ghastly, and the wretch who caused all this misery and anguish was himself without a scratch, nor did he ever receive a wound … Wives who came to attend upon their wounded husbands, who were then too ill to be seen, and died at the first sight of their beloved partners. Lovers who deplored the deaths of those, whom they were engaged to marry. The field of battle was strewed with affectionate letters of this sort. Brothers, who possessed the strongest affections, came to weep over their dead brother’s body. Some had lost five sons, in short, the feelings of distress, no one can picture. It was the flower of the human race cut off in the bud, leaving disconsolated mourners upon the earth.4
As with every conflict, many families sought to retrieve the bodies of their loved ones and return them to the UK. These efforts produced some moving stories, such as that in the Hampshire Chronicle of 7 August 1815:
The whole afflicted family of the Earl of Carlisle were so anxious to redeem, if possible, the remains of their relative, the Hon. Major Howard, who fell so gallantly in the battle of Waterloo, that the Duke of York most humanely wrote over to the Duke of Wellington, requesting that every endeavour might be made to effect it.
On inquiry, it was found that two serjeants of the 10th Hussars had interred him on the field, who said, they believed that they could trace out the spot. They were in consequence dispatched from Paris for this purpose, and on traversing this wide field of slaughter, were fortunate enough to discover the place of sepulchre, from which they immediately dug up the remains of their heroic officer, enclosed them in a leaden shell, with which they were provided, and took them to Brussels, from whence they were removed to Ostend, and conveyed to England.
Most of the dead were not recovered by their families, but were gathered up from the battlefield by large groups of local peasants:
Entirely to clear the ground of dead men and horses occupied a period of ten or twelve days, and this disgusting duty was performed entirely by the peasantry. The human bodies were for the most part thrown into large holes, fifteen or twenty feet square; while those of the animals were generally honoured with a funeral pile and burned. To drag the large carcasses, some of which were inflated to an enormous bulk, was a work of great labour.5
The actual burial process was described by a one individual:
The general burying was truly horrible – large square holes were dug about six feet deep, and thirty or forty young fellows, stripped to their skins were thrown into each, pell mell, and then covered over in so slovenly a manner that sometimes a hand or a foot peeped through the earth.6
Miss Charlotte Eaton, who was on a family visit to Brussels when the campaign abruptly began, rode out to Waterloo some weeks after the battle and saw more that she bargained for:
On top of the ridge in front of the British position, on the left of the road, we traced a long line of graves, or rather pits, into which hundreds of dead had been thrown as they had fallen in their ranks … The effluvia which arose from them, even beneath the open canopy of heaven, was horrible; and the pure west wind of summer, as it passed us, seemed pestiferous, so deadly was the smell that in many places [it] pervaded the field.7
On 22 June 1815, Captain William Fyre, who was on furlough from service in Celyon, wrote the following:
This morning [22 June] I went to visit the field of the battle, but on arrival there the sight was too horrible to behold. I felt sick in the stomach and was obliged to return. The multitude of carcases, the heaps of wounded men with mangled limbs unable to move, and perishing from not having their wounds dressed or from hunger, as the Allies were, of course, obliged to take their surgeons and wagons with them, formed a spectacle I shall never forget.8
In the weeks after the battle the newspapers printed many tributes to those that had been killed. The following was published in the Cambridge Chronicle and Journal of 28 July 1815:
Amongst the gallant heroes who have been fallen in the defence of their country, on the ever-memorable 18th of June, on the plains of Waterloo, few are more lamented than Lieutenant-Colonel Currie, of Dalebank, in Annandale, Assistant Adjutant-General on Lord Hill’s Staff. This excellent and valuable officer received his commission at the early age of 15, from the Duke of York, in consequence of the meritorious conduct of his father in the army, and, for a period of above 20 years, had been constantly distinguishing himself in actual service.
He fought bravely, and was severely wounded, under Sir Ralph Abercromby, in Egypt; and served for several years in the West Indies, by which his health was greatly impaired. – He was also actively employed as an Aide-de-Camp to Lord Hill, the whole of the war in the Peninsula and in France, where he conducted himself with such ability and bravery, as repeatedly on the field of battle to receive the thanks of the Commander in Chief; and particularly at Talavera, at the passage of the Douro, Almaraz, and Aroyo de Molinos.
It is melancholy, although glorious, to record, that Lieutenant-Colonel Currie was the tenth of this gallant and amiable family who have nobly sacrificed their lives in defence of their King and Country, six of whom have died on the field of battle.
In a letter dated 12 July 1815, Lieutenant Colonel Leake noted the following:
Lieutenant-Colonel Charles Fox Canning, who fell in the late tremendous conflict at Waterloo, had served with the Duke of Wellington as his Aide-de-Camp during the whole of the Peninsular war, and was with him in every action and siege from the battle of Talavera to that of Orthes. At the termination of the war he went to Brussels, where his regiment was quartered, and was preparing to go into the field with it, when the Duke accidently met him in the street, when he was received with the usual cordiality, and the next day he had the inexpressible gratification of finding himself restored, without solicitation, to the honourable situation he had held through so many campaigns.
The affecting particulars of his last moments we cannot help repeating, as a proof, that among many other splendid qualities, the Duke of Wellington eminently possesses the power of engaging the affections of his officers, whose most anxious thoughts seem always directed toward the safety of their Commander. –
Towards the close of the action of the 18th, Lieutenant-Colonel Canning received orders from the Duke to carry a message of importance to a distant part of the line: he had delivered it and was returning, when a grape-shot struck him in the stomach. He fell, and his friend Lord March immediately rode up to his assistance. As he approached him the Colonel raised himself up, and with eagerness demanded if the Duke was safe? Being assured that he was, he seemed satisfied, and said, ‘God bless him!’ then taking the hand of the Nobleman who had so kindly come to his assistance, he had just strength to say – ‘God bless you!’ and expired.9
Another sad tale was that of Gunner Butterworth of Mercer’s troop:
He had just finished ramming down the shot, and was stepping back outside the wheel, when his foot struck in the miry soil, pulling him forward the moment the gun was fired. As a man naturally does when falling, he threw out both arms before him, and they were blown off at the elbows. He raised himself a little on his two stumps, and looked up most piteously in my face.
To assist him was impossible – the safety of all, everything, depended upon not slackening our fire, and I was obliged to turn from him … I afterwards learned that he had succeeded in rising and was gone to the rear; but on inquiring for him next day some of my people who had been sent to Waterloo told me that they saw his body by the roadside near the farm of Mont St Jean – bled to death!10
There were also funerals for the fallen, including that of the most senior Allied commander to die in the campaign, the Duke of Brunswick. The ceremony was reported in the Cheltenham Chronicle of Thursday, 17 August 1815, in an extract of a letter from an unnamed officer written at Hanover on 6 July:
We have been engaged here in the mournful occupation of attending the funeral of the Duke of Brunswick, who was killed at the battle of Waterloo, and whose body was sent to Brunswick for interment. It is 40 miles off, so that we were obliged to make two days of it; the poor Brunswick people are in great distress, and even the peasants are all in mourning.
The ceremony of the funeral was extremely fine, it was at night, and the whole town was illuminated, in addition, some thousands of servants, all in mourning, with wax flambeaux. The whole palace and church were completely hung with black cloth; a magnificent canopy of black velvet and silver was placed over a simple bust of the Duke in white marble, crowned with laurel; the coffin was as fine as it was possible, and upon it all his military decorations, fastened together by a wreath of laurel; the procession began at midnight. We walked about a mile through the town, from the place to the church; the streets were all gravelled on purpose.
The body was carried on a magnificent funeral car, drawn by eight horses all in black velvet and feathers. His eldest son (12 years old) the present Duke, was chief mourner; the Duke of Cambridge led him by the hand, immediately after the coffin. The second son, 11 years old, followed next, led by his uncle, the Duke Augustus. They are both very fine boys, and were much affected; they were dressed in long black clothes, with white ruffs and weepers. The funeral service at church is not near so fine as ours, nor so impressive. The body was laid in the centre of the church; the galleries were hung with black drapery, and were filled with ladies, all in black. Minute guns were fired all the time of the ceremony; and when the body was carried into the vault, vollies of musketry. The whole was magnificent and impressive.
A similar scene was played out on Saturday, 1 July at Ostend. It was reported in the Chester Chronicle six days later as the body of the most senior British officer to lose his life was embarked on a ship for England:
On Saturday morning the Garrison Battalion, of 1400 men, lined the streets of Ostend, and the remains of General Picton were followed by the Governor of the town, Admiral Malcolm, all the principal inhabitants, the officers of the army and navy, and detachments from several regiments, the band playing the Dead March in Saul, and the garrison firing minute guns until the coffin was put into a launch, towed by a boat, with the crews properly dressed, and an officer in each from every ship there, and then the Wrangler, which brought the corpse over, fired minute guns until it was received on board her in the outer roads. – The sight was grand and solemn.
‘Jack’ Shaw was a well-known pugilist who had joined the Lifeguards when he was eighteen. He was an impressive six feet in his stockings and weighed fifteen stones. He used dumbbells to strengthen his arms which ‘added to regular sword’ practice had ‘given him a wrist strong and flexible as a bar of steel’. His death at Waterloo, was reported in more than one newspaper, including the Chester Courant of Tuesday, 11 July 1815:
Shaw, the pugilistic Life-Guardsman, fell in the battle of Waterloo. The Life Guards were in the heat of the action. Shaw was wounded in many places, but at length fell from his horse, after having dealt out death to the enemy by wholesale.
The action had nearly ceased when the wound in his abdomen deprived him of the power of pursuing his career of glory. In the heat of the battle, in the village, an old woman had secreted herself in her cottage, and the corporal was conveyed by some faithful comrades to her abode. After stripping off the gold lace on the dress which distinguished him as a corporal, his body was decently interred.
Finally, the Chester Courant of Tuesday, 8 August 1815, recorded that ‘Major General Sir William Ponsonby, it may be recalled, led the Union Brigade in its charge against d’Erlon’s I Corps, but he did not survive that charge’. The following explanation of his death was repeated in a number of newspapers, including that day’s Chester Courant:
The following particulars, on the truth of which we perfectly rely, have been communicated to us respecting the fall of this lamented Officer, on the glorious day of the 18th of June. It has been mentioned, that his death was to be attributed to his being badly mounted; and this is perfectly correct. He led his brigade against the Polish Lancers, and checked at once their destructive charges against the British Infantry; but having pushed on at some distance from his troops, accompanied only by one aide-de-camp, he entered a newly ploughed field, where the ground was excessively soft. – Here his horse struck, and was utterly incapable of extricating himself.
At this instant a body of Lancers approached at full speed. Sir William saw that his fate was decided. He took out a picture and his watch, and was in the act of giving them to his aide-de-camp to deliver to his wife and family when the Lancers came up. They were both killed on the spot. His body was found, as we mentioned some time ago, laying beside his horse, pierced with seven lance wounds. Before the day was ended, the Polish Lancers were almost entirely cut to pieces by the brigade which this brave Officer had led against them.
There were also a number of reports of the bodies of women being found on the battlefield in French uniforms, indicating that they were fighting in the regiments alongside the men. Captain Henry Ross-Lewin of the 32nd Foot, claimed that he saw two such women:
I saw one of them … she was dressed in a nankeen jacket and trousers and had been killed by a ball which had passed through her head. One can only wonder – were these women fighting for their men, or for France?11