by Foster, R E
Vitoria, like Salamanca, was well documented in letters that appeared in the British press. One claimed that:
The moment that our brave fellows got possession of the enemy’s baggage, all was riot – the army-chest was forced, and the men began to load themselves with bullion. To stop them was impossible. Some of the officers reported to the General that the men were plundering and carrying off the money. ‘Let them,’ was the answer of his Lordship, ‘they have fought well, and deserve all they can find, were it ten times more.’75
Wellington was in fact furious – the pillage of the baggage train had interrupted the pursuit and prompted his comment that, ‘We have in the service the scum of the earth as common soldiers’ – but the public contented itself with the victory.76 The Examiner, often critical in the past, thought ‘the victory was won in a good cause’. As for Wellington, ‘It is a general feeling throughout the army, that the great talents of their admired leader were never so conspicuous.’ London was again swamped by illuminations with apparently only Sir Francis Burdett’s home ‘an invidious exception, displaying only a few dim candles’. In the provinces the eulogistic mood was epitomised by Mr Bromley, who spoke his own composition, ‘Britannia’s pride – Her Wellington!’ in the theatre at Bury St Edmunds:
A wond’rous era in the British Arms!
Edward and Henry, Marlboro’, Wolfe, in one
We see concenter’d all – in WELLINGTON!77
International musical recognition came in the form of Beethoven’s minor, but popular, orchestral work, Wellington’s Victory, which premiered in Vienna in December.
By 1813 fresh accolades (Wellington became a field-marshal in June), and formal parliamentary thanks were no longer deemed sufficient recognition of the national hero. The Earl of Roden chaired a meeting of Irish nobility on 20 July that, perhaps in a vain attempt to reclaim Wellington as one of themselves, agreed to subscribe for a monument to him in Dublin. By the end of the year on the British mainland, Lord Darnley was complaining, with their Lordships’ concurrence, of the ‘want of due attention to the erecting of monuments to commemorate the illustrious actions of such men as Lord Wellington and others’. Within months the women of Britain, at least, had responded to his call. The Duchess of York agreed to become patron of a subscription to raise a Wellington memorial. Charlotte, Duchess of Richmond, whose ball in Brussels on 15 June 1815 would soon immortalise her name, was one of the vice patrons.78
Though Vitoria was to be Wellington’s last great victory before Waterloo, extracts from letters printed in the press thereafter allowed the public to follow his army’s progress more closely than ever before.79 By the end of October, the fortresses of San Sebastian and Pamplona had fallen, the last French toeholds in Spain. Wellington had already crossed into France on 7 October. With Napoleon having suffered a crushing defeat at Leipzig at the hands of Britain’s allies in mid-October, the war was nearing its endgame. Over 600 attended a ball in Bury St Edmunds in December 1813 to celebrate the ‘imminent liberation’ of Europe. The ballroom was decorated with emblems of the allied nations but a transparency of Wellington took centre stage.80
As Wellington wintered at St Jean de Luz, published letters offered glimpses of the man. One reported that, ‘He goes out hunting occasionally, and appears to enjoy the pleasures of the chase like a true sportsman, as if he had not any care on his mind. He enjoys excellent health and spirits.’ A Slough butcher sent him a consignment of beef for New Year. His Lordship’s acknowledgement (‘it did not arrive in time for the New Year’s Day’), was an early example of the terse replies for which he became famous in later life.81 The beef having been consumed, the final push for victory began. Soult was defeated at Orthez on 27 February, a battle that concerned the British press principally because its hero had been wounded in the thigh by a spent musket ball.82 But it was Napoleon who was spent. The March 1814 Treaty of Chaumont, in which Britain, Russia, Prussia and Austria pledged not to make a separate peace with France, signalled a final nail in his coffin. On 6 April Napoleon abdicated and was sent into exile on Elba as Louis XVIII returned to France. As one great warrior lost his most elevated title, so another gained his: on 3 May the former Arthur Wellesley became Duke of Wellington. Taking formal leave of his army at Bordeaux on 14 June, he set foot in England for the first time since 1809 nine days later.83
Britain could now take stock of Wellington and his army’s achievements at first hand. Lord Grey, shedding all previous inhibitions, declared that the Duke had reached ‘as high a pitch of renown as ever had been attained by any general or army of any age or country’. MPs followed suit in the weeks that followed, in what looks suspiciously like a competition for glory by association. Mr Whitshed Keene hoped that there would be a national memorial like that already projected for Ireland. From the Emerald Isle, Sir Frederick Flood insisted that there should also be a Wellington House and ‘dwelt for a considerable time on the glory it was to Ireland to have produced such a man’.84 Parliament voted the Duke £400,000, an erstwhile Wellington nemesis, Samuel Whitbread, having objected that the earlier financial rewards were too little. The Prince Regent ordained that 7 July should be a day of public thanksgiving for the end of the war. Wellington duly appeared, carrying the Sword of State, for the service at St Paul’s.85
Sir Thomas Lawrence subsequently captured the powerful image of the Duke holding the Sword aloft in front of St Paul’s. For the discerning, there was Nollekens’ life-size and much-praised marble bust exhibited at the Royal Academy the previous year. The general public demanded more immediate and accessible images and mementoes of its hero. Wellington appeared in over twenty-five political caricatures in 1814, more than for the rest of his career to date combined. But his image was more likely to be found on such objects as snuff boxes, fans, bells, door stops, brooches, watches, razors, and barometers.86 There was also an already established Wellington brand, including a Wellington coach with patent axle trees, and a Wellington costume for evening wear, worn over a white satin under-dress. For younger enthusiasts, G. Minshull and Sons astutely dedicated the second edition of their board game, ‘The Rival Kings’ to him. It was ‘to be had at all the principal toy shops’.87
In fact, Wellington was in England only briefly during the summer of 1814. Away from the grand occasions, it is unsurprising that he was not generally recognised. When he first appeared in London on 23 June ‘His Grace was loudly cheered by the people to whom he was known’. For all that it was played, not many did see the conquering hero coming.88 Even so, he was certainly more seen than heard. His fullest statement in public was made at a dinner in his honour on 9 July 1814 at the Guildhall when he was presented with the freedom of the City. He thanked Divine Providence, praised his brother officers, servicemen and allies; and professed himself ready to serve again should hopes of peace be disappointed.89
The public face of Wellington before Waterloo, therefore, was less the product of what people saw and heard than what they read about him. In no small measure, as has not been fully appreciated, the Duke was the creation of his despatches. Theoretically, these were formal and private communications to a political master, the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, who forwarded them to the Crown. In practice, ministers alluded to them in Parliament, increasingly quoted from them verbatim, and released them to the press. As Wellington conceived them, his despatches were largely confined to facts. He usually covered such matters as events leading up to a battle, a description of where it took place, an account of the action itself, and then mention of units or individuals who had distinguished themselves. Though he was to be accused of too little in the last category, it was through his despatches that subsequent Waterloo legends such as Thomas Picton, Rowland Hill, William De Lancey, Alexander Gordon, FitzRoy Somerset and William Ponsonby first became familiar names with the British public. Foreign Secretary Lord Castlereagh, perhaps bankrupt of fresh superlatives after Vitoria, praised their modest narrative, ‘a narrative which, by its noble plainness
, exhibited the heart, the soul, the character and genius of the man – a narrative which delighted in the communication of deeds of glory, and confined itself to the description of achievements, unmixed with sentiments, and destitute of graces’.90
Castlereagh’s inferences about Wellington are debatable. It was exactly because the Duke’s despatches were such a blank canvas in what they revealed about the man, that both friends and opponents were able to portray him as they chose. In particular, it was on the various occasions when Parliament voted its thanks to Wellington that ministers sketched the character of the Duke ‘known’ by the British public before 1815. The artists in chief were Lords Liverpool, Bathurst, Castlereagh and the Marquis Wellesley.91 They were assisted in their endeavours by newspapers such as The Times and Morning Post, which not only reported the debates in full but often adumbrated the main themes in their editorials.
Chief amongst those themes, beyond his self-evident skills as a general, was Wellington’s standing with his men. As early as 1809 Castlereagh claimed that ‘there was not a man, down to the lowest drummer in the army, who was not an enthusiast, that would cheerfully follow Sir A. Wellesley upon any service’. After Badajoz, Liverpool reported that the men viewed him ‘with the most enthusiastic admiration’.92 The Duke’s reputation derived from his long-established personal bravery under fire and also, over time, from a perception that he was a talisman. One soldier in 1813 dismissed rumours that Napoleon himself might be about to appear against them with the remark, ‘Let him come within sight, and the shadow of Lord Wellington’s nose will frighten him back again.’ The corollary of this was that Wellington was fast becoming indispensable – a view he shared – leading to the consternation of family, press and politicians when it was felt that his bravery led him to take unnecessary personal risks in the field. Privately, well before Waterloo, he was ascribing his own survival to a mixture of good fortune and Providence.93
That Wellington was also a disciplinarian, neither politicians nor press sought to deny. His circular of 28 December 1812 demanding order from his army was widely published. So was a soldier’s letter of November 1813 that noted, ‘Lord Wellington is very strict in keeping the army enjoined to the discipline in the General Orders: persons and property are respected as much as if we were in England.’ But ministers and newspapers dwelt less upon Wellington the martinet than what they termed his humanity towards those serving under him. When the Lords gathered to vote their official thanks for Salamanca, Bathurst:
was anxious to show, great as were Lord Wellington’s military talents, how unwilling he was to risk the lives of his soldiers; how careful he was of the means of his country; and how willing to sacrifice even what must be most dear to a soldier – an opportunity of obtaining personal renown – if that opportunity must be purchased with too great a loss of men.94
That humanity, it was claimed, was extended to his adversaries too, in sharp contrast to the alleged brutalities perpetrated by French forces during the Peninsular War. Rather than extract retribution against Toulouse in April 1814, for example, ‘Lord Wellington preferred, to the glory of heroes the destroyers of men and towns, the honour of preserving the lives and property of the peaceable inhabitants of a great city.’ This was no more than was to be expected from the leader of the great cause that Wellington represented to the British public, what Grey had defined in March 1809 as a contest ‘between justice, freedom, and public independence on the one side, and the highest degree of atrocity and oppression on the other’.95 However idealistic this may have been in reality, at least to some extent, Wellington and his men had won their battle for recognition.
In retrospect, however, the celebrations of 1814 should be seen less as the feting of Wellington and his Peninsular army than, as the Prince Regent had ordered, an outpouring of thanks that a long and bloody conflict was over. This was a mature perspective to take. Since 1783, if one considers all theatres of operations and deaths from disease, not just in combat, it has been estimated that over 300,000 died. At the height of the struggle in 1809, one-sixth of Britain’s adult population was under arms, approximately 768,000. By contrast, some 40,000 had died in the Peninsula. The Duke and his men were rightly amongst those being lauded, but the Crown, as Wellington would have insisted, was the natural focus for the nation. Events culminated in August with the serendipitous celebration of the centenary of the Hanoverian Succession. In London’s Green Park there was a Temple of Concord together with a fortress ‘exhibited as a mark of national esteem of our noble Allies, veteran chiefs, and brave heroes, who united in accomplishing the desirable event of a glorious peace, and the happy celebration of the House of Brunswick’.96
The other salient point discernible in Britain’s 1814 celebratory events is the recognition that Napoleon’s downfall had been the consequence of coalition pressure. Verses set to music and performed at Vauxhall entitled ‘The Laurels of Wellington’ were, as its subtitle made emphatically clear, ‘An Ode to Peace obtained by the Allies’. Similarly, London’s illuminations of 1814, unlike those following Salamanca and Vitoria, displayed a myriad of themes, ‘our allies’ and the restoration of the Bourbons being amongst the most prominent.97 The emphasis on victorious monarchs in concert was also the unmistakeable message of a grand day in Oxford on 15 June. The Prince Regent’s guests included both the Czar and the King of Prussia. A degree ceremony in the Sheldonian Theatre was interspersed with lines specially composed by Fellows. ‘It is rather curious,’ said The Times, ‘that in these verses, the Duke of Wellington is scarcely noticed.’98 But it was the newspaper that was missing the point. Most would now agree that the single most important event leading to Napoleon’s downfall was his 1812 invasion of Russia. By comparison to this, the Peninsular War was something of a sideshow. Moreover, qualification needs to be made even to the claim of the exclusivity of Britain’s triumph there. Wellington himself conceded in 1820 that for all his success, ‘those would form a very erroneous notion of the facts who should not attribute a fair proportion of it to the effect of the enmity of the people of Spain’. He might have added that in the wider scheme of things, Britain’s greatest contribution to defeating Napoleon was not his but those in the naval and financial spheres.99
National celebrations after Waterloo would be different in their emphasis, for despite all that Wellington and those under him had achieved, the ultimate measure of their talents remained untested. A British soldier in France late in 1813 neatly summarised it, for he had heard rumours that Napoleon himself was about to take command against them:
We wish most earnestly that this may be true; for I am sure there is not a man in this army, from Lord Wellington himself to the lowest soldier, that would not think it the happiest day of their lives to be placed fairly in front of the French, with Bonaparte at their head. If ever there was a day when British soldiers would be more than themselves, that day would certainly be the one.100
It certainly would.
2
Waterloo: The Battle
of Giants
‘Mein lieber Kamerad […] quelle affaire!’ These words, spoken to Wellington by Blücher when they met near the building known as La Belle Alliance on the evening of Sunday 18 June 1815, can reasonably be regarded as the first assessment of the Battle of Waterloo. That, at least, is how they appear to a British observer.101 But Blücher had only just arrived at what had been one of Napoleon’s battlefield vantage points; he can hardly have known much about what had unfolded in front of it over the previous twelve hours. It seems far more likely that his comment was a reference to the events of the previous four days. Blücher’s greeting thus provides an example of one of the many ambiguities of Waterloo. For Britons, it is the name of the battle that, amid much else, consummated Wellington’s reputation, but it is also the name given to the campaign that preceded it. A brief introduction to those events (not least with regard to what the Duke knew and thought at the time), is unavoidable: the hundred hours or so from 15–18 June would forge my
ths and create icons; it would also ignite controversies that continue to rage.
Wellington had not been idle since June 1814. He accepted appointment as ambassador to France and, having detoured en route to survey defences in the Low Countries, arrived in Paris on 22 August. Unfathomable as the British press professed to find it, the French did not share the view that Wellington’s appointment was advantageous.102 Fears that he might be assassinated persuaded the government to redeploy him as Britain’s representative at the Congress of Vienna. He had been there only a month when, on 7 March 1815, news arrived that Napoleon had escaped from Elba. Britain immediately joined Russia, Prussia and Austria in forming the Seventh Coalition. Each pledged to put 150,000 men in the field: the man they denounced as an international outlaw would, they believed, be brought down by August.
The Duke arrived in Brussels on 4 April to assume command of Anglo-Allied forces in the Low Countries. His initial belief was that an invasion before 1 May would topple Napoleon before he could re-establish his hold over France.103 But the Coalition was not yet ready. His mind thus turned to defensive preparations and liaison with the assembling Prussian forces based around Namur under the eccentric 72-year-old Marshal Blücher. On 3 May he had a satisfactory meeting with him at Tirlemont. Their two armies were, he believed, ‘so well united, and so strong, that the enemy cannot do us much mischief’. He was therefore optimistic that ‘we should give a good account even of Buonaparte’. A month later, at the start of June, he anticipated that operations against France would commence within the fortnight.104
In reality, the competing political and military constraints under which Wellington operated meant that he was less confident than the above summary suggests. Defending Brussels, for example, which was only 30 miles from the French border, meant that his initial dispositions were both further south and east from his main supply base at Ostend than strategic considerations alone would have deemed sensible. He was also hamstrung by his political masters not having given him the authority to invade. Given that Napoleon might not choose to rest on his laurels whilst the full weight of Coalition forces assembled against him, it was increasingly likely that he, not Wellington, would be the invader. Such an eventuality left Wellington militarily blindfolded since he neither knew for sure where Napoleon’s forces were, nor where they would strike. It was therefore essential to keep his options open. For this reason his original deployment was in a wide defensive arc of 50 to 60 miles running roughly from Courtrai in the west to Enghien in the east. The Duke would be subject to much criticism for this, chiefly from those unappreciative that he was neither free agent nor clairvoyant.105