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PRELUDE TO BATTLE

The Congress of Vienna

THE RATTLE and rumpus of horseshoes together with the clanking and clatter of carriage wheels on the fashionable cobbled-stoned streets around the grand main entrance to Vienna’s lavish Hofburg Palace were momentarily drowned out by the loud pealing of bells from St Michaels, the parish church of the courts. The ringing reverberated over the domed roofs of the four and five-storey buildings then repeated as an echo around the city walls and through the elegantly decorated shop-fronted streets, the courtyards, squares and parks. The magnificent grandeur of the palace, a vast complex that was the former Emperor of Austria’s residence, was a permanent reminder of the glory of the Hofburg Empire. The royal apartments and buildings were in different styles, gothic, renaissance and baroque, and were an ornamental extravagance on a grand scale. Now it was an imperial forum playing host to the Congress of Vienna, a conference of delegates and dignitaries of European states who had come together in September 1814 to forge a new, and peacefully arrived at, balance of power in Europe. With Napoleon defeated and exiled in Elba, it was the perfect time to redraw the map of Europe. But only if they could agree to it. Six months on, in March 1815, the congress had in truth become deadlocked. Britain, Austria, and Bourbon France found themselves at variance with Prussia and Russia. Prussia wanted to annex Saxony, and Russia wanted Poland, the Tsar, Alexander I, himself overseeing Russian interests. Nearby, within hearing distance of the bells of St. Michael’s, Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, famous victor of the Peninsular War, had the month previous replaced Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh, as senior British representative. Wellington had become frustrated by the stalemate and this morning, 7 March 1815, he was undertaking not more negotiations, but rather preparations for a hunting trip on the grounds of Schönbrunn Palace. Busily overseeing final preparations before departure, he was interrupted by the dramatic news that ‘the Monster’, ‘the Werewolf’, the ‘Corsican Ogre’, Napoleon, had escaped from Elba, landed in France, and that the army and the people were flocking to his support. Wellington would be hunting bigger prey than he had imagined. The ‘Devil’ was unchained and required re-capturing!

‘An Enemy of Humanity’

Military men take risks, but they never gamble. Being audacious and daring is a desirable martial characteristic and a quality military instructors the world over encourage their students to exercise while at the same time warning about gambling. Taking a risk is only ever done after a careful estimation of the situation, when one’s alternative courses of actions are considered and contrasted; and a measured assessment of the options selected are weighted by criteria, often mathematically scored. The gamble is a more reckless, ‘devil may care’, exposure to hazard. Napoleon gambled that he had judged the underlying mood of the French people and army correctly, that their level of dissatisfaction with the restored Bourbon Monarchy was such that if he presented himself, they would follow him. Uncertain as this was, and it was indeterminable, a far greater unknown would be the reaction in capitals across Europe. He gambled that the unity of effort continuing in Vienna was more apparent than real, a façade that would crack. In the event, his reappearance galvanised it! Europe was alarmed, France’s Bourbon Monarch Louis XVIII was amazed, Marshal Soult was put in charge of the defences around Paris, while Marshal Ney was dispatched south from the French capital, boastfully declaring he would bring Napoleon back to Paris ‘in an iron cage’. Shortly after, Wellington learned of Napoleon’s sudden arrival onto French soil in Provence where he and his few followers were confronted by Marshal Ney with the 5th Regiment. While both sides, with weapons ready, sized up the tense moment, Napoleon seized it with typical bravado, flung open his greatcoat and with both hands brought up to his chest invited the Bourbon troops ‘to fire upon your Emperor’. Despite being ordered to do so, none did, and they joined him, as later did the 7th Regiment at Grenoble. All the way to Paris it was the same. His first gamble was over, causing him to remark, ‘Before Grenoble, I was an adventurer, after Grenoble I was a Prince’. If, in the case of the former gamble he proved himself correct, in the latter he had miscalculated. Even before Napoleon reached Paris, the rest of Europe had branded him ‘an enemy of humanity’, and all Europe declared war against him. Napoleon’s escape from Elba and likely restoration of the Empire could not be tolerated by the Allies, who sought to crush this emergent threat to European peace. However, as far as Napoleon was concerned, ‘he who saves a nation, violates no law’.

Napoleon had now to gamble a third time, and at its essence was time. He needed time to consolidate in order to regenerate a war-weary army and population, tired of bloodshed, conscription and taxes. He needed time to recruit, rearm, reconfigure. He needed time to prepare for war. This time too, he knew only too well, would be usefully used by his opponents, Austria, Russia, Prussia, and Britain. They could mobilise huge armies in excess of anything France could muster; 650,000 troops were converging on France – the noose was tightening. He faced a stark choice, to wait and grow a large force to defend French territory, or strike early and take a less large French force on a pre-emptive offensive to isolate the earlier mobilising Anglo-Allied (British, Dutch, German, and Belgian) and Prussian armies, and annihilate each one separately before the massive Austrian and Russian armies, taking longer to mobilise, could arrive. In doing so, the vast superiority in numbers of the European coalition would be greatly diminished. He would then seek the possibility of peace with Austria and Russia. Napoleon chose to use less time and undertake an audacious grand gamble. All this caused Tsar Alexander I of Russia to remark to Wellington, mindful of his recent successfully concluded seven-year campaign against Napoleon’s generals on the Iberian Peninsula, ‘It is for you to save the world again.’

Bound for Battle

The sight and sound of soldiers marching in unison will always guarantee the rapt attention of those standing close by, and this early May morning in 1815 Dublin was no exception as the men of the 28th (North Gloucestershire) Regiment of Foot stretched along a good length of the Liffey quaysides. ‘It’s the Slashers, it’s the Slashers’ came the cry. The 28th Foot were so-called for their purposeful use of the sword in the early part of the 1812 American War. Those who looked on were mesmerised by the movement of the many as one, the regularity of the marching pace, the instantaneous exactness of response to bawled orders. As always, the discipline and seriousness were palpable but what was also mesmerising was the evident absence of anxiety, replaced ironically by an almost casual concentration that only comes from perhaps hundreds of hours of repeated drilling on barrack squares.

Forming lines from close column, retreating in line only to then advance 100 paces, going from hollow squares into line again, this time four ranks deep instead of two – these and more were all sequences intended to encompass much of what would be required on the battlefield, the fundamental order of infantry, a uniform system of manoeuvre. They were written in a manual some 27 years previously in 1788 by ‘Old Pivot’, General Sir David Dundas, when stationed in Dublin. Known as Dundas’s Principles of Military Movement, this manual became mandatory when an amended version was officially issued four years later in June 1792 as Rules and Regulations for the Movement of his Majesty’s Infantry by the Adjutant General, William Fawcett. This unified system of drill formed the basis of British infantry tactics in the Napoleonic Wars (1803-1814) and was again to be utilized by the 28th Foot and other British infantry regiments at Waterloo.

Unknown to the assembled on-lookers and admirers, ‘the Slashers’ ought not in fact to have been marching down along Dublin’s quayside that May morning, as they had previously sailed from Cork on a transatlantic journey some four months previously. Unfavourable winds, however, made them return to the port of ‘Cove’ (Cobh or, Queenstown) and kept them ashore until mid-March. With the clearing of the adverse weather, they set sail once more, their second attempt no more successful than their first, a storm making them seek safe refuge back in harbour the same night. With the war against the ‘Yankees’ ending, their presence in North America was deemed redundant and they were sent to the north of Ireland, only then to learn the dramatic news of Napoleon’s escape from Elba and his bold bid for Empire once more. The 28th Foot were one of twelve veteran Peninsular War infantry battalions to now be heading for Belgium, this time embarked from Dublin.

Belgium, as we know it today, was then in fact part of the new part-French, part-Dutch Kingdom of the Netherlands, lying to the north of France. British regiments were making for it in haste from America, Ireland, England, and elsewhere. Not all would make it on time. Wellington would dearly have loved to have with him, as the core of his army, the bulk of those troops who had served with him in the Peninsula. In the event, he had to do with only part of that army. Apart from the King’s German Legion (KGL) and a few other exceptions, Wellington did not hold the remainder of his allies, Dutch and Belgians mostly, in terribly high regard due to their uncertain quality and lack of experience, many young and untried. This is what he meant when he spoke of his Waterloo army as being ‘infamous’. This Anglo-Dutch or, Anglo-Allied Army was to link with the Prussians and together advance from Belgium (The Netherlands) and fight Napoleon on French soil. This army was forming up, and converging on Belgium were British regiments at different stages of preparedness, the 28th Foot amongst them. Among the ranks of the 28th were the newcomers, freshly recruited in Ireland, along with the more seasoned experienced Peninsular War veterans and the old campaigners.

Among the officers of the 28th were a number from Ireland, including their second-in-command, Major Robert Nixon of Mullynesker, son of Alexander Nixon, the High Sheriff of Fermanagh. He had seen previous service in Egypt and the Peninsula and was to assume command of the 28th on the wounding of its commander. Also there was Captain Richard Kelly from Galway, who likewise took command after the wounding of Major Nixon, until he too was wounded. He had a brother, Major T.E. Kelly, who fought at Waterloo with the 95th Rifles. There was a Captain Thomas English from Armagh, who had prior service in the Peninsula and was to be wounded at Waterloo. There was also a Captain Charles Peter Teulon from Bandon, County Cork. Lieutenant John Wellington Shelton, heir of John Shelton of Rossmore House, Limerick, had also served in the Peninsula and was to be four times wounded at Waterloo. Lieutenant Robert Prescott Eason, from a well to do family in Cork City, had served in the Peninsular War and had distinguished himself at the Passage of the Douro. He had received a number of wounds in the course of the war and was again wounded at Waterloo. One of these wounds was to the head, and in the 1830s as an in-mate of the Royal Hospital Kilmainham, Dublin, symptoms were to resurface and cause him difficulties.

The Duke of Wellington (The National Gallery of Ireland).

With the rest of the 28th Foot they all began boarding the transport ships from the stonewalled quays of the River Liffey next to Dublin’s Carlisle (now O’Connell) Bridge. From the bridge’s parapet, the onlookers had a perfect view of the scene, a ‘live’ embarkation in progress, a regiment going to war. With a sense of horror they witnessed an older soldier who was stumbling along a gangplank fall into the murky, cold waters of the Liffey. His body would not surface until much later; the first casualty of the hundred days’ conflict that would follow had been recorded.

Inescapably Irish

Wellington, whether he did or did not like being referred to as an Irishman, was inescapably Irish. Born in Dublin in 1769, Arthur was the third (surviving) son of Garret Wesely, first Earl of Mornington, Trim, County Meath. In 1798, subject to the provision of receipt of an inheritance, the family changed the spelling to Wellesly, an earlier form. His father was a prominent Anglo-Irish peer, fathering five sons and one daughter. Wellington’s family heritage was Irish for some six centuries. Descended from an Anglo-Norman family that had settled in Ireland in the 12th century, his ancestors had abandoned Catholicism for the Anglican religion in order to regain their sequestered lands. Few Ascendancy families were totally isolated, and many had a mixture of Gaelic, Norman, and English descent. He spent his early years in Ireland between two houses, Dangan Castle, three miles north of Summerhill on the Trim road in County Meath, and one on Merrion Street, Dublin. He was educated both in Trim and in Dublin. A downturn in the family’s finances, his father having overspent on lavish parties and continual ornamental improvements to his estate, required a move to Chelsea in London where the living conditions were cheaper. After his father’s sudden death, the eldest son, Richard, took matters in hand and began to attempt to restore an order to their affairs, whereupon Arthur, a quiet, lonely boy, spent two unhappy years in Eaton before the family relocated in Brussels. Now 16, he was regarded by his somewhat despairing mother as ungainly and uncomfortable in company, with little evident academic leanings, and she decided to send her ‘ugly boy Arthur’ to a military academy at Angers in France to learn a useful trade. Arthur acquired French with a good accent along with a new-found interest and a self-confidence. Commissioned first into a Highland Regiment, his brother Richard then secured an appointment for him as aide-de-camp to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and so Arthur returned to Ireland and soon also became a sitting MP for Trim in the Irish Parliament.

The so-called Ascendancy contained elements of all ethnic groups, and it is not possible to isolate a distinct ‘Anglo-Irish’ class. The Ascendancy was simply the class that owned the land and ran the country by a mixture of means, regardless of the ethnic or religious mix in their make-up and background, though the majority were Anglican Protestant. As opposed to how nationality is understood more strictly now, those of that class could then consider themselves, and did, to be both Irish and British at the one time. The often quoted remark of Wellington disowning his Irishness – that ‘just because you were born in a stable does not necessarily make you a horse’– is neither definitively attributable to him to nor is the context in which it was supposedly said understood. The words may have been uttered by him in a discussion in which someone made a remark about a particular Irish unit having a reputation for heavy drinking, when he wished to distance himself from this, meaning that because he too was Irish did not necessarily make him a heavy drinker. He was equally attributed with the remark that ‘the Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eaton’, a school and a time of his life of which he did not have happy memories. There is little likelihood that Wellington ever uttered either remark, and every likelihood that he uttered neither.

Wellington’s Irishness is not in question. It could not have been then, as it cannot be now. He would have known this at the time, and he would not have seen his Irishness as mutually exclusive to his Englishness. He would have regarded himself as both, something that was commonly understood by the Ascendancy class of the time. To a large extent the Anglo-Irish officer class regarded themselves, and in turn were regarded, as Irish, British, or English simultaneously. They were not obliged to choose between identities. If they chose to ignore any aspect of their simultaneous identities, it is doubtful that they could have actually achieved that, as this is simply how they were regarded. Wellington had an inescapable identity, and this inherited identity was inescapably Irish.

‘Clockwork Musketry’

Fire-power was the most decisive factor on the battlefield, and whoever brought the most of it to bear invariably won. More precisely, it was the effect that massed, well-packed lines of infantry produced by steadily delivering a constant out-pouring of volley fire that mattered. In short, it was its ‘stopping power’ that was important. The Battle of Waterloo was a specific instance of this. Napoleon wanted to destroy Wellington’s army, which, to survive, had to stand its ground unflinchingly. Waterloo was where Wellington’s cautious but courageous defensive posture was to be pitted against Napoleon’s offensive manoeuvring élan and verve.

Fighting formation brought fire-power to bear. The singular soldier, a trained man with his muzzle-loaded, smooth-bore flintlock ‘Brown Bess’ musket, was virtually useless alone, but with others could be highly effective.. The rate of fire, range, and accuracy determined the musket’s effect. These were slow, short, and inaccurate, respectively. Combined, however, cool continuous discharged volumes of volley fire in groups could be harnessed to give deadly effect, especially if fire was held until the enemy had closed to within 50 yards or less.

To achieve the effective use of all available muskets, or the greater part thereof, a defensive formation appropriate to the circumstances combined with steadiness in the ranks was key. Individual mastery of weapon handling was crucial and it was here the highly trained British soldier had earned a reputation for a steady, well-practised proficiency. The ‘Brown Bess’ had a barrel length of 39 inches and weighed slightly in excess of nine pounds. To achieve a high rate of fire, three rounds per minute, without wavering, the soldier had to be highly trained, well drilled, and disciplined. The ‘Brown Bess’ or ‘Indian Pattern’, being a muzzle-loaded weapon, required the soldier to stand up to do so and since it was a flintlock, the mechanics of firing were somewhat involved. Suffice to say that loading, aiming, and firing was a complicated process, requiring 20 individual movements to fire each round. The overall objective was to achieve three rounds per minute or 20 seconds per round, thus allowing one second per movement – and all the while the enemy approaching or even firing at you. Reliable infantry in separate entities of a cohesive whole were trained to fire at the same moment, or to provide a continuous running volley, the entire formation delivering their murderous execution by maintaining a steadiness in the ranks and a consistency in volume. To achieve this effect in battle, well-trained infantry needed to be well led. At the time, officers in the British army received their commissions by purchase, while advancement was secured by payment, seniority, or patronage. A vacancy had to exist and he who sought it had to have money to buy it. Merit or talent had little bearing on the matter. The sons of landed gentry provided their fair share of officers to the army and navy, and these ‘gentlemen’ were literate, could ride and shoot, and possessed a natural authoritative air and an innate sense of fairness. So the system, worked. The aristocracy, contrary to popular belief, was by no means all-pervasive among the officer ranks, which also included the sons of professionals, ‘gentlemen in trade’, smaller landowners and farmers, and, of course sons of serving or retired officers. Land, wealth, and education, all together or separately, were the all-important qualifications, and of them all the ability to read and write proved the great social divider.

Fire-power was, of course, also provided by artillery, and Wellington kept a tight tactical control over his gunners. The Royal Engineers and the Royal Artillery trained their officers before giving them commissions, and only on passing their exams. A rigid adherence to seniority meant promotion was slow and would have been more so had it not expanded threefold between 1791 and 1814 (274 to 727 officers), and the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich, established in 1741, was hard put to keep pace with the call for officers. The Royal Artillery, although deployed all over the world, was nonetheless much centralised at Woolwich. A close-knit grouping, they shared a strong, proud ethos, and it was a family affair. Many were the sons of gunner officers, and there was much inter-marriage with sisters and daughters of fellow gunner officers. The 12th century St Nicholas Plumstead parish church near Woolwich in Kent was situated in open space on ground that sloped gently to the Thames River. It was here on the 16 May 1815, that Second Lieutenant William Harrison Harvey, Royal Artillery, second son of John Harvey, a member of the legal profession who had a reasonable size estate at Mount Pleasant, County Wexford, married Elisabeth Mary Colebrooke of Barn Cottage in Eltham near London. Elizabeth was the daughter of Colonel Paulet Colebrooke (Royal Artillery) and his wife Elizabeth Jane. Colonel Paulet Colebrooke returned from a tour of duty in Ceylon in 1815 and died in 1816. He had a son, William Macbean George Colebrooke, who served in the Royal Artillery and who became a career diplomat after his service. William Harrison Harvey served in Major William Lloyd’s Brigade of the Royal Artillery at Waterloo where he lost an arm. His wedding day was also the day he left for Belgium, and before leaving he and his new wife Elizabeth longingly embraced; it would be the first and last time Elizabeth would feel both her husband’s arms around her. William’s father John was a first cousin of Beauchamp Bagenal Harvey who led the 1798 rebellion in Wexford. William’s brother was named George Washington Harvey, his father demonstrating his anti-British politics in so naming him. George Washington Harvey and another brother had both died separately in 1813 while serving with the Royal Navy. John Harvey had married Mary Harrison (William Harvey’s mother), the daughter of William Harrison of Castle Harrison near Charleville in County Cork. Mary Harrison’s brother William was married to Margaret O’Grady, a daughter of Standish O’Grady who was the prosecutor of Robert Emmet in 1803. William Harrison had fought with the Austrian army against Napoleon until 1793.

All of this demonstrates a not untypical instance of the web of connectivity between families, their inter-marriage, and seemingly contradictory sympathies arising from Ireland’s past history. This inter-relationship of the ‘Irish’ with different and sometimes differing perspectives on matters reveals the complicated allegiances and confusing and confused loyalties of the Anglo-Irish gentry of those times. Much of these, however, were very much aligned in opposing Napoleon’s latest belligerent advances into Europe. He had to be stopped, and it was only fire-power that would do so.

‘Humbugged’

The town of Charleroi, where Wellington had not expected Napoleon to cross the French frontier into Belgium was exactly where he did so with more than 120,000 men of his Armée du Nord. Napoleon had again executed his ‘strategy of the central position’, striking hard and fast, using surprise, speed, and security to come between the forces of a larger foe. To turn numerical disadvantage to advantage by driving a wedge between both of his opponent’s halves, then attacking and defeating each separately – ‘divide et impera’ (divide and conquer) – was Napoleon’s tactic, using just enough force to hold one in place while concentrating the majority of his own force to defeat the second. He did not have to destroy it completely, just to destroy any hope of it assisting the other. He would then turn to demolish the part of his opponent’s army he had previously fixed in place. The combination of Wellington’s Anglo-Allied army, more than 74,000 men (British, Dutch, Belgians, and Germans) and Blücher’s 100,000 Prussians was simply too big for Napoleon to defeat. His best defence was a sudden, sharp offensive. If he could come between them, first fight one, then the other, he might succeed in sending the Prussians east, back across the Rhine, and subsequently drive Wellington north-west, back along his line of communications towards Ostend, leaving Brussels open to him. By striking direct for Brussels, dividing Wellington and Blücher, getting between them and keeping them apart, this might of itself send them back along the separate ways they came, and the Belgian capital would be in French hands and a psychological victory achieved. Napoleon might then be able to negotiate with Austria and Russia who were busily mobilising huge armies in excess of 150,000 men each, and salvage a peace deal, restoring pride for France – perhaps later, to restore the previous extent of the former French Empire.

Wellington’s confidence in his spy network had been misplaced. He had, of course, received reports from the field of French troops mobilising and concentrating across the frontier in France, but he was unsure if this was a deliberate feint and that Napoleon’s real point of attack would be executed elsewhere. He did not wish to commit his troops too early and to the wrong place, incorrectly falling for a deception and allowing Napoleon to manoeuvre around him. He waited for his secret network of information gatherers to confirm or otherwise illuminate him. He received neither, only silence. Wellington’s intelligence failure had left him blind, and he was caught out, leading him to remark, ‘Napoleon has humbugged me, by God’. He had now to get his army to a speedily selected delaying position at the crossroads of Quatre Bras. Napoleon was on the move, and speedily so; he had gained the initiative, and his advance needed to be stalled, so Wellington and Blücher could reconfigure and combine. Napoleon had put them off balance and he intended capitalizing on this and was moving at pace.

Gaining Impetus

Surprise achieved, his momentous momentum maintained, Napoleon intended to continue the impetus of his forces’ advance by high tempo movement. To ensure the rapidity of this propulsion he dispatched Marshal Ney with a force to occupy the vital position of Quatre Bras from which, having pounded the Prussians into submission at Ligny, he would use the crucial crossroads as a pivot or springboard to then crush Wellington, his Anglo-Allied army fixed into an unfavoured position by Marshal Ney.

Napoleon did successfully maul Blücher and his Prussians, who had over-extended themselves along marshy ground, suffering 20,000 casualties for the loss of 14,000 French, which Napoleon could ill-afford. Nonetheless the Prussians were in retreat and Napoleon sent Marshal Grouchy with more than 30,000 men in pursuit to ensure they did not join with Wellington. Napoleon, having achieved the first part of his plan, hurried to Quatre Bras to execute the second part.

In less than his customary dynamic fashion, Marshal Ney displayed a peculiar absence of energy and lapse of judgement in not initially seizing Quatre Bras. His delaying allowed Wellington to arrive, hold off Ney’s subsequent attacks, and consequently, on hearing of Blücher’s defeat, to withdraw in good order. Ney further compounded his errors by not continuing to harass or pursue Wellington in retreat. On arrival at Quatre Bras, an incredulous Napoleon was furious; all that he had won at Ligny was lost at Quatre Bras and with it time, time for Wellington to choose his ground, to be better prepared for the next round of fighting, if there was to be such. The opportunity for Napoleon to engage Wellington on his own in a rushed tempo on unfavourable ground had been lost. He wasn’t sure if he would get another.

It was now a matter of direction. Along which route would Blücher and his defeated Prussians retreat? Which way would he withdraw? East, back across the Rhine or north towards Brussels ? Away from or towards Wellington? To stay separated from or to combine with Wellington? Without Blücher and his Prussians, Wellington was unlikely to engage, let alone defeat Napoleon and might well abandon Brussels and seek advantage further back along his line of communications towards the coast. Blücher had Marshal Grouchy and 30,000 Frenchmen on his trail, and was advised by his chief of staff, who was distrustful of Wellington, to go east, but Blücher, who hated the French, marched north to support Wellington as he had promised.

Dramatic as Napoleon’s surprise strike into Belgium and successful separation of the Anglo-Allied army was, exciting as the concurrent battles at Ligny and Quatre Bras were, and sensational as Blücher’s decision to keep to his promise with Wellington was, matters were to become even more spectacularly electrifying. It was all only a prelude to something that would burn the name Waterloo into the minds of men for ever.

Turbulence

Wet and weary soldiers awoke on the sodden, waterlogged Waterloo terrain. The unrelenting rain of a summer thunderstorm had turned much of the surface, a loamy rich soil, to mud, through which infantry and cavalry would now have to trudge and into which artillery would sink. The French had fought with mud on their boots before, it was not going to stop them, but the ill effects of the previous night’s atrocious weather had made the most ordinary tasks more maddeningly troublesome and, importantly, made difficult the concentration of Napoleon’s grand artillery battery. The overnight torrential downpour had initially impeded movement, marring manoeuvrability, and so delayed the battle’s beginning.

Delayed also was Lieutenant Colonel John Dawson, 2nd Earl of Portarlington from Emo Court, County Laois. An experienced officer, he had seen service in the Peninsular War and in June 1815 he was officer commanding the 23rd Regiment of Light Dragoons. At the battle’s commencement on the morning of 18 June he was not where his duty required him to be, present with his regiment. The reason for this has never been confirmed and versions vary – taken ill, his servant neglected to wake him, he had on the previous evening departed to Brussels to seek enjoyment. Whatever account is correct, the essential truth is he was not at Waterloo commanding his regiment as the battle got under way. He did return to find the fighting well progressed and his regiment already decisively engaged. Eager to compensate for his absence, he attached himself to the 18th Hussars and fought with commendable courage for what remained of the day, having a horse shot from under him near the height of hostilities, but it was insufficient to redeem him, more especially in his own eyes, and the episode severely damaged his standing. His absence from duty on such an occasion required his retirement from the 23rd Regiment of Light Dragoons in September 1815. Although receiving much support from the not insufficient patronage of no less a person than the Prince Regent himself who did his best to uphold the unfortunate officer, as no one who knew him doubted his courage, he felt he was unable to escape the supposedly dishonourably viewed action unbecoming of an officer commanding. He allowed this unfortunate incident to mar his future, and he squandered the remainder of his life, wasting a large fortune and any hope of redemption. He died unmarried in a boarding house in an obscure London slum in late December 1845. That then was his singular future fate; for now, on the eve of battle, all those present had to cope with the severe torrential rain. Captain (later Colonel) George Cotter, second son of the Reverend George Sackville Cotter from Youghal, County Cork, was to recollect that,

the night was so cold and the rain of the previous day had been so heavy, that the surface of the whole ridge upon which we lay was quickly converted into thin mud, through which we sank more than ankle deep. I preferred standing up and walking to and fro during the hours of darkness to lying upon such a bed. The night wore tediously away, and frequently during the late hours, while the sounds from either army met my ears, did I repeat the lines in which Shakespeare depicts the rival camps during the night before the battle of Agincourt.

Most of the day before the battle had been marked by appalling weather. This pouring rain did, however, do much to assist in covering the withdrawal of Wellington’s army north to the Waterloo position as they were harassed and harried by the French. To counter this pressure, an element of Wellington’s army were ‘left in contact’ to delay and hamper the French, and such rearguard action saw exchanges between the respective cavalries charging and counter-charging. Lieutenant Standish Darby O’Grady, 2nd Viscount Guillamore, 7th Hussars, from County Limerick, gave a description of one such encounter in a letter to his Father:

We charged the Head of their whole cavalry – Their front were Lancers – their flanks were protected for they were in the street and the mass of cavalry in the rear were so great that I defy them to go about. We killed the officer who was in front but we could not reach the men as the lancers of the front and rear kept the men at bay.[Afterwards] the French pursued us nearly ¾ of a mile in which they were charged repeatedly by the other squadron of the 7th, but they were too strong for us; we however killed a great many and got out of the road at last.