i78
THE YPRES TIMES
THE great Duke of Wellington stood on the path which runs round the
ramparts of Walmer Castle and looked out to sea. The day was one of
splendid sunshineit was the commencement of the July of 1843a°d the
old soldier, at home by the seaside, had put on clothes, nankeen and duck, suitable
to the day. He stood, one foot on the carriage of one of the little carronades,
leaning lightly on a Malacca cane, and his eyes, looking over the sea, seemed to
gaze beyond the horizon.
Near him, and a little behind him, stood at attention a young staff officer of
the Adjutant-General's Department, in undress uniform. He had brought some
papers down for the signature of the Commander-in-Chieffor Hill was dead, and
the Duke had been reappointed for life to the commandand before carrying the
documents back to London he had asked a question, on a small matter of detail,
which the War Office thought should, as a compliment, be referred to the
commander of the forces. A name typical of the British private soldier was
required to use on the model sheet of the soldiers' accounts to show where the
men should sign. It seemed a ridiculously unimportant matter to the young staff
officer, and he was surprised when, instead of answering off-hand, the Duke had
thrust his cane into the path of broken shells, and had then looked steadily out
to sea.
The great Duke stood without movement, and the young officer waited.
Before those eyes, which looked over the rim of the world, was unrolling a vast
panorama of all the gallant deeds he had seen done in war. He was searching in
a memory stored with recollections for the man who should best typify the dogged
gallantry of Britain's private soldiers. Before him, as in a picture, passed that
desperate fight to hold Hougoumont, and then his mind travelled back to the olive
groves and the vineyards of Spain; to the snow-capped Pyrenees, and the purple
ridges and the black cork woods of Portugal. He felt again that gripping of the
heart-strings he had endured as the thin stream of red coats crawled up the rocky
cliffs into the Seminary at Oporto; he saw the dancing line of British bayonets
sparkle as they came to the charge at Busaco; he looked again in imagination on
the dreadful breach held by the dead at Badajos; but no one name came more
clearly to his mind than another. Travelling ever backwards memory carried him
to a blazing sun and scorched plainsto the savage storm of Assaye, and to the
fierce fight in the darkness before Seringapatam; but still the name he searched for
did not come. Now he was in the Low Countries on his first campaign, fighting
his first action. He saw again the clear rain-washed blue of that September sky,
the line of wind-mills on the horizon, the pink and blue and yellow houses by the
canal blinking in the morning sun, the distant spires of Bois le Due. His regiment,
the 33rd, a corps of veterans, stood in reserve. He knew that his officers were
waiting to see how the boy colonel would handle his regiment under fire. His first
experience was to be a trying one. The French were in superior force, and in the
cloud of smoke before him he could see that the first line of the British were being
pressed back. Firing still, turning at any point of vantage, the red coats were yet
giving way; the French light troops flung at them to complete the disaster were
almost in the British ranks, and on the left a squadron of French cavalry cantered,
waiting an opportunity to charge. Then young Wellesley put the discipline of his
regiment to one of the severest tests known in warfare. At the word of command
every company swung back into columnleaving thus wide lanes through which
the hard-pressed troops in the firing line could retire. Grimed with powder,
cursing in anger, the men dashed through, and like closing gates the companies
of the gallant old 33rd swung back again. The French were so close on them
