Osborne's quarters. Amelia and the Major's wife had
rushed down to him, when the latter had recognised him
from the balcony. You may fancy the feelings of these
women when they were told that the day was over, and
both their husbands were safe; in what mute rapture
Amelia fell on her good friend's neck, and embraced
her; in what a grateful passion of prayer she fell on her
knees, and thanked the Power which had saved her
husband.
Our young lady, in her fevered and nervous condition,
could have had no more salutary medicine prescribed for
her by any physician than that which chance put in her
way. She and Mrs. O'Dowd watched incessantly by the
wounded lad, whose pains were very severe, and in the
duty thus forced upon her, Amelia had not time to brood
over her personal anxieties, or to give herself up to her
own fears and forebodings after her wont. The young
patient told in his simple fashion the events of the day, and
the actions of our friends of the gallant --th. They had
suffered severely. They had lost very many officers and
men. The Major's horse had been shot under him as the
regiment charged, and they all thought that O'Dowd was
gone, and that Dobbin had got his majority, until on their
return from the charge to their old ground, the Major was
discovered seated on Pyramus's carcase, refreshing him-
self from a case-bottle. It was Captain Osborne that cut
down the French lancer who had speared the ensign.
Amelia turned so pale at the notion, that Mrs. O'Dowd
stopped the young ensign in this story. And it was
Captain Dobbin who at the end of the day, though wounded
himself, took up the lad in his arms and carried him to
the surgeon, and thence to the cart which was to bring
him back to Brussels. And it was he who promised the
driver two louis if he would make his way to Mr. Sedley's
hotel in the city; and tell Mrs. Captain Osborne that the
action was over, and that her husband was unhurt and
well.
"Indeed, but he has a good heart that William
Dobbin," Mrs. O'Dowd said, "though he is always laughing
at me."
Young Stubble vowed there was not such another
officer in the army, and never ceased his praises of the
senior captain, his modesty, his kindness, and his admirable
coolness in the field. To these parts of the conversation,
Amelia lent a very distracted attention: it was only when
George was spoken of that she listened, and when he
was not mentioned, she thought about him.
In tending her patient, and in thinking of the wonderful
escapes of the day before, her second day passed
away not too slowly with Amelia. There was only one
man in the army for her: and as long as he was well, it
must be owned that its movements interested her little.
All the reports which Jos brought from the streets fell
very vaguely on her ears; though they were sufficient to
give that timorous gentleman, and many other people
then in Brussels, every disquiet. The French had been
repulsed certainly, but it was after a severe and doubtful
struggle, and with only a division of the French army.
The Emperor, with the main body, was away at Ligny,
where he had utterly annihilated the Prussians, and was
now free to bring his whole force to bear upon the allies.
The Duke of Wellington was retreating upon the capital,
and a great battle must be fought under its walls
probably, of which the chances were more than doubtful.
The Duke of Wellington had but twenty thousand British
troops on whom he could rely, for the Germans were
raw militia, the Belgians disaffected, and with this handful
his Grace had to resist a hundred and fifty thousand men
that had broken into Belgium under Napoleon. Under
Napoleon! What warrior was there, however famous and
skilful, that could fight at odds with him?
Jos thought of all these things, and trembled. So did
all the rest of Brussels--where people felt that the fight
of the day before was but the prelude to the greater
combat which was imminent. One of the armies opposed to
the Emperor was scattered to the winds already. The
few English that could be brought to resist him would
perish at their posts, and the conqueror would pass over
their bodies into the city. Woe be to those whom he
found there! Addresses were prepared, public functionaries
assembled and debated secretly, apartments were
got ready, and tricoloured banners and triumphal
emblems manufactured, to welcome the arrival of His
Majesty the Emperor and King.
The emigration still continued, and wherever families
could find means of departure, they fled. When Jos, on
the afternoon of the 17th of June, went to Rebecca's
hotel, he found that the great Bareacres' carriage had at
length rolled away from the porte-cochere. The Earl
had procured a pair of horses somehow, in spite of Mrs.
Crawley, and was rolling on the road to Ghent. Louis the
Desired was getting ready his portmanteau in that city,
too. It seemed as if Misfortune was never tired of
worrying into motion that unwieldy exile.
Jos felt that the delay of yesterday had been only a
respite, and that his dearly bought horses must of a
surety be put into requisition. His agonies were very
severe all this day. As long as there was an English army
between Brussels and Napoleon, there was no need of
immediate flight; but he had his horses brought from
their distant stables, to the stables in the court-yard of
the hotel where he lived; so that they might be under his
own eyes, and beyond the risk of violent abduction.
Isidor watched the stable-door constantly, and had the
horses saddled, to be ready for the start. He longed
intensely for that event.
After the reception of the previous day, Rebecca did
not care to come near her dear Amelia. She clipped the
bouquet which George had brought her, and gave fresh
water to the flowers, and read over the letter which he
had sent her. "Poor wretch," she said, twirling round the
little bit of paper in her fingers, "how I could crush her
with this!--and it is for a thing like this that she must
break her heart, forsooth--for a man who is stupid--a
coxcomb--and who does not care for her. My poor good
Rawdon is worth ten of this creature." And then she fell
to thinking what she should do if--if anything happened
to poor good Rawdon, and what a great piece of luck it
was that he had left his horses behind.
In the course of this day too, Mrs. Crawley, who saw
not without anger the Bareacres party drive off,
bethought her of the precaution which the Countess had
taken, and did a little needlework for her own advantage;
she stitched away the major part of her trinkets, bills,
and bank-notes about her person, and so prepared, was
ready for any event--to fly if she thought fit, or to stay
and welcome the conqueror, were he Englishman or
Frenchman. And I am not sure that she did not dream
that night of becoming a duchess and Madame la
Marechale, while Rawdon wrapped in his cloak, and making
his bivouac under the rain at Mount Saint John, was
thinking, with all the force of his heart, about the little
wife whom he had left behind him.
The next day was a Sunday. And Mrs. Major O'Dowd
had the satisfaction of seeing both her patients refreshed
in health and spirits by some rest which they had taken
during the night. She herself had slept on a great chair in
Amelia's room, ready to wait upon her poor friend or the
ensign, should either need her nursing. When morning
came, this robust woman went back to the house where
she and her Major had their billet; and here performed
an elaborate and splendid toilette, befitting the day. And
it is very possible that whilst alone in that chamber, which
her husband had inhabited, and where his cap still lay on
the pillow, and his cane stood in the corner, one prayer at
least was sent up to Heaven for the welfare of the brave
soldier, Michael O'Dowd.
When she returned she brought her prayer-book with
her, and her uncle the Dean's famous book of sermons,
out of which she never failed to read every Sabbath; not
understanding all, haply, not pronouncing many of the
words aright, which were long and abstruse--for the
Dean was a learned man, and loved long Latin words--
but with great gravity, vast emphasis, and with tolerable
correctness in the main. How often has my Mick listened
to these sermons, she thought, and me reading in the
cabin of a calm! She proposed to resume this exercise on
the present day, with Amelia and the wounded ensign
for a congregation. The same service was read on that
day in twenty thousand churches at the same hour; and
millions of British men and women, on their knees,
implored protection of the Father of all.
They did not hear the noise which disturbed our little
congregation at Brussels. Much louder than that which
had interrupted them two days previously, as Mrs.
O'Dowd was reading the service in her best voice, the
cannon of Waterloo began to roar.
When Jos heard that dreadful sound, he made up his
mind that he would bear this perpetual recurrence of
terrors no longer, and would fly at once. He rushed into the
sick man's room, where our three friends had paused in
their prayers, and further interrupted them by a
passionate appeal to Amelia
"I can't stand it any more, Emmy," he said; 'I won't
stand it; and you must come with me. I have bought a
horse for you--never mind at what price--and you must
dress and come with me, and ride behind Isidor."
"God forgive me, Mr. Sedley, but you are no better
than a coward," Mrs. O'Dowd said, laying down the
book.
"I say come, Amelia," the civilian went on; "never
mind what she says; why are we to stop here and be
butchered by the Frenchmen?"
"You forget the --th, my boy," said the little Stubble,
the wounded hero, from his bed--"and and you
won't leave me, will you, Mrs. O'Dowd?"
"No, my dear fellow," said she, going up and kissing
the boy. "No harm shall come to you while I stand by.
I don't budge till I get the word from Mick. A pretty
figure I'd be, wouldn't I, stuck behind that chap on a
pillion?"
This image caused the young patient to burst out
laughing in his bed, and even made Amelia smile. "I
don't ask her," Jos shouted out--"I don't ask that--that
Irishwoman, but you Amelia; once for all, will you
come?"
"Without my husband, Joseph?" Amelia said, with a
look of wonder, and gave her hand to the Major's wife.
Jos's patience was exhausted.
"Good-bye, then," he said, shaking his fist in a rage,
and slamming the door by which he retreated. And this
time he really gave his order for march: and mounted in
the court-yard. Mrs. O'Dowd heard the clattering hoofs
of the horses as they issued from the gate; and looking
on, made many scornful remarks on poor Joseph as he
rode down the street with Isidor after him in the laced
cap. The horses, which had not been exercised for some
days, were lively, and sprang about the street. Jos, a
clumsy and timid horseman, did not look to advantage in
the saddle. "Look at him, Amelia dear, driving into the
parlour window. Such a bull in a china-shop I never
saw." And presently the pair of riders disappeared at a
canter down the street leading in the direction of the
Ghent road, Mrs. O'Dowd pursuing them with a fire of
sarcasm so long as they were in sight.
All that day from morning until past sunset, the
cannon never ceased to roar. It was dark when the
cannonading stopped all of a sudden.
All of us have read of what occurred during that
interval. The tale is in every Englishman's mouth; and
you and I, who were children when the great battle was
won and lost, are never tired of hearing and recounting
the history of that famous action. Its remembrance
rankles still in the bosoms of millions of the countrymen of
those brave men who lost the day. They pant for an
opportunity of revenging that humiliation; and if a contest,
ending in a victory on their part, should ensue, elating
them in their turn, and leaving its cursed legacy of hatred
and rage behind to us, there is no end to the so-called
glory and shame, and to the alternations of successful
and unsuccessful murder, in which two high-spirited
nations might engage. Centuries hence, we Frenchmen and
Englishmen might be boasting and killing each other still,
carrying out bravely the Devil's code of honour.
All our friends took their share and fought like men in
the great field. All day long, whilst the women were
praying ten miles away, the lines of the dauntless English
infantry were receiving and repelling the furious charges of
the French horsemen. Guns which were heard at Brussels
were ploughing up their ranks, and comrades falling, and
the resolute survivors closing in. Towards evening, the
attack of the French, repeated and resisted so bravely,
slackened in its fury. They had other foes besides the
British to engage, or were preparing for a final onset. It
came at last: the columns of the Imperial Guard marched
up the hill of Saint Jean, at length and at once to sweep
the English from the height which they had maintained
all day, and spite of all: unscared by the thunder of the
artillery, which hurled death from the English line--the
dark rolling column pressed on and up the hill. It seemed
almost to crest the eminence, when it began to wave and
falter. Then it stopped, still facing the shot. Then at last
the English troops rushed from the post from which no
enemy had been able to dislodge them, and the Guard
turned and fled.
No more firing was heard at Brussels--the pursuit
rolled miles away. Darkness came down on the field and
