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Waterloo
(In keeping with the
old Donegal Vindicator's
Christmas number tradition,
the new Canadian Vindicator
offers the following short
story in its December 2002
issue. The story carries
with it best wishes for
a holy and joyous Christmas
from all associated with
www.vindicator.ca)
"I had no good reason
to like the French, or the
English for that matter."
Those words caught my attention.
The paper they were written
on was thick, not like the
paper we write letters on
today. It had been folded
in four, from corner to
corner, and sealed in the
middle. Red wax still clung
to one part. Over the years
some had broken off, and
when I unfolded the paper
the remaining bits fell
on the floor where they
raised little puffs in the
ages old dust.
The attic where I stood
was oppressively hot. Hot
and dry. There was only
one skylight, and it hadn't
been opened for years.
Even the spiders had given
it up. No insects lived
there. The cobwebs they
left behind were grimy.
If the sloping ceiling had
ever borne plaster, it too
was gone, mixed in with
the thick dust that covered
floor. The heavy slates
that formed the roof rested
on bone-dry rafters and
slats. One expected the
whole lot to come crashing
down at any minute, but
the slates and the rafters
had remained stubbornly
in place for nigh on two
hundred years.
The attic was rarely visited.
Once a year I had the task
of climbing the stairs that
led to it, a task I dreaded.
There were two rooms in
the attic. In one lay an
unholy jumble of items that
had been discarded decades
and decades ago. Bits of
furniture, old lamps, oddly
shaped bottles. Beneath
them lay other junk, even
earlier junk. Those who
placed it there were long
gone. The whole lot was
carpeted in dust. Move or
touch one piece and a cloud
of dust rose up.
Every year I made a mental
note to clear the attic
some day. But some day never
came, and once in a while
I added a piece to the accumulated
collection, a piece that
soon gathered its own dust
over the silent passage
of the years.
The second room retained
some semblance of usage.
It was a storage room for
the newspaper files.
Once a year I braved the
dust, the cobwebs, the darkness,
and made my way into that
second room which alone
was lit by the skylight.
In serried ranks the files
for each year lay on sliding
shelves that once had carried
trays of type, type no longer
used in the weekly production
of the newspaper.
There I would replace a
fifty-year old file in the
place from which I had removed
it the previous year, and
extract its successor which
I carried, as quickly as
I could, back through the
dust, the heat, and the
grimy cobwebs, to the head
of the stairs and safely
down to the ground floor
office.
There, as the year rolled
by, it yielded precious
copy for a weekly column
titled "Fifty Years
Ago", that appealed
to a generation of readers
twice removed from my own
young years.
It was on one of those annual
treks to the attic that
I stumbled, lost my footing,
and in the gloomy darkness
fell. Immediately I was
enveloped in a cloud of
dust, and as I pushed on
what may have been an old
carpet in an attempt to
regain my feet, it slithered
and my hand felt a peculiar
square of paper. Not realizing
what I was doing, choking
and half blinded, I got
to my feet, and in the filing
room with a gigantic effort
raised the skylight, letting
in some fresh air.
All I wanted was fresh air
to clear my lungs. As I
sputtered and pluchered,
I realized I still had the
folded paper in my hand.
The outside carried some
writing, indecipherable
under the grime of time,
probably an address, because
when the paper was unfolded
it became quickly evident
that it was a letter, a
missive, addressed in an
old fashioned hand to "My
dear Uncle".
Just above the centre, the
phrase "I had no good
reason to like the French,
or the English for that
matter" caught my eye,
and then at the bottom the
date, "written at Brussels,
June 22, 1815."
What had I found?
After descending the staircase,
washing my face and hands,
brushing my jacket and pants,
rubbing a wet cloth over
my shoes, and washing my
hands once more, I smoothed
out that heavy papered letter,
and prepared to read it
fully. It wasn't quite the
easy job I had expected,
what with a blurred portion
where at one time moisture
had made the ink run.
But what was legible told
an amazing story, and cast
light on what may well have
been a fatal blunder made
by the great Napoleon at
the Battle of Waterloo,
a blunder well documented
in the official accounts
of that great encounter,
which led to his final banishment
to the island of St. Helena
where, it is alleged, he
died from arsenic poisoning.
The letter writer told the
story as casually as if
he was recounting an everyday
occurrence. In truth it
might well have been so,
at a time when the vagaries
of weather were unpredictable,
and forecasts of changes
unreliable and unscientific.
If anyone had good cause
to be concerned about weather
forecasts it was Napoleon
himself who lost an entire
army, not to opposing forces
but to the severity of a
Russian winter.
Some of the wording in that
letter, from nephew to uncle,
are fresh in memory:
I had sold my horses and
was making my way to the
frontier. Since I did not
want to attract attention-I
was carrying their price
in gold-I rode an old cob,
not worth the stealing,
and a ragged cloak. Suddenly
I was surrounded by solders,
magnificently mounted soldiers,
and was being questioned
by their leader, to whom
I told my well rehearsed
tale. I was one of the Romany
tribe, with nothing of worth.
All I had was a gift.
"What gift is that?"
"To read the clouds
and tell the coming weather."
He laughed. He did not believe
my story.
Just as he was leaning over
to search my saddle bags,
a coach drew up.
Uncle, you never saw, you
could not imagine such a
coach! Heavy, built from
solid wood, heavy wood,
with big wheels, larger
than any coach you have
ever seen.
"What's going on? Why
the delay? Who is this?"
It was the Grand Emperor
himself leaning out a side
window. I nearly
..
myself!
"Only a Romany, sire.
Claims to read the clouds,
tell the weather."
"Bring him here!"
Uncle, I was frightened
out of my skin.
The nephew went on to recount
the incident in detail,
how he lowered his eyes,
bent his head, and managed
with great effort to keep
his voice steady.
Resolutely he maintained
his story. He could tell
the weather a full two days
in advance. Even his own
people acknowledged his
skill.
"What will the weather
be like two days from now?
Look me in the face and
tell me!"
The letter gave the nephew's
answer. There would be rain.
"Give him a coin and
let him go," ordered
the Emperor.
I may not have quoted
the letter exactly.
At my age memory sometimes
plays tricks. But my
rendition is as faithful
as I can make it. The
dust, the grime, the
cobwebs-I will never
forget them.
An account of the Battle
of Waterloo as given
by another Ballyshannon
man who was there appears
in another section of
this web site Allingham.
"But what was the
weather forecast? How
accurate was it? What
effect did it have on
Napoleon?"
I am afraid you will
have to read the history
books to find out. Of
one thing we can be
certain is that Napoleon
acted on a wrong forecast,
and lost the battle.
"The letter-what
became of the letter?"
I've told the tale as
best I can. That should
be enough for any skeptic!
As Napoleon himself
said, "If you wish
to be success in the
world," (maybe
he was talking about
story tellers) "promise
everything, deliver
nothing."
For the true history
buff, suffice it to
recall that there were
three armies involved
in what became known
as the Battle of Waterloo,
the French with 120,000
men, the Anglo-Dutch-German
Army of 90,000 men commanded
by the Duke of Wellington,
and the Prussian Army,
also of 120,000, men
under the command of
Field Marshal Gebhard
von Blücher.
Napoleon's main chance
of victory lay in winning
against either opposing
army before they were
able to unite, and in
fact muddy roads held
up the German army for
a time but he was unable
to deliver a decisive
blow.
The World Wide Web has
a multitude of sites
dealing with aspects
of the Battle of Waterloo
which annually attract
hundreds of thousands
of visitors.
Readers of this web
page will be interested
to note that Wellington's
army was made up of
Germans who formed the
largest contingent;
solders from the Netherlands,
and the third group
were British army troops,
many of them recruits
from Ireland.
It is estimated that
some 191,300 men actually
took part in what became
a three-day battle,
June 16, 17 and 18,
1815, and 48,500 were
casualties.
Also, since this is
a web site linking Canada
and Ireland it is worth
recalling that one of
Wellington's staff was
the Fourth Duke of Richmond,
after whom the town
of Richmond, Ontario,
is named. The Duke had
presided as Lord Lieutenant
of Ireland from 1807
until 1813, and while
there formed a close
association with Arthur
Wellesley, the future
Duke of Wellington.
It was the Duke of Richmond's
wife who hosted the
famous ball in Brussels
on June 15, the eve
of the battle, celebrated
by Byron in the following
lines once obligatory
learning for all good
British schoolchildren:
There was a sound
of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital
had gather'd then
Her beauty and her
chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone
o'er fair women
and brave men;
A thousand hearts
beat happily; and
when
Music arose with
its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd
love to eyes which
spake again,
And all went merry
as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark!
a deep sound strikes
like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it?--No,
'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling
o'er the stony street;
On with the dance!
Let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn,
when Youth and Pleasure
meet
To chase the glowing
hours with flying
feet.
Arm! Arm! It is-it
is the cannon's
opening roar!
Last noon beheld
them full of lusty
life,
Last eve in Beauty's
circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought
the signal-sound
of strife,
The morn the marshalling
in arms, - the day
Battle's magnificently
stern array!
The thunder-clouds
close o'er it, which
when rent
The earth is cover'd
thick with other
clay,
Which her own clay
shall cover, heap'd
and pent,
Rider and horse,
- friend, foe, -
in one red burial
blent!
Almost two hundred years
later bones of the fallen,
their epaulettes, uniform
buttons, rusty sword
hilts, and pitted cannon
balls, the missiles
of mass destruction
of their times, are
still being unearthed
at Waterloo.
J.W.
Christmas 2002.
---30---
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