On June 18, 1815, Frederick Cavendish Ponsonby had what could be characterized as either a very, very, bad day or a miraculous day, because it had elements of both.
It was the day of the Battle of Waterloo. Ponsonby, commander of the 12th Light Dragoons in Wellington's army, led his unit in a charge against the French, which was initially successful but momentum took the cavalry too far into the French lines where it suffered heavy casualties.
In the course of the action Ponsonby was wounded in both arms, then knocked off his horse by a saber cut. After being dismounted he was stabbed in the back by a French lancer. As he lay helpless on the ground, a French soldier robbed him of valuables. He caught a momentary break when a Major from the French Imperial Guards Dragoons recognized him, gave the grievously injured Ponsonby some brandy, and then left, promising to find help. After the French cavalryman disappeared, another French soldier appeared and used Ponsonby's prone body as a shield while he fired at the British. Later that day the Prussian cavalry appeared on the field, promptly charging the French and trampling Ponsonby in the process, injuring him further. As evening approached the Prussian infantry appeared and the wounded man was robbed yet again.
With the end of the battle as night fell and Napoleon and the remnants of his army fled, a badly wounded British dragoon crawled onto Ponsonby's legs where he slowly expired and then the commander was discovered by a soldier of the 40th Foot, who stood guard over him all night to protect him from further robbery. Surprisingly, Ponsonby survived, regaining his health under the nursing of his sister, Lady Caroline Lamb. Undoubtedly his recovery was hastened by being bled of 120 imperial ounces in the two days after the battle!
After coming across this story, I did some more research on Ponsonby and came across his biography at the History of Parliament website and it is quite fascinating and amusing - it quotes a contemporary who attributed his recovery after Waterloo to "the extreme tranquillity of his character, which was never ruffled by irritation or discontent". Ponsonby, born in 1783, was the second son of the 3rd Earl of Bessborough, meaning that under British inheritance law he was out of luck, as everything would go to the first son, so in 1800 he joined the army. He rose quickly, serving with distinction during Wellington campaign on the Iberian Peninsula (1809-14) and being promoted to colonel.
Ponsonby's sister who served as his nurse, Lady Caroline Lamb, was quite a character in her own right. Caroline, a writer and poet who spoke French, Italian, Latin, and Greek, was also a wild child, engaging in a scandalous affair with Lord Byron and an affair with Wellington immediately after Waterloo. Mental instability, exacerbated by alcohol and laudanum abuse, led to her death at 32. Her husband, William Lamb, became Prime Minister four years later.
After recovery from his wounds, which left his right arm permanently paralyzed, Ponsonby resumed his seat in Parliament, though one commentator noted that "though an amiable man, Fred Ponsonby is the worst of all representatives, never going near his constituents or the House of Commons".
He left Britain in 1821 traveling to Italy and onto the Ionian Islands and Malta. According to the Parliament website:
The need to remain abroad stemmed from his gambling debts, in settlement of which the duke of Wellington, who had taken an interest in his welfare since Waterloo, wrote on 21 Mar. 1822 to advise him to take a post in the Mediterranean ‘at present, and to look to go to India hereafter when you will be a major-general’, which will enable ‘you in a few years to return with means to pay your debts’:
I cannot conclude this letter without urgently entreating you to recollect what it is that has obliged you to separate yourself from your family and friends, and to quit the most advantageous and agreeable position that ever fell to the lot of any man in England. I am afraid that you can go to no part of the world whether near or distant in which you will not find means and opportunities of getting into similar scrapes; and you may rely on it that their only result will be to occasion fresh and increased regret to yourself and sorrow to your family and friends and to none more than ... [myself].
With help from Wellington, Ponsonby received appointment in January 1824 as inspecting officer of the Ionian Islands.
Returning to England the following year he married a daughter of Colonial Secretary Lord Bathurst. The wedding provided some mirth as "At the altar he could not find the ring. After 20! minutes search, it was at the bottom of his pantaloon pocket".
From 1827 to 1836 Ponsonby served as lieutenant-governor of Malta. A long-time acquaintance visited the island and "found him living unpretentiously in a small house with a single servant, and was gratified that his host ‘has acquired by his rapid rise no humbug and pomp of office, but is just as free and open as I remember him fifteen years ago’"
He is one of the simplest, most manly, unaffected men that I know, with very good sterling sense, a sweet temper, and with the manners and experience of a man that has seen much of the world and has profited by what he has seen. The extreme, patient good humour with which he submitted to all his sufferings during the battle of Waterloo and in his very slow recovery afterwards, are said to have been the means of carrying him through ... Since that day he has been unable to use the fingers of his right hand and now writes with his left; but he contrives with singular ingenuity to wield a racket or indeed clench anything with it. Lady Emily is just as she was before her marriage, very good-humoured, but with a silly giggling manner which often offends, though only meant to do so occasionally.
Benjamin Disraeli also spent time with him on Malta and considered Ponsonby a "most charming fellow".
Returning to England, in early 1837 he died suddenly while sitting down to a meal. It was reported that "the physicians long ago pronounced that the action of his heart was disordered, that he might live on for years, but that when the crisis came, he would die suddenly, as if by a pistol shot".
His son, Henry Frederick Ponsonby, served 25 years as private secretary for Queen Victoria.
Below is the account of the events at Waterloo as told by Ponsonby to Lady Shelly who provided it in a letter written to Ponsonby's mother:
”At one o’clock, observing, as I thought,unsteadiness in a column of French infantry of 1,000 men or thereabouts, which was advancing with an irregular fire, I resolved to charge them. As we were descending at a gallop we received from our own troops on the right a fire much more destructive than theirs, they having begun long before it could take effect, and slackening as we drew nearer. When we were within 50 paces of them, they turned, and much execution was done amongst them, as we were followed by some Belgians who had remarked our success. But we had no sooner passed through them, than we were attacked in our turn before we could form, by about 300 Polish Lancers, who had come down to their relief—the French artillery pouring in amongst us a heavy fire of grape-shot, which, however, for one of our men killed three of their own. In the melee I was disabled almost instantly in both my arms, and followed by a few of my men who were presently cut down—for no quarter was asked or given—I was carried on by my horse, till receiving a blow on my head from a sabre, I was thrown senseless on my face to the ground. Recovering, I raised myself a little to look round, being I believe at that time in a condition to get up and run away, when a Lancer, passing by, exclaimed : ” Tu n’es pas mort, coquin,” (You’re not dead, naughty) and struck his lance through my back. My head dropped, the blood gushed into my mouth; a difficulty of breathing came on, and I thought all was over. Not long afterwards (it was then impossible to measure time, but I must have fallen in less than ten minutes after the charge) a tirailleur came up to plunder me, threatening to take away my life. I told him that he might search me, directing him to a small side pocket, in which he found three dollars, being all I had. He unloosed my stock, and tore open my waistcoat, then leaving me in a very uneasy posture. He was no sooner gone, than another came up for the same purpose, but assuring him I had been plundered already, he left me. When an officer, bringing on some troops (to which probably the tirailleurs belonged) and halting where I lay, stooped down and addressed me, saying he feared I was badly wounded, I replied that I was, and expressed a wish to be removed into the rear. He said it was against the orders to remove even their own men, but that if they gained the day, as they probably would, for he understood the Duke of Wellington was killed and that six battalions of the English army had surrendered, every attention in his power should be shown me. I complained of thirst, and he held his brandy bottle to my lips, directing one of his men to lay me down on my side, and placed a knapsack under my head. He then passed on into the action, and I shall never know to whose generosity I was indebted, as I conceive, for my life. Of what rank he was I cannot say; he wore a blue great-coat. * By-and-bye another tirailleur came, and knelt down and fired over me, loading and firing many times, and conversing with great gaiety all the while. At last he ran off, saying: ‘Vous serez bien aise d’entendre que nous allons nous retirer. Bon jour, mon ami.’ (You will be glad to hear that we are going to withdraw. Good day, my friend)
“Whilst the battle continued in that part, several of the wounded men and dead bodies near me were hit with the balls, which came very thick in that place. Towards evening, when the Prussians came up, the continued roar of cannon along their and the British line, growing louder and louder as they drew near, was the finest thing I ever heard. It was dusk when the two squadrons of Prussian cavalry, both of them two deep, passed over me in a full trot, lifting me from the ground, and tumbling me about cruelly—the clatter of their approach and the apprehensions it excited may be easily conceived. Had a gun come that way, it would have done for me. The battle was then nearly over, or removed to a distance. The cries and groans of the wounded all around me became every instant more and more audible, succeeding to the shouts, imprecations, and cries of ” Vive l’Empereur,” the discharges of musketry and cannon, now and then intervals of perfect quiet which were worse than the noise. I thought the night would never end. Much about this time one of the Royals lay across my legs—he had probably crawled thither in his agony—his weight, convulsive motions, his noises, and the air issuing through a wound in his side, distressed me greatly—the latter circumstance most of all, as the case was my own.
“It was not a dark night, and the Prussians were wandering about to plunder, and the scene in “Ferdinand Count Fathom” came into my mind, though no women, I believe, were there. Several Prussians came, looked at me, and passed on. At length one stopped to examine me. I told him as well as I could, for I could speak but little German, that I was a British officer, and had been plundered already. He did not desist, however, and pulled me about roughly before he left me. About an hour before midnight I saw a soldier in an English uniform coming towards me. He was, I suspect, on the same errand, but he came and looked in my face. I spoke instantly, telling him who I was, and assuring him of a reward if he would remain by me. He said that he belonged to the 40th Regiment, but that he had missed it. He released me from the dying man, and being unarmed, he took up a sword from the ground, and stood over me, pacing backwards and forwards.
“‘At 8 o’clock in the morning some English were seen at a distance. He ran to them, and a messenger was sent off to Colonel Harvey. A cart came for me—I was placed on it, and carried to a farmhouse, about a mile and a half distant, and laid in the bed from which poor Gordon, as I understood afterwards, had been just carried out. The jolting of the carriage and the difficulty of breathing were very painful. I had received seven wounds; a surgeon slept in my room, and I was saved by continual bleeding—120 ounces in two days, besides a great loss of blood on the field.
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