Alexandria Gazette & Daily Advertiser

From the New York Daily Advertiser,

The account which we publish to-day, of the situation and sufferings of the hon. col. Ponsonby, of the British army at the battle of Waterloo, affords a striking, and indeed an awful exhibition, of that most tremendous Scene—A FIELD OF BATTLE.

This gentleman, notwithstanding the number and severity of his wounds, it would seem, was in full possession of his reason and understanding, after the recovery from the first blow by which he was stunned for a short time, and though lying in a state not only helpless, but forlorn as the imagination can well conceive, he was still capable of realizing what took place within the reach of his senses in that situation. The result of his observations, so far as he has detailed it on this occasion, appears in the above mentioned account.

One circumstance which is worthy of notice, is the cold-blooded cupidity of men, no matter of what nation, engaged in sacrificing each others' lives. French soldiers, Prussian soldiers, and, as far as he could judge, a British soldier, had a desire to plunder him, while lying in such a sorrowful predicament. Nor could they be satisfied, even when he assured them that he had already been stripped of what little treasure he had about him.

The state of mind which he was in, and which he describes in simple but forcible language, must have been truly dreadful. To be under the necessity of lying, wounded and bleeding as he was, through such a tremendous conflict, incapable of helping himself, or even of guarding in the slightest degree against the approach of danger, of any description, and after the battle had ceased, through the succeeding night, witnessing his own awful situation, and that of thousands of his fellow-beings that surrounded him, wounded, dying, and dead, one would think, would have overpowered the stoutest heart, and the strongest nerves. Such, indeed, were its effects upon the mind of this officer, who appears to have been capable of supporting as much as human nature could well bear, that he describes the intervals of profound silence, which occasionally succeeded the roaring of cannon, and the clashing of arms, as even more painful than the preceding tumult and uproar.

What lamentable effects are produced by the pride and ambition of man. The probability is, that not less than forty thousand human beings lost their lives in this battle. Suppose that each of these was able to reckon even five near relations, or friends, deeply interested in their welfare. The allowance is very small, and yet it would make the number of two hundred thousand persons made miserable in a single day, for the sole purpose of gratifying the above mentioned base and detestable passions. We know very well that much consolation is derived from this bloody source to the martial spirits, from the considerations of fame, and talents, and great exploits. Nothing captivates the mind more fully than bravery, heroism, and military skill and conduct. But, let it be remembered, that from the same source, have proceeded more misery and woe to the human race than from any, and perhaps all others, since the fall of Adam. It is to be hoped that the time is approaching, when a more just estimate will be fixed upon a subject so intimately connected with the happiness and misery of this miserable world.

BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

In the great battle of Waterloo, col. Ponsonby, a British officer of great merit, was desperately wounded, and was supposed to have been killed. His life, however, was preserved in a manner almost miraculous, after enduring, one would imagine almost too great for the human frame to support. The following account, drawn up from his own statement, contains an interesting narration of his situation and sufferings while lying on the field, and afford a terrible and awful picture of the effects of such sanguinary conflicts—pictures which too often exist, in all their horrid colors, and fail of producing their proper effects upon the mind only because they are viewed in detail.

"Dear Lady Besborough,

You have often wished for some written account of the adventures and sufferings of your son, col. Ponsonby, in the field of Waterloo: the modesty of his nature, is, however, no small obstacle in the way. Will the following imperfect sketch supply its place until it comes? The battle was alluded to one morning in the Library at A—, and his answers to many of the questions which were put to him, here thrown together, as nearly as I could remember, in his own words.

The weather cleared up at noon, and the sun shone out a little just as the battle began. The armies were within eight hundred yards of each other, the videttes, before they were withdrawn, being so near as to be able to converse. At one moment I imagined that I had heard Lady Bona—
Along the front of our line, a considerable staff moved rapidly. I was stationed with my regiment (about 500 strong) at the extreme of the left wing, and directed to act discretionarily: each of the armies was drawn up on a gentle declivity, a small valley lying between them. At one o'clock, observing, as I thought, unsteadiness in a column of French infantry (500 by 20—1000 or thereabouts,) which were advancing with an irregular fire, I resolved to charge them. As we were descending in a gallop, we received from our 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 fifty paces of them, they turned, and much execution was done among them, as we were followed by some Belgians, who had marked our success. But we had no sooner passed through them, than we were attacked in our turn before we could form, by about 500 Polish Lancers, who had come down to their relief. The French artillery poured in among 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 of my arms, and followed by a few of my men, who were presently cut down (no quarter being 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 nes pas mort coquin?' 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 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, tore open my waistcoat, then leaving me in a very uneasy posture; and was no sooner gone, than another came up for the same purpose, but assuring him that 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 order 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 of our battalions had surrendered,) every attention in his power should be shewn me. I complained of thirst, and he held his brandy-bottle to my lips, directing one of his men to lay me straight on my side, and place 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 by another tirailleur came, and knelt and fired over me, loading and firing many times, and conversing with great gaiety all the while; at last ran off saying, 'Vous serez bien aise d'entendre que nous, allons nous retirer; bonjour, mon ami.' While 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, the continued roar of the cannon along theirs and the British line growing louder and louder as they drew near, was the finest thing I ever heard. It was dark, and two squadrons of Prussian cavalry, both of them two deep, passed over me in full trot, lifting me from the ground, and tumbling me about cruelly; the clatter of their approach, and the apprehension 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, outcries, 'Vive l'Empereur!' the discharges of musketry and cannon: now and then intervals of perfect silence which were worse than the noise. I thought the night would never end. Much about this time, I found a Highlander of the Royals lying across my legs, who had probably crawled thither in his agony: his weight, convulsive motions, his noises, and the air issuing through the 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 Peregrine Pickle, and Count Fathom came into my mind, though no women, I believe, were there;) several of them came and looked at me, and passed on; at length one stopped to examine me. I told him as well as I could (for I could say but little in German) that I was a British officer, had been plundered already; he did not desist, however, but pulled me about roughly before he left me. About an hour before day-light, I saw a soldier in an English uniform coming towards me; he was, I suspected, on the same errand. He came close, 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 he belonged to the 40th regiment, and had missed it. He released me from the dying man; being unarmed, he took up a sword from the ground, and stood over me, pacing backwards and forwards. At eight o'clock in the morning, some English were seen at a distance; he ran to them, and a messenger was sent off to Herry. A cart came for me. I was placed in it, and carried on to a farm house, about a mile and a half distant, and laid in a bed from which poor Gordon (as I understood afterwards) had been just carried out; the jolting of the cart, 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 the great loss of blood on the field. The lances, from their length and weight, would have struck down my sword long before I lost it, if it had not been bound to my hand. What became of my horse I know not—it was the best I ever had. The man from the Royals was still breathing when I was removed in the morning, and was soon after taken to the hospital. Sir Dennis Pack said the greatest risk he ran the whole day was in stopping his men, who were firing on me and my regiment when we began to charge. The French make a great clamor in action—the English only shout. Much confusion arose and many mistakes from similarity of dress. The Belgians, in particular, suffered greatly from their resemblance to the French, being still in the very same clothes they had served in under Bonaparte. Such, probably, is the story of many a brave man, yet to me it was new. The historian, describing military achievements, passes silently over those who go into the heat of the battle, though there, as we have seen, every characteristic displays itself. The gay are still gay, the noble minded are still generous; nor has the commander, in his proudest triumph, a better claim to our admiration than the meanest of his soldiers, when relieving a fallen enemy in the midst of danger and death.