The Year is Almost Over

The Story of Corporal Wistremy at Waterloo

"...if something should happen to me, I beg you to destroy this letter, for the sake of my honour as a soldier."

Of all the countries that I had seen, perhaps my favourite was France. Late that summer I took up an invitation of my cousin's to stay at his cottage in the small French town of Souillac, while he was away for two weeks. It seemed that the anger of the world had passed the town by, as if it was surrounded by a spell of contentment and peace, and each day I strolled the quiet streets in the sunshine, or wandered through the wildflowers in the meadows with my butterfly net, contemplating the great, silent sky. I did not think of things, I just wandered, and it made me happy.

One afternoon while on my walk I found a small curiosity shop. The place was packed with all sorts of junk, and I had to be careful to avoid taking half of it down with my elbow. I spied a small, unshaven man, whom I took to be the owner, peering at me through dirty glass cabinets as I examined the oddments. A lot of it was ridiculously priced, but some of the more unrecognizable things had no price tag - most of it was clearly worthless, and I wondered if the owner wasn't actually interested in selling anything at all. In one corner I saw what seemed to be the rust riddled frame of a mannequin. Its arms and legs had complicated hinges, but its hands and feet were missing. Shreds of fabric clung to it, probably from its use as a scarecrow or tailor's dummy. There seemed to be inward pointing crosspieces inside the torso, which I couldn't imagine a use for. The face had apertures for its eyes and mouth cut in angular shapes, and on closer inspection I noticed long strands of hair attached to the top of the head. The effect it gave was that of a man screaming, and I couldn't help thinking of those torture devices described in the macabre chapters of history books that one decides not to read, but usually ends up reading anyway. Whatever bizarre purpose the thing was made for was impossible to guess - I was thinking of asking the shopkeeper, when he suddenly appeared at my elbow.

"Don't touch that."

"I wasn't going-"

"My grandfather found it in a field near Reims."

"Oh yes? How quaint! It must be very old, I suppose. Do you have any idea what-"

But the little man had scuttled away behind a pile of scrap.

Nearby on a dresser I found a relatively cheap little brass vase which captured my interest, as I had been looking for something of the sort to place on a bookshelf. I bought it, then took it to a café to further inspect it. There seemed to be something inside the vase - I tipped it up to find a few dusty pieces of paper fall out. I could find no clue as to where it may have come from, other than what was in the letter.

Milton Hume Whyte, Lord Whyte,

Wilde House,

London

sender: Corporal Alfred Wistremy,

52nd Light Infantry

29th June, 1815

Dear Uncle,

By now you will no doubt have heard of our victory over Bonaparte on the 18th of June. What a battle it was! At last he is defeated, but at such terrible cost. About half my regiment were killed, and many of those left were horribly injured in some way. We were certain that Bonaparte had the day until the Prussians arrived. That evening Wellington rode past our regiment, and our lads cheered him until we were hoarse! He stopped briefly to speak some kind words, then rode on to other things.

You may remember my best friend Jackie, who you met at Lady Fortescue's ball in March of last year. He was engaged to be married in December, but alas, will not see his wedding now. During the course of the battle, our regiment took twelve cavalry charges. Each time, we would watch as they thundered towards us, those famous French horsemen, wearing their cuirasses and plumed helmets, like the Gods of Greece or Rome out of the school-books that Sophie and I used to read when we were small. How they must have polished those cuirasses! Even through the hulking walls of smoke they glittered like mirrors. They screamed like berserkers, swinging their sabres long before they came in range, each one trying to prove he was the bravest. Our Sergeant kept yelling to us to hold our fire, reminding us not to fire too early or too late, and when the time came he would bawl out, "FIRE!!" Our muskets would blast, and always a number of the cavalrymen would fall. Then when they reached the square, as long as we stood fast the horses would bridle at the bayonets and the charge would fail. But what nerve it takes to hold the square! After the fourth charge I saw Jackie weeping with fear. But he did not think of turning away, and I knew he would stand his ground. Each volley was fired, and with the others Jackie would then step back to reload while the other rank in the square stepped forward. He took his time loading, like he was trained, he did his duty. I have since decided that those who are most terrified, but do what they have to do, are the ones who are the bravest, and that those who truly have no fear are not doing anything special at all. Poor Jackie was hit in the eye with a musket-ball sometime late in the afternoon. I only wish I could have comforted him, or said goodbye. But at least he felt no pain. He had some half-finished letters to his fiance in his sleeve that I shall send to her. I threw off my shako and took his, as I didn't have time to find a better keepsake. There were so many lying dead in our square before the battle was over, some torn apart by artillery shot, and many who had taken shot to the stomach and died screaming their lungs out. I wonder if I shall ever be able to forget what I have seen and heard.