வாட்டர்லூ போரில் நெப்போலியன் போனபார்ட் -Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo.

உலக வரலாற்றில் தனக்கென ஒரு இடத்தை வகித்துக்கொண்ட ஆளுமை நெப்பொலியன் போனபார்ட். அவர் வாட்டர்லூ போரில் தோற்ற இருநூறாவது ஆண்டு இன்று (18-06-1815)

1769 ஆம் ஆண்டு ஆகஸ்ட் மாதம் 15 ஆம் தேதி, கோர்சிக்காவில் உள்ள அசாக்சியோவில் பிறந்த நெப்போலியன் உருவத்தில் சிறியவர், ஆற்றலில் அற்புதமானவர்.

 1814ம் ஆண்டு  நெப்போலியனைப் பதவியில் இருந்து இறக்கி எல்பாத் தீவுக்கு நாடு கடத்தியபோதும் சில மாதங்களிலே அங்கிருந்து மீண்டு வந்து இழந்த தன் அரசைக் கைப்பற்றினவர்.

1815ல் நடந்த வாட்டர்லூ போரில் நெப்போலியன்  வெற்றி பெற்றிருந்தால் உலக சரித்திரமே மாற்றிப் போடப்பட்டிருக்கும்.  வெறும் 24மணி நேரத்தில் நெப்போலியனின் போனர்பார்ட்டுடைய தோல்வி பல சரித்திர மாற்றங்களை நிகழ்த்தியது. இதே போலவே எட்டுத்திசைகளையும் ஏறெடுத்துப் பார்க்க வைத்த கிரேக்கப்புயல் என்று வர்ணிக்கப்படும் மற்றொரு மாவீரன் 'அலெக்ஸாண்டர் தி கிரெட்' .

வாட்டர்லூவில் நெப்போலியன் போனபார்ட் வெற்றி பெற்றிருக்க வேண்டும். அதற்கான திறமைகளும் அனுபவங்களும் அவருக்கு உண்டு. அதே போல தேவையற்ற சில கரிசனங்களும் அவருக்கு உண்டு. வாட்டர்லூ தோல்விக்குப் பின் ஆறு ஆண்டுகள்  சென் ஹெலெனாத் தீவில் சிறை வைக்கப்பட்டு இறந்தார்

மொத்தத்தில் அவர் ஒரு ஆளுமை. 200 ஆண்டுகள் முன் நிகழ்ந்த அவரது தோல்வியினால் உலக வரலாறே மாறிவிட்டதே!

-கே.எஸ். இராதாகிருஷ்ணன்.
18-05-2015.


The Battle of Waterloo: is this the most British conversation ever to be held on a battlefield?

All the key characteristics of Britishness – self-restraint, determination and courage in the face of adversity – in one verbal exchange.

It’s sometimes difficult to believe in this era of selfies, social media and reality TV, but we Brits used to be famous for our emotional reserve. No matter how challenging the circumstances, we would never allow our upper lip to be anything other than stiff. We would rather die than betray our true feelings in public.

And nobody exemplifies that great British sang-froid (to use a French phrase) better than the Earl of Uxbridge, the cavalry commander at the Battle of Waterloo.

One of the stand-out heroes of the bloody clash that took place 200 years ago today, Uxbridge fought with supreme bravery, launching repeated charges against the French. Eight horses were shot from under him.

But it was in the dying moments of the battle that the commander sealed his reputation as one of Britain’s most self-contained and unflappable soldiers. Riding next to Wellington as cannon shot hurtled across the battlefield, he turned to the Iron Duke and uttered the brilliant conversation-starter: “By God, Sir, I’ve lost my leg.”

To which Wellington replied, with equal restraint: “By God, Sir, so you have.”

The exchange has gone down in history as the example non plus ultra of British reserve. And Uxbridge maintained the same extraordinary composure when doctors performed an amputation.

The field of Waterloo the morning after the battle, as depicted by John Heaviside Clark “His lordship was perfectly cool, his pulse was calm and regular, as if he had just risen from his bed in the morning, and he displayed no expression of uneasiness though his suffering must have been extreme,” wrote John Robert Hume, the Deputy Inspector of Medical Staff.

When Hume told the patient that the operation needed to start as soon as possible (to prevent the spread of gangrene), Uxbridge replied: “Very well, I am ready.”

Hume then took the knife in his hand.
“Tell me when you are going to begin,” said Uxbridge.
“Now, my Lord,” replied Hume.
Uxbridge laid his head on his pillow, put his hand up to his eyes, and said to the doctor: “Whenever you please.”

Despite the amputation going ahead without anaesthetic, Hume wrote in his report that the earl, “neither uttered groan or complaint nor gave any sign of impatience or uneasiness” (although he is reported to have remarked at one stage that the knife appeared a little blunt).

Afterwards, the doctor noted that Uxbridge’s skin was still “perfectly cool” and his pulse “gave only 66 beats to the minute.”
“So far was he from exhibiting any symptoms of what he had undergone in his countenance,” continued the doctor, “that I am quite certain, had anyone entered the room, they would have inquired [sic] of him where the wounded man was.”

In recognition of his bravery and the crucial part he played in the victory at Waterloo, Uxbridge was made 1st Marquis of Anglesey by the Prince Regent. He later went on to serve two terms as Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, gaining praise for his even-handed treatment of Catholics and Protestants and for his establishment of a comprehensive education system.

He wasn’t without his flaws. In fact, the earl, real name Henry Paget, had a sex life that had more in common with, dare we say, a typical French man, than an inhibited Brit.


Before Waterloo, in 1809, the married father-of-eight scandalised society by eloping with Lady Charlotte Wellesley, the wife of Wellington’s brother, Henry (which might explain Wellington’s rather unemotional reaction to Uxbridge having his leg blown off). The affair led to a pistol duel on Wimbledon Common with Lady Charlotte’s brother, Col Henry Cadogan. (Cadogan missed and Uxbridge refused to return fire.)

When Wellington was ordered to accept Uxbridge as his second-in-command at Waterloo by the Prince Regent and the Duke of York, both of whom were fans of the earl, Wellington remarked drily to an acquaintance: “Lord Uxbridge has the reputation of running away with everybody he can. I’ll take good care he don’t run away with me.”
After the battle, Wellington admitted Uxbridge had fought courageously. And it was not just the newly-appointed Marquis of Anglesey who was honoured; the earl’s amputated leg became something of a celebrity itself. M. Hyacinthe Joseph-Marie Paris, who owned the house where the operation took place, asked if he could bury the leg in his garden and later erected a tombstone.

 It read: “Here lies the Leg of the illustrious and valiant Earl Uxbridge, Lieutenant-General of His Britannic Majesty, Commander in Chief of the English, Belgian and Dutch cavalry, wounded on the 18 June 1815 at the memorable battle of Waterloo, who, by his heroism, assisted in the triumph of the cause of mankind, gloriously decided by the resounding victory of the said day.”

The tomb went on to become a shrine and a tourist attraction, visited by such illustrious figures as the King of Prussia and the Prince of Orange.

It is also thought to be the original inspiration for the phrase “One foot in the grave”, which is how Uxbridge used to like to describe his health after the injury.

Uxbridge was also the recipient of the first ever articulated wooden leg, made from wood, leather and springs, with a hinged knee and ankle. The prosthetic can still be seen at the Paget’s National Trust-owned family home, Plas Newydd, in Wales.

The earl himself went on to live to the age of 85.
He is buried at Lichfield Cathedral where a monument stands in his honour.

***

Waterglass painting, by Daniel Maclise, commissioned in 1858 for the new Palace of Westminster, depicting The Meeting of Wellington and Blucher after the Battle of #Waterloo. The central scene shows Wellington meeting with Prussian Marshal Blucher at the La Belle Alliance after the battle of Waterloo, #Wellington's signal and final victory over the French Emperor, #Napoleon.

Wellington is shown mounted on his horse Copenhagen, and beside him is Lord Arthur Hill (later Lord Sandy's), General Somerset and the Hon Henry Percy. A few Life Guards and 1st regiment of Horse Guards blue are shown here and one holds up the tattered standard of the Blues. Next to Blucher also are Gneisenau, Bulow, Ziethen and a black Brunswicker in dark green uniform and death's head cap.

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The Battle of #Waterloo (18 June 1815) marked the end of a campaign by allied armies under Britain’s Duke of #Wellington and Prussia’s Field Marshal Blücher to stop #Napoleon Bonaparte’s final bid for European domination. A milestone in European history, Waterloo ended 23 years of conflict and heralded a new political structure on the continent.

Wellington was one of 17 serving parliamentarians present at the battle. Born Arthur Wellesley, he had joined the British Army in 1787 and quickly risen up the ranks. After making his name in India, he commanded forces against Napoleon in Portugal and Spain during the Peninsular War (1808–14) and was promoted to Field Marshal in 1813.

For his triumphs against the French, Wellesley was made a Peer in 1809. A national hero by 1814, he was generously rewarded by Parliament and took his seat in the House of Lords as the 1st Duke of Wellington. The Battle of Waterloo the following year sealed his military reputation.

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The #Waterloo Medal was the first British medal given to all soldiers present during a campaign regardless of rank. #Wellington himself is believed to have first suggested the idea. 

The reverse shows the winged figure of Victory, the words ‘WELLINGTON’ and ‘WATERLOO’, and the date of the battle (18 June 1815). The obverse bears a portrait of the Prince Regent (later George IV). 

Each Waterloo Medal was inscribed the name of the recipient along its edge. This medal was awarded to Private John Perchell of the Royal Welch Fusiliers. It is part of the House of Commons collection medals and coins, having been donated by the Conservative MP Sir Howard Vincent in 1908.

நெப்போலியன் போனபார்ட்டும் , வாட்டர்லூவும் - Napoleon - Waterloo

நெப்போலியன் போனபார்ட் வாட்டர்லூவில், பிரிட்டிஷாரால் தோற்கடிக்கப்பட்டு 200ஆண்டுகள் நிறைவாகின்றன. இந்தக் காலகட்டத்தில் பிரிட்டன் ஐரோப்பிய யூனியனில் இடம்பெறவா, வேண்டாமா என்று பொதுவாக்கெடுப்பு நடத்தலாமா என்பது குறித்து பிரிட்டிஷ் பிரதமர் டேவிட் கேமரூன் கருத்து வெளியிட்டுள்ளார்.

வாட்டர்லூ பற்றிய பதிவு இதோ, 

Leeds Art Gallery

Elizabeth Butler: Scotland for Ever!, 1881 (click images to enlarge)

There’s some irony in celebrating the two hundredth anniversary of the British defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo, given Prime Minister David Cameron’s promise to hold a referendum within two years to decide if Britain should leave the European Union. We’ve been warned not to crow over the victory and upset the French, but flaunting it as a solely British triumph also risks snubbing the Germans and other Continental allies: as well as Blucher’s Prussian forces, over half of Wellington’s army was made up of German and Dutch and other nationalities.

Nevertheless, Britain has got Waterloo fever. With the anniversary coming on June 18, documentaries are presenting Wellington, the Iron Duke, as more malleable than first appears, and lauding Napoleon as a hero, rather than as the megalomaniac “Boney.” In Broadstairs in Kent, a horse-drawn post-chaise charging through the streets will recreate Major Percy’s landing and his ride to bring the news of victory to London. In Perth in Scotland a march by the Scots Greys will look back to their famous cavalry charge, celebrated by Lady Elizabeth Butler in her painting Scotland for Ever!

And of course, there are the exhibitions. If you like prints and satires, the richest hoard is on display at the British Museum Department of Prints and Drawings in “Bonaparte and the British: Prints and Propaganda.” This is one of my favorite haunts, with such a host of treasures that they can pull out wonderful things, from Renaissance drawings to modern etchings and engravings, to suit any occasion. (The BM has, apparently, 1,400 satires on Napoleon alone.) For the Bonaparte show, the military historian Tim Clayton and the knowledgeable curator Sheila O’Connell have kept the focus on the long propaganda war, steaming on from the French Revolution in 1789 to the start of the conflict in 1793 and through to the dramatic end twenty years later.

The Trustees of the British Museum

James Gillray: Buonaparte, 48 Hours after Landing, 1803

James Gillray is everywhere, with his feverish, fantastical violence, showing John Bull devouring French ships and the Devil toasting a tiny Napoleon on a raging fire. More examples of this can be found in a concurrent exhibition, “Love Bites: Caricatures by James Gillray,” at Oxford’s Ashmolean Museum. Amid the jokes about mistresses, chamberpots, gout and phallic columns, there’s still plenty of propagandist zest, including the gloating Buonaparte: 48 Hours after Landing!, where Napoleon’s pale head drips gore from the end of John Bull’s pitchfork. That bloody image is also at the British Museum, among the many “down with Boney” prints.

Isaac Cruikshank’s Nelson snaps shut the jaws of the Napoleonic crocodile in Egypt, while Cruikshank’s son George comes into his own at the end of the wars, mocking the contrast between Napoleon’s sanguine bulletins and the reality of the snowbound retreat from Moscow in Boney hatching a Bulletin or Snug Winter Quarters. Other well-known satirists include Charles Williams, drawing Bonaparte as a monster exhibited by the mountebank Pitt at a country fair, and the twenty-year-old Richard Newton, sketching the Pope literally kissing Nap’s arse. Rowlandson, too, is never far away, and his adaptation of a German print, The Devil’s Darling, with the huge, hairy, goat-legged devil cradling an infant Napoleon, is one of the boldest here.

The Trustees of the British Museum

Thomas Rowlandson: The Devils Darling, 1814

But “Bonaparte and the British” isn’t all cruel, crude, gung-ho roistering. There are anti-British satires, produced by Napoleon’s own efficient propaganda machine. These are often more elegant in line and color than their British counterparts, like Vent contraire, in which British women vainly try to deflect the France invasion fleet by waving their fans, while a terrified officer hides under their petticoats. But the real strength of this exhibition is that it works as a biography-in-images of Napoleon, driving us round the room with him, from Italy and Egypt to his rise to Consul and Emperor and on to Moscow, Spain, Elba, and his eventual fall.

Celebratory prints jostle with satires. Here he stands victorious at Marengo and Austerlitz, and here he staggers through the snows of Russia and slumps, forlorn, after the terrible battle of Leipzig in 1813. It is oddly moving, conveying his charisma and illustrating his lasting fascination. We begin with the glamorous portraits of the dashing young general of 1798 treasured by Bonaparte admirers, and end with images of his exile and death—a display case with rings containing locks of his hair, and one of Benjamin Haydon’s small, brooding paintings of Napoleon Musing on St Helena of 1830, a work matched nine years later byWellington Musing on the Field of Waterloo.

Perhaps we too should be musing. I feel passionately that nameless soldiers and their families should be remembered, but, although the organizers insist that the bicentennial doesn’t set out to glorify war, it’s pretty grim to cheer a battle that left 12,000 dead and 35,000 wounded. Yet the exhibitions are everywhere. The National Army Museum in Chelsea is coordinating “Waterloo Lives” exhibitions across the country, from Aberdeen to Somerset, Sheffield to Cardiff. In Cumbria, “Wordsworth, War and Waterloo,” at the Wordsworth Museum at Dove Cottage, shows how the wars affected even the sheep-farmers of the northern mountains. Wordsworth himself was a volunteer during the invasion scare of 1803, setting off with the villagers to drill, the kind of rackety crew caricatured here in Symptoms of Drilling.

Wordsworth Trust

Symptoms of Drilling, 1805

In London alone one could march from show to show. At Tate Britain, “Fighting History” aims to show how artists help us reflect on history, from large-scale battle paintings to contemporary works. At the Foundlings Museum in Brunswick Square, “Foundlings at War” features two boys who served at sea, alongside stories of children whose fathers died at Waterloo. If this reminds us of the impoverished troops that Wellington dismissed as “the scum of the earth,” at the other end of the spectrum, Wellington’s own Apsley House is re-staging the Waterloo Banquet held each year from 1820 until the Duke’s death. At the foot of the stairs stands Canova’s hefty statue of Napoleon as Mars the Peacemaker—having commissioned it, Napoleon was aghast to see himself nude and it stayed in its packing case until the British government bought it and the Prince Regent gave it to Wellington.

In the summer that followed the victory, “The great amusement at Bruxelles,” Caroline Lamb told Lady Melbourne, “is to make large parties & go to the field of battle—& pick up a skull or an old shoe or a letter, & bring it home.” (Trophies included “Waterloo teeth” collected from the dead and sold to dentists—some are on show at theVictoria Gallery in Liverpool.) Walter Scott was one of many tourists, aghast at the horrors of modern war. On the battlefield, where so many had been hastily buried, he told the Duke of Buccleugh, the smell was “most offensive”: “The more ghastly tokens of the carnage are now removed, the bodies both of men and horses being either burned or buried. But all the ground is still torn with the shot and shells, and covered with cartridges, old hats, and shoes, and various relics of the fray which the peasants have not thought worth removing.”

Another visitor was Turner, who made detailed sketches and talked to survivors. But his great painting, The Field of Waterloo, of 1818, shows a scene of slaughter rather than triumph. Here the exuberance of all the satirical prints and dashing military watercolors is forgotten. Instead the opposing nations mingle and the divisions of rank vanish, as the women hunt by the light of a flaming torch, to find those they love among the tangled bodies. 

Tate, London

Joseph Mallord William Turner: The Field of Waterloo, 1818

Courtesy - NyBooks.