Note Back to Main Text — Chapter VII

Blücher, who could strike tremendous blows, but was by no means a consummate orator, and could not paint his deeds in words, conducted Wellington to the place itself. They found it completely deserted; but on the very spot where Blücher had that morning halted, and from which he had galloped away, stood a man with his head bound up, and with his arm wrapped in a handkerchief. He smoked a long, dazzling white clay pipe. 'Good God!' exclaimed Blücher, 'that is my servant, Christian Hennemann. What a strange look you have, man! What are you doing here?' 'Have you come at last?' answered Christian Hennemann, in a grumbling tone; 'here I have stood the whole day, waiting for you. One pipe after another have the cursed French shot away from my mouth. Once even a blue bean (a bullet) made sad work with my head, and my fist has got a deuce of a smashing. That is the last whole pipe, and it is a good thing that the firing has ceased; otherwise, the French would have knocked this pipe to pieces, and you must have stood there with a dry mouth.' He then handed the lighted pipe to his master, who took it, and after a few eagerly-enjoyed whiffs, said to his faithful servant, 'It is true, I have kept you waiting a long time; but to-day the French fellows could not be forced to run all at once.' With astonishment, Wellington listened to the conversation. Amazed, he looked now at the Field-Marshal, now at the 'Pipe-master,' and now at the branches of trees and the balls scattered all round, which made it only too evident what a dangerous post this spot must have been during the battle. The wound in Hennemann's head proved to be somewhat serious; his hand was completely shattered; and yet, in the midst of the tempest of shot, he had stood there waiting for his beloved master."[55]