Kitabı oku: «A Model Victory», sayfa 2

II

When varying circumstances, witnessed at the time under great interruption, are sought historically after the lapse of many years, suggestion occurs as remembrance, surmise as fact; the difficulty then, with whatever veracious intention, is to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Lt.-Col. Henry Murray, letter to William Siborne, 27 December 1834

It would be the biggest, most detailed model the world had ever seen, but it was almost impossible to make. First, there was its size. Siborne’s creation would be so large, it would have to be made in more than thirty sections, which would have to dovetail perfectly, or it could never be moved. Then, too, there was the question of Siborne’s own experience. The project was far more ambitious than anything he had ever attempted. He was used to making relief maps, indeed he was quite brilliant at creating them, but never before had he attempted to fashion so many model soldiers or tiny buildings, all of which would be needed for a proper battlefield model of Waterloo. But when his superior officer asked him if he was up to the task, he had to accept the challenge. Apart from anything else, he must have thought it would be the making of his career.

Siborne needed the high profile the work would bring him, for the military had been slow to recognise his skills, and he had a wife, Helen, the daughter of a Fifeshire banker, and children to support. By 1830, when he mapped the battlefield, he had already been assistant military secretary to the commander of the forces in Ireland for four years. It was not the most prestigious post he could hope for, and he would have to remain in it for another thirteen years. It seemed the army was overlooking Siborne’s talents. One officer, quoted in W.M. Fitzpatrick’s The Life of Charles Lever, suggested that ‘he was a perfect gentleman and a most able officer. A man of fine intellect and judgement, truly unpretending in his manner and very well informed. Pity that the British Army was so constituted as to condemn a man like Siborne to an utterly subordinate and inadequate sphere of duty.’

Part of Siborne’s career problem was that mapping was a relatively new development, so his skills were not fully recognised by the army. The first large-scale survey of any part of the British Isles had been the military survey of Scotland, carried out in response to the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745/6, under the leadership of a civilian recruited from the Post Office, William Roy. But it had taken another half-century for the army to realise the importance of accurate maps in planning its military campaigns. At the start of the Napoleonic Wars, the only formal training in surveying was to be found at the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich, where cadets from the Royal Engineers were taught, and at the Board of Ordnance Drawing Room at the Tower of London.

Siborne could see the need to improve the craft. His aim was to create a style of topographical drawing which ‘impresses at once upon the mind of the person viewing it as a correct image of nature’ so that even ‘the most fastidious will not require a greater approximation of perfection.’ He wrote two technical books on the subject, one of which he dedicated to his superior, the commander in Ireland, Sir George Murray. Siborne considered that Ordnance Survey work in England, then in its infancy, had been woefully executed, because the resulting maps, first of Kent and then of Essex, had been so badly drawn that they had failed to match the great skill with which the surveyors had carried out their task. He agreed with evidence heard by a parliamentary committee which was considering how to make a complete survey of Ireland. The engineer William Bald, who won later renown for designing the Antrim coast road to replace the dangerous Old Irish Highway, had told the enquiry that the mapping should be carried out so accurately that, from it, an exact model of the land it represented could easily be made.

Siborne quoted approvingly Bald’s dictum that a model ‘is the nearest approximation of art in representing the features of a country, and, for military purposes, superior to any map representation.’ And he put his mind to inventing a new system of topographical drawing, from which accurate models could be made. Models were ideal, he opined, for studying the tactics of past battles, according to the differing terrains on which they had been fought. Through a system of laying down lines and points, Siborne found a way to make maps which were easier to read and more accurate in their topographical detail so that the army could judge the suitability of the land for its different types of troops. He laid down complicated and detailed instructions to surveyors – on how to find the depth of an object; on how to find the angle of inclination of ground; on how to carry on work from one survey-sheet to another (‘always allow an inch margin upon your board, upon which you can determine any conspicuous objects which properly belong to the adjoining sheets’). There were even instructions on how to shade a map in diluted Indian ink to represent changes in the slope of the ground.

Much of this might have escaped the army’s attention. But in 1830, the twin skills of surveying and model-making were suddenly high on its agenda, for reasons of vanity and prestige. Fifteen years after their triumph at Waterloo, the country’s military leaders were still trying to find an appropriate way to commemorate the battle and to preserve its legend. They thought there should be a museum in London dedicated to the army and the navy, which should contain a suitable exhibit to celebrate Waterloo. Lord Hill, who as a lieutenant-general at Waterloo had gained Wellington’s complete trust, was deputed to find a modeller who could create a miniature version of the battlefield. The French had displayed them for years at Les Invalides, so why not the British?

Siborne had already made a model of the Battle of Borodino, in 1812, and his former colleague in Ireland, Sir George Murray, was now a cabinet minister under Wellington. Murray considered Siborne to be the ideal candidate to make a model of the Battle of Waterloo: he was held to be loyal, diligent, meticulous – and eager to get on. For the first time in Siborne’s career, preferment beckoned. He could not have seen that the twin forces of politics and money would conspire to bring him down.

When Siborne had been chosen to build the Model, Lord Hill contacted the Secretary at War, Sir Henry Hardinge, to arrange the necessary financial backing. The Tory government readily paid his first bill of more than sixty pounds, for the survey of the battlefield. Ministers considered it to be money well spent, an appropriate celebration of the Duke’s great triumph. Then, for Siborne, came disaster. Three years after the election of a Whig prime minister, Earl Grey in 1830, and three years into his project, the government decided it no longer wished to fund such a costly enterprise. Over the next twenty years, the Whigs would cut spending on the army by nearly a fifth, and the Model was seen as an unnecessary cost. Added to which, the new men in the War Office, led by Edward Ellice as Secretary at War, had had a number of run-ins with the Duke. It was clear that Ellice would refuse to sanction spending public money on the project and in this he would find ready acceptance from the Whigs, who thought that the Model would glorify the Tory Wellington. It was an irony which was to rule Siborne’s life for the next decade that the public purse was closed to him by the political opponents of the Duke, who were not overly anxious to celebrate his achievements, while the great man’s supporters came separately to the view that work on his Model should be stopped because it did not celebrate him enough.

Ellice was on safe ground, because he could find no record of the financial agreement Siborne considered he had struck. Siborne was convinced that Sir Henry Hardinge, the previous Secretary at War, had agreed to pay for the whole, completed project, but, curiously for such a meticulous man, Siborne does not seem to have confirmed the deal in writing. The War Office and the Treasury debated the matter between themselves, concluding that Lord Hill had not anticipated the full cost of building the Model, and that Hardinge had only agreed to pay Siborne for the cost of his initial survey. The result was that the government decided to postpone any decision on funding the whole project, leaving Siborne with a deep-felt sense of injustice which would stay with him until his death.

The great expense of creating the Model was outlined in a memorandum written by Siborne in August 1833. In fourteen months, he said he had spent £217 12s 6d, and ‘the principal expenses, namely the moulding and casting of the figures representing the troops, remain to be incurred.’ Yet, he complained, for four months he had heard nothing from the commander-in-chief’s office, or from the Secretary at War, about his mounting bills. So he had himself taken the decision to continue with the Model ‘upon the supposition that the government would not wish me to abandon the undertaking and thus sacrifice the £400 already laid out upon it.’ Siborne calculated that the cost of creating his toy soldiers would amount to between £600 and £700, and the engraving and painting of them to about £100. There would be, he estimated, other expenses of between £200 and £300 before the Model was completed. In short, he needed to find at least £1000.

Siborne’s supporter, Sir Hussey Vivian, wrote to the Secretary at War on 10 November 1833 to make a new plea for funding, but also to suggest, if this failed, that there should be a subscription amongst Siborne’s military friends: ‘I speak from having been three times over the Field since the Battle, and to the expression of my own opinion, I can add that of the Marquess of Anglesey, who inspected the Model with me and who in the strongest terms expressed his approbation. As a National Work I consider the Model will be highly valuable.’

Siborne was not immediately convinced that a public subscription was the right way forward, and feared losing ownership of his project. But the withdrawal of public funding had placed him in an impossible position. Within months, in January 1834, he was so deeply in debt that he acquiesced and formally proposed a subscription. In the draft handbill for the appeal, he revealed the full details of the Model he was trying to build. ‘It may be right to mention,’ he stated, ‘that it will afford an accurate representation of the Battle and its Field, at a particular moment, the Crisis; that the whole of the Troops engaged will be faithfully represented, every corps in its correct position and formation, and that the superficial extent of the Model will occupy a space of about 420 square feet.’

This final paragraph of the subscription was the key to the saga which was about to unfold. Not the staggering size of the great Model, which was extraordinary in itself, nor the cost at which the government had balked. The problem was Siborne’s intention to display the Crisis of the Battle, the point at which the day was won. For as Siborne recorded the views of the participants in the engagement and allotted due weight to their roles in the day’s proceedings, so he increasingly came into conflict with the Duke of Wellington’s account of the battle.

Siborne’s revolutionary idea was to allow the participants in the battle to have their say, not in the personal, romantic way in which some of them wrote their own accounts, but by mediating their stories, crosschecking the facts they provided, and weighing up their evidence. In doing so, he flew in the face of the official version of events, and opposed the Duke of Wellington’s desire to control the narrative of the day. Wellington had refused to endorse any of the books which had been written about the battle, even saying they disgusted him. For history, as Wellington put it, was simply what lay in official reports, and he referred authors to his own brief description of the battle, his Waterloo Despatch.

‘The people of England may be entitled to a detailed and accurate account of the Battle of Waterloo, and I have no objection to their having it,’ Wellington once declared, disingenuously. ‘But I do object to their being misinformed and misled by those novels called “Relations”, “Impartial Accounts”, etcetera, etcetera, of that transaction, containing the stories which curious travellers have picked up from peasants, private soldiers, individual officers … and have published to the world as truth … there is not one which contains a true representation, or even an idea, of the transaction; and this is because the writers have referred as above quoted, instead of to the official sources and reports.’

Siborne had failed to predict that he would be in conflict with the official version of events, laid down in the Duke’s own account. In its sweep and compass, and in its devotion to firsthand accounts of the men who actually fought the battle, Siborne’s historical evidence-gathering was far too revolutionary. His project stood to threaten not just the official view of the battle, but the official view of history – that it was a subject which was best left to those in political and military charge of the country: in short, to Wellington himself.

The Duke of Wellington, by virtue of his deeds in the Peninsular War and then his astounding triumph at Waterloo, had found fame and wealth and a status which, even while he was alive, had made him a hero of the century and a bulwark against political instability. Industrialisation and the growth of the big cities had triggered political unrest which the country’s leaders struggled to contain. England felt like a country which, at any point, might lose its balance, and in these circumstances it looked for certainty, and the Duke of Wellington’s glorious victory at Waterloo had provided an anchor. Wellington reflected the country’s standing in the world, both real and imagined. It was an image he was keen to foster once he had fought his last battle, almost as if he was observing detachedly the man he had become: ‘I am the Duke of Wellington,’ he would say, ‘and must do as the Duke of Wellington doth.’ To this extent, he controlled his image as carefully as any modern politician, sitting for many portraits, attending public functions, and keeping a wary eye on the publication of his military despatches. For many years, the Duke held political power too: as prime minister for two years, until 1830, as foreign secretary under Sir Robert Peel (1834–5), and then as a cabinet minister for five years, again under Peel, from 1841. Despite the hostility he attracted because of his opposition to the electoral Reform Bill, he was still, for many, the embodiment of the age, patriotic, modest, honourable, a gentleman hero, and he was understandably anxious to ensure that the image did not prove to be at variance with reality.

To this end, the Duke had a firm rule when it came to the historical accounts of the battles he had fought: he never read any. Aware that he might be irritated or angered by false comment, he preferred to rise above the storm entirely, to embrace the peace of ignorance and avoid debate or controversy. This, however, was not quite the full story. He was quite prepared to visit the many popular Waterloo entertainments which had become an industry in themselves, and which included vast paintings, theatricals, and even planting trees in public parks in the pattern of troop deployments.

If these events had anything in common, it was that they were only loosely based on fact. But Wellington had also been persuaded, somewhat against his better judgement, to sanction an authorised account of his career, a twelve-volume set of his despatches, edited by Colonel John Gurwood, who became Wellington’s private secretary. Gurwood effectively became Siborne’s rival, approved by the establishment. Like Siborne, he too had a military background. He had been badly wounded in the Peninsular War and was injured in the knee at Waterloo. At the precise point that Siborne was walking the battlefield of Waterloo, he too had set about the task of recording the period of history he had lived through. In 1830, he had been stationed at Portsmouth as a major. ‘Soon after my appointment,’ he recalled, ‘I set to work on the project I had designed 12 years previous, of condensing all the Duke of Wellington’s orders, and obtaining His Grace’s sanction for their publication.’

Gurwood, like Siborne, sought to adhere strictly to the facts. But to do this, he was intent on portraying the Duke in his own words, even at the price of editorial freedom. ‘I will trouble Your Grace to mark any part which may be thought foreign to the purposes for which the Despatches are printed,’ he told him at one point. Wellington was, nonetheless, initially resistant to the idea of publication and rebuffed the approach – ‘Whoever heard of a true history?’ he insisted. But eventually, flattered by Gurwood’s approach and reassured by his own control of the project, he gave his assent. The first volume, his General Orders, was published two years later, in September 1832, and Wellington became an instant convert. The Duke could clearly see that he had managed to control the content as skilfully as he had commanded any army throughout his long military career. The Conservative MP Charles Arbuthnot, whose wife Harriet was a close friend of Wellington, wrote to Gurwood that the Duke ‘has taken the greatest interest in your book. He was so delighted with reading his old orders that he did nothing else all yesterday but read them aloud.’

Within a year, Gurwood had completed the task of putting all Wellington’s public despatches in order so that they might be published. Wellington still had editorial control (‘Your Grace may draw your pen through what may be deemed unnecessary to print’), but by 1835, as another volume was readied for publication, the Duke was again assailed by doubts about the original wisdom of his decision. To complete the publishing task he had set himself Gurwood was forced to fight his corner, as diplomatically as possible, telling Wellington: ‘without the publication of these despatches, the truth will never be known; and posterity will be led into error by the imagination of historians whose narratives will otherwise become hallowed by time as uncontradicted authorities.’ Cautiously, Wellington kept the original proofs for himself so that the changes he made could not be discovered.

Gurwood kept to his task and acquitted himself so well in his balancing act that he was awarded, at Wellington’s instigation, a pension of £200 a year from 1839, and was given the post of Deputy Lieutenant of the Tower of London. ‘You have brought before the publick,’ a grateful Wellington told him, ‘a work which must be essential to statesmen and soldiers as containing the true details of important and military operations of many years duration.’ The Waterloo volume, the twelfth in the series, came out in the late summer of 1838. It was a work which stood as if in contradistinction to the unmediated, democratic access Siborne had gained to the soldiers of Waterloo.

For Siborne, history could not be as straightforward as Gurwood made it. His was neither the official version, nor those of individuals, but the product of intensive evidence-gathering from a wide range of witnesses. This approach was to cause him no end of difficulties. Meticulous both as a modeller and as an historian, Siborne had to reconcile the firsthand accounts of the battle he was obtaining with the official version laid down by the great Duke himself. For a relatively humble member of the army, who wished to present an accurate celebration of a famous victory, but also to further his own career, the pressure must have been enormous. At a personal level, he wished to be true to himself and model exactly what he had found. But on a professional level, he was pressurised by the very military leaders he admired. He could only offer the reassurance that his intentions were noble, and that he would, in keeping with his uncontroversial ambitions, submit the plan of his Model to the Duke of Wellington for approval, not least because, as he had protested, he aimed to do nothing which contradicted one syllable of the Duke of Wellington’s Despatch. But the years ahead would be marked by a growing row over the money he still felt the government should pay him, and by the gathering storm over the nature of his project.

As if to make this clear, the imposing figure of Wellington’s ally, Lord James Henry Fitzroy Somerset, stood in the way of Siborne making further progress with his Model. Somerset, later Lord Raglan of Crimean fame, was a Waterloo veteran whose friendship with Wellington had been a long one. He had served on his staff in the expedition to Copenhagen, and was alongside him during the whole of the Peninsular War first as aide-de-camp and then, from 1811, as his military secretary. In the same role at Waterloo, as military secretary in the general headquarters, he had dealt with all Wellington’s correspondence during the campaign, reading all incoming reports, keeping a register of all documents and liaising with the non-British formations. He was no mere bureaucrat: he had himself been injured in the battle, and his right arm had been amputated. Afterwards, he had taught himself to write with his left hand, and in between two spells as an MP for Truro, he was appointed secretary to the Duke of Wellington when the Duke became master-general of the ordnance in 1819. From 1827 he was again his military secretary, when the Duke became commander-in-chief of the army and he stayed in this role for another twenty-five years, for the rest of the Duke’s life.

But Somerset’s connection with Wellington went deeper than his many decades of service. In 1814 he had married Emily Harriet Wellesley-Pole, the Duke of Wellington’s niece. In army and family matters, Somerset was tied to Wellington, and in the years after Waterloo, he acted as his gatekeeper. Early on, Somerset became unhappy with Siborne’s desire to interview the participants in the battle and to portray its Crisis. In the icily polite but dismissive language of the bureaucrat, a language with which the model-maker was to become familiar in the years ahead, Siborne was sent the first sign that he had become an irritant, and that the military was beginning to wish it had not sanctioned his project. He received this letter from Maj.-Gen. Sir James Charles Dalbiac, the Inspector-General of Cavalry and a Peninsula veteran himself. It was the beginning of years of cuttingly formal exchanges with the country’s bureaucrats.

34, Cavendish Square

5 March 1834

My dear Siborne,

Since the receipt of your letter, I have had several conferences with Lord Fitzroy Somerset.

We think that it would greatly increase your difficulties rather than lead to elucidation to write a circular for information to different general officers who commanded brigades and who from a variety of circumstances must give such very different versions of what passed before their eyes …

Yours faithfully,

J. Chas Dalbiac

Siborne, convinced of the accuracy of his methodology in matters both topographical and historical, would not take the hint. At one point he asked Lieutenant Samuel Waymouth, of the 2nd Life Guards, who was wounded at Waterloo and had been one of the very few officers to be captured by the French, to approach Fitzroy Somerset on Siborne’s behalf. Waymouth reported back: ‘he cannot conceive the possibility of your being able to attain to accuracy, considering how conflicting are the statements one continually hears from persons, all whose testimonies one considers undeniable. If you succeed in giving a tolerably correct representation, it is all you can expect.’

But Siborne was as determined to follow his own course as his portrait by Samuel Lover suggests. His mouth was hard-set against change. His dogged determination blinkered him to ways which might smooth his path ahead to achieve his overall objective, so that he was not in the slightest bit sensitive to recognising any of the political niceties which Somerset raised. Nor was he moved by the idea, put forward by Lord Fitzroy Somerset, that he should give the finished Model to the Duke of Wellington, refusing to realise that such a gesture might win him the necessary political support for its creation.