From Cambridge Scholar to Battlefield Veteran

William Leeke stands as a remarkable figure in British history, a man whose life bridged the seemingly disparate worlds of academic theology and military combat. A graduate of Cambridge University, Leeke would eventually become the rector of Holbrook parish in Derbyshire, authoring several serious works aimed at reforming the Church of England. Yet before he devoted his life to religious scholarship, he experienced the brutal reality of Napoleonic warfare. In 1815, at just eighteen years of age, Leeke served as an ensign, or standard bearer, in the 52nd Regiment of Foot. This position, as he would later poignantly describe in his memoirs, was an “easily targeted post for artillery.” His unique dual perspective—as both a participant in one of history’s most decisive battles and a later man of the cloth—provides an invaluable and deeply human account of the Battle of Waterloo.

The early 19th century was a period of immense global conflict, with the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars engulfing Europe for over two decades. For a young man like Leeke, a military commission offered adventure, prestige, and a chance to serve his country against the threat of Napoleon Bonaparte’s expansionist empire. The 52nd Regiment to which he belonged was no ordinary unit. It was one of the largest infantry battalions at Waterloo, fielding over a thousand men. Approximately half of these soldiers were hardened veterans of the Peninsular War, a long and grueling campaign fought on the Iberian Peninsula against French forces. These men had already endured years of marching, fighting, and privation. The regiment’s battle honors—Vimeiro, Corunna, Busaco, Fuentes d’Oñoro, Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, Vitoria, Nivelle, Orthez, and Toulouse—were testament to its experience and resilience. By 1815, the regiment’s flags, which Leeke was tasked with carrying, were little more than tattered rags on bare poles, symbols of countless engagements.

The Unpleasant Task of Enduring Cannon Fire

Leeke’s memoir offers a starkly honest portrayal of the soldier’s experience, particularly the psychological torment of artillery bombardment. For the infantryman standing in formation, there was no more helpless feeling than being under cannon fire. Unlike the artillerymen who actively served their guns or the cavalry who could maneuver, the foot soldier’s duty was often simply to stand, wait, and endure. Leeke wrote that there was “nothing else to do.” He described artillery fire as “the most unpleasant thing for a fighting man.”

To cope with the anxiety, he developed a peculiar focus. “I often tried to follow with my eyes the trajectory of our own shells as they passed over our heads,” he recalled. He noted the psychological difference between watching an Allied cannonball fly overhead toward the enemy and seeing an incoming French round. The former was a sight of potential victory; the latter, a harbinger of death. The incoming projectiles he faced came from a variety of French guns—6-pounders, 8-pounders, 9-pounders, and 12-pounders—each capable of horrific damage. A single solid shot could tear through a dense column of men, dismembering and killing dozens with a single strike. The wait under this threat was a profound test of discipline and courage.

The Formidable Square and a Close Call

On the afternoon of June 18, 1815, Leeke’s battalion was ordered into a square formation. This defensive tactic was the British infantry’s primary defense against cavalry charges. By presenting a hedge of bayonets on all sides, a square could repel horsemen, but it also made the densely packed soldiers a lucrative target for artillery. The 52nd had initially been held in reserve but was moved by the Duke of Wellington to the right wing of the Allied line, a sector that had, until then, been relatively quiet compared to the fierce fighting around the farmhouse of Hougoumont.

After waiting for over an hour, a break in the weather allowed a shaft of sunlight to illuminate their position. It was then that Leeke’s sharp eyes caught a glint of brass. He noticed several French cannon positioned lower on the opposite slope, closer to the British lines than other batteries. He watched with chilling clarity as the enemy gun crews performed their drill: sponging out the barrel of a cannon and reloading it with fresh ammunition. Then the gun fired.

“I saw the shot, which appeared to be coming directly at me,” Leeke wrote. In that split second, he faced a moral and professional dilemma. Should he move? His training and sense of duty prevailed. “I must not! I steadied myself and stood straight, holding the regimental colour in my right hand.” He estimated he had about two seconds from the moment the shot left the cannon’s muzzle until it struck. The projectile did not hit the four men directly in front of him but struck the four to their right. Fired at a slight angle, it hit the lead man above the knee, flew through the group, and landed at the feet of the rearmost soldier, severely wounding him. The shot then ricocheted, passing within an inch or two of the flagpole Leeke held, and flew out the rear of the square without causing further injury.

The immediate aftermath was a scene of controlled chaos and stoic suffering. The two men in the front and second rows fell outward; Leeke presumed they died almost instantly. The other two fell inward into the square. The badly wounded soldier at the back let out a loud cry of pain. In a moment that encapsulates the extreme discipline expected of Wellington’s troops, an officer calmly said to him, “My man, do not make such a noise.” Remarkably, the soldier immediately composed himself and fell silent. This incident, a mere footnote in the grand narrative of the battle, highlights the immense personal courage and the rigid discipline that underpinned the British army.

The Illusion of Victory: Marshal Ney’s Fateful Decision

While Ensign Leeke was experiencing the battle at the visceral level of the square, the French command was viewing it from a grander perspective. Following the repulse of Marshal d’Erlon’s corps and the subsequent disastrous charge of the British heavy cavalry, a relative lull descended on parts of the battlefield. The noise of battle remained deafening, and Hougoumont continued to burn and be contested, but there was a temporary pause in major French assaults across the valley.

Marshal Michel Ney, Napoleon’s principal battlefield commander, was observing the Allied lines from the French left wing. Mounted on his horse and positioned on a small rise, he had a elevated view over the smoke-shrouded ridge where Wellington’s army stood. What he saw through his telescope filled him with exhilaration. He believed he was witnessing the salvation of France. He saw victory.

In reality, he was seeing dispersed British and Dutch artillery batteries on the ridge and the infantry squares behind them. He would have seen the smoke from French howitzer shells exploding among these formations. But what truly captured his attention were the events occurring beyond the immediate frontline fighting. From his vantage point, he could see behind Wellington’s ridge. There, he observed hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men moving to the rear. He saw wagons heading north, wounded soldiers being helped to the rear, and prisoners being escorted away. Ney misinterpreted this movement. He concluded that Wellington was disengaging, attempting a retreat. In short, he believed the British army was beginning to break and run.

This was a catastrophic misreading of the situation. The movement Ney saw was largely the traffic of battle—the evacuation of the wounded and the processing of prisoners—not a general retreat. Wellington was a master of defensive warfare, and his use of the reverse slope of the ridge was a key tactic. By positioning his main infantry lines just behind the crest, he protected them from the full effect of French artillery and masked his true strength and intentions. The movement Ney witnessed was a normal part of managing a battle, not a sign of collapse. Yet, for Ney, it presented a golden opportunity. He knew that a good commander must never allow an enemy to retreat unmolested. A retreating army was vulnerable, and a well-timed cavalry attack could turn an orderly withdrawal into a disorganized rout. Just two days earlier, at the Battle of Quatre Bras, he had arguably failed to press the Allies with sufficient vigor. He was determined not to make the same mistake again. This misinterpretation would lead to one of the most famous and costly decisions of the Napoleonic Wars: the massed cavalry charges against the British squares.

The Legacy of a Soldier-Priest

William Leeke’s account is more than a simple battle narrative; it is a bridge between the individual’s experience and the grand sweep of history. His detailed recollection of a single cannonball’s path provides a microcosm of the battle’s terror and randomness. His later life as a clergyman and writer adds a layer of reflection and moral gravity to his youthful exploits. The discipline he witnessed in the square—the silent acceptance of death, the immediate obedience to command—echoed the structured, principled life he would later lead in service to the church.

The Battle of Waterloo was a turning point in European history, and the steadfastness of regiments like the 52nd Foot was crucial to its outcome. The veterans of the Peninsular War, whom Leeke served alongside, provided the unshakeable core of Wellington’s army. Their experience in forming squares and enduring fire proved invaluable when Ney’s cavalry finally swept forward. The 52nd Regiment would indeed get its chance for glory later in the day, playing a pivotal role in the advance that finally broke Napoleon’s Imperial Guard.

Leeke’s memoirs ensure that the human cost of that glory is not forgotten. The story of the wounded soldier silenced by a quiet word is as powerful a testament to the character of Wellington’s army as any record of a charge or a volley. It reminds us that history is made not only by generals and marshals making grand decisions, like Ney’s fateful error, but also by the countless individual acts of courage, discipline, and suffering on the ground. William Leeke, the standard bearer who became a rector, left a legacy that captures both perspectives, forever tying the thunder of French cannon at Waterloo to the quiet reflection of an English parish.