Overlooked Britain Lucinda Lambton
Beneath the spread of a vast turkey oak in Hampshire, there stands a lone memorial stone to the little horse who carried the Duke of Wellington for sixteen hours through the Battle of Waterloo.
At fifteen hands high – only an inch taller than a pony – Copenhagen was as beautiful as he was small: a stallion with a refined, Anglo-arab countenance, and a rich, liver-chestnut coat, and with a tail that sprang forth in a way that stirringly heralded his breeding.
He died aged 28 years old – roughly eighty years in human terms – and was buried in the grounds of Stratfield Saye, the estate that had been given by a grateful nation to its ducal hero.
His retirement was spent there, and cosy anecdotes abound: of how he would eat only if lying down; of his enjoying sponge cakes, bath buns and chocolate creams; of how this much mellowed warhorse gave children rides. He loved being noticed and ‘kissed hands and ate apples with all possible grace’.
It had not always been thus. At Malmaison, only days after Waterloo, Lady Shelley – cousin of the poet – wrote in her diary that Wellington ‘had offered to mount me on Copenhagen… A charming ride of two hours but I found
Copenhagen the most difficult horse to sit on of any that I have ever ridden.’
Later, Wellington once dismounted and gave his faithful mount a great and grateful pat, only to be lashed out at with a kick so violent that it was said it might well have succeeded where the might of Napoleon had failed. The little horse had always been famed for being ‘a bit free with his heels’.
When he died, his funeral took place very early in the morning, attended by the Duke and Mrs Apostles the housekeeper, who was – wait for it – to plant the acorn that grew to be the magnificent turkey oak.
An upsetting detail that caused the Duke to ‘fly into the most violent passion’ was that one of Copenhagen’s hooves had been cut off as a souvenir. It was later returned and used as an inkwell by the 2nd Duke; he who also arranged for the memorial stone to the horse, emblazoned with the words:
‘Here lies Copenhagen, the charger ridden by the Duke of Wellington the entire day at the Battle of Waterloo. Born 1808, died 1836. God’s humbler instrument, though meaner clay, should share the glory of that glorious day.’
The Times recorded the ceremony: ‘On 12th February, died at Stratfield Saye, of old age, Copenhagen, the horse which carried the Duke of Wellington so nobly on the field of Waterloo… By the orders of His Grace, a salute was fired over his grave, and thus he was buried as he had lived with full military honours… The late amiable Duchess was likewise particularly attached to him, and wore a bracelet made from his hair.’
She was not alone; many followed her example with delicate, hirsute mementos. Exciting to say, only three years ago, on 26th August 2015, an Exeter auction house sold a lock of his mane, tied with a tiny, red ribbon for £2,700.
In their heyday of popularity, the Duke and Copenhagen became synonymous: paintings were painted and sculptures were sculpted, honouring the horse as well as the man. From Hyde Park Corner to Edinburgh, from Basingstoke to Glasgow, they stand on high, together for eternity.
As recently as 2012, Copenhagen’s 4.2m-high head was cast in bronze to enhance the quad at Wellington College in Berkshire.
I will leave the last word to the Duke, who was devoted to Copenhagen: ‘There have been many faster horses, no doubt some handsomer, but for bottom and endurance I never saw his fellow.’