THE LARK’S NEST
A STORY OF A BATTLE
I
It was close upon Midsummer Day, but it was not midsummer weather. A
mist rose from moist fields, and hung over the whole countryside as if
it were November; the June of 1815 was wet and chill, as June so often
is. And as the mist hung over the land, so a certain sense of doubt and
anxiety hung over the hearts of man and beast and bird. War was in the
air as well as mist; and everything wanted warmth and peace to help it
to carry out its appointed work; to cheer it with a feeling of the
fragrance of life.
The moisture and the chilliness did not prevent the Skylark from taking
a flight now and then into the air, and singing to his wife as she sat
on the nest below; indeed, he rose sometimes so high that she could
hardly hear his voice, and then the anxious feeling got the better of
her. When he came down she would tell him of it, and remind him how dear
to her that music was. “Come with me this once,” he said at last in
reply. “Come, and leave the eggs for a little while. Above the mist the
sun is shining, and the real world is up there to-day. You can dry
yourself up there in the warmth, and you can fancy how bad it is for all
the creatures that have no wings to fly with. And there are such numbers
of them about to-day—such long lines of men and horses! Come and feel
the sun and see the sights.”
He rose again into the air and began to sing; and she, getting wearily
off the nest, followed him upwards. They passed through the mist and out
into the glorious sunshine; and as they hung on the air with fluttering
wings and tails bent downwards, singing and still gently rising, the sun
at last conquered the fog to the right of them, and they saw the great
high road covered with a long column of horsemen, whose arms and
trappings flashed with the sudden light. They were moving southward at a
trot as quick as cavalry can keep up when riding in a body together; and
behind them at a short interval came cannon and waggons rumbling slowly
along, the drivers’ whips cracking constantly as if there were great
need of hurry. Then came a column of infantry marching at a quickstep
without music, all intent on business, none falling out of the ranks;
they wore coats of bright scarlet, which set off young and sturdy
frames. And then, just as an officer, with dripping plume and cloak
hanging loosely about him, turned his horse into the wet fields and
galloped heavily past the infantry in the road, the mist closed over
them again, and the Larks could see nothing more.
But along the line of the road, to north as well as south, they could
hear the rumbling of wheels and the heavy tramp of men marching,
deadened as all these sounds were by the mud of the road and by the
dense air. Nay, far away to the southward there were other sounds in the
air—sounds deep and strange, as if a storm were beginning there.
“But there is no storm about,” said the Skylark’s wife; “I should have
felt it long ago. What is it, dear? what can it be? Something is wrong;
and I feel as if trouble were coming, with all these creatures about.
Look there!” she said, as they descended again to the ground at a little
distance, as usual, from the nest; “look there, and tell me if something
is not going to happen!”
A little way off, dimly looming through the mist, was a large cart or
waggon moving slowly along a field-track. Leading the horses was the
farmer, and sitting in the cart was the farmer’s wife, trouble written
in her face; on her lap was a tiny child, another sat on the edge of the
cart, and a third was astride on one of the big horses, holding on by
his huge collar, and digging his young heels into the brawny shoulders
below him. All of these the Skylarks knew well; they came from the farm
down in the hollow, and they must be leaving their old home, for there
was crockery, and a big clock, and a picture or two, and other household
goods, all packed in roughly and hurriedly, as if the family had been
suddenly turned out into the world. The farmer looked over his shoulder
and said a cheering word to his wife, and the Skylark did the same by
his.
“Don’t get frightened,” he said, “or you won’t be able to sit close. And
sitting close is the whole secret, dear, the whole secret of nesting.
I’m sorry I took you up there, but I meant well. Promise me to sit
close; if any creature comes along, don’t you stir—it is the whole
secret. They won’t find you on the eggs, if you only sit close; and
think how hard it is to get back again without being seen when once
you’re off the nest! There’s nothing to alarm you in what we saw. See,
here we are at the nest, and how far it is from the big road, and how
snugly hidden! Promise me, then, to sit close, and in a day or two we
shall begin to hatch.”
She promised, and nestled once more on the eggs. It was true, as he had
said, that the nest was some way from the road; it was in fact about
halfway between two high roads, which separated as they emerged from a
great forest to the northwards, and then ran at a wide angle down a
gentle slope of corn-land and meadow. In the hollow near to the western
road lay the farmhouse, whose owners had been seen departing by the
Skylarks, standing in a little enclosure of yard and orchard; near the
other road, but higher up the slope, was another homestead. On the edge
of the slope, connecting the two main roads, ran a little cart-track,
seldom used; just such a deeply-rutted track as you may see on the slope
of a south-country down, cutting rather deeply into the ground in some
places, so that a man walking up to it along the grass slope might take
an easy jump from the edge into the ruts, and need a vigorous step or
two to mount on the other side. Just under this edge of the grass-field,
and close to the track, the Larks had placed their nest; for the grass
of the field, cropped close by sheep, offered them little cover; and
they did not mind the cart or waggon that once in two or three days
rolled lazily by their home, driven by a drowsy countryman in a short
blue frock.
Next day the weather was worse, though the fog had cleared away; and in
the afternoon it began to rain. Long before sunset the Larks began to
hear once more the rumbling of waggons and the trampling of horses; they
seemed to be all coming back again, for the noise grew louder and
louder. Each time the cock bird returned from a flight, or brought food
to his wife, he looked, in spite of himself, a little graver. But she
sat close, only starting once or twice from the nest when the distant
crack of a gun was heard.
“Sit close, sit close,” said her consort, “and remember that the way to
get shot is to leave the nest. We are perfectly safe here, and I will be
hiding in the bank at hand, if any danger should threaten.”
As he spoke, men passed along the track; then more, and others on the
grass on each side of it. Then that dread rumbling grew nearer, and a
medley of sounds, the cracking of whips, the clanging of metal, the
hoarse voices of tired men, began to grow around them on every side.
Once or twice, as it began to grow dusk, men tried to kindle a fire in
the drizzle, and by the fitful light groups of men could be seen,
standing, crouching, eating, each with his musket in his hand, as if he
might have to use it at any moment. Officers walked quickly round giving
directions, and now and then half-a-dozen horsemen, one on a bay horse
always a little in advance, might be seen moving about and surveying the
scene. Then more men passed by, and ever more, along the slope; more
horses, guns, and waggons moved along the track. A deep slow murmur
seemed to rise in the air, half stifled by the pouring rain, and broken
now and then by some loud oath near at hand, as a stalwart soldier
slipped and fell on the soppy ground. Then, as lights began to flash out
on the opposite rise to the southward, a noise of satisfaction seemed to
run along the ground—not a cheer, nor yet a laugh, but something
inarticulate that did duty for both with wet and weary men. In time all
became quiet, but for the occasional voice of a sentinel; and now and
then a cloaked form would rise from the ground and try to make a
smouldering fire burn up.
All this time the Skylark’s wife had been sitting close; men and horses
were all around, but the nest was safe, being just under the lip of the
bank. Her husband had crept into a hole close by her, and was presently
fast asleep, with his head under his wing. They had already got used to
the din and the sounds, and they could not abandon the nest. There they
slept, for the present in peace, though war was in the air, and seventy
thousand men lay, trying to sleep, around them.