Dawn was beginning at three o’clock on Sunday the 18th of June, and the
Lark was already astir. In the night an egg had been hatched, and great
was the joy of both parents. All was quiet just around the nest; at a
little distance a sentinel was pacing up and down, but no one else was
moving. The wife, at a call from her mate, left the nest, and rose with
him through the drizzling rain.
“Higher, higher,” cried the cock bird, “let us try for the blue sky
again, and look for the sunrise as we sing!” And higher they went, and
higher, but found no blue that day; and when the sun rose behind the
clouds, it rose with an angry yellow light, that gave no cheer to man or
beast. And what a sight it showed below them! All along the ridge for a
mile and a half lay prostrate forms, huddled together for warmth;
picketed horses stood asleep with drooping heads; cannon and waggons
covered the ground towards the forest. And all that host lay silent, as
if dead. And over there, on the opposite height, lay another vast and
dark crowd of human beings. What would happen when they all woke up?
The Larks spent some time, as was their wont, bathing themselves in the
fresher air above, and then descended slowly to find insects for the
new-born little one. Slowly—for a weight lay on the hearts of both;
there was peril, they knew, though neither of them would own it. As they
approached the earth, they saw a figure kneeling against the bank, and
prying into the ground just where lay the home of all their fond desire.
Each uttered at the same moment a piteous cry, and the figure, looking
up, rose quickly from his knees and watched them. Then he went slowly
away, and lay down among a group of cloaked human forms.
It was Bill, just released from sentinel duty. As he paced to and fro,
he had seen the Larks rise, and, relieved by a comrade in a few minutes,
he searched at once for the nest. Bill was not likely to miss it; he
knew the ways of larks, and searched at a little distance right and left
from the spot he had seen them leave. There was the nest—three brown
eggs and a young one; it brought back once more the Rectory gate, and
the old parson, and those few words of his. “I wish as I’d sent ’un a
letter,” he said to himself, as he heard the Larks’ cry, and rose from
his knees. That was all he said or thought; but Bill went quietly back
to his wet resting-place, and slept with a clear conscience, and dreamed
of pothooks and Polly.
When he woke nearly every one was astir: all looking draggled, cold, and
dogged. Breakfast was a poor meal, but it freshened up Bill, and after
it he found time to go and spy again at the nesting-place. The hen was
sitting close, and he would not disturb her. The cock was singing above;
presently he came down and crept through the grass towards her. But Bill
saw no more then, for the bugles began to call, and all that great host
fell gradually into battle array.
Bill’s regiment was stationed some little way behind the cart-track, and
was held ready to form square at a moment’s notice. Hours passed, and
then a hurried meal was served out; the battle was long in beginning.
Every now and then Bill could hear the Lark’s song overhead, and he
listened to it now, and thought of the nest as he listened. He could not
see it, for a battery of artillery was planted between him and the
track; but he kept on wondering what would happen to it, and it helped
him to pass the weary hours of waiting.
At last, just at the time when the bells of the village church were
beginning to ring at home—when village lads were gathering about the
church door, and the old clerk was looking up the hymns, and getting the
music out on the desks for the two fiddles and the bassoon—a flash and a
puff of white smoke were seen on the opposite height, then another and
another, and every man knew that the battle had begun.
And then the time began to go faster. Bill watched the artillerymen in
front of him, and the smoke in the enemy’s lines, when he was not
occupied with something else under his serjeant’s quick eye. Something
was doing down there at the farmhouse; he could hear it, but could not
see. Away on the left, too, he could see cavalry moving, and once saw
the plumes of the Scots Greys on the enemy’s side of the valley, and
then saw them galloping back again, followed by squadrons of French
horse. Then an order was given to form square; cannon-balls began to
whistle round, and as the square was formed, some men fell. Then a long
pause. Suddenly the artillerymen came running back into the square, and
Bill, in the front of the square, could see the further edge of the
cart-track in front of him lined with splendid horsemen, who dropped
into it and rose again on the other side, charging furiously at the
square. Not a word was said, or a gun fired, till they were quite close;
then the word was given, the front ranks of the square fired, and half
the horsemen seemed to fall at once. Others rode round it, and met the
same fate from the other sides. Then back went all the rest as best they
could, with another volley after them, and Bill had seen his first
fight.
Again and again this wave of cavalry came dashing against them, and each
time it broke and drew back again. So the day wore on, and the battle
raged all round. Ranks grew thinner and men grew tired of carrying the
dead and dying out of their midst. Bill’s square was never broken, but
the men were worn out, the colonel and most of the officers were killed
or wounded, and still the battle went on.
At last, when the sun was getting low, the regiment was suddenly ordered
forward. Glad to move their stiffened limbs at last, the men deployed as
if on parade-ground, and dashed forward in line at the double. Bill saw
that he would cross the cart-track close by the Lark’s nest; in all that
din and fever of battle, he still thought of it, and wondered what its
fate had been. Another minute and they were crossing the track, and as
they leapt up the other side, he saw a bird fly out from under the feet
of a soldier next but one to himself. The next moment he felt a sudden
sharp blow, and fell insensible.
When he came to himself he could see the redcoats pouring down the slope
in front of him; every one was going forward, and the enemy’s cannonade
had ceased. A wounded soldier close by him groaned and turned heavily on
his side. Bill tried to pull himself together to walk, but his right leg
was useless, and he could only crawl. He crawled to the edge of the bank
and found himself close to the nest; he put his hand in and found two
warm eggs and two nestlings. Then he slipped down the bank and fainted
at the bottom.
A fortnight afterwards, the old parson came down to his garden-gate with
a letter in his hand, and stepped across to the thatched cottage. Bill’s
mother met him at the door with a curtsey and a pale face.
“It’s his own writing,” said the parson, “so don’t be frightened. Shall
I read it you?” And he opened and read the letter; here is a faithful
copy of it—
“Brussles Ospitle, _June 22_.
“Dear Mother,—We ave won a glorous Victry, and old Bony and all of em
they run away at last. I see em a runnin just as I got nocked over my
dear mother I did for some on em but don’t know how many twas, them
cavalry chaps mostly twas as I nocked over I be rather smartish badly
hit dear mother the Doctor ave took off my rite Leg but I feels as if
twur thur still it do hurt so tell passon I found a Lark’s nestie as I
didn’t never take none of the eggs on twur a marvelous wunder as they
warn’t scruncht with them Frenchies a gallopin over the place and our
fellows wen they sent em a runnin tell passon as the Lord do love me I
partly thinks I carn’t rite no more dear mother but I’m a comin ome soon
as I’m better so no more now from yr affexnit son
“Bill.”
The letter was read a hundred times, and laid carefully away when all
the village had seen it. But the lad never came home; he lies in the
cemetery at Brussels. The Larks brought up their young, and sang even
while the dead were being buried; then they left the terrible field of
Waterloo, and never dared return to it.