The Alarm

See “The Trumpet-Major

In Memory of one of the Writer’s Family who was a
Volunteer during the War with Napoleon

      In a ferny byway
      Near the great South-Wessex Highway,
   A homestead raised its breakfast-smoke aloft;
The dew-damps still lay steamless, for the sun had made no sky-way,
      And twilight cloaked the croft.

      ’Twas hard to realize on
      This snug side the mute horizon
   That beyond it hostile armaments might steer,
Save from seeing in the porchway a fair woman weep with eyes on
      A harnessed Volunteer.

      In haste he’d flown there
      To his comely wife alone there,
   While marching south hard by, to still her fears,
For she soon would be a mother, and few messengers were known there
      In these campaigning years.

      ’Twas time to be Good-bying,
      Since the assembly-hour was nighing
   In royal George’s town at six that morn;
And betwixt its wharves and this retreat were ten good miles of hieing
   Ere ring of bugle-horn.

      “I’ve laid in food, Dear,
      And broached the spiced and brewed, Dear;
   And if our July hope should antedate,
Let the char-wench mount and gallop by the halterpath and wood, Dear,
      And fetch assistance straight.

      “As for Buonaparte, forget him;
      He’s not like to land!  But let him,
   Those strike with aim who strike for wives and sons!
And the war-boats built to float him; ’twere but wanted to upset him
      A slat from Nelson’s guns!

      “But, to assure thee,
      And of creeping fears to cure thee,
   If he should be rumoured anchoring in the Road,
Drive with the nurse to Kingsbere; and let nothing thence allure thee
      Till we’ve him safe-bestowed.

      “Now, to turn to marching matters:—
      I’ve my knapsack, firelock, spatters,
   Crossbelts, priming-horn, stock, bay’net, blackball, clay,
Pouch, magazine, flints, flint-box that at every quick-step clatters;
   . . . My heart, Dear; that must stay!”

      —With breathings broken
      Farewell was kissed unspoken,
   And they parted there as morning stroked the panes;
And the Volunteer went on, and turned, and twirled his glove for token,
   And took the coastward lanes.

      When above He’th Hills he found him,
      He saw, on gazing round him,
   The Barrow-Beacon burning—burning low,
As if, perhaps, uplighted ever since he’d homeward bound him;
      And it meant: Expect the Foe!

      Leaving the byway,
      And following swift the highway,
   Car and chariot met he, faring fast inland;
“He’s anchored, Soldier!” shouted some: “God save thee, marching thy way,
   Th’lt front him on the strand!”

      He slowed; he stopped; he paltered
      Awhile with self, and faltered,
   “Why courting misadventure shoreward roam?
To Molly, surely!  Seek the woods with her till times have altered;
      Charity favours home.

      “Else, my denying
      He would come she’ll read as lying—
   Think the Barrow-Beacon must have met my eyes—
That my words were not unwareness, but deceit of her, while trying
      My life to jeopardize.

      “At home is stocked provision,
      And to-night, without suspicion,
   We might bear it with us to a covert near;
Such sin, to save a childing wife, would earn it Christ’s remission,
   Though none forgive it here!”

      While thus he, thinking,
      A little bird, quick drinking
   Among the crowfoot tufts the river bore,
Was tangled in their stringy arms, and fluttered, well-nigh sinking,
   Near him, upon the moor.

      He stepped in, reached, and seized it,
      And, preening, had released it
   But that a thought of Holy Writ occurred,
And Signs Divine ere battle, till it seemed him Heaven had pleased it
   As guide to send the bird.

      “O Lord, direct me! . . .
      Doth Duty now expect me
   To march a-coast, or guard my weak ones near?
Give this bird a flight according, that I thence know to elect me
   The southward or the rear.”

      He loosed his clasp; when, rising,
      The bird—as if surmising—
   Bore due to southward, crossing by the Froom,
And Durnover Great-Field and Fort, the soldier clear advising—
      Prompted he wist by Whom.

      Then on he panted
      By grim Mai-Don, and slanted
   Up the steep Ridge-way, hearkening betwixt whiles;
Till, nearing coast and harbour, he beheld the shore-line planted
   With Foot and Horse for miles.

      Mistrusting not the omen,
      He gained the beach, where Yeomen,
   Militia, Fencibles, and Pikemen bold,
With Regulars in thousands, were enmassed to meet the Foemen,
   Whose fleet had not yet shoaled.

      Captain and Colonel,
      Sere Generals, Ensigns vernal,
   Were there; of neighbour-natives, Michel, Smith,
Meggs, Bingham, Gambier, Cunningham, roused by the hued nocturnal
   Swoop on their land and kith.

      But Buonaparte still tarried;
      His project had miscarried;
   At the last hour, equipped for victory,
The fleet had paused; his subtle combinations had been parried
   By British strategy.

      Homeward returning
      Anon, no beacons burning,
   No alarms, the Volunteer, in modest bliss,
Te Deum sang with wife and friends: “We praise Thee, Lord, discerning
      That Thou hast helped in this!”

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