The Child of Waterloo, or, The Horrors of the Battle-Field — page 5: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

2 THE CHILD OF WATERLOO. Many others lay in different attitudes; in most cases the ghastly, horrible countenances turned upward, and presenting a most awful distortion of visage. At the feet of a dead horse lay the body of a young man, who, by his splendid uniform, was an officer evidently of rank. His costume denoted him as belonging to the French army, A large scarlet cloak half hid him, and upon the verge of the cloak la huddled up the form of a young female, who was either dead, or had fainted after seeking the battle-field, and found some loved object among the slain. Near this group was an English officer, whose horse had been shot under bim, and who had been cut down by a French cuirassier before he could disengage him- self from the wounded animal. He was a young man, although the quantity of blood which had flowed over his fave, and be- come clotted in his hair, would have effectually prevented any one from recognizing him. The hurt he had received rendered him insensible. It had occurred during the final charge, in which the French had suffered so signal a defeat. Just as the sun dipped below the line of the western horizon, a cool air swept across the battle-field, and perhaps he was so near recovering from his insensibility that that was sufficient at once to recover him from unconsciousness, for he certainly did open his eyes, though he remained for some moments in that drowsy state which succeeds insensibility, when all objects have that hazy aspect to the mind which makes us doubt if we are not still in the land of dreams. Intense pain, however, soon convinced him that it was no de- lusion, but that he really had been wounded, although to what extent he knew not, and was recovering from a swoon on the field of battle. A temporary accession of delusion came over the young offi- cer as he made an effort to clear the blood from before his eyes, and to look around bim on the dead and thedying. He called aloud on several names of well-laved persons, who were not there, but whom he had left in England, when he sought the fortune of war in the army. ‘‘'Where are you?” he cried. ‘‘ Dear ones, where are you now? why do you not come to me? Alice—Alice! Oh, God! could you look upon me now!” A deep groan sounded near him, and at once recalled him to a sense of where and what he was. ‘*T am not alone here,” he said, faintly. ‘*‘ Why should I fill the air with my complaints? J am one of thousands—of thou- sands. The night is coming on, or my eyes are dimmed with blood and tears. Tears! no—no. Iam a soldier.” Again the groan came upon his ears, and then, from immedi- ately behind him, a quarter from whence he was sure the groan had not come, some one said, in a rich brogue: ** Aisy—aisy! whist! The curse of Cromwell light on the divil who carved out to me this mighty purty slice on the head! It’s myself that wonders now where one of my ears has gone to,” ‘‘ An English voice,” said the young officer. ‘Who spakes? Did anybody say nothing, bekase, if he did, comicbooks. com