Fantasy fiction; Imaginary wars and battles -- Fiction; War stories
from which the grassy slopes of the park rose up dotted with shrubs
and trees to where we were standing. Round this railway station was
a cluster of villas and one or two mills, of whose gardens we thus
had a bird’s-eye view, their little ornamental ponds glistening like
looking-glasses in the morning sun. Immediately on our left the park
sloped steeply down to the gap before mentioned, through which ran the
little stream, as well as the railway from Epsom to Brighton, nearly
due north and south, meeting the Guildford and Reigate line at right
angles. Close to the point of intersection and the little station
already mentioned, was the station of the former line where we had
stopped the day before. Beyond the gap on the east (our left), and in
continuation of our ridge, rose the chalk-hill again. The shoulder of
this ridge overlooking the gap is called Box Hill, from the shrubbery
of boxwood with which it was covered. Its sides were very steep, and
the top of the ridge was covered with troops. The natural strength of
our position was manifested at a glance, a high grassy ridge steep to
the south, with a stream in front, and but little cover up the sides.
It seemed made for a battle-field. The weak point was the gap; the
ground at the junction of the railways and the roads immediately at the
entrance of the gap formed a little valley, dotted, as I have said,
with buildings and gardens. This, in one sense, was the key of the
position; for although it would not be tenable while we held the ridge
commanding it, the enemy by carrying this point and advancing through
the gap would cut our line in two. But you must not suppose I scanned
the ground thus critically at the time. Anybody, indeed, might have
been struck with the natural advantages of our position; but what, as I
remember, most impressed me, was the peaceful beauty of the scene--the
little town with the outline of the houses obscured by a blue mist,
the massive crispness of the foliage, the outlines of the great trees,
lighted up by the sun, and relieved by deep-blue shade. So thick was
the timber here, rising up the southern slopes of the valley, that it
looked almost as if it might have been a primeval forest. The quiet
of the scene was the more impressive because contrasted in the mind
with the scenes we expected to follow; and I can remember as if it
were yesterday, the sensation of bitter regret that it should now be
too late to avert this coming desecration of our country, which might
so easily have been prevented. A little firmness, a little prevision
on the part of our rulers, even a little common sense, and this great
calamity would have been rendered utterly impossible. Too late, alas!
We were like the foolish virgins in the parable.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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