On the return of Napoleon from Elba, Beckwith rejoined the standard of Wellington, and took a prominent part in the battle of Waterloo. On this day he had four horses killed under him, but received no personal injury until he was struck by a cannon ball in the left leg from the retreating fire of the French. After three months' unsuccessful treatment amputation was declared necessary. This random shot, like the bow drawn at a venture in an ancient battle, was pregnant with mighty consequences, not only to Beckwith personally, but to that interesting people to whom as yet he had never given a thought.
Beckwith, though only twenty-six years of age, was made a lieutenant-colonel on the field of battle, and received the silver medal struck to commemorate the victory. Had he not lost his leg he would probably have risen to the highest distinction as a soldier. But if so he might never have become the instrument of such extensive blessings to the Vaudois as was destined in the providence of God.
The first foundation stone, so to speak, on which was to be erected the spacious superstructure of his after benevolence began at the time of his retirement to the château of Mont St. Jean, during the period of weakness resulting from his wound at Waterloo. The owner of the mansion had a little girl, six years of age, who was a most attentive nurse to him. She hardly ever left his bedside, and by her childish prattling, innocent pleasantries, and tender sympathy, won his regard, and spread a charm over a time of pain and depression; so much so, indeed, that when the time of separation came it greatly distressed him, and in after life he never spoke of her without evident emotion.
But it was in this way God led him first to that benevolent interest in the young which afterwards became so marked a feature of his character.
But up to this time, whilst Beckwith was not a sceptic, yet his faith was not of an operative kind, he was taken up with those pursuits which belonged solely to time. The means employed by God to awaken him to a knowledge of the real aim of life was a copy of His own Word. This treasure had lain unused at the bottom of his portmanteau until he lay wounded at a little village near Courtray, in Belgium. Then he began to read with an interest not previously felt, and it became to him the word of life. When he was questioned about the circumstances of his conversion, he used to reply, in his graphic way: "The good God said, 'Stop here, you rascal!' and He has cut off my leg, and I think I shall be the more happy without it."