Part 10

We always found ourselves more ready to sympathize with him in his grief, because he entered into every one else’s interests so warmly, whether of joy or sorrow. “That paper,” therefore, I knew contained this precious lock of hair; which, he told me only a few days ago, he wanted to send to his mother,--“all she can ever have of her boy”--and had delayed doing so, only because he wished to give it to the chaplain to send for him. It needed no words of his, to tell me what a loss this was to him. Later in the day, however, as he was walking through the grounds, he saw the man whom he had suspected, seated under a tree with a woman,--who afterwards proved to be his sister, and to whom, they found, he had given one-half of the money. Notice was given at once to the police, who immediately arrested both of them. On being detected, the man instantly put a roll of notes into his mouth, and tried to chew them up; this was speedily prevented by the policeman, who throttled him and compelled him to disgorge them. “But,” said Charlie, “I begged him not to choke him, as I wanted to hear where the pocket-book was, much more than to get the money.” This, however, the man obstinately refused to return, nor could it be found upon him after the strictest search. “After telling him what was in it, too,” continued Charlie, “after begging and beseeching him by the love of his own mother, just to give me the pocket-book, and keep the money (evidently, from what he told me, to the infinite disgust of the policeman), could you believe me, that he wouldn’t listen to me, but walked on, just as if he didn’t hear me? As we went along, I saw him suddenly pitch something over a fence at his side; a thought darted into my mind; over that fence I dashed, and sure enough, down there in the grass, was my little white paper; and now they may keep my money, and welcome.” It seemed to perplex him terribly, where the paper could have been concealed during the search, or how the man happened to have it out of the pocket-book; but such was the fact, just as he related it. He told me that the police had been at the hospital, that day, bringing him fifteen dollars,--half of his money--which the sister had confessed that her brother had given to her at the time, and requiring him to go and give evidence against the man, which he was most unwilling to do, having, as he said, “secured all that he cared for.”

But while I am making a long story of Charlie’s loss, you are looking eagerly at that bed in the corner; that poor fellow, who is so pale and languid, is from Wisconsin; he has injured his spine, and cannot sit up for more than a few moments at a time. He is one of the mournful ones, and our most earnest attempts to cheer him seldom produce more than a feeble smile. Nothing could convince you more of the blessing of buoyancy of disposition and a sanguine temperament, than a short time passed in one of these hospitals; you see at once that it carries a man more than half the way towards cure. But nothing we can do will brighten poor Granger; he seems gentle and grateful, but persistently depressed, and that makes us feel much discouraged about him. You are looking at the gentleman sitting at his side; yes, it is, as you think, Mr. ----, one of our most valuable aids here; he has, for many months, been assisting the chaplain in visiting, reading, writing for, and talking to the men, and most grateful do we all feel to him for his services here. No sun too hot, no air too heavy, through this whole summer, to find him at his post; and the men repay his kindness with the warmest attachment.

Look at this man just coming in at the door; it is poor Cuthbert; he does not belong in this ward, but he wanders where he likes. His is a sad case. A bullet struck him on the head, injuring his brain; at times he is perfectly himself, but usually his mind seems quite gone; it is truly pitiable to see him. His wife and little children are here in the city; she tells us that he was a most industrious, faithful workman, before he enlisted; honest and sober, and the kindest husband. We are very sure of his unselfishness, for no matter what we brought him to take, whilst he was confined to bed, his answer was always the same, “Give it to Bob;” or “Bob’s wounded, give it to him.” He rejected everything for himself with these words, fancying himself still on the field with his friend. We found, to our surprise, that “Bob” was none other than young Lieutenant ----, well known here, whom he had been nursing and watching most tenderly till he had received his own wound. The news of “Bob’s” death, which reached us soon after we arrived, would doubtless have been a great sorrow to him, but the poor fellow never could understand it; and we begged the men to say nothing about it, during his sane days, as we all wished him spared this additional suffering. He will get his discharge soon, but his poor wife will now have to support him, as well as her children. Surely a Soldier’s Home, for those disabled by this war, is one of the charities most imperatively demanded at present. I know that efforts are even now on foot to obtain it, but it is a thing which should, which must, be pressed. Why pause till we see it accomplished, and those suffering and thrown out of employment for life, provided with a home? Why rest till we have actually placed within its walls the army who have returned--many of them in the prime of life--maimed and mutilated, to our midst--cut off from all possibility of advancement for the rest of life--helpless, and too often hopeless? Shall we not show them that we can at least appreciate all that they have done for us?--that we can, and will gladly deny self, to give to them the home which their sufferings and self-sacrifice have so deservedly won? We need but the earnest purpose to secure its fulfilment, and I cannot feel that Philadelphia will ever rest till she has added to her generous labors in sending men forth, a liberal provision for the comfort and maintenance of the disabled, on their return.[3]

[3] This was, of course, written before the establishment of the “Soldiers’ Home,” at the corner of Crown and Race streets.

Let us pass down on this side, as we go out of the ward. I want you to look at that man’s eye, it is so full of bright, keen intelligence and quick wit. I wish that we had time to talk with him; but it is such a difficult matter to break off, that, without an abundance of time, I always hesitate to begin. The other morning I happened to enter the ward just as inspection was over; (which, you know, means the time at which the surgeon in charge makes his rounds attended by the surgeons of each ward;) this man beckoned me to his bedside.

“He’s a bully man, that head one, ain’t he?”

Criticism from the men upon any of the officers of the hospital, be it favorable or unfavorable, is a thing which we strictly discountenance at all times; and I therefore said,--assuming, or, as ---- says, I should always say, _trying_ to assume, an air of dignity--

“You should not speak so of the surgeon in charge, it is disrespectful; you must remember that he is as much your superior officer, for the time, as the colonel of your regiment.”

“Faith! then there’s an act of disrespect I’ll never pay my colonel. He’s gone to his account, so we’ll say no more; but not a boy of that regiment will ever----”

This I could not permit; so I turned at once to leave him, finding my moral lessons turned against myself, and that “hæc fabula” didn’t “docet” the respect I intended.

“Oh! please, miss! don’t go--don’t be offended! I didn’t mean it, indeed; I may be rough, but I mean no offence; I want to tell you why I called him ‘bully;’ just let me, even if you don’t like him.”

“It isn’t that I don’t like him,” I endeavored to explain, “but that I think you have no right to criticise those above you. Were I to allow that, I might, on the same principle, allow you to find fault with one of the other officers; I never meant that you should not be grateful for being so well cared for.”

“That’s just where it is, miss; it don’t matter the being cared for; they cared for me in Washington; but it’s the way the caring’s done. I’ll just tell you how it is, in this war. We’re all a set of ten-pins, stood up to have balls sent at us; along they come, and down we go. No matter, get another set; but still, it may save Uncle Sam to mend the broken ones, and use them again; so the menders come along, pick you up, feel you all over, and see if you’re worth mending; if so, you’re patched up, and stood in your place again. I’ve seen enough of it; but here comes this fellow--I beg your pardon, miss, it’s surgeon in charge I’m thinking you like him called--and he don’t say much different from other menders; but it’s all in his eye--it says a lot more nor his tongue--it says, ‘You’re flesh and blood, you are, poor fellow! and I’m sorry to see you twisting about with pain like that, and it’s all a bad business, this same, so it is.’ Do you think I care what a man’s tongue says, when his eye says that? I tell you, I feel better the whole day for one look like that. It’s my belief that all the talk that’s right from the heart comes out of the eye, and when men want to make you believe things not just so, it’s their tongue they use.”

I did not suggest that it had been remarked, on the one hand, that “Language was given to conceal a man’s thoughts;” or, on the other, that “Countenance and gesture are vehicles of thought, but their capacity and scope are limited,” as I was quite sure that he was entirely innocent of any plagiarism, either of ideas or their expression. But what a lesson in his words for us all! Here is a man confined to his bed, suffering acutely, who tells me that he feels better for a whole day--for what? For some kind act to relieve that suffering?--some pleasant look, or sprightly game to beguile his tedious hours?--or for

“Kind words, so easy to speak, But whose echo is endless?”

For none of these; but merely for a look--a glance of sympathy! Could we realize the priceless value of such seeming trifles, surely in our intercourse with our fellow-men, we should be more on the watch to practice them--more prompt in their exercise. It is not that feeling is wanting, in many cases, but perception,--the perception of the mode in which we act upon others; but we must beware of forgetting our responsibility on this most important point, and remember that

“Evils are wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart.”

Look at that man stooping down and playing with Dick, our hospital pet. A gentleman? you ask, and I cannot wonder that you do. Every one who sees him says, “But he isn’t one of the privates?” He is; but I imagine there is no one here more anxious to flourish in shoulder-straps. He has interested me much since I first met him here; he was very sick when he came in, but I did not see him until he was better, and taking his place as one of the orderlies--as our rule is in the hospitals, that convalescents turn into wardmasters and orderlies, before they are fit for active service on the field. His deference to the ladies, and certain little graces of manner, showed birth and breeding; and I said to M. one day, “That man was born a gentleman.” I found that she quite agreed with me, and had been struck by the same thing. And yet there was an air of dissatisfaction at times, and a bitterness of expression which I was at a loss to account for. One morning I had brought some books to the hospital, and on offering them to him, amongst others, he told me that he had so injured his eyes by over-study at college, that he was unable to use them at all at present. A few words more, and I discovered that he was a loyal Virginian, who, on the breaking out of the rebellion, had left family, friends, and a beautiful home, to enlist in our army. All his relations were bitterly opposed to the step; and he told me, with much pain, that when our army was in the neighborhood of his home, he had gone there to see his family, but that they had positively refused to see him, or even to allow him admittance. I could scarcely wonder at his depression after this; but it seemed to me that the consciousness of right, in the step he had taken, should have brought him more content and peace than he seemed to possess. A few afternoons since, he came in, as usual, with his waiter, to carry the supper to the sick men (those unable to leave their beds) in his ward. I noticed, as I arranged the plates for him, that he looked much disturbed, and that his hand trembled.

“King,” said I, “you are hardly strong enough yet to carry that waiter; you should ask one of the other orderlies to do it for you.”

I seemed to have fired a mine. Setting the waiter down upon the table, he burst forth:

“It’s no want of strength, Miss ----, but what would you think if you saw Dr. ---- and Dr. ---- (naming two of our surgeons) playing wardmaster and orderly in a hospital in the South? My position was just what theirs is, and I chafe at this menial work. My blood boils at playing waiter for the men here; I can’t stand it, and I won’t.”

I looked up in surprise. “What should I think, King, should I see such a dreadful sight as you suggest? I can tell you, very quickly, what I should think. If those gentlemen had, for the sake of their country, nobly given up every private tie as you have done, and, by the fortune of war, had been thrown into a hospital, I should honor and respect them for fulfilling every duty there imposed upon them; and I doubt not that they would do it most cheerfully, as part of the service their country asks at their hands. I should like to know, also, whether it is less menial for the ladies to turn cooks here, than for the men to turn waiters? I cannot recall that I ever “chafed” at the “menial work,” or that my “blood boiled” at cooking eggs, or boiling farina, unless on a hot summer’s day, when the fire seemed intolerable, but never, I am very sure, from shame at the occupation. We go even further, for we act both cook and waiter. A day never passes that we do not carry to the men what we have made for them, to see if they like it--to know if it suits them--or oftener still, to feed them, because they are unable to feed themselves. Think what a state of fever-heat our blood should be in at this time, after two years of such services!”

“But the case,” said he, “is not a parallel one. Your service, grateful as we all feel for it, is voluntary, this is compulsory.”

“I thought you were a volunteer, King? When you enlisted, did you specify just the kind of work you would do? When your country needed you, did you limit the aid you offered? What matter is it to you whether she asks you to fight for her, or to serve her by ministering to her sick and wounded members, suffering in a common cause from their efforts on her behalf.”

“I never thought of it in that light before.”

“Think of it so now, my man; you will be far happier. That southern blood is a little too hot, and you have failed to perceive that all work is dignified and ennobled by the spirit which you bring to it. Because you are a classical student, and feel that you have talents and acquirements which fit you for something higher, you chafe at this service; but, believe me, the faithful performance of your duties here, will by no means unfit you for a command in the field so soon as your services there shall win for you the promotion you so much desire. So take up your waiter, and don’t let your blood boil too much as you go up stairs, or you may upset my saucers.”

He took my lecture in very good part, and since then we have been excellent friends. I think, since he realized that I preferred talking to him to lecturing him, and liked to enter upon higher themes with him, which he is so well fitted to discuss, that he has become more contented, and has resolved to accept his position. Let us speak to him; notice how his eye brightens and his expression changes, as he speaks.

“Well, King, how are your men to-day?”

“I’ve just been waiting for you, Miss ----; Joe sent me to ask you for two of those hand-splints you received yesterday--for the left hand, please--they are for Jarvis and Wright--those very bad arms, you know.”

“Oh! yes. The splints that came with all those things, yesterday, from the Sanitary Commission. God bless that Sanitary Commission--what should we do without it? Our soldiers here have quite as much reason to be grateful as those in the field. Look at those shelves--all that wine, those jellies, preserves, syrups, and pickles, came from them, as well as these cushions, pads, and splints. They send us, constantly, fresh eggs, butter, lard, and such perishable articles as must be consumed at once. Here, King, take these splints, and then come back, will you, for some pickles I want to send to your men.”

“Yes, ma’am, certainly, if I can get down again; but Joe is going away on a furlough, to-day, and I am to be wardmaster till his return.”

“Shall your ‘blood boil’ more, or less, King, in your new position?”

Do you hear that merry laugh, as he goes up the stairs? No more fear for him; he is only making himself too useful, and we shall be sorry to see him returned to his regiment. Very tired, are you, of the study of character? I have about a dozen more men here that I should like to show you, but I will be merciful, and send you home, now, quite aware that you feel amply satisfied with your hospital diet to-day.

OUR GETTYSBURG MEN.

JULY, 1863.

It is with peculiar feelings of gratitude, joy, relief, and safety, that we have entered upon our duties this week. The one absorbing idea of the last ten days--the impatience for the news of each hour as it passed--the eagerness to seek the opinions of friends, even though such opinions brought but further disturbance of mind--the difficulty of deciding upon the proper course of action--the heavy, wearing anxiety--the slow realization that war, which we have, as yet, only looked upon at a distance, might, at a moment, be brought to our own doors,--our homes laid waste, and ourselves fugitives--all these things live too freshly in the minds of us all, to need word of mine to recall them. Who can ever forget the pressure which weighed down our spirits when we rose on that most memorable “Fourth” just passed?--the earnestness with which our cry to heaven went up for success to our arms--the pause of those long morning hours, when the whole city seemed holding its breath in terrible suspense--and then the grand, the glorious reaction, when the lightning flashed peace and joy and safety to all hearts? Did ever language bring more joy than those two blessed words, “Meade victorious?” What could we do but fall upon our knees, and offer up our hearts in thankfulness for such an answer to our prayers? God did that day “take the cause into his own hands, and judge between us and our enemies,” and we were saved. Was it not that, as a people, we had turned to him--as a people we had acknowledged the weakness of a human arm--as a people we had poured forth our hearts in prayer, and he had heard us?

Those were indeed never-to-be-forgotten days. Amid all other trials, came the sad thought of our poor, wounded men at home. What would be their fate? To leave them for the sake of personal safety seemed so base; martyrdom for and with them so attractive,--and yet it was not quite clear to my mind--much as I longed to aid them--what special benefit could accrue to them by self immolation on the rebel altar. It was a difficult question; and yet one always found payment for those anxious hours, in listening to the earnest promises of protection and defence--so evidently sincere--from those warm hearts; the wish and purpose so far outstripping the ability.

“Don’t you fear, ladies, we’ll take care of you.”

“We’ll fight for you while there’s a man of us left.”

“Yes, that we will! or a drop of blood left in our bodies.”

“We’ll make earthworks of our bodies before the rebs shall touch you, ladies, depend upon that.”

“Only protect yourselves,” said I, to a particularly valiant cripple, who had just expressed similar views for us, and slightly derogatory ones to the rebel general, then supposed to be approaching our city, “only protect yourselves, and I shall be quite satisfied.”

“Protect ourselves!” said a poor fellow unable to move in his bed; “they’ll make mince-meat of us, the first thing.”

I found that this “mince-meat” idea took more firm possession of my mind than almost any other connected with the raid; and one of the greatest reliefs which I experienced on that joyful day, was the consciousness that it could not now be put into execution.

The afternoon of the “Fourth,” as I entered the hospital, the beaming faces and glad congratulations of the poor fellows, proved how much they had dreaded the rebel invasion, in spite of the bold front which they had all presented, with the single exception of my “mince-meat” friend. I still recall, with pleasure, the intense delight of one man to whom I spoke of our victory. By some strange chance, which I never could explain, he had not heard it.

“Is that so? Is it really so? That’s bully. Let’s do something!” and, nothing else being at hand, he seized his pillow and sent it high into the air.

But now come the sad results, which must follow alike in the wake of victory or defeat. The wounded, where are they? A battle on our own soil, and at so short a distance from us, comparatively speaking, must bring them to us more directly from the field than any we have yet received; and we have been hoping all this week, as they were pouring into the city, that we should have our share.

“Hoping?” Yes, hoping; start not at the term, I have used it deliberately. Once launched upon the sea of hospital life, your views undergo a change, and your one interest becomes to receive, nurse, and watch the worst cases; it is the hospital spirit, and you cannot breathe its air without imbibing the feeling. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday have passed, with only the admittance of a few each day, none badly wounded, and none requiring special care or tending; and to those whose burning zeal makes them eager to pay off some part of their debt of gratitude to men, who, humanly speaking, have turned the enemy from their doors, this is somewhat of a disappointment. We have had, to be sure, the pleasure of several visits from old friends here, who had been slightly wounded in the fight, and have been returned to other hospitals.

It is Saturday afternoon. I have just seated myself in our room for a moment’s quiet, after a most busy, bustling day,--many sick, and much to do, although not exactly what we had wished for. M. rushes in, on her return from her dinner.

“Sitting quietly, I declare, as if nothing was going on! Do you know what’s at the door?”

“Nothing different from usual, I presume; you needn’t try to excite me; I’ve just taken a seat for a five minutes’ rest.”

“Go and look for yourself, then, if you are so incredulous. Ambulances and stretchers enough, I should think, to suit even your taste.”

As I hurry, half doubting, to the door, I meet one of our surgeons, paper and pencil in hand, talking to one of the wardmasters.

“How many beds in your ward? All ready, did you say? That’s right.”

“Plenty of work for the ladies, Miss ----; I see some pretty bad cases coming in.”

“Just what we wanted, doctor; we have been hoping they would come in our week, and it’s almost over.”

“Time enough, yet, to make them plenty of milk punch, and cold drinks. Some of them, I notice, are much exhausted, and will need stimulating.”