Part 4

That night, as I sat where the soft shadows of summer moonlight played peacefully in and out among grand old trees, my thoughts naturally clung to the scenes through which I had been passing, and dwelt upon those two who had both, though so differently, that day “entered into Life;” the one, through the Golden Gate of Baptism; the other, through “the grave and gate of death;” and in the calmness of that still night, the fervent wish arose, that they might both attain a “joyful resurrection, for His merits, Who died, and was buried, and rose again for us.”

THE TWO ANGELS.

U. S. A. HOSPITAL, August, 1862.

’Tis a hospital ward, and the sun’s cheerful rays Light up many a bed of pain, As the sufferers, seeking so sadly for ease, Turn wearily once and again.

A small group is gathered round one of the beds, Come with me, and stand by its side, Whilst the voice of the Priest softly sounds on the air As he pours the Baptismal tide.

By pillows supported, in sore strife for breath, See one enter that Army within; Whose Captain accepts all the maim’d and the halt, Whose service is no worth to Him.

O, wonderful Mercy, unspeakable Love! Who gave all His best for our sake; The few faded fragments and dregs of lost life, When offered, at latest, will take.

Holy words are pronounced, and his brow with wet Cross, Is sparkling with strange, wondrous light; Whence comes It? We see by that awe-stricken face That no longer, as erst, is it night.

There are moments in life, when, from earthly thoughts freed, To our sight purer vision is given; Can we doubt that bright Presence--the Angel of Life-- As It floats thro’ the air, is from Heaven?

White Wings are extended--no poet’s mere dream-- But truly protecting that head; And the Peace, passing earth, settles soft on our souls, As we kneel by that hospital bed.

A bustle, a noise and a crowd, and a stir! Some one’s dying! oh! come quickly, come! We hasten, but Man may not stay that Dread Hand, With its summons so swift to his Home.

The Angel of Death hovers close o’er the bed; The shadow falls dark on the face; And a chill and a hush rests on everything round, Each man standing still in his place.

Yet still the soul lingers, earth bound, as it seems, Till a voice whispers low, “The Last Prayer;” And those words--those grand words of our Mother, The Church-- Rise clearly and calm on the air.

It seems as they rise, to Faith’s eye, thro’ the space A path for the soul they have cleft; For we know, ere Amen’s last vibration is done, With the body alone we are left.

In the wards of Life’s Hospital, thus are the threads, Of Death and of Life intertwined; Grant, Lord, in our hour of need, that our souls Such vision of Angels may find!

BROWN.

“Alas, long-suffering and most patient God, Thou need’st be surelier God to bear with us, Than even to have made us!”

“How you can endure that man, is a mystery to me,” said M., to me one morning, as, in going through the wards, I paused at the bedside of one of the men, whose unattractive, even repulsive countenance fully justified the feeling. I did not answer what was the truth, “I cannot endure him,” for I had resolved on testing to the uttermost, my theory, most firmly held, that there is some good in every one--some key to the heart--some avenue by which the soul may be reached--some smouldering spark of good in darkest depths of evil; and more than this, we were not there to choose interesting cases, but to minister to all. Truly there was little room here for the romantic interest with which we are charged with investing our men. Originally of very low origin, bad habits, probably increased by the exposure of camp life, had sunk him lower; and I confess to a feeling of shame at the unconquerable disgust with which I approached him; but he was sick and suffering, and I tried to fix my mind upon the fact, rather than upon the cause which had produced it.

Several months of visiting, however, proved one point, that he certainly had a heart; further than this, I could not ascertain, even after many trials, until one morning he turned to me, suddenly, and said, pointing to the wall opposite his bed, “We have a light all night; I can’t sleep, and I’m all the time reading that.” I looked, and read the text in large letters, “There is more joy in heaven, over one sinner that repenteth,” &c. “Do you think there could ever be _joy_ over me?” The utter depression of the look, the hopelessness of the tone, and the mournful shake of the head, were touching in the extreme.

He seemed to long to do better, and promised earnestly to seek for strength to avoid temptation. A few weeks elapsed, and on my return, the answer to “Where is Brown?” was, “In the guard-house; he got better, got a pass, and, of course, came home drunk.”

A severe illness followed; this occurred again and again; the necessity for air and exercise gained him occasionally a pass from the surgeons, always followed by the same sad result. The men despised him, treated him accordingly, and his case seemed hopeless. One day, one of our poor men, who was in a dying condition, fancied a piece of fresh shad--it was one of those sick longings, which, of course, we were anxious to gratify. Permission gained to send for it, I turned to one of the men at my side, and said, “Will you go to the market and get it for him?” Brown, who was standing near, sprang eagerly forward, “Oh! do let me go for you; I won’t be a minute, and the doctor said a walk would be good for me.” The sad doubt in my mind must have written itself upon my face, for its effect was reflected by the deep pain and wounded expression in his own. My resolution was taken instantly, and I resolved to risk it. Holding the money to him, I said, “Take it, then, and come back quickly.” The blood rushed to his face, and the beaming look of gratitude made me sure that this was the best mode of treating him. Men are too often just what they are assumed to be; treat them as men of honor, such they will be; treat them as knaves, such also they will be. I mean not to affirm that there is no such thing as abstract truth or principle; far from it; but I do mean to say, that where the moral sense is weak, far more is gained by treating men as though we trusted, than as though we doubted. It is the unconscious tribute paid, all the world over, to honor and virtue. They would fain be or appear to be, all that we think them; and who can tell how far we may aid a sinking soul by the kind word of hopeful trust; or, on the other hand, by assuming a man to be utterly degraded, help to make him become so, in reality?

And yet, scarcely had Brown left my sight, ere the doubt returned. He had been doing better lately. I had thrown him into temptation; would he have strength to avoid it? Visions of illness, disgrace, suffering, and the guard-house, filled my mind. These thoughts were not dissipated by M.’s sudden question,

“Who did you send for that fish? How long he stays!”

With something of a pang of conscience, although quite aware that I had acted from the best motives, I said, courageously,

“I sent Brown; it is not so very long.”

“Brown! Oh! how could you? You know what will happen?”

As I rely upon her judgment more than my own, my anxiety is not relieved, though concealed. The minutes grow to hours, and still no tidings of him. Another trial; the wardmaster appears.

“G---- wants to know if you’ve got his fish? you promised to send at once.”

“Not yet,” I said, “but I hope I shall very soon.”

A very faint hope, it must be confessed. As he left the ladies’ room, I heard one of the men say to him,

“G----’ll get no fish to-day. Do you know who she sent? Brown, if you’ll believe it.”

A prolonged whistle. “Didn’t she know?”

“She might have, by this time, one would think.”

Heart sick, I turned away; my theory of trust henceforth must have exceptions. I had led another into sin, and he must suffer for my fault. Just at this instant Brown rushes in, flushed and heated, it is true, but with exercise alone,--that was quite plain--and handing me the money, pants out,

“I’ve been clean to the wharf, and couldn’t get a bit; I determined you should have it, and I’ve been through every market I knowed on, but not a blessed scrap could I find.”

“How glad I am!” broke involuntarily from my lips; and I was only recalled to the inappropriateness of the reply, by his look of puzzled wonder, and “What was it you said, miss?”

“Nothing,” I answered; “thank you for the trouble you have taken;” and he left me, much mystified by my evident delight at the failure of his errand.

The truth of his statement was verified by a lady, who (her carriage at the door) offered to see if she could be more successful. She returned, some time afterwards, bringing some other fish, and assuring me that it was quite impossible to procure any shad that day, at any price, as there was none in the market.

“They tell me, that I should not love Where I cannot esteem; But do not fear them, for to me False wisdom doth it seem.

“Nay,--rather I should love thee more The farther thou dost rove; For what Prayers are effectual, If not the Prayers of Love?”

DARLINGTON.

“I pity our sick men, to-day,” thought I, as I gladly took shelter within the hospital walls from the burning summer sun, which was beating with unusual violence upon the hot brick pavements and dusty streets. The city in summer, and “Dante’s Inferno,” always seem to me synonymous terms. It is on days like these, when the town seems so close and crowded, the heated air so heavy and impure, that I long to have the hospitals or their occupants all moved to the calm, cool country, where the poor sufferer may be beguiled from the thought of his pain by the sweet sights and sounds ever around him; that blessed blue, which no town sky can ever attain, let it try its best, broken by fair, floating masses of white clouds, their forms ever varying, yet each seeming more beautiful than the last; the glad, grateful green of woods and dells, which, like a loved presence, ever unconsciously soothes and satisfies; the soft, springing wild flowers, with their sweet, sunny smile,--these for the eye; while for the ear, listen to the cheerful chime with which that little babbling brook plays its accompaniment in “little sharps and trebles” to the chorus of voices overhead; no discord there--not one false note to jar the unstrung nerve, but all pure, perfect harmony.

Is there no medicine in all this? Rather, is it not worth, for purposes of cure, all, and more than all that the whole Materia Medica can offer? And yet there are men living on this earth who tell you, aye, even as though they were in earnest in the assertion, too, that they do not love the country--they prefer a city life. For such, I can only hope that retributive justice may bestow upon them a summer’s campaign in one of our city hospitals.

“Have you seen our new lot of wounded?”

“No. When did they come in? Any serious cases?”

“Only a few days ago. Yes, ma’am, some pretty bad wounds; worse than we’ve had yet--two of them can hardly live; but take care of one of them, when you go in; he’s as cross as thunder, if you go within a mile of his bed.”

This from one of the orderlies of the first ward, as my hand was upon the latch of the door. I confess the announcement was somewhat alarming, as we could then be but a few rods from his bed; however, “forewarned, forearmed.” I enter, and find the scene little different from usual, save that the vacant beds are all filled, and a few more have been added to the number, as they evidently stand much closer than they do ordinarily. I pass on to the familiar faces, and after a greeting with them, my attention is attracted by a bright, cheerful tune, whistled in a voice of uncommon sweetness. It comes from that bed where that poor arm is bandaged from shoulder to finger tip, and, right glad am I to hear it; the men who are cheerful, are, as a rule, always the first to recover. He stops as I come up.

“I am glad you can whistle; it shows you are not suffering so much as I feared, when I saw your bandages.”

He smiles, but says nothing; and I notice, as I come closer, that large drops of perspiration are standing in beads upon his brow; his one free hand is tightly clenched, and a nervous tremor runs over his whole frame.

One of my friends in a neighboring bed says, “Ah, Miss ----, you don’t know Robinson yet, he’s a new fellow, and we all laugh at him here; he says when the pain’s just so bad he can’t bear it nohow, he tries to whistle with all his might, and he finds it does him good.”

Whether from the suspension of this novel remedy for acute suffering, or a sudden increase of pain, I cannot tell; but as I turn to Robinson for a confirmation of this singular statement, the large tears are in his eyes, and roll slowly down his cheeks. He tries to smile, however, and says, “Oh, yes! it does help me wonderfully; it kind of makes me forget the pain, and think I’m at home again, where I’m always whistling. Nothing like keeping up a good heart. It don’t always ache like this--only in spells--it’ll stop after a bit. Never mind me, ma’am, I’m not half so bad as poor Darlington there.”

There seemed to me something touching in the extreme, in this earnest effort to subdue suffering by whistling up the bright memories of home, in the midst of such intense physical anguish, and in the endeavor to treat his own case as lightly as possible. Well has it been said, “Character is seen through small openings;” and as he appeared in this conversation, such did we find him always. Gentle, unselfish, and bearing his terrible suffering with a beautiful patience, ere long he became a general favorite throughout the whole hospital; and during the tedious months of close and constant nursing which his case required, every one seemed glad to help him and wait upon him at all times. But this is anticipating, for no doubt he will appear again, as for a long time he was one of our prime objects of interest, from the constant attention as to diet and delicacies which his case required.

As I pass on from bed to bed, I give rather a scrutinizing glance, in hopes of just seeing the formidable object whom I had been warned to avoid. But in vain. All seem quiet, and since my presence has stopped the whistling, nothing is heard but the men talking in an undertone, or an occasional low moan of pain, which seems to come from some one asleep and suffering. Suddenly, in my tour, I pause before a bed, struck by the expression of intense anguish on a sweet, young face, white as the pillow it rests upon; his fair hair tossed from the pale brow, which is painfully contracted, and his long, thin, taper fingers, white as the face, move convulsively as he sleeps. He is evidently badly wounded, for a hoop raises the clothes from his bandaged limb. Who can he be? Evidently those hands, even allowing for illness and loss of blood, have never seen rough service, and belong to some one of a higher class than we usually see as a Private here; for although we proudly acknowledge that some of the best blood of the country is now in the ranks, still it has not, as yet, been our good fortune to encounter its presence in this hospital. There is a sort of fascination about that face, and I stand gazing at him and wondering over him till Richards, one of our old attachés, comes up.

“Oh! he’s asleep, poor fellow, at last; that accounts for it; the boys are all wondering how you got so close; he’s in a great way, when he’s awake. He couldn’t bear you that near without screaming.”

“Surely this can’t be the man Foster said was ‘as cross as thunder?’” said I, thinking it utterly impossible that here was indeed the dreaded object I had been seeking.

“Well, yes, miss; the boys call him cross, but somehow I don’t think he means to be cross; only, you see he suffers so with that mashed-up limb, that he’s afraid they’ll touch him when they come near, and he calls out sudden like, and so they call him cross; but he’s as grateful as can be, for any little thing you do for him.”

“Is he very badly wounded?”

“Oh! yes. The doctors would have taken his leg right off, but they say he’s too weak to stand it; you never saw such a sight; he and Robinson, there, are an awful pair to look at.”

“Is this Darlington? I heard Robinson say that Darlington was worse than he was.”

“Yes, ma’am; the doctor says he’s not worse, only they take it different. You see, poor Tom here, frets all the time, and don’t give himself no chance; but that fellow over there’ll worry through yet, if pluck can do it.”

This was afterwards confirmed by the surgeon himself. He assured me that Robinson’s wound had appeared quite as dangerous--indeed, at one time, even more so; but his quiet, placid disposition aided his recovery immensely; while the terribly nervous temperament, and high state of nervous irritability of poor Darlington, were equally against him.

“I’m glad enough he’s sleeping,” added Richards, “for he’s been here for three days, and this is the first time, night or day, that I’ve caught him with his eyes shut; lots of anodyne, too, the doctors give him. It’s worry, worry, worry from morning to night about his sister; he wants so to see her, and says if she were only here, she could come near his bed and it wouldn’t hurt him.”

“Where does she live? Why don’t they send for her? he can’t live.”

“Away off in Michigan; and he won’t even have her told that he’s sick; he says wait till he’s better, and then he’ll write; but he won’t have her frightened. If he could only forget her for a little while, it’s my notion he’d do better; but I tell him none of the boys here make half the fuss after their wives that he does after his sister. Poor boy! he’s just twenty-one since he came in here, and I rather guess they must have thought a sight of him at home,--at least, he does of them,--too much for his own good, that’s certain; this terrible fretting after home, when they’re sick, does the boys a lot of harm.”

Knowing that Richards’ one talent was garrulity, I left him and went to our room, thinking that perhaps we might prepare something to tempt poor Darlington’s appetite; for the surgeon told us it was vital to keep up his strength, and yet he could scarcely be persuaded to touch anything which had been brought him.

As I well knew, from the state they described him to be in, that the sight of a stranger could not be agreeable to him, we sent everything we made for him through Richards, who constituted himself his body-guard from the moment of his entering the hospital, and a most faithful and untiring nurse he proved. Never again can I say that garrulity is his only talent; he developed then and there a gift for nursing for which those who best loved Darlington can never be too grateful. Days passed on, and I soon found that (as I had supposed) what the men termed “crossness,” was but the sad querulousness produced by suffering, and the state of which I have spoken.

While Robinson evidently gained,--though his attacks of pain were still marked by his own peculiar whistling, which we constantly heard in the ladies’ room, and always knew how to interpret,--Darlington was as evidently losing; and all hopes of amputation were necessarily abandoned. I could feel nothing but the most intense pity for him, and longing to comfort him; but it seemed impossible. M. said to me one day, “It certainly seems best, from what we see and hear of Darlington, to send, not take, his nourishment to him; and yet, perhaps our presence might be more welcome; but I hesitate, because the sight of any one coming near him seems to throw him into such a nervous state.”

“Yes,” said I, “any one but Richards; doesn’t it seem a strange fancy?”

And so we went on, for a week or more longer; for our interest in the case was so great, that even when not on duty at the hospital, we felt that we must know its progress. One day the surgeon came to me and begged me to try to cheer up Darlington, he was so down-hearted, would taste no food, etc.; must certainly sink unless some change could be made in his feelings. I went to his bedside at once, to see if he were awake, for much of the time he was kept under the effect of anodyne, to deaden the excessive pain. For many a long day did that look of deep, profound wretchedness haunt me, as he raised his soft, clear blue eyes to mine, and said, in the most earnest, pleading tone, “Dear lady, please to go away, I am so very wretched.” Any one who had ever suffered realized that there was no crossness here; physical suffering, acute and intense, was written in every line of his face, sounded in every tone of his voice, and most earnestly did I long to soothe him.

Without answering, I drew back, and laid my cold hands on his burning brow. His whole expression changed. “You like it,” I said; “I am so glad; we have all been wishing so much to do something to comfort you.”

A sweet smile, more touching than tears, passed over the poor white face, followed the next moment by the painful contraction of the muscles from suffering.

“But I want _her_!”

“Ah!” said I, “that sister! No one can take her place; we will write, and she can soon be here; she would come further than from Michigan, I am sure, to see a sick brother who loves her as you do.”

With more energy than I had ever seen in him, he lifted his head from the pillow, saying eagerly, “Never, never write to her; I wouldn’t have her see me so for all----”

But here, either from the effort, or from a sudden increase of pain, faintness came on; strong stimulants and the doctor’s presence were needed, and I left him. This, I trusted, however, might be a beginning.

The next day, when I came to him, he looked much sunken, and seemed altogether lower than I had yet seen him. He smiled, however, and tried to lift his hand, and point to his head.

“You like my cold hands,” said I, as I once more pressed them on his throbbing temples; “but perhaps this hot day, a little ice would be better; let me get you some.”

He said something which I could not catch; his voice sounded strangely weak and broken, and I was obliged to ask him to repeat it.

“No! oh no! I said your hands were better than any ice.”

“They put you in mind of that sister, is that it? Well, shut your eyes now, and try to fancy, just for a little while, that they are really hers, and that she is standing in my place, where I know she would so long to be.”

“That sister,” he said, quietly and gently, “whom I shall never see on this earth again.”

This was the first time that he had so spoken; always before he had alluded to being better--to getting home--to writing himself to her; but now it seemed he felt and realized his state.

These were the last words I ever heard poor Darlington speak, for I never saw him again. My week at the hospital was over; I was obliged to leave home for a short time, and when I returned he was at peace, and calmly laid to rest.

“Out of the darkness, into the light: No more sickness, no more sighing; No more suffering, self-denying; No more weakness, no more pain; Never a weary soul again; No more clouds, and no more night;-- Out of the darkness into the light.”

Although I was not present, I had the most touching account of his last hours from one who, in truth, acted a sister’s part,--watched by him, comforted, consoled, pointed him upward, and received his latest breath. With her own hands she cut off a lock of that fair hair for the poor sister, so fondly and so truly loved in her far-away home.