Part 5

She told me, in speaking of the last days of his life, that after I had left, and as death drew near, all that restlessness and irritability passed away, and that he lay calm and peaceful as a little child; talked to her quietly--sent messages to his home--gave particular directions as to his funeral--saying that it would satisfy them all at home, to know everything had been carefully attended to, and that they would see that it was all paid for. Every wish was carried out; his body was wrapped in the Flag; our own grand Service for the Dead said over him; his faithful nurse, “Uncle Richards,” following him to his grave,--in one of the lots generously given by one of the cemeteries in the neighborhood of the city. It was a great comfort to know that he looked at Death without fear; his mind had evidently been dwelling much and deeply upon the subject, during many of those long hours when we had supposed him to be in a stupor. He expressed a sure and steadfast trust in the merits of his dear Lord and Saviour, and rested with a quiet confidence upon His mercy. He passed away calmly and gently, and we have perfect trust that he sleeps in Paradise. Such was the account I received on my return.

“And, comforted, I praised the grace Which him had led to be An early seeker of That Face Which he should early see.”

Perhaps the most pathetic part of the whole thing, was to see the deep, real, unostentatious grief of poor Richards, who seemed as if he had lost a son. This was a strange case altogether. Richards was a man who had been in the English army; tall, fine-looking, with a military air and bearing, which had impressed me much when he first came to the hospital; but I soon found that his habits were bad, and that any permission to go out was sure to be followed by a night in the guard-house, and days in bed. And yet a kinder heart could scarcely be found. He had devoted himself to more than one of the men, and watched them night after night till their death. In one instance, when one man whom he had been nursing was to be taken home, here in the city, he obtained permission to go with him and nurse him, sitting up with him and watching him till his death. As at such times he always remained perfectly sober, it was suggested to make him nurse, (his disease rendering a return to his regiment impossible,) with the hope that the good influence over him which this work seemed to possess, might be permanent; but this would not do; he could not be trusted unless he had a special interest in the man he was nursing, and what was necessary to create such interest he alone knew. Whatever the qualities were, Darlington possessed them in the highest degree. He seemed to attract him from the first, and the love was warmly returned. Darlington thought no one could move him, no one could feed him, no one could dress his wound but “Uncle Richards, dear Uncle Richards,” as he called him; and often have I wondered at the tender love which seemed to exist between them. Those who were present told me that it was truly wonderful to watch Richards all through that last day, kneeling at his bedside, praying with him, repeating text after text of Scripture or hymns, as he asked for them. One of the last things Darlington said was, “Where is dear Uncle Richards? I want to put my arms round his neck, and thank him for all his goodness and kindness to me.”

And yet this is the man of whom some one said to me, only a day or two since, “Why do you speak to that worthless fellow?”

One day, in my next week at the hospital, Richards came to me, and with the usual salute, which he never forgets, said, “Miss ----, you used to care for poor Tom, would you let me tell you about him? The world seems so lonely to me, now he’s gone.”

I gladly assented, and seated on an old packing-box, in the corner of the hospital entry, I listened to his story. He gave me every detail of his illness, most of them already familiar to me; told, with evident pride, how the poor fellow thought nobody but himself could do anything for him.

“You mind, miss, don’t you, how the first day you saw him, I told you he didn’t mean to be cross, though the boys thought him so? Well, he told me before he died, how sorry he was they had thought so, but they could never know what agony it was to him to see them come near him; but now he felt that he ought to have tried to bear it all more patiently. Poor Tom! there’s not been many like him here, and there’ll never be any like him to me,” and hard, heavy sobs shook his whole frame.

I spoke to him of the comfort he had been to him; of the kind way in which he had watched him, and how we had all noticed it; and won a promise from him, in his softened state, that henceforward he would try so to live as to meet him hereafter; and I really believe that at the time he was sincere; but habit is a fearful thing, and the struggle against a sin so confirmed more fearful still.

Some days afterwards, he came to me, when there were others present, and said:

“I had a letter from _her_ to-day.”

My thoughts were far enough from Darlington at the moment, and I answered,

“From whom?”

“From _her_, you know!”

“And who do you mean by ‘her?’”

“His sister, to be sure,” he said, in an injured tone, as though I should have known that, at present, there was but one subject for him.

“Oh, have you? What does she say?”

“Not now, not now,” he said, looking at the others, as though the grief were too fresh, the subject too sacred, to be mentioned so publicly; “but I just thought you’d like to know.”

At a quiet moment, the next day, he begged me to let him tell me what she had written;--her warm, earnest thanks to him for all his love and tenderness to her darling brother; and begging him to plant some flowers where he was laid to rest. This may never be in his power, but there are those who will never forget to care for and cherish the low grave of that young Private.

MILITARY HOSPITAL, July, 1862.

What matters it, one more, or less? A Private died to-day; “Bring up a stretcher--bear him off-- And take that bed away; Put 39 into his place, It is more airy there; And give his knapsack, and those clothes, Into the steward’s care.”

So, it is over. All is done! And, ere the evening guard, Few thought of the Dread Presence That day within the ward.-- Few thought of the young Private, Whose suffering, pallid brow Was knit by torture, not by time,-- Unfurrow’d by Life’s plough.

Few thought upon the agony In that far western home, Where he, their hearts’ best treasure, Was never more to come; For Privates have both hearts and homes, And Privates, too, can love; And Privates’ prayers, thank God for that! May reach the Throne above.

We know thee not, sad sister! Whose name so oft he breathed, Till it would seem that thoughts of thee Round his whole being wreathed; But by the love he bore for thee, We catch a glimpse of thine; And, by the bond of sisterhood, We meet beside his shrine.

We meet to tell thee, stricken soul! That strangers held thy place-- Sisters by Nature’s right, and he, Brother, by right of race. While pillow’d tenderly his head, Cooled was his burning brain By loving hands; and one fair curl, Severed for thee, sweet pain!

If comfort be not mockery In such a harrowing hour, O, find it in his cherishing, And let the thought have power; Thy brain must turn, or so thou deem’st, He, needing love and care, Knowing ’twas granted, thou canst kneel And ask for strength to bear.

O men, his brothers, bear in mind, For all, our dear Lord died! Souls own but one Commission-- Love of The Crucified! Right gallant are the Officers-- Men, noble, brave, and true; But when you breathe a Prayer for them, Say one for Privates too.

“LITTLE CORNING.”

Let no one imagine that hospital life is all gloom. Sickness and suffering are, of course, the normal condition, but we try to crowd in all the brightness we can; games, gayety, and gladness, have their place. One such presence as that of “Little Corning” must insure some sunshine. How can I describe that quaint, droll, merry little sergeant, once seen, never to be forgotten?

“Little Corning,” we always called him, to distinguish him from our tall wardmaster of the same name; and most appropriate, too, did it seem to his little, short, squat figure. I always contended that he had been a sailor, from the roll and pitch in his gait, and a certain way he had of giving a lurch whenever he wanted to reach anything near him. He assured me most positively that such was not the case; but I still continue to think that he must have been, in some former state of existence, if not in this. Many men have been convicted before now on circumstantial evidence, why should not he be also? Perhaps he did not choose to confess the fact--no man is bound to criminate himself--therefore I see no good reason for giving up my first conviction, and many for holding it; ergo, I repeat that I think he had been a sailor.

I never heard a merrier laugh, or knew a happier nature. He seemed to possess the blessed faculty of shedding sunshine and joy all around him; many a harsh word has been hushed, many an incipient quarrel checked, by his odd, dry way of placing things in a ludicrous light, and thus changing churlishness into cheerfulness, moroseness into merriment. Momus certainly presided at his birth, touched him with his wand, and claimed him for his own.

He had the best reason for his uniform cheerfulness; indeed, the only one which can ever secure it. His Christianity was of a truly healthy order, and certainly brought him both content and peace. During his residence of many months in the hospital, I never saw a frown upon his face, or heard anything but a bright, joyous laugh, or pleasant word from him. Often, in my rounds, I would come upon him, unexpectedly, in some obscure corner, poring over his Bible, apparently quite absorbed in it, and yet always ready to lay it aside when he could make himself useful, but returning to it as a pleasure, when his work was accomplished.

He had a remarkably fine tenor voice, and I have often seen men of all sorts and tastes gathered round him, listening by the hour to Methodist hymns, for the sake, we must suppose, of those uncommon tones, rather than of the words which called them forth.

One morning he came into the ladies’ room, and informed us, with much delight, that Mr. ---- had promised to ask some of the pupils from the Blind Asylum to come to the hospital the next evening, to give a concert, begging us to be present.

I told him that, for one of us, that would be quite impossible; it would be pleasant, but could not be arranged. He seemed much disappointed, but soon left the room, and I had forgotten all about it, when, an hour or two later, he burst into the room, quite radiant, exclaiming, “It’s all fixed, we’ve got it all fixed.”

“What’s all fixed?” said I, my mind intent on some refractory oysters which refused to boil.

“The concert, to be sure. Mr. ---- has arranged it for to-morrow afternoon, and now you’ll come.”

I thanked him, and gladly accepted for us both, promising to make all our necessary preparations for the supper of our sick men, quite early, so that we might be ready in time. At the appointed hour, the next afternoon, “Little Corning” presented himself.

“Come, ladies, come quickly! the boys are all in the dining-room; I’ve brought chairs for you, and they’re quite ready to begin.”

“Wait a minute; not just yet; sick men come first.”

“Oh! please now, come, won’t you? Suppose just for once that the boys are sick on the field, and never mind them to-night.”

“For shame, sergeant! Such counsel from you? We cannot believe it. Go in, and we will follow you.”

But although music is his passion, and he is burning to be there, he gallantly prefers to wait, and be our escort; and in pity for him, we hurry as much as possible; and now we are done; let us go.

There are our chairs, all arranged for us. What a crowd! At least, a crowd for our number of well men,--over a hundred, certainly; all who are fit to be out of their beds, and some who, we very well know, are not. See how they are jammed together; on benches, on the dining-table itself, in the windows, and on every available spot, battered and bandaged, _wrappered_ and wrinkled, suffering and smiling, in one promiscuous mass. Look at that pale boy, sitting on the corner of the table on our right; he has been as ill as possible with typhoid fever, and surely can never sit through the concert in that position. Let him try for a while, however; the whole scene will do him more good, by amusing and diverting his mind, than the exertion can do him harm. Truly, as we glance around, it is a strange scene. Men from North, East, and West, gathered together--in dress and undress uniform; from the cavalry jacket, with its yellow facings, to dressing-gowns and even shirt-sleeves; all eagerly and earnestly bent upon one idea; but even as they gaze, can you not read their characters, and place their homes? Each State has its own characteristics so strongly marked, that I have often laughingly promised to tell each man in a ward, from whence he came; and after a little practice, one seldom makes a mistake,--at least never wanders far from the truth; but we cannot stop to discuss that point now, as the songs are beginning.

But stop! It cannot be. Look, M., look! It actually is. Our naughty, disobedient, handsome Harry, with his bandaged limb on a chair, over there by the window. Only this morning did I hear the surgeon give orders to have that limb put in a fracture-trough, as the only means to preserve perfect stillness for it. I saw, later, that it had been done; and now look--everything removed, and here he is. That was a very severe wound, from which he has been suffering for many months; he told me yesterday, that, in all, fifty pieces of bone had been taken out of his leg; the surgeons rather pride themselves on having prevented the necessity of amputation by the closest watching and care; and we cannot help feeling provoked with him for persisting in moving about, when perfect rest is so essential to his cure. And yet, who could ever be angry with Harry, for any length of time? He has a way of his own of winning us over to his side, and we know what a warm heart beats beneath that wilfulness; but arguments with him are of little avail; the other day, in reply to my earnest remonstrances, he said:

“But, Miss ----, my leg is my own, and if I like to have a little fun now, and lose it afterwards, will any one but myself suffer?”

We have almost given him up as incorrigible. Patriotic songs are fast following each other,--and certainly the applause is “sui generis.” Crutches pounded on the floor, and splints hammered on the table, with an energy and fervor which threaten their own destruction; but the sightless singers receive it all apparently with the greatest satisfaction, deeming that the greater the noise, the greater the pleasure, and probably such is the case.

Listen. What is that tall singer saying? He has already twice repeated it, but he cannot hope to be heard in this confusion. See!--he is trying again: “I want you all to be quite still now, and listen to this song; make no noise, if you please.”

An instant hush, and eager expectation on every face. The singer begins the well-known “Laughing Chorus,”--well-known here, but evidently a perfect novelty to these listeners.

For a few moments there is an effort to maintain quiet, but suddenly their pent-up feelings break forth, and peal after peal of heartiest laughter rings through the room. In vain they try to stop--a moment’s pause, and the singer’s voice is heard, seeming only to give the key-note, which one after another takes up, till, in the wild storm that follows, they are entirely unaware that he has come to a conclusion--that it is all over and done, and the singers are leaving. Just at this moment my eye is caught by our friend, the sergeant, his head resting on the table, his face almost purple, and his whole frame literally convulsed with laughter.

“Corning! Corning! stop! you will be sick.”

But in vain; that laugh must be laughed out; and he cannot even recover himself sufficiently to join in the vote of thanks which the men are offering to the kind friend who had given them this enjoyment.

The next morning, when I arrived, I said to M. at once, “How is Harry, to-day?”

“Not in the least the worse, by his own account; but I hear Little Corning is in bed--actually made sick, from the effects of the concert.”

This scarcely surprised me, as I had feared it, knowing that he was far from strong.

A little later in the morning, something called me over to the ward in which he was, and as I entered I heard a groan; to my surprise, it came from our little friend, who was, as M. had heard, in bed, and evidently suffering.

“Why, sergeant,” said I, “I am sorry to see that the concert has had such a bad effect.”

But at my approach the groan was turned into a hearty laugh, though it was quite plain that the suffering continued.

“Oh! Miss ----, don’t, please don’t! I can’t begin again. I ache all over in each separate muscle, and I’ve lost all faith in you.”

“I don’t want you to begin again; but what do you mean by having ‘lost faith in me?’”

“Why, don’t you remember, you always said a good laugh was the best medicine?--and it’s come near killing me--oh, dear! oh, dear!”

“That bottle, standing on the table at your side, Corning, is marked to be taken by the teaspoonful; perhaps, if you were to empty it at a dose, it might have the same effect. I never recommended such immoderate laughter.”

“Oh, please don’t speak of it. It brings it up so.”

The remembrance was quite too much, and one fit of laughter followed another, strangely interspersed with groans of pain, from the soreness of the muscles. That merry laugh was at all times most contagious; the men quickly crowded round, joining in it without asking any reason, and we bade fair to have the scene of yesterday re-enacted.

To preserve gravity was quite impossible, there was something so irresistibly ludicrous in the whole affair, but I felt that it must be stopped.

“Corning! this will never do; you must control yourself; you will be ill; and besides, you are disturbing our sick men.”

“I think, Miss ----,” said he, with a violent effort at composure, “if you won’t take it hard, if you’d just go away; if I didn’t see you, I might get quiet.”

“Certainly I will. I won’t ‘take it hard,’ at all, and I will come back when you are quieter.”

“Oh! please no! Oh! don’t come back; if you do, it’ll be as bad as ever again.”

The idea was quite enough; and the last sound I heard, as I withdrew my mirth-inspiring presence, was another of those clear, ringing laughs. How I longed to have the same effect upon the poor fellows in another ward, where I had vainly racked my brain for many days, to call up even a faint smile on their depressed and weary faces. I sent everything over to the sergeant’s ward through the day, not risking my dangerous presence there; and even at night judged it better not to go over to say goodbye, although it was Saturday night, and my duties for the week were over.

When I came again, my merry friend had been returned to his regiment, and that had been our final interview. I have often wondered since, how (if ever) we should meet again? Whether that last laughing parting will linger in his mind, or whether its memory shall have been crushed out by the stern realities of war?

NOTE.--The problem has been solved. To our amazement, the week after the Gettysburg fight, Little Corning walked into the ladies’ room at the hospital, fresh from the field--or rather, anything but fresh. Tattered and battered, soiled and moiled; his head tied up, and looking very much, on the whole, as though he had been in an Irish row. He had been wounded in the temple by a shell; but not dangerously, and had hastened to “his old home,” as he called it, as soon as he arrived, although to his great regret, as well as ours, he had been placed in another hospital.

We welcomed him warmly, and were too full of his danger and our own--his escape and our own, to revert to past days for more than a word. He had not lost his old bright spirit, and when we told him how pleasant it was to have our old friends for our defenders, his eye sparkled, and he said, “Yes; I felt all the time I was fighting for you.” And thus we met again.

* * * * *

“No stream from its source Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course, But what some land is gladdened. No star ever rose And set, without influence somewhere. Who knows What earth needs from earth’s lowest creature? No life Can be pure in its purpose, and strong in its strife, And all life not be purer and stronger thereby: The spirits of just men made perfect on high; The Army of Martyrs who stand by the throne, And gaze into The Face that makes glorious their own, Know this surely at last. Honest love, honest sorrow; Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow,-- Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary? The heart they have saddened, the life they leave dreary? Hush! the sevenfold Heavens to the voice of the Spirit Echo, ‘He that o’ercometh, shall all things inherit.’”

GAVIN.

How sadly and how strangely we misjudge our brother! We walk daily by his side, and receive the cold exterior as a type of the inner life, forgetting that hardness, sternness, and repelling reserve, may be only the crust of the crater, hiding the lava beneath. How comes it that, when, in our own case, we are all so well aware that,

“Not ev’n the tenderest heart, and next, our own, Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh;”

yet, we will not believe in the secret sufferings of others? Instead of seeking to win the unstrung instrument back to harmony, by the tender touch of loving sympathy, we mete out precisely the measure meted to us; oppose coldness to coldness, hardness to hardness, reserve to reserve, and thus a wall is built up between us, and all hope of influence is gone. We need more trust in, and more charity for, each other. Woe to the sick soul, suffering and sorrowful, its sickness only shown by the petulant word, the rude retort, the outward expression of inward wretchedness,--woe to such a soul, I say, were it left only to man’s tender mercies. Most mercifully it is not. Infinite Love breathes balm upon it. Infinite Compassion soothes it. When shall we even begin to imitate the one, or strive to attain to the other?

These thoughts were called up by a keen sense of the injustice of my own judgment, in a special case, only discovered this very day.

A sunny, bright afternoon. Our men are all improving, none dangerously ill; the most of them have sought the yard, to walk, to smoke, to sing, or play at such games as cannot be carried on in-doors. Everything has a more cheerful aspect than usual. If melancholy and depression are infectious, so, happily, are mirth and gayety; and as the chorus of one of our favorite army songs rings out on the air, I find myself joining in it, as I spring up the stairs, two at a time, on an errand. Scarcely noticing where I am going, I suddenly stumble upon something on the stair.

“Why, Gavin, can that be you?”

Dashed upon the floor, his face buried in his hands, his whole attitude denoting utter despair, he does not even move or notice my question.