Part 9

A bustling scene meets me at the door of our room. A busy group is crowded there; some kneeling on the floor, strapping knapsacks and blankets; some jumping into the well known blue overcoats, which have enjoyed a profounder rest than their owners have done since their entrance into the hospital; some settling their caps well down over their eyes, as though cap and “caput” were never again to part company; while some (yes! they really have,) have begun to say goodbye. M. calls me, and I hurriedly enter.

“They’re going; you’ll be too late to see them off.”

“Hurrah, boys! Come on. We’re off. Goodbye, ladies! We won’t forget you. If ever the rebs come here, send for us; we’ll stand by you, and fight for you, too.”

“Goodbye, ma’am, if I get hit I hope they’ll send me here.”

“We’ve had a bully time here, and we’re proper sorry to go back. ‘Salt horse’ and ‘hard tack’ will come pretty hard, after all your nice little messes. Goodbye, ladies, and thank you kindly for all you’ve done for us.”

Such are the parting words, rough it may be, but coming from the heart, and therefore far more valuable than the elegant insincerity of more polished partings. But as character is shown in every action of life, we may easily detect the difference of nature even in their mode of saying goodbye. One comes forward with frank smile, and hand extended, his whole soul beaming from his honest eyes; he is glad to have known you, somewhat sorry to leave you, but so very happy to be off, that there is little room for any other feeling; and you take leave of him with satisfaction, sure that his contented nature will adapt itself to whatever circumstances may surround him. Another comes up really sorry to go, but thinking it beneath a soldier’s dignity to show feeling; he therefore tries to assume a perfectly indifferent air, but like everything assumed, it sits ill upon him, and we all know that in his heart “sober Sam,” as the boys nickname him, is more sorry to leave us than he cares to acknowledge. A third shocks our patriotism by openly declaring he don’t want to go; he don’t care to fight, and he’s sure he’s not fit for it either. Ah! Bob, isn’t it that you love your own ease a little too well? The field may not be quite so comfortable as it is here, but it is unworthy of a soldier to mind such trifles as want of bed, and occasional want of food. But Bob doesn’t think so, and whatever his other faults may be, he is honest in declaring his opinions. But here come the others, and we have but a few minutes more.

“Goodbye, Brown; take care of yourself; we shall miss you when we want our errands done.”

“Goodbye, Williams; don’t forget your promise.”

“Goodbye, Simpson; what shall we do without you for a wardmaster?”

“Goodbye, John; come back with shoulder-straps, and God bless you!”

That bright young face looks still brighter, as he says, “Why, Miss ----, that’s what they all say to me; I’ve been through the wards bidding the boys goodbye, and they all say ‘God bless you, John!’ Why do they say that to me?”

I could have told him without much difficulty why that genial, sunny nature, so full of bravery and beauty, of life and love, had won its way to the hearts of “the boys,” and called forth that warm “God bless you.” The Prayer from so many hearts seems to have won its answer; God has blessed him and guarded him from harm. Nobly has he fought, and the shoulder-straps are won. Promotion on the field “for distinguished services,” has been gained; and we now have the pleasure of directing our quondam “Private” John’s letters, to “Captain” John, of the Army of the Potomac. But as he is pressed on in the crowd, before I can answer his question, I notice a pale, quiet youth, always retiring and gentle, standing at my side with a hesitating air.

“Well, George, you’re off too; I won’t forget you, and you mustn’t forget me.”

He still stands, and still hesitates, saying nothing.

“Can I do anything for you, before you go, or perhaps after? Can I help you? tell me.”

“Yes, ma’am, you can help me. If you would just let me shake hands with you, I think it would help me on the battle-field, to remember it. I saw the others come up, but somehow I didn’t dare to, and I was so afraid I would have to go without.”

Poor George! Not many of the men are so troubled with modesty. Such a little boon to be asked for so earnestly! one, too, which half the men claim as a right in parting.

“You didn’t think, George, after all our talks, I could have let you go without shaking hands with you, did you? No, my boy,” said I, holding out my hand; “but I will do what will be more likely to help you on the battle-field, pray for you; and now, goodbye.”

He grasped my hand, and as he held it, a hot tear fell on it; he seemed shocked, dropped it, and rushed from the room into the crowd waiting at the door to start. The signal sounded, and they were gone.

“God go with them!” said an earnest voice at my side.

God will go with them! Doubt it not, Ye, whose fond, aching hearts Fear that your treasures are less safe, Because from you apart! Love, human love, is powerless, From Death or harm to shield; Our very lives, for theirs laid down, Could no protection yield.

God will go with them! Rest on that, When partings make Life dark; He guideth every bullet’s course, To hit or miss its mark. Then trust them amid shot and shell, To His unfailing care; And bow, submissive hearts, howe’er The answer comes to Prayer.

A VISIT TO THE WARDS.

U. S. A. HOSPITAL.

And so you really wish, dear C., to take that long-promised trip through the wards of our hospital? Most happy shall I be to escort you; and I promise, ere we start, to use every endeavor to prevent you from going any deeper than you wish into the “horrors of hospital life.” You shall not see an open wound if I can help it;--do not imagine that I have forgotten the effect upon you of the sight of that man’s arm the last time that you were here; and yet it was your own fault, for it was your expression of interest in him and his wound which led to the display; and we, hardened creatures that we have become, were not aware of your feelings till the harm was done. But put yourself under my guidance to-day, and I will pick out only the choice specimens. Yet no! I cannot do that exactly, for, in answer to a charge brought against me here a few days since, I have promised to select the worst cases--the _morally_ worst cases, I mean,--in the hospital, to show my friends. What was the charge? you ask. Nothing very heinous, to be sure. A friend, to whom I have very often talked of the hospital and its inmates, said to one of our medical cadets, as we walked through the wards:

“Tell me, doctor, is a hospital really the paradise Miss ---- represents it? Her soldiers are all perfectionists; they never quarrel, they never swear, they never drink, they never gamble; and more than this, they never get well; they are sure to die in some romantic way, with an interesting wife, mother, or sister, in the distance.”

My answer, of course, was a laugh, trusting to my friend, the cadet, to justify me; but here I was mistaken. His answer was a mere empty word of compliment, as to what the ladies made the hospital, etc., leaving the main question untouched. I therefore was compelled to take up my own defence, and assure her that the fact of my having preferred to dwell upon the interesting cases, was no proof that the hospital contained no others; that we all knew that either in or out of a hospital, our strongest feelings were called forth by extreme illness and danger.

“Like a bruised leaf, at touch of Fear, Its hidden fragrance Love gives out.”

More than this, that here, as elsewhere, people ceased to be interesting when they recovered; therefore, most naturally, I had not dwelt much upon such cases as had returned, cured, to their regiments. I further assured her that I had heard men both quarrel and swear; had seen them both drink and gamble within these walls; and that, at the very moment we were speaking, a special friend of mine--acknowledged to be the worst man in the hospital--was in the guard-house; a man who probably interested me more deeply and painfully than any one here; and whose story, could I tell it, might thrill her to her soul’s depths; but in this case also, there was an “interesting mother in the distance,” whose pale, patient, long-suffering face, mutely appealing to me from her sweet photograph, must seal my lips forever upon that sad subject. Because I had told her that oaths were checked in our presence, did it follow, I asked her, that they were never uttered in our absence? Because I had said, and most truly, that in my whole term of service I had never heard a rude word, or seen an act of discourtesy, either to myself or any of the lady visitors, did it follow that such words or acts never passed between themselves? Because I had shrunk from the painful theme of the guard-house and its inmates, did it follow that it was untenanted? And finally, triumphantly made her confess that, like too many amongst us, she had formed her conclusions on insufficient data, promising, as a reward for her generosity in owning herself routed, that henceforth I would reserve the pleasant cases for myself, and pick out the worst ones for my friends, as they seemed to prefer them. I tell you this, that you may understand why I take you, first of all, to the crossest man here, in preference to the most attractive and gentle. You do not care to see him, you say. Oh! yes. For the sake of my promise I must show him to you, and after that we can look at pleasanter specimens. He will not hurt you; it is only that nothing that can be done for him ever suits him, unless done by the ladies; for he is no exception to my rule, and is always polite to the ladies. Amongst ourselves we call him “The Grumbler,” so entirely that we sometimes forget his real name. I was amused, the other day, to hear M. say, as she designated the different saucers of corn-starch which she was giving to one of the orderlies, “You’ll remember, now, that this is for Davis, that for Strickland, that for Jones, and this for ‘the Grumbler.’”

“For who, ma’am, this last one, did you say?”

“The Grumbler,” repeated M. with perfect unconsciousness, as she continued to hunt spoons for the different saucers.

I quietly enjoyed the bewilderment of the orderly, but said nothing to enlighten him.

“That’s what a good many of them are, ma’am, when I goes back without enough for all, but I don’t know which one you mean now.”

M., thus recalled to herself, laughingly explained; and the idea that such was the ladies’ name for him, seemed to afford special delight to the poor orderly, who has doubtless been frequently the victim of his wrath.

“You’ve hit it this time, ladies; he does nothing but grumble from morning till night; nothing that I can do will suit, though I’ve tried till I am tired, to please him.”

Whether he has confided to him our flattering name for him or not, I have not yet been able to discover, but think it not at all unlikely. As we pass along to his bed, just notice the tables of the men, and see how carefully they have the “Lares and Penates” treasured up on them. Pictures of wife, mother, and sister, little remembrances carefully preserved; the Bible,--often the parting gift--and once or twice a little toy, which seemed to keep home fresh in the father’s heart; but one thing has often struck me with surprise; these all, as you may see, lie open on the table, but you will never see the bride elect--the promised one--so exposed; her memory and her face are as carefully guarded as though she were in danger of being captured and carried off by storm. I have seen quite as much reserve and delicacy of feeling upon this point, as I have ever met with in higher circles. The story comes at last; but it is often after months of watching and nursing, when you fancy every detail of home has been given over and over again,--it comes in bashful words and with heightened color, “I thought I’d like you to know;” or, “You won’t mention, will you? But”--and then comes confession. Or again, a sudden burst of gratitude seems to find vent in showing you that precious one, so carefully hidden all this long time; and a photograph is mutely placed in your hands, and of course no _woman_ ever yet said to any picture so given, “Who is this?” Ah! well. I fear you are tired, long ere this, of my earnest desire to prove that the human heart is the same all the world over, prince or peasant, baron or beggar, senator or serf; so let us walk on, and speak to our cross friend.

There he sits, on that bed opposite to us, in the red shirt, with his arm in the sling; that’s a bad wound, and I often excuse his irritability, because he is suffering so much with it, and I know that the doctor thinks amputation may be necessary. He is a good-looking man, if he would only smile and look good-natured, instead of frowning and scolding all the time. There comes his dinner; now listen, but don’t go up to him, just yet; if he sees the ladies, he won’t express his views so plainly.

Grumbler, loquitur. “Call that my dinner? Pitch it out, I say, pitch it out, or I’ll pitch you out! Didn’t I tell you the next time you brought me that greasy stuff you call soup, I’d report you? say, didn’t I?”

Down-trodden orderly, rising at last. “Pitch it out yourself! The other boys can eat it; I don’t see why you’re so mighty nice.”

“Mighty nice, indeed! I tell you it’s grub not fit for an almshouse, that’s what it is.”

Let us go up and speak to him; perhaps the sight of the ladies may allay his wrath.

“What’s the matter, George? what are you speaking so violently about?”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am; I didn’t know you were there.”

“But the whole hospital might have heard you; and I just want to know, for curiosity, whether you really referred to that chicken soup, when you said it was “grub fit for an almhouse?” because, if you did, I want to tell you that I have just finished feeding a very sick man with it, and that, as I tasted it before giving it to him, I thought how nicely it was made; and that, tired as I was, I should not object to have a little ordered for me.”

“It’s that coat of grease on the top, ma’am, that I can’t stand; it makes me sick, and I’ve told him over and over not to come near me with it, big fool that he is.”

“But, George, it’s very easy to remove that; it’s been standing, that’s all; look here, just take your spoon, and skim it off; there, see how nicely it looks below. Do you know I think you’re something like that soup yourself, crusty and disagreeable on the surface, but skim that off, go deeper, and I don’t believe you’re such a bad fellow, at heart, cross as you seem!”

“Why, do I seem cross, Miss ----? I don’t mean to be so, only they never bring me what I want; and this plaguey arm keeps aching so all the time.”

“That’s just what I thought; and I am sure that if we could only get that arm better, you would be a different man. I am sure you suffer with it a great deal. Try and take this nice corn-starch, maybe you’ll like it better than the soup.”

“That! Old scorched stuff! You won’t catch me taking that in a hurry, I guess.”

“Scorched? Why, George, it isn’t scorched.”

“Not scorched, ma’am? No milk, pretended to be boiled, ever came out of that kitchen yet, that wasn’t scorched.”

“That, I happen to know, is not so; but just tell me one thing,--have you tasted it?”

“Not I, and I don’t mean to; I know it’s bad, without tasting it.”

“Thank you, George, for your gratitude. We made that this morning, with our own hands, with particular care, and put the flavoring in it you said you liked the other day; it has never been near the kitchen, and I can answer for it’s not being scorched.”

“You made it, ma’am? The ladies? Then it’s the kind I like. I beg your pardon. Billy brought it in with the dinner, and I thought he got it out of the kitchen.”

“We sent it to you by Billy; but, if it had come from the kitchen, wouldn’t it have been as well to try it, before condemning it so strongly? I feel much mortified that this lady, who has come to see the hospital, where we try so hard to have the food nicely prepared, and delicacies provided for the men, can go home and tell that she herself heard one of them say, when his dinner was brought to him, ‘Pitch it out,’ for it was ‘grub not fit for an almshouse.’ You ought to be careful what you say, George, for perhaps you do not know what is the fact, that the testimony of the men, with regard to these things, outweighs tenfold all that the surgeons or the ladies can say. I constantly hear the remark, ‘Oh! yes. Of course it is to the interest of the surgeons to represent that everything is as it should be; the ladies are proud of their hospital, and of course praise it; but ask the men,--they are the ones to tell the truth about it--ask them if they are comfortable, and get what they want; if they are satisfied, be sure it is all right, and vice versa.’ Now, this lady has come in, and you know what she has heard, as the testimony of the only man she has yet listened to. Is this quite fair, George?”

“Oh! Miss ----, I’m very sorry, indeed I am. I didn’t mean it, you know I didn’t; only this plaguey arm, as I tell you, keeps me snappish-like.”

“Well, never mind, I don’t think you’ve done much harm this time; this lady shall taste both soup and corn-starch, if she will, and then she can hear her own testimony that the one is not greasy, nor the other scorched. Only grumble a little less next time, and we will forgive you now. But come, dear C., we are wasting too much time on one case, and there are so many here that I want you to see.”

Ah! here comes one of our finest specimens, a whole-souled, true-hearted man; one whom you may safely trust, and never fear that you will find your confidence misplaced, which, I am sorry to say, is not always the case. You shake your head, and mean by that, I suppose, that a man looking as well as he does, certainly might go back to his regiment. I grant you that he looks perfectly well, but let me beg you not always to be guided by appearances here, any more than elsewhere. Some of those we have supposed best fitted for service, were really the least able to bear exertion. I remember a case last winter, which taught me a lesson on that point. Corning, one of our men, who was afterwards made wardmaster, and whom I have often mentioned to you as one of my favorites, is the one I have in my mind. When he first came to us, he was suffering from a severe kick from a horse, which had broken several ribs; but after a few months he appeared so perfectly well, that we used very frequently to take the liberty of judging, and wonder why he was not returned to his regiment.

One afternoon, during a violent snow-storm, he undertook to join one or two of the men in a game of snow-balls; that evening, when we were preparing the suppers for the sick men, Corning failed to appear as usual for his ward, and we found that the exertion of the afternoon had been quite too much for him; he was in bed, and for weeks was not himself again. This showed me how thoroughly unfit for any but the lightest duty a man might be, and yet appear--as our friend here does--in good health. “Our Charlie,” as the men call him, is a general favorite; he was one of our orderlies, and has just been made wardmaster, and has proved very popular in that capacity. He has one of those sunny, genial natures which create an atmosphere of their own, and brighten every one who may chance to come within the sphere of their influence. Poor fellow! he was giving me an account, yesterday, of rather an unfortunate picnic which he was at the day before. A party of the men had obtained passes to go upon one of those excursions which are so popular here in summer; he had foolishly taken with him his pocket-book, containing thirty dollars (“John Greenback,” as they irreverently term the paymaster, having paid the hospital a visit the day before), which in a very short time he found he had lost. He had been sitting on the grass, with a set of men all of whom were known to him except one, whose appearance he had not liked when he joined the party; this man, who had just left them hurriedly, he felt convinced had taken it. On giving notice to the police, he was advised to say nothing, but keep a close watch, and he would probably be able to detect him.

“It wasn’t the money I cared for, a bit, Miss ----,” said poor Charlie, in telling me of it, “but the pocket-book had _that paper_ in it, and you know that was more to me than all in Uncle Sam’s treasury.”

I well knew what “that paper” meant, for it was through it that we first found out what a true, loving heart beat in the breast of our bright, frank, off-hand Charlie. His brother, also in the army, had been wounded, brought here to another hospital, and died there while Charlie was here, without his knowing it. With that thoughtful kindness which has brought comfort to many an aching heart during this sad war, one of the ladies preserved a lock of his hair for his family; and hearing, after all was over, that Charlie was here, brought it to him, and gave him all the particulars of his brother’s death. No one, who had once heard Charlie give that account, could ever forget it; the deep, bitter sorrow, which refused to be comforted; the unavailing regret--almost self-reproach--with which he wound up, “And to think I was so near, and never went to him!”--this seemed to be more than he could bear.