THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.
How those polished, cruel-looking instruments sparkled, and glittered,
and flashed; and how the sick man shuddered as he glanced toward the
table where they lay, asking, with quivering lip, if there were no other
alternative save the one their presence suggested.
“None but speedy death!” was the response of the attending surgeon, who
was too much accustomed to just such scenes as this, to appreciate the
feelings of that poor soldier, shrinking so painfully from what they
told him must be if he would live.
“None but speedy death,”—George repeated the words slowly to himself,
dwelling longest upon the last, as if to accustom himself to thoughts of
it.
“Wait a little, wait till I think the matter over,” he said, in reply to
the question, “are you ready?” and turning his face to the wall, so that
those about him should not see the fearful conflict going on, he thought
long and earnestly. Wasn’t it better to die than go back to Annie maimed
and disfigured for life? Better die than lose a portion of the manly
beauty of which he had been so proud. Would Annie love him just the
same, even though the strong right arm, which had toiled for her so
cheerfully, could never work for her again, never encircle her in its
embrace? Would the scarred stump be as dear to her as the well-moulded
limb had been? He did not know, and the tears, which all through the
weary days of his sickness had been kept back, now fell like rain upon
the pillow, as he fancied the meeting between his sweet young wife, and
her poor, crippled husband. The cottage on the hill so earnestly
coveted, would never be theirs now. He could not earn it. He could not
earn _much_ any way, with his left arm, and he groaned aloud, as he
thought of the poor unfortunate seen so often in the Rochester depot,
peddling daily papers. Would he ever come to that? He, who, but a few
months ago had so bright hopes for the future? Would the delicate Annie
he had meant to shield so carefully from every ill of life, yet be
compelled to earn the bread she ate? It was a sad, sad picture the
excited soldier drew of what the future might bring, and the fainting
spirit had almost cried out, “I would rather die!” when there came
stealing across his mind the memory of Annie’s parting words,
“If the body you bring back has in it my George’s heart, I shall love
you all the same.”
Yes, she would love him just the same, for, as it was not her fair,
sweet face alone which made her so dear to him, so it was not his
splendid form which made him dear to her. Annie’s love would not abate,
even though he went back to her the veriest cripple that ever crawled
the earth. But how different his going home would be from what he had
fondly hoped. No papers heralding his arrival; no dense crowd out to
meet him; no fife trilling a jubilee; no drum beating a welcome; no bell
ringing its merry peal; no carriage, no procession; nothing but the
curious gaze of the few who might come out to see how George Graham
looked without an arm, and whisper softly to each other, “Poor fellow,
how I pity him!” He didn’t want to be pitied; he would almost rather
die; and he did not want to die either, when he thought calmly of it. He
was not prepared; and forcing back the bitter tears, he turned his
white, worn face to William Mather, bending so sadly over him, and
whispered:
“Tell them they may cut it off, but not till you’ve written to Annie,
and I have signed my name. You know how she has begged for a word from
me. Tell them to keep away; they shall not intrude on my interview with
Annie.”
George was growing excited, but he became calm again when he found
himself alone with Mr. Mather, who wrote the letter which gave Annie so
much joy. There was nothing in it of the expected amputation; nothing
but encouragement that he should ere long come home to stay with her
always.
“There, give me the pen,” he said, when the letter was finished, and the
trembling fingers grasped it eagerly, but quickly let it fall as the
purple, festered flesh above the elbow throbbed and quivered with the
pain the sudden effort caused. “Once more; I’ll do it if it costs my
life!” he whispered, nerving himself with might and main, and then, with
Mr. Mather guiding his hand, he wrote his name, and the words, “God
bless you, darling Annie!” “It’s done, and she must never know the agony
it cost me,” he moaned, as his bandaged arm fell heavily at his side,
while with his other hand he wiped away the sweat which stood so thickly
upon his face. “Bring Annie’s Bible,” he said, “and lay it on my pillow.
It will make me bear it better. Oh, Annie, Annie, if you could be here
to pray for me! Can’t _you_?” and the dim eyes turned imploringly toward
Mr. Mather who shook his head hesitatingly.
Man of the world as he had been, he had not yet learned to pray, but he
could not resist that touching appeal, and bending down he answered:
“I never learned to pray, but while the operation is going on, I’ll do
the best I can. Shall I call them now?”
George nodded, and William admitted the two surgeons, who were growing
somewhat impatient at the delay. They were not naturally hard-hearted
men, but years of practice had brought them to look on amputations in a
mere business point of view. Still there was something about this case
which touched a chord of sympathy, and they spoke kindly to the
sufferer, telling him it would soon be over, and was not half so bad as
losing a leg would be. George made no reply except to shudder nervously
as he saw the cold, polished steel so soon to cut into his flesh.
“You’ll need bandages,” he said, his mind flashing backward to the day
when he had looked in at Rockland Hall, where Annie, with others, sat
working for just such a scene as this.
“It’s here,” Mr. Mather answered, pointing to a table where lay a ball
prepared for Company R.
Without knowing why he did so, Mr. Mather took it up and began
mechanically to unroll it, pausing suddenly as traces of a pencil met
his view. There was something written there,—something which made him
start as he read, “Annie Howard. It’s your Annie, George. Try to think
I’m there. Rockland, April, 1861.”
Was it a happen so, or a special providence that this bit of linen, over
which Annie’s prayers had been breathed, should come at last to him for
whom it was intended? Mr. Mather believed the latter, and pointed it out
to George, who, comprehending the truth at a glance, uttered a wild,
glad cry of joy as he pressed it to his lips.
“Yes, Annie, I know you are here. I can feel your presence, and it will
help to ease the pain. Begin without delay. Don’t wait, if it must be
done.”
There was a moment’s silence, a shutting of both William’s and George’s
eyes, and a shriek of anguish rang through the room as George cried out,
“Oh, Annie, Annie, stand up closer to me,—it makes me faint, it hurts me
so bad! Pray, Mr. Mather, pray!” and Mr. Mather did pray, the first
prayer which had passed his lips since his early boyhood,—not aloud, but
silently; and the writhing victim grew still at last, only shivering
once as the sharp saw glided through the splintered bone. Carefully they
bound up the bleeding stump with the soft linen Annie had sent, speaking
comforting words to the sufferer, who seemed to be stupefied, for he did
not notice what they said.
It was done at last; and after few directions the operators hurried off
to do for others, what they had done for George. Poor George, how long
and weary were the days and nights immediately succeeding the
amputation, and how horrible the sensation which prompted him to fancy
the severed limb was there; to feel the hot blood tingling through his
finger tips, throbbing through his wrists, streaming into his elbow
joints, and then to know ’twas all a mere delusion, for the right arm
once so full of vigor, was nought now, save a putrifying mass buried
away beneath the sod. He would not have Annie know it yet, he said. He
would rather spare her as long as possible, and so the news was withheld
from her, while day after day George waited and watched for the
favorable change which should make it safe for him to undertake the
tedious journey. Three times was the travelling-bag packed, with the
hope of going to-morrow, and as often did the doctor’s stern mandate bid
him wait a little longer.
At last the terribly nervous sensation passed away, taking with it all
the pain, and leaving no feeling save one of intense uneasiness and
languor, which the once strong man strove in vain to shake off, trying
day after day to sit up, if only for a moment, and as often falling back
upon his pillows from sheer exhaustion. He was only tired; he had never
been rested since the battle, he said, and if he could once go home to
Annie, and lie upon the lounge, where he last saw her kneeling, he
should get well so fast. Often in his troubled sleep he talked of her,
begging her not to spurn her poor, crippled husband, but to love him
just the same.
“I never can work for you as I used to do,” he would say, “never can buy
that cottage on the hill, but God won’t let us starve, and I shall love
you so much, so much, when I find you do not shrink away from poor,
mutilated George.”
It was a sad, but not unprofitable lesson, which William Mather was
learning by that bedside. At home in Rockland, where their positions
were so different, he had always respected George Graham, but he had
learned to love him now with a brother’s love, and gladly would he have
saved him for the sweet wife in whom his own darling Rose was so deeply
interested, and whose letters were silently working good in him as well
as George. Greatly his personal friends marvelled that he should stay so
closely immured within that sick-room, when he might, had he chosen,
have mingled much in the world without, and many were the attempts they
made to drag him away. But he withstood them all, and clung the closer
to his friend, who leaned upon him with all the trustful confidence of a
little child. Hour after hour he sat by his patient, reading to him from
Annie’s well-worn Bible, and when at last the heavy cloud was lifted,
and the pathway through the valley of death was divested of its gloom,
he was the first to whom the sick man imparted the joyful news, that
whether he lived or died, all was well,—all was peace within.
In silence and in tears Mr. Mather listened to the story of what was so
strange to him, and in the next letter sent to Rose, he told her of the
new resolves awakened within him, tracing them back to that humble
cottage in the Hollow, where Annie Graham, unknown save to a few, was
wielding a mighty power for good. Everything which he could do for
George he did, and Annie herself could scarcely have been more gentle or
kind; and George,—oh how grateful he was to his noble friend, blessing
him so often for the kindly deeds.
“God will surely let you go home unharmed,” he said one day when Mr.
Mather had been more than usually attentive. “I pray to Heaven every
hour, that you may never know the dreary heart-pang it costs one to die
away from home, and all that we hold dear, for I am dying. I have given
up the delusion that to-morrow will find me better. I shall never be
better until I wake in Heaven,—shall never go back to Annie,—never see
my old home again. It is a humble home, Mr. Mather, but you can’t begin
to guess how dear it is to me, because it is the spot where I brought
Annie after she was mine. How well I remember that first night of
housekeeping; how proud I felt, knowing it was my home, my table, my
wife sitting opposite—that her own darling hands had made the tea, and
cut the bread she passed me, and that I had earned it, too. The poor
have many joys to which the rich are strangers, and I’ve sometimes
thought we love each other more because there is little else to divide
our love. True it is that mortal man never loved a creature better than
I have loved my Annie. She was of gentler blood than I,—was far more
delicately reared, and I know it was an unequal match. She was far above
me in social position. Highly educated and accomplished, too; she was a
belle and favorite everywhere, while I was only George Graham,—a
mechanic and engineer. She kept nothing from me, and she told me of a
childish fancy when she was a mere girl of fourteen, but if she ever
sent a regret after the handsome, black-eyed boy,—the object of that
fancy,—it was not perceptible to me. Still, I think that may have had
its influence,—that, and the fact that her life was very wretched with
her proud, hard aunt, on whom she was dependent, and who wanted her to
marry a white-haired millionaire. But Annie chose me, and I have
worshipped her with an idolatry which I know was sinful in the sight of
Heaven, who will have the first place in our hearts. I have told you all
this because your wife has been a friend to Annie, and I want her to
know that Annie is her equal, if she did marry a poor mechanic. I am not
blaming any one. I know the distinctions there are in social life. I
should feel just so, too, perhaps, if I was rich and had been educated
as you were. Even as it is I always was proud to think my wife was a
lady-born, and I hoped one day to raise her to the position she ought to
fill. But that dream is over now. It matters little what becomes of the
body after the soul has left it, though I should rather lie in Rockland
graveyard, where Annie can sometimes come to see me, and I do so want to
hear her voice once more before I go,—to tell her with my own lips that
if in Heaven I find a place, she has led me there.”
“Suppose we send for her,” Mr. Mather said, the glad thought flashing
upon his mind of the joy it would be to see his own darling once more,
for if Annie came, Rose, he knew, was sure to come also. “I’ll send for
both Annie and Rose at once. They can come on together.”
Mr. Graham made no objection, and Mr. Mather set himself to the task of
writing the letter, which he hoped was to bring not only Annie, but his
own precious Rose.
“Don’t say a word about my _arm_. I’d rather tell her myself. She won’t
mind it so much when she sees how sick and weak I am,” George suggested;
and so Mr. Mather bade Rose keep the amputation to herself as
heretofore.
“You will defray Mrs. Graham’s expenses,” he wrote, “and come as soon as
possible, for her husband is nearer death than you imagine.”
The letter was finished and read aloud to George, who faintly nodded his
thanks, and then the message was sent on its way to the North.