THE DYING SOLDIER.
Backward now we turn, and stand again in the chamber where we saw the
glitter of the polished steel, and heard the bitter cry forced out by
pain from lips unused to give such sign of weakness. They were white now
as the wintry snow which covers the Northern hills, and the breath came
feebly from between them, as the sick man whispered faintly:
“I shall not be here if Annie comes, for when the drum beats on the
morrow, calling my comrades to their daily drill, I shall be far away
where sounds of battle were never heard but once. Oh the peace, the
quiet, the rest, there is in Heaven. I hope you will one day come to
share it with me; you who have been kinder than a brother,” and the
long, white fingers grasped the hand which for so many days and weeks
had soothed the aching head and cooled the fevered pillows with all a
woman’s tenderness.
Never for an hour had that faithful friend deserted his post. Day and
night had found him there, ministering to every want, and, as far as
human aid could do, smoothing the pathway leading so surely down to
death. But his vigils were almost over now; his release was just at
hand, for, as George had said, the morrow’s drum-beat would only find
there the body, which was so worn by suffering and disease, that William
Mather could lift it in his arms as easily as he could have lifted a
little child. He was greatly changed from the days when he had been
aptly called the Rockland Hercules. But as the outer man decayed, the
inner life grew strong and bright, shining forth at the last with all
the splendor which perfect faith in Christ’s Atonement can shed around a
death-bed. There was no repining now, no murmuring at the mysterious
dealings of Providence, nothing but sweet, childish confidence, and a
patient waiting for the end coming on so fast that George himself could
feel the irregular beat of his wiry pulse, and mark the death hue as it
came creeping on, settling first in purplish spots about his finger
tips, and spreading its ashen coloring over his clammy hands.
A stormy November night had closed over Washington, and the rain beat
dismally against the windows of the room where Mr. Mather bent over the
dying soldier, listening to what he said.
“You can’t tell Annie _all_,” George whispered, looking fondly up into
the face he had learned to love so well. “You must write it down so as
not to lose a single word. Bring pen and paper, and then sit where I can
see you, for the sight of you does me good; you have been so kind to
me.”
The writing utensils were brought, and then sitting where George could
look into his face, Mr. Mather wrote as the dying man dictated:
MY DEAR, DEAR, DARLING ANNIE:—It will be days, perhaps, before you see
this letter, and ere it reaches you somebody will have told you that
your poor George is dead! Are you crying, darling, as you read this?
Do the tears fall upon the words, ‘_poor George is dead_?’ Don’t cry,
my precious Annie. It makes my heart ache to think how you will sorrow
and I not there to comfort you. It’s hard to die away from home, but
not so hard as it would once have been, for I hope I am a different
man from the one who bade you good-bye a few short months ago; and,
darling, it _must_ comfort you to know that your prayers, your sweet
influence have led the wanderer home to God. We shall meet again in
Heaven, Annie,—meet where partings are unknown. It may be many years,
perhaps, and the grass upon my grave may blossom many times ere you
will sleep the sleep which knows no waking but at the last you’ll come
where I am waiting you. I _know_ I shall be there, Annie. All the
harassing doubts and fears are gone. Simple faith in the Saviour’s
promise has taken them away, and left me perfect peace. God bless you,
Annie darling, and grant that as you have guided me, so you may guide
others to that home above, where I am going so fast. You have made me
very happy since you have been my wife, and I bless you for it. It
makes my death pillow easier to know that not one bitter word has ever
passed between us,—nothing but perfect confidence and love. I was not
good enough for you, darling. None knows that better than myself. You
should have married one of gentler blood and higher birth than I, a
poor mechanic. I have always felt this more than you, perhaps, and
have tried so hard not to shame you with my homespun ways, had I
lived, I should have improved constantly beneath your refining
influence, but that is all past now, and it is well, perhaps, that it
is so. As you grew older you _might_ have felt there was a lack in me,
a something which did not satisfy the cravings of your higher nature,
and though you might not have loved me less, you would have seen that
we were not wholly congenial. I am well enough in my way, but I am not
a suitable companion for a girl of culture like yourself, and I’ve
often wondered that you should have chosen me. But you did, and again
I bless you for it. Never, never, was year so happy as the one I spent
with you, my darling, darling Annie, and I was looking forward to many
such, but God has decreed it otherwise, and what he does we know is
right. I shall never see you again! and though they will bring me back
to you, I shall not feel your tears upon my face, or see you bending
over my coffin-bed! Still I know you will do this, and that makes it
necessary for me to tell what, perhaps, has been too long withheld,
because I would spare you if possible.
“Annie, had I lived, I never could have toiled for you as I once did,
for where the right arm, which has held your light form so often, used
to be, there is nothing now but a scarred stump, and this is why I
have not written. Does it make you sicken and shrink away from me?
Don’t, Annie. Your crippled husband’s heart is as full of tenderness
now as ever. I was too proud of my figure, Annie, and the thought that
you might love me less when you knew how maimed I was, hurt more than
the cold, sharp steel, cutting into my throbbing flesh.
“And now, dear Annie, I come to the hardest part of all. I know just
how you’ll start and shudder at what you deem so cruel a
suggestion,—know just how keen the pang will be, for I have felt the
same and my spirit well nigh fainted as I thought of the time when
another’s caressess than mine would call the sweet love light to your
eye and kindle the soft blushes on your cheek. Listen to me, Annie.
You’ll be glad one day to remember that I told you what I did. You are
young and beautiful, and though you do not believe it now, the time
will surely come when my grave will not be visited as often as at
first, and the flowers you will plant above me when next spring’s sun
is shining will wither for want of care, and the rank grass growing
there will not be trodden down by your dear little feet, for they will
be waiting by another fireside than ours in the Hollow, and my Annie
will bear another name than mine. Do you discredit me, darling? It
will surely be, and I am willing that it should, but you will never
know the anguish it costs me to be willing. It is the bitterest drop
in all the bitter cup, but I drank it with tears and prayers, and now
I can calmly say to you what I am saying,—can even from my death-bed
give you to another, whoever he may be. You can never forget me, I
know; never forget your soldier husband, who fell in his country’s
cause, but by and by thoughts of him will cease to give you pain, and
our short married life will seem like some far-off dream.
“I cannot say how it would be with _me_ were you taken and I left, but
I am much like other men, and judging from their example I should do
just as they do, so if in after years another asks you, as I once did,
to be his guiding star, don’t refuse for me. Think that from my low
grave I bless you in your new relations, and will welcome you to
Heaven all the same, though you come fettered and bound with other
links than those my love has thrown around you.
“I am almost done now, Annie. There is a gathering film before my
eyes, and I feel the death chill creeping through my veins. It would
be sweet to have you here, as I go down the brink up which no traveler
has ever come; but it cannot be, and I will not repine. There is One
with me whose presence is dearer far than yours could be; One whose
everlasting arm will be beneath me as I pass over Jordan. Leaning on
Him I need no other stay, but shall go fearlessly down to death. There
is another with me, too,—an earthly friend, who has been kinder than a
brother, and my heart clings to him more fondly than he can ever
guess. Always respect William Mather, Annie, for what he has been to
me. Pray that prosperity may attend him all his days, and that at the
last he may find a place in Heaven. He is thinking of these things, I
know, and from the dreary hours spent with me there may yet spring up
plants of everlasting growth.
“My mind begins to wander, darling. There’s a rushing sound in my
ears, while thoughts of you and thoughts of that terrible Sabbath
battle are blended together. Good-bye, my precious one. Don’t cry too
much when you read this. It is not good-bye forever. A few more years
of earth to you, a moment of heavenly bliss to me and then we meet
again, where golden harps are ringing. I can almost hear them
now,—almost see the shining throngs sent out to meet me, just as I
once vainly dreamed the Rockland people would come to welcome me home
from war. In fancy I put my arms around your neck just as I used to
do; in fancy hold you to my bosom; in fancy kiss your girlish lips,
and smooth your pale brown hair.
“I don’t know how you’ll live without me; don’t know who will earn
your bread, but the God of the widow and fatherless will surely care
for my darling and keep her heart from breaking. With him I leave you,
knowing you are safer there than elsewhere.
“Good-bye, good-bye.”
There were great tear blots upon this letter, for Mr. Mather, as he
penned it, had wept over it like a child, forming a resolution which he
wondered had not suggested itself before. Kneeling by the dying George,
he said, “God _will_ care for your darling, and I shall be His
instrument. So long as I have a home, Annie shall not suffer. Rose’s
love was given to her long ago and mine will follow soon. She shall be a
sister to us both.”
The glazed eyes lighted up with joy, and the white lips whispered the
thanks which ended in a prayer for blessings on one who had proved
himself so kind to the poor soldier.
“Come closer to me,” they said; “take my hand in yours and keep it there
while I thank you for what you’ve been to me. You’ll forgive me, I know,
that I ever thought you proud, for I did, and sometimes there was a
bitter feeling in my heart when I saw your Rose surrounded with every
luxury, and thought of Annie, as highly educated as she, taking a far
lower place in Rockland, because her husband was a mechanic. There is
more of that feeling among the working classes than you imagine, and you
don’t know how much good a familiar word or a little notice from such a
you does to those who fill the humbler walks of life. Women feel this
more than men, and again I bless you for the care promised my Annie. I
do not ask that you should take her to your home as you suggest. You’ll
think differently of that bye and by, but see that she does not want;
see that no winter night shall find her hungry, no winter morning cold.
Oh, Annie, Annie, that you should ever come to this!”
It was a bitter, wailing cry, embodying all the mighty love the sick man
had ever felt for his young wife. George had thought himself resigned,
but weak human nature, which clings so tenaciously to life, was making
one last effort for the mastery, and the worn spirit fainted for a time
in the fierce struggle which ensued. The mind began to wander, and was
in fancy back again at the cottage in the Hollow, where the soldier
clasped his Annie to his bosom, begging of her in piteous tones not to
love him less because he was a cripple. “I have only one arm to work
with now, but I won’t let you starve, for when there’s but one crust
left, I’ll give it all to you, and laugh so merrily that you will never
guess how the hunger pain is gnawing at my heart. I’ve felt it once, my
darling. I know just what it’s like. ’Twas on that terrible day when our
brave boys met the foe, way up there at Manassas. There were hours, and
hours, and hours, when we neither ate nor drank, and the July sun poured
down so hotly, drying the perspiration which dropped from my hair like
rain. ’Twas my very life I sweat away that awful day, fighting for the
Union. Did you hear the battle, Annie,—hear the cannon’s bellowing
thunder as it echoed through the Virginia woods? Wasn’t it grand the
yell the Highlanders gave, as, with the 69th, they bore down battery
after battery, and plunged into the enemy’s midst! How bravely our
company played their part, fighting their way through shot and shell,
and blood and brains, wading ankle-deep in human gore! Hurrah for the
Stars and Stripes, my boys! Three cheers for the Federal Flag! Yes, give
us three times three; and when it floats again over all the land,
remember the soldiers who helped defend it. Hurrah, hurrah!”
Mr. Mather shuddered as the wild shout rang through the room. It seemed
so like a mockery, that dying soldier shouting for liberty, and trying
in vain to wave aloft his poor, scarred stump. Anon, however, the
patriotic mood was changed, and the voice was very sad which whispered:
“But hush! what sounds are these, mingling in the glad notes of victory?
’Tis the widow, the orphan, the mother, weeping over the slain! There’s
mourning East and West; there’s weeping North and South, for the dead
who will return no more! A crushed rebellion is hardly worth the fearful
price. Oh, Annie, pray for the poor soldier,—everybody pray. Honor our
memory,—forget our faults,—speak kindly of us when we are gone. We gave
our life for freedom! ’Tis all that we can do. Speak kindly of the
soldiers slain!”
Reason was struggling back again; and bending lower, Mr. Mather said:
“George, we _will_ honor the soldiers dead, and care for the soldiers
living.”
“Yes, yes!” George answered, faintly. “They need it so much,—more than
the people guess who stay at home and _read_ about the war. It will be
long, and the contest terrible. The North is strong, and the South
determined, and both will fight like fiends. But right must conquer at
last, and the Star Spangled Banner shall wave again even over misguided
Charleston, whose sons and daughters shall weep for joy as they greet
the joyful sight. God speed the happy day!”
Mr. Mather could only press the hand which lay again in his. He could
not speak, for he knew there was a _third presence_ now in the
sick-room,—that its dark form was shading the bed whereon he sat, and
with that feeling of awe death always inspires, he sat silently watching
its progress, and thinking, it may be, of the future time when _William
Mather_ would be the dying one instead of George Graham. Slowly the
marble pallor and the strange chill crept on, pinching the nose,
contracting the lips, touching the forehead and moistening the soft
brown hair which William smoothed caressingly, as he bent down to catch
the last faint whisperings of a spirit nearly gone.
“We fought the battle bravely. Tell them not to be discouraged because
of one defeat. Our cause is just. ’Twill triumph at the last. Don’t be
too bitter toward the South; there are kind hearts there as well as
here, and its daughters weep as sadly as any at the North. God help and
pity them all. Annie, darling, I am almost home; so near that I can see
the pearly gates which stand open night and day. It is not hard to
die,—no pain, no anguish now,—nothing but joy and gladness and
everlasting _rest, rest_,—perfect rest for the Redeemed.”
* * * * *
Drearily the November wind went sweeping down the street, and the
sobbing rain beat against the window, whilst the misty daylight came
struggling faintly into the silent room which held the living and the
dead; the one cold, and white, and still, his features wearing a smile
of peace as if he had indeed entered into everlasting rest,—the other
kneeling by his side, and with his face buried in the pillows, praying
that when his time should come, he, too, might die the death of the
righteous, and go where George had gone.