THE RICHMOND CAPTIVES.
How close, and dirty, and terrible it was on that third floor of the
dingy tobacco house, where Isaac, as a private, was first confined, and
as the summer days glided by and the August sun came pouring into the
great, disorderly room, how the young boy panted and pined for a breath
of sweet, pure air, such as swept over the far-off Eastern hills, and
how full of wistful yearning were the glances he cast toward the grated
windows, seeking to catch glimpses of the busy world without, in which
he could not mingle. Not very near those windows did he dare approach,
for more than one had already paid the penalty of such transgression,
and in his dreams, Isaac saw yet the white death agony which stole over
the face of the Fire Zouave shot by the inhuman guard while looking from
the window.
No wonder that the homesick boy grew sadder, wearier each day amid such
horrors as these, praying, sometimes, that he might die, even though he
must be buried far from the quiet Rockland churchyard, where the cypress
and the willow were growing so green and fair, and where a mother could
sometimes come and weep over her soldier boy’s grave. It would matter
little where he slept, he thought, or what indignities were heaped upon
his lifeless form, for his soul could not be touched; that would be safe
with Him, whom Isaac, in his captivity, had found to be indeed the
Friend which sticketh closer than a brother. The Saviour, honored since
early childhood, did not desert the captive, and this it was which made
him strong to bear, through the long summer days, during which there
came to him no tidings of his home, and his eye was greeted with no
sight of a familiar face, for Captain Carleton was yet an inmate of the
hospital. Neither did any friendly message come to tell he was
remembered by the man whose fortunes he had voluntarily shared, when he
might, perhaps, have escaped, for though _Tom_ thought often of the
generous lad, and sent to him many a word of comfort through mistake or
negligence only one brief message had ever reached its destination, and
so forsaken by every human aid, poor Isaac looked to Heaven for help,
finding there a peace which kept his heart from breaking.
But as the summer days glided into September, and the heat grew more and
more intense, until at last September, too, was gone, and the Virginia
woods were blazing in the light of the October sun, and still there was
no token of relief, oh! who, save those who have felt it, can tell of
the loneliness, the dreary despair, which crept into the captive’s soul,
driving out all hope, and making life as it existed in those walls a
burden, which would be gladly shaken off. How Isaac paled and drooped as
the weary hours stole on; how he loathed the sickening food; and how at
night he shuddered with horror, and shrank away from the vermin-covered
floor, his only pillow unless he substituted the coat, now scarcely less
filthy than its surroundings! As Tom wrote to the New Hampshire woman,
Mrs. Simms would scarcely have recognized her son in the haggard,
emaciated boy, who, on one October afternoon, sat crouching in his
corner, grasping the little Testament given by the Rockland ladies, and
repeating its precious truths to the poor, sick, worn-out youth, whose
head lay on his lap, and whose eyes, blistered with homesick tears, were
fastened with a kind of hungry wistfulness upon the girlish face above
him, the face of Isaac Simms, pointing the dying soldier to the only
source of life. It was thus Tom Carleton found him, Tom, just released
from the hospital, and transferred to the first floor of that dark
prison.
With Tom it had fared better, for Yankee-like in his precautions, he had
gone into the battle with a quantity of _gold_ fastened securely around
his person, and gold has a mighty power to unlock the hardest heart. As
a commissioned officer, and a man of wealth and rank, many privileges
were accorded to him which were denied the common soldiers, and his
first act after entering the tobacco house was to seek out his late
companion and ask after his welfare. He did not know him at first,
though directed to that locality as the one where the “_Preacher_” would
probably be found. He could not think he had ever seen either of these
famished, miserable looking creatures, but touched by the impressive
scene, he stood a moment listening, while Isaac read,
“I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh to the Father but
by me.”
“Yes, but how shall I go to Him? Where is He?” the sick boy asked, and
bending lower, Isaac answered:
“He’s here. He’s standing close by you. He hears all I say. He knows you
want him, and he will not cast you off, for he has said he wouldn’t.
Only believe, and take him at his word, that’s all.”
There was an evident lifting up of both souls to God, and Tom felt that
even in that horrid place, there were angels dwelling. He knew now that
one was Isaac, and the great tears rolled down his cheeks as he saw the
fearful change wrought in little more than two short months.
“Isaac,” he said, softly, “Isaac, my boy, don’t you know me?”
Not till then had Isaac observed the tall figure standing near, but at
the sound of the well-remembered voice he looked quickly up, and putting
gently from him the head of his comrade, sprang to his feet with a
scream of joy, and threw himself into the open arms of Tom, who held and
soothed him, while he sobbed out his delight.
“Oh, Captain Carleton!” he cried, his body quivering with emotion, “I am
so glad! I thought you had,—I didn’t know,—Oh, _why_ haven’t you come
before, I’m so sick, so sick and tired, that I almost want to die! Will
we ever be exchanged; have they forgotten us at Washington? Shall we
never go home again?”
These were questions which more than one poor captive had asked, and
which none could answer. Tom, however, did the best he could, and
hushing Isaac as he would have hushed and quieted a grieving child, he
spoke to him many a word of comfort, promising to care for him as for a
younger brother, and speaking of various ways in which his forlorn
condition should be bettered, now that he was an inmate of the same
prison. It was a blissful interview, and its good effects were seen in
the brightness of Isaac’s face, and the cheerful smile which played
around his mouth, even after Tom had gone to his quarters below.
Softer than downy pillow seemed the hard bare floor, that night, as with
his arm thrown round his invalid friend, Isaac lay dreaming of the
frost-tipped trees at home, and the brown nuts ripening on the hill,
where he, perhaps, might pick them yet, for Tom had given some
encouragement that an exchange would ere long be effected, and as each
believed his own name would be upon the list, so Isaac hoped his would,
and in slumber’s fitful fancy he was at home again, and saw his mother
come softly in to tuck the bed-clothes round him, or see if he were
sleeping, just as she used to do. How still he lay to make her think he
_was_ asleep! How real seemed the vision, how life-like the kiss pressed
upon his lips, and the tear-drop that came with it! In a corner of the
room there were groans and imprecations, and with a nervous start the
dreamer woke to find it all a horrid delusion. That stifling, fetid
atmosphere had in it no odor of Rockland’s healthful breezes, and the
star, shining on him through the iron bars, though familiar to him, was
not the same which he used to watch from the window beneath the eaves,
facing to the north. No home, no mother, no soft feathery pillow for his
head, or blanket for his body—nothing but that feverish hand still upon
his forehead, and that tear on his cheek, for _these_ were real, and the
sick soldier at his side, who gave the kiss and tear, was whispering in
his ear, that the way so tearfully sought was found at last; that the
gloomy, desolate prison was like the gates of Paradise, and death
disarmed of all its terror.
“If mother could only know it,” he said, “I should be so glad, and
you’ll tell her, won’t you, when you get home again? Tell her it wasn’t
very hard to die, even in this dingy hole; that Heaven and Jesus are as
near to me here on the floor, as if I were lying on my own bed at home,
with her standing by. Tell her I’m glad I fought for the Stars and
Stripes, but sorry I ran away without her consent, for I did. I got out
on the wood-shed roof, and so came off unseen. She’s prayed for me every
day and every night, and God has heard her prayers. He sent you here to
lead me in the way, and after I am gone, he’ll let you go back again.”
There were a few more whispered words on either side, and then the
exhausted but happy youth fell away to sleep, while Isaac wept with
thankfulness that his confinement there had not been all in vain.
Faithful to his promise, Tom, as far as was possible, alleviated the
hardships so long and so meekly borne by Isaac, and with his gold bought
many a delicacy for Isaac’s end, the poor, sick Massachusetts boy, who,
one night ere the physician had fairly decided that he was in need of
medical care, laid his head on Isaac’s lap as he was wont to do, and
with another whispered message for the mother far away, and another
assurance of perfect peace, went where the wicked cease from troubling,
and the weary are at rest!
While he lived there had been something to take Isaac’s mind—something
to excite his sympathy, and in ministering to Henry’s wants, he had more
than half forgotten his own, but now that he was gone, and the corner
where he had sat or lain was empty, Isaac, too, faded rapidly, and not
all Tom’s efforts had power to save him from the apathy which came
stealing over him so fast. Touched with pity at his forlorn, dejected
appearance, his comrades made him a little bed in the corner where the
dead boy had been, and there all the day long he lay, rarely noticing
any one except Tom Carleton, who came often to his side, and whose own
warm blanket formed the pillow for his head. From the first floor to the
third there was not one who was not more or less interested in the pale
invalid, bearing his pain so patiently, never complaining, never
repining, but thanking those about him for any kindness rendered with
such childlike, touching sweetness, that even the rough jailer regarded
him with favor, and paused sometimes to speak to him a word of
encouragement.
In this state of feeling it was not a difficult matter for Tom to obtain
permission for Isaac to be removed from the dirty corner above to his
own comparatively comfortable cot in the officers’ apartments below. But
this did not effect a cure. Nothing could do that save a sight of home
and mother.
“Could I see _her_,” Isaac said one day, “or even stand again beneath
the Federal Flag, I might get better, but here I shall surely die, and
if I do, oh, Captain Carleton, you’ll get them to send me home, won’t
you? I don’t care for myself where I am buried, but my mother—it would
break her heart to hear I was put with the negroes. She’s a rough woman,
and folks who don’t know her much, thinks she’s cross and queer, but
she’s been _so_ good to me, and I love her so much! Oh, mother, mother,
I wish she was here now,” and the sick boy turned his white face to the
wall, sobbing out choking sobs which seemed to come from the lowest
depths of his heart.
Cries for home and mother were not uncommon in that prison house, but
there was something so piteous in his childlike wail that other officers
than Tom bent over the poor lad, trying to comfort him by telling of an
exchange which, it was hoped would ere long be effected, and by painting
happy pictures of the glad rejoicing which would greet the returning
captives. For an instant the great tears, dropping so fast from Isaac’s
lids, were staid in their course, and a smile of hope shone on his
pallid face, but quickly passed away as he suggested,
“Yes, but who knows if _I_ will be on the list?”
No one could tell him that. All would not go, they knew, and they could
only wait patiently, each hoping _he_ would be the favored one. At last
there came a day, never to be forgotten by the inmates of that tobacco
house, a day on which was read the names of those who were to be
released and breathe again the air of freedom. Oh, how anxiously the
sick boy listened as one after another was called. “Captain Thomas
Carleton” was among the number, and a deep flush stole to the young
man’s face as uncertainty was thus made sure. _He_ was going home, and
like waves upon the beach, the throbs of joy beat around his heart,
making him glad as a little child when returning to its mother after a
long separation.
But oh, who shall tell Isaac’s emotions as name after name was called,
and none that sounded like his. Would they never reach it, never say
_Isaac Simms?_ Could it be he was not there? Larger and thicker grew the
drops of sweat, quivering about his mouth, and standing upon his
forehead. Whiter, more death-like grew his face: heavier, sadder, more
mournful the eyes, fixed so wistfully upon the caller of that roll,
growing less so fast. There could not be many more, and the head drooped
upon the heaving bosom, with a discouraged, disheartened feeling, just
as the last was read, not _his_, not Isaac Simms. _He was not there_,
and with a moan, which smote painfully on Tom’s ear, the disappointed
boy turned away, and wept bitterly, while his pale lips moved feebly
with the prayer for help he essayed to make. To be left there alone,
with no kind Captain Carleton to soothe the weary hours, to be returned,
most likely, to the noisy floor above, to die some night when nobody
knew or cared,—it was terrible,—and Widow Simms would have shrieked in
anguish could she have seen the look of despair settling down on her
darling’s face.
But though she did not see it, there was one who did, and guessing at
the thoughts which prompted it, he walked away to be alone, and gather
strength for the sacrifice he must make. Tom Carleton could not desert
the boy who had clung so faithfully to him, and as Isaac had once staid
by him in the Virginia woods, when he might have gone away, so he now
would stay with Isaac. Still it was hard to give up going home, and for
a moment he felt as if he could not. There was a fierce struggle between
duty and inclination,—a mighty combat between Tom’s selfishness and his
better nature,—and then the latter conquered. He must stay. It would not
be difficult to find some person to take his place clandestinely, for
already were the unfortunate ones seeking to buy such chances, and
offering every possible inducement to any who would accept. A young
lieutenant about his age and appearance, and whose wife and child were
suffering from his absence, was the one selected by Tom as his
substitute, and the matter soon arranged. Then, with a forced
cheerfulness he did not feel, Tom went back to Isaac, who was still
weeping silently on his couch, and whispering to an unseen presence,
“_You’ll_ never leave me, will you? and when I die you’ll take me up to
Heaven?”
Here was a faith, a trust, to which Tom Carleton was a stranger, and
wishing himself more like that sick boy, he bent over the cot, and said
cheerily,
“Isaac, are you asleep?”
In the tone of his voice there was something so kind and sympathetic,
that Isaac started up, and winding his feeble arms around Tom’s neck,
sobbed out,
“Forgive me, Captain Carleton; I’m glad you are going home, but I wasn’t
at first; the bad, hard lumps kept rising in my throat as I thought of
staying here alone without you, but they’re gone now. I prayed them all
away, and I am glad you are going. I shall miss you dreadfully, but God
will not forsake me. And, Captain Carleton, if you ever
do,—see—my,—my”——
Isaac’s voice was choked with tears, and he could not at first
articulate that dear word, but soon recovering, he went on—“see my
mother, you’ll tell her about me. Tell her everything except how I’ve
suffered. That would do no good—’twould only make her cry, and when she
hears, as she maybe will, that I am dead, tell I wasn’t afraid, for the
Saviour was with me. I’d rather you shouldn’t say good-bye at the last.
It would make me feel so bad, only sometime before you go I want to tell
you how much I love you for your goodness, and to ask you to be a”——
He did not finish the sentence, for Tom knew what he would say, and
wiping both sweat and tears from off the worn face, looking so lovingly
at him, he answered, “I _will_ try to be a better man. I never felt the
need of it so much till I came here, and Isaac, I am going to stay till
you, too, are exchanged. Did you think I would desert the boy who, but
for me, would not have been a prisoner?”
Isaac did not reply; only the soft, blue eyes lighted up with sudden,
eager joy; the lips trembled as if they would speak, there was a
perceptible shudder, and then Tom held in his arms a fainting,
unconscious form. The revulsion of feeling was too great, and for many
minutes Isaac gave no sign of life, but when at last he was restored
again, he tried to dissuade Tom from making so great a sacrifice, but
all in vain. Tom silenced every objection, and when the 3d of January
came, and prisoners were released, another than Tom Carleton answered to
his name, and marched from Richmond in his stead.
Tom had once spent several months in Richmond, and in the higher circles
he numbered many personal friends, who, until quite recently, were
ignorant of the fact that he was a prisoner in their midst. Of these the
more loyal to the new Confederacy ignored him entirely. Others,
remembering his genial humor, and quiet, gentlemanly manner which had
won their admiration for the elegant Bostonian and his gentle wife,
threw their prejudice aside, and respecting him because he had stood
firmly by his own State, visited him in his prison, while others sent
playful messages that though they denounced him as an intruder upon
their rights, they owned him as a friend, and would gladly ameliorate
his condition. To these acquaintance it was soon known how great a
sacrifice Tom had made for the sake of a young boy, and the result was a
gradual abatement of the surveillance held over Tom, while many
privileges hitherto denied by the strict jail discipline, were accorded
to him. Isaac, too, was benefited through him, and more than one fair
lady visited the invalid, growing strangely interested in the gentle
“Yankee boy,” and bringing many a delicacy with which to tempt his
capricious appetite. But no amount of kindness could win him back to
health so long as he breathed the atmosphere of prison walls. To go home
was all he desired, and day after day the flesh shrivelled from his
bones, and the blue veins stood out round and full upon his wasted hands
until there came a night when the physician told the jailer, whom he met
upon the stairs, that “the Yankee boy was dying.”
There were not many now in prison, and ere long the sad news was known
throughout the building, causing the riotous ones to hush their noisy
revels, and tread softly across the uncovered floor, lest they should
disturb the sufferer below. The jailer, too, remembering his own son,
afar in Southern Tennessee, wiped a tear from his rough face, and drew
nearer to the humble cot where Tom sat watching the panting and
seemingly dying boy. There were moments of feverish delirium, when the
prison, with its surrounding horrors, faded away, and Isaac was at home,
bathing his burning brow with the snow covering the Northern hills, or
talking to his mother of all that had transpired since the April morning
when, followed by her prayers and tears, he left her for the battle.
Then, reason came back again, as clear as ever, and with Tom Carleton’s
hand pressed between his own he dictated what Tom should say to the
mother when he went back to her alone and left her boy behind.
“I shall never go home any more,” he said, “and I’ve built such bright
castles about it, too, fancying how nice it would seem to lie on
mother’s soft, warm bed, and watch the sun shining through the windows,
or the grass springing by the door. The snow will melt from the garden
before long, and the flowers I used to tend come up again, but I shan’t
be there to see them. I shall be lying here so quiet and so still that I
shall not even hear the cannon’s roar, or the loud huzzahs when peace is
at last declared, and the cruel war is ended. Oh, if all the dead ones
could know, it would be something worth fighting for, but when the
troops are marching home, and the bells ring out a welcome, there’ll be
many a one missing in the ranks, and almost every graveyard, both North
and South, will hold a soldier’s grave, but you will not forget us, will
you?” and the sunken eyes turned pleadingly on Tom. “When the bonfires
are kindled at the North, and the glad rejoicings are made, you will
think of the poor boys who fought and died that you might enjoy just
such a holiday?”
Tom could only answer by pressing the thin hands he held, and Isaac
continued:
“Tell mother not to fret too much for me. I guess she did love me best,
because I was the youngest, but Eli and John will comfort her old age.
Tell them, too, how much I love them, and how proud I was of them that
day at Bull Run. They used to plague me sometimes, and call me a girl
baby, but I’ve forgiven that, for I know they did not mean it. I hope
they’ll both be spared. It would kill mother to lose us all. Tell her
how I bless her for the lessons of my childhood, the prayers said at her
knee before I knew their meaning, the Sunday School she sent me to, and
the Bible stories told in the winter twilight. Tell her I was not afraid
to die, only I wanted her so much, but everybody’s been good. There are
kind folks here in Richmond, and God will bless them for it. Oh, Captain
Carleton, I’m a poor ignorant boy, and you a proud, rich man, but you
will heed me, won’t you, and when I’m gone, you’ll take my little
Testament and read it every day. Read it first for Isaac’s sake, but it
won’t be long before you’ll read it for its precious truths, and you
will come to Heaven where we can meet again—promise, won’t you?”
There was a moment’s silence, during which Tom choked down the tears he
could scarcely suppress, so strongly this scene reminded him of another,
when he sat by Mary’s side, and heard her dying voice urging him to meet
her. Four years the Southern sun had shone upon her grave, and he had
made no preparation yet, but now he would put it off no longer, and
bending over Isaac, he replied:
“I promise; and if you see my darling in the better land, tell her, God
helping me, I’ll find my way to where she has gone.”
The white lips feebly murmured their thanks, and then suddenly asked:
“Do you think mother’s got the letter you sent, and knows how sick I am?
If so, she’s praying for me now, and maybe her prayers will save. I’m
not afraid to die, but if I could go home to Rockland first, it would
not seem so bad. Pray, mother, pray—pray, pray hard,” and too much
exhausted to talk longer, the half-delirious boy turned upon the pillow
furnished by some kind lady, and fell into a heavy sleep, from which the
physician said he would never waken.
* * * * *
Midnight in Richmond, and Tom, counting off the strokes, bent lower to
watch for the expected change. There was no color in the parted lips,
and about the nose there was a pinched, contracted look, which Tom
remembered to have seen in Mary’s face, when by her bedside he had sat,
just as he sat by Isaac’s, but where Mary’s hands were cold and dry
Isaac’s were moist and warm, while the rapid pulses were not as wiry,
and irregular as hers had been. There was hope, and falling on his
knees, Tom Carleton asked that the life almost gone out might be
restored, and promised that if it were he would not forget this lesson
as he had forgotten the one learned by Mary’s death-bed. He would be a
better man, he said, and God, as he sometimes does, took him at his
word. Gradually the sharp expression passed away, the hair grew damp
with a more healthful moisture, the pulses were slower, the breathing
more regular, and when at last the heavy slumber was broken, and Isaac
looked up again, Tom knew that he would live.
There was a murmured prayer of thanksgiving, a renewal of his pledge,
and then he bent every energy to sustain the life coming so slowly back.
Softly the morning broke over the prison walls, and they who had
expected to look on Isaac dead, rejoiced to hear that he was better.
“It may be I shall see mother yet,” he whispered, faintly, when Tom told
him that the dreaded crisis was past; “and if I do, I’ll tell her of
your kindness.”
“Would you like very much to go home to your mother?” Tom asked, and
with a quivering lip and chin Isaac answered:
“Yes, oh, yes, if I only could! I was willing to die, but I guess we all
cling to life at the last, don’t you?”
Tom did not reply to this, but spoke instead of a rumor that all were
soon to be discharged and sent back to Washington.
“We’ll go together, then,” he said, “you and I, for I shall visit
Rockland first and see my sister Rose.”
The prospect of release was meat and drink for Isaac who rallied so fast
that when the joyful news of an exchange _did_ come, he was able, with
Tom’s help, to walk across the floor of what had been his home so long.
Haggard, wasted, weary, and worn were those prisoners as they filed down
the stairs and out into the streets, but with each moment which brought
them nearer home, their spirits rose, and when at last they stood again
on Federal soil and saw the Stars and Stripes waving in the morning
breeze, long and deafening were the huzzas which rent the air as one
after another gave vent to his great joy at finding himself free once
more. Isaac, however, could neither shout, nor laugh, nor speak, and
only the large eyes, brimming with tears, told of joy unutterable, but
when arrived at Washington, his two stalwart brothers took him in their
arms, hugging and crying over him as over one come back to them from the
grave, his calmness all gave way, and laying his tired head on Eli’s
bosom, while John held and caressed his wasted hands, he sobbed out the
happiness too great to be expressed in words. To him a full discharge
from service was readily accorded, while to Tom a furlough of several
weeks was given, and after a few days at Washington both started
northward to join the friends waiting so impatiently for their arrival.