HONORABLE MENTION.
The surgeon examined Tom's wound, and found that he had been struck by a
bullet over the left temple. The flesh was torn off, and if the skull was
not fractured, it had received a tremendous hard shock. It was probably
done at the instant when he turned to rally the men of Company K, and the
ball glanced under the visor of his cap, close enough to scrape upon his
skull, but far enough off to save his brains. Half an inch closer, and the
bullet would have wound up Tom's earthly career.
The shock had stunned him, and he had dropped like a dead man, while the
profusion of blood that came from the wound covered his face, and his
friends could not tell whether he was killed or not. He was a pitiable
object as he lay on the ground by the surgeon's quarters; but the veteran
soon assured himself that his young charge was not dead.
Hapgood washed the gore from his face, and did what he could in his
unscientific manner; and probably the cold water had a salutary effect
upon the patient, for when Hancock and Kearney had completed their work,
and the cry of victory rang over the bloody field, he was sufficiently
revived to hear the inspiring tones of triumph. Leaping to his feet, faint
and sick as he was, he took up the cry, and shouted in unison with the
victors upon the field.
But he had scarcely uttered the notes of glory and victory before his
strength deserted him, and he would have dropped upon the ground if he had
not been caught by Hapgood. He groaned heavily as he sank into the arms of
his friend, and yielded to the faintness and exhaustion of the moment.
The surgeon said the wound was not a very bad one, but that the patient
was completely worn out by the excessive fatigues of march and battle. In
due time he was conveyed to the college building in Williamsburg, where
hundreds of his companions in arms were suffering and dying of their
wounds. He received every attention which the circumstances would permit.
Hapgood, by sundry vigorous applications at headquarters, was, in
consideration of his own and his _protégé's_ good conduct on the battle
field, permitted to remain with the patient over night.
The sergeant's skull, as we have before intimated, was not very badly
damaged, as physical injuries were measured after the bloody battle of
that day. But his wound was not the only detriment he had experienced in
the trying ordeal of that terrible day. His constitution had not yet been
fully developed; his muscles were not hardened, and the fatigues of battle
and march had a more serious effect upon him than the ounce of lead which
had struck him on the forehead.
The surgeon understood his case perfectly, and after dressing his wound,
he administered some simple restoratives, and ordered the patient to go to
sleep. On the night of the 3d of May, he had been on guard duty; on that
of the 4th, he had obtained but three hours' sleep; and thus deprived of
the rest which a growing boy needs, he had passed through the fearful
scenes of the battle, in which his energies, mental and physical, had been
tasked to their utmost. He was completely worn out, and in spite of the
surroundings of the hospital, he went to sleep, obeying to the letter the
orders of the surgeon.
After twelve hours of almost uninterrupted slumber, Tom's condition was
very materially improved, and when the doctor went his morning round, our
sergeant buoyantly proposed to join his regiment forthwith.
"Not yet, my boy," said the surgeon, kindly. "I shall not permit you to do
duty for at least thirty days to come," he added, as he felt the patient's
pulse.
"I feel pretty well, sir," replied Tom.
"No, you don't. Your regiment will remain here, I learn, for a few days,
and you must keep quiet, or you will have a fever."
"I don't feel sick, and my head doesn't pain me a bit."
"That may be, but you are not fit for duty. You did too much yesterday.
They say you behaved like a hero, on the field."
"I tried to do my duty," replied Tom, his pale cheek suffused with a
blush.
"Boys like you can't stand much of such work as that. We must fix you up
for the next battle; and you shall go into Richmond with the rest of the
boys."
"Must I stay in here all the time?"
"No, you may go where you please. I will give you a certificate which will
keep you safe from harm. You can walk about, and visit your regiment if
you wish."
"Thank you, doctor."
Hapgood had been compelled to leave the hospital before his patient waked,
and Tom had not yet learned any thing in regard to the casualties of the
battle. Armed with the surgeon's certificate, he left the hospital, and
walked to the place where the steward told him he would find his regiment.
Somewhat to his astonishment he found that he was very weak; and before he
had accomplished half the distance to the camp, he came to the conclusion
that he was in no condition to carry a knapsack and a musket on a long
march. But after resting himself for a short time, he succeeded in
reaching his friends.
He was warmly received by his companions, and the veteran of the company
had nearly hugged him in his joy and admiration.
"Honorable mention, Tom," said Hapgood. "You will be promoted as true as
you live."
"O, I guess not," replied Tom, modestly. "I didn't do any more than any
body else. At any rate, you were close by my side, uncle."
"Yes, but I followed, and you led. The commander of the division says you
shall be a lieutenant. He said so on the field, and the colonel said so
to-day."
"I don't think I deserve it."
"I do; and if you don't get a commission, then there ain't no justice left
in the land. I tell you, Tom, you shall be a brigadier if the war lasts
only one year more."
"O, nonsense, uncle!"
"Well, if you ain't, you ought to be."
"I'm lucky to get out alive. Whom have we lost, uncle?"
"A good many fine fellows." replied Hapgood, shaking his head, sadly.
"Poor Ben dropped early in the day."
"Yes, I was afraid he'd got most to the end of his chapter afore we went
in. Poor fellow! I'm sorry for him, and sorry for his folks."
"Fred Pemberton said he should be killed, and Ben said he should not, you
remember."
"Yes, and that shows how little we know about these things."
"Bob Dornton was killed, too."
"No, he's badly hurt, but the surgeon thinks he will git over it. The
cap'n was slightly wounded." And Hapgood mentioned the names of those in
the company who had been killed or wounded, or were missing.
"It was an awful day," sighed Tom, when the old man had finished the list.
"There will be sad hearts in Pinchbrook when the news gets there."
"So there will, Tom; but we gained the day. We did something handsome for
'Old Glory,' and I s'pose it's all right."
"I would rather have been killed than lost the battle."
"So would I; and betwixt you and me, Tom, you didn't come very fur from
losing your number in the mess," added the veteran, as he thrust his
little fingers into a bullet hole in the breast of Tom's coat. "That was
rather a close shave."
"I felt that one, but I hadn't time to think about it then, for it was
just as we were repelling that flank movement," replied Tom, as he
unbuttoned his coat, and thrust his hand into his breast pocket. "Do you
suppose she will give me another?" he added, as he drew forth the envelope
which contained the letter and the photograph of the author of his socks.
A minie ball had found its way through the envelope, grinding a furrow
through the picture, transversely, carrying away the chin and throat of
the young lady. The letter was mangled and minced up beyond restoration.
Tom had discovered the catastrophe when he waked up in the hospital, for
his last thought at night, and his first in the morning, had been the
beautiful Lilian Ashford. He was sad when he first beheld the wreck; but
when he thought what a glorious assurance this would be of his conduct on
the field, he was pleased with the idea; and while in his heart he thanked
the rebel marksman for not putting the bullet any nearer to the vital
organ beneath the envelope, he was not ungrateful for the splendid
testimonial he had given him of his position during the battle.
"Of course she'll give you another. Won't she be proud of that picture
when she gets it back?"
"If I had been a coward, I couldn't have run away with those socks on my
feet."
Tom remained with the regiment several hours, and then, in obedience to
the surgeon's orders, returned to the hospital, where he wrote a letter to
his father, containing a short account of the battle, and another to
Lilian Ashford, setting forth the accident which had happened to the
picture, and begging her to send him another.
I am afraid in this last letter Tom indulged in some moonshiny nonsense;
but we are willing to excuse him for saying that the thought of the
beautiful original of the photograph and the beautiful author of his socks
had inspired him with courage on the battle field, and enabled him
faithfully to perform his duty, to the honor and glory of the flag beneath
whose starry folds he had fought, bled, and conquered, and so forth. It
would not be unnatural in a young man of eighteen to express as much as
this, and, we are not sure that he said any more.
The next day Tom was down with a slow fever, induced by fatigue and
over-exertion. He lay upon his cot for a fortnight, before he was able to
go out again; but he was frequently visited by Hapgood and other friends
in the regiment. About the middle of the month, the brigade moved on, and
Tom was sad at the thought of lying idle, while the glorious work of the
army was waiting for true and tried men.
Tom received "honorable mention" in the report of the colonel, and his
recommendation, supported by that of the general of the division, brought
to the hospital his commission as second lieutenant.
"Here's medicine for you," said the chaplain, as he handed the patient a
ponderous envelope.
"What is it, sir?"
"I don't know, but it has an official look."
The sergeant opened it, and read the commission, duly signed by the
governor of Massachusetts, and countersigned and sealed in proper form.
Tom was astounded at the purport of the document. He could hardly believe
his senses; but it read all right, and dated from the day of the battle in
which he had distinguished himself. This was glory enough, and it took Tom
forty-eight hours thoroughly to digest the contents of the envelope.
_Lieutenant Somers_! The words had a queer sound, and he could not realize
that he was a commissioned officer. But he came to a better understanding
of the subject the next day, when a letter from Lilian Ashford was placed
in his hands. It was actually addressed to "Lieutenant Thomas Somers." She
had read of his gallant conduct and of his promotion on the battle field
in the newspapers. She sent him two photographs of herself, and a sweet
little letter, begging him to return the photograph which had been damaged
by a rebel bullet.
Of course Tom complied with this natural request; but, as the surgeon
thought his patient would improve faster at home than in the hospital, he
had procured a furlough of thirty days for him, and the lieutenant decided
to present the photograph in person.