AN ANGEL OF MERCY.
In front of one of the most beautiful and stately farm-houses in
Columbiana County stood a young girl. With clasped hands and straining
eyes she was gazing intently down a road which led to the west. The sound
of battle came faintly to her ears. As she listened, a shudder swept
through her slight frame.
“My brother! My brother!” she moaned, “he may be in it. O God of battles,
protect him!”
She would have made a picture for an artist as she stood there. The
weather being warm, she wore a soft, thin garment, which clung in graceful
folds around her. Her beautifully rounded arm and shapely shoulders were
bare. Her luxuriant hair, the color of sun-beams, fell in a wavy mass to
her waist. Her eyes, blue as the sky, were now troubled, and a teardrop
trembled and then fell from the long lashes.
As she looked, the sound of battle became fainter, and then ceased
altogether. But down the road, a mile away, a little cloud of dust arose.
It grew larger and larger, and at last she saw it was caused by a single
horseman who was coming at a furious pace. Was the rider a bearer of ill
tidings? No, there was no rider on the horse. He who rode must have been
killed. It might be her brother’s horse; she grew sick and faint, but
still she gazed. The horse came nearer; he was slackening his speed. Yes,
there was some one on the horse—a man—but he had fallen over on the
saddle, and his arms were around the horse’s neck.
It must be her brother, wounded unto death, coming home to die, and she
gave a great convulsive sob. Then like a bird she flew to the middle of
the road. She saw that the horse’s mane and shoulders were dripping with
blood, that the rider’s hair was clotted with it.
As the horse came to her it stopped, and the rider rolled heavily from the
saddle. With a cry she sprang forward and received the falling man; but
the weight of Calhoun, for it was he, bore her to the earth. She arose,
screaming for help. There was no one in the house except a colored
servant, who came rushing out, and nearly fainted when she saw her
mistress. No wonder, for the girl’s dress and arms were dripping with
blood.
“Oh! Missy Joyce! Missy Joyce!” wailed the colored woman, “what’s de
mattah? Be yo’ killed?”
“No, no, this soldier—he is dead or dying. Oh, Mary, what can we do?”
But help was near. A couple of neighbors had also heard the sound of
battle, and were riding nearer that they might learn the result.
“Great heavens! what is this?” exclaimed one, as they rode up. “As I live,
that is Andrew Harmon’s horse. Well, I never thought Andrew would get near
enough to a battle to get shot.”
By this time they had dismounted. Going to Calhoun they looked at him, and
one exclaimed, “This is not Harmon; it’s one of Morgan’s men. Got it good
and heavy. Served him right.”
“Is he dead?” asked the girl, in a trembling voice.
The man put his hand on Calhoun’s heart. “No, marm,” he answered, “but I
think he might as well be.”
“Carry him into the house, and send for Doctor Hopkins, quick,” she said.
“What! that dirty, bloody thing! Better let us carry him to the barn. It’s
a blame sight better place than our boys get down South.”
“The house, I say,” answered the girl, sharply.
“Why, Miss Joyce,” said the other man, as he looked at her, “you are
covered with blood.”
“Yes, I caught him as he fell from his horse,” she answered. “I am not
hurt.”
The men were about to pick Calhoun up and carry him in according to the
directions of the girl, when she exclaimed, “There comes Doctor Hopkins
now.”
Sure enough, the Doctor had heard of the fight, and was coming at a
remarkable speed, for him, to see if his professional services were
needed. He reined in his horse, and jumping from his gig, ejaculated,
“Why! why! what is this? And Miss Joyce all bloody!”
“I am not hurt. The man, Doctor,” she said.
The Doctor turned his attention to Calhoun. “As I live, one of Morgan’s
men,” he exclaimed, “and hard hit, too. How did he come here?”
“His horse brought him,” answered one of the men. “He clung to his horse
as far as here, when he fell off. Miss Joyce caught him as he fell. That
is what makes her so bloody.”
“Well! well! well!” was all that the old Doctor could say.
“The queer part is,” continued the man, “that the horse belongs to Andrew
Harmon. I heard that Andrew had gone out with the Home Guards, but I could
hardly believe it. I guess this fellow must have killed him and
appropriated the horse.”
“What! Andrew Harmon killed in battle?” cried the Doctor, straightening up
from his examination of Calhoun. “Don’t believe it. He will turn up safe
enough.”
Then speaking to the girl, the Doctor said, “Miss Joyce, this man has
nearly bled to death. I cannot tell yet whether the ball has entered his
head or not. If not, there may be slight hopes for him, but he must have
immediate attention. It is fortunate I came along as I did.”
“Miss Joyce wanted us to take him into the house,” said one of the men,
“but I suggested the barn.”
“The barn first,” said the Doctor; “if I remember rightly, there is a
large work-bench there. It will make a fine operating-table. And, Joyce,
warm water, towels, and bandages.”
Joyce Crawford, for that was the girl’s name, flew to do the Doctor’s
bidding, while the men, to their credit be it said, picked Calhoun up
tenderly and carried him to the barn, where the work-bench, as the Doctor
had suggested, made an operating-table. Joyce soon appeared with the
water, towels, and bandages. The Doctor had already taken off his coat and
rolled up his sleeves, ready for work. Although he was a country
practitioner, he was a skilful surgeon. Carefully he washed away the
blood, then clipped away the matted hair from around the wound. It seemed
to Joyce a long time that he worked, but at last the wound was dressed and
bandaged.
“The ball did not penetrate the brain,” he said, as he finished, “nor do I
think the skull is injured, although the ball plowed along it for some
distance. Fortunately it was a small bullet, one from a revolver,
probably, which hit him. It cut a number of small arteries in its course,
and that is the reason he has bled so much. An hour more and he would have
been beyond my skill.”
“Will he live now?” asked Joyce.
“The chances are against him. If saved at all, it will only be by the best
of nursing.”
“He can be taken into the house now, can’t he?” she asked.
“Yes, but you had better first let a tub of water be brought, and clean
underclothes, and a night shirt. He needs a bath as much as anything.”
Joyce had the men get the water, while she procured some underclothes
which belonged to her brother. Calhoun’s clothes were now removed, clothes
which had not been off him for a month.
“Here is a belt,” said one of the men; “it looks as if it might contain
money,” and he was proceeding to examine it when the Doctor forbade him.
“Give it to Miss Joyce,” he said; “the fellow is her prisoner.”
The belt was handed over rather reluctantly. Calhoun having been bathed,
Joyce was called, and told that her prisoner was ready for her.
“Bring him in, the chamber is all prepared,” was her answer.
Calhoun was brought in and placed in a large, cool upper chamber.
“This is mighty nice for a Rebel,” said one of the men, looking around.
“My Jake didn’t get this good care when he was shot at Stone River.”
“Too blame nice for a Morgan thief,” mumbled the other.
“Shut up,” said the Doctor; “remember what Miss Joyce has done for our
boys. Worked her fingers off for them. This man, or rather boy, for he
can’t be over twenty, was brought to her door. Would you have him left to
die?”
The men hung their heads sheepishly, and went out. They were not
hard-hearted men, but they were bitter against Morgan, and any one who
rode with him.
“Now I must go,” said the old Doctor kindly, taking Joyce’s hand. “You
have done to this young man as I would have one do to my son in a like
extremity.”
The old Doctor’s voice broke, for he had lost a son in the army.
Recovering himself, he continued, “I must go now, for I may be needed by
some of our own gallant boys. I will drop in this evening, if possible,
and see how your patient is getting along. God bless you, Joyce, you have
a kind heart.”
Joyce looked after the old Doctor with swimming eyes. “One of God’s
noblemen,” she murmured.
She took the belt which had been taken from Calhoun, and which had been
handed her by the Doctor, and put it carefully away. She then began her
vigil beside the bedside of the wounded man. The Doctor had given her
minute directions, and she followed them faithfully. It was some hours
before Calhoun began to show signs of consciousness, and when he did come
to, he was delirious, and in a raging fever.
The Doctor returned as he had promised. He shook his head as he felt
Calhoun’s pulse, and listened to his incoherent mutterings.
“This is bad,” he said. “It is fortunate he lost so much blood, or this
fever would consume him. But we must hope for the best. Only the best of
nursing will bring him through.”
“That he shall have,” said Joyce. “I have sent for Margaret Goodsen. You
know she is an army nurse, and knows all about wounded men.”
“Yes, Margaret is good, none better,” replied the Doctor.
All through that night Joyce sat by the bedside of Calhoun cooling his
fevered brow, giving him refreshing drinks. He talked almost continually
to himself. Now he would be leading his men in battle, cheering them on.
Then he was a boy, engaged in boyish sports. The name of Fred was uttered
again and again.
“I wonder who Fred can be?” thought Joyce; “a brother, probably.”
Joyce Crawford was the only daughter of the Hon. Lorenzo Crawford, one of
the most prominent citizens of Columbiana County. Mr. Crawford had served
two terms in Congress, and was at the time of the war a member of the
state senate. He had one child besides Joyce, his son Mark, who we have
seen was a major in the Federal army.
Mr. Crawford lost his wife when Joyce was three years old; since that time
his house had been presided over by a maiden sister. This lady was absent
in Steubenville when Morgan appeared so suddenly in the county; thus at
the time of Calhoun’s appearance only Joyce and the servants were at home,
Mr. Crawford being absent in the east on duties connected with the
Sanitary Commission.
Mr. Crawford was what is known as an original Abolitionist. Before the war
his house was one of the stations of the underground railroad, and many a
runaway slave he had helped on the way to Canada. Twice he had been
arrested by the United States officials for violation of the fugitive
slave law, and both times fined heavily. He believed there could be no
virtue in a slave-owner; such a man was accursed of God, and should be
accursed of men. His daughter had to a degree imbibed his sentiments, and
the idea of slavery was abhorrent to her; but her heart was so gentle, she
could hate no one. Calhoun’s helplessness appealed to her sympathies, and
she forgot he was one of Morgan’s raiders. Although young, only eighteen,
she had admirers by the score, but her father so far had forbidden her
receiving company, considering her as yet only a child.
Joyce’s beau ideal of a man was her brother Mark, and he was worthy of her
adoration. Several years her senior, he had watched over and guided her in
her childhood, and never was a brother more devoted.
The next morning the news came that Morgan was captured, and the scare in
Columbiana County was over. The morning also brought Miss Crawford, who
had come hurrying home on receipt of the news that Morgan was in the
county. She nearly went into hysterics when she learned that one of the
dreadful raiders was in the house. “How could you do it, child?” she cried
to Joyce; and “Doctor, why did you let her?” she added to Doctor Hopkins,
who had just come in to see his patient.
“Madam, it was a case of life or death,” replied the Doctor. “Joyce did
right. We are not heathens in Columbiana County.”
“But you will take him right away?” pleaded the lady.
“It would be death to move him.”
“But he might murder us all,” said Miss Crawford.
The Doctor smiled. “If he lives, it will be weeks before he will have the
strength to kill a fly,” he answered.
Miss Crawford sighed, and gave up the battle. She was not a hard-hearted
woman, but the idea of having one of Morgan’s dreadful raiders in the
house was trying on her nerves.
The afternoon brought Major Crawford. The story of Joyce’s capture of a
raider had travelled far and wide, and the Major had already heard of it.
“So you captured a prisoner, did you, Puss?” he exclaimed, kissing her, as
she threw herself in his arms. “Is he a regular brigand, and bearded like
a pard?”
“No, no, he is young, almost a boy,” she answered. “Margaret Goodsen is
taking care of him now. Come and see him, but he is out of his head, and
raves dreadfully.”
She led the way to the chamber where Calhoun was. No sooner did Major
Crawford see him than he turned pale and staggered back, “Great God!” he
exclaimed.
What fate was it that had led the man he had shot to the house to be cared
for by his sister?
“What is it, Mark? What is it?” she cried, seeing his agitation.
Should he tell her? Yes, it would be best. “Joyce, you will not wonder at
my surprise, when I tell you it was I who shot him.”
“You, brother, you!” she cried, and instinctively she shrank from him.
Mark saw it, and exclaimed, “Great God! Joyce, you don’t blame me, do you?
I had to do it to save my life. He was about to cut me down with his sword
when I fired.”
“No, no,” she cried, “I don’t blame you, but it was so sudden; it is so
dreadful. I never before realized that war was so terrible.”
“Well, Joyce, save the poor fellow’s life if you can; I don’t want his
death on my hands if I can help it. Do you know who your prisoner is?”
“No, you see the condition he is in.”
“His name is Pennington, Calhoun Pennington. He is one of Morgan’s bravest
and most daring officers. I ought to know him, he took me prisoner twice.”
“You, Mark, you?”
“Yes, you remember I told you how I lost my horse in Tennessee. He is the
fellow who took it. He afterwards captured me at Cave City.”
“Mark, what will become of him if he gets well?” she asked.
“The United States officials will take him,” he answered. “His being here
must be reported.”
“And—and he will be sent to prison?”
“Yes, until he is exchanged.”
“But you were not sent to prison when you were captured,” she protested.
“No, I was paroled; but I hardly believe the government will parole any of
Morgan’s men.”
“Why?” she asked.
“They have given us too much trouble, Puss. Now we have them, I think we
will keep them.”
“Mark, Aunt Matilda don’t like my taking this Pennington in. She says
father will not like it at all.”
“I will see Aunt Matilda, and tell her it is all right. I will also write
to father. No, Joyce, I don’t want Pennington to die. It is best, even in
war, to know you have not killed a man. So take good care of him, or
rather see he has good care. Get a man to nurse him nights.”
“I will look out for that,” said Joyce.
“Well, Puss, good-bye, keep me posted. I had leave of absence only a few
hours, so I must be going.”
“Oh, Mark, must you go so soon?” And she clung to him as if she would not
let him go. Gently disengaging her arms, he pressed kiss after kiss on her
brow and was gone. She sank into a chair weeping, and for a time forgot
her prisoner.
The next day Joyce had another visitor, in the person of Andrew Harmon. He
had heard that his horse was at Crawford’s, and that the officer who took
him was there desperately wounded. He made his visit with pleasure, for of
all the girls in Columbiana County, she was the one he had selected to
become Mrs. Harmon. He had no idea he would be refused, for was he not
considered the greatest catch in the county?
Harmon had two things to recommend him—good looks and money. He was
accounted a handsome man, and was as far as physical beauty was concerned.
He had the body and muscle of an athlete, but there was nothing ennobling
or inspiring in the expression of his countenance. By nature he was
crafty, mean, cruel, and miserly, and was one of the biggest cowards that
ever walked.
Like many others, he was a great patriot as far as talk was concerned. He
had been so unfortunate as to be drafted at the first call, and had
promptly furnished a substitute. He was fond of boasting he was doing
double duty for his country, not only was he represented in the army, but
he was doing a great work at home. This work consisted in contracting for
the government, and cheating it at every turn. Many a soldier who received
shoddy clothing, paper-soled shoes, and rotten meat had Mr. Harmon to
thank for it. But he was piling up money, and was already known as one of
the richest men in the county. When he went out with the Home Guards, he
had no idea of getting near Morgan; he would look out for that. But his
party ran into Morgan’s advance unexpectedly, and as has been related, he
was captured by Calhoun. It was a most wonderful story he had to tell.
He had been beset by at least six of Morgan’s men. A desperate conflict
followed, and he had killed, or at least desperately wounded, three of his
assailants, and it was only after he had not a single shot left in his
revolver and was surrounded that he had surrendered.
“So enraged were they at my desperate defence,” said he, “that the officer
in charge pulled me from my horse, brutally kicked and struck me,
threatened to kill me, and then appropriated my horse. He is a desperate
fellow, Miss Joyce; I would not keep him in the house a single moment.”
Joyce, who had listened to his account much amused, for she had heard
another version of it, said, “I do not think, Mr. Harmon, he could have
beaten you very hard, for I see no marks on you, and you seem to be pretty
lively. As for sending Lieutenant Pennington away, the Doctor says it
would be death to move him.”
Mr. Harmon shifted uneasily in his chair as Joyce was saying this, and
then asked to see Calhoun, as he wished to be sure whether he was the one
who had captured him. This Joyce consented to, provided he would be
careful not to disturb him. Harmon promised, and he was taken into the
room. Calhoun was tossing on his bed, as he entered, and no sooner did his
wild eyes rest on Harmon than he burst into a loud laugh, “Oh! the coward!
the coward!” he shouted, “take him away.”
Harmon fled from the room white with rage. “Miss Joyce, that fellow is
shamming,” he fumed. “I demand he be delivered to the United States
officials at once.”
“The Doctor thinks differently; he says it will kill him to be moved,” she
answered.
“Let him die, then. It isn’t your business to nurse wounded Rebels,
especially one of Morgan’s cutthroats.”
“I do not have to come to you to learn what my business is,” answered
Joyce, haughtily, and turned to leave the room.
Mr. Harmon saw that he had made a mistake. “Joyce! Joyce! don’t go, hear
me,” he exclaimed.
“You will find your horse in the stable,” was all she said, as she passed
out.
He left the house vowing vengeance, and lost no time in informing the
Federal authorities that the wounded officer at Crawford’s was shamming,
and would give them the slip if not taken away. Two deputy marshals came
to investigate, and went away satisfied when Doctor Hopkins promised to
report as soon as his patient was well enough to be removed.
In due time Joyce received a letter from her father. He had not heard that
Morgan had come as far north as Columbiana County, until after he was
captured. As all danger was now over, he would not be home for some time.
The thousands who had been wounded in the great battle of Gettysburg were
occupying his attention. He also had to make a visit to Washington and
Fortress Monroe, and might go as far south as Hilton Head. As for the
wounded Rebel at his house, Joyce had done right in not letting him die in
the road, but that he should be turned over to the military authorities at
the earliest possible moment. Little did Mr. Crawford think what the
outcome of the affair would be.
Contrary to her aunt’s protest, Joyce insisted on taking most of the care
of Calhoun during the day. Margaret Goodsen was all the help she needed.
She had engaged a competent man to care for him nights. Had not Mark told
her to save the life of the man he had shot, if possible?