_... "Consider, I pray,
How we common mothers stand desolate, mark,
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away,
And no last word to say!"_
Mrs. Browning.
"Dear little Mother," wrote Beverly. "When I telegraphed you last night
that Roy was wounded and that I was safe and unhurt, I feared, that
to-day this letter would take you most terrible news--you who have
the hardest part to bear, the silent, inactive part of waiting and
uncertainty and inaction and anxiety--but to-day I feel so relieved
that I can send you a very hopeful letter. The doctor says that Roy will
surely live; and he hopes that the wounds will not prove so serious as
we feared at first and as they looked. A piece of shell struck him in
the breast but it must have been a spent shell, for although the place
is considerably crushed in, the doctor now feels certain that no very
serious damage is done his lung. That was what we feared at first. One
of his legs is broken near the hip, but it is set and the doctor says
it is doing well and will do so, for there is almost no fever. The
great mud poultice that was on it for several hours at first was his
salvation, so the surgeon thinks. I will not stop to explain this to you
now, but when Roy gets home he will tell you, for he remembers most of
it and we will tell him the rest. But just now I want simply to tell you
the reassuring things and the plans I have made for Boy. He is perfectly
conscious and says that he does not suffer very much. We don't allow him
to talk, of course, for fear of his lung, but I've arranged to have him
sent to Nashville, where he can be nursed as well as if he were at home.
I recalled that the Wests live there now, and I sent a telegram asking
if they would not take Roy to their house and care for him until we
could send him home. They wired that they would be most happy to do so.
You will recall that pretty little Emma West who used to come to the
house. She was at school with Roy before he went to college. They are
nice people, and I am sure that Roy will be cared for as if he were
their own. They are Union people. They will write to you daily, too, so
that everything will be made as easy for you as possible. This takes a
great load off my heart, and as Roy seems so bright to-day I am almost
gay after yesterday's terrible experience--of which I shall tell you
when we all get home, but not now. One of the most absurd things I ever
heard of was that the very first question Roy tried to ask, when
he became conscious, was who got the challenge last. It was a side
challenge of battle between his regiment and a Louisiana regiment. It
was posted on a tree-written on a slab of wood. I had tied my horse to
that tree when I was looking for Roy, and had utterly forgotten him.
Roy's question recalled the poor horse to me and I went to see what
had become of him. There the old fellow stood, pawing the ground and
twisting about the tree, hungry and thirsty and tired. He had knocked
the challenge down and split it with his stamping feet. I gathered it
up and took it to Roy, and a real lively smile crossed his face, and
immediately he fell asleep. What strange freaks of fancy and of desire
and ambition we are! I am told that Roy was promoted again on the field
just before he was shot, so he is as big a captain now as I am, but that
fact has not yet appeared to come back to him. Who got the challenge at
the last was his first thought! I suspect he was thinking of that when
he fell, and his returning consciousness took up the thread of thought
right where he had dropped it or where it was broken by the lapse. It
has not seemed to surprise him to see me. He acts as if I had been
about him all along, and yet it has been nearly two years since we were
together! Of course I act the same way so as not to excite him. He has
had two long, good, natural naps to-day and I talked to him between. He
knows he is to go to Nashville, and I had a sneaking idea that when I
mentioned Emma West he looked uncommonly well pleased with the scheme.
Do you know whether they got 'spoony,' after I left home? Anyhow
that Nashville scheme seems to suit him all the way through. I feel
absolutely light-hearted and gay to-day, mother mine. It is the reaction
from the strain of yesterday and last night, I suppose; but if I could,
I'd dance or sing or something. Since I can't do that I'll content
myself with writing you rather a frivolous letter. You just ought to see
these trees! They are simply riddled with shot and shell. This shows,
too, one very good reason why so few of the rounds of ammunition take
effect in the men. They shoot entirely too high. Quite above the heads
of the tallest men. The trees are simply cartridge cases, and the limbs
are torn away. The mud! You ought to see it. You'd think you never saw
mud before. It took sixteen mules and the entire regiment hitched to one
of the cannon to pull it along the road the Johnnies retreated over. A
man we captured was one who had given out at the job. Poor fellows! they
had a hard time of it all around, and we fresh troops who landed from
the gunboats were the last straw in their cup of tribulation. I reckon
they don't think they got their tribulation through a straw though,
and the figure is a trifle mixed; but as a soldier I can't stop to
edit copy! Oh, mother, I wish I could make you feel as relieved as I do
to-day. Skittish is the word--I feel really skittish; because I am so
sure Boy is in no danger. I believe he will be able to go home before
many weeks, and meantime, for all comforts, he will be as if he were at
home. When he comes you can get the whole story of his fall, the fight,
and his promotion. Dear old fellow! He's a great big captain now, and
I stick right there. I'm acting Inspector-General now on the staff, but
I'm really only a captain yet. I hope things will settle down before I
get any higher--though I'd feel uncommonly well to have the same kind of
a promotion as he got yesterday. I'm going to let him tell you himself.
It was quite dramatic, as the fellows tell me. I just stopped to take a
peep at him and he is sleeping like a baby. There is almost no fever. I
feel like hugging this pottery clay mud--for we have it to thank for a
good deal--but it makes us swear to march through it. I do hope father
is home now. He is my main anxiety. I hope he won't see the papers if
anything was said of Roy. He was thought to be 'missing,' at first when
the reports went, and then to be killed; but don't worry a single bit.
I am telling you the _very truth_ when I tell you that last night I
believed that Roy could not live and to-night I feel absolutely safe
about him--I feel like singing--and all this accounts for this very
giddy and jerky letter. I suppose I am what you'd call hysterical. Of
course he will need intelligent care, but since that is all arranged for
I shall march away to Corinth (that is our next aim) with a light heart
and as hopeful as I want to make you feel. Ah, mother mine, I realize
more and more what all this must be to you! I thought of it as I looked
for Roy last night. Silent, patient, inactive anxiety! The part of war
the women bear is by far the harder part. It takes bravery, of course,
to face bullets and death; but it must require almost inspired heroism
to sit inactively by and wait for it to strike those we love far
better than life. More and more, small mother, do I realize this, do I
understand that the hardest part of war _must_ be borne by those who are
not warriors; but we love you, little mother, and we will be as careful
of the sons you care for and love as we can be and do our duty. We will
not be foolhardy nor reckless, for your sake--_be sure_.
"One of the pathetic things that is not unmingled with humor was told me
to-day by the young fellow in the next bed to Roy. He is a pretty boy,
only about eighteen. He belongs to an Ohio regiment. During the first
day's fight he got separated from his command and did not know whether
he was inside or outside of our lines. He was picking his way around,
peering from behind trees cautiously, trying to get his bearings, when
all of sudden he came upon a Johnnie. Both were taken by surprise. The
other fellow jumped and seemed about to shoot, and the Ohio boy yelled
out, 'Don't shoot! don't shoot! I'm already wounded!'
"The Johnnie was a mere slip of a boy himself, and hadn't the faintest
desire to shoot. They had both seen all they wanted to of war. Both were
homesick and heartsick with it all. They sat down on a log and fell to
comparing notes. Neither one knew whether he was captured or whether he
had a prisoner. Both were lost. They agreed to call it even and go
their separate ways when they got their bearings. Neither wanted to be a
prisoner. 'I've got a dear old father back in Alabama, and if I ever
see his face again I'll have enough sense to stay at home;' explained
Johnnie, with a suspicious quaver in his voice. Ohio had the very
dearest and best of fathers too, and he confessed that if he could
but see his face now heaven would be his. They shook hands over the
situation and both fell to crying softly, as they decided that war was
not what it was cracked up to be. The two homesick fellows sat there
on that log and compared notes about those blessed fathers at home, and
both were blubbering--because they _had,_ instead of because they had
not, fathers who loved them and whom they loved! Well, the upshot was
that they agreed to part friends; and go back to their regiments as soon
as ever they could find out which one was captured. They'd just call it
even and let each other off. The Ohio boy is laid up now with a Minie in
his arm that he caught the next day, and he is wondering if the Alabama
lad with the father sent him that ball as a keepsake and a reminder!
So you see there are some humorous sides to these horrors after all,
mother. My journalistic instinct has kept me amused with this thing a
good deal to-day. I'd have given a good deal to have overheard the talk.
I swear I wouldn't have captured Alabama. He should have had his chance
to go back to the dear old home and the father. Ohio was troubled over
it, but I told him that he did exactly right. But wasn't it delightfully
funny? Oh, mother mine, I wish I could say something to make you keep
up good heart. I hope father is home. If I could be sure that he is,
I'd feel almost gay, today. Wool little Margaret's curly pate for me and
tell her that I say her chirographical efforts are very creditable for
a young lady of her limited experience. Get her some little paper and
encourage her to write to me often. It will do her good, and it will be
a delight to me. Her last letter was as quaint and demure as her little
self. Love to aunt Judy--the faithful old soul, and to the gentle
Hosanna--in the highest--peace and good will; not to 'mention me
resphects.'
"Keep up a brave heart, mother. It can't last much longer; and truly,
truly I believe that Roy is _quite_ safe. Kiss yourself for your eldest
and loving son,
"Beverly."