MORTALLY WOUNDED
"It is a mercy that she is delirious; otherwise her unavoidable excitement
and anxiety would probably prove fatal. She is very ill, of course; but,
with careful nursing, I think you have little to apprehend. Above all
things, Irene, suffer nobody to bolt into that room with the news--keep her
as quiet as possible. I have perfect confidence in Whitmore's skill; he
will do all that I could, though I would not leave her if I did not feel it
my duty to hurry to the battlefield. Queen, you look weary; but it is not
strange, after all that you have passed through."
"Doctor, when will you start?"
"In twenty minutes."
"Has any intelligence been received this morning?"
"Nothing but confirmation of last night's news. Hill holds Mechanicsville,
and the enemy have fallen back in the direction of Powhite Swamp. A general
advance will be made all along our lines to-day, and I must be off. What is
the matter? Surely you are not getting frightened."
"Frightened--Dr. Arnold? No. I have no fears about the safety of Richmond;
defeat is not written in Lee's lexicon; but I shudder in view of the
precious human hecatombs to be immolated on yonder hills before McClellan
is driven back. No doubt of victory disquiets me, but the thought of its
awful price."
She paused, and her whole face quivered as she laid her clasped hands on
his arm.
"Well--what is it? Dear child, what moves you so?"
"Doctor, promise me that if Colonel Aubrey is mortally wounded you will
send instantly for me. I must see him once more."
Her head went down on her hands, and she trembled as white asters do in an
early autumn gale. Compassionately the old man drew one arm around her.
"After all, then, you do care for him--despite your life-long reserve and
apparent indifference? I have suspected as much, several times, but that
imperturbable sphinx-face of yours always baffled me. My child, you need
not droop your head; he is worthy of your love; he is the only man I know
whom I would gladly see you marry. Irene, look up--tell me--did Leonard
know this? Conscious of your affection for Aubrey, did he doom you to your
lonely lot?"
"No. My father died in ignorance of what would have pained and mortified
him beyond measure. Knowing him as well as you do, can you suppose that I
would ever have allowed him to suspect the truth? I realized my duty and
fulfilled it; that is the only consolation I have left. It never caused him
one throb of regret, or furnished food for bitter reflection; and the debt
of respect I owe to his memory shall be as faithfully discharged. If
Colonel Aubrey lives to enjoy the independence for which he is fighting--if
he should be spared to become a useful, valued member of society--one of
the pure and able statesmen whom his country will require when these dark
days of strife are ended, I can be content, though separated from him, and
watching his brilliant career afar off. But if he must give his life for
that which he holds dearer still, I ask the privilege of seeing him again,
of being with him in his last moments. This consolation the brave spirit of
my father would not withhold from me, were communion allowed between living
and dead; this none can have the right to deny me."
"I promise that you shall know all as early as possible. If you receive no
tidings, believe that he is uninjured. As yet, his regiment has not moved
forward, but I know not how soon it may. Heaven preserve you! my precious
child."
He pressed a kiss on the drooped head, and left her to resume her watch in
the darkened room where Electra had been ill with typhoid-fever for nearly
three weeks. It was thought that she contracted the disease in the crowded
hospital; and when delirium ensued, Irene temporarily relinquished her ward
to other nurses, and remained at the boarding-house, in attendance on her
friend. It was a season of unexampled anxiety, yet all was singularly quiet
in the beleaguered city. Throughout the Confederacy hushed expectancy
reigned. Gallant Vicksburg's batteries barred the Mississippi; Beauregard
and Price, lion-hearted idols of the West, held the Federal army in Corinth
at bay; Stonewall Jackson--synonym of victory--after sweeping like a
whirlwind through the Valley, and scattering the columns that stealthily
crept southward, had arrived at Richmond at the appointed time. A greater
than Serrurier, at a grander than Castiglone, he gave the signal to begin;
and as a sheet of flame flashed along the sombre forests of Chickahominy,
the nation held its breath, and watched the brilliant Seven Days' conflict,
which converted twenty-six miles of swamp and forest into a vast
necropolis.
During Friday the wounded came slowly in, and at four in the afternoon the
roar of artillery told that the Battle of Gaines Mill was raging: that the
enemy were fighting desperately, behind entrenchments which none but
Confederate soldiers could successfully have assaulted. Until eight at
night the houses trembled at every report of cannon, and then McClellan's
grand army, crippled and bleeding, dragged itself away, under cover of
darkness, to the south bank of the Chickahominy. Saturday saw a temporary
lull in the iron storm; but the wounded continued to arrive, and the
devoted women of the city rose from their knees to minister to the needs of
these numerous sufferers. Sunday found our troops feeling about the swamps
for the retreating foe; and once more, late in the afternoon, distant
thunder resounded from the severely contested field of Savage's Station,
whence the enemy again retreated.
On Sabbath morning Irene learned that Russell's command had joined in the
pursuit; and during that day and night, as the conflict drifted farther
southward, and details became necessarily more meagre, her anxiety
increased. Continually her lips moved in prayer, as she glided from
Electra's silent room to aid in dressing the wounds of those who had been
disabled for further participation in the strife; and, as Monday passed
without the receipt of tidings from Dr. Arnold, she indulged in the hope
that Russell would escape uninjured. During Tuesday morning Electra seemed
to have recovered her consciousness, but in the afternoon she relapsed into
incoherent muttering of "Cuyp," "Correggio," "Titian's Bella," and "my best
great picture left in Florence."
Irene was sitting at her bedside, rolling bandages, when the sudden,
far-distant, dull boom of cannon, followed by the quick rattling of the
window-panes, gave intimation that the long contest was fiercely renewed. A
courier had arrived from Malvern Mill with intelligence that here the
enemy's forces were very strongly posted, were making desperate resistance;
and though no doubt of the result was entertained, human nature groaned
over the carnage.
At ten o'clock, having given a potion, and renewed the folds of wet linen
on Electra's head, Irene stole back to the window, and, turning the
shutters, looked down the street. Here and there an anxious group huddled
on the corners, with ears strained to catch every sound, and, while she
watched, a horseman clattered at a hard gallop over the paving-stones,
reined up at the door of the boarding-house, swung himself to the sidewalk,
and an instant after the sharp clang of the bell rang startlingly through
the still mansion.
"Oh, my God! it has come at last!"
Irene groaned, and leaned heavily against the window-facing, and quick
steps came up the stairway. Martha entered, and held out a slip of paper.
"Miss Irene, Cyrus has just brought this."
Her mistress' icy fingers clutched it, and she read--
"Come at once. Aubrey is badly wounded. Cyrus will show the way.
"HIRAM ARNOLD."
"You are going to faint, Miss Irene! Drink some of this cordial."
"No. Tell Andrew to go after the carriage as quick as possible, and have it
brought here immediately; and ask Uncle Eric to come to my room at once."
Irene went to her own apartment, which adjoined Electra's, put on her
bonnet and veil, and, though the night was warm, wrapped a shawl about her.
Mr. Mitchell entered soon after, and started at sight of his niece's face.
"Irene, what does this mean? Where are you going at this hour?"
"To the battlefield!--to Malvern Hill. Colonel Aubrey is mortally wounded,
and I must see him. Will you go with me? Oh, Uncle Eric! if you have any
mercy in your soul ask me no questions now! only go with me."
"Of course, my dear child, I will go with you, if it is possible to procure
a carriage of any kind. I will see----"
"I have had one engaged for three days. Martha, stay with Electra till I
come back; leave her on no account. If you notice any change, send for Dr.
Whitmore. Here is my watch; count her pulse carefully, and as long as it is
over one hundred, give her, every two hours, a spoonful of the medicine in
that square vial on the table. I trust to you, Martha, to take care of her.
If she should be rational, and ask for me, tell her nothing about the
battles, and say I have gone to see a sick man, and will be back soon.
Come, Uncle Eric."
They entered the close carriage which she had ordered reserved for her, and
she called Cyrus to the door.
"Did you see Colonel Aubrey after he was wounded?"
"I only had a glimpse of him, as they brought him in. Miss Irene, he was
shot in the breast."
"You know the way; ride outside; and, Cyrus, drive as fast as possible."
By the glimmer of the carriage lamps she could see the wagons going to and
fro, some filled with empty coffins, some with mangled sufferers. Now and
then weary, spent soldiers sat on the roadside, or struggled on toward the
city which they had saved, with their arms in slings, or hands bound up, or
bloody bandages across their stern faces. After another hour, when the
increasing number of men showed proximity to the scene of danger, Cyrus
turned away from the beaten track, and soon the flash of lights and the hum
of voices told that they were near the place of destination. The carriage
stopped, and Cyrus came to the door.
"We are at the lines, and I can't drive any nearer. If you will wait, I
will go and find master."
The delay seemed intolerably long, and for the first time an audible moan
escaped Irene just as Cyrus came back accompanied by a muffled figure.
"Irene, my child."
She leaned out till her face nearly touched Dr. Arnold's.
"Only tell me that he is alive, and I can bear all else."
"He is alive, and sleeping just now. Can you control yourself if I take you
to him?"
"Yes; you need not fear that I will disturb him. Let me go to him."
He gave her his arm, and led her through the drizzling rain for some
distance--avoiding, as much as possible, the groups of wounded, where
surgeons were at their sad work. Finally, before a small tent, he paused,
and whispered--
"Nerve yourself, dear child."
"Is there no hope?"
She swept aside her long mourning veil, and gazed imploringly into his
face.
Tears filled his eyes, and hastily averting his head, he raised the curtain
of the tent and drew her inside.
A candle burned dimly in one corner, and there, on a pallet of straw, over
which a blanket had been thrown, lay the powerful form of the dauntless
leader, whose deeds of desperate daring had so electrified his worshipping
command but a few hours before. The noble head was pillowed on a knapsack;
one hand pressed his heart, while the other drooped nerveless at his side,
and the breast of his coat was saturated with blood, which at intervals
oozed through the bandages and dripped upon the straw. The tent was silent
as a cemetery, and not a sound passed Irene's white, fixed lips as she bent
down and looked upon the loved face, strangely beautiful in its pallid
repose. The shadowy wings of the bitter bygone hovered no longer over the
features, darkening their chiselled perfection; a tranquil half-smile
parted the lips, and unbent the lines between the finely-arched black
brows.
Sinking softly on the floor of the tent, Irene rested her chin on her
folded hands, and calmly watched the deep sleep. So passed three-quarters
of an hour; then, as Dr. Arnold cautiously put his fingers on the pulse,
the sufferer opened his eyes.
Irene was partially in the shade, but as she leaned forward, a sudden,
bewildered smile lighted his countenance; he started up, and extended one
arm.
"Irene! My darling! Do I dream, or are you indeed with me?"
"I have come to nurse you, Russell; but if you do not calm yourself, the
doctor will send me away."
She took the outstretched hand in both of hers, and pressed her lips
repeatedly upon it.
"Come close to me. I am helpless now, and cannot go to you."
She seated herself on the edge of the straw, laid her shawl in her lap, and
lifting his head, rested it on the soft woollen folds. Dr. Arnold removed
the warm cloth soaked with blood, placed a cold, dripping towel on the
gaping wound, and after tightening the bandages to check the haemorrhage,
passed out of the tent, leaving the two alone.
"Oh, Irene! this is a joy I never hoped for. I went at night to the
hospital in Richmond just to get a glimpse of you--to feast my eyes with
another sight of your dear, dear face! I watched you ministering like an
angel to sick and wounded soldiers, and I envied them the touch of your
hand--the sound of your voice. I little expected to die in your arms. This
reconciles me to my fate; this compensates for all."
Her fingers tenderly smoothed the black locks that clung to his temples,
and bending down she kissed his forehead. His uninjured arm stole up
around her neck, drew her face to his, and his lips pressed hers again and
again.
"Dear Russell, you must be quiet, or you will exhaust yourself. Try to
sleep--it will refresh, strengthen you."
"Nothing will strengthen me. I have but a short time to live; shall I sleep
away the opportunity of my last earthly communion with you, my life-long
idol! Oh, Irene! my beautiful treasure! This proof of your love sweetens
death itself. There have been hours (ever since we parted a year ago) when
I reproached you for the sorrow and pain you sternly meted out to me, and
to yourself. When I said bitterly, _if_ she loved as she should, she would
level all barriers--she would lay her hands in mine--glorify my name by
taking it as my wife, and thus defy and cancel the past. I was selfish in
my love; I wanted you in my home; I longed for the soft touch of your
fingers, for your proud, dazzling smile of welcome when the day's work was
ended; for the privilege of drawing you to my heart, and listening to your
whispered words of encouragement and fond congratulation in my successes. I
knew that this could never be; that your veneration for your father's
memory would separate us in future, as in the past; that my pleadings would
not shake your unfortunate and erroneous resolution; and it was hard to
give up the dearest hope that ever brightened a lonely man's life. Now I
know, I feel that your love is strong, deathless as my own, though long
locked deep in your heart. I know it by the anguish in your face, by the
quiver of your mouth, by your presence in this place of horrors. God
comfort and bless you, my own darling!--my brave, patient, faithful Irene!"
He smiled triumphantly, and drew her hand caressingly across his cheek.
"Russell, it is useless now to dwell upon our sorrowful past; what
suffering our separation has cost me, none but my God can ever know. To His
hands I commit my destiny, and 'He doeth all things well.' In a little
while you will leave me, and then--oh! then, I shall be utterly desolate
indeed! But I can bear loneliness--I can walk my dreary earthly path
uncomplainingly, I can give you up for the sake of my country, if I have
the blessed assurance that you have only hastened home before me, waiting
for me there--that, saved through Christ, we shall soon meet in Heaven, and
spend Eternity together. Oh, Russell! can you give me this consolation,
without which my future will be dark indeed? Have you kept your promise, to
live so that you could at last meet the eyes of your God in peace?"
"I have. I have struggled against the faults of my character; I have
earnestly endeavoured to crush the vindictive feelings of my heart; and I
have conscientiously tried to do my duty to my fellow-creatures, to my
command, and my country. I have read the Bible you gave me; and, dearest,
in praying for you, I have learned to pray for myself. Through Jesus, I
have a sure hope of happiness beyond the grave. There, though separated in
life, you and I shall be united by death. Oh, Irene! but for your earnest
piety this precious anticipation might never have been mine. But for you I
would have forgotten my mother's precepts and my mother's prayers. Through
your influence I shall soon join her, where the fierce waves of earthly
trial can lash my proud soul no more."
"Thank God! Oh, Russell! this takes away the intolerable bitterness of
parting; this will support me in coming years. I can brave all things in
future."
She saw that a paroxysm of pain had seized him. His brow wrinkled, and he
bit his lips hard, to suppress a groan. Just at this moment Dr. Arnold
re-entered, and immediately after gave him another potion of morphine.
"Aubrey, you must be quiet, if you would not shorten your life."
He silently endured his sufferings for some moments, and raising his eyes
again to Irene's said, in a tone of exhaustion--
"It is selfish for me to make you witness my torture; but I could not bear
to have you leave me. There is something I want to say while I have
strength left. How is Electra?"
"Partially delirious still, but the doctor thinks she will recover. What
shall I tell her for you?"
"That I loved and remembered her in my dying hour. Kiss her for me, and
tell her I fell where the dead lay thickest, in a desperate charge on the
enemy's batteries--that none can claim a nobler, prouder death than
mine--that the name of Aubrey is once more glorified--baptized with my
blood upon the battlefield. Irene, she is alone in the world; watch over
her and love her, for my sake. Doctor, give me some water."
As the haemorrhage increased despite their efforts to stanch it, he became
rapidly weaker, and soon after, with one hand locked in Irene's, he fell
asleep.
She sat motionless, supporting his head, uttering no sound, keeping her
eyes fixed on his upturned countenance. Dr. Arnold went noiselessly in and
out, on various errands of mercy; occasionally anxious, weather-beaten
soldiers softly lifted the curtain of the tent, gazed sadly, fondly, on the
prostrate figure of the beloved commander, and turned away silently, with
tears trickling down their bronzed faces. Slowly the night waned, and the
shrill tones of _reveille_ told that another day had risen before the murky
sky brightened. Hundreds, who had sprung up at that call twenty-four hours
ago, now lay stiffening in their gore, sleeping their last sleep, where
neither the sound of fife and drum, nor the battle-cry of comrades, would
ever rouse them from their final rest before Malvern Hill--over which winds
wailed a requiem, and trailing, dripping clouds settled like a pall.
The bustle and stir of camp increased as preparations were made to follow
the foe, who had again taken up the line of retreat; but within the tent
unbroken silence reigned. It was apparent that Russell was sinking fast,
and at eight o'clock he awoke, looked uneasily around him, and said
feebly--
"What is going on in front?"
"McClellan has evacuated Malvern Hill, and is in full retreat toward his
gunboats," answered the doctor.
"Then there will be no more fighting. My shattered regiment will rest for a
season. Poor fellows! they did their duty nobly yesterday."
He lifted his eyes toward heaven, and for some moments his lips moved
inaudibly in prayer. Gradually a tranquil expression settled on his
features, and as his eyes closed again he murmured faintly--
"Irene--darling--raise me a little."
They lifted him, and rested his head against her shoulder.
"Irene!"
"I am here, Russell; my arms are around you."
She laid her cheek on his, and listened to catch the words, but none came.
The lips parted once, and a soft, fluttering breath swept across them. Dr.
Arnold put his hand over the heart--no pulsation greeted him; and, turning
away, the old man covered his face with his handkerchief.
"Russell, speak to me once more."
There was no sound, no motion. She knew that the soldier's spirit had
soared to the shores of Everlasting Peace, and that not until she joined
him there would the loved tones again make music in her heart. She
tightened her arms around the still form, and nestled her cheek closer to
his, now growing cold. No burst of grief escaped her, to tell of agony and
despair.
* * * * *
Electra's speedy convalescence repaid the care bestowed upon her, and one
afternoon, ten days after quiet had again settled around the Confederate
capital, she insisted on being allowed to sit up later than usual,
protesting that she would no longer be regarded as an invalid.
"Irene, stand in the light where I can see you fully. How worn and weary
you look! I suspect I am regaining my health at the expense of yours."
"No; I am as well in body as I could desire. But no doubt my anxiety has
left its traces on my countenance."
She leaned over Electra's chair, and stroked back the artist's shining
hair.
"I wish you would let me see the papers. My eyes are strong enough now, and
I want to know exactly what has taken place everywhere during my sickness.
It seems to me impossible that General Lee's army can face McClellan's much
longer without bringing on a battle, and I am so anxious about Russell. If
he should be hurt, of course, I must go to him. It is very strange that he
has not written. Are you sure no letters came for me?"
"There are no letters, I am sure; but I have a message for you. I have seen
him once since you were taken sick."
"Ah! what is it? He heard that I was ill, and came to see me, I suppose.
When was he here?"
Irene bent down and kissed her companion tremulously, saying slowly--
"He desired me to kiss you for him. Electra, I have not told you before
because I feared the effect upon you in your weak state; but there have
been desperate battles around Richmond during your illness, and the
Federals have been defeated--driven back to James river."
"Was Russell wounded? Yes--I understand it all now! Where is he? Oh! tell
me that I may go to him."
She sprang up, but a deathlike pallor overspread her face and she tottered
to the open window.
Irene followed the thin figure, and, putting her arms about her, made her
lean against her.
"He was wounded on the last day, and I went to see him; you were then
delirious."
"Let me go at once! I will not disturb him; I will control myself! Only let
me see him to-day!"
"Electra, you cannot see him. He has gone to his God; but in his dying hour
he spoke of you fondly, sent love, and----"
The form reeled, drooped, shivered, and fell back insensible in Irene's
arms.
So heavy was the swoon, that it seemed as if her spirit had fled to join
her cousin's in endless union; but at length consciousness returned, and
with it came the woeful realization of her loss. A long, low wail rose and
fell upon the air, like the cry from lips of feeble, suffering, helpless
children, and her head sank upon the shoulder of the sad-faced nurse, whose
grief could find no expression in sobs, or moans, or tears.
"Dead! dead! and I shall see his dear face no more! Oh! why did you not let
me die, too? What is my wretched life worth now? One grave might have held
us both! My noble, peerless Russell! the light of my solitary life! O God!
be merciful! take me with my idol! Take me now!"
Very tenderly and caressingly Irene endeavoured to soothe her--detailed the
circumstances of her cousin's death, and pointed her despairing soul to a
final reunion.
But no rift appeared in the artist's black sky of sorrow; she had not yet
learned that, in drawing near the hand that holds the rod, the blow is
lightened, and she bitterly demanded of her Maker to be released from the
burden of life.