ROBERT'S DEATH.
ALL inquiries both at Camp Lincoln, and all other camps proving
ineffectual, Mrs. Bowles and her companion returned to Saratoga street
without learning any thing that bore on the loss of the boy, except
that a small detachment of soldiers had on the fourteenth, the very day
Robert left, been sent forward to Camp Chase in Ohio.
On the strength of this, Mr. Woodward went at once to Washington and
requested the proper officer to send in the name of his mother a
requisition for the missing boy.
A fortnight of painful suspense followed. All that could be done had
been done, but in vain. At last, the penny post brought a dingy looking
letter, written on a leaf torn from a book. It was from Robert, and
this time the ill spelled, ill written scrawl was received with joy. It
was addressed to Marion, and begun with the familiar doggerel:
"The roses are red. The violets are blue,
The lilies are sweet—And so are you."
Then he went on.
"I like being a solgher. I have a tiptop time. The Kunnel is furst,
and I am next to him. I ware an elegant uniform all covered with gold.
I luv you the same as ever."
After this, the tone of the letter changed entirely. Robert added:
"I'm homesic, I wish I hadn't run awa. Good bye. I think I shall die
and never see you agen. Robert Weeks. Tell aunt Josephine I'm sorry."
The letter was dated Camp Chase, Ohio. An hour after it was received,
Mr. Woodward was on his way to the cars intending to go instantly to
Ohio for the boy, when on reaching the depot, he heard news which
caused his return home.
Robert had come, and was at that moment at his uncle's house.
Poor Robert! How changed he was. Unwashed, uncombed, his pretty suit
soiled and worn threadbare, his person so filthy that it was almost
impossible to breathe in the room with him, thin and worn and aged, as
years would not have aged him, his breath coming with a gasp, this was
poor Robert, next "to the Kunnel in rank."
Marion rushed in to welcome him, gazed a minute at his bent form and
burst out crying.
"Don't," Robert said gasping. "Are you sorry for me? I'm going to die.
I'm glad you care for me."
"Oh, I'm as sorry as I can be! But how you do look! And how your
clothes smell. I can't bear it." And off she ran, holding her
handkerchief to her nose.
"Good bye, Marion, I never shall see you again." Great tears fell down
poor Robert's cheeks as he looked after her, his first love.
Mrs. Woodward rose from her sick bed to speak to the boy. She wept
when she saw his pitiable condition, and only the recollection of her
promise to his mother that if found, he should return to Georgetown at
once, prevented her from putting him into a warm bath. She gave him
food and medicine, brushed his hair, though almost fainting in the foul
air, buttoned on a clean collar, brought his old overcoat and insisted
he should wear it. By the time he was ready, the carriage came to take
him to the cars.
"I'm sorry, aunty, 'deed I am," was all he said at parting; but there
were tears in his eyes to prove his sincerity. Poor Robert!
Mr. Woodward found a seat which the boy could have by himself and he
slept most of the way. When they reached Washington, the gentleman
hired a carriage to take him to Georgetown, as he wished to return to
Washington in time for the nine o'clock train back. During the ride, he
talked kindly, but faithfully to Robert, urging him to ask forgiveness
of his father's God.
"I am sorry, uncle, 'deed I am," gasped the boy, speaking and breathing
with great difficulty. "I have been awful bad, worse than anybody; but
God knows; I'm going to die, and I'm afraid he wont forgive me."
"He has promised, Robert,—
"'Him that cometh to me I will in nowise cast out.'
"Go to him in earnest. Tell Him all, and plead for help in Christ's
name."
"I began to pray when I was sick in camp, but soldiers are wicked and
they laughed. I was sorry then that I ran away; and I wanted to see
aunt Josephine so bad. If I hadn't been idle, I never should have been
so wicked."
I have no time to tell of the meeting between mother and son. He had
little strength to bear the excitement, and turned his head wearily
from her.
When his uncle approached the bed to bid him good bye, he sobbed
piteously.
"Will God forgive me," he kept asking. "Will He, when I'm so wicked? I
am sorry, 'deed I am."
He was never dressed but once after his return, and then with many
sighs, he confessed to his mother his many acts of disobedience.
Two days later, Robert breathed his last. He died gasping a prayer for
Christ's sake; and his mother wrote that he continually repeated the
words, "I'm so sorry, 'deed I am."