TOM ANDERSON'S DEATH.
"Where is Tom?" asked Captain Sybil; "I have not seen him for several
hours."
"He's gone down the sound with some of the soldiers," replied Robert.
"They wanted Tom to row them."
"I am afraid those boys will get into trouble, and the Rebs will pick
them off," responded Sybil.
"O, I hope not," answered Robert.
"I hope not, too; but those boys are too venturesome."
"Tom knows the lay of the land better than any of us," said Robert. "He
is the most wide-awake and gamiest man I know. I reckon when the war is
over Tom will be a preacher. Did you ever hear him pray?"
"No; is he good at that?"
"First-rate," continued Robert. "It would do you good to hear him. He
don't allow any cursing and swearing when he's around. And what he says
is law and gospel with the boys. But he's so good-natured; and they
can't get mad at him."
"Yes, Robert, there is not a man in our regiment I would sooner trust
than Tom. Last night, when he brought in that wounded scout, he couldn't
have been more tender if he had been a woman. How gratefully the poor
fellow looked in Tom's face as he laid him down so carefully and
staunched the blood which had been spurting out of him. Tom seemed to
know it was an artery which had been cut, and he did just the right
thing to stop the bleeding. He knew there wasn't a moment to be lost. He
wasn't going to wait for the doctor. I have often heard that colored
people are ungrateful, but I don't think Tom's worst enemy would say
that about him."
"Captain," said Robert, with a tone of bitterness in his voice, "what
had we to be grateful for? For ages of poverty, ignorance, and slavery?
I think if anybody should be grateful, it is the people who have
enslaved us and lived off our labor for generations. Captain, I used to
know a poor old woman who couldn't bear to hear any one play on the
piano."
"Is that so? Why, I always heard that colored people were a musical
race."
"So we are; but that poor woman's daughter was sold, and her mistress
took the money to buy a piano. Her mother could never bear to hear a
sound from it."
"Poor woman!" exclaimed Captain Sybil, sympathetically; "I suppose it
seemed as if the wail of her daughter was blending with the tones of the
instrument. I think, Robert, there is a great deal more in the colored
people than we give them credit for. Did you know Captain Sellers?"
"The officer who escaped from prison and got back to our lines?" asked
Robert.
"Yes. Well, he had quite an experience in trying to escape. He came to
an aged couple, who hid him in their cabin and shared their humble food
with him. They gave him some corn-bread, bacon, and coffee which he
thought was made of scorched bran. But he said that he never ate a meal
that he relished more than the one he took with them. Just before he
went they knelt down and prayed with him. It seemed as if his very hair
stood on his head, their prayer was so solemn. As he was going away the
man took some shingles and nailed them on his shoes to throw the
bloodhounds off his track. I don't think he will ever cease to feel
kindly towards colored people. I do wonder what has become of the boys?
What can keep them so long?"
Just as Captain Sybil and Robert were wondering at the delay of Tom and
the soldiers they heard the measured tread of men who were slowly
bearing a burden. They were carrying Tom Anderson to the hospital,
fearfully wounded, and nigh to death. His face was distorted, and the
blood was streaming from his wounds. His respiration was faint, his
pulse hurried, as if life were trembling on its frailest cords.
Robert and Captain Sybil hastened at once towards the wounded man. On
Robert's face was a look of intense anguish, as he bent pityingly over
his friend.
"O, this is dreadful! How did it happen?" cried Robert.
Captain Sybil, pressing anxiously forward, repeated Robert's question.
"Captain," said one of the young soldiers, advancing and saluting his
superior officer, "we were all in the boat when it struck against a mud
bank, and there was not strength enough among us to shove her back into
the water. Just then the Rebels opened fire upon us. For awhile we lay
down in the boat, but still they kept firing. Tom took in the whole
situation, and said: 'Someone must die to get us out of this. I
mought's well be him as any. You are soldiers and can fight. If they
kill me, it is nuthin'.' So Tom leaped out to shove the boat into the
water. Just then the Rebel bullets began to rain around him. He received
seven or eight of them, and I'm afraid there is no hope for him."
"O, Tom, I wish you hadn't gone. O, Tom! Tom!" cried Robert, in tones of
agony.
A gleam of grateful recognition passed over the drawn features of Tom,
as the wail of his friend fell on his ear. He attempted to speak, but
the words died upon his lips, and he became unconscious.
"Well," said Captain Sybil, "put him in one of the best wards. Give him
into Miss Leroy's care. If good nursing can win him back to life, he
shall not want for any care or pains that she can bestow. Send
immediately for Dr. Gresham."
Robert followed his friend into the hospital, tenderly and carefully
helped to lay him down, and remained awhile, gazing in silent grief upon
the sufferer. Then he turned to go, leaving him in the hands of Iola,
but hoping against hope that his wounds would not be fatal.
With tender devotion Iola watched her faithful friend. He recognized her
when restored to consciousness, and her presence was as balm to his
wounds. He smiled faintly, took her hand in his, stroked it tenderly,
looked wistfully into her face, and said, "Miss Iola, I ain't long fer
dis! I'se 'most home!"
"Oh, no," said Iola, "I hope that you will soon get over this trouble,
and live many long and happy days."
"No, Miss Iola, it's all ober wid me. I'se gwine to glory; gwine to
glory; gwine to ring dem charmin' bells. Tell all de boys to meet me in
heben; dat dey mus' 'list in de hebenly war."
"O, Mr. Tom," said Iola, tenderly, "do not talk of leaving me. You are
the best friend I have had since I was torn from my mother. I should be
so lonely without you."
"Dere's a frien' dat sticks closer dan a brudder. He will be wid yer in
de sixt' trial, an' in de sebbent' he'll not fo'sake yer."
"Yes," answered Iola, "I know that. He is all our dependence. But I
can't help grieving when I see you suffering so. But, dear friend, be
quiet, and try to go to sleep."
"I'll do enythin' fer yer, Miss Iola."
Tom closed his eyes and lay quiet. Tenderly and anxiously Iola watched
over him as the hours waned away. The doctor came, shook his head
gravely, and, turning to Iola, said, "There is no hope, but do what you
can to alleviate his sufferings."
As Iola gazed upon the kind but homely features of Tom, she saw his eyes
open and an unexpressed desire upon his face.
Tenderly and sadly bending over him, with tears in her dark, luminous
eyes, she said, "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes," said Tom, with laboring breath; "let me hole yore han', an' sing
'Ober Jordan inter glory' an' 'We'll anchor bye and bye.'"
Iola laid her hand gently in the rough palm of the dying man, and, with
a tremulous voice, sang the parting hymns.
Tenderly she wiped the death damps from his dusky brow, and imprinted
upon it a farewell kiss. Gratitude and affection lit up the dying eye,
which seemed to be gazing into the eternities. Just then Robert entered
the room, and, seating himself quietly by Tom's bedside, read the death
signs in his face.
"Good-bye, Robert," said Tom, "meet me in de kingdom." Suddenly a look
of recognition and rapture lit up his face, and he murmured, "Angels,
bright angels, all's well, all's well!"
Slowly his hand released its pressure, a peaceful calm overspread his
countenance, and without a sigh or murmur Thomas Anderson, Iola's
faithful and devoted friend, passed away, leaving the world so much
poorer for her than it was before. Just then Dr. Gresham, the hospital
physician, came to the bedside, felt for the pulse which would never
throb again, and sat down in silence by the cot.
"What do you think, Doctor," said Iola, "has he fainted?"
"No," said the doctor, "poor fellow! he is dead."
Iola bowed her head in silent sorrow, and then relieved the anguish of
her heart by a flood of tears. Robert rose, and sorrowfully left the
room.
Iola, with tearful eyes and aching heart, clasped the cold hands over
the still breast, closed the waxen lid over the eye which had once
beamed with kindness or flashed with courage, and then went back, after
the burial, to her daily round of duties, feeling the sad missing of
something from her life.