had a heart; further than this, I could not ascertain, even after many
trials, until one morning he turned to me, suddenly, and said, pointing
to the wall opposite his bed, “We have a light all night; I can’t sleep,
and I’m all the time reading that.” I looked, and read the text in large
letters, “There is more joy in heaven, over one sinner that repenteth,”
&c. “Do you think there could ever be _joy_ over me?” The utter
depression of the look, the hopelessness of the tone, and the mournful
shake of the head, were touching in the extreme.
He seemed to long to do better, and promised earnestly to seek for
strength to avoid temptation. A few weeks elapsed, and on my return, the
answer to “Where is Brown?” was, “In the guard-house; he got better, got
a pass, and, of course, came home drunk.”
A severe illness followed; this occurred again and again; the necessity
for air and exercise gained him occasionally a pass from the surgeons,
always followed by the same sad result. The men despised him, treated him
accordingly, and his case seemed hopeless. One day, one of our poor men,
who was in a dying condition, fancied a piece of fresh shad--it was one
of those sick longings, which, of course, we were anxious to gratify.
Permission gained to send for it, I turned to one of the men at my side,
and said, “Will you go to the market and get it for him?” Brown, who was
standing near, sprang eagerly forward, “Oh! do let me go for you; I won’t
be a minute, and the doctor said a walk would be good for me.” The sad
doubt in my mind must have written itself upon my face, for its effect
was reflected by the deep pain and wounded expression in his own. My
resolution was taken instantly, and I resolved to risk it. Holding the
money to him, I said, “Take it, then, and come back quickly.” The blood
rushed to his face, and the beaming look of gratitude made me sure that
this was the best mode of treating him. Men are too often just what they
are assumed to be; treat them as men of honor, such they will be; treat
them as knaves, such also they will be. I mean not to affirm that there
is no such thing as abstract truth or principle; far from it; but I do
mean to say, that where the moral sense is weak, far more is gained by
treating men as though we trusted, than as though we doubted. It is the
unconscious tribute paid, all the world over, to honor and virtue. They
would fain be or appear to be, all that we think them; and who can tell
how far we may aid a sinking soul by the kind word of hopeful trust; or,
on the other hand, by assuming a man to be utterly degraded, help to
make him become so, in reality?
And yet, scarcely had Brown left my sight, ere the doubt returned. He had
been doing better lately. I had thrown him into temptation; would he have
strength to avoid it? Visions of illness, disgrace, suffering, and the
guard-house, filled my mind. These thoughts were not dissipated by M.’s
sudden question,
“Who did you send for that fish? How long he stays!”
With something of a pang of conscience, although quite aware that I had
acted from the best motives, I said, courageously,
“I sent Brown; it is not so very long.”
“Brown! Oh! how could you? You know what will happen?”
As I rely upon her judgment more than my own, my anxiety is not relieved,
though concealed. The minutes grow to hours, and still no tidings of him.
Another trial; the wardmaster appears.
“G---- wants to know if you’ve got his fish? you promised to send at
once.”
“Not yet,” I said, “but I hope I shall very soon.”
A very faint hope, it must be confessed. As he left the ladies’ room, I
heard one of the men say to him,
“G----’ll get no fish to-day. Do you know who she sent? Brown, if you’ll
believe it.”
A prolonged whistle. “Didn’t she know?”
“She might have, by this time, one would think.”
Heart sick, I turned away; my theory of trust henceforth must have
exceptions. I had led another into sin, and he must suffer for my fault.
Just at this instant Brown rushes in, flushed and heated, it is true, but
with exercise alone,--that was quite plain--and handing me the money,
pants out,
“I’ve been clean to the wharf, and couldn’t get a bit; I determined you
should have it, and I’ve been through every market I knowed on, but not a
blessed scrap could I find.”
“How glad I am!” broke involuntarily from my lips; and I was only
recalled to the inappropriateness of the reply, by his look of puzzled
wonder, and “What was it you said, miss?”
“Nothing,” I answered; “thank you for the trouble you have taken;” and
he left me, much mystified by my evident delight at the failure of his
errand.
The truth of his statement was verified by a lady, who (her carriage at
the door) offered to see if she could be more successful. She returned,
some time afterwards, bringing some other fish, and assuring me that it
was quite impossible to procure any shad that day, at any price, as
there was none in the market.
“They tell me, that I should not love
Where I cannot esteem;
But do not fear them, for to me
False wisdom doth it seem.
“Nay,--rather I should love thee more
The farther thou dost rove;
For what Prayers are effectual,
If not the Prayers of Love?”
DARLINGTON.
“I pity our sick men, to-day,” thought I, as I gladly took shelter within
the hospital walls from the burning summer sun, which was beating with
unusual violence upon the hot brick pavements and dusty streets. The city
in summer, and “Dante’s Inferno,” always seem to me synonymous terms.
It is on days like these, when the town seems so close and crowded,
the heated air so heavy and impure, that I long to have the hospitals
or their occupants all moved to the calm, cool country, where the poor
sufferer may be beguiled from the thought of his pain by the sweet sights
and sounds ever around him; that blessed blue, which no town sky can
ever attain, let it try its best, broken by fair, floating masses of
white clouds, their forms ever varying, yet each seeming more beautiful
than the last; the glad, grateful green of woods and dells, which, like
a loved presence, ever unconsciously soothes and satisfies; the soft,
springing wild flowers, with their sweet, sunny smile,--these for the
eye; while for the ear, listen to the cheerful chime with which that
little babbling brook plays its accompaniment in “little sharps and
trebles” to the chorus of voices overhead; no discord there--not one
false note to jar the unstrung nerve, but all pure, perfect harmony.
Is there no medicine in all this? Rather, is it not worth, for purposes
of cure, all, and more than all that the whole Materia Medica can offer?
And yet there are men living on this earth who tell you, aye, even as
though they were in earnest in the assertion, too, that they do not love
the country--they prefer a city life. For such, I can only hope that
retributive justice may bestow upon them a summer’s campaign in one of
our city hospitals.
“Have you seen our new lot of wounded?”
“No. When did they come in? Any serious cases?”
“Only a few days ago. Yes, ma’am, some pretty bad wounds; worse than
we’ve had yet--two of them can hardly live; but take care of one of them,
when you go in; he’s as cross as thunder, if you go within a mile of his
bed.”
This from one of the orderlies of the first ward, as my hand was upon
the latch of the door. I confess the announcement was somewhat alarming,
as we could then be but a few rods from his bed; however, “forewarned,
forearmed.” I enter, and find the scene little different from usual, save
that the vacant beds are all filled, and a few more have been added to
the number, as they evidently stand much closer than they do ordinarily.
I pass on to the familiar faces, and after a greeting with them, my
attention is attracted by a bright, cheerful tune, whistled in a voice
of uncommon sweetness. It comes from that bed where that poor arm is
bandaged from shoulder to finger tip, and, right glad am I to hear it;
the men who are cheerful, are, as a rule, always the first to recover. He
stops as I come up.
“I am glad you can whistle; it shows you are not suffering so much as I
feared, when I saw your bandages.”
He smiles, but says nothing; and I notice, as I come closer, that large
drops of perspiration are standing in beads upon his brow; his one free
hand is tightly clenched, and a nervous tremor runs over his whole frame.
One of my friends in a neighboring bed says, “Ah, Miss ----, you don’t
know Robinson yet, he’s a new fellow, and we all laugh at him here; he
says when the pain’s just so bad he can’t bear it nohow, he tries to
whistle with all his might, and he finds it does him good.”
Whether from the suspension of this novel remedy for acute suffering, or
a sudden increase of pain, I cannot tell; but as I turn to Robinson for a
confirmation of this singular statement, the large tears are in his eyes,
and roll slowly down his cheeks. He tries to smile, however, and says,
“Oh, yes! it does help me wonderfully; it kind of makes me forget the
pain, and think I’m at home again, where I’m always whistling. Nothing
like keeping up a good heart. It don’t always ache like this--only in
spells--it’ll stop after a bit. Never mind me, ma’am, I’m not half so bad
as poor Darlington there.”
There seemed to me something touching in the extreme, in this earnest
effort to subdue suffering by whistling up the bright memories of home,
in the midst of such intense physical anguish, and in the endeavor
to treat his own case as lightly as possible. Well has it been said,
“Character is seen through small openings;” and as he appeared in this
conversation, such did we find him always. Gentle, unselfish, and bearing
his terrible suffering with a beautiful patience, ere long he became a
general favorite throughout the whole hospital; and during the tedious
months of close and constant nursing which his case required, every one
seemed glad to help him and wait upon him at all times. But this is
anticipating, for no doubt he will appear again, as for a long time he
was one of our prime objects of interest, from the constant attention as
to diet and delicacies which his case required.
As I pass on from bed to bed, I give rather a scrutinizing glance, in
hopes of just seeing the formidable object whom I had been warned to
avoid. But in vain. All seem quiet, and since my presence has stopped
the whistling, nothing is heard but the men talking in an undertone, or
an occasional low moan of pain, which seems to come from some one asleep
and suffering. Suddenly, in my tour, I pause before a bed, struck by
the expression of intense anguish on a sweet, young face, white as the
pillow it rests upon; his fair hair tossed from the pale brow, which is
painfully contracted, and his long, thin, taper fingers, white as the
face, move convulsively as he sleeps. He is evidently badly wounded,
for a hoop raises the clothes from his bandaged limb. Who can he be?
Evidently those hands, even allowing for illness and loss of blood, have
never seen rough service, and belong to some one of a higher class than
we usually see as a Private here; for although we proudly acknowledge
that some of the best blood of the country is now in the ranks, still
it has not, as yet, been our good fortune to encounter its presence in
this hospital. There is a sort of fascination about that face, and I
stand gazing at him and wondering over him till Richards, one of our old
attachés, comes up.
“Oh! he’s asleep, poor fellow, at last; that accounts for it; the boys
are all wondering how you got so close; he’s in a great way, when he’s
awake. He couldn’t bear you that near without screaming.”
“Surely this can’t be the man Foster said was ‘as cross as thunder?’”
said I, thinking it utterly impossible that here was indeed the dreaded
object I had been seeking.
“Well, yes, miss; the boys call him cross, but somehow I don’t think he
means to be cross; only, you see he suffers so with that mashed-up limb,
that he’s afraid they’ll touch him when they come near, and he calls out
sudden like, and so they call him cross; but he’s as grateful as can be,
for any little thing you do for him.”
“Is he very badly wounded?”
“Oh! yes. The doctors would have taken his leg right off, but they say
he’s too weak to stand it; you never saw such a sight; he and Robinson,
there, are an awful pair to look at.”
“Is this Darlington? I heard Robinson say that Darlington was worse than
he was.”
“Yes, ma’am; the doctor says he’s not worse, only they take it different.
You see, poor Tom here, frets all the time, and don’t give himself no
chance; but that fellow over there’ll worry through yet, if pluck can do
it.”
This was afterwards confirmed by the surgeon himself. He assured me
that Robinson’s wound had appeared quite as dangerous--indeed, at one
time, even more so; but his quiet, placid disposition aided his recovery
immensely; while the terribly nervous temperament, and high state of
nervous irritability of poor Darlington, were equally against him.
“I’m glad enough he’s sleeping,” added Richards, “for he’s been here for
three days, and this is the first time, night or day, that I’ve caught
him with his eyes shut; lots of anodyne, too, the doctors give him. It’s
worry, worry, worry from morning to night about his sister; he wants so
to see her, and says if she were only here, she could come near his bed
and it wouldn’t hurt him.”
“Where does she live? Why don’t they send for her? he can’t live.”
“Away off in Michigan; and he won’t even have her told that he’s sick;
he says wait till he’s better, and then he’ll write; but he won’t have
her frightened. If he could only forget her for a little while, it’s my
notion he’d do better; but I tell him none of the boys here make half
the fuss after their wives that he does after his sister. Poor boy! he’s
just twenty-one since he came in here, and I rather guess they must have
thought a sight of him at home,--at least, he does of them,--too much for
his own good, that’s certain; this terrible fretting after home, when
they’re sick, does the boys a lot of harm.”
Knowing that Richards’ one talent was garrulity, I left him and went to
our room, thinking that perhaps we might prepare something to tempt poor
Darlington’s appetite; for the surgeon told us it was vital to keep up
his strength, and yet he could scarcely be persuaded to touch anything
which had been brought him.
As I well knew, from the state they described him to be in, that the
sight of a stranger could not be agreeable to him, we sent everything we
made for him through Richards, who constituted himself his body-guard
from the moment of his entering the hospital, and a most faithful and
untiring nurse he proved. Never again can I say that garrulity is his
only talent; he developed then and there a gift for nursing for which
those who best loved Darlington can never be too grateful. Days passed
on, and I soon found that (as I had supposed) what the men termed
“crossness,” was but the sad querulousness produced by suffering, and the
state of which I have spoken.
While Robinson evidently gained,--though his attacks of pain were still
marked by his own peculiar whistling, which we constantly heard in the
ladies’ room, and always knew how to interpret,--Darlington was as
evidently losing; and all hopes of amputation were necessarily abandoned.
I could feel nothing but the most intense pity for him, and longing
to comfort him; but it seemed impossible. M. said to me one day, “It
certainly seems best, from what we see and hear of Darlington, to send,
not take, his nourishment to him; and yet, perhaps our presence might be
more welcome; but I hesitate, because the sight of any one coming near
him seems to throw him into such a nervous state.”
“Yes,” said I, “any one but Richards; doesn’t it seem a strange fancy?”
And so we went on, for a week or more longer; for our interest in the
case was so great, that even when not on duty at the hospital, we felt
that we must know its progress. One day the surgeon came to me and begged
me to try to cheer up Darlington, he was so down-hearted, would taste
no food, etc.; must certainly sink unless some change could be made in
his feelings. I went to his bedside at once, to see if he were awake,
for much of the time he was kept under the effect of anodyne, to deaden
the excessive pain. For many a long day did that look of deep, profound
wretchedness haunt me, as he raised his soft, clear blue eyes to mine,
and said, in the most earnest, pleading tone, “Dear lady, please to go
away, I am so very wretched.” Any one who had ever suffered realized that
there was no crossness here; physical suffering, acute and intense, was
written in every line of his face, sounded in every tone of his voice,
and most earnestly did I long to soothe him.
Without answering, I drew back, and laid my cold hands on his burning
brow. His whole expression changed. “You like it,” I said; “I am so
glad; we have all been wishing so much to do something to comfort you.”
A sweet smile, more touching than tears, passed over the poor white face,
followed the next moment by the painful contraction of the muscles from
suffering.
“But I want _her_!”
“Ah!” said I, “that sister! No one can take her place; we will write, and
she can soon be here; she would come further than from Michigan, I am
sure, to see a sick brother who loves her as you do.”
With more energy than I had ever seen in him, he lifted his head from the
pillow, saying eagerly, “Never, never write to her; I wouldn’t have her
see me so for all----”
But here, either from the effort, or from a sudden increase of pain,
faintness came on; strong stimulants and the doctor’s presence were
needed, and I left him. This, I trusted, however, might be a beginning.
The next day, when I came to him, he looked much sunken, and seemed
altogether lower than I had yet seen him. He smiled, however, and tried
to lift his hand, and point to his head.
“You like my cold hands,” said I, as I once more pressed them on his
throbbing temples; “but perhaps this hot day, a little ice would be
better; let me get you some.”
He said something which I could not catch; his voice sounded strangely
weak and broken, and I was obliged to ask him to repeat it.
“No! oh no! I said your hands were better than any ice.”
“They put you in mind of that sister, is that it? Well, shut your eyes
now, and try to fancy, just for a little while, that they are really
hers, and that she is standing in my place, where I know she would so
long to be.”
“That sister,” he said, quietly and gently, “whom I shall never see on
this earth again.”
This was the first time that he had so spoken; always before he had
alluded to being better--to getting home--to writing himself to her; but
now it seemed he felt and realized his state.
These were the last words I ever heard poor Darlington speak, for I never
saw him again. My week at the hospital was over; I was obliged to leave
home for a short time, and when I returned he was at peace, and calmly
laid to rest.
“Out of the darkness, into the light:
No more sickness, no more sighing;
No more suffering, self-denying;
No more weakness, no more pain;
Never a weary soul again;
No more clouds, and no more night;--
Out of the darkness into the light.”
Although I was not present, I had the most touching account of his last
hours from one who, in truth, acted a sister’s part,--watched by him,
comforted, consoled, pointed him upward, and received his latest breath.
With her own hands she cut off a lock of that fair hair for the poor
sister, so fondly and so truly loved in her far-away home.
She told me, in speaking of the last days of his life, that after I had
left, and as death drew near, all that restlessness and irritability
passed away, and that he lay calm and peaceful as a little child; talked
to her quietly--sent messages to his home--gave particular directions as
to his funeral--saying that it would satisfy them all at home, to know
everything had been carefully attended to, and that they would see that
it was all paid for. Every wish was carried out; his body was wrapped in
the Flag; our own grand Service for the Dead said over him; his faithful
nurse, “Uncle Richards,” following him to his grave,--in one of the lots
generously given by one of the cemeteries in the neighborhood of the
city. It was a great comfort to know that he looked at Death without
fear; his mind had evidently been dwelling much and deeply upon the
subject, during many of those long hours when we had supposed him to be
in a stupor. He expressed a sure and steadfast trust in the merits of his
dear Lord and Saviour, and rested with a quiet confidence upon His mercy.
He passed away calmly and gently, and we have perfect trust that he
sleeps in Paradise. Such was the account I received on my return.
“And, comforted, I praised the grace
Which him had led to be
An early seeker of That Face
Which he should early see.”
Perhaps the most pathetic part of the whole thing, was to see the deep,
real, unostentatious grief of poor Richards, who seemed as if he had lost
a son. This was a strange case altogether. Richards was a man who had
been in the English army; tall, fine-looking, with a military air and
bearing, which had impressed me much when he first came to the hospital;
but I soon found that his habits were bad, and that any permission to
go out was sure to be followed by a night in the guard-house, and days
in bed. And yet a kinder heart could scarcely be found. He had devoted
himself to more than one of the men, and watched them night after night
till their death. In one instance, when one man whom he had been nursing
was to be taken home, here in the city, he obtained permission to go
with him and nurse him, sitting up with him and watching him till his
death. As at such times he always remained perfectly sober, it was
suggested to make him nurse, (his disease rendering a return to his
regiment impossible,) with the hope that the good influence over him
which this work seemed to possess, might be permanent; but this would
not do; he could not be trusted unless he had a special interest in the
man he was nursing, and what was necessary to create such interest he
alone knew. Whatever the qualities were, Darlington possessed them in
the highest degree. He seemed to attract him from the first, and the
love was warmly returned. Darlington thought no one could move him, no
one could feed him, no one could dress his wound but “Uncle Richards,
dear Uncle Richards,” as he called him; and often have I wondered at the
tender love which seemed to exist between them. Those who were present
told me that it was truly wonderful to watch Richards all through that
last day, kneeling at his bedside, praying with him, repeating text after
text of Scripture or hymns, as he asked for them. One of the last things
Darlington said was, “Where is dear Uncle Richards? I want to put my arms
round his neck, and thank him for all his goodness and kindness to me.”
And yet this is the man of whom some one said to me, only a day or two
since, “Why do you speak to that worthless fellow?”
One day, in my next week at the hospital, Richards came to me, and with
the usual salute, which he never forgets, said, “Miss ----, you used to
care for poor Tom, would you let me tell you about him? The world seems
so lonely to me, now he’s gone.”
I gladly assented, and seated on an old packing-box, in the corner of the
hospital entry, I listened to his story. He gave me every detail of his
illness, most of them already familiar to me; told, with evident pride,
how the poor fellow thought nobody but himself could do anything for him.
“You mind, miss, don’t you, how the first day you saw him, I told you he
didn’t mean to be cross, though the boys thought him so? Well, he told
me before he died, how sorry he was they had thought so, but they could
never know what agony it was to him to see them come near him; but now he
felt that he ought to have tried to bear it all more patiently. Poor Tom!
there’s not been many like him here, and there’ll never be any like him
to me,” and hard, heavy sobs shook his whole frame.
I spoke to him of the comfort he had been to him; of the kind way in
which he had watched him, and how we had all noticed it; and won a
promise from him, in his softened state, that henceforward he would try
so to live as to meet him hereafter; and I really believe that at the
time he was sincere; but habit is a fearful thing, and the struggle
against a sin so confirmed more fearful still.
Some days afterwards, he came to me, when there were others present, and
said:
“I had a letter from _her_ to-day.”
My thoughts were far enough from Darlington at the moment, and I answered,
“From whom?”
“From _her_, you know!”
“And who do you mean by ‘her?’”