have known that, at present, there was but one subject for him.
“Oh, have you? What does she say?”
“Not now, not now,” he said, looking at the others, as though the grief
were too fresh, the subject too sacred, to be mentioned so publicly; “but
I just thought you’d like to know.”
At a quiet moment, the next day, he begged me to let him tell me what
she had written;--her warm, earnest thanks to him for all his love and
tenderness to her darling brother; and begging him to plant some flowers
where he was laid to rest. This may never be in his power, but there are
those who will never forget to care for and cherish the low grave of that
young Private.
MILITARY HOSPITAL, July, 1862.
What matters it, one more, or less?
A Private died to-day;
“Bring up a stretcher--bear him off--
And take that bed away;
Put 39 into his place,
It is more airy there;
And give his knapsack, and those clothes,
Into the steward’s care.”
So, it is over. All is done!
And, ere the evening guard,
Few thought of the Dread Presence
That day within the ward.--
Few thought of the young Private,
Whose suffering, pallid brow
Was knit by torture, not by time,--
Unfurrow’d by Life’s plough.
Few thought upon the agony
In that far western home,
Where he, their hearts’ best treasure,
Was never more to come;
For Privates have both hearts and homes,
And Privates, too, can love;
And Privates’ prayers, thank God for that!
May reach the Throne above.
We know thee not, sad sister!
Whose name so oft he breathed,
Till it would seem that thoughts of thee
Round his whole being wreathed;
But by the love he bore for thee,
We catch a glimpse of thine;
And, by the bond of sisterhood,
We meet beside his shrine.
We meet to tell thee, stricken soul!
That strangers held thy place--
Sisters by Nature’s right, and he,
Brother, by right of race.
While pillow’d tenderly his head,
Cooled was his burning brain
By loving hands; and one fair curl,
Severed for thee, sweet pain!
If comfort be not mockery
In such a harrowing hour,
O, find it in his cherishing,
And let the thought have power;
Thy brain must turn, or so thou deem’st,
He, needing love and care,
Knowing ’twas granted, thou canst kneel
And ask for strength to bear.
O men, his brothers, bear in mind,
For all, our dear Lord died!
Souls own but one Commission--
Love of The Crucified!
Right gallant are the Officers--
Men, noble, brave, and true;
But when you breathe a Prayer for them,
Say one for Privates too.
“LITTLE CORNING.”
Let no one imagine that hospital life is all gloom. Sickness and
suffering are, of course, the normal condition, but we try to crowd in
all the brightness we can; games, gayety, and gladness, have their place.
One such presence as that of “Little Corning” must insure some sunshine.
How can I describe that quaint, droll, merry little sergeant, once seen,
never to be forgotten?
“Little Corning,” we always called him, to distinguish him from our tall
wardmaster of the same name; and most appropriate, too, did it seem to
his little, short, squat figure. I always contended that he had been a
sailor, from the roll and pitch in his gait, and a certain way he had of
giving a lurch whenever he wanted to reach anything near him. He assured
me most positively that such was not the case; but I still continue to
think that he must have been, in some former state of existence, if
not in this. Many men have been convicted before now on circumstantial
evidence, why should not he be also? Perhaps he did not choose to confess
the fact--no man is bound to criminate himself--therefore I see no good
reason for giving up my first conviction, and many for holding it; ergo,
I repeat that I think he had been a sailor.
I never heard a merrier laugh, or knew a happier nature. He seemed to
possess the blessed faculty of shedding sunshine and joy all around him;
many a harsh word has been hushed, many an incipient quarrel checked,
by his odd, dry way of placing things in a ludicrous light, and thus
changing churlishness into cheerfulness, moroseness into merriment. Momus
certainly presided at his birth, touched him with his wand, and claimed
him for his own.
He had the best reason for his uniform cheerfulness; indeed, the only one
which can ever secure it. His Christianity was of a truly healthy order,
and certainly brought him both content and peace. During his residence of
many months in the hospital, I never saw a frown upon his face, or heard
anything but a bright, joyous laugh, or pleasant word from him. Often, in
my rounds, I would come upon him, unexpectedly, in some obscure corner,
poring over his Bible, apparently quite absorbed in it, and yet always
ready to lay it aside when he could make himself useful, but returning to
it as a pleasure, when his work was accomplished.
He had a remarkably fine tenor voice, and I have often seen men of all
sorts and tastes gathered round him, listening by the hour to Methodist
hymns, for the sake, we must suppose, of those uncommon tones, rather
than of the words which called them forth.
One morning he came into the ladies’ room, and informed us, with much
delight, that Mr. ---- had promised to ask some of the pupils from the
Blind Asylum to come to the hospital the next evening, to give a concert,
begging us to be present.
I told him that, for one of us, that would be quite impossible; it would
be pleasant, but could not be arranged. He seemed much disappointed, but
soon left the room, and I had forgotten all about it, when, an hour or
two later, he burst into the room, quite radiant, exclaiming, “It’s all
fixed, we’ve got it all fixed.”
“What’s all fixed?” said I, my mind intent on some refractory oysters
which refused to boil.
“The concert, to be sure. Mr. ---- has arranged it for to-morrow
afternoon, and now you’ll come.”
I thanked him, and gladly accepted for us both, promising to make all
our necessary preparations for the supper of our sick men, quite early,
so that we might be ready in time. At the appointed hour, the next
afternoon, “Little Corning” presented himself.
“Come, ladies, come quickly! the boys are all in the dining-room; I’ve
brought chairs for you, and they’re quite ready to begin.”
“Wait a minute; not just yet; sick men come first.”
“Oh! please now, come, won’t you? Suppose just for once that the boys are
sick on the field, and never mind them to-night.”
“For shame, sergeant! Such counsel from you? We cannot believe it. Go in,
and we will follow you.”
But although music is his passion, and he is burning to be there, he
gallantly prefers to wait, and be our escort; and in pity for him, we
hurry as much as possible; and now we are done; let us go.
There are our chairs, all arranged for us. What a crowd! At least, a
crowd for our number of well men,--over a hundred, certainly; all who are
fit to be out of their beds, and some who, we very well know, are not.
See how they are jammed together; on benches, on the dining-table itself,
in the windows, and on every available spot, battered and bandaged,
_wrappered_ and wrinkled, suffering and smiling, in one promiscuous
mass. Look at that pale boy, sitting on the corner of the table on our
right; he has been as ill as possible with typhoid fever, and surely
can never sit through the concert in that position. Let him try for a
while, however; the whole scene will do him more good, by amusing and
diverting his mind, than the exertion can do him harm. Truly, as we
glance around, it is a strange scene. Men from North, East, and West,
gathered together--in dress and undress uniform; from the cavalry jacket,
with its yellow facings, to dressing-gowns and even shirt-sleeves; all
eagerly and earnestly bent upon one idea; but even as they gaze, can you
not read their characters, and place their homes? Each State has its own
characteristics so strongly marked, that I have often laughingly promised
to tell each man in a ward, from whence he came; and after a little
practice, one seldom makes a mistake,--at least never wanders far from
the truth; but we cannot stop to discuss that point now, as the songs are
beginning.
But stop! It cannot be. Look, M., look! It actually is. Our naughty,
disobedient, handsome Harry, with his bandaged limb on a chair, over
there by the window. Only this morning did I hear the surgeon give orders
to have that limb put in a fracture-trough, as the only means to preserve
perfect stillness for it. I saw, later, that it had been done; and now
look--everything removed, and here he is. That was a very severe wound,
from which he has been suffering for many months; he told me yesterday,
that, in all, fifty pieces of bone had been taken out of his leg; the
surgeons rather pride themselves on having prevented the necessity of
amputation by the closest watching and care; and we cannot help feeling
provoked with him for persisting in moving about, when perfect rest is
so essential to his cure. And yet, who could ever be angry with Harry,
for any length of time? He has a way of his own of winning us over to his
side, and we know what a warm heart beats beneath that wilfulness; but
arguments with him are of little avail; the other day, in reply to my
earnest remonstrances, he said:
“But, Miss ----, my leg is my own, and if I like to have a little fun
now, and lose it afterwards, will any one but myself suffer?”
We have almost given him up as incorrigible. Patriotic songs are fast
following each other,--and certainly the applause is “sui generis.”
Crutches pounded on the floor, and splints hammered on the table, with an
energy and fervor which threaten their own destruction; but the sightless
singers receive it all apparently with the greatest satisfaction, deeming
that the greater the noise, the greater the pleasure, and probably such
is the case.
Listen. What is that tall singer saying? He has already twice repeated
it, but he cannot hope to be heard in this confusion. See!--he is trying
again: “I want you all to be quite still now, and listen to this song;
make no noise, if you please.”
An instant hush, and eager expectation on every face. The singer begins
the well-known “Laughing Chorus,”--well-known here, but evidently a
perfect novelty to these listeners.
For a few moments there is an effort to maintain quiet, but suddenly
their pent-up feelings break forth, and peal after peal of heartiest
laughter rings through the room. In vain they try to stop--a moment’s
pause, and the singer’s voice is heard, seeming only to give the
key-note, which one after another takes up, till, in the wild storm that
follows, they are entirely unaware that he has come to a conclusion--that
it is all over and done, and the singers are leaving. Just at this moment
my eye is caught by our friend, the sergeant, his head resting on the
table, his face almost purple, and his whole frame literally convulsed
with laughter.
“Corning! Corning! stop! you will be sick.”
But in vain; that laugh must be laughed out; and he cannot even recover
himself sufficiently to join in the vote of thanks which the men are
offering to the kind friend who had given them this enjoyment.
The next morning, when I arrived, I said to M. at once, “How is Harry,
to-day?”
“Not in the least the worse, by his own account; but I hear Little
Corning is in bed--actually made sick, from the effects of the concert.”
This scarcely surprised me, as I had feared it, knowing that he was far
from strong.
A little later in the morning, something called me over to the ward in
which he was, and as I entered I heard a groan; to my surprise, it came
from our little friend, who was, as M. had heard, in bed, and evidently
suffering.
“Why, sergeant,” said I, “I am sorry to see that the concert has had such
a bad effect.”
But at my approach the groan was turned into a hearty laugh, though it
was quite plain that the suffering continued.
“Oh! Miss ----, don’t, please don’t! I can’t begin again. I ache all over
in each separate muscle, and I’ve lost all faith in you.”
“I don’t want you to begin again; but what do you mean by having ‘lost
faith in me?’”
“Why, don’t you remember, you always said a good laugh was the best
medicine?--and it’s come near killing me--oh, dear! oh, dear!”
“That bottle, standing on the table at your side, Corning, is marked
to be taken by the teaspoonful; perhaps, if you were to empty it at a
dose, it might have the same effect. I never recommended such immoderate
laughter.”
“Oh, please don’t speak of it. It brings it up so.”
The remembrance was quite too much, and one fit of laughter followed
another, strangely interspersed with groans of pain, from the soreness of
the muscles. That merry laugh was at all times most contagious; the men
quickly crowded round, joining in it without asking any reason, and we
bade fair to have the scene of yesterday re-enacted.
To preserve gravity was quite impossible, there was something so
irresistibly ludicrous in the whole affair, but I felt that it must be
stopped.
“Corning! this will never do; you must control yourself; you will be ill;
and besides, you are disturbing our sick men.”
“I think, Miss ----,” said he, with a violent effort at composure, “if
you won’t take it hard, if you’d just go away; if I didn’t see you, I
might get quiet.”
“Certainly I will. I won’t ‘take it hard,’ at all, and I will come back
when you are quieter.”
“Oh! please no! Oh! don’t come back; if you do, it’ll be as bad as ever
again.”
The idea was quite enough; and the last sound I heard, as I withdrew my
mirth-inspiring presence, was another of those clear, ringing laughs.
How I longed to have the same effect upon the poor fellows in another
ward, where I had vainly racked my brain for many days, to call up even
a faint smile on their depressed and weary faces. I sent everything over
to the sergeant’s ward through the day, not risking my dangerous presence
there; and even at night judged it better not to go over to say goodbye,
although it was Saturday night, and my duties for the week were over.
When I came again, my merry friend had been returned to his regiment,
and that had been our final interview. I have often wondered since, how
(if ever) we should meet again? Whether that last laughing parting will
linger in his mind, or whether its memory shall have been crushed out by
the stern realities of war?
NOTE.--The problem has been solved. To our amazement, the
week after the Gettysburg fight, Little Corning walked into
the ladies’ room at the hospital, fresh from the field--or
rather, anything but fresh. Tattered and battered, soiled and
moiled; his head tied up, and looking very much, on the whole,
as though he had been in an Irish row. He had been wounded in
the temple by a shell; but not dangerously, and had hastened
to “his old home,” as he called it, as soon as he arrived,
although to his great regret, as well as ours, he had been
placed in another hospital.
We welcomed him warmly, and were too full of his danger and our
own--his escape and our own, to revert to past days for more
than a word. He had not lost his old bright spirit, and when we
told him how pleasant it was to have our old friends for our
defenders, his eye sparkled, and he said, “Yes; I felt all the
time I was fighting for you.” And thus we met again.
* * * * *
“No stream from its source
Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course,
But what some land is gladdened. No star ever rose
And set, without influence somewhere. Who knows
What earth needs from earth’s lowest creature? No life
Can be pure in its purpose, and strong in its strife,
And all life not be purer and stronger thereby:
The spirits of just men made perfect on high;
The Army of Martyrs who stand by the throne,
And gaze into The Face that makes glorious their own,
Know this surely at last. Honest love, honest sorrow;
Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow,--
Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary?
The heart they have saddened, the life they leave dreary?
Hush! the sevenfold Heavens to the voice of the Spirit
Echo, ‘He that o’ercometh, shall all things inherit.’”
GAVIN.
How sadly and how strangely we misjudge our brother! We walk daily by
his side, and receive the cold exterior as a type of the inner life,
forgetting that hardness, sternness, and repelling reserve, may be only
the crust of the crater, hiding the lava beneath. How comes it that,
when, in our own case, we are all so well aware that,
“Not ev’n the tenderest heart, and next, our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh;”
yet, we will not believe in the secret sufferings of others? Instead of
seeking to win the unstrung instrument back to harmony, by the tender
touch of loving sympathy, we mete out precisely the measure meted to us;
oppose coldness to coldness, hardness to hardness, reserve to reserve,
and thus a wall is built up between us, and all hope of influence is
gone. We need more trust in, and more charity for, each other. Woe to
the sick soul, suffering and sorrowful, its sickness only shown by
the petulant word, the rude retort, the outward expression of inward
wretchedness,--woe to such a soul, I say, were it left only to man’s
tender mercies. Most mercifully it is not. Infinite Love breathes balm
upon it. Infinite Compassion soothes it. When shall we even begin to
imitate the one, or strive to attain to the other?
These thoughts were called up by a keen sense of the injustice of my own
judgment, in a special case, only discovered this very day.
A sunny, bright afternoon. Our men are all improving, none dangerously
ill; the most of them have sought the yard, to walk, to smoke, to sing,
or play at such games as cannot be carried on in-doors. Everything has
a more cheerful aspect than usual. If melancholy and depression are
infectious, so, happily, are mirth and gayety; and as the chorus of one
of our favorite army songs rings out on the air, I find myself joining
in it, as I spring up the stairs, two at a time, on an errand. Scarcely
noticing where I am going, I suddenly stumble upon something on the stair.
“Why, Gavin, can that be you?”
Dashed upon the floor, his face buried in his hands, his whole attitude
denoting utter despair, he does not even move or notice my question.
While I am standing, looking and wondering, let me give you a little
knowledge of him, as he appears in the wards. Some time since I was much
struck, on coming to the hospital, by the soldier acting as guard at the
door. His erect and military bearing, well-made figure, and broad chest,
with the certain “je ne sais quoi” of a gentleman, rather impressed me,
as he lifted his cap and saluted as I approached.
“Who is our gentlemanly guard to-day?” said I to M., on entering our room.
“Just come; a fine-looking fellow, isn’t he? I have just been finding
out his history. He is terribly reserved, but I have made out that he
is a Northerner who went to the South to settle; was impressed, sorely
against his will, at the time of the breaking out of the war; was taken
ill, and allowed, as he was useless, to come here to see his mother, who
was also ill; he, of course, never returned, although he had letters from
his Colonel, which he showed, first offering him a Lieutenancy, and then
a Captaincy; but he prefers, he says, to be a Private in our own army, to
the highest position in theirs.”
“Well?” said I, as she paused.
“That’s all; he told me nothing more; but that as soon as he came North
he enlisted, was taken sick in camp, and sent here.”
“His history, then, is still to hear,” I said; “he hasn’t accounted for
his interesting melancholy, or the mournful expression of those large,
dark eyes which strike you the moment you look at him, and yet there is
something about him--a sort of dark look--which I don’t altogether fancy.”
“Oh! you want to make up a romantic story for him, do you? Well, find it
out, if you can; I have told you all that he would tell me, and yet, I
confess I was struck with his language; it was certainly much above that
of most of our men here.”
Weeks passed by, and as Gavin was not sick enough to need care, we
had little to do with him, and that little did not encourage us to go
further. Often a word of greeting, in passing, will call forth something
more, but his cold, forbidding manner, joined to a certain distant
politeness, so repelled me, that I resolved to let him alone; and yet I
felt sorry for him, for I could not fail to notice his unpopularity among
the men. He walked alone, mentally and physically, and seemed to desire
no intercourse with any one.
One morning I found him gloomily seated in a corner of the ward,
apparently unconscious of everything around him.
“What a terribly long face,” said I, trying to rally him; “you will never
get well till you learn to laugh.”
“To laugh!” said he, with intense bitterness; “then I am invalided for
life. Little enough is there on earth to laugh about, I think;” and
rising hastily, he brushed past me, and left the ward.
“I don’t like that Gavin,” I said to M., “there’s something so dark and
hard about him; I can’t make him out.”
“Ah! no story yet? I thought he was to have a romantic story, with his
interesting dark eyes.”
“Story! He never opens his lips to any one; and unless he shall need
something, I have almost determined never to open mine to him again.”
Such was the man whom I have left all this time lying upon the staircase.
Knowing as I did that whatever his faults might be, intemperance was
not one of them, I once more address him; he evidently has not heard me
before, for, starting up hastily, and forgetting his usual politeness, he
exclaims, petulantly, “I thought I could be to myself here, at least.”
“So you can, as far as I am concerned; I merely came up stairs on an
errand, without an idea that you were here; but another time when you
wish to secure perfect privacy, I should scarcely advise you to choose a
staircase.”
“It matters little,” said he, sitting down on the stairs, resting his
elbows on his knees, and burying his face in his hands, “one part of the
world or another; it’s all the same; dark enough to wish to be well out
of it.”
“Gavin,” said I, sitting down on the stair beside him, “do you remember
that you told me how terribly your back ached from carrying your knapsack
and blanket on that long march?”
A dull, uninterested assent.
“What would have been most welcome, when the pain became intolerable?”
“To unload, of course;” his head still buried in his hands.
“At times, in the long march of life, I have borne a heavy, moral
knapsack; and when the pain from its weight became intolerable, no words
can tell the relief of unloading, and sharing the burden with some loving
heart, with whom it was as safe and as sacred as with myself. Your heart,
just now, is aching worse than ever did your back; might it not ease it
to try the experiment?”
He raised his head quickly; fire enough in those eyes then.
“Ease it!” he said; “doesn’t it feel every day and every hour that it
must burst, unless I tell what I am suffering? I walk among the men here,
and they pass me as cold and stiff, when, God knows, I’m on fire inside;
I’m burning up, burning up, here,” added he, pressing his hand on his
brain.
This was enough. The buckles were unstrapped, the burden would follow.
The first thing that roused us was the tap of the drum for supper. The
long hours of that sunny summer’s afternoon had slipped by, as I listened
to a story, which, in Victor Hugo’s hands, would be worked into a romance
quite as thrilling as anything he has ever penned; whilst in mine it
must remain forever,--a deposit sacred as the grave. My object was
accomplished. With a smile, he rose--the first I had ever seen on his
face--saying, “You were right about that moral knapsack; my heart feels
lighter than I ever thought it could again.”
“And you will do as I say?”
“I will try.”
“And you will try too, won’t you, to remember my first advice, some time
since, and learn to laugh a little more?”
“Indeed I will; and it seems as if it might be possible now, but let me
tell you----”