repeated my name, and then said, “And Mr. ----, how very kind in him to
come!”
I sat down by him, and tried to soothe and calm that dreadful
restlessness; his mind was too much gone for words, I only gently stroked
his brow and fanned him. “I am out on the water; out on the water!” was
his one cry, from a low tone, ascending till it amounted almost to a
scream. Truly he was “out on the water,” and where was compass or chart
for the final voyage? Those words, with the constant repetition of his
brother’s name, were the last I ever heard him utter. The only moment of
calmness I noticed, was when Mr. ---- knelt at his bedside and repeated
those soul-soothing Prayers, from the “Visitation of the Sick.” He
attempted no conversation, for we well knew Robinson was in no state to
bear it. We had felt from the first, that Prayer _for_ him, was all that
we could offer; not _with_ him, as his intervals of consciousness were
merely momentary. His father had not yet arrived, and there appeared
little hope that he could now do so, in time, as he was very much lower
than on my last visit, and evidently sinking. As our presence could give
him no comfort, we left him with heavy hearts.
When I reached there the next day, I found that an order had been given
prohibiting all admittance for visitors to his ward, as the surgeon
thought that Robinson had been excited by those he had seen the day
before, but that his father had come, and that we could see him; he had
arrived that morning.
There are few things connected with this hospital work which I recall
with more pleasure than the simple, earnest gratitude of this bronzed and
weather-beaten old man, for the trifling kindnesses which we had been
able to offer to his boy. There was something about him altogether so
real, so honest, genuine, and sincere, that one could not help feeling
drawn to him at once. He was a rough, plain, Western man, primitive in
the extreme; but no one could listen to him without the consciousness
that a warm, true, noble heart, beat beneath that uncouth exterior.
Had the telegram been a day later, he could not have reached here for
nearly a week longer. The train, which only runs on certain days, left
the morning after he received the news; he had travelled night and day,
making every connection, and performing the journey as rapidly as it
could be done.
His boy, he said, had recognized him, and he was pleased to find him
better than he had hoped for. He thought with care he would get well now,
and he was going at once to telegraph the good news to his wife.
We were thunderstruck; how could he be so deceived? For although we had
not seen Robinson that day, we well knew he was in a condition from which
he could not rally. It seemed therefore no kindness to allow his mother
to be tortured with false hope, and we earnestly represented (hard as it
seemed to do so) that the surgeons did not look for any improvement; but
all in vain,--he had seen sickness--he had seen doctors mistaken before
now--his boy was going to get well; so he accompanied us to the telegraph
station, and sent his message. That evening I was told some one wanted to
see me, from the ---- hospital, and on going out, was met by the words,
“Miss ----, my boy’s gone, my boy’s gone!” and a burst of sobs, which
seemed as though it must shake that poor old frame to pieces.
He had scarcely left, in the morning, to send his hopeful telegram, when
the change took place, and Robinson breathed his last just as his father
reached his bedside. The blow fell heavier, as we had feared, from the
strong hope he had persisted in entertaining, and even then it seemed as
though he were too much bewildered and stunned to realize fully what had
occurred. There was something inexpressibly touching in the grief of that
poor, bowed-down old man, shattered as he was, too, by hard travel and
loss of rest; and yet I hardly knew how to comfort him, or to answer that
sad appeal, “How can I go back to his mother without him?” Deep grief
must ever bear with it a reverence of its own, and this seemed something
one scarcely dared meddle with.
He said the funeral was to take place the next afternoon, and begged that
the ladies who had been so kind to him would be present for his mother’s
sake; he thought it would comfort her to know it. I readily consented,
and promised to inform the others.
He rose to go, and drawing a little paper from his pocket, said, “I
thought maybe you might care for this; it is a lock of my boy’s hair,
which I cut off for you, and I thought his mother would be glad to know
you had it.”
I expressed my feelings in a few words, which seemed to soothe and
gratify him.
That poor mother seemed never out of his thoughts; and again and again
would he repeat that piteous question, “How can I go back to her without
him?”
But he need not have feared; that mother’s heart was anchored on the Rock
which alone can withstand the storms of earth. Listen to but one sentence
from her first letter (to one of the ladies, who had been a kind and
constant correspondent,) after that sad return.
“At first it seemed I could not bear it. My bright-faced, joyous boy--my
sunbeam! But soon came the thought, how short the journey would be for me
to go to him, and that my sunbeam would now shed its ray upon me from the
sky, to light my path onward and upward.”
It would be of little avail, to go into the dreary details of that
dreariest afternoon. Touching in the extreme did it seem to see the
little band (for the ladies willingly agreed to the request to be
present) take their places as mourners, with the father; mourners in
reality, though so lately strangers; mourners, for we claimed a right
to grieve; for was it not, as I have said, a young life, given for our
country as well as his?--for the one common cause, which forms so strong
a bond between all loyal hearts?
A heavy, pouring rain added to the general gloom; the only comfort came
from the words of our Burial Service, which must always fall with blessed
balm upon the sorrowful soul. It was performed at his father’s request,
and with the permission of the surgeon in charge, by Robinson’s kind and
true friend, the Rev. Mr. ----, to whom I have alluded before.
It was a long, long time ere I could forget the face of that
broken-hearted old father, as--everything over--he stood at the door, as
we drove off, leaving him lonely and desolate among strangers. He was to
start that night alone, in the rain, on his sad, homeward journey, and
seemed to long to keep us with him to the last; and how we longed to stay
to comfort him! But we must say goodbye, and with a long, warm grasp of
that rough hand, we parted, and one more hospital sorrow was over.
Brave, gentle, heroic heart! The aching limb, the suffering frame, the
strained, excited nerves are stilled forever. Robinson sleeps in a land
of strangers; but the turf that covers that “soldier’s grave” will be
moistened and kept green by the tears of those who can never forget that
bright example of noble unselfishness, and beautiful patience under
severest suffering and trial.
“I AM OUT ON THE WATER!”
U. S. A. HOSPITAL, April, 1863.
Out on the water! No compass, no chart!
The sails all in ribbons; the timbers apart!
The vessel is tossing, the storm driving fast,
Out on the water; nor rudder, nor mast!
Out on the water! The dark night hath come;
The ocean is boiling and seething in foam;
We see the waves break o’er the poor battered boat,--
Out on the water; a soul is afloat!
Out on the water! Quick! reach him a spar!
It is not too late, drift he never so far;
Hold to it! Cling to it while the waves toss,
Out on the water,--the Spar of The Cross!
Out on the water! Is’t harbor at last;
Are “the waves of this troublesome world” safely passed?
We pray, through That Spar, that the soul hath made Port--
That, out on the water, The Cross was Support.
THE RETURN TO THE REGIMENT.
A bright, sunshiny week. Moral sunshine, I mean; for like St. Peter’s, at
Rome, our hospital may be said to have “an atmosphere of its own”--our
brightness or dulness being in a great measure dependent upon the state
of our patients. Deaths, or very severe cases of illness, naturally have
their effect in casting a shadow on everything around; but at present,
most fortunately, we have nothing of the kind; and our principal grief
(though in a very mild form) has been from the daily partings caused
by the return of our men to their regiments; which, from some unknown
cause, seems to have been the sole business of the last few days. The
“Hegira” has been going on steadily through the whole week, and we have
been busily occupied in helping to stow treasures into impossible spaces
in knapsacks, slipping in some little contribution of our own, to call
up, perhaps, a smile of surprise when opened far from here; in putting
up lunches for the travellers--for it has happened that some of our
brave boys have fainted on the way from exhaustion produced by delay in
getting their meals; therefore, by the surgeon’s orders, they are always
provided when they start--and finally, in bidding them “Goodbye, and God
speed!”
This returning to regiments has amounted to an epidemic this week; the
contagion is spreading rapidly, and it is very plain that Dame Example
has, in this case, been exerting herself for good. She has taken some of
our chronic cases by the hand, lifted them out of bed, and made them feel
that effort and firm resolve will do more for them than yielding to the
languor of a slow convalescence. One may ask, “Is it, then, at the option
of the men, when they shall return to their regiments?”
“Most certainly not.”
“Does not the surgeon decide that point?”
“Most certainly he does.”
The surgeon of each ward makes out his list of men fit for service, and
hands it to the surgeon in charge, who in his turn examines the men so
reported and returns them to their different posts; but, as we all know
how much the mind has to do with the body, men who have seemed quite
unfit for duty, often, under the stimulus of one of these departures,
rouse themselves, make an effort, and find that a little exertion was
the only thing needed to fit them for their work. But, on the other
hand, this strong desire sometimes carries them too far; a case in point
occurred this morning.
“Why, Shaw, my man! out of bed to-day? I’m glad to see you up; you’ll
soon be off, with the other boys.”
This, from the cheerful voice of one of our surgeons, to a man who, from
a long fever, had been too feeble, for many months, to do more than sit
up in bed for a short time.
“That’s just it, doctor; Pat’s going to-day, and I can’t let him go
without me. I think I could bear it, maybe. Won’t you let me try?”
I noticed a slight look of surprise on the doctor’s face; he pressed his
finger on the man’s pulse, was silent for a few moments, and then said,
kindly:
“Perhaps you can go with the next lot; stay out of bed, to-day; try to
walk a little about the ward; eat more, and I’ve no doubt you can go
back soon; but we should have you back on our hands, were we to send you
to-day.”
“But Pat, doctor? You see we’re from the same town; he’s young,--only a
slip of a boy--and I promised his mother I’d see to him. I did let him
get hit, to be sure, but it wasn’t much to signify; my fever was a good
bit worse; we were brought here together, and I’m bound to leave when he
leaves, whether I can shoulder a musket or not.”
How glad I was that it happened to be just that particular surgeon to
whom he made his appeal; for it must be admitted, even in this pattern
hospital, that skill and sympathy, power and patience, knowledge and
kindliness, are not always combined; but in this instance I was very sure
the decision would be given (whatever it might be) in a manner which
could not offend; nor was I disappointed.
“Well, my friend, if you had told me that you had kept Pat from getting
hit, I might have taken it into consideration, whether, for the sake of
Pat’s mother, it might not be my duty to return a man to his regiment who
can’t walk across this hospital; but as, by your own account, you let him
get hit, I think you’ll have to trust him without you, and wait here till
you’re a little stronger;” and kindly patting him on the shoulder, he
laughingly turned off.
Poor Shaw! It was a sense of duty--certainly not any feeling of ability
to go--which led to the proposition; for as the hope departed, his
strength went with it. He attempted to rise from his chair at the side of
the bed, tottered, and would have fallen; but I saw it, sprang forward,
caught him, and threw him backward on the bed, knowing I had not strength
to support him.
“I didn’t mean to knock you down, Shaw, though it looks a good deal like
it,” said I, as there was a general laugh, amongst those nearest to him,
who witnessed the proceeding.
No answer. The effort had been too much for him--he had fainted. I called
an orderly to bring me water quickly, and bathed his temples from the
cologne bottle in my pocket, but he did not revive.
“What’s the fuss?” said one, coming up behind me.
“Miss ---- has knocked the breath out of Shaw, that’s all.”
“And he’s knocked the color out of her; she’s whiter than he is.”
“Don’t talk; get me some water,” said I, hastily.
“La! miss, you’re not really minding, are you? He always has them turns
when he tries to sit up; and he’s gone a good bit, and we don’t mind,
he’ll come round; he’s been fretting at little Pat, there, going without
him, and wanted to go back to his regiment with him. Fine hand at a
march, wouldn’t you be, eh, Shaw?” said he, as the latter opened his eyes.
With rough kindness, he put his hand under Shaw’s head, raised it, and
held the water to his lips. Shaw roused himself, looked round, and seemed
gradually recalling what had occurred.
“Drink, old fellow! and you’ll soon come round. It’s my advice to you,
to stay in your bed till you’re fit to get out of it; you ought to be
ashamed to make a lady look like that.”
“Be quiet, Gilman,” said I; “I’m not frightened at all; I’ve seen worse
sights here than a fainting man; it was only the effort of suddenly
throwing him backward, which I felt for the moment.”
But I have no doubt Gilman’s rebuke was of far more service to Shaw than
my ready sympathy would have been; for it roused him, and diverted his
mind from his own sorrows. He did not at all know what he had done; but
was profuse in bewildered apologies for some unknown wrong to me, which
he seemed to feel convinced that he had committed; although the “how,
why, or what” was wrapped in mystery. I soon satisfied his mind on that
point, and then, more guardedly, touched upon “Pat;” promised to see to
his comfort as far as possible; give him good advice as well as good
food,--little doubting which would be the more welcome,--and finally,
promising Shaw to return as soon as they were off, I hurried away,
fearing I was already too late to say goodbye.
These partings are brighter things for those who go, than for those who
remain; it is as true here, as in other cases, that “Les peines du départ
sont pour celui qui reste.” The bustle, the excitement of getting off,
the hope of service, the prospect of change of scene, make the going
something pleasant, even to those whose patriotism is not at fever heat;
while, for those who remain, the sight of others going, the consciousness
of their own inability thus more painfully forced upon their minds,
the sense of confinement, make the hours after one of these departures
a somewhat sad affair, and we have to exert all our powers to restore
cheerfulness.
A bustling scene meets me at the door of our room. A busy group is
crowded there; some kneeling on the floor, strapping knapsacks and
blankets; some jumping into the well known blue overcoats, which have
enjoyed a profounder rest than their owners have done since their
entrance into the hospital; some settling their caps well down over their
eyes, as though cap and “caput” were never again to part company; while
some (yes! they really have,) have begun to say goodbye. M. calls me, and
I hurriedly enter.
“They’re going; you’ll be too late to see them off.”
“Hurrah, boys! Come on. We’re off. Goodbye, ladies! We won’t forget you.
If ever the rebs come here, send for us; we’ll stand by you, and fight
for you, too.”
“Goodbye, ma’am, if I get hit I hope they’ll send me here.”
“We’ve had a bully time here, and we’re proper sorry to go back. ‘Salt
horse’ and ‘hard tack’ will come pretty hard, after all your nice little
messes. Goodbye, ladies, and thank you kindly for all you’ve done for us.”
Such are the parting words, rough it may be, but coming from the heart,
and therefore far more valuable than the elegant insincerity of more
polished partings. But as character is shown in every action of life,
we may easily detect the difference of nature even in their mode of
saying goodbye. One comes forward with frank smile, and hand extended,
his whole soul beaming from his honest eyes; he is glad to have known
you, somewhat sorry to leave you, but so very happy to be off, that
there is little room for any other feeling; and you take leave of him
with satisfaction, sure that his contented nature will adapt itself to
whatever circumstances may surround him. Another comes up really sorry
to go, but thinking it beneath a soldier’s dignity to show feeling;
he therefore tries to assume a perfectly indifferent air, but like
everything assumed, it sits ill upon him, and we all know that in his
heart “sober Sam,” as the boys nickname him, is more sorry to leave us
than he cares to acknowledge. A third shocks our patriotism by openly
declaring he don’t want to go; he don’t care to fight, and he’s sure he’s
not fit for it either. Ah! Bob, isn’t it that you love your own ease a
little too well? The field may not be quite so comfortable as it is here,
but it is unworthy of a soldier to mind such trifles as want of bed, and
occasional want of food. But Bob doesn’t think so, and whatever his other
faults may be, he is honest in declaring his opinions. But here come the
others, and we have but a few minutes more.
“Goodbye, Brown; take care of yourself; we shall miss you when we want
our errands done.”
“Goodbye, Williams; don’t forget your promise.”
“Goodbye, Simpson; what shall we do without you for a wardmaster?”
“Goodbye, John; come back with shoulder-straps, and God bless you!”
That bright young face looks still brighter, as he says, “Why, Miss ----,
that’s what they all say to me; I’ve been through the wards bidding the
boys goodbye, and they all say ‘God bless you, John!’ Why do they say
that to me?”
I could have told him without much difficulty why that genial, sunny
nature, so full of bravery and beauty, of life and love, had won its
way to the hearts of “the boys,” and called forth that warm “God bless
you.” The Prayer from so many hearts seems to have won its answer; God
has blessed him and guarded him from harm. Nobly has he fought, and
the shoulder-straps are won. Promotion on the field “for distinguished
services,” has been gained; and we now have the pleasure of directing
our quondam “Private” John’s letters, to “Captain” John, of the Army of
the Potomac. But as he is pressed on in the crowd, before I can answer
his question, I notice a pale, quiet youth, always retiring and gentle,
standing at my side with a hesitating air.
“Well, George, you’re off too; I won’t forget you, and you mustn’t forget
me.”
He still stands, and still hesitates, saying nothing.
“Can I do anything for you, before you go, or perhaps after? Can I help
you? tell me.”
“Yes, ma’am, you can help me. If you would just let me shake hands with
you, I think it would help me on the battle-field, to remember it. I saw
the others come up, but somehow I didn’t dare to, and I was so afraid I
would have to go without.”
Poor George! Not many of the men are so troubled with modesty. Such a
little boon to be asked for so earnestly! one, too, which half the men
claim as a right in parting.
“You didn’t think, George, after all our talks, I could have let you go
without shaking hands with you, did you? No, my boy,” said I, holding
out my hand; “but I will do what will be more likely to help you on the
battle-field, pray for you; and now, goodbye.”
He grasped my hand, and as he held it, a hot tear fell on it; he seemed
shocked, dropped it, and rushed from the room into the crowd waiting at
the door to start. The signal sounded, and they were gone.
“God go with them!” said an earnest voice at my side.
God will go with them! Doubt it not,
Ye, whose fond, aching hearts
Fear that your treasures are less safe,
Because from you apart!
Love, human love, is powerless,
From Death or harm to shield;
Our very lives, for theirs laid down,
Could no protection yield.
God will go with them! Rest on that,
When partings make Life dark;
He guideth every bullet’s course,
To hit or miss its mark.
Then trust them amid shot and shell,
To His unfailing care;
And bow, submissive hearts, howe’er
The answer comes to Prayer.
A VISIT TO THE WARDS.
U. S. A. HOSPITAL.
And so you really wish, dear C., to take that long-promised trip through
the wards of our hospital? Most happy shall I be to escort you; and I
promise, ere we start, to use every endeavor to prevent you from going
any deeper than you wish into the “horrors of hospital life.” You shall
not see an open wound if I can help it;--do not imagine that I have
forgotten the effect upon you of the sight of that man’s arm the last
time that you were here; and yet it was your own fault, for it was your
expression of interest in him and his wound which led to the display;
and we, hardened creatures that we have become, were not aware of your
feelings till the harm was done. But put yourself under my guidance
to-day, and I will pick out only the choice specimens. Yet no! I cannot
do that exactly, for, in answer to a charge brought against me here a
few days since, I have promised to select the worst cases--the _morally_
worst cases, I mean,--in the hospital, to show my friends. What was the
charge? you ask. Nothing very heinous, to be sure. A friend, to whom I
have very often talked of the hospital and its inmates, said to one of
our medical cadets, as we walked through the wards:
“Tell me, doctor, is a hospital really the paradise Miss ---- represents
it? Her soldiers are all perfectionists; they never quarrel, they never
swear, they never drink, they never gamble; and more than this, they
never get well; they are sure to die in some romantic way, with an
interesting wife, mother, or sister, in the distance.”
My answer, of course, was a laugh, trusting to my friend, the cadet, to
justify me; but here I was mistaken. His answer was a mere empty word
of compliment, as to what the ladies made the hospital, etc., leaving
the main question untouched. I therefore was compelled to take up my own
defence, and assure her that the fact of my having preferred to dwell
upon the interesting cases, was no proof that the hospital contained
no others; that we all knew that either in or out of a hospital, our
strongest feelings were called forth by extreme illness and danger.
“Like a bruised leaf, at touch of Fear,
Its hidden fragrance Love gives out.”