A gentleman? you ask, and I cannot wonder that you do. Every one who
sees him says, “But he isn’t one of the privates?” He is; but I imagine
there is no one here more anxious to flourish in shoulder-straps. He
has interested me much since I first met him here; he was very sick when
he came in, but I did not see him until he was better, and taking his
place as one of the orderlies--as our rule is in the hospitals, that
convalescents turn into wardmasters and orderlies, before they are fit
for active service on the field. His deference to the ladies, and certain
little graces of manner, showed birth and breeding; and I said to M.
one day, “That man was born a gentleman.” I found that she quite agreed
with me, and had been struck by the same thing. And yet there was an air
of dissatisfaction at times, and a bitterness of expression which I was
at a loss to account for. One morning I had brought some books to the
hospital, and on offering them to him, amongst others, he told me that
he had so injured his eyes by over-study at college, that he was unable
to use them at all at present. A few words more, and I discovered that
he was a loyal Virginian, who, on the breaking out of the rebellion, had
left family, friends, and a beautiful home, to enlist in our army. All
his relations were bitterly opposed to the step; and he told me, with
much pain, that when our army was in the neighborhood of his home, he
had gone there to see his family, but that they had positively refused
to see him, or even to allow him admittance. I could scarcely wonder at
his depression after this; but it seemed to me that the consciousness of
right, in the step he had taken, should have brought him more content and
peace than he seemed to possess. A few afternoons since, he came in, as
usual, with his waiter, to carry the supper to the sick men (those unable
to leave their beds) in his ward. I noticed, as I arranged the plates for
him, that he looked much disturbed, and that his hand trembled.
“King,” said I, “you are hardly strong enough yet to carry that waiter;
you should ask one of the other orderlies to do it for you.”
I seemed to have fired a mine. Setting the waiter down upon the table, he
burst forth:
“It’s no want of strength, Miss ----, but what would you think if you saw
Dr. ---- and Dr. ---- (naming two of our surgeons) playing wardmaster and
orderly in a hospital in the South? My position was just what theirs is,
and I chafe at this menial work. My blood boils at playing waiter for the
men here; I can’t stand it, and I won’t.”
I looked up in surprise. “What should I think, King, should I see such
a dreadful sight as you suggest? I can tell you, very quickly, what I
should think. If those gentlemen had, for the sake of their country,
nobly given up every private tie as you have done, and, by the fortune of
war, had been thrown into a hospital, I should honor and respect them for
fulfilling every duty there imposed upon them; and I doubt not that they
would do it most cheerfully, as part of the service their country asks at
their hands. I should like to know, also, whether it is less menial for
the ladies to turn cooks here, than for the men to turn waiters? I cannot
recall that I ever “chafed” at the “menial work,” or that my “blood
boiled” at cooking eggs, or boiling farina, unless on a hot summer’s day,
when the fire seemed intolerable, but never, I am very sure, from shame
at the occupation. We go even further, for we act both cook and waiter.
A day never passes that we do not carry to the men what we have made for
them, to see if they like it--to know if it suits them--or oftener still,
to feed them, because they are unable to feed themselves. Think what a
state of fever-heat our blood should be in at this time, after two years
of such services!”
“But the case,” said he, “is not a parallel one. Your service, grateful
as we all feel for it, is voluntary, this is compulsory.”
“I thought you were a volunteer, King? When you enlisted, did you specify
just the kind of work you would do? When your country needed you, did you
limit the aid you offered? What matter is it to you whether she asks you
to fight for her, or to serve her by ministering to her sick and wounded
members, suffering in a common cause from their efforts on her behalf.”
“I never thought of it in that light before.”
“Think of it so now, my man; you will be far happier. That southern blood
is a little too hot, and you have failed to perceive that all work is
dignified and ennobled by the spirit which you bring to it. Because you
are a classical student, and feel that you have talents and acquirements
which fit you for something higher, you chafe at this service; but,
believe me, the faithful performance of your duties here, will by no
means unfit you for a command in the field so soon as your services there
shall win for you the promotion you so much desire. So take up your
waiter, and don’t let your blood boil too much as you go up stairs, or
you may upset my saucers.”
He took my lecture in very good part, and since then we have been
excellent friends. I think, since he realized that I preferred talking
to him to lecturing him, and liked to enter upon higher themes with him,
which he is so well fitted to discuss, that he has become more contented,
and has resolved to accept his position. Let us speak to him; notice how
his eye brightens and his expression changes, as he speaks.
“Well, King, how are your men to-day?”
“I’ve just been waiting for you, Miss ----; Joe sent me to ask you for
two of those hand-splints you received yesterday--for the left hand,
please--they are for Jarvis and Wright--those very bad arms, you know.”
“Oh! yes. The splints that came with all those things, yesterday, from
the Sanitary Commission. God bless that Sanitary Commission--what should
we do without it? Our soldiers here have quite as much reason to be
grateful as those in the field. Look at those shelves--all that wine,
those jellies, preserves, syrups, and pickles, came from them, as well as
these cushions, pads, and splints. They send us, constantly, fresh eggs,
butter, lard, and such perishable articles as must be consumed at once.
Here, King, take these splints, and then come back, will you, for some
pickles I want to send to your men.”
“Yes, ma’am, certainly, if I can get down again; but Joe is going away on
a furlough, to-day, and I am to be wardmaster till his return.”
“Shall your ‘blood boil’ more, or less, King, in your new position?”
Do you hear that merry laugh, as he goes up the stairs? No more fear
for him; he is only making himself too useful, and we shall be sorry to
see him returned to his regiment. Very tired, are you, of the study of
character? I have about a dozen more men here that I should like to show
you, but I will be merciful, and send you home, now, quite aware that you
feel amply satisfied with your hospital diet to-day.
OUR GETTYSBURG MEN.
JULY, 1863.
It is with peculiar feelings of gratitude, joy, relief, and safety, that
we have entered upon our duties this week. The one absorbing idea of the
last ten days--the impatience for the news of each hour as it passed--the
eagerness to seek the opinions of friends, even though such opinions
brought but further disturbance of mind--the difficulty of deciding
upon the proper course of action--the heavy, wearing anxiety--the slow
realization that war, which we have, as yet, only looked upon at a
distance, might, at a moment, be brought to our own doors,--our homes
laid waste, and ourselves fugitives--all these things live too freshly in
the minds of us all, to need word of mine to recall them. Who can ever
forget the pressure which weighed down our spirits when we rose on that
most memorable “Fourth” just passed?--the earnestness with which our
cry to heaven went up for success to our arms--the pause of those long
morning hours, when the whole city seemed holding its breath in terrible
suspense--and then the grand, the glorious reaction, when the lightning
flashed peace and joy and safety to all hearts? Did ever language bring
more joy than those two blessed words, “Meade victorious?” What could
we do but fall upon our knees, and offer up our hearts in thankfulness
for such an answer to our prayers? God did that day “take the cause into
his own hands, and judge between us and our enemies,” and we were saved.
Was it not that, as a people, we had turned to him--as a people we had
acknowledged the weakness of a human arm--as a people we had poured forth
our hearts in prayer, and he had heard us?
Those were indeed never-to-be-forgotten days. Amid all other trials,
came the sad thought of our poor, wounded men at home. What would be
their fate? To leave them for the sake of personal safety seemed so base;
martyrdom for and with them so attractive,--and yet it was not quite
clear to my mind--much as I longed to aid them--what special benefit
could accrue to them by self immolation on the rebel altar. It was a
difficult question; and yet one always found payment for those anxious
hours, in listening to the earnest promises of protection and defence--so
evidently sincere--from those warm hearts; the wish and purpose so far
outstripping the ability.
“Don’t you fear, ladies, we’ll take care of you.”
“We’ll fight for you while there’s a man of us left.”
“Yes, that we will! or a drop of blood left in our bodies.”
“We’ll make earthworks of our bodies before the rebs shall touch you,
ladies, depend upon that.”
“Only protect yourselves,” said I, to a particularly valiant cripple, who
had just expressed similar views for us, and slightly derogatory ones
to the rebel general, then supposed to be approaching our city, “only
protect yourselves, and I shall be quite satisfied.”
“Protect ourselves!” said a poor fellow unable to move in his bed;
“they’ll make mince-meat of us, the first thing.”
I found that this “mince-meat” idea took more firm possession of my mind
than almost any other connected with the raid; and one of the greatest
reliefs which I experienced on that joyful day, was the consciousness
that it could not now be put into execution.
The afternoon of the “Fourth,” as I entered the hospital, the beaming
faces and glad congratulations of the poor fellows, proved how much they
had dreaded the rebel invasion, in spite of the bold front which they
had all presented, with the single exception of my “mince-meat” friend.
I still recall, with pleasure, the intense delight of one man to whom
I spoke of our victory. By some strange chance, which I never could
explain, he had not heard it.
“Is that so? Is it really so? That’s bully. Let’s do something!” and,
nothing else being at hand, he seized his pillow and sent it high into
the air.
But now come the sad results, which must follow alike in the wake of
victory or defeat. The wounded, where are they? A battle on our own soil,
and at so short a distance from us, comparatively speaking, must bring
them to us more directly from the field than any we have yet received;
and we have been hoping all this week, as they were pouring into the
city, that we should have our share.
“Hoping?” Yes, hoping; start not at the term, I have used it
deliberately. Once launched upon the sea of hospital life, your views
undergo a change, and your one interest becomes to receive, nurse, and
watch the worst cases; it is the hospital spirit, and you cannot breathe
its air without imbibing the feeling. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,
Thursday, Friday have passed, with only the admittance of a few each day,
none badly wounded, and none requiring special care or tending; and to
those whose burning zeal makes them eager to pay off some part of their
debt of gratitude to men, who, humanly speaking, have turned the enemy
from their doors, this is somewhat of a disappointment. We have had, to
be sure, the pleasure of several visits from old friends here, who had
been slightly wounded in the fight, and have been returned to other
hospitals.
It is Saturday afternoon. I have just seated myself in our room for a
moment’s quiet, after a most busy, bustling day,--many sick, and much to
do, although not exactly what we had wished for. M. rushes in, on her
return from her dinner.
“Sitting quietly, I declare, as if nothing was going on! Do you know
what’s at the door?”
“Nothing different from usual, I presume; you needn’t try to excite me;
I’ve just taken a seat for a five minutes’ rest.”
“Go and look for yourself, then, if you are so incredulous. Ambulances
and stretchers enough, I should think, to suit even your taste.”
As I hurry, half doubting, to the door, I meet one of our surgeons, paper
and pencil in hand, talking to one of the wardmasters.
“How many beds in your ward? All ready, did you say? That’s right.”
“Plenty of work for the ladies, Miss ----; I see some pretty bad cases
coming in.”
“Just what we wanted, doctor; we have been hoping they would come in our
week, and it’s almost over.”
“Time enough, yet, to make them plenty of milk punch, and cold drinks.
Some of them, I notice, are much exhausted, and will need stimulating.”
Here was a practical suggestion--something to be acted upon at once, and
far more useful than running to look at them, as they are carried in; so
I return quickly, tell M. the doctor’s wish, and all our pitchers are
hastily filled with milk punch, iced lemonade, syrup and water, etc.,
etc. This, of course, occupies some little time; and as we reach the
dining-room,--where all are placed who can walk, hobble, or crawl, till
they are distributed into the different wards, while those on stretchers
are being carried at once to their beds,--I almost start at the
rough-looking set we suddenly find ourselves in the midst of. Are they
miners or coal-heavers? Black enough and dirty enough for either; and I
catch myself repeating over and over, “In poverty, hunger, and dirt,”
etc., till I am afraid I shall say it aloud. But what care we for dust
and dirt? Set down your pitcher, shake hands, and thank them. Is it not
Gettysburg dust and dirt? Is it not the dust and dirt of victory? Have
not those torn and bullet-riddled clothes come straight from the field
of their fame? And have they not saved us from distress, wretchedness,
and ruin? I look at them with reverence; they seem to bring the battle
so very near that the tears will rise, as those torn and dirty bandages
show at what cost the victory was won. But do not imagine me standing all
this time in a fine frenzy, meditating on the results of a battle. These
thoughts slip in, between the filling and emptying of our pitchers, and
the glad, grateful expressions for the “treat,” as they call it. Poor
fellows! they shall have our best, that is very certain.
As I am pouring out the last glass from my pitcher, my eye is caught by
a face, on a stretcher, as it is borne past me. It is that of a boy,
scarcely more than sixteen, I should think. His thick, black curls, eyes
bright and sparkling, (with fever, it must be,) and brilliant color,
contrast with his remarkably clean shirt and sheet. What can it mean,
amidst this mass of dirt? As my work is done, I follow him into the ward.
“You can’t have been in the Gettysburg fight, my boy, were you?”
“I don’t know, ma’am, rightly, whether you’d call it in it or not; I was
in an ambulance, in the rear. I’ve been in one, following the army, since
the twenty-first of June; and it seems pretty good to be on a thing that
don’t move.”
“But why weren’t you left in a hospital?”
“’Cause I begged so to go on with the rest. The ambulance was going,
and I begged them to let me go in it, and I promised to be well for the
fight; so they took me; but I got so much worse, I didn’t know when the
fight was; it’s the typhoid I’ve got, and my head’s dreadful bad.”
“Your hair is so heavy,” said I; “we’ll take some of that off and bathe
your head, and that will relieve it.”
“Oh! no, ma’am; no, thank you; I don’t want it off.”
“Why not? It would be much cooler, and do you good.”
“Why, I’ll soon be well, and it looks so pretty when it’s fixed!”
The time has come, since then, when I have quite agreed with David; those
curls do look very “pretty, when they’re fixed;” and I am glad he pleaded
for them so innocently. Let no one ever say that vanity is confined to
the breast of woman; the result of close observation has convinced me
that it lives and thrives with tenfold greater power in man; and this
little proof of it, just uttered with so much simplicity, only confirms
a preconceived opinion. I do not, however, confide these views to my new
friend, but advising him to keep perfectly still, I say goodbye, for
the present, and pass on. As I hurry down the ward, I am struck by the
expression of utter contentment and quiet, on a strange face--one of the
new men, evidently; as I come up to the bed where he is lying, he seems
to me to be actually _purring_ with satisfaction.
“You look as if you were comfortable, my friend,” said I, “even though
you are not very clean.”
“Oh! the blessing of this bed. If you could know, ma’am, what it was
to have been marching twenty miles, whether you could or not, again and
again, you’d soon feel what it was to be put on a bed and let to stay
there. Like the South, ma’am, I just want ‘to be let alone;’ I don’t the
least care whether I’m clean or dirty--I’m lying quiet, and I am happy.”
“Well, after a bath and clean clothes, which they are giving the men
as rapidly as possible, you shall lie as still as you please; but I am
afraid that must come first.”
“Don’t think, ma’am,” said he, laughing, “that I object to either of
those things; they’ve not been too plenty where we were, but I just feel
now as if I never wanted to move again.”
“I can easily understand your feeling; enjoy your quiet as long as they
will let you, and I will bring you some supper, later.”
I left him and hurried over to our room, where I found M. busily
employed, and hastened to take my share in the work. Just at this moment,
as we were flying about in every direction, now here, now there, with a
pad for one, a basin and sponge to wet wounds for another, cologne for
a third, and milk punch for a fourth, I felt Dick (our hospital dog, my
faithful friend and ally, a four-footed Vidocq, in his mode of scenting
out grievances,) seize my dress in his teeth, pull it hard, and look
eagerly up in my face. “What is it, Dick? I am too busy to attend to
you just now.” Another hard pull, and a beseeching look in his eyes.
“Presently, my fine fellow! presently. Gettysburg men must come first.”
He wags his tail furiously, and still pulls my dress. Does he mean that
he wants me for one of them? Perhaps so. “Come, Dick, I’ll go with you.”
He starts off delighted, leads me to the ward where those worst wounded
have been placed, travels the whole length of it to the upper corner,
where lies a man apparently badly wounded, and crying like a child. I had
seen him brought in on a stretcher, but in the confusion had not noticed
where he had been taken. Dick halted, as we arrived at the bed, looked at
me, as much as to say, “There, isn’t that a case requiring attention?”
and then, as though quite satisfied to resign him into my hands, trotted
quietly off.
I stood a moment to take an observation--to make a sort of moral
diagnosis before beginning my attack--to find out whether the man needed
direct or indirect sympathy. Very often, to a severely wounded man--not
of a nervous temperament, but suffering intensely,--a kind word, showing
that you appreciate and enter into that suffering, falls on the burning
wound with a soothing, cooling power, as beneficial, for the instant,
as a more visible application; on the wound, I say, for the answer is,
after a few minutes’ conversation, not, “Thank you, I feel better able
to bear the pain, now;” but, “Thank you, my arm doesn’t burn as much as
it did--my limb isn’t so painful--my head feels cooler, now.” But, on the
other hand, who that has suffered from unstrung nerves does not know that
what is most needed in such a case, is to divert the mind from itself--to
present suddenly some other image powerful enough to efface from it the
impressions of its own wretched self--to enable it to rouse itself and
rise above the weakness it is ashamed of, but has no power to conquer?
Any allusion to the suffering itself, in such a case, only adds fuel to
the flame.
I had time to draw my own conclusions, and soon decided that Dick’s
protegé belonged to this latter class. He did not notice my approach; I
therefore stood watching him for a little while. His arm and hand, from
which the bandage had partially slipped, were terribly swollen; the wound
was in the wrist, (or rather, as I afterwards found, the ball had entered
the palm of his hand and had come out at his wrist,) and appeared to be,
as it subsequently proved, a very severe one.
My boast that I could make a pretty good conjecture what State a man came
from by looking at him, did not avail me here. I was utterly at fault.
His fair, Saxon face, so far as I could judge of it as he lay sobbing on
his pillow, had something feminine--almost childlike--in the innocence
and gentleness of its expression; and my first thought was one which
has constantly recurred on closer acquaintance, “How utterly unfit for
a soldier!” He wanted the quick, nervous energy of the New Englander,
who, even when badly wounded, rarely fails to betray his origin; he had
none of the rough off-hand dash of our Western brothers, and could never
have had it, even in health; nor yet the stolidity of our Pennsylvania
Germans. No! it was clear that I must wait till he chose to enlighten
me as to his home. After a few minutes’ study, I was convinced that his
tears were not from the pain of his wound; there was no contraction of
the brow, no tension of the muscles, no quivering of the frame; he seemed
simply very weary, very languid, like a tired child, and I resolved to
act accordingly.
“I have been so busy with our defenders, this afternoon,” said I, “that I
have had no time to come and thank you.”
He started, raised his tear-stained face, and said, with a wondering air,
“To thank me? For what?”
“For what?” said I; “haven’t you been keeping the rebels away from us?
Don’t you know that if it hadn’t been for you and many like you, we might
at this moment have been flying from our homes, and General Lee and his
men occupying our city? You don’t seem to know how grateful we are to
you--we feel as though we could never do enough for our brave Gettysburg
men to return what they have done for us.”
This seemed quite a novel idea, and the tears were stopped to muse upon
it.
“We tried to do our duty, ma’am, I know that.”
“I know it too, and I think I could make a pretty good guess what corps
you belong to. Suppose I try. Wasn’t it the Second Corps? You look to
me like one of General Hancock’s men; you know they were praised in the
papers for their bravery. Am I right?”
The poor tired face brightened instantly. The random shot had hit the
mark.
“Yes, Second Corps. Did you know by my cap?”
“Your cap? You don’t wear your cap in bed, do you? I haven’t seen your
cap; I guessed by that wound--it must have been made where there was
pretty hard fighting, and I knew the Second Corps had done their share of
that.”
But this was dangerous ground, as I felt the moment the allusion to his
wound was made; the sympathy was too direct, and his eyes filled at once.
Seeing my mistake, I plunged off rapidly on another tack.
“Did you notice my assistant orderly who came in with me just now? He had
been over to see you before, for he came and told me you wanted me.”
“I wanted you! No, ma’am; that’s a mistake; no one’s been near me since
they bathed me, and gave me clean clothes--I know there hasn’t, for I
watched them running all about; but none came to me, and I want so much
to have my arm dressed.” And the ready tears once more began to flow.
“There is no mistake. I told you that my assistant orderly came to me in
the ladies’ room, and told me that you needed me. Think again--who has
been here since you were brought in?”
“Not a single soul, ma’am,--indeed, not a thing, but a dog, standing
looking in my face, and wagging his tail, as if he was pitying me.”
“But a dog! Exactly; he’s my assistant orderly; he came over to me,
pulled my dress, and wouldn’t rest till I came to see after you. I am
surprised you speak so slightingly of poor Dick.”
Here was at once a safe and fertile theme. I entered at large upon Dick’s
merits; his fondness for the men--his greater fondness, occasionally, for
their dinners--his having made way with three lunches just prepared for
men who were starting--(the result, probably, of having heard the old
story that the surgeons eat what is intended for the men,) our finding
him one day on our table with his head in a pitcher of lemonade, and
how I had tried to explain to him that such was not the best way of
proving his regard for his friends, the soldiers, but I feared without
much effect--in short, I made a long story out of nothing, till the
wardmaster arrived with his supper, saying that the doctor’s orders were
that the new cases should all take something to eat before he examined
their wounds. My friend had quite forgotten his own troubles in listening
to Dick’s varied talents, and allowed me to give him his supper very
quietly, as I found he was really too much exhausted even to raise his
uninjured arm to his mouth. I had the pleasure of seeing him smile for
goodbye, and having given him rather more time than I could spare,
hurried away, with a promise of seeing him the next day (Sunday), for
they were too ill not to be watched.