must stop and make acquaintance with each new face--or rather, I long to
do so, but it will not be possible. Look at those clear blue eyes, over
there--just what the French call “les yeux de velours!”--I cannot surely
pass them without a word; they smile a welcome as I approach. What a
contrast their owner presents to poor Stillwell, my tearful friend, whom
I have just left. A sweet, bright face, clear complexion, curling light
hair, and something very winning in his open, frank expression, which
attracts you to him at once. Before he opens his lips I am persuaded
that he possesses a cheerful spirit, ready to look on the bright side of
everything.
“You don’t look as though you were suffering much; I hope you’re not
badly wounded.”
What a beaming, beautiful smile, as he extends his hand to me at once!
“Oh! no; not badly, only hit in the shoulder; it’s pretty painful, but I
guess I’ll be all right in a few days.”
How little could I imagine, from his words, what I found out a few days
later, that I was standing at that moment by one of the very worst wounds
that had come in. The surgeon of the ward told me that he considered it
a most critical case, and that, had the shot gone one half inch further,
it must have been certainly fatal. It seemed that Dick and I between us,
had discovered the two most severely wounded men in the whole hospital.
For many weeks after that they were dangerously ill, requiring close and
careful watching every hour, but rewarding us in the end with the hope of
perfect recovery.
“I am glad to hear it,” said I, in answer to his too sanguine view of his
wound, “for you don’t look as if you had seen much sickness, and maybe
you wouldn’t bear it very well.”
“I’ve never been a day in bed in my life before this, and I hardly know
what to make of it. I’m an Ohio boy, used to the country and living in
the open air, and I couldn’t stand being shut up here at all; it’s as bad
as the Libby prison.”
Fancy my horror. Our hospital compared to the Libby prison!
“Oh! you mustn’t say that; we try to do everything here to make the
confinement as easy as possible to the men, and to help them to forget
that it is a hospital. I’m sure you can’t have been in the ‘Libby’ ever,
have you?”
“Oh! no, indeed, never; but it seems just as bad to me to be fastened in
here.”
“Well, some day, soon, I will bring you in some of our men who have been
there; let them talk to you and give you their experience, and then, when
you know us better, I will ask you whether you still think the same. But
now I must really say good-night. I will come to the ‘prison,’ to-morrow,
to see how you all are.”
“Thank you; you’ll be very welcome; and maybe,” added he, laughing, “it
won’t seem so like it when I get at home here;” and once more extending
his hand, he said “good-night.”
So ended the memorable week of July, 1863, which followed the glorious
Gettysburg fight.
The tide of war has rolled back from our homes; the highly strung nerves
are calmed; the dead sleep in the quiet graves which a people’s love has
provided for them on the field of their fame; the wounded, so lately
massed in our midst, are scattered; some--too few, alas!--returned,
cured, to their regiments; others (the saddest part of the war)
discharged from service, disabled and crippled for life; while for the
remainder, listen to the words of that pale boy--as I raise his head to
give him the needed stimulant, the notes of music fall on my ear.
“What is that, Henry?”
“What is that, do you ask, Miss ----? That is only some of our poor
Gettysburg boys _going home_;” and I recognize the dead march, and I see
the reversed arms, as the mournful train winds by.
Time has gone on; new faces, new forms, have filled the places of the old
ones, and still our labors, our hopes, our Prayers, continue for our dear
and bleeding country; still continues, also, our abiding faith and trust
in the ultimate triumph of the right; and, leaving the event in Higher
Hands, fearlessly we abide the issue.
THE END.