There were nine of us, all told, when mother died; myself, the eldest,
aged twenty, a plain and serious woman, well fitted by nature and
circumstance to fill the place made vacant by death.
I cannot remember when I was young. Indeed, when I hear other women
recount the story of their early days, I think I had no childhood, for
mine was like no other.
Mother was married so young, that at the age when most women begin to
think seriously of marriage she had around her a numerous brood, of
which I was less the elder sister than the younger mother. She was
delicate by nature, and peevish by reason of her burdens, and I think
could never have been a self-reliant character; so she fretted and
sighed through life, and when death came, unawares, she seemed not sorry
for the refuge.
She called me to her bed one day in a tone so cheerful that I wondered,
and when I saw the calm and brightness in her face, hope made me glad,
"Margaret," she said, "you have been a good daughter. I never did you
justice until this illness opened my eyes. You have shamed me by your
patience and your sacrifices so gently borne. You are more fit to be a
mother than I ever was; and I leave the children to your care without a
fear. It is not likely you will ever marry, and I die content, knowing
that you will do your duty."
After this came many sad days,--the parting, the silent form which death
had made majestic, the funeral hymns, the tolling bell, the clods upon
the coffin-lid; and when the sun shone out and the birds sang again, it
seemed to me I had dreamed it all, and that the sun could not shine nor
the birds sing above a grave on which the grass had not yet had time to
grow. But I had not dreamed, nor had I time for dreaming. Mother was
dead, and eight children claimed from me a mother's care,--the youngest
a wailing babe but seven days old, whom I came to cherish and love as my
little boy.
When I had settled down, and grown accustomed to the vacuum which never
could be filled for me, I thought a great deal upon mother's last words.
I was proud of the trust she reposed in me, and I meant to be faithful
to it. I wondered much why she had thought it likely I should never
marry; for I was a woman with strong instincts, and, amid all the toil
and care of my barren life, I had seen afar, through gleaming mists, the
mountains of hope arise, and beyond the heat and dust and labor of duty
caught glimpses of green ways made pleasant by quiet waters.
I do not think my burden seemed heavier now that mother no longer helped
me to bear it; for my sense of responsibility had been increased by her
complaining spirit. Her discouraging views of life held in check the
reins of my eager fancy: it seemed wrong to enjoy a happiness I could
not share with her. Now I no longer felt this restraint; but, knowing
that somehow she had missed this happiness for which I waited, the
knowledge invested her memory with a tender pity, and tempered my
pleasure with a feeling akin to pain.
I was never idle. Behind the real work of life, my fancy wrought on,
unknown and unsuspected by the world; my lamp of joy, fed by the sweet
oil of hope, was ready for the lighting, and I was content to wait.
My little boy throve bravely. Every morning I awoke him with a kiss;
and, perhaps because each day seemed but a continuation of the other,
time stood still for him. He was for me the incarnation of all
loveliness. The fair face, and blond hair, and brown, brooding eyes,
were beautiful as an angel's, and goodness set its seal on his
perfections. He gave me no trouble: grief brings age, joy confirms
youth, and I and my little boy grew young together. He was with me
everywhere, lightening my labor with his prattling tongue, helping me
with his sweet, hindering ways; and when the kisses had been many that
had waked him many morns, he stood beside me, my little boy, hardly a
hand's breadth lower than myself.
The world had changed for all but him and me. My father had wandered off
to foreign parts; sisters and brothers, one by one, had gone forth to
conquer kingdoms and reign in their own right, and one young sister,
just on the border-land of maiden fancies, (O friends, I write this line
with tears!) turned from earth and crossed the border-land of heaven.
But he and I remained alone in the old homestead, and walked together
sweetly down the years.
If I came upon disappointment, I had not sought it, neither did I fall
by it; but that which was my future slid by me and became the past, so
gently that I scarce remember where one ended or the other began; and
though all other lovers failed me, one true remained, to whom I ever
would be true. The future did not look less fair; nay, I deemed it more
full of promise than ever. It was as though I had passed from my old
stand-point of observation to a more easterly window; and the prospect
was not the less enchanting that I looked upon it over the shoulder of
my little boy. We talked much of it together; and though he had the
nearer view, it was my practised vision that saw pathways of beauty not
yet suspected by him.
But we were still happy in the present, and did not speculate much upon
the future. The rolling years brought him completeness, and to the
graces of person were added the gifts of wisdom and knowledge. The down
that shaded his cheek, like the down upon a ripe peach, had darkened and
strengthened to the symbol of manhood, and his words had the clear ring
of purpose. For there was a cloud upon the horizon which at first was no
bigger than a man's hand, but it grew until it filled the land with
darkness, and the fair prospect on which I had so loved to gaze was
hidden behind the storm. My little boy and I looked into each other's
faces, and he cried, "Margaret, I must go!"
I did not say nay,--for the tears which were not in my eyes were in my
voice, and to speak was to betray them,--but I turned about to make him
ready.
In these days my little boy's vision was finer than my own; and when we
stood together, looking from our orient window, he saw keener and
farther than I had ever done; for my eyes now looked through a veil of
tears, while his, like the eagle's, penetrated the cloud to the sunshine
behind it. He was full of the dream of glory; and his words, fraught
with purpose and power, stirred me like a trumpet. I caught the
inspiration that thrilled his soul; for we had walked so long together
that all paths pursued by him must find me ever at his side.
One day I was summoned to meet a visitor; and going, a tall figure in
military dress gave me a military salute. It was my little boy, who,
half abashed at his presumption, drew himself up, and sought refuge from
shyness in valor. It was not a sight to make me smile, though I smiled
to please my warrior, who, well pleased, displayed his art, to show how
fields were won. Won! He had no thought of loss; for youth and hope
dream not of defeat, and he talked of how the war was to be fought and
ended, and all should be well.
I kissed my little boy good night; and he slept peacefully, dreaming of
fields of glory, as Jacob dreamed and saw a heavenly vision.
He went; and then it seemed as if there had been with him one fair long
summer day, and this was the evening thereof; and my heart was heavy
within me.
But many letters reached me from the distant field,--long and loving
letters, full of hope, portraying all the poetry and beauty of
camp-life, casting the grosser part aside; and to me at home, musing
amid peaceful scenes, it seemed a great, triumphant march, which must
crush, with its mere _display_ of power, all wicked foes. But the
sacrifice of blood was needed for the remission of sin, and these
holiday troops--heroes in all save the art of war--lost the day, and,
returning, brought back with their thinned ranks my little boy unharmed.
Unharmed, thank God! but bronzed and bearded like the pard, and
tarnished with the wear and burnished with the use of war.
How he talked and laughed, making light of danger, and, growing serious,
said the fight had but begun,--the business of the nation must, for
years, be war,--and that his strength and manhood, nay, his life if need
be, should be given to his country. Then his words made me brave, and
his looks made me proud. I blessed him with unfaltering lips; and above
the hills of promise, which my little boy and I saw looking from our
orient window, rose higher yet the mountains of truth, with the straight
path of duty leading to the skies. But when he was gone
again,--gone,--there fell a shadow of the coming night, and the evening
and the morning were the second day.
His frequent letters dissipated the sense of danger, and brought me
great comfort. War is not a literary art, and letters from the "imminent
deadly breach," made it seem less deadly. His self-abnegation filled me
with wonder. "It is well that few should be lost, that many may be
saved," he wrote. In what school had this tender youth learned heroism,
I asked myself, as I read his noble words and trembled at his courage.
My dreams and my gaze turned southward. No eastern beams lured me to
that lookout so long endeared; for the eyes through which I once gazed
looked through the smoke of battle, and hope and faith had fled with
him, and left me but suspense.
Now came hot work. The enemy pressed sorely, and men's--ay, and
women's--souls were tried. Long days of silence passed, days of
sickening doubt, and then came the news of _victory_,--victory bought
with precious blood and heavy loss. Over the ghastly hospital lists I
hung, fearing and dreading to meet the name of my little boy, taking
hope, as the list shortened, from the despair of others, _and no
mention_. Thank God, who giveth _us_ the victory!
And later, when details come in, I see in "official report" my little
boy's name mentioned for meritorious and gallant conduct, and
recommended for promotion. Ah! the groans of the dying are lost in the
shouts of the victor; and, forgetting the evil because of this good, a
woman's heart cried, _Laus Deo_!
After the battle, hardly fought and dearly purchased, my hero came home
on furlough. War had developed him faster than the daily kisses of love
had done; for my little boy--crowned with immortal youth for me--for all
the world came from this rude embrace a man in stature and wisdom, a
hero in valor and endurance, a leader beloved and revered.
But for all this I tucked him in o' nights, and shut off harmful
draughts from him who oft had lain upon the sod, and for covering had
but the cloudy sky.
These were blissful days,--marked in the past by white memories,--in
which we talked of future plans, the future so near, yet to our vision
so remote, and purposed this and that, not considering that Heaven
disposes all things.
And when he must be off, I kissed him lightly; for success brings
security, and I was growing accustomed to these partings; but he drew me
to his breast, struck by some pang of coming evil, and called me
_mother_. Ah! then my heart yearned over my little boy, and I would fain
have stayed his going; but, dashing the tears from his eyes, he hurried
away, nor looked behind him once.
All through the winter, which for him was summer, my heart lay lightly
in its place, and I waited calmly the coming of the end. The struggle
was almost over; the storm-cloud had rolled back, after deluging the
land in blood; in this consecrated soil slavery was forever buried; the
temple of freedom was reared in the name of all men, and the dove of
peace sat brooding in its eaves.
All this my little boy had said must come to pass before he sheathed his
sword; and this had come to pass.
He had marched "to the sea," my conquering hero, and was "coming up,"
crowned with new laurels. I was waiting the fulness of time, lulled with
the fulness of content. Sherman had gathered his hosts for another
combat,--the last,--and then the work would be done, and well done. Thus
wrote my little boy; and my heart echoed his words, "well done."
This battle-day I worked out of doors from morning until night, seeking
to bring order and beauty out of confusion and decay, striving to have
all things ready when he came. My sleep was sweet that night, and I
awoke with these words in my mind:--
"Lord, in the morning Thou shall hear
My voice ascending high."
The sun streamed in through the eastern window, and all the hills beyond
were bathed in glory; the earth was fair to look upon, and happiness,
descending from the skies, nestled in my heart.
I planted all this day, covering precious seed, thinking on their summer
beauty; and, as the evening fell, I stood at the garden gate watching
the way he must come for whose coming I longed with a longing that could
not be uttered.
As I looked, idly speculating on his speed, a horseman dashed up in mad
haste, his steed spent and flecked with foam. Men do not ride so hot
with good tidings,--what need to make such haste with evil?
Still, no sense of loss, no shadow of the coming night. Peace covered my
heart, and would not be scared away. Blind infatuation! that could not
see.
"Was it not then a victory?" I cried; for sadness and defeat were
written in his face.
"Nay, not that." The outstretched hand turned white with pity. "But
this--"
Too kind to speak the words, at sight of which I fell, struck by a bolt
that, riving _his_ heart, through leagues of space had travelled
straight to mine.
* * * * *
Months later, when the long night had passed away, and the dawn brought
patience and resignation, one who saw him fall, gloriously, told me the
story. I could bear it then; for in my soul's eclipse I had beheld him
walking on the heavenly hills, and knew that there he was waiting for
me.
He lies buried, at his own request, where he fell, on Southern soil.
O pilgrim to those sacred shrines, if in your wandering ye come upon a
nameless grave, marked by a sunken sword, tread lightly above the
slumbers of my little boy!