THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.
The fervor and heat of the mid-day atmosphere had been intense, but a
most delightfully refreshing sea breeze had sprung up at last, and
after fanning its way across the Gulf Stream, was dallying now with the
palms and orange trees that so gracefully surrounded the marble statue
of Ferdinand, in the midst of the Plaza, and ruffling the marble basin
of water that bubbles forth from the graceful basin at its base. Light
puffs of it, too, found their way into the invitingly open windows of
the governor’s palace, into an apartment which was improved by General
Harero. Often pausing at the window to breathe in of the delightful
atmosphere for a moment, he would again resume his irregular walk and
seemingly absorbed in a dreamy frame of mind, quite unconscious of the
outward world about him. At last he spoke, though only communing with
himself, yet quite aloud:
“Strange, very strange, that this Captain Bezan should seem to stand so
much in my way. Curse his luck, the old don and his daughter feel under
infinite obligations to him already, and well they may, as to the
matter of that. If it was not for the girl’s extraordinary stock of
pride, we should have her falling in love with this young gallant
directly, and there would be an end to all my hopes and fancies. He’s
low enough, now, however, so my valet just told me, and ten to one, if
his physician knows his case, as he pretends, he’ll make a die of it.
He is a gallant fellow, that’s a fact, and brave as he is gallant. I
may as well own the fact that’s what makes me hate him so! But he
should not have crossed my path, and served to blight my hopes, there’s
the rub. I like the man well enough as a soldier, hang it. I’d like
half the army to be just like him-they’d be invincible; but he has
crossed my interest, ay, my love; and if he does get up again and
crosses me with Isabella Gonzales, why then-well, no matter, there are
ways enough to remove the obstacle from my path.
“By the way,” he continued, after crossing and re-crossing the room a
few times, “what a riddle this Isabella Gonzales is; I wonder if she
has got any heart at all. Here am I, who have gone scathless through
the courts of beauty these many years, actually caught-surprised at
last; for I do love the girl; and yet how archly she teazes me!
Sometimes I think within myself that I am about to win the goal, when
drop goes the curtain, and she’s as far away as ever. How queenly she
looks, nevertheless. I had much rather be refused by such a woman, to
my own mortification, than to succeed with almost any other, if only
for the pleasure of looking into those eyes, and reading in silent
language her poetical and ethereal beauty-I might be happy but for this
fellow, this Captain Bezan; he troubles me. Though there’s no danger of
her loving him, yet he seems to stand in my way, and to divert her
fancy. Thank Heaven, she’s too proud to love one so humble.”
Thus musing and talking aloud to himself, General Harero walked back
and forth, and back and forth again in his apartment, until his orderly
brought him the evening report of his division. A far different scene
was presented on the other side of the great square, in the centre of
which stands the shrubbery and fountain of the Plaza. Let the reader
follow us now inside the massive stone walls of the Spanish barracks,
to a dimly lighted room, where lay a wounded soldier upon his bed. The
apartment gave token in its furniture of a very peculiar combination of
literary and military taste. There were foils, long and short swords,
pistols, hand pikes, flags, military boots and spurs; but there were
also Shakspeare, Milton, the illustrated edition of Cervantes’s Don
Quixote, and a voluminous history of Spain, with various other prose
and poetic volumes, in different languages. A guitar also lay
carelessly in one corner, and a rich but faded bouquet of flowers
filled a porcelain vase.
At the foot of the bed where the wounded soldier lay, stood a boy with
a quivering lip and swimming eye, as he heard the sick man moan in his
uneasy sleep. Close by the head of the bed sat an assistant-surgeon of
the regiment, watching what evidently seemed to be the turning point as
to the sufferer’s chance for life or death. As the boy and the surgeon
watched him thus, gradually the opiate just administered began to
affect him, and he seemed at last to fall into the deep and quiet sleep
that is generally indicated by a low, regular and uninterrupted
respiration.
The boy had not only watched the wounded man, but had seemed also to
half read the surgeon’s thoughts, from time to time, and now marked the
gleam of satisfaction upon his face as the medicine produced the
desired effect upon the system of his patient.
“How do you think Captain Bezan is, to-day?” whispered the boy,
anxiously, as the surgeon’s followed him noiselessly from the sick-room
to the corridor without.
“Very low, master Ruez, very low indeed; it is the most critical period
of his sickness; but he has gone finely into that last nap, thanks to
the medicine, and if he will but continue under its influence thus for
a few hours, we may look for an abatement of this burning thirst and
fever, and then—”
“What, sir?” said the boy, eagerly, “what then?”
“Why, he may get over those wounds, but it’s a severe case, and would
be little less than a miracle. I’ve seen sicker men live, and I’ve seen
those who seemed less sick die.”
“Alas! then there is no way yet of deciding upon his case,” said the
boy.
“None, Master Ruez; but we’ll hope for the best; that is all that can
be done.”
Ruez Gonzales walked out of the barracks and by the guard with a sad
countenance, and whistling for Carlo, who had crouched by the parapet
until his young master should come out, he turned his steps up the
Calla de Mercaderes to his home. Ruez sought his sister’s apartment,
and throwing himself upon a lounge, seemed moody and unhappy. As he
reclined thus, Isabella regarded him intently, as though she would read
his thoughts without asking for them. There seemed to be some reason
why she did not speak to him sooner, but at last she asked:
“Well, Ruez, how is Captain Bezan, to-day? have you been to the
barracks to inquire?” She said this in an assumed tone of indifference,
but it was only assumed.
“How is he?” repeated Ruez, after turning a quick glance of his soft
blue eyes upon his sister’s face, as though he would read her very
soul. Isabella felt his keen glance, and almost blushed.
“Yes, brother, pray, how is Captain Bezan, to-day? do you not know?”
“His life hangs by a mere thread,” continued the boy, sadly, resuming
again his former position. “The surgeon told me that his recovery was
very doubtful.”
“Did he tell you that, Ruez?”
“Not those words, sister, but that which was equivalent to it,
however.”
“He is worse, then, much worse?” she continued, in a hasty tone of
voice.
“Not worse, sister,” replied Ruez. “I did not say that he was worse,
but the fever rages still, and unless that abates within a few hours,
death must follow.”
Isabella Gonzales sat herself down at an open balcony and looked off on
the distant country in silence, so long, that Ruez and the hound both
fell asleep, and knew not that she at last left her seat. The warmth
and enervating influence of the atmosphere almost requires one to
indulge in a siesta daily, in these low latitudes and sunny regions of
the earth.
“He is dying, then,” said Isabella Gonzales, to herself, after having
sought the silence and solitude of her own chamber, “dying and alone,
far from any kindred voice or hand, or even friend, save those among
his brothers in arms. And yet how much do we owe to him! He has saved
all our lives-Ruez’s first, and then both father’s and mine; and in
this last act of daring gallantry and bravery, he received his death
wound. Alas! how fearful it seems to me, this strange picture. Would I
could see and thank him once more-take from him any little commission
that he might desire in his last moments to transmit to his distant
home-for a sister, mother, or brother. Would that I could smooth his
pillow and bathe his fevered brow; I know he loves me, and these
attentions would be so grateful to him-so delightful to me. But alas!
it would be considered a disgrace for me to visit him.”
Let the reader distinctly understand the feelings that actuated the
heart of the lovely girl. The idea of loving the wounded soldier had
never entered the proud but now humbled Isabella’s thoughts. Could such
a thought have been by any means suggested to her, she would have
spurned it at once; but it was the woman’s sympathy that she felt for
one who would have doubtless sacrificed his life for her and hers; it
was a simple act of justice she would have performed; and the pearly
tear that now wet her cheek, was that of sympathy, and of sympathy
alone. Beautiful trait, how glorious thou art in all; but how doubly
glorious in woman; because in her nature thou art most natural, and
there thou findest the congenial associations necessary for thy full
conception.
General Harero had judged Isabella Gonzales well when he said that
there was no danger of her loving Lorenzo Bezan-she had too much pride!
But let us look once more into the sick room we so lately left, where
the wounded soldier lies suffering from his wounds. A volante has just
stopped at the barracks’ doors, and a girl, whose dress betokens her to
be a servant, steps out, and telling her errand to the corporal of the
guard, is permitted to pass the sentinel, and is conducted to the sick
man’s room. She brings some cooling draughts for his parched lips, and
fragrant waters with which to battle his fevered temples and burning
forehead.
“Who sends these welcome gifts to Captain Bezan?” asked the
assistant-surgeon.
“My lady, sir.”
“And who is your lady, my good girl, if you please?” he asked.
“The Senorita Isabella Gonzales, sir,” was the modest reply of the
maid.
“Ah, yes; her brother has been here this afternoon, I remember,” said
the surgeon; “the sick man fell asleep then, and has not since
awakened.”
“Heaven grant the sleep may refresh him and restore his strength,” said
the girl.
“Amen, say I to that,” continued the surgeon, “and amen says every man
in the regiment.”
“Is he so popular as that?” asked the girl, innocently.
“Popular, why he’s the pet of the entire division. He’s the best
swordsman, best scholar, best-in short we could better lose half the
other officers than Captain Bezan.”
“Do you think him any better than he was this morning?”
“The sleep is favorable, highly favorable,” replied the surgeon,
approaching the bedside; “but in my judgment of the case, it must
entirely depend upon the state in which he wakes.”
“Is there fear of waking him, do you think?” asked the girl, in a
whisper, as she drew nearer to the bed, and looked upon the high, pale
forehead and remarkably handsome features of the young soldier. Though
the few days of confinement which he had suffered, and the acute pain
he had endured by them, had hollowed his checks, yet he was handsome
still.
“No,” replied the surgeon, to her question; “he will sleep quite long
enough from the opiate, quite as long as I wish; and if he should wake
even now, it would not be too soon.”
“How very slightly he breathes,” continued the girl, observantly.
“Very; but it is a relief to see him breathe in that way,” replied the
surgeon.
“Stay, did he not murmur something, then?” asked the maid.
“Possibly,” replied the surgeon. “He has talked constantly during his
delirium. Pray, my good girl, does he know your mistress very well?”
“I think not,” was the reply. “But why do you ask that?”
“Because he seems constantly to dream and talk about her night and day.
Indeed she is all he has spoken of since the height of his fever was
upon him.”
“Indeed!” said the girl, musing at the surgeon’s words abstractedly.
“Have you not heard your mistress speak of him at all?”
“Yes, that is, he once did the family some important service. Do you
say that he talked of Senorita Isabella in the hours of his delirium?”
“Yes, and in looking into his dressing-case, a few days since, to find
some lint for his wounds, I discovered this,” said tire surgeon,
showing the girl a miniature, painted on ivory with great skill and
beauty. “I think it must be a likeness of the Senorita Isabella,”
continued the surgeon, “though I have never seen her to know her but
once.”
“It is indeed meant for her,” said the girl, eagerly scanning the soft
and delicate picture, which represented the Senorita Isabella Gonzales
as sitting at an open window and gazing forth on the soft, dreamy
atmosphere of a tropical sunset.
“You think it is like her?”
“O, very.”
“Well, I was sure that it was meant for the lady when I first saw it.”
“May I bathe his temples with this Florida water?” asked the girl, as
she observed the sick man to move slightly and to moan.
“Yes, it will have a tendency to rouse him gently, and it is now time
for him to wake.”
The girl smoothed back the dark locks from the soldier’s brow, and with
her hands bathed his marble-like forehead and temples as gently as she
might have done had he been an infant. The stimulating influence of the
delicate spirits she was using was most delightful to the senses of the
sick man, and a soft smile for a moment breathed his lips, as half
awake and half dreaming, he returned thanks for the kindness, mingled
with Isabella’s name.
The girl bent over his couch to hear the words, and the surgeon saw a
tear drop upon the sick man’s hand from the girl’s eyes as she stood
there! In a moment more the soldier seemed to arouse, and uttered a
long deep sigh, as though relieved from some heavy weight that had long
been oppressing him, both mentally and physically. He soon opened his
eyes, and looked languidly about him, as if striving to recall his
situation, and what had prostrated him thus.
The girl stepped immediately back from the bedside, as she observed
these tokens, and droping the rebosa that had been heretofore confined,
veil-like to the crown of her head, and partially screened her
features, but she showed most unmistakable signs of delight, as she
read in the soldier’s eyes that reason had once more returned to her
throne, and that Lorenzo Bezan was once more rational.
“How beautiful!” uttered the surgeon, half aloud, as he stood gazing at
the girl. “If the mistress be as lovely as the maid, no wonder Captain
Bezan has talked of her in his delirium!”
“Step hither, step hither, he is awake!” whispered the girl to the
surgeon.
“And his reason too has returned,” said the professional man, as soon
as his eyes rested on the wounded soldier’s face. “There is hope now!”
“Thank Heaven for its infinite mercy!” said the girl, with an earnest
though tremulous voice, as she gathered her rebosa about her face and
prepared to depart.
“He will recover now?” she asked, once more, as she turned towards the
surgeon.
“With care and good nursing we may hope so,” was the reply of the
attendant, who still looked earnestly into the face of the inquirer as
he spoke.
“My lady knew not the pecuniary condition of Captain Bezan at this
time, and desired that this purse might be devoted to his convenience
and comfort; but she also desires that this may not be known to him.
May I trust to you, sir, in this little matter?”
“It will give me great pleasure to keep the secret, and to improve the
purse solely for the sick man’s individual benefit,” was the reply.
“Thank you, sir; I see you are indeed his friend,” she answered, as she
bowed low and withdrew.
Scarcely had the door closed after the visitor, before the surgeon,
turning hastily once more to the miniature he had shown, examined it in
various lights, now carefully within a part shaded by the hand, and now
as a whole, and now near to, and then at a distance.
“I more than suspected it,” he exclaimed, with emphasis; “and now I
know it; that lady was Senorita Isabella Gonzales, the belle of
Havana!”
And so indeed it was. Unable longer to restrain her desire to see him
who had so infinitely served the interests of herself and her father’s
house, the proud girl had smothered every adverse prompting in her
bosom, and donning her dressing-maid’s attire, had thus dressed in
humble costume, stepped into a volante, and ordering the calesaro to
drive to the infantry barracks, where she knew the sick man was, had
entered as we have seen, under pretext of bringing necessities from her
pretended mistress to the wounded soldier. Her scheme had succeeded
infinitely well, nor would she have betrayed herself to even the
surgeon’s observant eye, had it not been for that single tear!
“What angel was that?” whispered the sick man, to his attendant, who
now approached his bedside to administer some cooling draught to his
parched lips.
“You have been dreaming, my dear fellow,” said the discreet surgeon,
cautiously, “and are already much better; keep as quiet as possible,
and we will soon have you out again. Here, captain, drink of this fruit
water, it will refresh you.”
Too weak to argue or even to talk at all, the sick man drank as he was
desired, and half closed his eyes again, as if he thought by thus doing
he might once more bring back the sweet vision which had just gladdened
his feeble senses.
Like a true-hearted fellow as he was, the surgeon resolved not to
reveal the lady’s secret to any one-not even to his patient; for he saw
that this was her earnest desire, and she had confided in part to him
her errand there. But those who saw the surgeon in the after part of
that day, marked that he bore a depressed and thoughtful countenance.
Isabella Gonzales had filled his vision, and very nearly his heart,
also, by her exquisite loveliness and beauty!