A HEROIC MOTHER.
James Bride, who drew me to Campbell, by asking for "something to quench
thirst," was one of the thousands who died of flesh-wounds, for want of
surgical trap doors, through which nature might throw out her chips. His
wound was in the hip, and no opening ever was made to the center of the
injury, except that made by the bullet which had gone in and staid
there.
His mother came three days before he died, and being minus hoops and
finery, the ward surgeon was anxious she should remain with her son, and
we arranged that she should sleep in my room. There was just space
between the cot and wall for the breadth of a mattress, and when the
door was shut, that space was long enough, for me to lie between the
door and the stand. I have never entertained a guest more cheerfully, or
one by whose presence I felt more honored; yet the traveling costume was
a short calico dress, strong leather shoes and blue woolen stockings,
visible below the dress, a gingham sunbonnet and double-bordered cap
tied under her chin.
Several richly dressed ladies came from Eastern cities to see dying
relatives, but to none of them were the surgeons so thoroughly
respectful, as to this plain, strong, clean, high-souled country-woman,
who staid with her son, and was hailed with joy by all the men in his
ward, to every one of whom she was sympathetic and helpful.
Her case was hard. She and her husband, who was old and feeble, had just
three sons, two strong and vigorous, one a cripple. Their two vigorous
sons enlisted together, and fell in the charge on Marie's Hill, within
ten feet and ten minutes of each other. William was buried on the
battle-field, and she had come to see James die in hospital.
When all was over and her boy was carried to the dead house, they
brought her to me, and I have never heard such pathetic, eloquent
expressions of grief as those she poured forth in that little, rough,
barrack-room.
"Oh, William! William!" she sobbed, "You are lying, to-night, in your
bloody grave, and your mother will never know where it is! and you,
James! you were my first-born, but I cannot go to you now, where you lie
in the darkness among the dead! Oh, but it is a sad story I must carry
to your old father, to bring his gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. Who
can we lean upon, in our old age? Who will take care of Johnny when we
are gone? Oh, it is a hard, hard lot."
She wrung her hands, bowed over her knees, in a paroxysm of tears, then
raised herself, threw back her head, and exclaimed. "But oh! boys dear,
wouldn't I rather you were where you are this night, than that you had
thrown down your guns and run!"