GET OUT OF THE OLD THEATER.
I do not know how long I was in charge of the old theater, but remember
talking to some one of having been there ten days, and things looking as
usual. It was after the change of base, that one afternoon I got eight
hopeful cases sent to the General Hospital, where they would have beds.
That night about ten o'clock the vidette halted a man, who explained
that he was surgeon in charge of that institution, and when he got leave
to go on, I caught him by the lapel of his coat, and said:
"If you are Surgeon--what is the reason that the eight men I sent you
this afternoon had had no supper at nine o'clock?"
He promised to attend to them before he slept, and on that we parted.
Soon after this, Dr. Childs, of Philadelphia, and a regular army
surgeon, came to the old theater, hung their coats and official dignity,
if they had any, on the wall--never said a word about the rubbish in the
hall, but fastened up their sleeves and went to work. When they came, I
felt as if I could not take another step, went to my room and lay down,
thinking of Raphael's useless angels leaning their baby arms on a cloud.
My angels wore beards, and had their sleeves turned up like farm
laborers, as they lifted men out of the depths of despair into the light
and warmth of human help and human sympathy.
In sending the men away, they sent the amputation cases and George to
the church, and sent for me to go to them there.
Georgie had gone to the General Hospital, and there was no surgeon in
charge at the church when I went to it. So, once more, I set about doing
that which was right in my own eyes. I could have a bale of hay, whipped
out my needle and thread, and for several bad cases who had two blankets
converted one into a bed tick, had it filled with hay, and a man placed
on it; but three were sadly in need of beds, and had no blankets; and to
them I alloted the balance of my precious bale, had it placed under them
loose, and rejoiced in their joy over so great a luxury. My theater men
had been laid in a row close to the wall, next to the late scene of
their suffering; and about midnight of the first night there, a nurse
asked me to go to a man who was dying. I found him in front of the
altar. The doors and front panels of the pews had been fastened V shape
to the floor, and he lay with one arm over this, and his head hanging
forward. He had been shot through the chest, was breathing loud and in
gasps, worn out for want of support, and to lay him down was to put out
his lamp of life instantly. What he needed was a high-backed chair, but
General Patrick's sense of duty to the citizens of Fredericksburg left
no hope of such a support. As the only substitute in my reach, I sat on
the edge of the pew door and its panel, drew his arm across my knee,
raised his head to my shoulder, and held it there by laying mine against
it. In this way I could talk in a low monotone to him, and the hopes to
which the soul turns when about to leave the tenement of clay. He gasped
acquiescence in these hopes, and his words led several men near to draw
their sleeves across their eyes; but they all knew he was dying, and a
little sympathy and sadness would not injure them.
He reached toward the floor, and, the man next handed up a daguerreotype
case, which he tried to open. I took and opened it; found the picture of
a young, handsome woman, and held it and a candle, so that he could see
it. His tears fell on it, as he looked, and he gasped,
"I shall never be where that has been."
I said:
"Is it your wife?" and he replied,
"No! but she would have been."
I always tried to avoid bringing sadness to the living on account of
death; but it must have been hard for men to sleep in sound of his
labored breathing; and to soften it I began singing "Shining Shore." He
took it up at once, in a whisper tone, keeping time, as if used to
singing. Soon one, then another and another joined, until all over the
church these prostrate men were singing that soft, sad melody. On the
altar burned a row of candles before a life-sized picture of the Virgin
and Child. The cocks crew the turn of the night outside, and when we had
sung the hymn through, some of the men began again, and we had sung it a
second time when I heard George call me. I knew that he, too, was dying,
and would probably not hear the next crowing of the cock. I must go to
him! how could I leave this head unsupported? Oh, death where is thy
sting? I think it was with me that night; but I went to George, and when
the sun arose it looked upon two corpses, the remains of two who had
gone from my arms in one night, full of hope in the great Hereafter.