 | THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. Hospital sketches and Camp and fireside stories |  |
6. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.
DON'T bring him in here; every corner is full,” said
the nurse, eying with dismay the gaunt figure lying
on the stretcher in the doorway.
“Where shall we put him, then? They can't have
him in either of the other wards on this floor. He's
ordered up here, and here he must stay, if he's put in the
hall, poor devil!” said the foremost bearer, looking
around the crowded room in despair.
The nurse's eye followed his, and both saw a thin hand
beckoning from the end of the long ward.
“It's Murry; I'll see what he wants;” and Miss
Mercy went to him with her quick, noiseless step, and
the smile her grave face always wore for him.
“There's room here, if you turn my bed 'round, you
see. Don't let them leave him in the hall,” said Murry,
lifting his great eyes to hers, brilliant with the fever
burning his strength away, and pathetic with the silent
protest of life against death.
“It's like you to think of it; he's a rebel,” began
Miss Mercy.
“So much more reason to take him in. I don't mind
having him here; but it will distress me dreadfully to
know that any poor soul was turned away, from the comfort
of this ward especially.”
The look he gave her made the words an eloquent
compliment, and his pity for a fallen enemy reproached
her for her own lack of it. Her face softened as she
nodded, and glanced about the recess.
“You will have the light in your eyes, and only the
little table between you and a very disagreeable neighbor,”
she said.
“I can shut my eyes if the light troubles them; I've
nothing else to do now,” he answered, with a faint laugh.
“I was too comfortable before; I'd more than my share
of luxuries; so bring him along, and it will be all right.”
The order was given, and, after a brief bustle, the two
narrow beds stood side by side in the recess under the
organ-loft — for the hospital had been a church. Left
alone for a moment, the two men eyed each other silently.
Murry saw a tall, sallow man, with fierce black eyes,
wild hair and beard, and a thin-lipped, cruel mouth. A
ragged gray uniform was visible under the blanket
thrown over him; and in strange contrast to the squalor
of his dress, and the neglect of his person, was the
diamond ring that shone on his unwounded hand. The
right arm was bound up, the right leg amputated at the
knee; and, though the man's face was white and haggard
with suffering, not a sound escaped him as he lay with
his eyes fixed half defiantly upon his neighbor.
John Clay, the new-comer, saw opposite him a small,
wasted figure, and a plain face; yet both face and figure
were singularly attractive, for suffering seemed to have
refined away all the grosser elements, and left the spiritual
very visible through that frail tenement of flesh.
Pale-brown hair streaked the hollow temples and white
forehead. A deep color burned in the thin cheeks still
The mouth was grave and sweet, and in the gray eyes
lay an infinite patience touched with melancholy. He
wore a dressing-gown, but across his feet lay a faded
coat of army-blue. As the other watched him, he saw a
shadow pass across his tranquil face, and for a moment
he laid his wasted hand over the eyes that had been so
full of pity. Then he gently pushed a mug of fresh
water, and the last of a bunch of grapes, toward the
exhausted rebel, saying, in a cordial tone, —
“You look faint and thirsty; have 'em.”
Clay's lips were parched, and his hand went involuntarily
toward the cup; but he caught it back, and, leaning
forward, asked, in a shrill whisper, —
“Where are you hurt?”
“A shot in the side,” answered Murry, visibly surprised
at the man's manner.
“What battle?”
“The Wilderness.”
“Is it bad?”
“I'm dying of wound-fever; there's no hope, they say.”
That reply, so simple, so serenely given, would have
touched almost any hearer; but Clay smiled grimly, and
lay down as if satisfied, with his one hand clenched, and
an exulting glitter in his eyes, muttering to himself, —
“The loss of my leg comes easier after hearing that.”
Murry saw his lips move, but caught no sound, and
asked, with friendly solicitude, —
“Do you want anything, neighbor?”
“Yes — to be let alone,” was the curt reply, with a
savage frown.
“That's easily done. I sha'n't trouble you very long,
away, and lay silent till the surgeon came up on his
morning round.
“Oh! you're here, are you? It's like Mercy Carrol
to take you in,” said Dr. Fitz Hugh, as he surveyed the
rebel, with a slight frown; for, in spite of his benevolence
and skill, he was a stanch loyalist, and hated the
South just then.
“Don't praise me; he never would have been here but
for Murry,” answered Miss Mercy, as she approached,
with her dressing-tray in her hand.
“Bless the lad! he'll give up his bed next, and feel
offended if he's thanked for it. How are you, my good
fellow?” and the doctor turned to press the hot hand,
with a friendly face.
“Much easier and stronger, thank you, doctor,” was
the cheerful answer.
“Less fever, pulse better, breath freer — good symptoms.
Keep on so for twenty-four hours, and, by my
soul, I believe you'll have a chance for your life, Murry,”
cried the doctor, as his experienced eye took note of a
hopeful change.
“In spite of the opinion of three good surgeons to the
contrary?” asked Murry, with a wistful smile.
“Hang everybody's opinion! We are but mortal men,
and the best of us make mistakes in spite of science and
experience. There's Parker; we all gave him up, and
the rascal is larking 'round Washington as well as ever
to-day. While there's life there's hope; so cheer up
my lad, and do your best for the little girl at home.”
“Do you really think I may hope?” cried Murry,
white with the joy of this unexpected reprieve.
“Hope is a capital medicine, and I prescribe it for a
day at least. Don't build on this change too much, but
if you are as well to-morrow as this morning, I give you
my word I think you'll pull through.”
Murry laid his hands over his face with a broken
“Thank God for that!” and the doctor turned away
with a sonorous “Hem!” and an air of intense satisfaction.
During this conversation Miss Mercy had been watching
the rebel, who looked and listened to the others so
intently that he forgot her presence. She saw an expression
of rage and disappointment gather in his face as the
doctor spoke; and when Murry accepted the hope held
out to him, Clay set his teeth with an evil look, that would
have boded ill for his neighbor had he not been helpless.
“Ungrateful traitor! I'll watch him, for he'll do mischief
if he can,” she thought, and reluctantly began to
unbind his arm for the doctor's inspection.
“Only a flesh-wound, — no bones broken, — a good
syringing, rubber cushion, plenty of water, and it will
soon heal. You'll attend to that, Miss Mercy; this
stump is more in my line;” and Dr. Fitz Hugh turned
to the leg, leaving the arm to the nurse's skilful care.
“Evidently amputated in a hurry, and neglected since.
If you're not careful, young man, you'll change places
with your neighbor here.”
“Damn him!” muttered Clay in his beard, with an
emphasis which caused the doctor to glance at his vengeful
face.
“Don't be a brute, if you can help it. But for him
you'd have fared ill,” began the doctor.
“But for him I never should have been here,” muttered
room.
“You owe this to him?” asked the doctor, touching
the wound, and speaking in the same tongue.
“Yes; but he paid for it— at least, I thought he had.”
“By the Lord! if you are the sneaking rascal that
shot him as he lay wounded in the ambulance, I shall be
tempted to leave you to your fate!” cried the doctor,
with a wrathful flash in his keen eyes.
“Do it, then, for it was I,” answered the man defiantly;
adding, as if anxious to explain, “We had a tussle,
and each got hurt in the thick of the skirmish. He
was put in the ambulance afterward, and I was left to
live or die, as luck would have it. I was hurt the
worst; they should have taken me too; it made me mad
to see him chosen, and I fired my last shot as he drove
away. I didn't know whether I hit him or not; but
when they told me I must lose my leg I hoped I had,
and now I am satisfied.”
He spoke rapidly, with clenched hand and fiery eyes,
and the two listeners watched him with a sort of fascination
as he hissed out the last words, glancing at the occupant
of the next bed. Murry evidently did not understand
French; he lay with averted face, closed eyes, and a hopeful
smile still on his lips, quite unconscious of the meaning
of the fierce words uttered close beside him. Dr. Fitz Hugh
had laid down his instruments, and knit his black brows
irefully while he listened. But as the man paused, the
doctor looked at Miss Mercy, who was quietly going on
with her work, though there was an expression about her
handsome mouth that made her womanly face look almost
example, saying slowly, —
“If I didn't believe Murry was mending, I'd turn you
over to Roberts, whom the patients dread as they do the
devil. I must do my duty, and you may thank Murry
for it.”
“Does he know you are the man who shot him?”
asked Mercy, still in French.
“No; I shouldn't stay here long if he did,” answered
Clay, with a short laugh.
“Don't tell him, then — at least, till after you are
moved,” she said, in a tone of command.
“Where am I going?” demanded the man.
“Anywhere out of my ward,” was the brief answer,
with a look that made the black eyes waver and fall.
In silence nurse and doctor did their work, and passed
on. In silence Murry lay hour after hour, and silently
did Clay watch and wait, till, utterly exhausted by the
suffering he was too proud to confess, he sank into a
stupor, oblivious alike of hatred, defeat, and pain. Finding
him in this pitiable condition, Mercy relented, and,
womanlike, forgot her contempt in pity. He was not
moved, but tended carefully all that day and night; and
when he woke from a heavy sleep, the morning sun shone
again on two pale faces in the beds, and flashed on the
buttons of two army-coats hanging side by side on the
recess wall, on loyalist and rebel, on the blue and the
gray.
Dr. Fitz Hugh stood beside Murry's cot, saying cheerily,
“You are doing well, my lad — better than I hoped.
Keep calm and cool, and, if all goes right, we'll have little
Mary here to pet you in a week.”
“Who's Mary?” whispered the rebel to the attendant
who was washing his face.
“His sweetheart; he left her for the war, and she's
waitin' for him back — poor soul!” answered the man,
with a somewhat vicious scrub across the sallow cheek
he was wiping.
“So he'll get well, and go home and marry the girl
he left behind him, will he?” sneered Clay, fingering a
little case that hung about his neck, and was now visible
as his rough valet unbuttoned his collar.
“What's that, — your sweetheart's picter?” asked
Jim, the attendant, eying the gold chain anxiously.
“I've got none,” was the gruff answer.
“So much the wus for you, then. Small chance of
gettin' one here; our girls won't look at you, and you
ain't likely to see any of your own sort for a long spell,
I reckon,” added Jim, working away at the rebel's long-neglected
hair.
Clay lay looking at Mercy Carrol as she went to and
fro among the men, leaving a smile behind her, and carrying
comfort wherever she turned, — a right womanly
woman, lovely and lovable, strong yet tender, patient
yet decided, skilful, kind, and tireless in the discharge of
duties that would have daunted most women. It was in
vain she wore the plain gray gown and long apron, for
neither could hide the grace of her figure. It was
in vain she brushed her luxuriant hair back into a net,
for the wavy locks would fall on her forehead, and stray
curls would creep out or glisten like gold under the
meshes meant to conceal them. Busy days and watchful
nights had not faded the beautiful bloom on her cheeks,
or dimmed the brightness of her hazel eyes. Always
good angel of the hospital, and not a man in it, sick or
well, but was a loyal friend to her. None dared to be a
lover, for her little romance was known; and, though
still a maid, she was a widow in their eyes, for she had
sent her lover to his death, and over the brave man's
grave had said, “Well done.”
Jim watched Clay as his eye followed the one female
figure there, and, observing that he clutched the case still
tighter, asked again, —
“What is that — a charm?”
“Yes, — against pain, captivity and shame.”
“Strikes me it a'n't kep' you from any one of 'em,”
said Jim, with a laugh.
“I haven't tried it yet.”
“How does it work?” Jim asked more respectfully,
being impressed by something in the rebel's manner.
“You will see when I use it. Now let me alone;”
and Clay turned impatiently away.
“You've got p'ison, or some deviltry, in that thing.
If you don't let me look, I swear I'll have it took away
from you;” and Jim put his big hand on the slender
chain with a resolute air.
Clay smiled a scornful smile, and offered the trinket,
saying coolly,—
“I only fooled you. Look as much as you like;
you'll find nothing dangerous.”
Jim opened the pocket, saw a lock of gray hair, and
nothing more.
“Is that your mother's?”
“Yes; my dead mother's.”
It was strange to see the instantaneous change that
word in all tongues. Rough Jim gently reclosed and
returned the case, saying kindly, —
“Keep it; I wouldn't rob you on't for no money.”
Clay thrust it jealously into his breast, and the first
trace of emotion he had shown softened his dark face, as
he answered, with a grateful tremor in his voice, —
“Thank you. I wouldn't lose it for the world.”
“May I say good-morning, neighbor?” asked a feeble
voice, as Murry turned a very wan, but cheerful face
toward him, when Jim moved on with his basin and
towel.
“If you like,” returned Clay, looking at him with
those quick, suspicious eyes of his.
“Well, I do like; so I say it, and hope you are
better,” returned the cordial voice.
“Are you?”
“Yes, thank God!”
“Is it sure?”
“Nothing is sure, in a case like mine, till I'm on my
legs again; but I'm certainly better. I don't expect you
to be glad, but I hope you don't regret it very much.”
“I don't.” The smile that accompanied the words
surprised Murry as much as the reply, for both seemed
honest, and his kind heart warmed toward his suffering
enemy.
“I hope you'll be exchanged as soon as you are able.
Till then, you can go to one of the other hospitals, where
there are many reb — I would say, Southerners. If
you'd like, I'll speak to Dr. Fitz Hugh, and he'll see you
moved,” said Murry, in his friendly way.
“I'd rather stay here, thank you.” Clay smiled again
much as it pleased him.
“You like to be in my corner, then?” he said, with a
boyish laugh.
“Very much — for a while.”
“I'm very glad. Do you suffer much?”
“I shall suffer more by and by, if I go on; but I'll
risk it,” answered Clay, fixing his feverish eyes on
Murry's placid face.
“You expect to have a hard time with your leg?”
said Murry, compassionately.
“With my soul.”
It was an odd answer, and given with such an odd
expression, as Clay turned his face away, that Murry
said no more, fancying his brain a little touched by the
fever evidently coming on.
They spoke but seldom to each other that day, for
Clay lay apparently asleep, with a flushed cheek and
restless head, and Murry tranquilly dreamed waking
dreams of home and little Mary. That night, after all
was still, Miss Mercy went up into the organ-loft to get
fresh rollers for the morrow, — the boxes of old linen,
and such matters, being kept there. As she stood looking
down on the thirty pale sleepers, she remembered
that she had not played a hymn on the little organ for
Murry, as she had promised that day. Stealing softly to
the front, she peeped over the gallery, to see if he was
asleep; if not, she would keep her word, for he was her
favorite.
A screen had been drawn before the recess where the
two beds stood, shutting their occupants from the sight
of the other men. Murry lay sleeping, but Clay was
woman's nerves as she saw his face. Leaning on one
arm, he peered about the place with an eager, watchful
air, and glanced up at the dark gallery, but did not see
the startled face behind the central pillar. Pausing an
instant, he shook his one clenched hand at the unconscious
sleeper, and then threw out the locket cautiously.
Two white mugs, just alike, stood on the little table
between the beds, water in each. With another furtive
glance about him, Clay suddenly stretched out his long
arm, and dropped something from the locket into Murry's
cup. An instant he remained motionless, with a sinister
smile on his face; then, as Jim's step sounded beyond
the screen, he threw his arm over his face, and lay,
breathing heavily, as if asleep.
Mercy's first impulse was to cry out; her next, to fly
down and seize the cup. No time was to be lost, for
Murry might wake and drink at any moment. What
was in the cup? Poison, doubtless; that was the charm
Clay carried to free himself from “pain, captivity and
shame,” when all other hopes of escape vanished. This
hidden helper he gave up to destroy his enemy, who was
to outlive his shot, it seemed. Like a shadow, Mercy
glided down, forming her plan as she went. A dozen
mugs stood about the room, all alike in size and color;
catching up one, she partly filled it, and, concealing it
under the clean sheet hanging on her arm, went toward
the recess, saying audibly, —
“I want some fresh water, Jim.”
Thus warned of her approach, Clay lay with carefully-averted
face as she came in, and never stirred as she
bent over him, while she dexterously changed Murry's
she went away, saying aloud, —
“Never mind the water, now, Jim. Murry is asleep,
and so is Clay; they'll not need it yet.”
Straight to Dr. Fitz Hugh's room she went, and gave
the cup into his keeping, with the story of what she had
seen. A man was dying, and there was no time to test
the water then; but putting it carefully away, he promised
to set her fears at rest in the morning. To quiet
her impatience, Mercy went back to watch over Murry
till day dawned. As she sat down, she caught the glimmer
of a satisfied smile on Clay's lips, and looking into
the cup she had left, she saw that it was empty.
“He is satisfied, for he thinks his horrible revenge is
secure. Sleep in peace, my poor boy! you are safe
while I am here.”
As she thought this, she put her hand on the broad,
pale forehead of the sleeper with a motherly caress, but
started to feel how damp and cold it was. Looking
nearer, she saw that a change had passed over Murry,
for dark shadows showed about his sunken eyes, his once
quiet breath was faint and fitful now, his hand deathly
cold, and a chilly dampness had gathered on his face.
She looked at her watch; it was past twelve, and her
heart sunk within her, for she had so often seen that
solemn change come over men's faces then, that the hour
was doubly weird and woful to her. Sending a message
to Dr. Fitz Hugh, she waited anxiously, trying to believe
that she deceived herself.
The doctor came at once, and a single look convinced
him that he had left one death-bed for another.
“As I feared,” he said; “that sudden rally was but
him, and he has missed it. Poor lad! I can do nothing;
he'll sink rapidly, and go without pain.”
“Can I do nothing?” asked Mercy, with dim eyes,
as she held the cold hand close in both her own with
tender pressure.
“Give him stimulants as long as he can swallow, and,
if he's conscious, take any messages he may have. Poor
Hall is dying hard, and I can help him; I'll come again
in an hour, and say good-by.”
The kind doctor choked, touched the pale sleeper with
a gentle caress, and went away to help Hall die.
Murry slept on for an hour, then woke, and knew
without words that his brief hope was gone. He looked
up wistfully, and whispered, as Mercy tried to smile with
trembling lips that refused to tell the heavy truth, —
“I know — I feel it; don't grieve yourself by trying to
tell me, dear friend. It's best so; I can bear it, — but I
did want to live.”
“Have you any word for Mary, dear?” asked Mercy,
for he seemed but a boy to her since she had nursed
him.
One look of sharp anguish and dark despair passed
over his face, as he wrung his thin hands and shut his
eyes, finding death terrible. It passed in a moment, and
his pallid countenance grew beautiful with the pathetic
patience of one who submits without complaint to the
inevitable.
“Tell her I was ready, and the only bitterness was
leaving her. I shall remember, and wait until she
comes. My little Mary! O, be kind to her, for my
sake, when you tell her this.”
“I will, Murry, as God hears me. I will be a sister
to her while I live.”
As Mercy spoke, with fervent voice, he laid the hand
that had ministered to him so faithfully against his cheek,
and lay silent, as if content.
“What else? let me do something more. Is there no
other friend to be comforted?”
“No; she is all I have in the world. I hoped to
make her so happy, to be so much to her, for she's a
lonely little thing; but God says `No,' and I submit.”
A long pause, as he lay breathing heavily, with eyes
that were dimming fast fixed on the gentle face beside
him.
“Give Jim my clothes, send Mary a bit of my hair,
and — may I give you this? it's a poor thing, but all I
have to leave you, best and kindest of women.”
He tried to draw off a slender ring, but the strength
had gone out of his wasted fingers, and she helped him,
thanking him with the first tears he had seen her shed.
He seemed satisfied, but suddenly turned his eyes on
Clay, who lay as if asleep. A sigh broke from Murry,
and Mercy caught the words, —
“How could he do it, and I so helpless!”
“Do you know him?” she whispered, eagerly, as she
remembered Clay's own words.
“I knew he was the man who shot me, when he came.
I forgive him; but I wish he had spared me, for Mary's
sake,” he answered sorrowfully, not angrily.
“Do you really pardon him?” cried Mercy, wondering,
yet touched by the words.
“I do. He will be sorry one day, perhaps; at any
rate, he did what he thought his duty; and war makes
but he's asleep after a weary day, so don't wake
him. Tell him I'm glad he is to live, and that I forgive
him heartily.”
Although uttered between long pauses, these words
seemed to have exhausted Murry, and he spoke no more
till Dr. Fitz Hugh came. To him he feebly returned
thanks, and whispered his farewell, then sank into a stupor,
during which life ebbed fast. Both nurse and doctor
forgot Clay as they hung over Murry, and neither saw
the strange intentness of his face, the half awe-struck,
half remorseful look he bent upon the dying man.
As the sun rose, sending its ruddy beams across the
silent ward, Murry looked up and smiled, for the bright
ray fell athwart the two coats hanging on the wall beside
him. Some passer-by had brushed one sleeve of the blue
coat across the gray, as if the inanimate things were
shaking hands.
“It should be so — love our enemies; we should be
brothers,” he murmured faintly; and, with the last impulse
of a noble nature, stretched his hand toward the
man who had murdered him.
But Clay shrunk back, and covered his face without a
word. When he ventured to look up, Murry was no
longer there. A pale, peaceful figure lay on the narrow
bed, and Mercy was smoothing the brown locks as she
cut a curl for Mary and herself. Clay could not take his
eyes away; as if fascinated by its serenity, he watched
the dead face with gloomy eyes, till Mercy, having done
her part, stooped and kissed the cold lips tenderly as she
left him to his sleep. Then, as if afraid to be alone with
the dead, he bid Jim put the screen between the beds,
never turned his pages, and lay, with muffled head, trying
to shut out little Watts' sobs, as the wounded drummer
boy mourned for Murry.
Death in an hospital makes no stir, and in an hour no
trace of the departed remained but the coat upon the
wall, for Jim would not take it down, though it was his
now. The empty bed stood freshly made, the clean cup
and worn Bible lay ready for other hands, and the card
at the bed's head hung blank for a new-comer's name.
In the hurry of this event, Clay's attempted crime was
forgotten for a time. But that evening Dr. Fitz Hugh
told Mercy that her suspicions were correct, for the water
was poisoned.
“How horrible! what shall we do?” she cried, with
a gesture full of energetic indignation.
“Leave him to remorse!” replied the doctor, sternly.
“I've thought over the matter, and believe this to be the
only thing we can do. I fancy the man won't live a
week; his leg is in a bad way, and he is such a fiery
devil he gives himself no chance. Let him believe he
killed poor Murry, at least for a few days. He thinks
so now, and tries to rejoice; but if he has a human heart
he will repent.”
“But he may not. Should we not tell of this? Can
he not be punished?”
“Law won't hang a dying man, and I'll not denounce
him. Let remorse punish him while he lives, and God
judge him when he dies. Murry pardoned him, — can
we do less?”
Mercy's indignant face softened at the name, and for
Murry's sake she yielded. Neither spoke of what they
they could not refuse to pity him, for the doctor's prophecy
proved true.
Clay was a haunted man, and remorse gnawed like a
worm at his heart. Day and night he saw that tranquil
face on the pillow opposite; day and night he saw the
pale hand outstretched to him; day and night he heard
the faint voice murmuring kindly, regretfully, “I forgive
him; but I wish he had spared me, for Mary's sake.”
As the days passed, and his strength visibly declined,
he began to suspect that he must soon follow Murry.
No one told him; for, though both doctor and nurse did
their duty faithfully, neither lingered long at his bedside,
and not one of the men showed any interest in him. No
new patient occupied the other bed, and he lay alone in
the recess with his own gloomy thoughts.
“It will be all up with me in a few days, won't it?”
he asked, abruptly, as Jim made his toilet one morning
with unusual care, and such visible pity in his rough face
that Clay could not but observe it.
“I heard the doctor say you wouldn't suffer much
more. Is there any one you'd like to see, or leave a
message for?” answered Jim, smoothing the long locks
as gently as a woman.
“There isn't a soul in the world that cares whether I
live or die, except the man who wants my money,” said
Clay, bitterly, as his dark face grew a shade paler at this
confirmation of his fear.
“Can't you head him off some way, and leave your
money to some one that's been kind to you? Here's the
doctor — or, better still, Miss Carrol. Neither on 'em
is rich, and both on 'em has been good friends to you, or
without the hope that, in saying a good word for them,
he might say one for himself also.
Clay lay thinking for a moment as his face clouded
over, and then brightened again:
“Miss Mercy wouldn't take it, nor the doctor either;
but I know who will — and, by G—d, I'll do it!” he
exclaimed, with sudden energy.
His eye happened to rest on Jim as he spoke, and
feeling sure that he was to be the heir, Jim retired to
send Miss Mercy, that the matter might be settled before
Clay's mood changed. Miss Carrol came, and began to
cut the buttons off Murry's coat while she waited for
Clay to speak.
“What's that for?” he asked, restlessly.
“The men want them, and Jim is willing, for the coat
is very old and ragged, you see. Murry gave his good
one away to a sicker comrade, and took this instead. It
was like him, — my poor boy!”
“I'd like to speak to you, if you have a minute to
spare,” began Clay, after a pause, during which he
watched her with a wistful, almost tender expression,
unseen by her.
“I have time; what can I do for you?” Very gentle
was Mercy's voice, very pitiful her glance, as she sat
down by him, for the change in his manner, and the
thought of his approaching death, touched her heart.
Trying to resume his former gruffness, and cold expression,
Clay said, as he picked nervously at the blanket, —
“I've a little property that I put into the care of a
friend going North. He's kept it safe; and now, as I'll
never want it myself, I'd like to leave it to—”. He
seeing only womanly compassion there, added, with an
irrepressible tremble in his voice, — “To little Mary.”
If he had expected any reward for the act, any comfort
for his lonely death-bed, he received both in fullest measure
when he saw Mercy's beautiful face flush with surprise
and pleasure, her eyes fill with sudden tears, and
heard her cordial voice, as she pressed his hand warmly
in her own.
“I wish I could tell you how glad I am for this! I
thought you were better than you seemed; I was sure
you had both heart and conscience, and that you would
repent before you died.”
“Repent of what?” he asked, with a startled look.
“Need I tell you?” and her eye went from the empty
bed to his face.
“You mean that shot? But it was only fair, after
all; we killed each other, and war is nothing but wholesale
murder, any way.” He spoke easily, but his eyes
were full of trouble, and other words seemed to tremble
on his lips.
Leaning nearer, Mercy whispered in his ear, —
“I mean the other murder, which you would have
committed when you poisoned the cup of water he offered
you, his enemy.”
Every vestige of color faded out of Clay's thin face,
and his haggard eyes seemed fascinated by some spectre
opposite, as he muttered slowly, —
“How do you know?”
“I saw you;” and she told him all the truth.
A look of intense relief passed over Clay's countenance,
brokenly, —
“Thank God I didn't kill him! Now, dying isn't so
hard; now I can have a little peace.”
Neither spoke for several minutes; Mercy had no
words for such a time, and Clay forgot her presence as
the tears dropped from between the wasted fingers spread
before his face.
Presently he looked up, saying eagerly, as if his fluttering
breath and rapidly failing strength warned him of
approaching death, —
“Will you write down a few words for me, so Mary
can have the money? She needn't know anything about
me, only that I was one to whom Murry was kind, and
so I gave her all I had.”
“I'll get my pen and paper; rest, now, my poor fellow,”
said Mercy, wiping the unheeded tears away for
him.
“How good it seems to hear you speak so to me! How
can you do it?” he whispered, with such grateful wonder
in his dim eyes that Mercy's heart smote her for the
past.
“I do it for Murry's sake, and because I sincerely
pity you.”
Timidly turning his lips to that kind hand, he kissed
it, and then hid his face in his pillow. When Mercy
returned, she observed that there were but seven tarnished
buttons where she had left eight. She guessed who had
taken it, but said nothing, and endeavored to render poor
Clay's last hours as happy as sympathy and care could
make them. The letter and will were prepared as well
as they could be, and none too soon; for, as if that
shattered body, no sooner was it lifted off than the
diviner part seemed ready to be gone.
“You'll stay with me; you'll help me die; and — oh,
if I dared to ask it, I'd beg you to kiss me once when I
and dead, as you did Murry. I think I could rest then,
and be fitter to meet him, if the Lord lets me,” he cried
imploringly, as the last night gathered around him, and
the coming change seemed awful to a soul that possessed
no inward peace, and no firm hope to lean on through the
valley of the shadow.
“I will — I will! Hold fast to me, and believe in
the eternal mercy of God,” whispered Miss Carrol, with
her firm hand in his, her tender face bending over him
as the long struggle began.
“Mercy,” he murmured, catching that word, and smiling
feebly as he repeated it lingeringly. “Mercy! yes,
I believe in her; she'll save me, if any one can. Lord,
bless and keep her forever and forever.”
There was no morning sunshine to gladden his dim
eyes as they looked their last, but the pale glimmer of
the lamp shone full on the blue and the gray coats hanging
side by side. As if the sight recalled that other
death-bed, that last act of brotherly love and pardon,
Clay rose up in his bed, and while one hand clutched the
button hidden in his breast, the other was outstretched
toward the empty bed, as his last breath parted in a cry
of remorseful longing, —
“I will! I will! Forgive me, Murry, and let me say
good-by!”
| THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. Hospital sketches and Camp and fireside stories | |