University of Virginia Library

---

150

13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE DYING SOLDIER.

BACKWARD now we turn, and stand again in the
chamber where we saw the glitter of the polished
steel, and heard the bitter cry forced out by pain
from lips unused to give such sign of weakness. They
were white now as the wintry snow which covers the
Northern hills, and the breath came feebly from between
them, as the sick man whispered faintly:

“I shall not be here if Annie comes, for when the
drum beats on the morrow, calling my comrades to their
daily drill, I shall be far away where sounds of battle
were never heard but once. Oh the peace, the quiet, the
rest, there is in Heaven. I hope you will one day come
to share it with me; you who have been kinder than a
brother,” and the long, white fingers grasped the hand
which for so many days and weeks had soothed the aching
head and cooled the fevered pillows with all a woman's
tenderness.

Never for an hour had that faithful friend deserted his
post. Day and night had found him there, ministering
to every want, and, as far as human aid could do, smoothing
the pathway leading so surely down to death. But
his vigils were almost over now; his release was just at
hand, for, as George had said, the morrow's drum-beat
would only find there the body, which was so worn by
suffering and disease, that William Mather could lift it in
his arms as easily as he could have lifted a little child.
He was greatly changed from the days when he had been
aptly called the Rockland Hercules. But as the outer
man decayed, the inner life grew strong and bright, shining

---

151

A stormy November night had closed over Washington,
and the rain beat dismally against the windows of the
room where Mr. Mather bent over the dying soldier, listening
to what he said.

“You can't tell Annie all,” George whispered, looking
fondly up into the face he had learned to love so well.
“You must write it down so as not to lose a single word.
Bring pen and paper, and then sit where I can see you,
for the sight of you does me good; you have been so kind
to me.

The writing utensils were brought, and then sitting
where George could look into his face, Mr. Mather wrote
as the dying man dictated:

My dear, dear, darling Annie:—It will be days, perhaps, before
you see this letter, and ere it reaches you somebody will have told
you that your poor George is dead! Are you crying, darling, as you
read this? Do the tears fall upon the words, `poor George is dead?'
Don't cry, my precious Annie. It makes my heart ache to think how
you will sorrow and I not there to comfort you. It's hard to die
away from home, but not so hard as it would once have been, for I
hope I am a different man from the one who bade you good-bye a few
short months ago; and, darling, it must comfort you to know that
your prayers, your sweet influence have led the wanderer home to
God. We shall meet again in Heaven, Annie,—meet where partings
are unknown. It may be many years, perhaps, and the grass upon
my grave may blossom many times ere you will sleep the sleep which

---

152

knows no waking but at the last you'll come where I am waiting you.
I know I shall be there, Annie. All the harassing doubts and fears
are gone. Simple faith in the Saviour's promise has taken them away,
and left me perfect peace. God bless you, Annie darling, and grant
that as you have guided me, so you may guide others to that home
above, where I am going so fast. You have made me very happy
since you have been my wife, and I bless you for it. It makes my
death pillow easier to know that not one bitter word has ever passed
between us,—nothing but perfect confidence and love. I was not
good enough for you, darling. None knows that better than myself.
You should have married one of gentler blood and higher birth than
I, a poor mechanic. I have always felt this more than you, perhaps,
and have tried so hard not to shame you with my homespun ways.
had I lived, I should have improved constantly beneath your refining
influence, but that is all past now, and it is well, perhaps, that it is
so. As you grew older you might have felt there was a lack in me, a
something which did not satisfy the cravings of your higher nature,
and though you might not have loved me less, you would have seen
that we were not wholly congenial. I am well enough in my way,
but I am not a suitable companion for a girl of culture like yourself,
and I've often wondered that you should have chosen me. But you
did, and again I bless you for it. Never, never, was year so happy as
the one I spent with you, my darling, darling Annie, and I was looking
forward to many such, but God has decreed it otherwise, and
what he does we know is right. I shall never see you again! and
though they will bring me back to you, I shall not feel your tears
upon my face, or see you bending over my coffin-bed! Still I know
you will do this, and that makes it necessary for me to tell what, perhaps,
has been too long withheld, because I would spare you if possible.

“Annie, had I lived, I never could have toiled for you as I once
did, for where the right arm, which has held your light form so often,
used to be, there is nothing now but a scarred stump, and this is
why I have not written. Does it make you sicken and shrink away
from me? Don't, Annie. Your crippled husband's heart is as full
of tenderness now as ever. I was too proud of my figure, Annie, and
the thought that you might love me less when you knew how maimed
I was, hurt more than the cold, sharp steel, cutting into my throbbing
flesh.

“And now, dear Annie, I come to the hardest part of all. I know
just how you'll start and shudder at what you deem so cruel a suggestion,—know

---

153

just how keen the pang will be, for I have felt the same,
and my spirit well nigh fainted as I thought of the time when another's
caressess than mine would call the sweet love light to your eye
and kindle the soft blushes on your cheek. Listen to me, Annie.
You'll be glad one day to remember that I told you what I did. You
are young and beautiful, and though you do not believe it now, the time
will surely come when my grave will not be visited as often as at first,
and the flowers you will plant above me when next spring's sun is
shining will wither for want of care, and the rank grass growing there
will not be trodden down by your dear little feet, for they will be
waiting by another fireside than ours in the Hollow, and my Annie
will bear another name than mine. Do you discredit me, darling?
It will surely be, and I am willing that it should, but you will never
know the anguish it costs me to be willing. It is the bitterest drop
in all the bitter cup, but I drank it with tears and prayers, and now
I can calmly say to you what I am saying,—can even from my death-bed
give you to another, whoever he may be. You can never forget
me, I know; never forget your soldier husband, who fell in his country's
cause, but by and by thoughts of him will cease to give you
pain, and our short married life will seem like some far-off dream.

“I cannot say how it would be with me were you taken and I left,
but I am much like other men, and judging from their example I
should do just as they do, so if in after years another asks you, as I
once did, to be his guiding star, don't refuse for me. Think that
from my low grave I bless you in your new relations, and will welcome
you to Heaven all the same, though you come fettered and
bound with other links than those my love has thrown around
you.

“I am almost done now, Annie. There is a gathering film before
my eyes, and I feel the death chill creeping through my veins. It
would be sweet to have you here, as I go down the brink up which
no traveler has ever come; but it cannot be, and I will not repine.
There is One with me whose presence is dearer far than yours could
be; One whose everlasting arm will be beneath me as I pass over
Jordan. Leaning on Him I need no other stay, but shall go fearlessly
down to death. There is another with me, too,—an earthly
friend, who has been kinder than a brother, and my heart clings to
him more fondly than he can ever guess. Always respect William
Mather, Annie, for what he has been to me. Pray that prosperity
may attend him all his days, and that at the last he may find a place in
Heaven. He is thinking of these things, I know, and from the

---

154

dreary hours spent with me there may yet spring up plants of everlasting
growth.

“My mind begins to wander, darling. There's a rushing sound in
my ears, while thoughts of you and thoughts of that terrible Sabbath
battle are blended together. Good-bye, my precious one. Don't
cry too much when you read this. It is not good-bye forever. A few
more years of earth to you, a moment of heavenly bliss to me,
and then we meet again, where golden harps are ringing. I can
almost hear them now,—almost see the shining throngs sent out to
meet me, just as I once vainly dreamed the Rockland people would
come to welcome me home from war. In fancy I put my arms around
your neck just as I used to do; in fancy hold you to my bosom;
in fancy kiss your girlish lips, and smooth your pale brown hair.

“I don't know how you'll live without me; don't know who will
earn your bread, but the God of the widow and fatherless will surely
care for my darling and keep her heart from breaking. With him I
leave you, knowing you are safer there than elsewhere.

“Good-bye, good-bye.”

There were great tear blots upon this letter, for Mr.
Mather, as he penned it, had wept over it like a child,
forming a resolution which he wondered had not suggested
itself before. Kneeling by the dying George, he
said, “God will care for your darling, and I shall be His
instrument. So long as I have a home, Annie shall not
suffer. Rose's love was given to her long ago and mine
will follow soon. She shall be a sister to us both.”

The glazed eyes lighted up with joy, and the white lips
whispered the thanks which ended in a prayer for blessings
on one who had proved himself so kind to the poor
soldier.

“Come closer to me,” they said; “take my hand in
yours and keep it there while I thank you for what
you've been to me. You'll forgive me, I know, that I
ever thought you proud, for I did, and sometimes there
was a bitter feeling in my heart when I saw your Rose
surrounded with every luxury, and thought of Annie, as

---

155

It was a bitter, wailing cry, embodying all the mighty
love the sick man had ever felt for his young wife. George
had thought himself resigned, but weak human nature,
which clings so tenaciously to life, was making one last
effort for the mastery, and the worn spirit fainted for a
time in the fierce struggle which ensued. The mind began
to wander, and was in fancy back again at the cottage
in the Hollow, where the soldier clasped his Annie
to his bosom, begging of her in piteous tones not to love
him less because he was a cripple. “I have only one arm
to work with now, but I won't let you starve, for when
there's but one crust left, I'll give it all to you, and laugh
so merrily that you will never guess how the hunger pain
is gnawing at my heart. I've felt it once, my darling. I
know just what it's like. 'Twas on that terrible day
when our brave boys met the foe, way up there at Manassas.
There were hours, and hours, and hours, when
we neither ate nor drank, and the July sun poured down
so hotly, drying the perspiration which dropped from my
hair like rain. 'Twas my very life I sweat away that awful
day, fighting for the Union. Did you hear the battle,
Annie,—hear the cannon's bellowing thunder as it

---

156

Mr. Mather shuddered as the wild shout rang through
the room. It seemed so like a mockery, that dying soldier
shouting for liberty, and trying in vain to wave aloft
his poor, scarred stump. Anon, however, the patriotic
mood was changed, and the voice was very sad which
whispered:

“But hush! what sounds are these, mingling in the
glad notes of victory? 'Tis the widow, the orphan, the
mother, weeping over the slain! There's mourning East
and West; there's weeping North and South, for the
dead who will return no more! A crushed rebellion is
hardly worth the fearful price. Oh, Annie, pray for the
poor soldier,—everybody pray. Honor our memory,—
forget our faults,—speak kindly of us when we are gone.
We gave our life for freedom! 'Tis all that we can do.
Speak kindly of the soldiers slain!”

Reason was struggling back again; and bending lower,
Mr. Mather said:

“George, we will honor the soldiers dead, and care for
the soldiers living.”

“Yes, yes!” George answered, faintly. “They need
it so much,—more than the people guess who stay at
home and read about the war. It will be long, and the

---

157

Mr. Mather could only press the hand which lay again
in his. He could not speak, for he knew there was a
third presence now in the sick-room,—that its dark form
was shading the bed whereon he sat, and with that feeling
of awe death always inspires, he sat silently watching
its progress, and thinking, it may be, of the future
time when William Mather would be the dying one instead
of George Graham. Slowly the marble pallor and the
strange chill crept on, pinching the nose, contracting the
lips, touching the forehead and moistening the soft brown
hair which William smoothed caressingly, as he bent
down to catch the last faint whisperings of a spirit nearly
gone.

“We fought the battle bravely. Tell them not to be
discouraged because of one defeat. Our cause is just.
'Twill triumph at the last. Don't be too bitter toward
the South; there are kind hearts there as well as here,
and its daughters weep as sadly as any at the North.
God help and pity them all. Annie, darling, I am almost
home; so near that I can see the pearly gates which
stand open night and day. It is not hard to die,—no
pain, no anguish now,—nothing but joy and gladness
and everlasting rest, rest, — perfect rest for the Redeemed.”

Drearily the November wind went sweeping down the
street, and the sobbing rain beat against the window,
whilst the misty daylight came struggling faintly into

---

158