University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
SUNRISE.

THREE months later the war seemed drawing
toward an end, and Christie was dreaming happy
dreams of home and rest with David, when, as she sat
one day writing a letter full of good news to the
wife of a patient, a telegram was handed to her, and
tearing it open she read:

E. Wilkins.”

“No bad news I hope, ma'am?” said the young fellow
anxiously, as his half-written letter fluttered to the
ground, and Christie sat looking at that fateful strip of
paper with all the strength and color stricken out of
her face by the fear that fell upon her.

“It might be worse. They told me he was dying
once, and when I got to him he met me at the door.
I 'll hope for the best now as I did then, but I never
felt like this before,” and she hid her face as if daunted
by ominous forebodings too strong to be controlled.

In a moment she was up and doing as calm and steady
as if her heart was not torn by an anxiety too keen

for words. By the time the news had flown through
the house, she was ready; and, coming down with no
luggage but a basket of comforts on her arm, she found
the hall full of wan and crippled creatures gathered
there to see her off, for no nurse in the hospital was
more beloved than Mrs. Sterling. Many eyes followed
her, — many lips blessed her, many hands were outstretched
for a sympathetic grasp: and, as the ambulance
went clattering away, many hearts echoed the
words of one grateful ghost of a man, “The Lord go
with her and stand by her as she 's stood by us.”

It was not a long journey that lay before her; but to
Christie it seemed interminable, for all the way one unanswerable
question haunted her, “Surely God will not
be so cruel as to take David now when he has done his
part so well and the reward is so near.”

It was dark when she arrived at the appointed spot;
but Elisha Wilkins was there to receive her, and to her
first breathless question, “How is David?” answered
briskly:

“Asleep and doin' well, ma'am. At least I should
say so, and I peeked at him the last thing before I
started.”

“Where is he?”

“In the little hospital over yonder. Camp warn't no
place for him, and I fetched him here as the nighest, and
the best thing I could do for him.”

“How is he wounded?”

“Shot in the shoulder, side, and arm.”

“Dangerously you said?”

“No, ma'am, that warn't and ain't my opinion. The
sergeant sent that telegram, and I think he done wrong.

The Captain is hit pretty bad; but it ain't by no means
desperate accordin' to my way of thinkin',” replied the
hopeful Wilkins, who seemed mercifully gifted with an
unusual flow of language.

“Thank heaven! Now go on and tell me all about
it as fast as you can,” commanded Christie, walking
along the rough road so rapidly that Private Wilkins
would have been distressed both in wind and limb if
discipline and hardship had not done much for him.

“Well, you see we 've been skirmishin' round here
for a week, for the woods are full of rebs waitin' to
surprise some commissary stores that 's expected along.
Contrabands is always comin' into camp, and we do the
best we can for the poor devils, and send 'em along
where they 'll be safe. Yesterday four women and a
boy come: about as desperate a lot as I ever see; for
they 'd been two days and a night in the big swamp,
wadin' up to their waists in mud and water, with nothin'
to eat, and babies on their backs all the way. Every
woman had a child, one dead, but she 'd fetched it, `so
it might be buried free,' the poor soul said.”

Mr. Wilkins stopped an instant as if for breath, but
the thought of his own “little chaps” filled his heart
with pity for that bereaved mother; and he understood
now why decent men were willing to be shot and
starved for “the confounded niggers,” as he once called
them.

“Go on,” said Christie, and he made haste to tell the
little story that was so full of intense interest to his
listener.

“I never saw the Captain so worked up as he was by
the sight of them wretched women. He fed and warmed

'em, comforted their poor scared souls, give what clothes
we could find, buried the dead baby with his own
hands, and nussed the other little creeters as if they
were his own. It warn't safe to keep 'em more 'n a
day, so when night come the Captain got 'em off down
the river as quiet as he could. Me and another man
helped him, for he wouldn't trust no one but himself to
boss the job. A boat was ready, — blest if I know how
he got it, — and about midnight we led them women
down to it. The boy was a strong lad, and any of 'em
could help row, for the current would take 'em along
rapid. This way, ma'am; be we goin' too fast for you?”

“Not fast enough. Finish quick.”

“We got down the bank all right, the Captain standing
in the little path that led to the river to keep guard,
while Bates held the boat stiddy and I put the women
in. Things was goin' lovely when the poor gal who 'd
lost her baby must needs jump out and run up to thank
the Captain agin for all he 'd done for her. Some of
them sly rascals was watchin' the river: they see her,
heard Bates call out, `Come back, wench; come back!'
and they fired. She did come back like a shot, and we
give that boat a push that sent it into the middle of
the stream. Then we run along below the bank, and
come out further down to draw off the rebs. Some
followed us and we give it to 'em handsome. But
some warn't deceived, and we heard 'em firin' away at
the Captain; so we got back to him as fast as we could,
but it warn't soon enough. — Take my arm, Mis' Sterlin':
it 's kinder rough here.”

“And you found him?” —

“Lyin' right acrost the path with two dead men in

front of him; for he 'd kep 'em off like a lion till the
firin' brought up a lot of our fellers and the rebs skedaddled.
I thought he was dead, for by the starlight
I see he was bleedin' awful, — hold on, my dear, hold
on to me, — he warn 't, thank God, and looked up at me
and sez, sez he, `Are they safe?' `They be, Captain,'
sez I. `Then it 's all right,' sez he, smilin' in that
bright way of his, and then dropped off as quiet as a
lamb. We got him back to camp double quick, and
when the surgeon see them three wounds he shook his
head, and I mistrusted that it warn't no joke. So when
the Captain come to I asked him what I could do or
git for him, and he answered in a whisper, `My wife.”'

For an instant Christie did “hold on” to Mr. Wilkins's
arm, for those two words seemed to take all her strength
away. Then the thought that David was waiting for
her strung her nerves and gave her courage to bear
any thing.

“Is he here?” she asked of her guide a moment
later, as he stopped before a large, half-ruined house,
through whose windows dim lights and figures were
seen moving to and fro.

“Yes, ma'am; we 've made a hospital of this; the
Captain 's got the best room in it, and now he 's got the
best nuss that 's goin' anywheres. Won't you have a drop
of something jest as a stand-by before you see him?”

“Nothing; take me to him at once.”

“Here we be then. Still sleepin': that looks well.”

Mr. Wilkins softly led the way down a long hall,
opened a door, and after one look fell back and saluted
as the Captain's wife passed in.

A surgeon was bending over the low bed, and when
a hoarse voice at his elbow asked:

“How is he?” The doctor answered without looking
up:

“Done for: this shot through the lungs will finish
him before morning I 'm afraid.”

“Then leave him to me: I am his wife,” said the
voice, clear and sharp now with the anguish those hard
words had brought.

“Good God, why did no one tell me! My dear lady,
I thought you were a nurse!” cried the poor surgeon
rent with remorse for what now seemed the brutal
frankness of his answer, as he saw the white face of
the woman at his side, with a look in her eyes harder
to see than the bitterest tears that ever fell.

“I am a nurse. If you can do nothing, please go and
leave him to me the little while he has to live.”

Without a word the surgeon vanished, and Christie
was alone with David.

The instant she saw him she felt that there was no
hope, for she had seen too many faces wear the look his
wore to be deceived even by her love. Lying with
closed eyes already sunken by keen suffering, hair damp
with the cold dew on his forehead, a scarlet spot on
either cheek, gray lines about the mouth, and pale lips
parted by the painful breaths that came in heavy gasps
or fluttered fitfully. This was what Christie saw, and
after that long look she knew the truth, and sunk down
beside the bed, crying with an exceeding bitter cry:

“O David, O my husband, must I give you up so
soon?”

His eyes opened then, and he turned his cheek to
hers, whispering with a look that tried to be a smile,
but ended in a sigh of satisfaction:

“I knew you 'd come;” then, as a tearless sob shook
her from head to foot, he added steadily, though each
breath cost a pang, “Yes, dear, I must go first, but it
won't be hard with you to help me do it bravely.”

In that supremely bitter moment there returned to
Christie's memory certain words of the marriage service
that had seemed so beautiful when she took part in it:
“For better for worse, till death us do part.” She had
known the better, so short, so sweet! This was the worse,
and till death came she must keep faithfully the promise
made with such a happy heart. The thought brought
with it unexpected strength, and gave her courage to
crush down her grief, seal up her tears, and show a
brave and tender face as she took that feeble hand in
hers ready to help her husband die.

He saw and thanked her for the effort, felt the
sustaining power of a true wife's heart, and seemed
to have no other care, since she was by him steadfast
to the end. He lay looking at her with such
serene and happy eyes that she would not let a tear,
a murmur, mar his peace; and for a little while she
felt as if she had gone out of this turbulent world
into a heavenly one, where love reigned supreme.

But such hours are as brief as beautiful, and at
midnight mortal suffering proved that immortal joy
had not yet begun.

Christie had sat by many death-beds, but never one
like this; for, through all the bitter pangs that tried
his flesh, David's soul remained patient and strong,
upheld by the faith that conquers pain and makes
even Death a friend. In the quiet time that went before,
he had told his last wishes, given his last messages

of love, and now had but one desire, — to go soon
that Christie might be spared the trial of seeing suffering
she could neither lighten nor share.

“Go and rest, dear; go and rest,” he whispered more
than once. “Let Wilkins come: this is too much for
you. I thought it would be easier, but I am so strong
life fights for me inch by inch.”

But Christie would not go, and for her sake David
made haste to die.

Hour after hour the tide ebbed fast, hour after hour
the man's patient soul sat waiting for release, and
hour after hour the woman's passionate heart clung
to the love that seemed drifting away leaving her
alone upon the shore. Once or twice she could not
bear it, and cried out in her despair:

“No, it is not just that you should suffer this for
a creature whose whole life is not worth a day of
your brave, useful, precious one! Why did you pay
such a price for that girl's liberty?” she said, as the
thought of her own wrecked future fell upon her dark
and heavy.

“Because I owed it; — she suffered more than this
seeing her baby die; — I thought of you in her place,
and I could not help doing it.”

The broken answer, the reproachful look, wrung
Christie's heart, and she was silent: for, in all the
knightly tales she loved so well, what Sir Galahad had
rescued a more wretched, wronged, and helpless woman
than the poor soul whose dead baby David buried tenderly
before he bought the mother's freedom with his
life?

Only one regret escaped him as the end drew very

[ILLUSTRATION]

"Don't mourn, dear heart, but work."

[Description: 445EAF. Page 406. In-line image of Christie kneeling next to an dying and bedridden David.]

near, and mortal weakness brought relief from mortal
pain. The first red streaks of dawn shone in the east,
and his dim eyes brightened at the sight;

“Such a beautiful world!” he whispered with the
ghost of a smile, “and so much good work to do in
it, I wish I could stay and help a little longer,” he
added, while the shadow deepened on his face. But
soon he said, trying to press Christie's hand, still holding
his: “You will do my part, and do it better than
I could. Don't mourn, dear heart, but work; and by
and by you will be comforted.”

“I will try; but I think I shall soon follow you,
and need no comfort here,” answered Christie, already
finding consolation in the thought. “What is it,

David?” she asked a little later, as she saw his eyes
turn wistfully toward the window where the rosy glow
was slowly creeping up the sky.

“I want to see the sun rise; — that used to be our
happy time; — turn my face toward the light, Christie,
and we 'll wait for it together.”

An hour later when the first pale ray crept in at
the low window, two faces lay upon the pillow; one
full of the despairing grief for which there seems no
balm; the other with lips and eyes of solemn peace,
and that mysterious expression, lovelier than any smile,
which death leaves as a tender token that all is well
with the new-born soul.

To Christie that was the darkest hour of the dawn,
but for David sunrise had already come.