 | MISS MARY E. SHELTON. Women of the war : |  |
Little Willie.
One sultry day in June, 1865, as I was passing through
the wards of the Berry House Hospital, in Wilmington, my
attention was attracted by a pair of bright eyes, which followed
me from cot to cot with a hungry eagerness. Supposing
it was the lemonade, which I was distributing
according to the direction of the nurses, which attracted
him, I inquired of the man who had charge of him if he
could have some. He replied in the affirmative, and I
placed the glass to his burning lips. He was a mere boy,
only fifteen. His dark eyes and curly brown hair contrasted
fearfully with his pale cheeks, while the thin white hand,
with which he clasped the glass, told sadly of wasting
disease.
I longed to speak words of cheer to the poor boy, but
waiting for the icy draught I was carrying. The eyes
haunted me; and, as I went from one to another, I could
not help glancing back at Willie's cot; and every time I
met the same entreating look which first attracted my
attention.
My duties called me to another part of the hospital; and,
as I was passing him to go out, he called out, in a faint
voice, "Lady, dear lady, please give me a kiss — just one
kiss before you go. My mother always kissed me." I
kissed him, with tears in my eyes — for who could refuse
such a request from a dying child, far away from every
friend and relative. He closed his eyes, murmuring, "You
are a good woman — thank you. If you will sit down and
hold my hand I think I can sleep; I am so tired." The
nurses were very kind, and the surgeons remarkably so;
but disease had undermined the frail structure, and we
daily watched our Willie sinking to the grave.
One day I entered the ward, and found that the nurse
had placed a chair by his cot for me, as usual; but he was
sleeping, and I requested the nurse not to awaken him.
"O, miss," said the man, "he cries and takes on so dreadfully
when he wakes and finds that you have passed through,
that I have promised always to wake him." To do this was
no easy matter: the eyes opened slowly, and shut again.
I leaned down, and whispered, "Willie! Willie!" "Yes,
yes," he replied, "I was afraid they would not wake me,
and I should not see you." He then began to cry like a
grieved child, and begged me not to go North until he was
well enough to go with me. "Promise," said the nurse,
will not go until you are better," I said, and with the kiss
he never failed to ask for, left him. The next morning the
doctor came to me and said, "Willie is gone."
The coffin was placed upon two chairs, in the dispensary,
and we stood and gazed long upon the marble face and
folded white hands — white as the Cape Jasmine blossoms
which they clasped. Then I learned his history as he had
told it. A man of wealth had been drafted, and had bought
the boy as a substitute of a heartless step-father. He had
never carried a gun. Once from under his mother's watchful
care, the overgrown boy had sunk beneath the hardships
of camp life, and the spirit, pure as when it first entered
the clay casket, returned to God who gave it. O Willie
those were not tears to be despised which fell upon thy
coffin — soldiers' tears for a comrade lost. And though
upon the well-contested field you never fought in deadly
combat, the good fight of faith has been yours; and now,
while your example lives in our hearts below, you wear an
undying wreath of victory in our Father's kingdom.
Our work in this hospital was more satisfactory than in
any other with which I was connected. There were only
three wards, and we visited and talked with each patient
every afternoon. A surgeon or the ward-master went with
us to assist in giving out the lemonade which we always
took with us. We also carried a portfolio, and took from
the men outlines of the letters they wished us to write.
Some of these were very original and amusing, and I regret
that I did not preserve them.
As we had no "diet lists," we took down on a slip of
paper every afternoon what articles of food each man
thought he could eat. There was very little grumbling,
and many thanks. While at work, the convalescents would
gather in the corners of the kitchen and at the windows, and
relate amusing anecdotes of their journeyings and fights.
I regret to say that sham marriages of the soldiers with
pretty girls belonging to the "poor white trash" were not
uncommon.
Much has been said of the ignorance of these people; but
such miserable, vile, filthy, cringing wretches I never saw.
Half has not been told of them; and truly it would require
the pens of many ready-writers to do it. The "swamp
fever," which carried off many of our soldiers, was even
more fatal among them. While in Wilmington, the death
of Mrs. George, of Fort Wayne, Indiana, made us more
careful of our health. The surgeon advised us to change
every article of dress, and take a thorough bath, before
resting after our visits to the wards. This we did; and
although we were exposed to small pox, and fevers of all
kinds, we returned to the North in as good health as when
we went South.
Wilmington life is with the memories of the past, as is
all our hospital work. But though we "rest from our
labors," "our works do follow us" in occasional letters from
a thankful one, to whom we administered when we and they
were strangers in a strange land.
I have read of things terrible and heartrending, but
never heard anything to equal the sounds which a rebel in
reading, when a sharp cry of pain startled me, followed by
earnest pleadings for mercy from our divine Father. Then,
in a few moments, shouts of praise, cursing, raving,
shrieks, fiendish laughs, growls like an enraged animal,
and every feeling it is possible to express with the voice,
followed each other in quick succession.
Our room is just across the street, and while I write
night is made terrible by the poor delirious wretch. I can
hear the sick men in the wards below wishing him removed
so they can sleep. There! at last he is quiet. A lady
nurse came in, and told me that it was a very wicked man
in the rebel ward, who was "frightened out of his senses"
because two men, in the most fearful agonies of death, were
lying beside him. Finding it impossible to quiet him,
the surgeon in charge had him gagged. It is a revolting
necessity to treat him so. A thousand sick, wounded, and
dying would be annoyed all night by him if they did not.
When I first went through the wards of this hospital, I
found a German woman sitting by her husband in ward
one. This ward contains all the worst cases, and the smell
of the wounds made me sick and faint before I was half
through. But I learned that this woman had been sitting
in her chair there, beside her husband, for two weeks, day
and night. For recreation, she would walk out into the
city, and buy some crackers and cheese, upon which she
subsisted. Her face was colorless, and her eyes had a
sunken, sickly look. I was carrying a bottle of excellent
with the cologne, and gave her husband, and left the bottle
with her. She was very grateful, and told me that she was
compelled to go out and vomit three or four times every
day, so great was the nausea caused by the impure air. I
arranged for her to sleep at the Commission Rooms, which
are near here, on Spruce Street, and we gave her her meals
from the kitchen. This is against the rules of the hospital;
but the surgeon says he will shut his eyes and not know
we are doing it, if we will not do it again. Until to-day
we have had no doubt of his recovery; but to-night she
came to me in great alarm, saying her husband had a chill.
I have never yet known a person with an amputated limb
to recover after having a chill. This man looks so strong
and well, that I hope he may be an exception.
The German in ward one is dead. On Wednesday morning
I went down very early to see him, and found the cot
empty. I asked for his wife, and they said she had gone
out in town. At the door I met her. She threw up her
arms, and cried in piteous tones, "He's gone! O, he's
gone! and I'm alone — alone!" She supposed he would
be buried that day, and walked out to the cemetery — more
than a mile — and found he was not to be buried until the
next day. She asked me if I would not go with her on
Thursday. I complied, and accompanied her, with a delegate
of the Commission and his wife. As the coffins were
taken one by one from the ambulance, it was found that
her husband's was not there. The chaplain kindly proposed
while waiting we went to a farm-house near by, and made
a bouquet for each of us. As we stood, with bowed heads,
looking into the graves while the chaplain read the funeral
service, she grasped my hand convulsively, whispering,
"It's so shallow! O, ask them to take him out, and make
it deeper!" Our nostrils had evidence of the shallowness
of the graves every time the breeze swept over them. The
"escort" fired their farewell over the "sleeping braves,"
and as the smoke cleared away, the bereaved wife dropped
her flowers upon the coffin, and we wearily returned, — she
to take the next train for the North, and we to our sad
work.
This evening, while busy preparing supper, we were
startled by hearing a heavy fall on the pavement, outside
of the window. We rushed to it, and found that a man had
jumped from the third story porch. He was sitting up,
looking about him with a bewildered look, when we reached
him. The doctor says he has broken open an old wound in
his side, and will not recover. He says he had been thinking
all day how long he would have to suffer if he got well,
and then thought he might suffer for weeks and months,
and then die, and he determined to end his misery at one
leap. The nurse caught him just as he was going over, but
was not strong enough to hold him. He talks very quietly
about it, and wishes he had not done it, or had succeeded
in ending life and physical pain at once. He died two
days afterwards.
"I wish you would take bed sixty-four, ward two, under
your especial care," said the surgeon in charge to me.
"We have just amputated his leg, and nothing but the
closest watchfulness and most nourishing food will save
him, and I doubt if they do."
I went at once to my patient. He was a young man,
with what had once been a very strong constitution. As he
lay there, with his pale face, and lips quivering with agony,
I could not help thinking how grand he must appear in the
glory of healthy manhood. I could see that he clinched
his nails into the palm of his hand to keep back the cry
which he deemed unsoldierly. But it would not do; a
groan burst forth in spite of him. He turned his fiercelyblack
eyes upon me, and asked, dropping the words slowly,
one at a time, "Can't — you — do — something — for —
me?" I felt powerless, but prepared a stimulating drink
for him, and then left him to attend to others.
One day I was too busy to carry his dinner to him, and
sent it to him by the nurse, postponing my visit to that
ward until afternoon. Between three and four o'clock I
went to see him, and found him weaker than usual, and his
dinner on the stand beside him, untasted. I carried in
my hand a pretty, delicate fan, which a friend had given
me, and I noticed his eyes follow it backward and forward,
up and down, as I fanned him. At last he asked to
take it. He gave it a few feeble flourishes, and then asked
me to exchange with him. "This palm-leaf is so heavy I
can't lift it. When I get strong I will give it to you
again." I gave it, and asked what he would have for supper.
"Coffee! coffee, with cream in it! Nothing else!"
cream! Why, my mother has milk pans big enough to
drown me in, and the cream is that thick" — indicating on
his finger its thickness. "Mother! mother! mother!" he
cried.
Wounds and suffering had weakened body and mind
alike; and the strong man was a child again, crying helplessly
for "mother."
A few mornings later a nurse brought my fan to me,
saying, "`Sixty-four' died last night; and when he knew he
was going, he told me to bring your fan to you, and thank
you." The ambulance, bearing him in his coffin, had
scarcely left the gate, when the mother for whom he had
yearned came to the hospital.
Poor woman! She bowed her gray head, murmuring,
beneath the chastening rod, "Thy will, not mine, be done,
O Father."
| MISS MARY E. SHELTON. Women of the war : | |