 | CHAPTER XXXIV. Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice |  |
34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
“Mother, I did not flinch! They shot the
flag out of my hand, and I bathed it with my
blood when I fell on it. Here is the staff—I
held on to the very last. Don't you see it,
mother, all smeared and clotted with blood?”
Raving with delirium, a light-haired, slender
boy of seventeen summers struggled to rise
from his cot, and, grasping a corner of the
calico quilt, stretched it toward Irene, who
sat a few yards off, spreading a blister. Laying
aside the ointment, she approached, and
took the extended hand.
“Yes, Willie, I see it; and I know you did
your duty I will take care of the staff for
you; now go to sleep.”
“I can't sleep; the din of the cannon wakes
me. I want to go home. Mother, why don't
you carry me to my own room, my own bed,
where I can see Harry, and hear Jessie sing?
Help me to my feet, mother; I promised to
make a new flag-staff.”
His fair smooth cheeks were flushed with
fever from the wound received at the battle
of Seven Pines, and his beautiful dilated eyes
gleamed unnaturally, as he gazed appealingly
at the tall form standing at his pillow—an elegant,
queenly form, clad in mourning vestments,
with spotless linen cuffs and collar and
white muslin apron.
She placed her pearly hand on his hot brow,
and bent tenderly over him.
“Not to-night, Willie. When you are
stronger I will carry you to Harry and Jessie.
Now you must try to sleep.”
“You 'll stay by me, mother, if I shut my
eyes?”
“Yes. I will not leave you.”
He smiled contentedly; and while her cold
fingers wandered soothingly over his forehead,
the long lashes fell upon his cheeks, and in
delirious dreaming he muttered on of the conflict
and incidents of carnage. From his entrance
into the hospital he had fancied her his
mother, and she fostered the only illusion
which could gild the fleeting hours of his
young life. His deeds of daring had won
honorable mention from the brigade commander,
and Irene had written to his mother,
in a distant state, detailing the circumstances,
and urging her to hasten to him. But to-night
the symptoms showed that, ere the dawning of
another day, the brave spirit would desert its
boyish prison.
“Give me some water, please.”
The feeble voice came from an adjoining
cot, where lay an emaciated, wrinkled old
man, with gray hair straying over the pillows
that propped him into an almost upright posture.
She put the glass to his trembling lips,
and, as he drained it, tears trickled down the
furrowed face.
“What distresses you, Mr. Wheeler? Tell
me, won't you?”
“I am about to die, and I long so for the
face of my wife. If I could have seen her
again, it would not seem so hard. It is easy
to die on the battle-field, and I expected that
when I left home; but to sicken and die in a
hospital, away from my family and my comrades—oh!
this is bitter! bitter! You have
been kind to me—as gentle and good as my
own daughter Mary could have been—and, if
you please, I would like to send some messages
to my people at home. You have written
for me once—will you do it again—and for the
last time?”
“Certainly, just as often as you like.”
She gave him a powerful stimulant; brought
her port-folio to the side of the cot, and wrote
at his dictation.
“Tell my wife I had hoped and prayed to
be spared to get home once more, but it was
n't the will of God, and I trust she will try to
bear up like a Christian. I am not afraid to
die; I have done my duty to my God and to
my country; and though my heart clings to
my dear ones, way down in Mississippi, I know
I am going home to rest. Tell her she must
not grieve for our brave boy, Joe; he died as a
Confederate soldier should. I buried him
where he fell, and we will soon meet where
battles and separation are unknown. I want
Mary and her children to live at home, and if
Edward lives through the war, he will provide
for all. I want my watch given to my oldest
grandson, Calvin, as soon as he is of age. I
send my love to all, and especially to my poor
children, and to my dear, dear wife, whom I
hope to meet soon in heaven. May God bless
and preserve them all, for Jesus Christ's
sake.”
His voice was weak and unsteady, and his
breathing rapid, short, labored.
As she folded the letter and closed the
port-folio the surgeon entered, and went
slowly from patient to patient — speaking
gently to some, and feeling cautiously at
the wrists of others who slept. At the
two last cots he lingered long, and his
benevolent face saddened as he noted the
change that a few hours had wrought.
“Dr. Whitmore, I have been giving Mr.
Wheeler strong eggnog this afternoon.”
“All perfectly right, and let him have
the ammonia as often as his pulse indicates
need of it.”
He sighed heavily, and she followed him into
the passage.
“After all, Miss Huntingdon, we shall
lose them both. I had such strong hope of
young Walton yesterday; but it is of no use;
he will not live till morning. Poor fellow!
It is too bad! too bad!”
“Can we do nothing more?'”
“Nothing. I have racked my brain, exhausted
my remedies. Wheeler, too, is sinking
very rapidly, and you must stimulate him
constantly. These typhoid-pneumonia cases
are disheartening. By the way, you are
over-taxing your strength. Let me send
Martha down here to relieve you to-night.
For forty-eight hours you have not closed
your eyes. Take some rest to-night; your
presence can do no good now.”
“I prefer to remain; how are the cases up-stairs?”
“Doing finely, except Moorhouse; and I
have strong faith in his constitution. I shall sit
up with him to-night, to watch the effect of
the veratrum. God bless you, Miss Irene!
you have a melancholy watch before you.”
As she returned to her post, Andrew came
in with a pitcher of ice-water; and after
creeping across the room several times, arranging
the covering on the cots, he unrolled
his blankets on the floor, and laid himself
down to sleep, within reach of his mistress'
hand.
It was a long, low, rather narrow room,
lined with rows of cots, which stretched on
either side to the door, now left open to admit
free circulation of air. A muffled clock ticked
on the mantle-piece. Two soldiers, who
had been permitted to visit their sick comrades,
slumbered heavily — one with head
drooped on his chest, the other with chair
tilted against the window-facing, and dark-bearded
face thrown back. The quivering
flame of the candle gleamed fitfully along the
line of features—some youthful, almost childish;
others bearing the impress of accumula
ted years; some crimsoned with fever, others
wan and glistening with the dew of exhaustion;
here a forehead bent and lowering, as
in fancy the sleeper lived over the clash and
shock of battle; and there a tremulous smile,
lighting the stern manly mouth, as the
dreamer heard again the welcome bay of
watch-dog on the door-step at home, and saw
once more the loved forms of wife and
children springing joyfully from the cheery
fireside, to meet his outstretched arms. A
few tossed restlessly, and frequent incoherent
mutterings wandered, waif-like, up and down
the room, sometimes rousing Andrew, who
once or twice lifted his head to listen, and
then sank back to slumber.
Before a small pine table, where stood
numerous vials, Irene drew her chair, and,
leaning forward, opened her pocket-bible,
and rested her head on her hand.
She heard the painful breathing of the old
man, who had fallen into a heavy stupor, and
as she sat reading her hand stole to his feeble
pulse, pausing to count its fluttering. Twice
she rose, administered the stimulants, and renewed
the bottles at his feet, the mustard on his
wasted wrists. Taking the skeleton hand
in hers, she chafed it vigorously; but sixty-three
years had worn away the bonds of flesh,
and the soul was near its exodus. Sorrowfully
she watched the sharpening features,
which five weeks of nursing had rendered
singularly familiar; and as she thought of the
aged wife to be widowed, and the daughter
orphaned, memories of her own father's
kisses stirred the great deeps of her spirit,
and tears gathered in her calm eyes.
“Ha! ha! ha! They will never get to
Richmond! Johnston is down there — and
Longstreet is there — and our regiment is
there! Johnston is between them and Richmond—ha!
ha!”
The wounded boy started up, twirling one
arm as if in the act of cheering, and then
fell back, groaning with pain which the
violent effort cost him.
Irene stooped over him, and, softly unbuttoning
his shirt-collar, removed the hot
bloody cloths from his lacerated shoulder,
and replaced them with fresh folds of linen,
cold and dripping. She poured out a glass of
water and lifted his head, but he frowned, and
exclaimed:
“I won't have it in a tumbler. Mother,
make Harry bring me a gourdful fresh from
the spring. I say—send Buddie for some.”
She humored the whim, walked out of the
room, and paused in the passage. As she did
so, a dark form glided unperceived into a
dim corner, and when she re-entered the
room with the gourd of water the figure
passed through the hall-door out into the
night.
“Here is your gourd, Willie, fresh and
cold.”
He swallowed the draught eagerly, and his
handsome face wore a touching expression
as he smiled, and whispered:
“Hush! Jessie is singing under the old
magnolia down by the spring. Listen!
`Fairy Belle!' We used to sing that in camp;
but nobody sings like Jessie. So sweet! so
sweet!”
He set his teeth hard, and shuddered
violently; and taking his fingers in hers, she
found them clenched:
“Andrew!”
“Here I am, Miss Irene.”
“Go up-stairs and ask the doctor to come
here.”
The surgeon came promptly.
“I am afraid he is going into convulsions.
What shall I do for him?”
“Yes — just what I have been trying to
guard against. I fear nothing will do any
good; but you might try that mixture which
acted like a charm on Leavans.”
“Here is the bottle; how much shall I give?”
“A spoonful every half-hour while the convulsions
last. If he can swallow it, it can't
possibly do any harm, and may ease his suffering.
Poor fellow! may the vengeance of a
righteous God seek out his murderer! I would
stay here with you. Miss Huntingdon, if I
could render any service. As it is, I am more
needed up-stairs.”
The paroxysms were short, but so severe
that occasionally she required Andrew's assistance
to hold the sufferer on his cot, and as
they grew less frequent, she saw that his
strength failed rapidly. Finally he fell into a
troubled sleep, with one hand clutching her
arm.
Nearly an hour passed thus, and the nurse
knelt softly beside her charge, and prayed long
and fervently that the soul of the young martyr
might find its home with God, and that his
far-off mourning mother might be strengthened
to bear this heavy burden of woe. There, in
the shadow of Death, the woman's spirit soared
far from sin and sorrow, from the stormy shores
of Time, and held holy communion with her
Maker—pleading for aid, for grace, and resignation
through the remaining years of her
earthly pilgrimage.
As she knelt with her face up-turned, a soft
warm palm was laid upon her forehead, and a
low, sweet, manly voice pronounced in benediction:
“May the Lord bless you, Irene, and abundantly
answer all your prayers.”
She rose quickly, and put out her disengaged
hand.
“Oh, Harvey! dear friend! Thank God,
I have found you once more.”
He lifted the candle and held it near her
face, scanning the sculptured features; then
stooped and kissed her white cheek.
“I felt that I could not be mistaken. I
heard our soldiers blessing a pale woman in
black, with large eyes bluer than summer skies,
and hair that shone like rays of a setting-sun;
and I knew the silent, gentle, tireless watcher,
before they told her name. For many years
I have prayed that you might become an instrument
of good to your fellow-creatures, and
to-night I rejoice to find you, at last, an earnest
coworker.”
“Where have you been this long time,
Harvey? And how is it that you wear a
Confederate uniform?”
“I am chaplain in a Texas regiment, and
have been with the army from the beginning
of these days of blood. At first it was a painful
step for me; my affections, my associations,
the hallowed reminiscences of my boyhood,
all linked my heart with New York. My relatives
and friends were there, and I knew not
how many of them I might meet among the
war-wolves that hung in hungry herds along
the borders of the South. Moreover, I loved
and revered the Union—had been taught to
regard it as the synonyme of national prosperity.
Secession I opposed and regretted at
the time as unwise; but to the dogma of consolidated
government I could yield no obedience;
and when every sacred constitutional
barrier had been swept away by Lincoln—when
habeas corpus was abolished, and freedom of
speech and press denied—when the Washington
conclave essayed to coerce freemen, to
`crush Secession' through the agency of sword
and cannon—then I swore allegiance to the
`Seven States,' where all of republican liberty
remained. The fierce and unholy spirit of the
North appalled and disgusted me. I felt that
I could have no connection with a people who
madly plunged into fratricidal war, who goaded
their soldiers to rapine, to the massacre of
women and children, and who left no means
untried to inflict upon the Cotton-States all
the unparalleled horrors of a servile insurrection.
The billows of innocent blood which
their fury shed, surged between us, as an everlasting
gulf. As Ruth to Naomi, so I turned
fondly to the fair free land of my adoption and
her devoted sons: `Thy people shall be my
people, and thy God my God. Where thou
diest I will die, and there will I be buried.'
Though I look upon my mother's face no more
in this world, and for ever resign the consolation
of my father's blessing and my sister's
smile, I shall never see New York again. My
step has passed away from the homestead—
my shadow from the dear old hearthstone.
Henceforth my home is with the South; my
hopes and destiny hers; her sorrows and
struggles mine.”
His white, scholarly hands were sunburnt
now; his bronzed complexion, and long, untrimmed
hair and beard gave a grim, grizzled
aspect to the noble face; and the worn and
faded uniform showed an acquaintance with
the positive hardships and exposure of an active
campaign.
“I expected nothing less from you, my
brother. I felt that our holy cause must claim
your sympathy and support; and I am proud,
and inexpressibly happy, to find you in our
matchless and devoted army. You were dear
to me before; but, ah, Harvey! how much
dearer now in these dark days of trial, which
you have voluntarily chosen to share, with a
young, brave, struggling Nation!”
His eyes dwelt upon her face as she looked
gladly at him, and over her waving hair his
hands passed tenderly, as they had done long
years before, when she was an invalid in his
father's house.
“You have found your work, and learned
contentment in usefulness, since that Spring
day on which we talked together, in the shadow
of the wild-cherry tree. Irene, the peaceful
look of your childhood has come back to your
face.”
“Yes, thanks to your guidance, I have found
employment for head and hands; but my heart
is not conquered. I have yet to learn patient,
perfect resignation.”
“You ought to be grateful and happy for
the good you are accomplishing every day. I
hear much of the influence you exert here;
your name is constantly on the lips of many a
convalescent; and in the dead of night, in the
deep hush of camp, I have listened to a fervent,
tearful petition ascending to the Throne of
Grace from an elderly man, who told me he
had not prayed since his childhood, till you
knelt beside his cot here and asked God to
spare his life to his country and his family.
Does not such blessed fruitage content you?”
“You overrate my services. I try to do
my duty; but such cases as these two before
us discourage me—bow down my heart.”
“I accept the estimate of those of your
countrymen over whom you have watched,
and prayed, and toiled. True, it is very melancholy
to lose any; but, in such a mass, we
must not expect to save all. With my face
pressed against the window-pane, I have been
watching you for more than an hour—ever
since Col. Aubrey came out—and I know all
the sadness of the circumstances that surround
you; how painful it is for you to see those two
men die.”
“Col. Aubrey? He has not been here.”
“Yes; I passed him on the steps; we rode
up together from camp. He came on special
business, and returns at daylight; but I shall
remain several days, and hope to be with you
as much as the nature of your engagements
will permit. Aubrey is from W —; you
know him, of course?”
“Yes, I know him.”
He saw a shade of regret drift over her
countenance, and added:
“I have many things to say to you, and
much to learn concerning your past; but this
is not the time or place for such interchange
of thought and feeling. To-morrow we will
talk; to-night I could not repress my impatience
to see you, though but for a few
moments.”
They had conversed in low, smothered tones,
and now, gently unclasping young Walton's
fingers, which still grasped her arm, Irene
went back to the old man's pillow and bent
over the ghastly-face, where the chill of death
had already settled.
“Feel how thready and feeble the pulse is;
a few more throbs, and the heart will be
stilled. It is hard, hard to see him die, after
all my care and watching. Five long weeks
I have nursed him, and now this is the end.
Harvey, pray for the departing soul, that,
through Christ, his salvation may be sure.”
The chaplain bowed his head, but no sound
broke the sad silence; and some moments
after Irene laid her ivory fingers on the lids,
and pressed them down over the glazed eyes.
“He is at rest. `Whosoever believeth in
me shall never die,' saith the Lord. He believed,
and that comforts me. I have talked
and read much to him during his illness, and
found that he had no fear of eternity. Another
patriot gone—another soul to bear witness
before God against our oppressors and murderers.”
She drew the sheet over the face of the
dead, and beckoning to the two soldiers who
now stood near, silent and awe-struck, they
took up the cot, and bore it into a small room
adjoining.
“Ah, Irene! how harrowing such frequent
spectacles must be. I should think this position
would be almost intolerable to one of
your keen sympathies.”
“How harrowing, only God knows.”
She drew a chair near young Walton, and,
seating herself, continued:
“It would be intolerable, but for the conviction
that I sometimes save lives—lives precious
to friends and country. Hard as that
case may seem, this is sadder still. That old
man had but few years left at best; this boy
stands on the verge of manhood, with the fair
green meadows of life stretching dewy and
untrodden before him, enamelled with hope,
and bounded by shining peaks, which his
brave, ambitious spirit panted to scale. A
mother's pride and solace, a sister's joy, one of
a Nation's treasured guardians, stricken down
in his first battle—bathing his country's riddled
banner in his warm young blood. How
long—how long will Almighty God withhold
his vengeance from the wolfish hordes who
are battening upon the blood of freemen?
Harvey, if there be not a long and awful retribution
for that Cain-cursed race of New
England, there is neither justice nor truth in
high heaven. I have become strangely attached
to this boy. He mistakes me for his
mother, follows me eagerly with his eyes, clings
to my dress, fondles my hands. Around his
neck is suspended a locket containing her
wound, he felt for it—showed me how he
kissed it before going into battle—believing
that it would prove a talisman. What harm
could befall, with his mother's face over his
heart? Only a private in the ranks. No
stars and bars to deck his homespun jacket—
no official pomp and glittering paraphernalia
to please his youthful fancy—none of the gorgeous
accessories which gild the `stern profession,'
like jewels on a corpse—no badge of
distinction, save his ghastly death-wound.
The tenderly nurtured darling of Southern
parents, cheerful in the midst of unparalleled
hardships, content with meagre rations, which
his negroes at home would scornfully reject,
standing dreary watch in snow and sleet and
rain, with memories of luxury and fireside
joys tempting him from his gloomy, solitary
post—springing to meet the columns of the foe
as though the Nation's fate depended upon his
individual valor, and asking but a grave on
the soil he died defending. Only a private in
the ranks! Oh, to this consecrated legion,
stretching like a wall of flesh along the borders
of our land, what a measureless debt we
owe! When Independence is obtained, and
white-robed Peace spreads her stainless hands
in blessing over us, let history proclaim, and
let our people reverently remember, that to
the uncomplaining fortitude and sublime devotion
of the private soldiers of the Confederacy,
not less than to the genius of our
generals and the heroism of our subordinate
officers, we are indebted for Freedom.
She laid her head close to the boy's mouth
to listen to his low breathing, and the minister
saw her tears fall on his pillow and gleam on
his auburn locks. The delirium seemed to
have given place to the dreamless sleep of exhaustion,
and folding one of her hands around
his fingers, with the other she softly stroked
the silky hair from his fair smooth forehead.
“Irene, will my presence here aid or comfort
you? If so, I will remain till morning.”
“No; you can do no good. It is midnight
now, and you must be wearied with your long
ride. You can not help me here, but to-morrow
I shall want you to go with me to the
cemetery. I wish his family to have the sad
consolation of knowing that a minister knelt
at his grave, when we laid the young patriot
in his last resting-place. Good-by, my brother,
till then. Electra is in the next room; will
you go in and speak to her?”
“No; I will see her early in the morning.”
He left her to keep alone her solemn
vigil; and through the remaining hours of that
starry June night she stirred not from the
narrow cot—kept her fingers on the sufferer's
fleeting pulse — her eyes on his whitening
face. About three o'clock he moaned, struggled
slightly, and looked intently at her. She
gave him some brandy, and found that he
swallowed with great difficulty.
“Willie, are you in pain?”
“Is it you, mother—and are we at home?”
he asked, indistinctly.
“You are going home, Willie; you will
soon be there.”
“I have not said my prayers to-night.
Mother, hold my musket a minute.”
He put out his arm as if to consign it to her
care, and folded his hands together.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed
be thy name—.” His voice sank to a whisper,
inaudible for some seconds; then he
paused, as if confused; a troubled look crossed
his features, the hazel eyes filled, and the hands
fell powerless on his chest. Laying her hand
on his brow, Irene slowly repeated a favorite
psalm which had seemed to haunt his mind two
days before—that psalm of promise: “The
Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.”
Whether he understood it now she never
knew, but his fingers crept caressingly to her
face, feebly stroking her cheek while she
spoke, and when she concluded he seemed
trying to recall something.
“Jessie knows it all; I don't—.” Then
came, indistinctly, snatches of the infant prayer
which had been taught him at his truckle-bed
in the nursery.
After a short silence he shivered, and
murmured:
“Corporal of the guard! post number
nine! Mother, it is cold standing guard
to-night, but the relief will soon be round.
Standing guard—mother—.”
His eyes wandered around the dim room,
then slowly closed, as he fell into the sleep that
knew no earthly waking.
A sick man a few yards off asked for some
water, and as Irene received the tumbler from
his hand he said, under his breath:
“He is worse to-night, is n't he, ma'm?”
“Yes. How is that pain in your side? I
must put a blister on it if it grows more severe.”
“It does not trouble me as much as it
did about dark. How is my fever?”
“Not so high by fifteen beats. You will be
able to take quinine at seven o'clock.”
She snuffed the candle and resumed her
seat, and again silence reigned — silence
broken only by the deep breathing of the
patients and the sudden jingle of the vials on
the table, as a hungry mouse ran among them,
to nibble at the open jar of simple cerate.
The air grew chilly as a light mist gathered
along the James, and finally the rumble
of wheels on the paved streets told that people
were beginning to stir in the sleeping city.
Slowly a half-hour rolled away; Irene could
barely feel the faint pulsations at Willie
Walton's wrist, and as she put her ear to his
lips a long, last shuddering sigh escaped him—
the battle of life was ended. Willie's Relief
had come. The young sentinel passed to his
Eternal Rest.
“The picket 's off duty for ever.”
Tears dropped on the still face as the nurse
out several locks of curling hair that clustered
around the boyish temples, and took from the
motionless heart the loved-picture which had
been so often and so tenderly kissed in the
fitful light of camp-fires. Irene covered the
noble head, the fair, handsome features, with
her handkerchief, and, waking Andrew,
pointed to the body—left her own ward, and
entered one beyond the passage.
It was smaller, but similar in arrangement
to the room where she had passed the
night. A candle was sputtering in its socket,
and the cold, misty, white dawn stared in at
the eastern window upon rows of cots and
unquiet, muttering sleepers. There, in the
centre of the room, with her head bowed on
the table, sat, or rather leaned, Electra,
slumbering soundly, with her scarlet shawl
gathered about her shoulders — her watch
grasped in one hand, and the other holding
a volume open at “Hesperid-Æglé.”
Irene lifted the black curls that partially
veiled the flushed cheek, and whispered:
“Electra, wake up! I am going home.”
“Is it light yet, out of doors? Ah, yes—I
see! I have been asleep exactly fifteen
minutes—gave the last dose of medicne at
four o'clock. How are those two men? I am
almost afraid to ask.”
“Dead. Willie lived till daylight. Both
dead.”
“Oh! how sad! how discouraging! I
went to your door twice and looked in,
but once you were praying, and the last time
you had your face down on Willie's pillow,
and as I could do nothing, I came back.
Dr. Whitmore told me they would die, and it
only made me suffer to look at what I
could not relieve. I am thankful my cases
are all doing well; that new prescription has
acted magically on Mr. Hadly yonder, who
has pneumonia. Just feel his skin — soft
and pleasant as a child's.”
“I have some directions to leave with
Martha, about giving quinine before the doctor
comes down, and then I shall go home.
Are you ready?”
“Yes. I have a singular feeling about my
temples, and an oppression when I talk—
should n't wonder if I have caught cold.”
“Electra, did you see Harvey last night?”
“No. Where did he come from?”
“He is chaplain in a regiment near
Richmond, and said he would see us both this
morning. Was Russell here last night?”
“Russell? No. Why do you ask? Is he
in the city? Have you seen him?”
She rose quickly, laid her hand on Irene's,
and looked searchingly at her.
“I have not seen him, but your cousin
Harvey mentioned that Col. Aubrey came up
with him, on some very important errand, and
had but a few hours to remain. I will get my
shawl, and join you in five minutes. Electra,
you must stay at home and rest for a day
or two; you are feverish, and worn out
with constant watching.”
| CHAPTER XXXIV. Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice | |