University of Virginia Library

55. A Boy who won the Cross
BY A SOUTHERN LADY (1863)

THE expected battle has not Yet come off, and I am still awaiting the result; busying myself about many things, visiting and returning visits from my

old friends; dividing my time between the world and the hospital, the lights and shades of life. Ah, the shades! My dear Jennie, you can little imagine how much suffering I have witnessed in the last few weeks—how much, that acts or kind words have no power to mitigate. There have, been many wounded brought in from Corinth , many who have died since their arrival, many who will die; but, saddest of all, a young boy, too young to be a soldier, yet possessing all a soldier's spirit. I walked into a ward, one morning, that I had visited the evening before— a ward of very sick patients— and saw an old man sitting by a new cot, fanning a young boy, who lay with flushed face, and burning eyes fixed on the ceiling. As I advanced toward them, the weather-bronzed man stood stiffly erect, making me a quaint, halfawkward, military salute, saying, as he did so, "My boy, ma'am!""Is he wounded?"I asked. He threw back the sheet that covered him, pointed to the stump of a limb amputated near the thigh; "He has gained the cross,"he said, while his head grew more erect, as he held back the sheet with the fan, and his eye shot out the grim ghost of a smile.

A proud, iron soldier the man was , I could see. The boy was delirious; so I shall tell you of the man. Refusing to be seated as long as a lady remained standing in the room, be stood stiffly upright at the head of the cot, keeping each fly from the face of the boy with the tenderness of a mother. A limp brown hat was on the side of his head, shading his eyes, that followed me in all parts of the room. A red cord and tassel hung from one side of his hat, and gave him a jaunty air that was quite out of keeping with the quaint stiffness of his manner. After speaking to the sick and wounded soldiers around, asking after their wounds and wants, I returned to the young boy's cot, and heard the old man's story. Don't be weary if I give it to you; he had so much pride in his boy, let that be my extenuation.

We belong to the Texas Rangers, ma'am, the

boy and me; he could ride as well as the rest of them, ma'am, a year ago. When the war broke out, and we practised regularly, he was the best rider in the company— could pick anything he wanted off the ground as he was going. He's only fourteen, ma'am— a fine-grown lad, indeed. His mother was the likeliest woman I ever saw,"with a deprecating bow to me;" he's got her eyes— the finest eyes God ever made, she had, ma'am. She died when quite young, leaving him to me, a little shaver, and he's been by me ever since. The boys and me tried to overpersuade him out of the army; 'peared like he was too young for such business; but be wouldn't hear to it, not he, ma'am, and here he is,"passing his sleeve across his eyes.

"Well, ma'am, so he staid with us; and when we got to Corinth, General Beauregard offered a cross of honor to the ones that showed themselves the best soldiers. So our boys talked a heap about who'd get it; but this boy says nothing. Well, one day we were ordered out to scout, and we came up with the Yankees, and we fought 'em a half hour or so, when I saw this youngster by. my side kind of drooping by a tree, but standing his ground. Well, we routed them at last, when I found the boy's leg was all shattered, and he had kept up as though nothing was the matter. So when we went back to Corinth, it got noised about from the soldiers to the officers—how he'd held out. And, more'n all, the time when his leg was being cut off, we couldn't get any chloroform, morphine, or the like: he just sit up like a brave lad, and off it went, without a word out of him. So the doctors they talked of that; and he's been notified that he'll get the first cross, and the

boys'll be monstrous fond of him, and feel most like they'd got it themselves. If he'd get rid of his fever and pick up like, I'd be a happy man,"he said anxiously.

The boy that gained a double cross at Corinth has closed his eyes softly and calmly. Suffering will never disturb him more. He is dead. The old man has gone back to his company with spasms of pain in his heart, of which the world will never know.

Let me tell you of the man's devotion. The boy's fever still raged, with slighter and slighter intervals. The medicine failed to procure the desired effect. The physicians looked anxious as they approached his cot. I wanted to take the old man's hand and tell him of the Friend in heaven, from whom death itself can never separate us ; but a foolish fear withheld me. One night the physicians met around the little cot, the old man, as usual when others were near, standing stiffly at the head, yet, with alarmed and burning eyes, intently reading each face. A sad reading, hopeless— the eyes told that, while the hand sought the faintly beating pulse. "Doctor, may I try to save my boy my own way? "said the old man, following the physician into the hall. "Yes, do as you choose with him, only do not give him unnecessary pain."

In the morning a large tub of cold water was taken to the ward and placed by the sick boy's cot; and, to the dismay of the soldiers in the beds around, the boy was lifted out, wounded as he was, by the strong and gentle arms of one in whose eyes he was more precious than the rarest of diamonds and gold. A quick douse, and he was rubbed well, covered closely, and soon slept soundly, the perspiration breaking out profusely

for the first time in two days. He was decidedly better, and the proud smile on the father's face was a happy thing to see. Gradually he grew more feeble, the fever returned, and one morning, with an aching heart, I saw the calmness of death in the closed eyes and motionless nostril. Standing at the head of the bed, his hat drawn over his eyes, his arms folded in a stern and patient agony, the father stood watching yet, most faithfully. I cannot express to you the grief that my sympathy brought-the grief, and constantly the words: "Alone! all alone! My boy! oh, my boy!"

The ladies wished to have a large funeral over the brave, Young soldier ; but the physicians would not consent to having him buried in town, saying that the soldiers were all worthy of attention, and that no distinction could be allowed. So, before he was buried, I went out to the hospital and looked my last on the young, dead face, from which all trace of suffering had fled: only peace and rest now forever!

Pain and anguish were making a deep impress on the face of the man by the head: the drawn lines of watching and suffering were more evident, as with a strained smile, and almost a gasp of pain, he thanked me for the interest I had taken. "Everybody is so kind! "he said. He had gone into town that morning and purchased a little black coat, placing it on the small form. A black velvet vest, white bosom, and the cravat tied over the white, boyish throat, told of the tenderness that shrank not from the coldness of death.

"He's like his mother, ma'am, more than ever, now,"he whispered, softly drawing the sheet over the inanimate form; and turning squarely around,

with his back to me, I saw him draw again and again his sleeve across his eyes.