 | WOMAN'S SACRIFICES. Women of the war : |  |
WOMAN'S SACRIFICES.
IN one of the great battles of the war, among thousands
of similar sacrifices, there fell a noble young man from
Philadelphia. His body was taken up, embalmed, and forwarded
to the house of his grandmother, Mrs. Ellet. Soon
after its arrival two sympathetic and warm-hearted gentlemen,
Mr. George H. Stuart, president of the Christian
Commission, with the Rev. Robert Patterson, D. D., of
Chicago, called upon her to condole with her upon the loss,
and to offer the consolations of religion. Dr. Patterson
expressed the hope that the Lord would sustain her under
her bereavement. "I regret," answered the noble-spirited
woman, "that I cannot give as largely of my means to this
war as I might have done in other and better days. But I
shall be happy to place in your hands, Mr. Stuart, two beautiful
and very valuable shawls, the proceeds of their sale to
be distributed among the widows and orphans of soldiers
fallen in battle. Two sons I have already given, Commodore
Ellet, of the Ram Fleet, and Brigadier-General Ellet,
of the Marine Brigade, and four grandsons; nor do I regret
the gift. Had I twenty sons, I would devote them all to
the cause. Were I twenty years younger, I would go and
fight myself to the last, for the country must and shall be
preserved."
Shortly after the first call of President Lincoln, a regiment
of volunteers was standing in the streets of one of the
cities of Pennsylvania, nearly ready to take up their line of
march for the national capital.
The troops were very gay and light-hearted. Many of
them were boys, and thought it was only a ninety days'
frolic they were starting on. In the midst of a small squad
of hardy-looking men stood a tall, raw-boned youth, whose
animal spirits seemed to be inexhaustible. He had been
making fun for them all the afternoon. "Well, boys," said
he, "we're going off — ar'n't we?" "Yes, we are," replied
half a dozen voices. "When we get there, may be we won't
give 'em fits, eh?" "May be we won't," was the response.
Just then an old woman in a thin, faded woollen shawl,
came elbowing her way among the men, and turning up a
searching look to one after another of the tallest fellows, as
though very anxious to find some one. In a moment she
stood before this light-hearted young volunteer. His eyes
dropped instantly; his face was covered with a flush; and as
he turned his head, he lifted his finger to his eye, and shook
it with a twirl as he said, "Now, mother, mother! you
promised me that you wouldn't come out — didn't ye? Now
you promised me. When I said `Good by' to ye, mother,
I told ye I didn't want ye to come out here and unman me,
and here ye've done it. Now I wish ye hadn't."
The old woman lifted up her wrinkled, labor-knotted
hands, and laid them on the great broad shoulders of her
stalwart boy. The tears ran down her face as she said,
"O, Jack, don't scold me; don't scold your poor old mother,
Jack; you know you're all I have, Jack; and I didn't come
have come to say, God bless ye, Jack; God bless ye;"
and folding the little faded shawl over her breast, she
slipped away between the men, and walked rapidly down
the street. The big soldier boy drew his sleeve rudely over
his face, and bringing down his arm with a sort of vexed
emphasis, as though defying the emotion he could not control,
blurted out, as a sort of apology for his wet cheek,
"Hang it, boys, she's mother, you know."
In a few moments the band struck up a lively air, and
the order, "Column, forward, march!" came down the long
line from the mounted colonel.
"Just then," says a bystander, "I saw a little girl standing
on a doorstep. She was ten or twelve years of age, I
should judge. As I looked in her face, my attention was
arrested. A deep cloud of sorrow came over and rested
upon that young brow. She stood with her little hands
clasped tightly, and the childish face seemed pinched with
very agony. And I thought, `Well, now, what can be the
matter with that child?' I determined to watch her. So I
took my stand near by. The sound of the music grew
nearer and nearer. By and by the heavy tramp of the men
was heard. As they approached us, I saw that little form
becoming more fixed and rigid; the hands began to quiver;
her neck was stretched with eager intensity, and her eyes
were fairly riveted upon the men as they came marching
slowly by the door. A moment after, I was startled by a
penetrating little voice, as she cried out, "O, that's him!
that's him! It's pa! it's pa! He's going! he's going! he's
gone!" and with loud sobbings, as though she knew she
again, she turned away and entered the house.
A Mother's Sacrifice.
The records and desolations of our great war do not
appear alone in the empty sleeves which we see in every
village, nor in the blackened ruins that mark the pathway
of our great armies. The most incurable wounds, and the
losses hardest to be supported, were suffered by the mothers
who gave up darling and only sons to the sacrifice.
What mother can read the following story of the enlistment
and death of "Little Eddie, the drummer boy," without
feeling that neither glory nor public honors can ever
make up her loss or heal her lacerated heart? We give the
story as the soldiers tell it.
"A few days before our regiment received orders to join
General Lyon, on his march to Wilson's Creek, the drummer
of our company was taken sick and conveyed to the
hospital, and on the evening preceding the day that we were
to march, a negro was arrested within the lines of the camp,
and brought before our captain, who asked him `what business
he had within the lines!' He replied, `I know a
drummer that you would like to enlist in your company,
and I have come to tell you of it.' He was immediately
requested to inform the drummer that if he would enlist
for our short term of service, he would be allowed extra
pay; and to do this, he must be on the ground early in the
morning. The negro was then passed beyond the guard.
"On the following morning there appeared before the
captain's quarters, during the beating of the réveille, a good-looking,
leading by the hand a sharp, sprightly-looking boy, apparently
about twelve or thirteen years of age. Her story was
soon told. She was from East Tennessee, where her husband
had been killed by the rebels, and all their property
destroyed. She had come to St. Louis in search of her
sister; but not finding her, and being destitute of money,
she thought if she could procure a situation for her boy as
a drummer for the short time that we had to remain in
the service, she could find employment for herself, and perhaps
find her sister by the time we were discharged.
"During the rehearsal of her story the little fellow kept
his eyes intently fixed upon the countenance of the captain,
who was about to express a determination not to take so
small a boy, when he spoke out, `Don't be afraid, captain;
I can drum.' This was spoken with so much confidence,
that the captain immediately observed, with a smile, `Well,
well, sergeant, bring the drum, and order our fifer to come
forward.' In a few moments the drum was produced, and
our fifer, a tall, round-shouldered, good-natured fellow, from
the Dubuque mines, who stood, when erect, something over
six feet in height, soon made his appearance.
"Upon being introduced to his new comrade, he stooped
down, with his hands resting upon his knees, that were
thrown forward into an acute angle, and after peering into
the little fellow's face a moment, he observed, `My little
man, can you drum?' `Yes, sir,' he replied, `I drummed
for Captain Hill, in Tennessee.' Our fifer immediately commenced
straightening himself upward until all the angels in
his person had disappeared, when he placed his fife at his
most difficult things to follow with the drum that could
have been selected; and nobly did the little fellow follow
him, showing himself to be a master of the drum. When
the music ceased, our captain turned to the mother and
observed, `Madam, I will take your boy. What is his
name?' `Edward Lee,' she replied; then placing her hand
upon the captain's arm, she continued, `Captain, if he is not
killed' — here her maternal feelings overcame her utterance,
and she bent down over her boy and kissed him upon
the forehead. As she arose, she observed, `Captain, you
will bring him back with you — won't you?'
"`Yes, yes,' he replied, `we will be certain to bring him
back with us. We shall be discharged in six weeks.'
"In an hour after, our company led the Iowa first out
of camp, our drum and fife playing `The girl I left behind
me.' Eddie, as we called him, soon became a great favorite
with all the men in the company. When any of the boys
had returned from a horticultural excursion, Eddie's share
of the peaches and melons was the first apportioned out.
During our heavy and fatiguing march from Rolla to Springfield,
it was often amusing to see our long-legged fifer
wading through the mud with our little drummer mounted
upon his back, and always in that position when fording
streams.
"During the fight at Wilson's Creek I was stationed with
a part of our company on the right of Totten's battery, while
the balance of our company, with a part of the Illinois regiment,
was ordered down into a deep ravine upon our
left, in which it was known a portion of the enemy was
in the ravine continuing some time, Totten suddenly wheeled
his battery upon the enemy in that quarter, when they soon
retreated to the high ground behind their lines. In less
than twenty minutes after Totten had driven the enemy
from the ravine, the word passed from man to man throughout
the army, `Lyon is killed!' and soon after, hostilities
having ceased upon both sides, the order came for our main
force to fall back upon Springfield, while a part of the Iowa
first and two companies of the Missouri regiment were to
camp upon the ground and cover the retreat next morning.
That night I was detailed for guard duty, my turn of guard
closing with the morning call. When I went out with the
officer as a relief, I found that my post was upon a high
eminence that overlooked the deep ravine in which our men
had engaged the enemy, until Totten's battery came to their
assistance. It was a dreary, lonesome beat. The moon
had gone down in the early part of the night, while the
stars twinkled dimly through a hazy atmosphere, lighting
up imperfectly the surrounding objects. Occasionally I
would place my ear near the ground and listen for the
sound of footsteps; but all was silent, save the far-off howling
of the wolf, that seemed to scent upon the evening air
the banquet that we had been preparing for him. The
hours passed slowly away, when at length the morning light
began to streak along the eastern sky, making surrounding
objects more plainly visible. Presently I heard a drum
beat up the morning call. At first I thought it came from
the camp of the enemy across the creek; but as I listened,
I found that it came up from the deep ravine; for a few
heard it again. I listened, the sound of the drum was
familiar to me, and I knew that it was
Beating for help the réveille.'
"I was about to desert my post to go to his assistance,
when I discovered the officer of the guard approaching with
two men. We all listened to the sound, and were satisfied
that it was Eddie's drum. I asked permission to go to his
assistance. The officer hesitated, saying that the orders
were to march in twenty minutes. I promised to be back
in that time, and he consented. I immediately started
down the hill, through the thick undergrowth, and upon
reaching the valley, I followed the sound of the drum, and
soon found him seated upon the ground, his back leaning
against the trunk of a fallen tree, while his drum hung
upon a bush in front of him, reaching nearly to the ground.
As soon as he discovered me he dropped his drumsticks
and exclaimed, `O corporal, I am so glad to see you!
Give me a drink,' reaching out his hand for my canteen,
which was empty. I immediately turned to bring him some
water from the brook that I could hear rippling through
the bushes near by, when, thinking that I was about to
leave him, he commenced crying, saying: `Don't leave me,
corporal — I can't walk.' I was soon back with the water,
when I discovered that both of his feet had been shot away
by a cannon ball. After satisfying his thirst, he looked up
into my face and said, `You don't think I will die, corporal,
do you? This man said I would not — he said the
lying in the grass near him. By his dress I recognized
him as belonging to the enemy. It appeared that he had
been shot through the bowels, and fallen near where Eddie
lay. Knowing that he could not live, and seeing the condition
of the boy, he had crawled to him, taken off his
buckskin suspenders, and corded the little fellow's legs
below the knee, and then laid down and died. While he
was telling me these particulars, I heard the tramp of cavalry
coming down the ravine, and in a moment a scout of
the enemy was upon us, and I was taken prisoner. I requested
the officer to take Eddie up in front of him, and
he did so, carrying him with great tenderness and care.
When we reached the camp of the enemy the little fellow
was dead."
"That feels like Mother's Hand."
During the last year of the conflict a young officer in a
Rhode Island battery received a fearful wound in his right
leg from a fragment of a shell. A week of dreadful pain
and hardship ensued, during which he was transported from
the front, near Richmond, to Washington. The surgeons
here, upon consultation, advised an amputation. He telegraphed
home that all was well, and composed himself to
bear whatever might be in the future, with the fortitude of
a true soldier. The operation was performed; but the
condition of the patient was critical. His constitution did
not rally after the shock, and he was carefully nursed by
one of those angels of mercy whose presence illuminated
so many of our military hospitals.
His mother, in Rhode Island, who, with the intuition of a
woman, had apprehended the extent of the danger, left
home on the receipt of the telegraph, and reached Washington
at midnight. As the surgeon had enjoined the utmost
calmness and quiet as indispensable to the wounded hero,
the mother was not allowed to see her suffering boy at
once, but sat in an adjoining room patiently waiting for
daylight and the permission of the surgeon to enter the
ward where he lay.
As the nurse sat there fanning the patient and resting
her fingers on the fluttering and feverish pulse, she was
thinking every moment of that heavy-hearted mother in
the next room, every fibre of whose heart was yearning
to come and sit where she was sitting, and lay her hand on
her boy. At length, when the ward was still and dark, she
glided out, and told his mother that she might go in very
softly and take her place; that he seemed to be sleeping, and
probably would not know the difference. Gently and without
uttering a word, she moved to his bedside, and laid her
fingers on the wrist, as the nurse had directed; but the
patient, though apparently asleep, perceived a change in the
character of the touch. Nature was too strong to be deceived:
opening his eyes, he said, "That feels like my
mother's hand. Who is this beside me? It is my mother!
Turn up the gas, and let me see mother!"
The gas was turned up. The true-hearted boy saw that
he was right, and their faces now met in a long, joyful,
sobbing embrace.
He rallied a little after she came, and seemed to try very
hard, on her account, to feel stronger. But the stump
body, was decided upon, after which he sank.
As the end approached, weeping friends told him that it
only remained to make his condition comfortable. He said
he had looked death in the face too many times to be afraid
now. He had just completed his twenty-first year, and the
third of his service in the United States army, when the
final bugle-call reached his ears, and the mother laid away
the mutilated form of her soldier boy in a sleep from which
no electrical touch of maternal love can ever waken him.
The Women of the Prairies.
A great number of the most genuine instances of heroism
and self-sacrifice occurred under circumstances that render
it impossible for the historian and the annalist to preserve
any distinct record of them. The soldier, no matter what
his regiment, or in which branch of the service he has enlisted,
whether on land or on sea, moves in the eye of the
world, and can hardly fail of due praise if he exhibits conspicuous
gallantry on the field, or uncommon bravery on
the deck of the man-of-war. But the wife and the mother,
the sister and the daughter, who have been left without protection
and without aid in the solitary cabin, in the lonesome
cottage, — what "general order" can praise their self-sacrifice?
what bulletin can herald their acts of devotion?
During the four years while the struggle continued,
two millions of men in the loyal states were subtracted
from the productive labor of the country, and for longer or
shorter periods engaged in military service. In the manufacturing
communities this deficiency could be supplied
the work that had been performed by muscle, and the millions
of Europe were separated from our shores by an ocean
that seems ever to grow narrower. But in the west it was
otherwise, for that part of our country is agricultural.
Nothing could have enabled those magnificent regions to
respond so promptly and enthusiastically to the successive
calls for men as they did, had not the "lamp of sacrifice"
burned on all those hearth-stones; had not the spirit of
Christian heroism inspired the hearts of those women of
the prairies.
In the absence of so large a number of farmers and farm
laborers, agricultural production would in many sections
have been cut short, in others almost suspended, had not the
women, with a promptness and patriotism rarely equalled
in history, volunteered to add field labor to their home
employments. "Go," said they, as from time to time the
Good President, his heart burdened with the woes of his
people, felt the necessity of calling for fresh relays of
men, "go at the country's call. We cannot, for we are
women; but our sex does not prevent us from assuming
your labors. Go, but your plough shall not rust in the
furrow where you have left it; weeds shall not choke the
corn; the potatoes will not be left to rot in the ground;
the ripened wheat shall not be abandoned in the golden
fields. With the hands that God has given us, and this
fertile soil on which we walk, though none remain with us
but boys and graybeards, neither we nor you in the army
shall suffer for lack of bread." How nobly that pledge
was redeemed is shown by the wonderfully prosperous condition
gigantic warfare.
When the scarred and swarthy veterans, the lines of
whose marches had woven a network over the entire face
of the Southern States, returned to their homes amid the
green savannas of the broad north-west, there were no
marks of neglect to be erased, no evidences of dilapidation
and decay. They found their farms in as good a condition
as when they enlisted. Enhanced prices had balanced
diminished production. Crops had been planted,
tended, and gathered, by hands that before had been all
unused to the hoe and the rake. The sadness lasted only
in those households — alas! too numerous — where no disbanding
of armies could restore the soldier to the loving
arms and the blessed industries of home.
But even these desolated families were not without those
consolations that for the noble-hearted can rob widowhood
of half its bitterness. Had they not fallen bravely? Were
not their names forever linked with great battle-fields?
And had not the cause for which they had shouldered arms,
and for which they had poured out their lives, been carried
by the united labors and sacrifices of all to a triumphant
issue and a glorious peace?
| WOMAN'S SACRIFICES. Women of the war : | |