 | On picket duty, and other tales |  |
4. THE DEATH OF JOHN.[1]
FROM “HOSPITAL SKETCHES.”
HARDLY was I settled again, when the inevitable bowl appeared,
and its bearer delivered a message I had expected, yet dreaded
to receive:—
“John is going, ma'am, and wants to see you, if you can come.”
“The moment this boy is asleep; tell him so, and let me know if I am
in danger of being too late.”
My Ganymede departed, and while I quieted poor Shaw, I thought of
John. He came in a day or two after the others; and, one evening,
when I entered my “pathetic room,” I found a lately emptied bed occupied
by a large, fair man, with a fine face, and the serenest eyes I ever
met. One of the earlier comers had often spoken of a friend, who had
remained behind, that those apparently worse wounded than himself
might reach a shelter first. It seemed a David and Jonathan sort of
friendship. The man fretted for his mate, and was never tired of praising
John, — his courage, sobriety, self-denial, and unfailing kindliness of
heart; always winding up with, “He's an out an' out fine feller, ma'am;
you see if he ain't.”
I had some curiosity to behold this piece of excellence, and when he
came, watched him for a night or two, before I made friends with him;
for, to tell the truth, I was a little afraid of the stately looking man,
whose bed had to be lengthened to accommodate his commanding stature;
who seldom spoke, uttered no complaint, asked no sympathy, but tranquilly
observed what went on about him; and, as he lay high upon his
pillows, no picture of dying statesman or warrior was ever fuller of real
dignity than this Virginia blacksmith. A most attractive face he had,
framed in brown hair and beard, comely featured and full of vigor, as
yet unsubdued by pain; thoughtful and often beautifully mild while
watching the afflictions of others, as if entirely forgetful of his own. His
mouth was grave and firm, with plenty of will and courage in its lines,
but a smile could make it as sweet as any woman's; and his eyes were
child's eyes, looking one fairly in the face with a clear, straightforward
glance, which promised well for such as placed their faith in him. He
seemed to cling to life, as if it were rich in duties and delights, and he
had learned the secret of content. The only time I saw his composure
disturbed was when my surgeon brought another to examine John, who
you think I shall pull through, sir?” “I hope so, my man.” And, as
the two passed on, John's eye still followed them, with an intentness
which would have won a clearer answer from them, had they seen it. A
momentary shadow flitted over his face; then came the usual serenity,
as if, in that brief eclipse, he had acknowledged the existence of some
hard possibility, and, asking nothing, yet hoping all things, left the issue
in God's hands, with that submission which is true piety.
The next night, as I went my rounds with Dr. P., I happened to ask
which man in the room probably suffered most; and, to my great surprise,
he glanced at John: —
“Every breath he draws is like a stab; for the ball pierced the left
lung, broke a rib, and did no end of damage here and there; so the poor
lad can find neither forgetfulness nor ease, because he must lie on his
wounded back or suffocate. It will be a hard struggle and a long one,
for he possesses great vitality; but even his temperate life can't save
him; I wish it could.”
“You don't mean he must die, Doctor?”
“Bless you, there's not the slightest hope for him; and you'd better
tell him so before loug; women have a way of doing such things comfortably,
so I leave it to you. He won't last more than a day or two, at
furthest.”
I could have sat down on the spot and cried heartily, if I had not learned
the wisdom of bottling up one's tears for leisure moments. Such an end
seemed very hard for such a man, when half a dozen worn-out, worthless
bodies round him were gathering up the remnants of wasted lives, to linger
on for years perhaps, burdens to others, daily reproaches to themselves.
The army needed men like John, — earnest, brave, and faithful; fighting
for liberty and justice with both heart and hand, true soldiers of the
Lord. I could not give him up so soon, or think with any patience of
so excellent a nature robbed of its fulfilment, and blundered into eternity
by the rashness or stupidity of those at whose hands so many lives
may be required. It was an easy thing for Dr. P. to say, “Tell him
he must die,” but a cruelly hard thing to do, and by no means as “comfortable”
as he politely suggested. I had not the heart to do it then,
and privately indulged the hope that some change for the better might
take place, in spite of gloomy prophecies, so, rendering my task unnecessary.
A few minutes later, as I came in again with fresh rollers,
I saw John sitting erect, with no one to support him, while the surgeon
dressed his back. I had never hitherto seen it done; for, having simpler
wounds to attend to, and knowing the fidelity of the attendant, I had
left John to him, thinking it might be more agreeable and safe; for both
strength and experience were needed in his case. I had forgotten that
the sympathetic magnetism of a woman's presence, as well as the feebler
souls about him. The Doctor's words caused me to reproach myself
with neglect, not of any real duty perhaps, but of those little cares and
kindnesses that solace homesick spirits, and make the heavy hours pass
easier. John looked lonely and forsaken just then, as he sat with bent
head, hands folded on his knee, and no outward sign of suffering, till,
looking nearer, I saw great tears roll down and drop upon the floor. It
was a new sight there; for though I had seen many suffer, some swore,
some groaned, most endured silently, but none wept. Yet it did not
seem weak, only very touching, and straightway my fear vanished, my
heart opened wide and took him in, as, gathering the bent head in my
arms, as freely as if he had been a little child, I said, — “Let me help
you bear it, John.”
Never, on any human countenance, have I seen so swift and beautiful
a look of gratitude, surprise, and comfort, as that which answered me
more eloquently than the whispered, —
“Thank you ma'am; this is right good! this is what I wanted!”
“Then why not ask for it before?”
“I didn't like to be a trouble; you seemed so busy, and I could manage
to get on alone.”
“You shall not want it any more, John.”
Nor did he; for now I understood the wistful look that sometimes followed
me, as I went out, after a brief pause beside his bed, or merely
a passing nod, while busied with those who seemed to need me more
than he, because more urgent in their demands; now I knew that to
him, as to so many, I was the poor substitute for mother, wife, or sister, and
in his eyes no stranger, but a friend who hitherto had seemed neglectful;
for, in his modesty, he had never guessed the truth. This was changed
now; and, through the tedious operation of probing, bathing, and dressing
his wounds, he leaned against me, holding my hand fast, and, if
pain wrung further tears from him, no one saw them fall but me. When
he was laid down again, I hovered about him, in a remorseful state of
mind that would not let me rest, till I had bathed his face, brushed his
“bonny brown hair,” set all things smooth about him, and laid a knot
of heath and heliotrope on his clean pillow. While doing this, he
watched me with the satisfied expression I so liked to see; and when I
offered the little nosegay, held it carefully in his great hand, smoothed
a ruffled leaf or two, surveyed and smelt it with an air of genuine delight,
and lay contentedly regarding the glimmer of the sunshine on the
green. Although the manliest man among my forty, he said, “Yes,
ma'am,” like a little boy; received suggestions for his comfort with the
quick smile that brightened his whole face; and now and then, as I
if to assure himself that I was there. Anything more natural and frank
I never saw, and found this brave John as bashful as brave, yet full of
excellences and fine aspirations, which, having no power to express
themselves in words, seemed to have bloomed into his character and
made him what he was.
After that night, an hour of each evening that remained to him was
devoted to his ease or pleasure. He could not talk much, for breath was
precious, and he spoke in whispers; but from occasional conversations,
I gleaned scraps of private history which only added to the affection and
respect I felt for him. Once he asked me to write a letter, and, as I settled
pen and paper, I said, with an irrepressible glimmer of feminine
curiosity, “Shall it be addressed to wife, or mother, John?”
“Neither, ma'am; I've got no wife, and will write to mother myself
when I get better. Did you think I was married because of this?” he
asked, touching a plain ring he wore, and often turned thoughtfully on
his finger when he lay alone.
“Partly that, but more from a settled sort of look you have, — a look
which young men seldom get until they marry.”
“I don't know that; but I'm not so very young, ma'am; thirty in May
and have been what you might call settled this ten years; for mother's
a widow; I'm the oldest child she has, and it wouldn't do for me to marry
until Lizzie has a home of her own, and Laurie's learned his trade;
for we're not rich, and I must be father to the children, and husband to
the dear old woman, if I can.”
“No doubt but you are both, John; yet how came you to go to war,
if you felt so? Wasn't enlisting as bad as marrying?”
“No, ma'am, not as I see it, for one is helping my neighbor, the other
pleasing myself. I went because I couldn't help it. I didn't want the
glory or the pay; I wanted the right thing done, and people kept saying
the men who were in earnest cught to fight. I was in earnest, the Lord
knows! but I held off as long as I could, not knowing which was my
duty; mother saw the case, gave me her ring to keep me steady, and
said `Go;' so I went.”
A short story and a simple one, but the man and the mother were portrayed
better than pages of fine writing could have done it.
“Do you ever regret that you came, when you lie here suffering so
much?”
“Never, ma'am; I haven't helped a great deal, but I've shown I was
willing to give my life, and perhaps I've got to; but I don't blame anybody,
and if it was to do over again, I'd do it. I'm a little sorry I wasn't
wounded in front; it looks cowardly to be hit in the back, but I obeyed
orders, and it don't matter in the end, I know.”
Poor John! it did not matter now, except that a shot in front might
have spared the long agony in store for him. He seemed to read the
thought that troubled me, as he spoke so hopefully when there was no
hope, for he suddenly added, —
“This is my first battle; do they think it's going to be my last?”
“I'm afraid they do, John.”
It was the hardest question I had ever been called upon to answer;
doubly hard with those clear eyes fixed on mine, forcing a truthful answer
by their own truth. He seemed a little startled at first, pondered
over the fateful fact a moment, then shook his head, with a glance at the
broad chest and muscular limbs stretched out before him: —
“I'm not afraid, but it's difficult to believe all at once. I'm so strong
it don't seem possible for such a little wound to kill me.”
Merry Mercutio's dying words glanced through my memory as he
spoke: — “'Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but
'tis enough.” And John would have said the same, could he have seen
the ominous black holes between his shoulders, he never had; and, seeing
the ghastly sights about him, could not believe his own wound more
fatal than these, for all the suffering it caused him.
“Shall I write to your mother, now?” I asked, thinking that these
sudden tidings might change all plans and purposes; but they did not;
for the man received the order of the Divine Commander to march, with
the same unquestioning obedience with which the soldier had received
that of the human one, doubtless remembering that the first led him
to life, and the last to death.
“No, ma'am; to Laurie just the same; he'll break it to her best, and
I'll add a line to her myself when you get done.”
So I wrote the letter which he dictated, finding it better than any I
had sent; for, though here and there a little ungrammatical or inelegant,
each sentence came to me briefly worded, but most expressive; full of
excellent counsel to the boy, tenderly bequeathing “mother and Lizzie”
to his care, and bidding him good-by in words the sadder for their
simplicity. He added a few lines with steady hand, and, as I sealed it,
said, with a patient sort of sigh, “I hope the answer will come in time
for me to see it;” then, turning away his face, laid the flowers against
his lips, as if to hide some quiver of emotion at the thought of such a
sudden sundering of all the dear home-ties.
These things had happened two days before; now John was dying,
and the letter had not come. I had been summoned to many death-beds
in my life, but to none that made my heart ache as it did then, since my
mother called me to watch the departure of a spirit akin to this in its
gentleness and patient strength. As I went in, John stretched out both
hands, —
“I knew you'd come! I guess I'm moving on, ma'am.”
He was; and so rapidly that, even while he spoke, over his face I saw
the gray veil falling that no human hand can lift. I sat down by him,
wiped the drops from his forehead, stirred the air about him with the
slow wave of a fan, and waited to help him die. He stood in sore need
of help, — and I could do so little; for, as the doctor had foretold, the
strong body rebelled against death, and fought every inch of the way,
forcing him to draw each breath with a spasm, and clench his hands
with an imploring look, as if he asked, “How long must I endure this,
and be still?” For hours he suffered dumbly, without a moment's respite,
or a moment's murmuring; his limbs grew cold, his face damp, his
lips white, and, again and again, he tore the covering off his breast, as
if the lightest weight added to his agony; yet through it all, his eyes
never lost their perfect serenity, and the man's soul seemed to sit therein,
undaunted by the ills that vexed his flesh.
One by one the men woke, and round the room appeared a circle of
pale faces and watchful eyes, full of awe and pity; for, though a stranger,
John was beloved by all. Each man there had wondered at his
patience, respected his piety, admired his fortitude, and now lamented
his hard death; for the influence of an upright nature had made itself
deeply felt, even in one little week. Presently, the Jonathan who so
loved this comely David came creeping from his bed for a last look and
word. The kind soul was full of trouble, as the choke in his voice, the
grasp of his hand betrayed; but there were no tears, and the farewell of
the friends was the more touching for its brevity.
“Old boy, how are you?” faltered the one.
“Most through, thank heaven!” whispered the other.
“Can I say or do anything for you anywheres?”
“Take my things home, and tell them that I did my best.”
“I will! I will!”
“Good-by, Ned.”
“Good-by, John, good-by!”
They kissed each other, tenderly as women, and so parted; for poor
Ned could not stay to see his comrade die. For a little while, there was
no sound in the room but the drip of water from a stump or two, and
John's distressful gasps, as he slowly breathed his life away. I thought
him nearly gone, and had just laid down the fan, believing its help to be
no longer needed, when suddenly he rose up in his bed, and cried out
with a bitter cry that broke the silence, sharply startling every one with
its agonized appeal, —
“For God's sake, give me air!”
It was the only cry pain or death had wrung from him, the only boon
he had asked; and none of us could grant it, for all the airs that blew
dawn was warming the gray east, a herald of the coming sun. John saw
it, and with the love of light which lingers in us to the end, seemed to
read in it a sign of hope of help, for, over his whole face there broke that
mysterious expression, brighter than any smile, which often comes to
eyes that look their last. He laid himself gently down; and, stretching
out his strong right arm, as if to grasp and bring the blessed air to his
lips in a fuller flow, lapsed into a merciful unconsciousness, which assured
us that for him suffering was forever past. He died then; for,
though the heavy breaths still tore their way up for a little longer, they
were but the waves of an ebbing tide that beat unfelt against the wreck,
which an immortal voyager had deserted with a smile. He never spoke
again, but to the end held my hand close, so close that when he was
asleep at last, I could not draw it away. Dan helped me, warning me
as he did so, that it was unsafe for dead and living flesh to lie so long
together; but though my hand was strangely cold and stiff, and four
white marks remained across its back, even when warmth and color had
returned elsewhere, I could not but be glad that, through its touch, the
presence of human sympathy, perhaps, had lightened that hard hour.
When they had made him ready for the grave, John lay in state for
half an hour, a thing which seldom happened in that busy place; but a
universal sentiment of reverence and affection seemed to fill the hearts
of all who had known or heard of him; and when the rumor of his death
went through the house, always astir, many came to see him, and I felt
a tender sort of pride in my lost patient; for he looked a most heroic
figure, lying there stately and still as the statue of some young knight
asleep upon his tomb. The lovely expression which so often beautifies
dead faces soon replaced the marks of pain, and I longed for those who
loved him best to see him when half an hour's acquaintance with Death
had made them friends. As we stood looking at him, the ward master
handed me a letter, saying it had been forgotten the night before. It
was John's letter, come just an hour too late to gladden the eyes that
had longed and looked for it so eagerly; yet he had it; for, after I had
cut some brown locks for his mother, and taken off the ring to send her,
telling how well the talisman had done its work, I kissed this good son
for her sake, and laid the letter in his hand, still folded as when I drew
my own away, feeling that its place was there, and making myself happy
with the thought, even in his solitary place in the “Government
Lot,” he would not be without some token of the love which makes life
beautiful and outlives death. Then I left him, glad to have known so
genuine a man, and carrying with me an enduring memory of the brave
Virginia blacksmith, as he lay serenely waiting for the dawn of that
long day which knows no night.
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