University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

After this, for several weeks, the little vivandière led
a very active life. There were many wounded and sick
men in the hospital, who needed almost incessant care;
and the soldier nurses, overwearied and overburdened
as they were, found themselves very glad to accept the
services so eagerly offered by Dora.

In fact, so little care or pity had the child for herself,
that Mr. Brown was frequently obliged to interfere with
an authority that she never thought of resisting, and force
her to take time for rest or recreation. For regular study
there was, as yet, no opportunity; but the chaplain had
with him a few well-selected books, and was able to borrow
others, so that there was always something for Dora
either to read to herself, or to hear Mr. Brown read aloud
for her instruction or amusement. The story of King
Arthur, and that of many a knightly hero of that and
later ages, had been fully told, with such comments and
explanations as gave the child subject for thoughts and
dreams far beyond the scope of the mere narrative.

The chaplain, with delight not unmingled with a certain
awe, beheld a mind, developing beneath his teachings,

of no ordinary vigor and grasp — a mind of such activity
and constant thirst for information, that he hardly dared
keep pace with its demand, while it was protected from
undue severity by a vivid and graceful fancy.

But this fine intellect was not Dora's greatest charm in
her teacher's eyes. Mrs. Darley, although she had been
unable to give her daughter the education she had never
herself received, had labored zealously and constantly to
make her good; and these efforts, seconded by the child's
own nature, had been so successful, that to be true, self-denying,
patient, and industrious, were as inevitable with
Dora as her breath. And even Mr. Brown, a man in
whose strong nature the good often conquered the evil
only after a fierce struggle, stood more than once rebuked
before the rectitude and conscientiousness of the child,
who, in her turn, looked upon the chaplain as the incarnation
of human virtue and wisdom.

Captain Karl also was soon a fast friend and favorite
of Dora, who always greeted his approach with one of
the merry smiles that had been becoming far more frequent
upon her face than they were in the old time, when care
and sorrow had formed so large a portion of her life. To
tell the truth, the young captain and the vivandière were
quite as much playfellows as friends, and might have been
seen, in many a clear twilight, building little dams in the
brook just without the camp, or playing at ball, or even
catch-who-catch-can, upon the mountain side.

With the men Dora was a universal favorite, although,
partly in obedience to a hint from Mr. Brown, partly
from a native sense of propriety, she mingled but little
with them, and never familiarly.

It soon, however, became an established custom, that
every Sunday afternoon, as many as could gather around
her, either in the hospital tent or out of doors, collected
to listen while the child's sweet and clear voice read out
some chapters in the New Testament, and then led in a
simple hymn.

After this was over, the soldiers felt privileged to
approach, and hold a little talk with their “daughter,”
as they delighted to call her; and it was good to see how
even the coarsest of them softened his voice, and chose
his phrases as fitly as he might, to suit the ear and mind
of the grave little girl, who spoke to each so simply and
so gently, and yet impressed all with a sense of her
womanly purity and dignity.

“Arrah, thin, an' it's like `the dochter,' that the Howly
Vargin was, when she was a gurrl,” said Pat Maloney,
on one of these occasions to his neighbor, honest Sam
Ryder, who answered, with gruff emotion, —

“I don't know nothing about your holy virgin, but I
had a little sister that died when I was a boy, and `the
daughter' always makes me think of her.”

“Good night, thin, an' Hivin's blissin' on yer purty
head, Dora Darlint,” exclaimed Pat, as Dora, in passing

out, gave him her hand in turn, with a kindly, “Good
night, Maloney.”

Nor were these expressions the only proofs of the
affection felt by the regiment for its daughter.

A small tent communicating with the hospital pavilion
had been appropriated as the vivandière's quarters, and
this was almost filled with gifts of one sort and another
from Dora's six hundred or more fathers.

Not only had the tent been neatly floored by one of the
carpenters, of whom there were several, but a piece of
canvas had been nailed over the boards by way of carpet.
The bedstead, table, and chair had been manufactured and
ornamented with much labor and some taste for her express
use, and the bed was warmly piled with blankets
contributed by one and another honest fellow who “really
did not care for it at all.”

Pictures, and trinkets carved of wood or bone, hung
upon the canvas walls, or lay upon the table; and Dora
might have covered every one of her slender fingers with
the gutta percha rings, some of them inlaid with pearl or
silver, constantly bestowed upon her.

The colonel had not forgotten his promise to find a
costume for his little vivandière, but it proved to be a
matter of some difficulty to do so.

From the sutler's stores were provided a supply of
blue cloth, and thread, needles, and buttons, and Dora
shaped for herself a short, full skirt, belted sack, and

Turkish trousers; but both head and feet seemed likely
to remain bare, as neither shoes nor cap of the proper
size were to be found, or could easily be procured.

But private John Slocum had been born a Yankee, and
bred a shoemaker, and after two or three days of hard
work he brought forward a neat little pair of high balmoral
boots manufactured out of the cast-off pair of a
cavalry captain, and presented them to Dora, with a
sheepish intimation that, —

“They'll do, maybe, to keep you from stubbing your
toes off raound these ere woodsey places.”

Then private Joe Billings, who did not often like to
remember that he had been a tailor before he was a
soldier, went to work and made a jaunty little red cap
gayly trimmed with gold braid, out of some odds and
ends of finery from the officers' quarters, and as the
season advanced and the days grew chill, the same martial
tailor fashioned a short cloak of dark-blue cloth
trimmed with a broad red stripe, and fastened down the
front with military buttons, that left nothing to be desired,
either in the way of elegance or comfort.

To this costume was to be added, in time of action, a
stout leathern belt circling the trim waist of the vivandière,
and upholding a small keg of water at one side,
balanced by a flask of spirits and a tin cup at the other.
She was also provided with a bottle of pungent smelling
salts, and another of hartshorn, to be administered to men
fainting from pain and exhaustion.

She was, moreover, allowed rations from the colonel's
mess table, and might eat them in her own quarters.
It was a strange life for a little girl, but a very comfortable
and happy one.

Only one person was dissatisfied with the new order
of things; and this was Picter, who jealously felt that his
charge had been taken out of his hands, and removed far
beyond his reach. To be sure, Dora made every effort
to prove that she retained the same affection and confidence
she had always felt for her humble friend, and
often went herself to look for him, besides urging him to
come to the hospital and see her. Picter received all
advances of this sort gratefully, but incredulously.

“Don' bodder youse'f 'bout me, missy,” he would
often say. “It ain't in nater dat you don want ole
nigger chasin' roun' arter you, now dat you's got ossifers,
an' men, an' de parson hese'f, to wait 'pon ye.”

“But none of them are like you, Picter. None of
them was my mother's old friend and servant, nor it
wasn't one of them who brought me away from the
place where I was so unhappy, to this, where I am so
happy.”

“Yes, missy, I s'pecs you is. Happy 'nough now
widout ole Pic. Well, de ole feller'll go back to de pots
an' pans; ain't fit company for missy.”

Dora felt this discontent of her retainer very acutely,
and tried, whenever she could, to dispel it; but besides

Picter's own obstinacy, she was very often prevented from
seeing him by the engrossing nature of her own business.

Most of the hospital patients were now recovering
from their wounds, and were in that condition when
careful nursing and cheerful occupation were of more
importance than the surgeon's visits. At the head of
this convalescent department stood the chaplain and
Dora, not by actual appointment, but by a sort of general
consent, including their own; and both found quite
enough to fill hands, minds, and time, during the hours
to which Mr. Brown endeavored to confine their attendance,
for he wisely insisted on reserving time sufficient
for rest, exercise, and food, both for himself and his
pupil.

Among Dora's most requiring patients was a young
Kentucky artilleryman, who had been dangerously
wounded in the head by a piece of shell. For many
days his life had been despaired of; and after he began
to rally a little, it was necessary to perform a severe
operation, that completely prostrated his strength, and
left him, for more than a week, in a condition of stupor
from which it was considered doubtful if he ever aroused.
His name was Merlin, and both Dora and Mr. Brown
had taken the greatest interest in his case, and attended
him with the most unwearied care.

At last the surgeon pronounced a favorable change
to have taken place, and one day, after a long examination,

both of the wound and the general condition of the
patient, he said, —

“There, Miss Dora, I give this case into your hands
now. Nothing more is required but nursing, light food,
and an occasional tonic draught. Let me know if there
is any change, but I think he will do.”

It was, therefore, to Merlin especially, that Dora's
first visit in the morning and last at night were paid, and
he began steadily to improve. As consciousness returned,
however, a settled melancholy became apparent, and baffled
all the little arts of the young nurse to vanquish it.
In vain she read interesting stories beside his pillow, repeated
bits of camp news and rumors, or tried to draw
him into conversation. Merlin answered always respectfully
and promptly, but never questioned, or smiled, or
evinced any interest in the doings of his fellow-soldiers.

“He will never get well until he is in better spirits,”
said she, sadly, to the surgeon, who rallied her upon the
slow convalesence of her patient.

“I'm afraid he's a shirk, and don't want to go back to
quarters and rations,” said the doctor, as he passed on,
without waiting to hear Dora's eager disclaimer.

The next morning, however, as soon as she entered the
hospital, the young nurse perceived that some great change
had taken place in her languid patient. He had partially
risen, so as to lean upon one elbow, and his flushed face
and glittering eyes were turned eagerly towards the canvas

partition, that in these cold autumnal days was kept
lowered between the different tents, that, as has been explained,
were connected to form the hospital.

“What is the matter, Merlin? What do you hear?”
asked Dora, anxiously, as she hastened to his side.

“Who's that?” asked the gunner, hoarsely, as he
turned his blood-shotten eyes for a moment towards her.

“Who? What do you mean?”

“There! That voice — whose is it?”

Dora listened in her turn, and soon distinguished a
deep tone rising above the confusion of the place, in the
wild accents of delirium.

“You mean that poor fellow who is out of his head
— don't you? There! the one who is singing?”

“Yes. Who is it?” fiercely demanded Merlin.

“It is a poor rebel, who was dreadfully wounded by a
sabre cut across his forehead,” said Dora, soothingly.
“He has been moved into the next tent this morning,
because we are not going to use the third one any more
at present.”

“What's his name?” asked Merlin, in the same sharp
voice.

“We don't know. He hadn't anything marked about
him, and he hasn't been conscious since he came in.
What are you looking for? Can't I help you?”

“I want my clothes. I want something to put on
right away,” returned Merlin, impatiently, as he looked

from side to side, and pushed the bed-clothes nervously
away.

“But you mustn't; you can't be dressed for a good
many days yet. Do lie still, please do, or I shall have
to call one of the nurses,” pleaded Dora, almost tearfully,
for the man's agitation filled her with dismay, contrasting,
as it did, with the perfect apathy he had hitherto
exhibited.

“But I must, I tell you,” persisted he. “I must
know what that fellow's name is, at least. Hadn't he
anything about him with his name on it?”

“No, nothing at all.”

“Well, wasn't there anything — anything else, — I
mean anything that some of his folks might have given
him — a picture, or such?” asked Merlin, nervously,
while his wasted hand still grasped the bed-coverings, as
if determined to throw them aside.

Dora looked at him steadily, and turned a little pale.
“If you will lie down quietly, and let me cover you up,
I will tell you,” said she, decidedly.

Merlin hesitated a moment, and then sank back upon
his pillow.

“The man in there had a picture in his pocket-book, a
photograph of a young lady,” said Dora, slowly. “Do
you want to see it?”

“Yes, of course I do; right away, as quick as you
can get it!” exclaimed Merlin, imperiously.

“But I cannot get it at all, or do anything about it,
unless you will promise to lie perfectly still in bed here,
and not even ask for your clothes again until the doctor
says you may sit up,” said Dora, decidedly.

The Kentuckian muttered an oath, and tossed himself
over with his back to Dora, who stood looking pityingly,
and yet firmly, at him. As he did not stir, however, she
turned to the inmate of the next bed, and began to make
him comfortable for the day. Presently she felt her skirt
plucked from behind. Turning instantly, she found
Merlin again leaning upon his elbow, and regarding her
with a sort of impatient submission of manner.

“Say,” began he, as soon as she turned towards him,
“will you get me that picture if I won't ask for my
clothes till you're ready to let me get up?”

“You must promise, besides, to stay quietly in your
bed, and not toss about so,” stipulated Dora.

“Well, I will.”

“You promise?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will get you the picture as soon as I have
done washing Lynn's face. It won't be long.”

“Hurry up, then, for mercy's sake!” entreated the
Kentuckian, restraining the stronger expression that had
risen to his lips, out of deference to his nurse.

In a few moments, Dora, having finished bathing poor
Lynn's feverish face, tripped away to the other tent,

where she knew Mr. Brown was now to be found, and
rapidly repeating to him the events of the morning, she
asked for the photograph, which, with other property
belonging to wounded prisoners, had been placed under
the chaplain's charge.

“Here it is, since you promised it to him,” said Mr.
Brown, rather reluctantly. “But I am afraid it will
lead to mischief.”

He turned away without explanation, and Dora, slowly
returning to her patient, wondered what the chaplain
could have meant.

“She doesn't look as if she could do mischief,” thought
the child, looking at the photograph. It was the vignette
of a beautiful young girl, with a somewhat timid expression
in her large eyes, and an undecided mouth.
The curling hair was tied back from the low brow with
a ribbon, whose ends floated down upon the plump
neck.

As Dora approached Merlin's couch, he eagerly extended
his hand. She placed the picture in it, and waited
a moment for some exclamation, or remark, to show
whether the face was the one he had prepared himself to
see. But the Kentuckian uttered neither comment nor
ejaculation. Not even the lines of his face betrayed the
emotions beneath the surface. Lying perfectly motionless
upon his back, with the picture steadily held before
his eyes, he looked at it intently moment after moment,

until Dora turned to attend to her other duties. When
she returned, some time afterwards, he had not moved;
and when, an hour later, she again visited him, the picture
had disappeared, and the patient slept, or appeared
to sleep.