Chapter VI: Part 6

“I wanted you! No, ma’am; that’s a mistake; no one’s been near me since they bathed me, and gave me clean clothes--I know there hasn’t, for I watched them running all about; but none came to me, and I want so much to have my arm dressed.” And the ready tears once more began to flow.

“There is no mistake. I told you that my assistant orderly came to me in the ladies’ room, and told me that you needed me. Think again--who has been here since you were brought in?”

“Not a single soul, ma’am,--indeed, not a thing, but a dog, standing looking in my face, and wagging his tail, as if he was pitying me.”

“But a dog! Exactly; he’s my assistant orderly; he came over to me, pulled my dress, and wouldn’t rest till I came to see after you. I am surprised you speak so slightingly of poor Dick.”

Here was at once a safe and fertile theme. I entered at large upon Dick’s merits; his fondness for the men--his greater fondness, occasionally, for their dinners--his having made way with three lunches just prepared for men who were starting--(the result, probably, of having heard the old story that the surgeons eat what is intended for the men,) our finding him one day on our table with his head in a pitcher of lemonade, and how I had tried to explain to him that such was not the best way of proving his regard for his friends, the soldiers, but I feared without much effect--in short, I made a long story out of nothing, till the wardmaster arrived with his supper, saying that the doctor’s orders were that the new cases should all take something to eat before he examined their wounds. My friend had quite forgotten his own troubles in listening to Dick’s varied talents, and allowed me to give him his supper very quietly, as I found he was really too much exhausted even to raise his uninjured arm to his mouth. I had the pleasure of seeing him smile for goodbye, and having given him rather more time than I could spare, hurried away, with a promise of seeing him the next day (Sunday), for they were too ill not to be watched.

But oh! for a little more daylight! It is getting so dark, and yet I must stop and make acquaintance with each new face--or rather, I long to do so, but it will not be possible. Look at those clear blue eyes, over there--just what the French call “les yeux de velours!”--I cannot surely pass them without a word; they smile a welcome as I approach. What a contrast their owner presents to poor Stillwell, my tearful friend, whom I have just left. A sweet, bright face, clear complexion, curling light hair, and something very winning in his open, frank expression, which attracts you to him at once. Before he opens his lips I am persuaded that he possesses a cheerful spirit, ready to look on the bright side of everything.

“You don’t look as though you were suffering much; I hope you’re not badly wounded.”

What a beaming, beautiful smile, as he extends his hand to me at once!

“Oh! no; not badly, only hit in the shoulder; it’s pretty painful, but I guess I’ll be all right in a few days.”

How little could I imagine, from his words, what I found out a few days later, that I was standing at that moment by one of the very worst wounds that had come in. The surgeon of the ward told me that he considered it a most critical case, and that, had the shot gone one half inch further, it must have been certainly fatal. It seemed that Dick and I between us, had discovered the two most severely wounded men in the whole hospital. For many weeks after that they were dangerously ill, requiring close and careful watching every hour, but rewarding us in the end with the hope of perfect recovery.

“I am glad to hear it,” said I, in answer to his too sanguine view of his wound, “for you don’t look as if you had seen much sickness, and maybe you wouldn’t bear it very well.”

“I’ve never been a day in bed in my life before this, and I hardly know what to make of it. I’m an Ohio boy, used to the country and living in the open air, and I couldn’t stand being shut up here at all; it’s as bad as the Libby prison.”

Fancy my horror. Our hospital compared to the Libby prison!

“Oh! you mustn’t say that; we try to do everything here to make the confinement as easy as possible to the men, and to help them to forget that it is a hospital. I’m sure you can’t have been in the ‘Libby’ ever, have you?”

“Oh! no, indeed, never; but it seems just as bad to me to be fastened in here.”

“Well, some day, soon, I will bring you in some of our men who have been there; let them talk to you and give you their experience, and then, when you know us better, I will ask you whether you still think the same. But now I must really say good-night. I will come to the ‘prison,’ to-morrow, to see how you all are.”

“Thank you; you’ll be very welcome; and maybe,” added he, laughing, “it won’t seem so like it when I get at home here;” and once more extending his hand, he said “good-night.”

So ended the memorable week of July, 1863, which followed the glorious Gettysburg fight.

The tide of war has rolled back from our homes; the highly strung nerves are calmed; the dead sleep in the quiet graves which a people’s love has provided for them on the field of their fame; the wounded, so lately massed in our midst, are scattered; some--too few, alas!--returned, cured, to their regiments; others (the saddest part of the war) discharged from service, disabled and crippled for life; while for the remainder, listen to the words of that pale boy--as I raise his head to give him the needed stimulant, the notes of music fall on my ear.

“What is that, Henry?”

“What is that, do you ask, Miss ----? That is only some of our poor Gettysburg boys _going home_;” and I recognize the dead march, and I see the reversed arms, as the mournful train winds by.

Time has gone on; new faces, new forms, have filled the places of the old ones, and still our labors, our hopes, our Prayers, continue for our dear and bleeding country; still continues, also, our abiding faith and trust in the ultimate triumph of the right; and, leaving the event in Higher Hands, fearlessly we abide the issue.

THE END.