“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 ought 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 the 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 bye 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 deathbeds 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 know 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 bye, Ned.”
“Good bye, John, good bye!”
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 were useless now. Dan flung up the window. The first red streak of 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 ex
pression 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, that, 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.
Sources
Classic American Hero Stories: Twelve Inspirational Tales of American Heroism, edited Stephen Vincent Brennan.
Classic Civil War Stories: Twenty Extraordinary Tales of the North and South, edited by Lisa Purcell.
Classic War Stories: Thirteen Thrilling Tales from the Battlefield, edited by Lamar Underwood.
“What I Saw of Shiloh,” by Ambrose Bierce (1881).
“The Sword of the Lord and of Gideon,” by Theodore Roosevelt Jr.
“Poker and Missiles: A Pilot’s Life in Vietnam,” from Midair, by Craig K. Collins (Lyons Press, 2016).
“The Very Real George Washington,” by Henry Cabot Lodge, from Hero Tales from American History, by Henry Cabot Lodge and Theodore Roosevelt (Century Company, 1895).
“Waterloo,” by Victor Hugo, from Les Misérables (1862).
The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane (1895).
“Sniper: American Single-Shot Warriors in Iraq and Afghanistan,” by Gina Cavallaro with Matt Larsen, from the book of the same title (Lyons Press, 2010).
“The Parisian,” by Alden Brooks, from The Fighting Men (1917).
“General Custer,” by Francis Fuller Victor, from A History of the Sioux War (1881).
“The Battle of Trenton,” by Henry Cabot Lodge, from Hero Tales from American History, by Henry Cabot Lodge and Theodore Roosevelt (Century Company, 1895).
“The Fourteenth at Gettysburg” from Harper’s Weekly, November 21, 1863.
“The Brigade Classics,” “The Charge of the Light Brigade” and “The Charge of the Heavy Brigade,” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
“The Air War Over the Trenches,” by Eddie Rickenbacker, from Fighting the Flying Circus (Frederick A. Stokes, 1919).
“Nathan Hale,” by James Parton, from Captain Nathan Hale, the Martyr-Spy (1866).
“Okinawa: The Fight for Sugar Loaf Hill,” by George Feifer, from The Battle of Okinawa: The Blood and the Bomb (Lyons Press, 2001). Originally published as Tennozna: The Battle of Okinawa and the Atomic Bomb (Ticknor and Fields, 1992).
“An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” by Ambrose Bierce, from The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce (1911).
“The Battle at Fort William Henry,” by Francis Parkman, from Fort William Henry 1757 (1884).
“The Pass of Thermopylae,” by Charlotte Yonge, from A Book of Golden Deeds (1864).
“A Woman’s Wartime Journal,” by Dolly Sumner Lunt, excerpts from A Woman’s Wartime Journal: An Account of the Passage over a Georgia Plantation of Sherman’s Army on the March to the Sea, as Recorded in the Diary of Dolly Sumner Lunt (Mrs. Thomas Burge) (1918).
“Andrey and Bagration: A Rearguard Action,” by Leo Tolstoy, from War and Peace (1868).
“A Buffalo Bill Episode,” by William F. Cody, from The Life of the Hon. William F. Cody (Frank E. Bliss, 1879).
“A Night Ride of the Wounded,” by Randall Parrish, from My Lady of the North (1904).
“The Battle of Hastings,” by Charles Oman, from A History of the Art of War in the Middle Ages (1898).
“A Grey Sleeve,” by Stephen Crane, from The Little Regiment, and Other Stories of the American Civil War (1896).
“Gunga Din,” by Rudyard Kipling, from Ballads and Barrack Room Ballads (1892).
“The Saga of Crazy Horse,” by Charles A. Eastman, from Indian Heroes and Great Chieftains (Little, Brown, 1918).
“Bull Run,” by Joseph A. Altsheler, from The Guns of Bull Run (1914).
“Eight Survived,” by Douglas A. Campbell, from Eight Survived: The Harrowing Story of the USS Flier and the Only Downed World War II Submariners to Survive and Evade Capture (Lyons Press, 2010).
“Vicksburg During the Trouble,” by Mark Twain, from Life on the Mississippi (1883).
“Intensification of Suffering and Hatred,” by Phoebe Yates Pember, from A Southern Woman’s Story (1879).
“The Flag-Bearer,” by Theodore Roosevelt, from Hero Tales from American History, by Henry Cabot Lodge and Theodore Roosevelt (Century Company, 1895).
“We Die Alone,” by David Howarth, from We Die Alone: A World War II Epic of Escape and Endurance, by David Howarth (Lyons Press, 1999; originally published by Macmillan Company, 1955).
“The Trojan Horse,” by Virgil, from The Aeneid (19 BC).
“The View from a Hill,” by John Buchan, from Mr. Standfast (1919).
“A Horseman in the Sky,” by Ambrose Bierce, from Tales of Soldiers and Civilians (1891).
“A Night,” by Louisa May Alcott, from Hospital Sketches (1863).
War Stories Page 60
