CHAPTER III. THE SCOURGE OF WAR
"Virginia," said Mrs. Colfax, the next morning on coming downstairs, "Iam going back to Bellegarde today. I really cannot put up with such aperson as Comyn had here to tea last night."
"Very well, Aunt Lillian. At what time shall I order the carriage?"
The lady was surprised. It is safe to say that she had never accuratelygauged the force which Virginia's respect for her elders, and affectionfor her aunt through Clarence, held in check. Only a moment since Mrs.Colfax had beheld her niece. Now there had arisen in front of her a tallperson of authority, before whom she deferred instinctively. It was notwhat Virginia said, for she would not stoop to tirade. Mrs. Colfax sankinto a chair, seeing only the blurred lines of a newspaper the girl hadthrust into her hand.
"What--what is it?" she gasped. "I cannot read."
"There has been a battle at Wilson's Creek," said Virginia, in anemotionless voice. "General Lyon is killed, for which I suppose weshould be thankful. More than seven hundred of the wounded are on theirway here. They are bringing them one hundred and twenty miles, fromSpringfield to Rollo, in rough army wagons, with scarcely anything toeat or drink."
"And--Clarence?"
"His name is not there."
"Thank God!" exclaimed Mrs. Colfax. "Are the Yankees beaten?"
"Yes," said Virginia, coldly. "At what time shall I order the carriageto take you to Bellegarde?"
Mrs. Colfax leaned forward and caught the hem of her niece's gown. "Oh,let me stay," she cried, "let me stay. Clarence may be with them."
Virginia looked down at her without pity.
"As you please, Aunt Lillian," she answered. "You know that you mayalways stay here. I only beg of you one thing, that when you haveanything to complain of, you will bring it to me, and not mention itbefore Pa. He has enough to worry him."
"Oh, Jinny," sobbed the lady, in tears again, "how can you be so cruelat such a time, when my nerves are all in pieces?"
But she did not lift her voice at dinner, which was very poor indeed forColonel Carvel's house. All day long Virginia, assisted by Uncle Ben andAunt Easter, toiled in the stifling kitchen, preparing dainties whichshe had long denied herself. At evening she went to the station atFourteenth Street with her father, and stood amongst the people, pressedback by the soldiers, until the trains came in. Alas, the heavy basketwhich the Colonel carried on his arm was brought home again. The firsthundred to arrive, ten hours in a hot car without food or water, werelaid groaning on the bottom of great furniture vans, and carted to thenew House of Refuge Hospital, two miles to the south of the city.
The next day many good women went there, Rebel and Union alike, to havetheir hearts wrung. The new and cheap building standing in the hot sunreeked with white wash and paint. The miserable men lay on the hardfloor, still in the matted clothes they had worn in battle. Those werethe first days of the war, when the wages of our passions first came toappal us. Many of the wounds had not been tended since they were dressedon the field weeks before.
Mrs. Colfax went too, with the Colonel and her niece, although shedeclared repeatedly that she could not go through with such anordeal. She spoke the truth, for Mr. Carvel had to assist her to thewaiting-room. Then he went back to the improvised wards to find Virginiabusy over a gaunt Arkansan of Price's army, whose pitiful, fever-glazedeyes were following her every motion. His frontiersman's clothes,stained with blackened blood, hung limp over his wasted body. AtVirginia's bidding the Colonel ran downstairs for a bucket of freshwater, and she washed the caked dust from his face and hands. It was Mr.Brinsmade who got the surgeon to dress the man's wound, and to prescribesome of the broth from Virginia's basket. For the first time since thewar began something of happiness entered her breast.
It was Mr. Brinsmade who was everywhere that day, answering thequestions of distracted mothers and fathers and sisters who throngedthe place; consulting with the surgeons; helping the few who knew how towork in placing mattresses under the worst cases; or again he might havebeen seen seated on the bare floor with a pad on his knee, taking downthe names of dear ones in distant states,--that he might spend his nightwriting to them.
They put a mattress under the Arkansan. Virginia did not leave him untilhe had fallen asleep, and a smile of peace was come upon his sunkenface. Dismayed at the fearful sights about her, awed by the groans thatrose on every side, she was choosing her way swiftly down the room tojoin her father and aunt in the carriage below.
The panic of flight had seized her. She felt that another little whilein this heated, horrible place would drive her mad. She was almost atthe door when she came suddenly upon a sight that made her pause.
An elderly lady in widow's black was kneeling beside a man groaning inmortal agony, fanning away the flies already gathering about his face.He wore the uniform of a Union sergeant,--dusty and splotched and torn.A small Testament was clasped convulsively in the fingers of his rightband. The left sleeve was empty. Virginia lingered, whelmed in pity,thrilled by a wonderful womanliness of her who knelt there. Her face thegirl had not even seen, for it was bent over the man. The sweetness ofher voice held Virginia as in a spell, and the sergeant stopped groaningthat he might listen:
"You have a wife?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And a child?"
The answer came so painfully.
"A boy, ma'am--born the week--before I came--away."
"I shall write to your wife," said the lady, so gently that Virginiacould scarce hear, "and tell her that you are cared for. Where does shelive?"
He gave the address faintly--some little town in Minnesota. Then headded, "God bless you, lady."
Just then the chief surgeon came and stood over them. The lady turnedher face up to him, and tears sparkled in her eyes. Virginia felt themwet in her own. Her worship was not given to many. Nobility, character,efficiency,-all were written on that face. Nobility spoke in the largefeatures, in the generous mouth, in the calm, gray eyes. Virginia hadseen her often before, but not until now was the woman revealed to her.
"Doctor, could this man's life be saved if I took him to my home?"
The surgeon got down beside her and took the man's pulse. The eyesclosed. For a while the doctor knelt there, shaking his head. "He hasfainted," he said.
"Do you think he can be saved?" asked the lady again. The surgeonsmiled,--such a smile as a good man gives after eighteen hours ofamputating, of bandaging, of advising,--work which requires a firm hand,a clear eye and brain, and a good heart.
"My dear Mrs. Brice," he said, "I shall be glad to get you permissionto take him, but we must first make him worth the taking. Another hourwould have been too late." He glanced hurriedly about the busy room, andthen added, "We must have one more to help us."
Just then some one touched Virginia's arm. It was her father.
"I am afraid we must go, dear," he said, "your aunt is gettingimpatient."
"Won't you please go without me, Pa?" she asked. "Perhaps I can be ofsome use."
The Colonel cast a wondering glance at the limp uniform, and wentaway. The surgeon, who knew the Carvel family, gave Virginia a look ofastonishment. It was Mrs. Brice's searching gaze that brought the colorto the girl's, face.
"Thank you, my dear," she said simply.
As soon as he could get his sister-in-law off to Locust Street in thecarriage, Colonel Carvel came back. For two reeking hours he stoodagainst the newly plastered wall. Even he was surprised at the fortitudeand skill Virginia showed from the very first, when she had deftlycut away the stiffened blue cloth, and helped to take off the roughbandages. At length the fearful operation was finished, and the wearysurgeon, gathering up his box, expressed with all the energy left tohim, his thanks to the two ladies.
Virginia stood up, faint and dizzy. The work of her hands had sustainedher while it lasted, but now the ordeal was come. She went down thestairs on her father's arm, and out into the air. All at once she knewthat Mrs. Brice was beside her, and had taken her by the hand.
"My dear?" she was saying, "God will reward you for this act. You havetaught many of us to-day a lesson we should have learned in our Bibles."
Virginia trembled with many emotions, but she answered nothing. Themere presence of this woman had a strange effect upon the girl,--she wasfilled with a longing unutterable. It was not because Margaret Bricewas the mother of him whose life had been so strangely blended withhers--whom she saw in her dreams. And yet now some of Stephen's traitsseemed to come to her understanding, as by a revelation. Virginia hadlabored through the heat of the day by Margaret Brice's side doing Hiswork, which levels all feuds and makes all women sisters. One briefsecond had been needful for the spell.
The Colonel bowed with that courtesy and respect which distinguishedhim, and Mrs. Brice left them to go back into the room of torment, andwatch by the sergeant's pallet. Virginia's eyes followed her up thestairs, and then she and her father walked slowly to the carriage. Withher foot on the step Virginia paused.
"Pa," she said, "do you think it would be possible to get them to let ustake that Arkansan into our house?"
"Why, honey, I'll ask Brinsmade if you like," said the Colonel. "Here hecomes now, and Anne."
It was Virginia who put the question to him.
"My dear," replied that gentleman, patting her, "I would do anythingin the world for you. I'll see General Fremont this very afternoon.Virginia," he added, soberly, "it is such acts as yours to-day that giveus courage to live in these times."
Anne kissed her friend.
"Oh, Jinny, I saw what you were doing for one of our men. What am Isaying?" she cried. "They are your men, too. This horrible war cannotlast. It cannot last. It was well that Virginia did not see the smile onthe face of the commanding general when Mr. Brinsmade at length got tohim with her request. This was before the days when the wounded arrivedby the thousands, when the zeal of the Southern ladies threatened tothrow out of gear the workings of a great system. But the General, hadhad his eye on Mr. Carvel from the first. Therefore he smiled.
"Colonel Carvel," said Mr. Brinsmade, with dignity, "is a gentleman.When he gives his word, it is sacred, sir."
"Even to an enemy," the General put in, "By George, Brinsmade, unless Iknew you, I should think that you were half rebel yourself. Well, well,he may have his Arkansan."
Mr. Brinsmade, when he conveyed the news to the Carvel house, did notsay that he had wasted a precious afternoon in the attempt to interviewhis Excellency, the Commander in-chief. It was like obtaining anaudience with the Sultan or the Czar. Citizens who had been prominentin affairs for twenty years, philanthropists and patriotic-spirited menlike Mr. Brinsmade, the mayor, and all the ex-mayors mopped their browsin one of the general's anterooms of the big mansion, and wrangled withbeardless youths in bright uniforms who were part of the chain. TheGeneral might have been a Richelieu, a Marlborough. His European notionsof uniformed inaccessibility he carried out to the letter. He wasa royal personage, seldom seen, who went abroad in the midst of aglittering guard. It did not seem to weigh with his Excellency thatthese simple and democratic gentlemen would not put up with this sort ofthing. That they who had saved the city to the Union were more or lessin communication with a simple and democratic President; that in alltheir lives they had never been in the habit of sitting idly for twohours to mop their brows.
On the other hand, once you got beyond the gold lace and the etiquette,you discovered a good man and a patriot. It was far from being theGeneral's fault that Mr. Hopper and others made money in mules andworthless army blankets. Such things always have been, and always willbe unavoidable when this great country of ours rises from the deep sleepof security into which her sons have lulled her, to demand her sword. Weshall never be able to realize that the maintenance of a standing armyof comfortable size will save millions in the end. So much for Democracywhen it becomes a catchword.
The General was a good man, had he done nothing else than encourage theWestern Sanitary Commission, that glorious army of drilled men and womenwho gave up all to relieve the suffering which the war was causing.Would that a novel--a great novel--might be written setting forth withtruth its doings. The hero of it could be Calvin Brinsmade, and a noblerhero than he was never under a man's hand. For the glory of generalsfades beside his glory.
It was Mr. Brinsmade's carriage that brought Mrs. Brice home fromher trying day in the hospital. Stephen, just returned from drillat Verandah hall, met her at the door. She would not listen to hisentreaties to rest, but in the evening, as usual, took her sewing to theporch behind the house, where there was a little breeze.
"Such a singular thing happened to-day, Stephen," she said. "It waswhile we were trying to save the life of a poor sergeant who had losthis arm. I hope we shall be allowed to have him here. He is sufferinghorribly."
"What happened, mother?" he asked.
"It was soon after I had come upon this poor fellow," she said. "I sawthe--the flies around him. And as I got down beside him to fan them awayI had such a queer sensation. I knew that some one was standing behindme, looking at me. Then Dr. Allerdyce came, and I asked him about theman, and he said there was a chance of saving him if we could only gethelp. Then some one spoke up,--such a sweet voice. It was that MissCarvel my dear, with whom you had such a strange experience when youbought Hester, and to whose party you once went. Do you remember thatthey offered us their house in Glencoe when the Judge was so ill?"
"Yes," said Stephen.
"She is a wonderful creature," his mother continued. "Such personality,such life! And wasn't it a remarkable offer for a Southern woman tomake? They feel so bitterly, and--and I do not blame them." The goodlady put down on her lap the night-shirt she was making. "I saw howit happened. The girl was carried away by her pity. And, my dear, hercapability astonished me. One might have thought that she had alwaysbeen a nurse. The experience was a dreadful one for me--what mustit have been for her. After the operation was over, I followed herdownstairs to where she was standing with her father in front of thebuilding, waiting for their carriage. I felt that I must say somethingto her, for in all my life I have never seen a nobler thing done. When Isaw her there, I scarcely knew what to say. Words seemed so inadequate.It was then three o'clock, and she had been working steadily in thatplace since morning. I am sure she could not have borne it much longer.Sheer courage carried her through it, I know, for her hand trembled sowhen I took it, and she was very pale. She usually has color, I believe.Her father, the Colonel, was with her, and he bowed to me with suchpoliteness. He had stood against the wall all the while we had worked,and he brought a mattress for us. I have heard that his house iswatched, and that they have him under suspicion for communicatingwith the Confederate leaders." Mrs. Brice sighed. "He seems such a finecharacter. I hope they will not get into any trouble."
"I hope not, mother," said Stephen.
It was two mornings later that Judge Whipple and Stephen drove to theIron Mountain depot, where they found a German company of Home Guardsdrawn up. On the long wooden platform under the sheds Stephencaught sight of Herr Korner and Herr Hauptmann amid a group of theircountrymen. Little Korner came forward to clasp his hands. The tears ranon his cheeks, and he could not speak for emotion. Judge Whipple, grimand silent, stood apart. But he uncovered his head with the others whenthe train rolled in. Reverently they entered a car where the pine boxeswere piled one on another, and they bore out the earthly remains ofCaptain Carl Richter.
Far from the land of his birth, among those same oaks on Bloody Hillwhere brave Lyon fell, he had gladly given up his life for the newcountry and the new cause he had made his own.
That afternoon in the cemetery, as the smoke of the last salute to ahero hung in the flickering light and drifted upward through thegreat trees, as the still air was yet quivering with the notes of thebugle-call which is the soldiers requiem, a tall figure, gaunt and bent,stepped out from behind the blue line of the troops. It was that ofJudge Whipple. He carried in his hand a wreath of white roses--the firstof many to be laid on R
ichter's grave.
Poor Richter! How sad his life had been! And yet he had not filled itwith sadness. For many a month, and many a year, Stephen could not lookupon his empty place without a pang. He missed the cheery songs and theearnest presence even more than he had thought. Carl Richter,--as hisfather before him,--had lived for others. Both had sacrificed theirbodies for a cause. One of them might be pictured as he trudged withFather Jahn from door to door through the Rhine country, or shoulderingat sixteen a heavy musket in the Landwehr's ranks to drive the tyrantNapoleon from the beloved Fatherland Later, aged before his time,his wife dead of misery, decrepit and prison-worn in the service of athankless country, his hopes lived again in Carl, the swordsman of Jena.Then came the pitiful Revolution, the sundering of all ties, the elderman left to drag out his few weary days before a shattered altar. InCarl a new aspiration had sprung up, a new patriotism stirred. His, too,had been the sacrifice. Happy in death, for he had helped perpetuatethat great Union which should be for all time the refuge of theoppressed.
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