CHAPTER XXIV.
"When we remember how they died-- In dark ravine and on the mountain-side,... How their dear lives were spent By lone lagoons and streams, In the weary hospital tent,... ....it seems Ignoble to be alive!"
--THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
The three nurses travelled southward by railway, steamboat, and wagon.On the evening of the third day they came to the first hospital, havingbeen met at the river by an escort, and safely guided across a countryfair with summer and peaceful to the eye, but harassed by constantskirmishing--the guerrilla warfare that desolated that border during theentire war. The houses they passed looked home-like and quiet; if thehorses had been stolen and the barns pillaged, at least nothing of itappeared in the warm sunshine of the still August day. At the door ofthe hospital they were welcomed cordially, and within the hour they wereat work, Anne timidly, the others energetically. Mary Crane had theworst cases; then followed Mrs. Barstow. To Anne was given what wascalled the light work; none of her patients were in danger. The men herehad all been stricken down by fever; there were no wounded. During thenext day and evening, however, stories began to come to the little post,brought by the country people, that a battle had been fought farther upthe valley toward the mountains, and that Hospital Number Two was filledwith wounded men, many of them lying on the hard floor because therewere not beds enough, unattended and suffering because there were nonurses. Anne, who had worked ardently all day, chafing and rebelling inspirit at the sight of suffering which could have been soothed by a fewof the common luxuries abundant in almost every house in Weston, feltherself first awed, then chilled, by this picture of far worse agonybeyond, whose details were pitilessly painted in the plain rough wordsof the country people. She went to the door and looked up the valley.The river wound slowly along, broad, yellow, and shining; it came fromthe mountains, but from where she stood she could see only round-toppedhills. While she was still wistfully gazing, a soldier on horseback rodeup to the door and dismounted; it was a messenger from Number Two,urgently asking for help.
"Under the circumstances, I do not see how I can refuse," said thesurgeon of Number One, with some annoyance in his tone, "because none ofmy men are wounded. People never stop to think that fever is equallydangerous. I was just congratulating myself upon a little satisfactorywork. However, I shall have to yield, I suppose. I can not send you all;but I ought to spare two, at least for some days. Mary Crane of coursecan do the most good; and as Miss Douglas can not be left here alone,perhaps it would be best that she should go with Mary."
"You retain Mrs. Barstow here?" asked Anne.
"Yes; I have, indeed, no choice. _You_ are too young to be retainedalone. I suppose you are willing? (Women always are wild for a change!)Make ready, then; I shall send you forward to-night." The surgeon ofNumber One was a cynic.
At nine o'clock they started. The crescent of a young moon showed itselfthrough the light clouds, which, low as mist, hung over the valley.Nothing stirred; each leaf hung motionless from its branchlet as theypassed. Even the penetrating sing-song chant of the summer insects washushed, and the smooth river as they followed its windings made nomurmur. They were in a light wagon, with an escort of two mounted men.
"If you go beyond Number Two, you'll have to take to horseback, Ireckon," said their driver, a countryman, who, without partisan feelingas to the two sides of the contest, held on with a tight grip to hishorses, and impartially "did teaming" for both.
"Is there still another hospital beyond?" inquired Anne.
"Yes, there's Peterson's, a sorter hospital; it's up in the mountains.And heaps of sick fellers there too, the last time I was up."
"It does not belong to this department," said Mary Crane.
"I reckon they suffer pooty much the same, no matter where they belong,"replied the driver, flicking the wheel reflectively with his whip-lash."There was a feller up at Number Two the other day as hadn't any faceleft to speak of; yet he was alive, and quite peart."
Anne shuddered.
"There now, hold up, won't you?" said Mary Crane. "This young lady ain'ta real nurse, as I am, and such stories make her feel faint."
"If she ain't a real nurse, what made her come?" said the man, glancingat Anne with dull curiosity.
"Twas just goodness, and the real downright article of patriotism, Iguess," said the hearty nurse, smiling.
"Oh no," said Anne; "I was lonely and sad, and glad to come."
"It _doos_ kinder rouse one up to see a lot of men hit in all sorts ofways, legs and arms and everything flying round," remarked the driver,as if approving Anne's selection of remedies for loneliness.
They reached Number Two at dawn, and found the wounded in rows upon thefloor of the barn dignified by the name of hospital. There had been noattempt to classify them after the few beds were filled. One poor tornfragment of humanity breathed his last as the nurses entered, another anhour later. Mary Crane set herself to work with ready skill; Anne, aftergoing outside two or three times to let her tears flow unseen over thesorrowful sights, was able to assist in taking care of two kinds ofcases--those who were the least hurt and those who were beyond hope, theslightly wounded and the dying. One man, upon whose face was the grayshadow of death, asked her in a whisper to write a letter for him. Shefound paper and pen, and sat down beside the bed to receive his farewellmessage to his wife and children. "And tell little Jim he must grow upand be a comfort to his mother," he murmured; and then turning his quietgaze slowly upon the nurse: "His mother is only twenty-two years oldnow, miss. I expect she'll feel bad, Mary will, when she hears." Pooryoung wife! The simple country phraseology covered as much sorrow as thefinest language of the schools. During the night the man died.
The new nurses remained at Number Two six days. Anne's work consistedprincipally in relieving Mary Crane at dawn, and keeping the watchthrough the early morning hours while she slept; for the head surgeonand Mary would not allow her to watch at night. The surgeon had twoassistants; with one of these silent old men (they were bothgray-haired) she kept watch while the sun rose slowly over thehill-tops, while the birds twittered, and the yellow butterflies camedancing through the open doors and windows, over the heads of the poorhuman sleepers. But Number Two had greater ease now. The hopelesslywounded were all at rest, their sufferings in this life over. Those whowere left, in time would see health again.
On the seventh day a note came to the surgeon in charge from thetemporary hospital at Peterson's Mill, asking for medicines. "If you canpossibly spare us one or two nurses for a few days, pray do so. In allmy experience I have never been so hard pushed as now," wrote the othersurgeon. "The men here are all down with the fever, and I and myassistant are almost crazed with incessant night-work. If we could berelieved for one night even, it would be God's charity."
The surgeon of Number Two read this note aloud to Anne as they stood bya table eating their hasty breakfast. "It is like the note you sent tous at Number One," she said.
"Oh no; that was different, _I_ never send and take away other people'snurses," said Dr. Janes, laughingly.
"I should like to go," she said, after a moment.
"You should like to go? I thought you were so much interested here."
"So I am; but after what I have seen, I am haunted by the thought thatthere may be worse suffering beyond. That is the reason I came here. Butthe men here are more comfortable now, and those who were sufferinghopelessly have been relieved forever from earthly pain. If we are notneeded, some of us ought to go."
"But if we pass you on in this way from post to post, we shall get youentirely over the mountains, and into the Department of the Potomac,Miss Douglas. What you say is true enough, but at present I refuse. Isimply can not spare you two. If they should send us a nurse fromRivertown as they promised, we might get along without you for a while;but not now. Charity, you know, begins at home."
Anne sighed, but acquiesced. The surgeon knew best. But during that day,not only d
id the promised nurse from the Rivertown Aid Society arrive,but with her a volunteer assistant, a young girl, her face flushed withexaltation and excitement over the opportunity afforded her to help andcomfort "our poor dear wounded heroes." The wounded heroes were notpoetical in appearance; they were simply a row of ordinary sick men,bandaged in various ways, often irritable, sometimes profane; theirgrammar was defective, and they cared more for tobacco than for texts,or even poetical quotations. The young nurse would soon have her romancerudely dispelled. But as there was good stuff in her, she would douseful work yet, although shorn of many illusions. The other woman was aprofessional nurse, whose services were paid for like those of MaryCrane.
"_Now_ may we go?" said Anne, when the new nurse had been installed.
Dr. Janes, loath to consent, yet ashamed, as he said himself, of his owngreediness, made no long opposition, and the countryman with thenon-partisan horses was engaged to take them to Peterson's Mill. Forthis part of the road no escort was required. They travelled in thewagon for ten miles. Here the man stopped, took the harness from thehorses, replaced it with two side-saddles which he had brought with him,drew the wagon into a ravine safely out of sight, effaced the trace ofthe wheels, and then wiping his forehead after his exertions, announcedthat he was ready. Anne had never been on horseback in her life. MaryCrane, who would have mounted a camel imperturbably if it came into theline of her business, climbed up sturdily by the aid of a stump, andannounced that she felt herself "quite solid." The horse seemed to agreewith her. Anne followed her example, and being without physicalnervousness, she soon became accustomed to the motion, and even began toimagine how exhilarating it would be to ride rapidly over a broad plain,feeling the wind on her face as she flew along. But the two old brownhorses had no idea of flying. They toiled patiently every day, andsometimes at night as well, now for one army, now for the other; butnothing could make them quicken their pace. In the present case theywere not asked to do it, since the road was but a bridle-path throughthe ravines and over the hills which formed the flank of the mountainsthey were approaching, and the driver was following them on foot. Theascents grew steeper, the ravines deeper and wilder.
"I no longer see the mountains," said Anne.
"That's because you're in 'em," answered the driver.
At night-fall they reached their destination. It was a small mountainmill, in a little green valley which nestled confidingly among the wildpeaks as though it was not afraid of their roughness. Within were thefever patients, and the tired surgeon and his still more tired assistantcould hardly believe their good fortune when the two nurses appeared.The assistant, a tall young medical student who had not yet finishedgrowing, made his own bed of hay and a coverlet so hungrily in a duskycorner that Anne could not help smiling; the poor fellow was fairlygaunt from loss of sleep, and had been obliged to walk up and downduring the whole of the previous night to keep himself awake. Thesurgeon, who was older and more hardened, explained to Mary Crane thecondition of the men, and gave her careful directions for the night;then he too disappeared. Anne and Mary moved about softly, and wheneverything was ready, sat down on opposite sides of the room to keep thevigil. If the men were restless, Mary was to attend to them; Anne wasthe subordinate, merely obeying Mary's orders. The place was dimlylighted by two candles set in bottles; the timbers above were festoonedwith cobwebs whitened with meal, and the floor was covered with its fineyellow dust. A large spider came slowly out from behind a beam near by,and looked at Anne; at least she thought he did. He was mealy too, andshe fell to wondering whether he missed the noise of the wheel, andwhether he asked himself what all these men meant by coming in and lyingdown in rows upon his floor to disturb his peacefulness. At sunrise thesurgeon came in, but he was obliged to shake the student roughly beforehe could awaken him from his heavy slumber. It was not until the thirdday that the poor youth lost the half-mad expression which had shone inhis haggard face when they arrived, and began to look as though he wascomposed of something besides big jaws, gaunt cheeks, and sunken eyes,which had seemed to be all there was of him besides bones when theyfirst came.
The fever patients at Peterson's Mill were not Western men, like theinmates of Number One and Number Two; they belonged to two New Yorkregiments. Mary Crane did excellent work among them, her best; hersystematic watchfulness, untiring vigilance, and strict rules shook thehold of the fever, and in many cases routed the dismal spectre, andbrought the victims triumphantly back to hope of health again.
One morning Anne, having written a letter for one of the men, wasfanning him as he lay in his corner; the doors were open, but the airwas sultry. The man was middle-aged and gaunt, his skin was yellow andlifeless, his eyes sunken. Yet the surgeon pronounced him out of danger;it was now merely a question of care, patience, and nourishment. Thepoor mill-hospital had so little for its sick! But boxes from the Northwere at last beginning to penetrate even these defiles; one had arrivedduring the previous night, having been dragged on a rude sledge overplaces where wheels could not go, by the non-partisan horses, which werenow on their patient way with a load of provisions to a detachment ofConfederates camped, or rather mired, in the southern part of thecounty. The contents of that box had made the mill-hospital glad; theyellow-faced skeleton whom Anne was fanning had tasted lemons at last,and almost thought he was in heaven. Revived and more hopeful, he hadbeen talking to his nurse. "I should feel easier, miss, if I knew justwhere our captain was. You see, there was a sort of a scrimmage, andsome of us got hurt. He wasn't hurt, but he was took down with thefever, and so bad that we had to leave him behind at a farm-house. AndI've heard nothing since."
"Where was he left--far from here?"
"No; sing'lerly enough, 'twas the very next valley to this one. _We_went in half a dozen directions after that, and tramped miles in themud, but he was left there. We put him in charge of a woman, who _said_she'd take care of him, but I misdoubt her. She was a meaching-lookingcreature."
"Probably, then, as you have heard nothing, he has recovered, and iswith his regiment again," said Anne, with the cheerful optimism which ispart of a nurse's duty.
"Yes, miss. And yet perhaps he ain't, you know. I thought mebbe you'dask the surgeon for me. I'm only a straggler here, anyway; the othersdon't belong to my regiment. Heathcote was the name; Captain WardHeathcote. A city feller he was, but wuth a heap, for all that."
What was the matter with the nurse that she turned so pale? And now shewas gone! And without leaving the fan too. However, he could hardly haveheld it. He found his little shred of lemon, lifted it to his dry lips,and closed his eyes patiently, hardly remembering even what he had said.
Meanwhile Anne, still very pale, had drawn the surgeon outside the door,and was questioning him. Yes, he knew that an officer had been left ata farm-house over in the next valley; he had been asked to ride over andsee him. But how could he! As nothing had been heard from him since,however, he was probably well by this time, and back with his regimentagain.
"Probably"--the very word she had herself used when answering thesoldier. How inactive and cowardly it seemed now! "I must go across tothis next valley," she said.
"My dear Miss Douglas!" said Dr. Flower, a grave, portly man, whoseideas moved as slowly as his small fat-encircled eyes.
"I know a Mr. Heathcote; this may be the same person. The Mr. HeathcoteI know is engaged to a friend of mine, a lady to whom I am muchindebted. I must learn whether this officer in the next valley is he."
"But even if it is the same man, no doubt he is doing well over there.Otherwise we should have heard from them before this time," said thesurgeon, sensibly.
But Anne did not stop at sense. "It is probable, but not certain. Theremust be no room for doubt. If _you_ will ride over, I will stay.Otherwise I must go."
"I can not leave; it is impossible."
"Where can I procure a horse, then?"
"I do not think I ought to allow it, Miss Douglas. It is nearly fifteenmiles to the next valley; of course you can not go alone, and
I can notspare Mary Crane to go with you." The surgeon spoke decidedly; he haddaughters of his own at home, and felt himself responsible for thisyoung nurse.
Anne looked at him. "Oh, do help me!" she cried, with an outburst ofsudden emotion. "I must go; even if I go alone, and walk every step ofthe way, I must, must go!"
Dr. Caleb Flower was a slow man; but anything he had once learned heremembered. He now recognized the presence of what he called "one ofthose intense impulses which make even timid women for the time beinginflexible as adamant."
"You will have to pay largely for horses and a guide," he said, inorder to gain time, inwardly regretting meanwhile that he had not thepower to tie this nurse to her chair.
"I have a little money with me."
"But even if horses are found, you can not go alone; and, as I saidbefore, I can not spare Mary."
"Why would not Diana do?" said Anne.
"Diana!" exclaimed Dr. Flower, his lips puckering as if to form a longwhistle.
Diana was a middle-aged negro woman, who, with her husband, July, livedin a cabin near the mill, acting as laundress for the hospital. She wasa silent, austere woman; in her there was little of thelight-heartedness and plenitude of person which generally belong to herrace. A devout Baptist, quoting more texts to the sick soldiers thanthey liked when she was employed in the hospital, chanting hymns in alow voice while hanging out the clothes, Diana had need of herausterity, industry, and leanness to balance July, who was the mostlight-hearted, lazy, and rotund negro in the mountains.
"But you know that Mary Crane has orders not to leave you?" said Dr.Flower.
"I did not know it."
"Yes; so she tells me. The ladies of the Aid Society who sent herarranged it. And I wish with all my heart that our other young nurseswere as well taken care of!" added the surgeon, a comical expressioncoming into his small eyes.
"On ordinary occasions I would not, of course, interfere with theseorders," said Anne, "but on this I must. You must trust me with Diana,doctor--Diana and July. They will take good care of me."
"I suppose I shall _have_ to yield, Miss Douglas. But I regret, regretexceedingly, that I have not full authority over you. I feel itnecessary to say formally that your going is against my wishes and myadvice. And now, since you _will_ have your own way in any case, I mustdo what I can for you."
An hour later, two mules were ascending the mountain-side, following anold trail; Anne was on one, the tall grave Diana on the other. Julywalked in front, with his gun over his shoulder.
"No danjah hyah," he assured them volubly; "soldiers doan' come up disyer way at all. Dey go draggin' 'long in de mud below always; seem tolike 'em."
But Anne was not thinking of danger. "Could we not go faster by theroad?" she asked.
"'Spec's we could, miss. But wudn't darst to, ef I was you."
"No, no, miss," said Diana. "Best keep along in dese yere woods; dey'ssafe."
The hours were endless. At last it seemed to Anne as if they were notmoving at all, but merely sitting still in their saddles, while acontinuous procession of low trees and high bushes filed slowly pastthem, now pointing upward, now slanting downward, according to thenature of the ground. In reality they were moving forward, crossing aspur of the mountain, but so dense was the foliage of the thicket, andso winding the path, that they could not see three feet in anydirection, and all sense of advance was therefore lost. Anne fell into amental lethargy, which was troubled every now and then by that strangesense of having seen particular objects before which occasionally hauntsthe brain. Now it was a tree, now a bird; or was it that she had knownJuly in some far-off anterior existence, and that he had kicked a stonefrom his path in precisely that same way?
It was late twilight when, after a long descent still shrouded in theinterminable thicket, the path came out suddenly upon a road, and Anne'seyes seemed to herself to expand as the view expanded. She saw a valley,the gray smoothness of water, and here and there roofs. July had stoppedthe mules in the shadow.
"Can you tell me which house it mought be, miss?" he asked, in a low,cautious tone.
"No," replied Anne. "But the person I am trying to find is namedHeathcote--Captain Heathcote. We must make inquiries."
"JULY WALKED IN FRONT, WITH HIS GUN OVER HISSHOULDER."]
"Now do be keerful, miss," urged July, keeping Anne's mule back."I'll jes' go and peer roun' a bit. But you stay hyar with Di."
"Yes, miss," said Diana. "We'll go back in de woods a piece, and wait.July'll fin' out all about 'em."
Whether willingly or unwillingly, Anne was obliged to yield; the twowomen rode back into the woods, and July stole away cautiously upon hiserrand.
It was ten o'clock before he returned; Anne had dismounted, and waswalking impatiently to and fro in the warm darkness.
"Found 'em, miss," said July. "But it's cl'ar 'cross de valley.Howsomever, valley's safe, dey say, and you can ride right along ober."
"Was it Mr. Heathcote?" said Anne, as the mules trotted down across-road and over a bridge, July keeping up with a long loping run.
"Yes, miss; Heathcote's de name. I saw him, and moughty sick he looked."
"What did he say?"
"Fever's in him head, miss, and didn't say nothing. Senses clean donegone."
Anne had not thought of this, it changed her task at once. He would notknow her; she could do all that was necessary in safety, and then gounrecognized away. "What will he say?" she had asked herself a thousandtimes. Now, he would say nothing, and all would be simple and easy.
"Dis yere's de place," said July, pausing.
It was a low farm-house with a slanting roof; there was a light in thewindow, and the door stood open. Anne, springing from her saddle, andfollowed by Diana, hastened up the little garden path. At first thereseemed to be no one in the room into which the house door opened; then aslight sound behind a curtain in one corner attracted her attention, andgoing across, she drew aside the drapery. The head moving restlessly toand fro on the pillow, with closed eyes and drawn mouth, was that ofWard Heathcote.
She spoke his name; the eyes opened and rested upon her, but there wasno recognition in the glance.
"Bless you! his senses has been gone for days," said the farmer's wife,coming up behind her and looking at her patient impartially. "He don'tknow nobody no more'n a day-old baby!"
Anne: A Novel Page 24