CHRISTMAS AT THE U.S.A. HOSPITAL, —— ——.
I promised, when we parted, dear C., that you should have some account of our Christmas doings; but the busy days have slipped by, till now, without my finding a moment to redeem that promise.
You know how we are all occupied at that time; but no matter how much there is to be done, in these days “private interests” have a different signification, and demand attention.
The morning of Christmas Eve, therefore, found —— and myself on our way to the hospital. With that ready interest which, with her, always rises to meet the emergency, even at the busiest moments, she has offered to go with me and help us in our work; and you know how it doubles my pleasure for her to do so. Several of the ladies have agreed to meet here to-day; some for the purpose of superintending the cooking for the Christmas dinner, plum-puddings, etc.; others to make and put up the greens for the Christmas decoration; we, as you may suppose, are among the latter class. Our quiet ladies’ room is quite a scene of bustle this morning; the ladies in charge for the week carrying on, or attempting to carry on, their usual duties; others flying in and out for various purposes; green wreaths strewing the floor, and vain attempts are being made to twist them into some available shape.
This confusion will never do. Nothing can be accomplished in this way. Let us go into one of the wards, where it is quiet; and soon we find ourselves seated by the stove, endeavoring to form a green sentence by covering the letters with moss and ground pine; they have been nicely cut for us by the genius of the hospital, and we are pressing into our service all the men who can sew, or rather, all who say that they can, which is sometimes quite a different affair.
But before we begin, we must go and speak to poor James, who has been so ill; he is actually sitting up; but how pale and weak he looks, and what a languid expression, as he smiles! He tells us that he hopes to be in the dining-room to-morrow, and in a few days to start for home. Ah! James, that photograph so carefully concealed beneath your pillow, peeps out occasionally, and we all know that you left a two weeks’ bride to serve your country.
He has been suffering from fever; but worse than this, he is subject to epileptic fits, which he had hoped were cured; but hard life and exposure have brought them back, and he has had several very severe attacks since he has been here. His gentle, winning manner has made him a general favorite, and we are all glad to see him better. He begs to have his chair moved up to our circle, where he can, at least, look on, while we work; and he is always sure to find plenty of ready and willing hands to do any service that he needs.
But our work must not stand still; and lo! at this crisis, we find ourselves without implements. We had supposed we were simply to twine and festoon wreaths, instead of which, or rather, in addition, we find the green must be sewed on to those thick book-binders’ board letters. Oh! why were they not pasteboard, and why have we no thimbles? But these are not the first wounds we have received in the service of our country; so, as we have a few needles, never mind, let us do our best; and, as our number is increasing,—one after another coming up “to see the fun,” and being at once enlisted in our service,—no doubt we shall accomplish the task.
The men, who are always ready to help us, are specially so to-day, when the bright spirit of the season seems to communicate itself to all.
Is there not something singularly striking in thus preparing to hail the birth of the Prince of Peace in the midst of an army hospital, where we are surrounded by all the dreadful effects of war? Surely in no other spot, save the field of battle itself, could we as fully appreciate the priceless blessings contained in that Title.
Those who cannot sew, aid us in other ways. One of our lieutenants prefers to collect the little bunches of green, and hand them to me to sew on, rather than try his hand at sewing himself; as he is busily engaged at this work, one of the men, in passing, laughingly rallies him on his occupation.
“Pretty work for a commissioned officer!”
“To oblige a lady, Horstman, is never beneath any officer, no matter what his rank. General —— himself will tell you that!”
This from me,—a word by the way,—very sure that no matter what assertion I cover by that name, it will be received by him for truth. There is something very beautiful to me in the pride and heartfelt love which the men so often express for their generals. It is this feeling of trust and confidence in their leaders which is one of the most important elements of success, and upon which victory itself often depends.
Ah! here comes M. We have been wondering where she could be, and why she did not appear. Her hands full, as usual, and stopping for a Christmas Eve greeting with each man, as she comes along. And see who she has brought in her train! Men and boys laden with green wreaths; more still? we shall have quite a bower; and look at that great tree; where can that have come from, and what can she mean it for? It has been given to her, she says, and we may use it exactly as we like best; therefore —— suggests that it shall be a Christmas tree for James, who has just announced his intention to hang up his stocking, and she proposes this in its place. We all take it up as an excellent joke, and declare he shall have it. He seems to enjoy it too, and smiles with that sweet smile, which I am sure first won his young wife’s heart, though I should be sorry that she saw it now, with that weak, languid eye and pallid brow; we must put a little color into those cheeks, before we send him home. Having nothing else to do, this busiest day of the whole year, —— promises to supply all the needful, for dressing the tree, when she returns from dinner, says goodbye, and leaves the men all in high spirits.
The work goes briskly on; some of the men have got tired and left us, but most of them are faithful still, especially my friend there,—that tall Yankee, with his crutches laid at his side. He is a New Hampshire man; and, with true Yankee perseverance, has never moved since he concluded to try his hand at “greening letters,” as he calls it. He “calculated he could do that as well as anything else, though he had never tried before,” and wonderfully has he succeeded. Many a merry laugh rings out, as the different ones hold up the results of their work to know if we have an idea “what that letter is intended for?” and truly we often find some difficulty in recognizing them, but trust their position in the sentence may be more suggestive than when they stand alone. It is tough work, and I am almost inclined to agree with one of the men, who, as he puts the last stitch to his work, starts up, exclaiming:
“Well, any man that can do that work, is fit to go back to his regiment; I’ve done nothing like it since I left the Peninsula.”
As we are hurrying on, to meet the constant demands from the dining-room, “Can’t you give us an E?” “Isn’t that A done?”—a quiet little man at my side turns to me, and says, in an under tone:
“No one thinks of the poor fellow who died here this morning,” pointing to the bed directly back of the spot where our merry group is gathered.
“Died here! To-day? Who? When?”
“Just about a couple of hours ago. A man you never saw; only brought in a few days since.”
Could it be possible that here, where we had all been so full of mirth and gayety, but a few hours since, on this very spot, on this Christmas Eve, too, a soul had passed from earth—from its vigil here—to keep the Festival—where? None knew, and none can ever know, till the Awful Day, when “the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed.”
There was a special sadness about this death. I found, upon inquiry, that the case had not been considered a serious one; that the man had even spoken of being at home on New Year’s Day; that the ladies had brought him a drink that morning, which they had prepared for him; and scarcely half an hour later, the wardmaster, in passing, had been struck by his appearance, went up to him, and found him quite dead. Apparently he had died calmly and without struggle; this seemed more probable from the fact that those in the nearest beds, even, had no idea of it; but there was a loneliness about that passing which I could not forget.
Had he felt the dark cloud coming ere he entered into its shadow? Had he longed to speak—to call—and had no power? Had he yearned to send one last message—one parting word of love—to those far-away dear ones? We may not know; and if a tear moistened those bright greens, as they lay almost upon the spot where he so late had been, was it not a type of earth, and of the constant mingling of earthly joy and sorrow, from which we may never escape long as we linger here?
“Sorrow and gladness together go wending;
Evil and good come in quick interchange;
Fair and foul fortune forever are blending;
Sunshine and cloud have the skies for their range.”
I have dropped my work, and am dwelling sadly on these thoughts, when I see one or two start up, and rush over to James. What is it? They are lifting him from his chair, and placing him upon his bed. Ah! it is one of those terrible fits; and see, four men are holding him down. Here comes the doctor; let us move away all this work, and keep him quiet. Is it our fault? Have we tired him by our noise, and thus brought it on? Oh no! the doctor is consoling; he does not at all attribute it to us; he has them often, only he must be kept quite still; and goodbye to all hopes of his Christmas dinner in the dining-room to-morrow. The usual remedies are applied, but it is a severe attack, and leaves him utterly prostrated.
We all repair to the dining-room, and here is, indeed, a scene of bustle and confusion. Ladders against the wall, men putting up the half-finished sentences, festooning the green wreaths, hanging the flag in graceful folds, so as to dispose its bright colors to the best advantage amidst the greens, hurrying in and out on various errands, and busying themselves about one scarcely can tell what, only all adding to the general confusion and excitement. Can any one wonder that no sad impression can continue where there is so much to turn the attention and divert the mind? We are conscious ourselves of its influence; and, of course, men, in whom the feeling is not a deep one, must be much more open to it.
But here is ——, with all her promised parcels for the Christmas tree; how sorry she is to hear of poor James’ fit; but we decide that it will be best to make the tree for him, and have it placed at the foot of his bed to-morrow, to atone for the loss of the dinner; not to-night, the doctor forbids all excitement at present.
And now, here is the tree, but how shall we plant it? Some suggest one mode, some another; but none take it in hand, till our ever-obliging Corning, wardmaster of our first ward, appears; prompt to do, and ready to act, he wastes no time in words, but bears off the tree, and soon returns with it firmly planted and ready for service. Thank you, Corning; what a satisfaction there is in being so promptly and pleasantly served. And now we have hands enough. —— unfolds her treasures, and wondering eyes and busy hands are soon occupied with them; and ere long the tree stretches out its green arms, laden with golden glories of gilt balls, soldiers in every conceivable costume, pocket mirrors, which may yet look upon more warlike scenes than those they now reflect,—in fact, decorations of all sorts, suspended by red, white, and blue cords, and glittering gaily in the gas light. Ah! here is an addition; thank you, Lawrence; those bright red apples, which he has just washed and polished, will have quite a fine effect, as he is hanging them among the other miscellaneous specimens which this wonderful tree produces.
We are all satisfied and delighted with it, but the great drawback is that poor James cannot see it, now that it is done; but Price, his wardmaster and faithful nurse, has promised to lift it in, and place it at the foot of his bed, in the morning, and we know that he never neglects a promise.
The Chaplain is to hold a Christmas Eve Service here, this evening at seven o’clock; so we are anxious to have everything in order; and really, it all looks very nicely, and we regard it quite complacently, as we take a final survey of our day’s work. That star, which —— brought with her, covered by kind hands at home, shines out beautifully, surmounted by the green cross; and our Lectern holds up its head, quite proud of itself in its Christmas vestments.
But now, we really must wind up, for the night has come; and with mutual good wishes for to-morrow’s enjoyment, we say good-night.
As for the day itself, I can give you little account of that, as, of course, I could not be present; but the dinner was described to me, in glowing terms, by those who were.
The turkeys, the pies, the plum-puddings; the toasts that were given and drunk with “three times three” in beer, generously given for the purpose,—in fact, everything seemed to have passed off “a merveille;” but the best part of the whole, was the orderly manner in which it was conducted—not a single case reported for the guard-house. This pleased us especially, as it seemed to prove that our efforts for the men’s enjoyment had been attended with no bad results, and to make the remembrance of our Christmas of 1862 one of the bright memories of our hospital experience.
May God grant that ere we hail its dawn again, those now in rebellion may have returned to their allegiance, and thus enable us to proclaim a blessed peace throughout the land. But there is something first. Before Peace must come Prayer. We need Prayer; the nation needs Prayer.
Do not point me to the little band of people or parishes, where the Daily Offering is made,—where throbbing hearts, and souls yearning for the safety of their loved ones, daily kneel before God’s altar, and in lowliness and penitence send up that pleading wail, which seems as though it must pierce the very Heavens, and cleave a pathway to the mercy-seat:
“O, most Powerful and Glorious Lord God, the Lord of hosts, that rulest and commandest all things; Thou sittest in the throne, judging right, and therefore we make our address to Thy Divine Majesty, in this our necessity, that Thou wouldest take the cause into Thine own hand, and judge between us and our enemies.”
And again:
“Hear us, Thy poor servants, begging mercy, and imploring Thy help; and that Thou wouldest be a defence unto us against the face of the enemy.”
Most thankful am I for this, and for all that we have, little as it is; but I am now looking at our country as a whole.
We know the South to be wrong; we know ourselves, or rather, our cause, to be right. If, then, we have right, truth, and justice on our side, why do we not succeed—why have we not succeeded?
Is it not that we have been—we are—a sinful people, pluming ourselves upon our powers, priding ourselves upon our prosperity, till we have come to look upon the fair beauty of this land, lavish in its loveliness, as a possession which is our right, and not as a loan, for the use and enjoyment of which we are bound to return the offering of grateful hearts?
Is it not that we have gone on in a suicidal career of extravagance, luxury, and dissipation, which has finally brought its own punishment upon us? Sorely did we need humbling, and sorely have we been humbled. Bitter has been our lesson, but bitterly was it needed. The thought will sometimes arise, would that the trial had come from foreign foe; would that friend had never lifted hand against friend, nor brother against brother! Had that grand rising, at the sound of Sumter’s wrong, which swelled throughout the North—had it, I say, but thrilled through our whole land with a mighty throb, till, with one heart and hand united, we had joined to defend that Flag, so treacherously assailed, where is the foe we should have feared to face—where the enemy, which, humanly speaking, we might not have conquered?
But so, the lesson had been lost. We had but gained further food for pride, further motives for self-glorification. The medicine would but have increased the disorder, the remedy added to the disease. We must acknowledge—we must recognize the Chastening Hand which is dealing with us. Where is the victory which has ever yet, as a people, sent us to our knees? Where the defeat which has ever yet been attributed to any but secondary causes? Want of reinforcements, want of supplies, want of suitable weather, want of skill in the commanding officers,—any and every want but the true one.
We send our men forth wanting the one weapon, which, springing from its scabbard, and flashing in the bright sunlight of Faith and Trust, must insure success. It is the Sword of Prayer.
“’Tis Prayer that moves the silver bowers afar;
Gains wings, and through the ever-opened door,
Swift as the image of the twinkling star,
Shows its reflection in the Ocean’s floor;
It moves the inmates of that Heavenly Shore,
As, gently rippling o’er the leafy shade,
Comes the soft, sighing gale, and passes o’er;
E’en so in Heaven, each Prayer, in secret made,
Ruffles a thousand Wings prepar’d for instant aid.”
I humbly beg pardon, dear C. You asked for some account of our Christmas festivities at the hospital, and I have been betrayed into what, I fear you will find, a tedious expression of my feelings upon the questions which have such an absorbing interest at the present time. Forgive me this once, and I will promise to spare you in future.