THE RETURN TO THE REGIMENT.
A bright, sunshiny week. Moral sunshine, I mean; for like St. Peter’s, at Rome, our hospital may be said to have “an atmosphere of its own”—our brightness or dulness being in a great measure dependent upon the state of our patients. Deaths, or very severe cases of illness, naturally have their effect in casting a shadow on everything around; but at present, most fortunately, we have nothing of the kind; and our principal grief (though in a very mild form) has been from the daily partings caused by the return of our men to their regiments; which, from some unknown cause, seems to have been the sole business of the last few days. The “Hegira” has been going on steadily through the whole week, and we have been busily occupied in helping to stow treasures into impossible spaces in knapsacks, slipping in some little contribution of our own, to call up, perhaps, a smile of surprise when opened far from here; in putting up lunches for the travellers—for it has happened that some of our brave boys have fainted on the way from exhaustion produced by delay in getting their meals; therefore, by the surgeon’s orders, they are always provided when they start—and finally, in bidding them “Goodbye, and God speed!”
This returning to regiments has amounted to an epidemic this week; the contagion is spreading rapidly, and it is very plain that Dame Example has, in this case, been exerting herself for good. She has taken some of our chronic cases by the hand, lifted them out of bed, and made them feel that effort and firm resolve will do more for them than yielding to the languor of a slow convalescence. One may ask, “Is it, then, at the option of the men, when they shall return to their regiments?”
“Most certainly not.”
“Does not the surgeon decide that point?”
“Most certainly he does.”
The surgeon of each ward makes out his list of men fit for service, and hands it to the surgeon in charge, who in his turn examines the men so reported and returns them to their different posts; but, as we all know how much the mind has to do with the body, men who have seemed quite unfit for duty, often, under the stimulus of one of these departures, rouse themselves, make an effort, and find that a little exertion was the only thing needed to fit them for their work. But, on the other hand, this strong desire sometimes carries them too far; a case in point occurred this morning.
“Why, Shaw, my man! out of bed to-day? I’m glad to see you up; you’ll soon be off, with the other boys.”
This, from the cheerful voice of one of our surgeons, to a man who, from a long fever, had been too feeble, for many months, to do more than sit up in bed for a short time.
“That’s just it, doctor; Pat’s going to-day, and I can’t let him go without me. I think I could bear it, maybe. Won’t you let me try?”
I noticed a slight look of surprise on the doctor’s face; he pressed his finger on the man’s pulse, was silent for a few moments, and then said, kindly:
“Perhaps you can go with the next lot; stay out of bed, to-day; try to walk a little about the ward; eat more, and I’ve no doubt you can go back soon; but we should have you back on our hands, were we to send you to-day.”
“But Pat, doctor? You see we’re from the same town; he’s young,—only a slip of a boy—and I promised his mother I’d see to him. I did let him get hit, to be sure, but it wasn’t much to signify; my fever was a good bit worse; we were brought here together, and I’m bound to leave when he leaves, whether I can shoulder a musket or not.”
How glad I was that it happened to be just that particular surgeon to whom he made his appeal; for it must be admitted, even in this pattern hospital, that skill and sympathy, power and patience, knowledge and kindliness, are not always combined; but in this instance I was very sure the decision would be given (whatever it might be) in a manner which could not offend; nor was I disappointed.
“Well, my friend, if you had told me that you had kept Pat from getting hit, I might have taken it into consideration, whether, for the sake of Pat’s mother, it might not be my duty to return a man to his regiment who can’t walk across this hospital; but as, by your own account, you let him get hit, I think you’ll have to trust him without you, and wait here till you’re a little stronger;” and kindly patting him on the shoulder, he laughingly turned off.
Poor Shaw! It was a sense of duty—certainly not any feeling of ability to go—which led to the proposition; for as the hope departed, his strength went with it. He attempted to rise from his chair at the side of the bed, tottered, and would have fallen; but I saw it, sprang forward, caught him, and threw him backward on the bed, knowing I had not strength to support him.
“I didn’t mean to knock you down, Shaw, though it looks a good deal like it,” said I, as there was a general laugh, amongst those nearest to him, who witnessed the proceeding.
No answer. The effort had been too much for him—he had fainted. I called an orderly to bring me water quickly, and bathed his temples from the cologne bottle in my pocket, but he did not revive.
“What’s the fuss?” said one, coming up behind me.
“Miss —— has knocked the breath out of Shaw, that’s all.”
“And he’s knocked the color out of her; she’s whiter than he is.”
“Don’t talk; get me some water,” said I, hastily.
“La! miss, you’re not really minding, are you? He always has them turns when he tries to sit up; and he’s gone a good bit, and we don’t mind, he’ll come round; he’s been fretting at little Pat, there, going without him, and wanted to go back to his regiment with him. Fine hand at a march, wouldn’t you be, eh, Shaw?” said he, as the latter opened his eyes.
With rough kindness, he put his hand under Shaw’s head, raised it, and held the water to his lips. Shaw roused himself, looked round, and seemed gradually recalling what had occurred.
“Drink, old fellow! and you’ll soon come round. It’s my advice to you, to stay in your bed till you’re fit to get out of it; you ought to be ashamed to make a lady look like that.”
“Be quiet, Gilman,” said I; “I’m not frightened at all; I’ve seen worse sights here than a fainting man; it was only the effort of suddenly throwing him backward, which I felt for the moment.”
But I have no doubt Gilman’s rebuke was of far more service to Shaw than my ready sympathy would have been; for it roused him, and diverted his mind from his own sorrows. He did not at all know what he had done; but was profuse in bewildered apologies for some unknown wrong to me, which he seemed to feel convinced that he had committed; although the “how, why, or what” was wrapped in mystery. I soon satisfied his mind on that point, and then, more guardedly, touched upon “Pat;” promised to see to his comfort as far as possible; give him good advice as well as good food,—little doubting which would be the more welcome,—and finally, promising Shaw to return as soon as they were off, I hurried away, fearing I was already too late to say goodbye.
These partings are brighter things for those who go, than for those who remain; it is as true here, as in other cases, that “Les peines du départ sont pour celui qui reste.” The bustle, the excitement of getting off, the hope of service, the prospect of change of scene, make the going something pleasant, even to those whose patriotism is not at fever heat; while, for those who remain, the sight of others going, the consciousness of their own inability thus more painfully forced upon their minds, the sense of confinement, make the hours after one of these departures a somewhat sad affair, and we have to exert all our powers to restore cheerfulness.
A bustling scene meets me at the door of our room. A busy group is crowded there; some kneeling on the floor, strapping knapsacks and blankets; some jumping into the well known blue overcoats, which have enjoyed a profounder rest than their owners have done since their entrance into the hospital; some settling their caps well down over their eyes, as though cap and “caput” were never again to part company; while some (yes! they really have,) have begun to say goodbye. M. calls me, and I hurriedly enter.
“They’re going; you’ll be too late to see them off.”
“Hurrah, boys! Come on. We’re off. Goodbye, ladies! We won’t forget you. If ever the rebs come here, send for us; we’ll stand by you, and fight for you, too.”
“Goodbye, ma’am, if I get hit I hope they’ll send me here.”
“We’ve had a bully time here, and we’re proper sorry to go back. ‘Salt horse’ and ‘hard tack’ will come pretty hard, after all your nice little messes. Goodbye, ladies, and thank you kindly for all you’ve done for us.”
Such are the parting words, rough it may be, but coming from the heart, and therefore far more valuable than the elegant insincerity of more polished partings. But as character is shown in every action of life, we may easily detect the difference of nature even in their mode of saying goodbye. One comes forward with frank smile, and hand extended, his whole soul beaming from his honest eyes; he is glad to have known you, somewhat sorry to leave you, but so very happy to be off, that there is little room for any other feeling; and you take leave of him with satisfaction, sure that his contented nature will adapt itself to whatever circumstances may surround him. Another comes up really sorry to go, but thinking it beneath a soldier’s dignity to show feeling; he therefore tries to assume a perfectly indifferent air, but like everything assumed, it sits ill upon him, and we all know that in his heart “sober Sam,” as the boys nickname him, is more sorry to leave us than he cares to acknowledge. A third shocks our patriotism by openly declaring he don’t want to go; he don’t care to fight, and he’s sure he’s not fit for it either. Ah! Bob, isn’t it that you love your own ease a little too well? The field may not be quite so comfortable as it is here, but it is unworthy of a soldier to mind such trifles as want of bed, and occasional want of food. But Bob doesn’t think so, and whatever his other faults may be, he is honest in declaring his opinions. But here come the others, and we have but a few minutes more.
“Goodbye, Brown; take care of yourself; we shall miss you when we want our errands done.”
“Goodbye, Williams; don’t forget your promise.”
“Goodbye, Simpson; what shall we do without you for a wardmaster?”
“Goodbye, John; come back with shoulder-straps, and God bless you!”
That bright young face looks still brighter, as he says, “Why, Miss ——, that’s what they all say to me; I’ve been through the wards bidding the boys goodbye, and they all say ‘God bless you, John!’ Why do they say that to me?”
I could have told him without much difficulty why that genial, sunny nature, so full of bravery and beauty, of life and love, had won its way to the hearts of “the boys,” and called forth that warm “God bless you.” The Prayer from so many hearts seems to have won its answer; God has blessed him and guarded him from harm. Nobly has he fought, and the shoulder-straps are won. Promotion on the field “for distinguished services,” has been gained; and we now have the pleasure of directing our quondam “Private” John’s letters, to “Captain” John, of the Army of the Potomac. But as he is pressed on in the crowd, before I can answer his question, I notice a pale, quiet youth, always retiring and gentle, standing at my side with a hesitating air.
“Well, George, you’re off too; I won’t forget you, and you mustn’t forget me.”
He still stands, and still hesitates, saying nothing.
“Can I do anything for you, before you go, or perhaps after? Can I help you? tell me.”
“Yes, ma’am, you can help me. If you would just let me shake hands with you, I think it would help me on the battle-field, to remember it. I saw the others come up, but somehow I didn’t dare to, and I was so afraid I would have to go without.”
Poor George! Not many of the men are so troubled with modesty. Such a little boon to be asked for so earnestly! one, too, which half the men claim as a right in parting.
“You didn’t think, George, after all our talks, I could have let you go without shaking hands with you, did you? No, my boy,” said I, holding out my hand; “but I will do what will be more likely to help you on the battle-field, pray for you; and now, goodbye.”
He grasped my hand, and as he held it, a hot tear fell on it; he seemed shocked, dropped it, and rushed from the room into the crowd waiting at the door to start. The signal sounded, and they were gone.
“God go with them!” said an earnest voice at my side.
God will go with them! Doubt it not,
Ye, whose fond, aching hearts
Fear that your treasures are less safe,
Because from you apart!
Love, human love, is powerless,
From Death or harm to shield;
Our very lives, for theirs laid down,
Could no protection yield.
God will go with them! Rest on that,
When partings make Life dark;
He guideth every bullet’s course,
To hit or miss its mark.
Then trust them amid shot and shell,
To His unfailing care;
And bow, submissive hearts, howe’er
The answer comes to Prayer.