CHAPTER VII.
AFTER THE BATTLE.
Sometimes in battle a soldier suddenly finds himself prostrated to the earth. He knows not what has happened. A dizziness comes over him. Then he glances down at his limbs, and discovers that he is bleeding. He knows he is wounded, but he cannot tell to what extent. It may be a fearful shot which will end his mortal existence the next moment, or it may be only a severe shock that has touched no vital part. When Ernest fell, it was a moment before he could clearly comprehend what had occurred. One of his company ran to him, and asked:
“Are you much hurt?”
“Yes; I fear I have received a long furlough.”
The soldier tore off some of his clothing, and, after a brief examination, said:
“It is a severe wound, Captain, but I don’t think it is fatal. Shall I stay with you?”
“No, no, go on with the boys. Never mind me. We have whipped them, thank God, and I can die, if it is His will, with a clear conscience. Go on with the boys.”
The soldier gathered up his military implements, and pushed on with his comrades in pursuit of the flying foe, and Ernest was left alone with the wounded, dead and dying. Presently he fell into a train of thought as follows:
“Perhaps this is another warning. I have totally disregarded what Mr. Hillston says is my call to the ministry. Shall I now promise God, as I lie here, that I will yield to the call, if He will spare my life? No; for I cannot believe that I am called of God. Why does not God give me some reliable evidence, if He really wants me to be a minister? I shall wait a while yet. But suppose I die?” He could not make up his mind to preach.
At six o’clock, an elderly gentleman, with an honest, open, benevolent countenance came to the spot where Ernest was lying. He was the first wounded soldier the gentleman reached.
“What is your condition, my young friend?” he asked in a kindly voice.
“I am wounded here in the side,” said Ernest.
“Could you travel in a buggy a few miles?”
“I think I could, sir.”
“Then, if you can, I would be pleased to take you to my house, where you can have proper attention and good nursing. Will you go? I will assist you into the buggy.”
“Yes, sir; I will accept your kind offer. How far do you have to go?”
“About six miles; but it is a good road, and we can make the drive in an hour. I could hear the fighting all day from my house. At noon, during the lull, I supposed the battle might be over, and I started to the scene of action. But when I had driven three miles, I discovered that the fight was renewed with redoubled fury. When it ended, I learned from a courier how the day had gone, and I came on to do what I could for our wounded. It will afford me pleasure to take care of you till you are again ready for duty?”
“I shall be under lasting obligations, sir,” replied Ernest.
At once, Ernest was assisted into the buggy, and driven along at a slow pace till they reached the gentleman’s residence at eight o’clock in the evening. This gentleman was a Presbyterian minister, by name Dr. Arrington. His family consisted of a wife and three daughters, the elder of whom was about twenty years of age—an intelligent, well educated young lady. She had completed her education the previous year at one of the best female colleges of Virginia. We cannot say that she was perfectly beautiful, for, though her features seemed faultless when contemplated singly, yet the grouping was somehow a little defective. No one could tell what was lacking, but there was something. But the perfection of her features enabled her to bear a most rigid inspection, and she improved greatly on acquaintance. She had a decidedly classical cast of countenance. In conversation her face beamed with intelligence and sympathy, which made her appear handsome and lovely. She belonged, in a word, to that class, who attract more by their moral excellencies than their physical graces. Mildred Arrington, however, possessed a symmetrical figure, and her every movement betrayed elegance of manners and refinement of taste and intellectual culture. All who were intimately acquainted with her, thought her beautiful.
With this kind family Ernest remained for many days, while his wound was slowly healing. Dr. Arrington had an excellent library, in which he and his family spent much of their time. They were an intellectual family. Ernest here spent some of the happiest hours of his life, in the company of the three girls, especially Mildred. The Doctor was also a congenial companion, and loved to talk. He was an earnest Christian, who believed, though, in getting as much legitimate happiness out of this mortal life as possible. There was none of the Pharisee in his composition. He received the gospel with the simple faith of a child, and so preached it. He believed in providing innocent amusements for his family. The consequence was, there was no nicer place to visit and no happier home in all the country than Dr. Arrington’s. His residence was full of sunshine, and no discordant sound was ever heard beneath that roof.
It will not appear wonderful, then, that the days passed rapidly away in the consciousness of Ernest, who felt loth to put an end to the period of his convalescence. But at last he began to painfully realize that he could not remain much longer, with propriety, beneath this hospitable roof. When he thought of leaving Mildred he discovered that it filled him with the keenest pain. But why should it? If he really loved her, why not propose, at once, and bind her to him by a tie which nothing but death could sever? He must go back to the army in a few days, and the probability was, he could never see her again.
It was hardly reasonable to suppose that he could go through many such scenes as those of Bull Run, and escape with his life. But he felt that he could not bid farewell to this happy family without the prospect of a closer relationship with them in the future. He believed that he had endeared himself to them; but one thing was certain, they had so wound themselves around his heart that the thought of never seeing them again was intolerable.
One day about a week before his departure, he was walking in the lawn in company with Mildred. Presently Ernest fell into a reverie that made his face appear more solemn than usual. He was aroused by a soft voice at his side:
“You appear to be in a profound study.”
“So I was,” replied Ernest, heaving a deep sigh.
“It was something unpleasant, was it not?”
“What makes you think so?”
“I noticed your countenance,” answered Mildred, “just now, which was expressive of pain.”
“You are a good physiognomist,” replied Ernest. “I was just thinking that in a few days more I must return to my command.”
“And is it so painful to fight for your country?” quickly asked Mildred.
“You misunderstand me,” said Ernest. “It is no reluctance to serve my country: for God knows that I am willing to die for the independence of the Confederate States, if necessary. But there are things to me more bitter than death itself.”
“You talk in riddles, Captain.”
“Yes; because I was talking to myself partly. It is due to you that I should explain myself.” After a pause, he continued: “I have had few associates in my life. My father and mother left me a lonely orphan when I was a small boy. From various causes, which I need not weary you by relating, my life has not been very happy. I have found very few congenial companions among either sex. I have now prepared your mind for the reception of the fact, that the time spent beneath your father’s roof, is the happiest portion of my existence. I was thinking just now, that I must soon leave, and the probability is, I shall never again see you and the family till we shall all meet in the eternal world.”
“Why should you take such a gloomy view, Captain?” asked Mildred, slightly coloring. “We destroy our happiness by anticipating misfortunes that may never befall us. You may go through the war, and come out with honors budding thick upon your brow. Why not look forward to promotion? Who knows,” she continued, trying to smile, “but that you may be a General?”
“No; I have no ambition in that way. I do not want any greater responsibility than the command of a single company involves.”
There was a pause, which was broken by Mildred suddenly saying:
“What foolish thoughts will sometimes flash into our minds.”
“What mean you?” asked Ernest.
“I was just thinking what an astounding victory you could gain, if you had control of that one force, from which all the forces of nature, I think, are derived.”
This idea of Mildred’s was fully elaborated by Lord Lytton, some few years afterwards, and the force was called vrill. But as we are not writing a treatise on science, we will proceed with our story.
“O,” she continued gaily, “do you not wish you had something of that sort?”
“I have had such foolish thoughts a thousand times,” replied Ernest, breaking into a laugh, “but I did not know that anybody else had such absurd fancies. I found myself wishing for miraculous powers on the battle field of Bull Run a short time since. When our soldiers were about to retreat in a wild panic in the evening, I almost cried aloud for a cyclone to hurl upon those dark columns. How quickly I thought I would annihilate them. Was it not preposterous?”
And they both laughed.
“I should be ashamed,” said Mildred, “to let any one know what wild fancies pass through this dwarfish brain of mine. The truth is, I live in an ideal world. I often find myself wishing that I could visit some ‘New Utopia.’”
“What a coincidence,” said Ernest, looking at the young lady in surprise.
“What is?” she asked.
“That you and I should be dreaming about the same absurdities.”
“Well, I do not know,” replied Mildred. “I have never cared to mention my silly reveries to any one. Indeed, it is the first time in my life that I have alluded to them.”
“May you not be wrong to call them ‘silly’? Some of the happiest moments of my life have been spent in this way. I frequently discover myself traveling about in some of Munchausen’s wonderful vehicles, and I become so absorbed that my imaginings appear as realities.”
“I, too, do the same thing,” said Mildred, turning her blue eyes upon him in surprise.
“Miss Mildred,” spoke up Ernest after a brief pause, “our minds seem to have been constructed in the same molds. Henceforth I shall be forever meeting you in my psychological peregrinations. I have no doubt that I shall often rove back to this beautiful yard and these grand oaks, when I am sitting around the bivouac fire or meditating in my tent.”
Mildred began to look serious, and to turn her face in order to conceal the treacherous blushes which, she felt, must be mantling her cheeks.
“I am glad to think,” she answered in a low, hesitating tone, “that your imprisonment here has been rendered tolerable.”
“Tolerable!” cried Ernest. “I wish such imprisonment could last forever!”
“What!” exclaimed Mildred, feigning not to understand, “would you be willing to be cooped up while your comrades are fighting the battles of liberty? Sometimes I wish I could go myself, and that I were an Amazon stout enough to shoulder a cannon. The poor South needs every soldier she can get. You must, therefore, dismiss your Utopian dreams and enter into gory and awful realities.”
“If I know myself,” said Ernest, “I do not shrink from those realities. But I need something to inflame my zeal.”
“What do you need?” she asked, wishing after the inquiry had been made, that she had propounded some other question.
“I have told you,” he replied, “that I have no intimate friends. My affections are roving around like the ‘wandering Jew,’ seeking some object upon which to concentrate. The object that comes within their focus will find no reason to complain of their lack of intensity. Do you understand me?”
“I cannot say that I do,” answered Mildred, “but I should think that the goddess of Liberty would be sufficient to elicit all the better feelings and aspirations of your soul.”
“The goddess of Liberty may call forth a certain class of affections, but there is another group which requires a more substantial being.” Mildred said nothing, but looked thoughtful. She understood what Ernest meant, yet he had spoken so vaguely that she was reminded of the amiable Pickwick and the widow Bardell, which association of ideas caused her to laugh out-right. Ernest gazed at her in amazement and pain.
“What is it that amuses you so?” he asked in a tone indicative of displeasure.
“Please excuse me, Captain,” she said deprecatingly. “I was not, I assure you, laughing at anything you said. It was only a foolish and ridiculous thought that suddenly came into my mind. I beg your pardon,” she said earnestly.
“Granted,” he replied, “if you will only be serious for a moment.”
“Certainly, I will.”
“I will speak plainly so that you cannot misunderstand me. The truth is, I love you.”
“O, Captain,” she exclaimed with solemn earnestness, “what a time for such a declaration!”
“Why?” asked Ernest.
“Why, we are on the threshold of a terrible war which will end, we know not when.”
“That is the very reason I want a love to sustain me under the trials which await me. My nature demands love. I am gloomy and wretched without it.”
“How have you managed this long, Captain?”
“I will tell you all about it.” And he gave her a full account of all the circumstances of his past life, after which Mildred with a cunning smile, said:
“It seems, then, I am second choice.”
“You are mistaken. I did not know my own heart then. I never had for her the deep, ineffable affection I have for you. After this honest explanation must I leave you without hope? If I do, it matters little to me what shall become of me. I shall consider that ball from the enemy’s gun a mercy that shall put an end to my misery. But with your love, I shall be the happiest soldier in the army. I shall have an object for which to live. Can you, will you give me any hope?”
Ernest perceived that Mildred was violently agitated, and he felt encouraged.
“Tell me,” he urged, “that you will be mine, when this cruel war is over, if I come out the fiery crucible alive.”
“I am glad you have given me time to reflect about the matter,” she said at last. “I will candidly say this: if you are alive and I am, when the war ends, and the feelings of neither undergo any change, it shall be as you wish. Is that sufficient?”
So these two young people, with that pure affection, glowing in their hearts, which is sanctioned by the Allwise God, standing under the broad-spreading oaks, agreed to enter into the sacred relation which constitutes the very foundation of human society. Why should older persons, who have lost the ardor, aspirations and hopes of youth, sneer at what they are pleased to call “sickly love stories?” God implanted these sacred affections in the human heart to bind society together, and it is these which make man a gregarious animal. Is that pure love which leads to the marriage relation only evidence of a kind of folly that deserves to be ridiculed? Why do prudish, righteous-over-much people, calling themselves critics, cry out against stories which illustrate social realities, and which seek to inspire the youth of our country with proper respect and reverence for a heaven-sanctioned institution? Why is it that extremely pious people profess such an aversion to “love scenes”—scenes that are every day realities in the ranks of the purest and most refined society? Such scenes as we have described, call them “love-sick,” who will, actually transpired during the war, and many a soldier found a God-sent wife in the hospitals. These love affairs mingle with the gravest concerns of human life. Why, then, omit them from the pages of a story which is intended to be a true picture? There is nothing startling or sensational in them. Indeed, they are so old, common and customary that they derive any interest they may possess from new combinations of circumstances. Eliminate these circumstances, and nothing is left but an occurrence that transpires every hour of the day. We may here say that there is nothing in this volume that should prevent it from occupying a place on the shelves of any Sabbath-school library.