It is very rarely that our brave Union soldiers complain, or bear impatiently their wounds; on the contrary, they endure suffering with a heroism which exceeds even the bravery of the battle-field.
George W. Warner, of the 20th Connecticut, was a case in point: while in the act of firing his musket, a shell exploded which took off both arms near the shoulders, inflicting also serious wounds in his head and leg. He was uniformly cheerful with it all; sometimes would despond for a moment when speaking of his wife and children, but the cloud was of short duration; the pleasant thought of how his little children would wait upon him, seemed to reassure him. As soon as he was able to walk, every one seemed ready to watch over, assist, and feed him.
In the officers’ row lay, for some weeks, a young lieutenant, from Schuylkill County, Penn., with both thighs shattered, suffering fearfully. A few hours before his death, at his request the Holy Communion was administered to him; after joining in the solemn services, he remained perfectly still,—unconsciously “passing away,” as those present thought,—until a glee club, from Gettysburg, going through the hospital, singing as they walked, paused at his tent and sung—without knowing anything of what was passing within—“Rally round the Flag.” The words and the music seemed to call back the spirit to earth, and forgetting his crushed limbs and intense suffering, sprang up, exclaiming: “Yes, boys, we did 'rally round the flag;’ and you will rally oft again!” then sank back exhausted, and soon was at rest.
The clergyman who was present said it was a scene never to be forgotten; the Christian soldier’s devotion to his country, even when within the “dark valley,” to be called back to life again by thoughts of the flag in whose defense his young life was given.
In another portion of the hospital was a man from Western Pennsylvania, whom his friends mourned as dead; whose funeral sermon had been preached, and his name on the rolls marked “killed in battle.” His captain and comrades saw him fall in the midst of a desperate charge, and almost without a struggle life was gone,—as they thought, and so reported. But it was not so; the bullet, in its course, went crashing through both eyes, though sparing life. A few hours later, when the wounded were gathered up, they found him—
“Where the fierce fight raged hottest through the day,
And where the dead in scattered heaps were seen.”
Then taken with others to the hospital, he lay for weeks unconscious, his brain affected from the inflammation which ensued. He could give no history of himself; but when hungry, would make it known by calling “mother;” and talk to her constantly,—first about his food, then of home concerns. I have heard him in these sad wanderings when he would ask: “What do the girls say about me, now I have gone to the war? does Jenny miss me?” and so on. At length his parents heard of him, and from the description thought it might be the son they mourned as dead. I was in his tent when his father came, and recognized in the blind, deranged man his handsome, brave boy. Eventually his mind would be restored, but his sight never. In this state he took him home to the mother he talked of so much.
In September, while the hospital was still crowded with patients, a festival was given for their amusement. The surgeon in charge, with the other officers, entered heartily into the plan. The Christian Commission took an active part in completing the arrangements, soliciting and obtaining abundant supplies of fruits and delicacies from friends in Philadelphia; to this were added contributions from the town and adjoining counties, making a grand feast of good things. The day selected, proving bright and balmy, tempted many, who had not yet ventured outside their tents, into the open air, hoping they might be able to participate in the promised enjoyments. The streets and tents of the hospital had been decorated with evergreens, and everything on this gala day had a corresponding cheerful look. Hospital life, with its strict military rule, is so wearisome and monotonous, that what would be the most trivial pleasure at other times and places, is here magnified into a matter of great importance.
When the hour came for the good dinner, which was known would be provided, hundreds moved upon crutches with feeble, tottering steps to the table, looking with unmistakable delight upon the display of luxuries. Bands of music enlivened the scene. All the variety of army amusements were permitted and encouraged, followed in the evening by an entertainment of negro minstrels,—the performers being all white soldiers in the hospital. This last, the soldiers thought the crowning pleasure of the day. At an early hour the large crowds who had enjoyed it all, with the patients, quietly dispersed.