“Oh! please now, come, won’t you? Suppose just for once that the boys are sick on the field, and never mind them to-night.”
“For shame, sergeant! Such counsel from you? We cannot believe it. Go in, and we will follow you.”
But although music is his passion, and he is burning to be there, he gallantly prefers to wait, and be our escort; and in pity for him, we hurry as much as possible; and now we are done; let us go.
There are our chairs, all arranged for us. What a crowd! At least, a crowd for our number of well men,—over a hundred, certainly; all who are fit to be out of their beds, and some who, we very well know, are not. See how they are jammed together; on benches, on the dining-table itself, in the windows, and on every available spot, battered and bandaged, wrappered and wrinkled, suffering and smiling, in one promiscuous mass. Look at that pale boy, sitting on the corner of the table on our right; he has been as ill as possible with typhoid fever, and surely can never sit through the concert in that position. Let him try for a while, however; the whole scene will do him more good, by amusing and diverting his mind, than the exertion can do him harm. Truly, as we glance around, it is a strange scene. Men from North, East, and West, gathered together—in dress and undress uniform; from the cavalry jacket, with its yellow facings, to dressing-gowns and even shirt-sleeves; all eagerly and earnestly bent upon one idea; but even as they gaze, can you not read their characters, and place their homes? Each State has its own characteristics so strongly marked, that I have often laughingly promised to tell each man in a ward, from whence he came; and after a little practice, one seldom makes a mistake,—at least never wanders far from the truth; but we cannot stop to discuss that point now, as the songs are beginning.
But stop! It cannot be. Look, M., look! It actually is. Our naughty, disobedient, handsome Harry, with his bandaged limb on a chair, over there by the window. Only this morning did I hear the surgeon give orders to have that limb put in a fracture-trough, as the only means to preserve perfect stillness for it. I saw, later, that it had been done; and now look—everything removed, and here he is. That was a very severe wound, from which he has been suffering for many months; he told me yesterday, that, in all, fifty pieces of bone had been taken out of his leg; the surgeons rather pride themselves on having prevented the necessity of amputation by the closest watching and care; and we cannot help feeling provoked with him for persisting in moving about, when perfect rest is so essential to his cure. And yet, who could ever be angry with Harry, for any length of time? He has a way of his own of winning us over to his side, and we know what a warm heart beats beneath that wilfulness; but arguments with him are of little avail; the other day, in reply to my earnest remonstrances, he said:
“But, Miss ——, my leg is my own, and if I like to have a little fun now, and lose it afterwards, will any one but myself suffer?”
We have almost given him up as incorrigible. Patriotic songs are fast following each other,—and certainly the applause is “sui generis.” Crutches pounded on the floor, and splints hammered on the table, with an energy and fervor which threaten their own destruction; but the sightless singers receive it all apparently with the greatest satisfaction, deeming that the greater the noise, the greater the pleasure, and probably such is the case.
Listen. What is that tall singer saying? He has already twice repeated it, but he cannot hope to be heard in this confusion. See!—he is trying again: “I want you all to be quite still now, and listen to this song; make no noise, if you please.”
An instant hush, and eager expectation on every face. The singer begins the well-known “Laughing Chorus,”—well-known here, but evidently a perfect novelty to these listeners.
For a few moments there is an effort to maintain quiet, but suddenly their pent-up feelings break forth, and peal after peal of heartiest laughter rings through the room. In vain they try to stop—a moment’s pause, and the singer’s voice is heard, seeming only to give the key-note, which one after another takes up, till, in the wild storm that follows, they are entirely unaware that he has come to a conclusion—that it is all over and done, and the singers are leaving. Just at this moment my eye is caught by our friend, the sergeant, his head resting on the table, his face almost purple, and his whole frame literally convulsed with laughter.