A sunny, bright afternoon. Our men are all improving, none dangerously ill; the most of them have sought the yard, to walk, to smoke, to sing, or play at such games as cannot be carried on in-doors. Everything has a more cheerful aspect than usual. If melancholy and depression are infectious, so, happily, are mirth and gayety; and as the chorus of one of our favorite army songs rings out on the air, I find myself joining in it, as I spring up the stairs, two at a time, on an errand. Scarcely noticing where I am going, I suddenly stumble upon something on the stair.
“Why, Gavin, can that be you?”
Dashed upon the floor, his face buried in his hands, his whole attitude denoting utter despair, he does not even move or notice my question.
While I am standing, looking and wondering, let me give you a little knowledge of him, as he appears in the wards. Some time since I was much struck, on coming to the hospital, by the soldier acting as guard at the door. His erect and military bearing, well-made figure, and broad chest, with the certain “je ne sais quoi” of a gentleman, rather impressed me, as he lifted his cap and saluted as I approached.
“Who is our gentlemanly guard to-day?” said I to M., on entering our room.
“Just come; a fine-looking fellow, isn’t he? I have just been finding out his history. He is terribly reserved, but I have made out that he is a Northerner who went to the South to settle; was impressed, sorely against his will, at the time of the breaking out of the war; was taken ill, and allowed, as he was useless, to come here to see his mother, who was also ill; he, of course, never returned, although he had letters from his Colonel, which he showed, first offering him a Lieutenancy, and then a Captaincy; but he prefers, he says, to be a Private in our own army, to the highest position in theirs.”
“Well?” said I, as she paused.
“That’s all; he told me nothing more; but that as soon as he came North he enlisted, was taken sick in camp, and sent here.”
“His history, then, is still to hear,” I said; “he hasn’t accounted for his interesting melancholy, or the mournful expression of those large, dark eyes which strike you the moment you look at him, and yet there is something about him—a sort of dark look—which I don’t altogether fancy.”
“Oh! you want to make up a romantic story for him, do you? Well, find it out, if you can; I have told you all that he would tell me, and yet, I confess I was struck with his language; it was certainly much above that of most of our men here.”