Soon the ancient city of Alexandria—ancient in American history—heaves in sight. It presents a gloomy, dingy, dilapidated appearance. As we set foot upon the “sacred soil,” we experience quickened heart-beatings, for we know that this terrible suspense will soon give place to, it may be, a dreadful reality. As we pass up King street we pause a moment to look at the building where the brave young Ellsworth fell, drop a tear to his memory, and hasten on. Turning from King into Washington street, we notice a soldier in full uniform with a shouldered musket, pacing to and fro in front of what appeared to be a church. We are told by the guard that it is the Southern M. E. Church, but now used for a hospital. We enter the building, make known the object of our visit, but find he is not there. My poor sister could go no farther; she seemed to have a presentiment that her worst fears were about to be realized. “Oh!” she says, “his wound is fatal, for he came to me in my dreams only a few nights since, looking worn and pale and haggard, having lost a limb in battle, and seemed to say, ‘My work is done, I’m weary and must rest.’” She felt that his work was done, and if so, well done, having “fought the good fight and kept the faith,” and that he had gone to receive the crown. And yet, amid these consoling reflections, thoughts of her own desolation and the great loss she would sustain if her fears were realized, would rush upon her with an overwhelming force, crushing out life’s bright hopes, while the language of her heart was, “Who will care for the fatherless now?”—forgetting for the time the promise of God, “Leave thy fatherless children with me and I will preserve them alive.” We tried to comfort her, saying we should soon have him with us; that one so strong, physically, would certainly survive the amputation of a limb; and, bidding her be of good cheer, Mrs. Peck and I hastened to the next hospital—the Lyceum Hall—but to our anxious inquiry met with the same reply as before. We cross the street to the Baptist church, which is also used for a hospital, our fears every moment increasing. Happening to look back before entering this hospital, to the one we had just left, we saw some one beckoning to us to return. Hope began to revive; we hurried back and were told he was there, and doing well, though still very weak. Our informant asked us if we would see him? “No,” we replied, “not until we have informed his wife,” requesting him in the meantime to try and prepare his mind to see her, cautioning him to break the news very carefully, fearing that the excitement might prove injurious to one so weak. Having given these instructions, I left Mrs. P., and hurried back with a light heart and a quick step to the hospital where my sister was waiting in such agony of suspense. She heard my voice before reaching the hospital, exclaiming at almost every step: “I’ve found him! I’ve found him! Oh, Anna, come quickly!” I did not realize that I was in the streets of a city, attracting the notice of passers-by, nor did I much care, for a deep anxiety and long days of suspense had given place to joyful hopes and sweet anticipations.
She rose to accompany me, hesitated a moment, and then sank back upon her seat, and with a look almost of despair, says: “Julia, are you sure, have you seen him?” I assured her, that though I had not seen him, there could be no mistake, for they certainly would not have said he was there, had he not been. Thus reassured she rose the second time, took my arm, and we started. We had gone but a few steps when our ears were saluted with the sad and mournful tones of the fife and muffled drum, and on looking back we saw a soldier’s funeral procession approaching—a scene I had never before witnessed, but one with which I was destined to become familiar. How unlike a funeral at home! No train of weeping friends follow his bier; yet one of our country’s heroes, one of the “boys in white,” lies in that plain coffin. He is escorted to his final resting-place by perhaps a dozen comrades, who go with unfixed bayonets, and arms reversed, keeping time with their slow tread to the solemn notes of the “Dead March,” plaintively executed by some of their number.
“Aye! follow his corpse to its last long rest,
With the fife and muffled drum;
It is meet that he should be honored thus,
Who a soldier’s work has done.”
The tear of sympathy unbidden starts at the sight of the “unknown,” and for the bereaved friends who weep in far off homes. In a few minutes we are at the Lyceum Hospital where, instead of the realization of our hopes, heart-rending tidings await us. He who, but a few moments before, was the bearer of such good news, again makes his appearance; but why is his countenance so sad? His own words will tell. “I was mistaken, he is not here;” but something either in his tone or manner indicated that he had been there, and at the same moment we all inquired: “Oh, where is he?” “He is dead!” was the reply. Oh, that terrible word—“dead!” How suddenly it blighted our fond hopes, and turned our anticipated joy into the deepest grief.
From the hospital we were conducted to the Rev. Mr. Reid’s, my poor sister being carried in an almost senseless condition, where we spent a sleepless night brooding over our sorrow and shedding the unavailing tear. Oh! that never-to-be-forgotten day! A day not only of bright, but blighted hopes, a day of mourning, of sadness and bereavement, a day that revealed to an anxious wife that she was a widow and her children fatherless; a day that said to my sad heart, “Thy brother has fallen.” He died like thousands of others, far from home and friends, with no loved kindred near. But God had sent an angel of mercy in human form—that noble girl, Miss Clara F. Jones, of Philadelphia—to watch over and administer to his wants. She watched him day by day as he grew weaker, she stood beside him in his dying moments, held his icy hand in hers, wiped the death dew from his brow, received his last message for his wife and child, and, when life had fled, prepared him as far as she could for his burial. Such are her daily duties. May God reward her with the rich blessing of his love.
My brother was one of those with whom religion was a vital principle. He heeded the injunction of the Saviour, “Go work in my vineyard.” And when the tocsin of war was sounded, and there was a call for volunteers, he committed all to God, and cheerfully responded to that call and hastened to the rescue of his imperilled country, and, while battling for freedom and humanity, he felt that he was fighting for God, and that he was still in his Master’s service.
The night of his death Mr. Reid spent the evening with him, speaking words of comfort and Christian consolation. But to the dying saint death had no terror, for “his anchor was cast within the veil,” and “that anchor holds.” He could adopt the sweet words of the poet: