Rose Mather: A tale

by Mary Jane Holmes

“Isaac,” he said, softly, “Isaac, my boy, don’t you know me?”

Not till then had Isaac observed the tall figure standing near, but at the sound of the well-remembered voice he looked quickly up, and putting gently from him the head of his comrade, sprang to his feet with a scream of joy, and threw himself into the open arms of Tom, who held and soothed him, while he sobbed out his delight.

“Oh, Captain Carleton!” he cried, his body quivering with emotion, “I am so glad! I thought you had,—I didn’t know,—Oh, why haven’t you come before, I’m so sick, so sick and tired, that I almost want to die! Will we ever be exchanged; have they forgotten us at Washington? Shall we never go home again?”

These were questions which more than one poor captive had asked, and which none could answer. Tom, however, did the best he could, and hushing Isaac as he would have hushed and quieted a grieving child, he spoke to him many a word of comfort, promising to care for him as for a younger brother, and speaking of various ways in which his forlorn condition should be bettered, now that he was an inmate of the same prison. It was a blissful interview, and its good effects were seen in the brightness of Isaac’s face, and the cheerful smile which played around his mouth, even after Tom had gone to his quarters below.

Softer than downy pillow seemed the hard bare floor, that night, as with his arm thrown round his invalid friend, Isaac lay dreaming of the frost-tipped trees at home, and the brown nuts ripening on the hill, where he, perhaps, might pick them yet, for Tom had given some encouragement that an exchange would ere long be effected, and as each believed his own name would be upon the list, so Isaac hoped his would, and in slumber’s fitful fancy he was at home again, and saw his mother come softly in to tuck the bed-clothes round him, or see if he were sleeping, just as she used to do. How still he lay to make her think he was asleep! How real seemed the vision, how life-like the kiss pressed upon his lips, and the tear-drop that came with it! In a corner of the room there were groans and imprecations, and with a nervous start the dreamer woke to find it all a horrid delusion. That stifling, fetid atmosphere had in it no odor of Rockland’s healthful breezes, and the star, shining on him through the iron bars, though familiar to him, was not the same which he used to watch from the window beneath the eaves, facing to the north. No home, no mother, no soft feathery pillow for his head, or blanket for his body—nothing but that feverish hand still upon his forehead, and that tear on his cheek, for these were real, and the sick soldier at his side, who gave the kiss and tear, was whispering in his ear, that the way so tearfully sought was found at last; that the gloomy, desolate prison was like the gates of Paradise, and death disarmed of all its terror.

“If mother could only know it,” he said, “I should be so glad, and you’ll tell her, won’t you, when you get home again? Tell her it wasn’t very hard to die, even in this dingy hole; that Heaven and Jesus are as near to me here on the floor, as if I were lying on my own bed at home, with her standing by. Tell her I’m glad I fought for the Stars and Stripes, but sorry I ran away without her consent, for I did. I got out on the wood-shed roof, and so came off unseen. She’s prayed for me every day and every night, and God has heard her prayers. He sent you here to lead me in the way, and after I am gone, he’ll let you go back again.”

There were a few more whispered words on either side, and then the exhausted but happy youth fell away to sleep, while Isaac wept with thankfulness that his confinement there had not been all in vain.

Faithful to his promise, Tom, as far as was possible, alleviated the hardships so long and so meekly borne by Isaac, and with his gold bought many a delicacy for Isaac’s end, the poor, sick Massachusetts boy, who, one night ere the physician had fairly decided that he was in need of medical care, laid his head on Isaac’s lap as he was wont to do, and with another whispered message for the mother far away, and another assurance of perfect peace, went where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest!

While he lived there had been something to take Isaac’s mind—something to excite his sympathy, and in ministering to Henry’s wants, he had more than half forgotten his own, but now that he was gone, and the corner where he had sat or lain was empty, Isaac, too, faded rapidly, and not all Tom’s efforts had power to save him from the apathy which came stealing over him so fast. Touched with pity at his forlorn, dejected appearance, his comrades made him a little bed in the corner where the dead boy had been, and there all the day long he lay, rarely noticing any one except Tom Carleton, who came often to his side, and whose own warm blanket formed the pillow for his head. From the first floor to the third there was not one who was not more or less interested in the pale invalid, bearing his pain so patiently, never complaining, never repining, but thanking those about him for any kindness rendered with such childlike, touching sweetness, that even the rough jailer regarded him with favor, and paused sometimes to speak to him a word of encouragement.

In this state of feeling it was not a difficult matter for Tom to obtain permission for Isaac to be removed from the dirty corner above to his own comparatively comfortable cot in the officers’ apartments below. But this did not effect a cure. Nothing could do that save a sight of home and mother.