“Could I see her,” Isaac said one day, “or even stand again beneath the Federal Flag, I might get better, but here I shall surely die, and if I do, oh, Captain Carleton, you’ll get them to send me home, won’t you? I don’t care for myself where I am buried, but my mother—it would break her heart to hear I was put with the negroes. She’s a rough woman, and folks who don’t know her much, thinks she’s cross and queer, but she’s been so good to me, and I love her so much! Oh, mother, mother, I wish she was here now,” and the sick boy turned his white face to the wall, sobbing out choking sobs which seemed to come from the lowest depths of his heart.
Cries for home and mother were not uncommon in that prison house, but there was something so piteous in his childlike wail that other officers than Tom bent over the poor lad, trying to comfort him by telling of an exchange which, it was hoped would ere long be effected, and by painting happy pictures of the glad rejoicing which would greet the returning captives. For an instant the great tears, dropping so fast from Isaac’s lids, were staid in their course, and a smile of hope shone on his pallid face, but quickly passed away as he suggested,
“Yes, but who knows if I will be on the list?”
No one could tell him that. All would not go, they knew, and they could only wait patiently, each hoping he would be the favored one. At last there came a day, never to be forgotten by the inmates of that tobacco house, a day on which was read the names of those who were to be released and breathe again the air of freedom. Oh, how anxiously the sick boy listened as one after another was called. “Captain Thomas Carleton” was among the number, and a deep flush stole to the young man’s face as uncertainty was thus made sure. He was going home, and like waves upon the beach, the throbs of joy beat around his heart, making him glad as a little child when returning to its mother after a long separation.
But oh, who shall tell Isaac’s emotions as name after name was called, and none that sounded like his. Would they never reach it, never say Isaac Simms? Could it be he was not there? Larger and thicker grew the drops of sweat, quivering about his mouth, and standing upon his forehead. Whiter, more death-like grew his face: heavier, sadder, more mournful the eyes, fixed so wistfully upon the caller of that roll, growing less so fast. There could not be many more, and the head drooped upon the heaving bosom, with a discouraged, disheartened feeling, just as the last was read, not his, not Isaac Simms. He was not there, and with a moan, which smote painfully on Tom’s ear, the disappointed boy turned away, and wept bitterly, while his pale lips moved feebly with the prayer for help he essayed to make. To be left there alone, with no kind Captain Carleton to soothe the weary hours, to be returned, most likely, to the noisy floor above, to die some night when nobody knew or cared,—it was terrible,—and Widow Simms would have shrieked in anguish could she have seen the look of despair settling down on her darling’s face.
But though she did not see it, there was one who did, and guessing at the thoughts which prompted it, he walked away to be alone, and gather strength for the sacrifice he must make. Tom Carleton could not desert the boy who had clung so faithfully to him, and as Isaac had once staid by him in the Virginia woods, when he might have gone away, so he now would stay with Isaac. Still it was hard to give up going home, and for a moment he felt as if he could not. There was a fierce struggle between duty and inclination,—a mighty combat between Tom’s selfishness and his better nature,—and then the latter conquered. He must stay. It would not be difficult to find some person to take his place clandestinely, for already were the unfortunate ones seeking to buy such chances, and offering every possible inducement to any who would accept. A young lieutenant about his age and appearance, and whose wife and child were suffering from his absence, was the one selected by Tom as his substitute, and the matter soon arranged. Then, with a forced cheerfulness he did not feel, Tom went back to Isaac, who was still weeping silently on his couch, and whispering to an unseen presence, “You’ll never leave me, will you? and when I die you’ll take me up to Heaven?”
Here was a faith, a trust, to which Tom Carleton was a stranger, and wishing himself more like that sick boy, he bent over the cot, and said cheerily,
“Isaac, are you asleep?”
In the tone of his voice there was something so kind and sympathetic, that Isaac started up, and winding his feeble arms around Tom’s neck, sobbed out,
“Forgive me, Captain Carleton; I’m glad you are going home, but I wasn’t at first; the bad, hard lumps kept rising in my throat as I thought of staying here alone without you, but they’re gone now. I prayed them all away, and I am glad you are going. I shall miss you dreadfully, but God will not forsake me. And, Captain Carleton, if you ever do,—see—my,—my”——