—Will Reed Dunroy.
Here is a letter from a young man in Wisconsin, one whom I have never met except in that way in which kindred spirits so often meet—by mail. Stricken ere his manhood had scarcely begun, blind, he has never given up, and is making a living and doing good to all around him—one of the best and most useful citizens of his town.
Trotwood believes in this whole country, North and South. He does not believe that either section has all the good or all the bad, but that in both there is far more good than evil and that the only reason why people do not like each other is because they do not know each other. Transportation, the cable, the telegraph, wireless telegraphy and the telephone have changed the face of the world and corralled mankind with wires of steel. Japan is nearer Washington to-day than Boston was fifty years ago. You have more neighbors in Europe than your grandfather had in the county adjoining him. I am publishing this letter hoping my blind friend may find the kind surgeon, and also to show the spirit of our reunited country for which my pen has always and will ever work to cement:
Merrill, Wis., June 30, 1905.
Dear Trotwood: Rather tardy in thanking you for taking the trouble of sending me “Songs and Stories of Tennessee,” but my wife and daughter have been away on a visit and though it’s vacation, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to press my sister into service. We all enjoyed the stories very much, and are looking forward eagerly to the time when your new book will be out.
I’ve been wanting to tell you of my father’s experience during the Civil War, to see what you think of it, and to see if you have any idea who the surgeon could have been and to show you another family in the North with the kindliest of feelings for the people of the South.
July 1, ’63, at about 2 o’clock p.m., a Confederate bullet laid my father low at the Battle of Gettysburg. The ball passed through and killed the man directly in front of him, entering father below the heart, the wound being very similar to that of President Garfield. He still carries the lead. He lay the afternoon until along in the evening the Union line having retreated, and firing ceased. About this time Gen. Lee and his staff came on the field. The general, seeing father was alive, asked what troops he had fought and how boys happened to get commissions in the Northern Army. Father answered, “They fought and earned them.” As the party passed on, the surgeon returned, eased father’s position, gave him a drink of liquor and said he would see him later. He came again at about nine o’clock that night, twice the next day and late the afternoon of July 2 he had two Confederate soldiers prepare a litter and carry father to a farm house where, being the most dangerously wounded, he was given the only mattress in the house. Father calls him his “Good Samaritan.” During his time on the field his hat cord was stolen and he gave all the money he had, twenty dollars, ten each to two Union soldiers to get him off the field or get him something to drink. They never returned. During the night a Confederate soldier gave him a drink of milk for which he had spent his last cent. This is in brief, but explicit enough to show that though father was struck down by a Confederate bullet he nevertheless owes his life to men of that army. When the Confederate line retreated, father was taken to the hospital in the city and was never able to learn the name of his “Good Samaritan.” How his wound did not heal for two years, how Dr. Bliss treated him and how an abscess formed in his back which also took a long time to heal is probably but a repetition of many such incidents of which you’ve already heard.
For fear you’ll grow weary, I’ll desist.
Yours very truly,