John Smith’s
FUNNY
Adventures On A Crutch!,
or the
Remarkable Peregrinations of a One-
Legged Soldier after the War.
BY
A. F. HILL,
AUTHOR OF “OUR BOYS, OR ADVENTURES IN THE ARMY,”
“THE WHITE ROCKS, OR THE ROBBERS OF
THE MONONGAHELA,” ETC., ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.
PHILADELPHIA:
THE KEYSTONE PUBLISHING CO.
1890.
Copyright
By KEYSTONE PUBLISHING CO.
TO THE
MEMORY
OF
ARTEMUS WARD,
WHOM THE WORLD OWES FOR A THOUSAND
HAPPY SMILES,
THIS WORK IS FRATERNALLY
DEDICATED
BY
THE AUTHOR.
Preface.
It is verily more difficult to write a good preface for a book than to write the book itself. We don’t mind telling the reader, very confidentially, that this is not, by any means, our first effort at a preface for this work: and we earnestly hope that the public will not pronounce this ninth one so stupid as we deemed the eight preceding ones that we tore up.
It will be perceived that our hero bears the historic name of John Smith. Original old John Smith, the Virginia settler, met with many adventures—some of them funny and others not so funny—among the latter was the affair with Miss Pocahontas and her stern old parent: and we claim, for our own John Smith, as many adventures as his illustrious namesake—some of them quite as funny and others funnier.
Nothing in this narrative of real incidents is at all calculated to reflect on the excellent character of Mr. Smith: and this is because we esteem him very highly and not from any dread of the law; for John Smith is so multitudinous, that one could handle the name with impunity, and not incur any risk of prosecution for libel. What would a court say to an action against a writer for libeling John Smith, yeoman!—especially when the writer should plead that he never meant that John Smith, but quite another, unknown to the court.
There are those who will shrewdly guess that the hero of the narrative represents the author himself, the chief grounds for such inference being a striking similarity in the number of nether limbs. That, however, should scarcely be taken as conclusive; for, since “this cruel war is over,” there are nearly as many one-legged men in the country as there are John Smiths!
Contents.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
[John’s Adventure with a Crazy Man.]
CHAPTER III.
[Proposes to Leap from a Third-story Window.]
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
[Accommodated with a “Room Lower Down.”]
CHAPTER VI.
[The way Smith gets Bored.—An Episode.]
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
[John Thought he would like to Travel.]
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
[Narrow Escape in a row at Baltimore.]
CHAPTER XII.
[How Smith Traveled a-foot—and more.]
CHAPTER XIII.
[Romance in John Smith’s “Real Life.”]
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
[Col. John Smith at an Hotel.]
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
[“The City of Magnificent Distances.”]
CHAPTER XXIII.
[Smith’s Experience on a Skate.]
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
[Difficulty with the Owner of Pittsburg.]
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
[John Smith’s Absence from the Face of the Earth.]
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
[Smith’s Extraordinary Adventures in the “Mound City.”]
CHAPTER XXXIII.
[How not to open a Patent Lock.]
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
[Smith in Search of his Uncle.]
CHAPTER XXXIX.
[Smith’s Knowledge of German.]
CHAPTER XL.
[“A Life on the ocean wave, and a home on the rolling deep.”]
CHAPTER XLI.
[J. Smith’s Curiosity to see a Gale more than Satisfied.]
CHAPTER XLII.
CHAPTER XLIII.
CHAPTER XLIV.
CHAPTER XLV.
CHAPTER XLVI.
CHAPTER XLVII.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
CHAPTER XLIX.
CHAPTER L.
John Smith's
Funny
Adventures On A Crutch!
CHAPTER I.
The Way It Happened.
CRACK! went a rifle at the battle of Antietam. Not that it was the only one fired, for they were rattling away at the rate of a thousand per second just then; but there was one rifle in particular discharged, which, so far as I was concerned, was clearly distinguishable from all the rest. I did not see it, nor am I confident that, in the din of battle, I heard its report; yet I was made painfully aware of its existence and proximity, and shall no doubt entertain a recollection of it while life lasts, and reason retains her throne.
That rifle, evidently fired by some one whom I would have shot first, if I had had a good chance—and therefore I couldn’t blame him much for shooting me—threw a leaden ball of one ounce in weight, and similar to an acorn in shape; and that missile, travelling at the rate of five thousand miles an hour—though they rarely travel a whole hour without resting—struck and wounded me, John Smith. It passed through the thigh, lacerating that muscle vulgarly known as the tensor vaginæ femoris, and causing a compound fracture of the femur, barely below the trochanter major; that is to say, it broke the bone about three inches below the hip.
The ball had come diagonally from the direction of my right and front, passing through the outside portion of the left thigh, and coming out only an inch and a half from where it had entered; and I could not help, when I had regained my composure, making some little geometric calculations on the subject. I reckoned that if the man who had fired the rifle—allowing him to have been one hundred yards distant, and the barrel of the piece to have been four feet long—had moved the muzzle the one-hundredth part of an inch to the right, I should have been missed; if he had elevated it about the same distance I should have been missing. My next thought was that whereas my antagonist had discharged his rifle, I must request the government to discharge me.
Some of my comrades carried me from the field, and, after a little diversion in the way of fainting, got me loaded into a one-horse ambulance—a vehicle that can beat a wild-cat jumping on moderately rough ground—and away it went, plunging diagonally across a corn-field, like a schooner hove to in a storm. A shattered limb is one of the most painful things in the world, especially when its owner is jostled about like old rusty nails. For good, solid, substantial pain, I know of nothing worthy of being spoken of on the same day with it. The toothache, in its worst form, is bliss compared with it.
There was another wounded “hero” in the ambulance, lying beside me; his leg was shattered below the knee; and I reckon that the yelling he and I did, jointly, wasn’t the sort to be excelled by any other two youths of medium abilities.
We were driven to a small log schoolhouse that was used as a surgical hospital, and there unloaded. I do not know what became of my companion in misery—that is, in the ambulance—for it was as much as I could do to keep myself in view for some days following.
Within the schoolhouse were several surgeons busily engaged in amputating limbs; while without, beneath some oak trees that stood near, lay a great many sufferers awaiting their turn. I must give the surgeons credit for considerable dispatch—and no doubt they dispatched many a poor fellow that day—for I observed that every few minutes, a whole man, (in a bad state of repair, to be sure,) was carried in, and soon after carried out, in from two to four pieces. They did their work up with rapidity, and by evening, the arms and legs that were piled up against the wall of the schoolhouse without, would have amounted to a full cord—limb measure.
Well, as I do not intend to dwell on this part of the narrative very long, I will simply say that the doctors finally reached my case. I was carried into the little building, where so many pangs had been suffered that day, and laid on an operating-table; and after a slight examination of my wound, and a consultation of eight or nine seconds, they lulled me to repose with chloroform, and scientifically relieved me of my left leg. When I returned from the state of profound oblivion into which the chloroform had thrown me, I was glad to find that they had not made a mistake, and cut off the wrong limb—as a doctor was once known to do. They had amputated the right leg, because the left one was the right one—it being the wounded one—and my right leg was now my left one, because it was the only one left. Yet, the other was always the left one, and it has remained so, because it has been ever since left on the battle ground. However, that is all right.
What I suffered during the ensuing three months in Smoketown Hospital, several miles from Sharpsburg, I will pass over with but a thought and a shudder, and hasten on to tell of the curious and amusing adventures I have since met with, “on a crutch.”
I will never forget my first attempt to walk on crutches. I thought it looked easy, to see others walking about the hospital on crutches; just as an inexperienced person is apt to think rowing a boat an easy matter, because he sees others do it with apparent facility. So, one day, when my strength had so increased that I thought I could bear my weight on my only leg, I urged the nurse to lift me up and let me try a pair of crutches.
He did so. He raised me up, and I stood holding tremulously to the tent-post—for I and five other unfortunates occupied a hospital tent—while he carefully placed a crutch under each of my arms. It was the first time for several months that I had been in an erect position, and you can’t well imagine how I felt—without studying a good while about it. The ground on which I stood seemed so far beneath that it made me quite dizzy to look down on it, and I trembled at the awful possibility of falling.
With the crutches under my arms, and the nurse’s strong hand on my shoulder to keep me steady, I made two or three feeble, timid strides, and concluding that walking on crutches was not quite what it was “cracked up” to be, I faintly said:
“Nurse, put me down on the bed again: I fear I will never walk well on a crutch.”
“Pshaw!” said he, as he assisted me to return to my couch of straw; “you do well, and you’ll do twice as well next time you try it.”
“Twice as well would be but poorly,” I rejoined. “However, I will do my best.”
“Certainly! Don’t think of getting discouraged.”
As I now look back on that dismal scene, and remember the sinking heart that throbbed so feebly within me, and the wasted trembling limbs with which I attempted to flee from my prison-like bed, I cannot help smiling;—now, when I can skate as fast as any one, on my solitary foot, swim as well as I ever could, climb like a squirrel, jump on a saddled horse and ride at any pace I please, place a hand on a fence as high as my head and spring over in a quarter of a second, or walk twenty-five or thirty miles a day—all this with one good leg, a crutch and a cane!
When the spring came, and I could walk about with some ease, I went from my country home to Philadelphia, to get one of Palmer’s artificial legs, supposing that I could wear one advantageously. While on the subject, I will simply say that I got one, but never used it much, because there was too little of the thigh left to attach it to firmly. Not that I would be understood to detract from the reputation of Palmer’s patent limb; for we all liked the Doctor, and were most favorably impressed with his handiwork; and my subsequent observations have left no doubt in my mind that his are the most nearly perfect of any artificial limbs manufactured.
Major King, Assistant Surgeon-General of Philadelphia, sent me to Haddington Hospital, to wait till the proposed new limb should be ready for me; and it was there that I, John Smith, fairly began my somewhat eventful career—“On a Crutch.”
The hospital, located near the beautiful suburban village of Haddington, was set apart for such “heroes,” as had lost arms or legs, and desired to replace them with substantial wooden ones. It was not unusual at that time to see fifty or sixty one-legged men strolling about the grounds, in fine weather; or squads of fifteen or twenty, supplied with passes for the day, clambering upon a street car and going into the city for a bit of a spree.
A person once asked me if it was not a rather sad sight, and if the boys in this condition were not rather morose and gloomy. The very thought is amusing. I never, anywhere, or under any circumstances, saw a livelier crowd of fellows than the maimed and crippled soldiers at Haddington Hospital! They were nearly all young men, from seventeen to twenty-two, and a happier, noisier, more frolicsome set of boys I never saw! It was no unusual thing for some of them, in a merry mood, to carry on till they got put into the guard-house, by the impatient surgeons—sometimes when they scarcely deserved it; but of that, I will say more hereafter.
CHAPTER II.
John’s Adventures with a Crazy Man.
HADDINGTON Hospital had its “characters,” as every place has. I formed ties and associations during the spring of my stay there, which can never be forgotten. Nearly all who were there at the time, I remember with pleasure. There was “Chris.” Miller, whose leg was amputated below the knee, and who walked splendidly on his “Palmer leg,” when he got it. If there was one of the boys there whom I liked better than any other, it was “Chris.” He was a jovial fellow, humorous and witty, and the boys were never at a loss for a laugh when he was about. When he got his artificial leg on tight he got tight himself on the strength of it, and made so much noise that the Doctors came to the melancholy conclusion that it was necessary to put him into the guard-house—which was Room No. 41, fourth story. There he made more noise than ever, sat in the open window with his feet dangling out—one a wooden one, you know—and threatened to jump down upon the roof of the piazza, a distance of twenty-five or thirty feet; so, the Doctors got scared, lest he should do so, and thus sprain the ankle of his new leg, and they had him brought down and locked up in the cellar, where there was not such a broad field for exercise.
Nor shall I ever forget Young, a reckless boy of the New York Fire Zouaves, whose leg was amputated five times. One evening when I was just about to retire, he came home from the city, more than tight, fell, as he came blundering up the steps, and bursted his unfortunate “stump” open, so that half-an-inch more of the bone had to be sawed off. He begged the privilege of keeping this fragment of himself, and when he got into a convalescent state again, he worked whole days at it with a pocket knife, and carved it into a very handsome ring, which he ever afterwards wore on his middle finger, both at the table and elsewhere.
There, too, was Mr. Becker, (a citizen,) the clerk of the hospital. He was a handsome fellow, with black curling hair; and he made love, pro tempore, to one of the village girls.
And there was Bingham, whom I shall never forget, a religious fellow who sung psalms of an evening, and induced the boys to make up money enough for him to go home on—although it was subsequently ascertained that he had plenty of money himself at the time. He was the only mean fellow I remember; but he had lost a leg in the service of his country, and I will spare him.
One evening, a few weeks after I had been admitted to the hospital, a man named Thomas, who had been absent for ten days, returned and occupied a bed by the side of mine. He was a soldier who had been slightly wounded, and was doing guard duty at the hospital. He had been absent without leave, had been drinking all that time, and now returned in a very nervous and shattered state of body, and an uneasy and gloomy frame of mind. To add to his trepidation, he was apprehensive that he had been marked as a deserter, during his absence; and he retired to bed in uncommonly low spirits.
I was just falling asleep, and every thing was quiet about the hospital, when Mr. Thomas suddenly startled me by springing up to a sitting posture in his bed, and crying out:
“No you don’t! I’ll die first! I won’t be taken! You want to try me for a deserter and shoot me with twelve muskets! I tell you, I’ll not be taken!”
“What’s the matter, Thomas?” I asked in alarm.
“Matter? Why, don’t you see? There’s a whole company of soldiers surrounding the house, and they want to take me for a deserter! Look!” he exclaimed wildly, pointing through the window. “Don’t you see them?”
“No, no,” I replied, perceiving that he was afflicted with a mild attack of the horrors. “There are no soldiers there. Lie down!”
“Yes, there are!” he exclaimed, springing out upon the floor. “See! See! Twenty! Thirty! Forty! Fifty!—I’ll cut their hearts out if they try to take me! I will!”—— ——Here he swore a profane oath.
I confess that I felt rather uneasy in the presence of this madman, but calming my fears, I said, coaxingly:
“Come, now, Thomas, there’s no one after you. Don’t act so foolishly! Do lie down and go to sleep!”
“But I see them! They are down there by that car, now. Do you see? O, I’m watching them! They’ll be sharp if they take me alive!”
The terminus of the Market Street and West Philadelphia horse railway is at the building then used as a hospital, and a car arrived and departed every forty minutes till eleven o’clock. At this time, there was one standing some fifty yards from the building, awaiting its time to depart for the depot in West Philadelphia.
“Yes, I do see them now,” I said, thinking it better to humor him; “but it is very plain they have concluded you are not here, for they are getting on that car to leave.”
“O, I know their tricks!” he replied, quickly. “They only want to make me think they are gone, so that I will go to sleep, and they can come and take me easily. But they don’t catch me that way! I should think not! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“Really, Thomas,” said I, persuasively, “I believe they intend to go. Go to bed, and I will watch for you. If they do not leave on that car when it goes, and offer to come this way, I will wake you and tell you. Depend on me.”
“Will you?”
“Yes, indeed I will. Lie down.”
“I will, then; but, mind, don’t let ’em get near. They’re sly as foxes. Watch ’em.”
“Don’t fear,” I replied. “Go to bed, and I will wake you in good time if I see them coming.”
Thereupon Thomas, who was a large strong man of thirty years, returned somewhat reluctantly to his bed, while some of the other boys of the “ward” began to wake up, and swear moderately because their slumbers had been disturbed. The murmur soon subsided, however, Thomas seemed to sleep, all grew quiet, and I lay down again.
I was just getting into a comfortable doze, when Thomas started suddenly, sprung out upon the floor, between his bed and mine, making the whole house quiver, placed his hands upon my stomach, and leaped clear over me and my bed at a bound. At first, I thought my “time had come,” for I fancied he was about to “slash” me in two with a knife; but having executed the gymnastic feat just described, he withdrew his hands, and stood in a kind of crouching position, trembling like a leaf—especially like an aspen leaf.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, trembling about as much as he.
“Hush!” he whispered, in an awful manner. “They’re at the window! They were pointing their muskets in! One of them touched me on the head. Look! See their bayonets at the window! Where’s my knife? Reach and get it for me from my pants’ pocket! Do!”
“Wait a moment,” I replied, “till I go to the door and look out. I want to see how many there are.” My object was to get out into the hall, go and wake the Doctor, and inform him of this sad case.
“No, no, no, no, no, no!” he said, quickly, at the same time jumping about four feet high, and coming down on the floor like a thunderbolt; “don’t open the door! They would all rush in!”
“Only the hall-door,” I persisted, beginning to rise. “They’re not in the hall. Stay here, and I’ll get you a musket to defend yourself with.”
The muskets belonging to the guards off duty were kept on a kind of rack in the hall, immediately adjoining the room I was in. I did not wait to hear any further remonstrances on the part of Thomas, but leaving him standing there trembling, as only a man suffering from delirium tremens can tremble, I seized my two crutches—for I used two then—stalked to the door, went out into the hall, closed the door after me and hastened to the room in which the Doctor slept, which was on the same floor.
It was some little time before I succeeded in getting him awake, and when I did, he growled out in an ill humor, asked what in the deuce I wanted, imagined I was some one come to rob him, seized his revolver, cocked it, threatened to blow my unhappy brains out, called to me to “halt, or I was a dead man;” and, in fact, he was, altogether, quite playful.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” I fairly yelled. “It is I, Doctor—I, John Smith!”
“What do you want—waking a fellow at this time of night?” he demanded. “Are you sick? Do you want medicine? Go to the cadet and tell him to give you:
℞ Sac., Satur. ʒi,
Ext. Vr. Viride, ℈ii,
Emetia, ʒi,
Ol. Tiglii, gtt, xx.
Acid. Tannicum, ℥iss,
Fowler’s Sol. Ars., ℥ss,
Aqua distillata, ℥iiiss.
Coch. mag. every ten minutes, till relieved;
and if——”
“Stop! stop, for suffering humanity’s sake!” I interrupted. “I am not sick, at all. On the contrary, am quite well—thank you. But——”
“Well, what is the matter?”
“I came to tell you that Mr. Thomas is raving mad. He imagines that a provost-guard is after him, and that he is to be shot as a deserter; and he is scampering about over the ward, like a rat in a hot stove. He talks strangely about cutting people’s hearts out; and he may hurt some of the boys.”
“O, is that it?” said the Doctor, now wide awake. “Well, I’ll attend to him!” And he hurriedly turned out and drew on his unmentionables.
Accompanied by the Doctor, a light, and a guard of two men armed with muskets, I soon returned to “Ward A,” and found Thomas raving like a “wild man of the woods.” He imagined himself already attacked by a company of soldiers, and he was hammering away at my empty bed with his big fists, and cursing and swearing like an officer of the Regular Army. All the boys of the “ward” were now wide awake, and more than scared. They were all cripples, and some of them still in a weak condition, and they really had much to fear in case of Thomas’s becoming generally pugnacious.
“What do you mean, Thomas?” demanded the Doctor, angrily. “Do you want to go into the guard-house right now? or will you lie down and take a night’s rest?”
“They’ve surrounded me!” vociferated Thomas, with a profane oath. “And I’ll not be taken! I’ll sell my life as dearly as possible! I will!”
“Confound you!” said the Doctor, vexatiously. “You’ll cheat the man that buys it, then!—seize him, boys, and put him in the cellar. Put on your pantaloons, Thomas; you must sleep in the cellar to-night. You shall not carry on in this way.”
Much to my surprise, Thomas at once cooled down, and became perfectly tractable. He offered no resistance, nor showed any signs of disobedience, but straightway drew on his trousaloons, put on his blouse, placed his cap on his head, with the visor shoved down over his eyes, and quietly accompanied the guard, and allowed himself to be locked up in a strong room in the basement. So, our peace and tranquillity were no more invaded till roll-call in the morning.
When one of the guards went to give Thomas his breakfast, he found him sitting with a grave air on a low stool near the door of his prison, with a large bloody pocket-knife in his hand. There was a pool of gore on the floor at his feet, and his neck and breast were terribly gashed.
“Why, Thomas!” exclaimed the horrified sentinel, “What have you done?”
“Some fellow,” returned Thomas, in a calm, and even dignified tone, “murdered my father last night in the room above, and——” pointing to the blood on the floor—“his blood ran down here. Some of it fell on me, but how could I help that?”
“But what are you doing with that knife? You have surely cut yourself.”
“O,” he retorted coolly, as he pointed to his lacerated breast, “I have been merely trying to get my heart out. I had hold of it once, but it slipped out of my hand.”
There was a wild look in his eye, and he presented a rather dangerous appearance with the gory knife in his hand, and his clothes stained with blood. The sentinel paused a moment, then duty triumphing over fear, he advanced boldly, and said, in an authoritative tone:
“Give me that knife!”
Without a word, Thomas submissively handed him the bloody instrument, with which he had been attempting self-destruction. It was a large knife with eating-fork attached, such as was much used by soldiers during the war—the blade being about four inches long.
Having secured this weapon, the sentinel closed and locked the door, then hastened to inform the Doctor of what had occurred. Thereupon Thomas was conducted to an upper room, his wounds—twenty-two in number—were examined and dressed, and he was put to bed. There were two Doctors at the hospital at the time, and both expressed a like opinion on the case of poor Thomas. They said they wouldn’t be surprised if he should die, but yet, that it was possible he might get well—if “kept quiet:” so, by this non-committal course, they did not endanger their reputation.
CHAPTER III.
Proposes to Leap From a Third-Story Window.
FOR some days, the recovery of Mr. Thomas was very doubtful. Some one had to stay with him continually, and especially at night, for at that dreary hour, “when churchyards yawn,” and one experiences an inclination to sup on “hot blood,” (vide Hamlet,) he was in the habit of raving a good deal and of threatening to destroy himself, and the greater portion of the human race.
By and by, “sitting up” with him got to be a rather sleepy task, and as there were not very many whole men about, it was necessary for the cripples to take turns at it.
One night, a week or so after the attempted suicide, my turn came. I was told early in the evening that I was detailed to get up at twelve o’clock, and stay with the sufferer till three. At the appointed time I was awakened by one of the nurses, arose, dressed, and proceeded to the invalid’s apartments. I entered the room with some misgivings, and relieved a one-armed “hero,” who had been watching since nine o’clock. The latter retired at once, and left me alone with the patient. The latter was asleep at that time, and the single candle that was burning in the room shed a ghastly light over his ashen face, and the white bandage, slightly blood-stained, that was bound around his unhappy neck.
“He is asleep now,” the one-armed soldier had said, before withdrawing, “and may not give you any trouble. If he should awake and try to hurt you, ring the bell.”
The bell-wires, et cetera, used when the building was a hotel, were still in good working order, and all that lent me courage was the bell-pull that hung down close to my ear, when I had taken a seat on a chair near the door.
I was just getting into an uncomfortable doze, when the patient waked up, awoke me, and raising up quietly in bed, remarked:
“I believe I’ll jump out of this window.”
He said it as coolly as a man in good health would say: “I believe I’ll take a walk.”
It was a third-story room, and the bed stood immediately by the window. I thought of the disastrous consequences of such a proceeding on the part of Thomas, and earnestly advised him not to think seriously of embarking in such a colossal enterprise. The window was raised about two feet, it being a warm night, and he gazed wistfully out into the sombre darkness.
“Don’t do it, Thomas,” said I, with earnestness. “We are at least thirty feet from the ground, and in your present condition it would not be judicious. Wait till you get well, at least.”
“You jump out,” he suggested, turning and looking upon me with a wild stare.
He seemed to have just thought of it. What could be my excuse, for not taking a flying leap in the dark, I being in sound health—what there was of me?
I glanced furtively at the bell-pull, and replied.
“O no; not from that window. You see, that is a back window. The laundress has some clothes hung out to dry just below, and it might injure them. Besides, I am in the habit of doing my leaping from a fourth-story front window. You’ll always find, Thomas, that a man of refinement prefers a leap from a window of the fourth floor.”
He sat awhile, in a sort of thoughtful attitude while I kept one eye on the bell-cord, and the other on him; then, to my relief, he deliberately lay down again, drew the covers close up to his chin, and glided off into a gentle slumber.
I had no more trouble with him. Thomas got well, in the course of a month, left off drinking, and got to be a pretty sensible sort of fellow. The last time I saw him was one day, some months after I had left the hospital, when I returned to the old place on a brief visit. He was engaged in a four-hand game of euchre, and I observed, just as I arrived, that he held in his hand both bowers, ace, king and queen: would you believe it?——he had the temerity to play it “alone,” and the extraordinarily good luck to make “four times.”
CHAPTER IV.
Locked Up.
THE inmates of the hospital were allowed passes, after roll-call in the morning, to go into the city, or whither they pleased; but it was imperative that they should return by half-past seven in the evening, positively, without fail. One morning, as usual, I got a pass to go into the city, and as the Doctor handed it to me, he said:
“Don’t fail to be back at half-past seven.”
“I won’t,” I replied, with the best intentions in the world.
As new patients arrived almost every day, some of whom might be ignorant of the rules and regulations, the Doctor had got into the habit of repeating this injunction every time he gave out a pass; and as he gave, on an average, about one hundred and fifty per day, Sundays excluded, he must, in the course of a year, have said, “Don’t fail to return by half-past seven,” forty-six thousand nine hundred and fifty times.
I had just stepped from the street-car in the heart of the city, when I ran squarely against one of the boys of my own regiment, whom I had not seen since the battle of Antietam.
“Hallo, Charlie!” I exclaimed, delighted to see the familiar face of my comrade; “what are you doing here?”
“I have been in the Chestnut Hill Hospital,” was his reply, as we shook hands. “I was wounded at Fredericksburg, and am just well enough now to return to the regiment: I go to Washington to-day. What are you doing here?”
“I am staying at Haddington Hospital,” I returned, “waiting to have a Palmer leg fitted on me that is made of willow, and only weighs three ounces and a half.”
“Come and go to Washington with me,” he said, as the thought appeared to strike him. (It struck me rather forcibly about the same time, I confess.)
“I couldn’t—I—I—”
“Why couldn’t you?”
“Because I only have a pass till evening.”
“Oh, that will make no difference. They will hardly be so strict with the cripples.”
“When do you go?” I asked, thoughtfully.
“At eleven o’clock.”
“Where is the regiment?”
“Lying at Upton’s Hill. Come—you’ll go with me!”
“I might get into trouble,” I said, wavering. “I only have a pass till half-past seven, and if I should go away and stay whole days——”
“O, pshaw! They wouldn’t care. You have no duty to perform there.”
“No, but——”
“O, come,” he urged—all I wanted was a little urging—“the boys would be so glad to see you! You don’t know how they felt about your losing a leg at Antietam!”
This argument completely disarmed me. I had not been with the regiment since I was carried away from it in the smoke of battle, and, O, I knew that the boys would be glad to see me! No one who has not been a soldier knows how dear one’s comrades are to him! And especially his messmates—those with whom he has slept many a time on the cold ground, and under the same narrow tent; those with whom he has drank from the same canteen, or eaten from the same scanty dish! The attachment that grows up among companions in arms is like no other. It is not like paternal or fraternal love; it is not like the love of lovers; but it is as fond, as deep, and as lasting!
I accompanied my comrade to Washington, thence to Upton’s Hill, and saw the “boys;” and I think I never enjoyed so much true happiness, in the same length of time, as I did during that pleasant visit. I never thought of my being absent without leave, till I neared Philadelphia again. Then I began to wonder if “any thing would be done with me” on my return to the hospital. I tried to persuade myself that there was no danger of any thing of the sort, but something would keep whispering to me that I was going to “get into trouble.”
I arrived at the hospital again just one week from the day I had left. The roll was regularly called, both in the morning and in the evening, and I could not suppress an involuntary shudder, as I thought of the fourteen roll-calls I had evidently missed, and of the fourteen black marks that were surely placed, by this time, opposite the honest, unassuming name of Smith, John.
However, I put on a bold face, walked up the hospital steps, paid no attention to the guard, who said, “Where the deuce have you been all this time?” walked in, and calmly reported myself to the surgeon.
“Doctor,” said I, “it isn’t half-past seven yet, is it?” (It was about two o’clock, post meridian.)
I had hoped he would enjoy this joke, and good-naturedly laugh the affair off, but I saw no such indications on his stern countenance.
“Where have you been, Smith?” he asked. Do I say asked? I should say, demanded. That is putting it mildly enough.
“I went to Upton’s Hill to see my regiment,” I replied.
“Exactly. Upton’s Hill. Let me see—that is—”
“Upton’s Hill,” said I, “is about eight or nine miles from Alexandria, by the pike. From Washington, it is situated——”
In fact, I was going on to deliver a first class lecture on geography, when he interrupted me with:
“So you went there, eh? A pretty way to act! I gave you a pass a week ago to-day, as the records will show, telling you to return by half-past seven, and, until now, have not seen you or heard of you!”
“Well,” said I, still hoping that the affair might be accepted as a joke, “I am back, you see, before half-past seven. The mere matter of a week——”
“Go to your ward,” interrupted the Doctor, who did not seem to be in a joking mood.
“Glad to get off so easily,” I muttered to myself, as I withdrew. “I really did begin to get a little scared; but it’s all right now. I believe I’ll go and write a letter or two.”
Now, there was at the hospital, acting as sergeant of the guard, a contemptible little fellow named Kinsley, who had never been wounded, and probably had never seen any active service. I do not remember what regiment he belonged to. He was very fond of displaying his sergeant’s stripes, paper collar, and delicate little mustache. I had not been in my ward long, when this pompous little fellow came in with a key in his hand, approached me and said:
“Come and go with me, Smith.”
Observing the key, I at first supposed that new quarters had been assigned me—in truth, I was nearly right—and I arose and followed him. He led the way up one flight of stairs, then another, then another. We had not quite reached the fourth story when the horrible truth suddenly flashed upon me. I was to be put in the guard-house—yes, the GUARD-HOUSE!
“Sergeant,” said I, pausing on the stairs, “I half believe that you contemplate locking me up.”
“So I am ordered,” he replied.
“I’ve considered the matter,” I continued, coolly, “and have come to the conclusion not to go.”
“But you’ve got to go,” said he. “There’s no use in——”
“No, I really don’t think I’ll go: not right away, anyhow,” I said, coolly; and I turned about and began to descend the stairs.
He quickly followed me, and roughly seized one of my arms. Letting my crutches fall, I turned impetuously upon him, and with all the fire of assailed dignity, seized the foppish little sergeant by both arms, and hurled him down the stairs with all my might. I tumbled down after him, however, for I had not then such command of my equilibrium as I have since acquired, and we landed at the foot of the stairs all in a heap. I was up first, and snatching up one of my crutches for a weapon, I stood with my back to the wall, and proposed to “split his skull” if he should dare to approach. He did not dare, however, but with a savage oath for so small a man, he picked himself up and ran down the other two flights of stairs. I deliberately followed. I was half-way down the last flight, when the Doctor and two guards, armed with musket and bayonet, appeared in the hall.
“Doctor,” said I, “did you order me to be put in the guard-house?”
“Yes,” he replied, frankly.
“You have no right to do it,” I said, with some force. “I am a sergeant, and cannot, without a trial, be confined in a guard-house.”
“But you can,” he retorted, “if there are men enough here to carry you up. Go, boys, and put him in No. 41.”
The two guards came up to me, and one of them said:
“Come, now, you see we are ordered to do it. We don’t like to, but——”
“I will go with you,” said I, “for I know you are a soldier; but if that dandified little sergeant comes within reach of me, I will break his head!”
I again ascended the stairs, for I saw that resistance would be both useless and wrong; and one of the guards, inserting the key, opened the door, and I walked in. Just then, the cowardly little sergeant made his appearance, rushed to the door, drew it to, turned the key, and tauntingly said:
“Now I’ve got you, my fine fellow! You see a sergeant can be put in the guard-house!”
I could not help acknowledging the truth of this, but did not do so to him. I merely promised to lick him as soon as I should get out.