THE PRICE OF A VICTORY.
“Good news! great news! glorious news!” cried young Oswald, as he entered his father’s house. “We have got a complete victory, and have killed I don’t know how many thousands of the enemy; and we are to have bonfires and illuminations!”
“And so,” said his father, “you think that killing a great many thousands of human creatures is a thing to be very glad about?”
Oswald.No—I do not quite think so, neither: but surely it is right to be glad that our country has gained a great advantage.
Father.No doubt, it is right to wish well to our country, as far as its prosperity can be promoted without injuring the rest of mankind. But wars are very seldom to the real advantage of any nation; and when they are ever so useful or necessary, so many dreadful evils attend them, that a humane man will scarcely rejoice in them, if he considers at all on the subject.
Os.But if our enemies would do us a great deal of mischief, and we prevent it by beating them, have we not a right to be glad of it?
Fa.Alas! we are in general little judges which of the parties has the most mischievous intentions. Commonly, they are both in the wrong, and success will make both of them unjust and unreasonable. But putting this out of the question, he who rejoices in the event of a battle, rejoices in the misery of many thousands of his species; and the thought of that should make him pause a little. Suppose a surgeon were to come with a smiling countenance, and tell us triumphantly that he had cut off half a dozen legs to day, what would you think of him?
Os.I should think him very hard-hearted.
Fa.And yet those operations are done for the benefit of the sufferers, and by their own desire. But in a battle, the probability is, that none of those engaged on either side have any interest at all in the cause they are fighting for, and most of them come there because they cannot help it. In this battle that you are so rejoiced about, there have been ten thousand men killed on the spot, and nearly as many wounded.
Os.On both sides?
Fa.Yes—but they aremenon both sides. Consider now, that the ten thousand sent out of the world in this morning’s work, though they are past feeling themselves, have left probably two persons each, on an average, to lament their loss, parents, wives, or children. Here are then twenty thousand people made unhappy, at one stroke on their account. This, however, is hardly so dreadful to think of, as the condition of the wounded. At the moment we are talking, eight or ten thousand more are lying in agony, torn with shot, or gashed with cuts, their wounds all festering, some hourly to die a most excruciating death, others to linger in torture weeks and months, and many doomed to drag on a miserable existence for the rest of their lives, with diseased and mutilated bodies.
Os.This is shocking to think of, indeed!
Fa.When you light your candles, then, this evening,think what they cost.
Os.But everybody else is glad, and seems to think nothing of these things.
Fa.True—they donotthink of them. If they did, I cannot suppose they would be so void of feeling as to enjoy themselves in merriment when so many of their fellow-creatures are made miserable. Do you not remember, when poor Dickens had his legs broken to pieces by a loaded wagon, how all the town pitied him?
Os.Yes, very well. I could not sleep the night after for thinking of him.
Fa.But here are thousands suffering as much as he, and we scarce bestow a single thought on them. If any one of these poor creatures were before our eyes, we should probably feel much more than we do now for them altogether. Shall I tell you a story of a soldier’s fortune, that came to my own knowledge?
Os.Yes; pray, do.
Fa.In the village where I went to school, there was an honest industrious weaver and his wife, who had an only son, named Walter, just come to man’s estate. Walter was a good and dutiful lad, and a clever workman, so that he was a great help to his parents. One unlucky day, having gone to the next market-town with some work, he met with a companion, who took him to the alehouse and treated him. As he was coming away, a recruiting sergeant entered the room, who seeing Walter to be a likely young fellow, had a great mind to entrap him. He persuaded him to sit down again and take a glass with him; and kept him in talk with fine stories about a soldier’s life, till Walter got fuddled before he was aware. The sergeant then clapped a shilling into his hand to drink his majesty’s health, and told him he was enlisted. He was kept there all night, and next morning was taken before a magistrate to be sworn in. Walter had now become sober, and was very sorry for what he had done: but he was told that he could not get off without paying a guinea smart money. This he knew not how to raise; and being likewise afraid and ashamed to face his friends, he took the oath and bounty-money, and marched away with the sergeant, without ever returning home. His poor father and mother, when they heard of the affair, were almost heart-broken; and a young woman in the village, who was his sweetheart, had like to have gone distracted. Walter sent them a line from the first stage, to bid them farewell, and comfort them. He joined his regiment, which soon embarked for Germany, where it continued till the peace. Walteronce or twice sent word home of his welfare, but for the last year nothing was heard of him.
Os.Where was he then?
Fa.You shall hear. One summer’s evening, a man in an old red coat, hobbling on crutches, was seen to enter the village. His countenance was pale and sickly, his cheeks hollow, and his whole appearance bespoke extreme wretchedness. Several people gathered round him, looking earnestly in his face. Among these a young woman having gazed at him a while, cried out, “My Walter!” and fainted away. Walter fell on the ground beside her. His father and mother being fetched by some of the spectators, came and took him in their arms, weeping bitterly. I saw the whole scene, and shall never forget it. At length, the neighbours helped them into the house, where Walter told them the following story:—
“At the last great battle that our troops gained in Germany, I was among the first engaged, and received a shot that broke my thigh. I fell, and presently after our regiment was forced to retreat. A squadron of the enemy’s horse came galloping down upon us. A trooper making a blow at me with his sabre as I lay, I lifted up my arm to save my head, and got a cut which divided all the sinews at the back of my wrist. Soon after the enemy were driven back, and came across us again. A horse set his foot on my side, and broke three of my ribs. The action was long and bloody, and the wounded on both sides were left on the field all night. A dreadful night it was to me you may think! I had fainted through loss of blood, and when I recovered, I was tormented with thirst, and the cold air made my wounds smart intolerably. About noon next day wagons came to carry away those who remained alive; and I, with a number of others, was put into one to be conveyed to the next town. The motion of the carriage was terrible for my broken bones—every jolt went to my heart. We were taken to an hospital, which was crammed as full as it could hold; and we should all have been suffocated with the heat and stench, had not a fever broke out, which soon thinned our numbers. I took it, and was twice given over; however, I struggled through. But my wounds proved so difficult to heal, that it was almost a twelvemonth before I could be discharged. A great deal of the bone in my thigh came away in splinters, and left the limb crooked and useless as you see. I entirely lost the use of three fingers of my right hand; and my broken ribs made me spit blood a long time, and have left a cough and difficulty of breathing, which I believe will bring me to my grave. I wassent home, and discharged from the army, and I have begged my way hither as well as I could. I am told that the peace has left the affairs of my country just as they were before; but who will restore me my health and limbs? I am put on the list for a Chelsea pensioner, which will support me, if I live to receive it, without being a burden to my friends. That is all that remains for Walter now.”
Os.Poor Walter! What became of him afterward?
Father.The wound in his thigh broke out afresh, and discharged more splinters after a great deal of pain and fever. As winter came on, his cough increased. He wasted to a skeleton, and died the next spring. The young woman, his sweetheart, sat up with him every night to the last; and soon after his death, she fell into a consumption, and followed him. The old people, deprived of the stay and comfort of their age, fell into despair and poverty, and were taken into the workhouse, where they ended their days.
This was the history ofWalter the soldier. It has been that of thousands more; and will be that of many a poor fellow, over whose fate you are now rejoicing. Such is theprice of a victory!