CHAPTER XIII.THE DYING SOLDIER.
Backward now we turn, and stand again in the chamber where we saw the glitter of the polished steel, and heard the bitter cry forced out by pain from lips unused to give such sign of weakness. They were white now as the wintry snow which covers the Northern hills, and the breath came feebly from between them, as the sick man whispered faintly:
“I shall not be here if Annie comes, for when the drum beats on the morrow, calling my comrades to their daily drill, I shall be far away where sounds of battle were never heard but once. Oh the peace, the quiet, the rest, there is in Heaven. I hope you will one day come to share it with me; you who have been kinder than a brother,” and the long, white fingers grasped the hand which for so many days and weeks had soothed the aching head and cooled the fevered pillows with all a woman’s tenderness.
Never for an hour had that faithful friend deserted his post. Day and night had found him there, ministering to every want, and, as far as human aid could do, smoothing the pathway leading so surely down to death. But his vigils were almost over now; his release was just at hand, for, as George had said, the morrow’s drum-beat would only find there the body, which was so worn by suffering and disease, that William Mather could lift it in his arms as easily as he could have lifted a little child. He was greatly changed from the days when he had been aptly called the Rockland Hercules. But as the outer man decayed, the inner life grew strong and bright, shiningforth at the last with all the splendor which perfect faith in Christ’s Atonement can shed around a death-bed. There was no repining now, no murmuring at the mysterious dealings of Providence, nothing but sweet, childish confidence, and a patient waiting for the end coming on so fast that George himself could feel the irregular beat of his wiry pulse, and mark the death hue as it came creeping on, settling first in purplish spots about his finger tips, and spreading its ashen coloring over his clammy hands.
A stormy November night had closed over Washington, and the rain beat dismally against the windows of the room where Mr. Mather bent over the dying soldier, listening to what he said.
“You can’t tell Annieall,” George whispered, looking fondly up into the face he had learned to love so well. “You must write it down so as not to lose a single word. Bring pen and paper, and then sit where I can see you, for the sight of you does me good; you have been so kind to me.”
The writing utensils were brought, and then sitting where George could look into his face, Mr. Mather wrote as the dying man dictated:
My dear, dear, darling Annie:—It will be days, perhaps, before you see this letter, and ere it reaches you somebody will have told you that your poor George is dead! Are you crying, darling, as you read this? Do the tears fall upon the words, ‘poor George is dead?’ Don’t cry, my precious Annie. It makes my heart ache to think how you will sorrow and I not there to comfort you. It’s hard to die away from home, but not so hard as it would once have been, for I hope I am a different man from the one who bade you good-bye a few short months ago; and, darling, itmustcomfort you to know that your prayers, your sweet influence have led the wanderer home to God. We shall meet again in Heaven, Annie,—meet where partings are unknown. It may be many years, perhaps, and the grass upon my grave may blossom many times ere you will sleep the sleep whichknows no waking but at the last you’ll come where I am waiting you. IknowI shall be there, Annie. All the harassing doubts and fears are gone. Simple faith in the Saviour’s promise has taken them away, and left me perfect peace. God bless you, Annie darling, and grant that as you have guided me, so you may guide others to that home above, where I am going so fast. You have made me very happy since you have been my wife, and I bless you for it. It makes my death pillow easier to know that not one bitter word has ever passed between us,—nothing but perfect confidence and love. I was not good enough for you, darling. None knows that better than myself. You should have married one of gentler blood and higher birth than I, a poor mechanic. I have always felt this more than you, perhaps, and have tried so hard not to shame you with my homespun ways, had I lived, I should have improved constantly beneath your refining influence, but that is all past now, and it is well, perhaps, that it is so. As you grew older youmighthave felt there was a lack in me, a something which did not satisfy the cravings of your higher nature, and though you might not have loved me less, you would have seen that we were not wholly congenial. I am well enough in my way, but I am not a suitable companion for a girl of culture like yourself, and I’ve often wondered that you should have chosen me. But you did, and again I bless you for it. Never, never, was year so happy as the one I spent with you, my darling, darling Annie, and I was looking forward to many such, but God has decreed it otherwise, and what he does we know is right. I shall never see you again! and though they will bring me back to you, I shall not feel your tears upon my face, or see you bending over my coffin-bed! Still I know you will do this, and that makes it necessary for me to tell what, perhaps, has been too long withheld, because I would spare you if possible.
“Annie, had I lived, I never could have toiled for you as I once did, for where the right arm, which has held your light form so often, used to be, there is nothing now but a scarred stump, and this is why I have not written. Does it make you sicken and shrink away from me? Don’t, Annie. Your crippled husband’s heart is as full of tenderness now as ever. I was too proud of my figure, Annie, and the thought that you might love me less when you knew how maimed I was, hurt more than the cold, sharp steel, cutting into my throbbing flesh.
“And now, dear Annie, I come to the hardest part of all. I know just how you’ll start and shudder at what you deem so cruel a suggestion,—knowjust how keen the pang will be, for I have felt the same and my spirit well nigh fainted as I thought of the time when another’s caressess than mine would call the sweet love light to your eye and kindle the soft blushes on your cheek. Listen to me, Annie. You’ll be glad one day to remember that I told you what I did. You are young and beautiful, and though you do not believe it now, the time will surely come when my grave will not be visited as often as at first, and the flowers you will plant above me when next spring’s sun is shining will wither for want of care, and the rank grass growing there will not be trodden down by your dear little feet, for they will be waiting by another fireside than ours in the Hollow, and my Annie will bear another name than mine. Do you discredit me, darling? It will surely be, and I am willing that it should, but you will never know the anguish it costs me to be willing. It is the bitterest drop in all the bitter cup, but I drank it with tears and prayers, and now I can calmly say to you what I am saying,—can even from my death-bed give you to another, whoever he may be. You can never forget me, I know; never forget your soldier husband, who fell in his country’s cause, but by and by thoughts of him will cease to give you pain, and our short married life will seem like some far-off dream.
“I cannot say how it would be withmewere you taken and I left, but I am much like other men, and judging from their example I should do just as they do, so if in after years another asks you, as I once did, to be his guiding star, don’t refuse for me. Think that from my low grave I bless you in your new relations, and will welcome you to Heaven all the same, though you come fettered and bound with other links than those my love has thrown around you.
“I am almost done now, Annie. There is a gathering film before my eyes, and I feel the death chill creeping through my veins. It would be sweet to have you here, as I go down the brink up which no traveler has ever come; but it cannot be, and I will not repine. There is One with me whose presence is dearer far than yours could be; One whose everlasting arm will be beneath me as I pass over Jordan. Leaning on Him I need no other stay, but shall go fearlessly down to death. There is another with me, too,—an earthly friend, who has been kinder than a brother, and my heart clings to him more fondly than he can ever guess. Always respect William Mather, Annie, for what he has been to me. Pray that prosperity may attend him all his days, and that at the last he may find a place in Heaven. He is thinking of these things, I know, and from thedreary hours spent with me there may yet spring up plants of everlasting growth.
“My mind begins to wander, darling. There’s a rushing sound in my ears, while thoughts of you and thoughts of that terrible Sabbath battle are blended together. Good-bye, my precious one. Don’t cry too much when you read this. It is not good-bye forever. A few more years of earth to you, a moment of heavenly bliss to me and then we meet again, where golden harps are ringing. I can almost hear them now,—almost see the shining throngs sent out to meet me, just as I once vainly dreamed the Rockland people would come to welcome me home from war. In fancy I put my arms around your neck just as I used to do; in fancy hold you to my bosom; in fancy kiss your girlish lips, and smooth your pale brown hair.
“I don’t know how you’ll live without me; don’t know who will earn your bread, but the God of the widow and fatherless will surely care for my darling and keep her heart from breaking. With him I leave you, knowing you are safer there than elsewhere.
“Good-bye, good-bye.”
There were great tear blots upon this letter, for Mr. Mather, as he penned it, had wept over it like a child, forming a resolution which he wondered had not suggested itself before. Kneeling by the dying George, he said, “Godwillcare for your darling, and I shall be His instrument. So long as I have a home, Annie shall not suffer. Rose’s love was given to her long ago and mine will follow soon. She shall be a sister to us both.”
The glazed eyes lighted up with joy, and the white lips whispered the thanks which ended in a prayer for blessings on one who had proved himself so kind to the poor soldier.
“Come closer to me,” they said; “take my hand in yours and keep it there while I thank you for what you’ve been to me. You’ll forgive me, I know, that I ever thought you proud, for I did, and sometimes there was a bitter feeling in my heart when I saw your Rose surrounded with every luxury, and thought of Annie, ashighly educated as she, taking a far lower place in Rockland, because her husband was a mechanic. There is more of that feeling among the working classes than you imagine, and you don’t know how much good a familiar word or a little notice from such a you does to those who fill the humbler walks of life. Women feel this more than men, and again I bless you for the care promised my Annie. I do not ask that you should take her to your home as you suggest. You’ll think differently of that bye and by, but see that she does not want; see that no winter night shall find her hungry, no winter morning cold. Oh, Annie, Annie, that you should ever come to this!”
It was a bitter, wailing cry, embodying all the mighty love the sick man had ever felt for his young wife. George had thought himself resigned, but weak human nature, which clings so tenaciously to life, was making one last effort for the mastery, and the worn spirit fainted for a time in the fierce struggle which ensued. The mind began to wander, and was in fancy back again at the cottage in the Hollow, where the soldier clasped his Annie to his bosom, begging of her in piteous tones not to love him less because he was a cripple. “I have only one arm to work with now, but I won’t let you starve, for when there’s but one crust left, I’ll give it all to you, and laugh so merrily that you will never guess how the hunger pain is gnawing at my heart. I’ve felt it once, my darling. I know just what it’s like. ’Twas on that terrible day when our brave boys met the foe, way up there at Manassas. There were hours, and hours, and hours, when we neither ate nor drank, and the July sun poured down so hotly, drying the perspiration which dropped from my hair like rain. ’Twas my very life I sweat away that awful day, fighting for the Union. Did you hear the battle, Annie,—hear the cannon’s bellowing thunder as itechoed through the Virginia woods? Wasn’t it grand the yell the Highlanders gave, as, with the 69th, they bore down battery after battery, and plunged into the enemy’s midst! How bravely our company played their part, fighting their way through shot and shell, and blood and brains, wading ankle-deep in human gore! Hurrah for the Stars and Stripes, my boys! Three cheers for the Federal Flag! Yes, give us three times three; and when it floats again over all the land, remember the soldiers who helped defend it. Hurrah, hurrah!”
Mr. Mather shuddered as the wild shout rang through the room. It seemed so like a mockery, that dying soldier shouting for liberty, and trying in vain to wave aloft his poor, scarred stump. Anon, however, the patriotic mood was changed, and the voice was very sad which whispered:
“But hush! what sounds are these, mingling in the glad notes of victory? ’Tis the widow, the orphan, the mother, weeping over the slain! There’s mourning East and West; there’s weeping North and South, for the dead who will return no more! A crushed rebellion is hardly worth the fearful price. Oh, Annie, pray for the poor soldier,—everybody pray. Honor our memory,—forget our faults,—speak kindly of us when we are gone. We gave our life for freedom! ’Tis all that we can do. Speak kindly of the soldiers slain!”
Reason was struggling back again; and bending lower, Mr. Mather said:
“George, wewillhonor the soldiers dead, and care for the soldiers living.”
“Yes, yes!” George answered, faintly. “They need it so much,—more than the people guess who stay at home andreadabout the war. It will be long, and thecontest terrible. The North is strong, and the South determined, and both will fight like fiends. But right must conquer at last, and the Star Spangled Banner shall wave again even over misguided Charleston, whose sons and daughters shall weep for joy as they greet the joyful sight. God speed the happy day!”
Mr. Mather could only press the hand which lay again in his. He could not speak, for he knew there was athird presencenow in the sick-room,—that its dark form was shading the bed whereon he sat, and with that feeling of awe death always inspires, he sat silently watching its progress, and thinking, it may be, of the future time whenWilliam Matherwould be the dying one instead of George Graham. Slowly the marble pallor and the strange chill crept on, pinching the nose, contracting the lips, touching the forehead and moistening the soft brown hair which William smoothed caressingly, as he bent down to catch the last faint whisperings of a spirit nearly gone.
“We fought the battle bravely. Tell them not to be discouraged because of one defeat. Our cause is just. ’Twill triumph at the last. Don’t be too bitter toward the South; there are kind hearts there as well as here, and its daughters weep as sadly as any at the North. God help and pity them all. Annie, darling, I am almost home; so near that I can see the pearly gates which stand open night and day. It is not hard to die,—no pain, no anguish now,—nothing but joy and gladness and everlastingrest, rest,—perfect rest for the Redeemed.”
Drearily the November wind went sweeping down the street, and the sobbing rain beat against the window, whilst the misty daylight came struggling faintly intothe silent room which held the living and the dead; the one cold, and white, and still, his features wearing a smile of peace as if he had indeed entered into everlasting rest,—the other kneeling by his side, and with his face buried in the pillows, praying that when his time should come, he, too, might die the death of the righteous, and go where George had gone.