EXHIBITIONS OF MOTHER-LOVE.
To What Lengths Affections would carry Women in the War.
WAR brought heavy burdens of anxiety and sorrow to the women on both sides of the lines during the terrible struggle of 1861-1865. The anxious waiting for news from the battle-field, the heart-breaking scrutiny of the list of wounded and killed, cannot, with their sorrows, be measured by words and phrases.
One Philadelphia mother, whose husband and son were in the war, received news that her son had been killed in one of the smaller battles of Virginia. She determined to recover the body, and bring it home for burial. After many delays and hindrances, she reached the regiment of which he was a member. She had walked three miles to get there, and had left the casket she had brought down at the station, where fire had destroyed everything but the track.
The soldiers brought up the coffin, and the next morning exhumed the body. They had wrapped him carefully in his blanket, and marked the spotwith a rough board, on which they had carved his name and regiment and company with their knives. When they lifted him out, and laid him at her feet, she recognized him at once.
“Yes, this is my boy,” she said, pushing the damp hair back from his fair young face.
The soldiers, who were glad to render the heart-broken mother any service they could, carried the coffin down to the railroad track, where the station had once stood, and instructed her how to “flag a train;” and assuring her that “a train might come at any time,” they left her there with her dead.
There was no human dwelling in sight. She seated herself on her son’s coffin, beside the charred timbers and ashes, to await the coming of the train. Behind her was the little valley where the Union troops were stationed to guard an important pass. On either side of her were mountains that rose majestically, that might be infested with wild beasts and creeping things. Before her was a little brook and the bands of iron along its banks that rendered it possible to make the journey through that mountain gorge by rail. The afternoon wore away, but no train came; the shades of night closed her in, but no sound of wheels greeted her ears.
She built a little fire so as to signal the train. The sharp notes of the night birds, the fighting of the wildcats on the side of the mountain, themysterious noises in the air, the sound of stealthy footsteps near her,—all fell with fearful distinctness on her ears; for every nerve was strained to its utmost tension. But no train came to relieve her weary vigil. Her garments were wet with the dews of night; and she added wood to the smouldering fire, for the cheerful blaze comforted her.
As the night wore on, all nature seemed at rest. The night birds ceased their calls, the wildcats climbed higher up the mountain, and the whippoorwill ceased its mournful song. But this was even more terrible, as every remaining sound was more distinct. The rustling of a leaf or a noise in the bushes sent the blood hurrying to her heart.
At last gray streaks of light began to climb above the mountain in the east, and were tinged with purple and orange, and soon the white light of day fell about her; but it was not till late in the afternoon of the second day that a train came, and her weary vigil ended. For twenty-six hours she had been alone with her dead.
She reached Washington without delay, and before boarding the train for Philadelphia saw the coffin of her son put on board. But when she reached Philadelphia she found that by some mistake the remains had been left at Baltimore. She telegraphed back, and waited in the station till they were brought to her, and then followed them to her own house.
Afterward her husband was killed; and she went to the front again, and secured his body, and brought it home for interment. Who shall measure the anguish of the women who watched at home till there was one dead in almost every house?
A mother in Maine received the news that her only son had been wounded and taken prisoner, and had been sent to Richmond. “I am going to him,” she said. Her husband and neighbors tried to dissuade her. On her journey toward the front she called on Governor Andrew of Massachusetts. “My dear madam,” he said, “I can do nothing for you. The only thing I could do would be to give you a letter of introduction to President Lincoln.”
“Well, give me that.”
When she reached Washington she called on the President, and after a weary waiting was shown into his presence. “Why, madam,” said the great-hearted Lincoln, “I can do nothing for you. If he were within our own lines, I would give you a pass, but I cannot send you to Richmond. At the best, I could only get you beyond our own pickets.”
“Then, please give me a pass beyond your pickets.”
This was done, and she passed the Union lines to fall into the hands of the Confederate pickets. The latter refused to allow her to proceed.
“I am going right on to Richmond. Shoot if you will.” And she started on. They did not shoot, but took her into camp, and from the headquarters of that command she was sent on to Richmond.
When she reached the hospital where her son lay, the surgeon refused to allow her to see him.
“I must see him! I’m sure it will do him good to see his mother!”
As soon as the son saw her, he cried out,—
“There is my mother! I knew she would come. I’ll get well now.” And sure enough he did.