CHAPTER XV. RALPH IS SENT HOME
AFTER the slaughter at Fredericksburg, Ralph rapidly failed in strength. The excitement of that scene of carnage and his increasing exhaustion told upon his frame. He fulfilled his duty as well as he could; he was cheerful and alert; he wrote more often to his dear mother without ever alluding to his health.
"I can't understand what ails me," he thought. "I have never received a wound, while some of the boys who have been badly cut up are well again, and seem as strong as ever. I do believe I miss Old Bill more every day. I never felt sad or lonely when I had him to cheer me up."
He grew daily worse. Often when on duty he would halt, with weak and failing breath. He lost all desire for food, and his lusterless eyes and pale skin told how he suffered.
"What seems to be the matter, sergeant?" one of his comrades asked, anxiously. "You don't pear to have any vim about you. Why, if you hadn't shown such pluck—fact is, if it was any one but you, I mout 'cuse you of playing off."
"I'm all right, Hank. I feel a little weak and have hard chills sometimes—but I'll be better soon. I'm a little sick, that's all."
"That's enough. You ain't been yerself since we fit at Fair Oaks I've seen it a long time. That malary from the swamps has finished many a strong man."
At last Ralph had to succumb. His condition was observed by the doctor, who called the attention of his captain to the fact that he was no longer fit for duty. And when one morning he was not able to report at early roll call, it was with gloomy forebodings that he heard the order that he be removed to the hospital at once.
"Is this the end of my ambitious hopes?" he queried. "Am I going to die when I am willing to serve my country? I would not mind being killed in battle, as a soldier should be, but to die in hospital, far from my mother. It is hard!" And he buried his face in his pillow to hide the hot tears that he could not keep back.
When weeks passed, and Ralph grew no better, the Colonels attention was directed to his case. He was a severe disciplinarian, but he had a kindly heart, and he speedily forwarded a recommendation to the war department that Sergeant Gregory, Company K, Massachusetts Volunteers, be honorably discharged from the service of the United States. A document granting the request came back in due time, to the Colonel, who passed it to the captain, and he handed it to Ralph, who could not repress his emotion.
"I enlisted to the end of the war. I do not want a discharge. Could you not have obtained me a sick leave? I know I shall be strong soon."
The doctor shook his head solemnly.
"You are not fit to march, or do active duty—perhaps' never will be. The hardships incident to a campaign have broken you down. You were very young to have undertaken them. I do not wish to wound your pride, but the government does not want sick men on its rolls."
So Ralph was given his papers, and after writing his mother a few lines, saying that he was quite sick, lest his sudden coming should alarm her, he was sent home by the same route by which he came. It was a painful journey, not alone from his physical suffering, but his heart bled as he noted the ruin that had been wrought in the land—the deserted houses, the neglected fields, miserable-looking people, mostly women and children, whose woe-begone faces told of the privations they were daily enduring, uncomplainingly. The contrast between the early days of the war and the present was bitter, and he felt how terribly real that war was to these people. Their farms had been overrun by the tramping of two armies, and each had equally despoiled them of their possessions—both were alike unmindful and indifferent to their sorrow.
But brighter thoughts succeeded these gloomy musings, as he drew nearer to his home, and already saw his beloved mother's sweet face, and felt her warm kiss upon his cheek. But even in the Western country, as the train stopped at the various stations, he noted careworn faces, and anxious glances, as the murmured "God bless you!" was sent after the boys in blue. There were several soldiers on the train, some going home on furlough, and some on the same errand as Ralph—going home to recuperate, or, perchance, to die.
When Ralph reached Chicago, he was glad to lie down on one of the benches in the depot. He found he had to wait three hours for the train that would convey him to his prairie home. The rest was welcome, and after a nap, and a strong cup of coffee, he felt a little better; so much so that he thought he would take a short walk of a block or so. The city was, so to speak, in holiday attire. The streets were teeming with an excited yet happy-looking people, and an unusual bustle pervaded them. He wondered why every one was crowding to the edge of the sidewalks, and as he was about to ask a bystander, he heard the tramp of many feet. How familiar the sound of the steps was to his ear. The boys in blue were coming, he thought, and again a wave of wounded pride came over him, as he realized that he was shut out from the ranks, by reason of an illness which he could not understand or conquer.
But no—these were not his comrades, he saw, as he looked curiously at the long procession filing past him, closely guarded by the boys in blue, who kept step, while the men they hurried along were the subjects of ridicule from the thoughtless crowd. They were prisoners—these men, some clad in the well-known gray, some wearing butternut suits, some of them without coats or hats, their pants frayed and torn clear up to the knees. Here would proudly march a clean-shaven, erect young fellow, with a suit of gray, scarcely soiled, while at his side a mere shadow of a man, ragged and dirty, would shamble along, barefooted and wild-eyed.
Nearly all of them were emaciated, while the expression upon their faces was one of sullen despair. Men were there who were the flower and chivalry of the South, who had staked their lives and fame upon the success of their cause, and there were men who scarce knew for what or who they were fighting. To the former defeat was bitter humiliation—to the latter capture meant something to eat, and beyond that, they did not look. But to the careless crowd who watched them pass, they were merely rebel prisoners. No sympathy their anguish and shame was felt; no pity for their long months of captivity, when heart and brain would chafe restlessly, moved the crowd, who jeered and exulted. It was so, we know, the country over. The boys in blue were hooted at and mocked, when the fortunes of war threw them into the hands of the enemy. They all forgot that those who wore the blue and those who wore the gray were alike animated by a love of country, and that all were brothers—equally brave, equally earnest, equally true-hearted.
Thoughts like these passed through Ralph's mind as he saw the wretched men on their way to Camp Douglas, the military prison at Chicago. To him they were objects of sympathy, and he shuddered as he asked himself what would have been his feelings had he been taken prisoner. He was startled by a smart blow upon the shoulder, under whose force he almost staggered. He turned in astonishment, and saw Alfred Boneel, a merry French boy, who had been a schoolmate of his.
"Why, Alph, is it possible—you are looking well. You're as brown as a nut, and say, where did you get those whiskers?"
"In the service, of course. There's nothing like army life to bring out a man's good qualities. But say, Ralph, I'm sorry I can't return compliments. You are neither brown nor rugged looking. What's up?"
"They are sending me home as unfit to serve any longer," Ralph replied, dejectedly. "I don't know why they should single me out for such a distinction."
"Oh, you'll come out all right. I see you've done something besides get sick, judging by your sergeant's stripes."
"Yes, I won them, and was hoping for something better. But tell me all about yourself, Al."
"I haven't got much to tell, but I've seen some fighting, too. I was at the Fort Donelson scrimmage, and it was the coldest time I ever saw—snowing and blowing, and afterward turning out clear, but bitter cold. The storm of rain and snow had been pretty severe, and the fellows who were in the trenches must have been frost-bitten. I know we had no shelter and were hungry besides, as rations had given out, and had nobody round to ask us in to take dinner with 'em. We had pulled up stakes at Cairo, and had to go up the Ohio to Smithland, and then up the Cumberland River. Cavalry was no good in that country, for there was too much big timber, and the ground was too rough. We were kept busy trying to plant a battery, for those fellows in gray have some sharpshooters worthy of their name, and though not one of them showed himself, it was whiz! pang! every few minutes, and some one was sure to go down. We lost Eddie Downing that way."
Al paused a moment to brush an imaginary fly from before his eyes.
"Eddie Downing was shot? He was a noble boy. So he's dead!"
Al nodded assent.
"Where's George Martin? Do you know what regiment he joined?"
"Oh, sure. He was in the gunboat service. Poor fellow, he fared worse than Eddie. He was on the Cumberland and had his right arm shot away."
"Is he at home?"
"He was sent home as soon as the stump healed, and his only regret is, so his father says, that it wasn't the left arm, for he declares he'd try it again. But of course they wouldn't have him in any branch of the service."
"Of course not. But George always had grit. But how did you come out at Fort Donelson?"
"We had taken Fort Henry, but didn't feel so certain about Donelson. General Buckner had swelled the Confederate numbers there by about ten thousand men. Then the fort stood on high ground, and had a fine battery on the river front, as well as several lines of strong fortifications on the land side, such as immense logs, bags of sand, were well protected, and their riflemen were in little pits dug in the side of a hill. All the time the weather staid stinging cold, and we suffered terribly. They were resting when the gunboats came to the front. Their gunners looked death right in the face every instant, but the way they made the shells fly was lively. Commodore Foote is a hero, and he bombarded them in gallant style. He had six boats, and the sight was worth seeing, as they would come up toward the fort, getting nearer, one by one, and then each delivering its fire, and circling round to give the other boats a shot at the rebs. And the fort was giving them trouble, too, for they were sending solid shot over the decks, which were doing damage.
"When a bomb from the enemy struck the iron plates a terrible racket would be heard, as they crashed into them, wrecking smoke pipes, and tearing down the rigging, and wounding the crews. The Commodore kept his flagship, the St. Louis, in the front. But he received a bad wound in the ankle, which did not make him give up, though, but when his boat and the Louisville began to fall behind, and they could not be managed, it was seen something was wrong. It seems they had their machinery hurt, and their steering gear gave out. So he had to stop, for the guns of Fort Donelson were making sad havoc with his disabled fleet, and it was found that the fort could not be captured by an attack on its water side. The flagship had been hit fifty-nine times and the others twenty or thirty times apiece, before it became clear that Fort Donelson must be assaulted by the land forces.
"That night kept us all well occupied, in making preparations for the next day's fight. That day was an awful one, and hundreds went down before the desperate fire of the butternut boys, but we drove them back into their entrenchments. Sunday didn't see us ready for church, for we had other engagements. The boys in blue had just enough taste of the excitement to make them want more, and General Grant had us all up in line of battle early in the morning, and we were waiting impatiently for the order to attack, when the word flashed along our ranks that an officer carrying a white flag had come to visit the General. We knew what that meant—some sort of an understanding, and we were not very sorry after all, for we had lost many a gallant soldier, and didn't know who'd be called away next. Still, we were ready, if it had to be.
"Ralph, I tell you, when we heard that the distinguished looking gentleman on the black horse had come to ask that the battle might be stopped for a time, so that they could argue it out on some terms, every man amongst us felt like throwing up his hat and hurrahing for the plain, unassuming little man who commanded us, when he sent his answer—'No terms other than an unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted. I propose to move immediately upon your works.' That speech is as grand as any you'll ever find in history. It will be repeated through all the ages. Why, it's good enough to have been uttered by the great Napoleon." Alph's eyes glistened, as he unconsciously expanded his chest, and took on a more dignified air, as he walked proudly by the side of his friend, who was trembling with the effort to keep up with his robust companion.
"The whole world knows what his firm answer did. General Buckner sent another flag of truce, with the acceptance of General Grant's terms, and the Union troops moved in to Fort Donelson."
"You must have been glad."
"Glad! Indeed we were. You should have heard us shout and yell. We pulled the Confederate colors down in a hurry, and ran up the Union flag. The very earth almost shook with the cheering of the boys, while the band played 'Star Spangled Banner,' 'Red, White and Blue,' and a dozen other patriotic airs. We almost felt like having that bright little ditty 'In Dixie's Land' served up to us, we all felt so jubilant. Before an hour had gone by, we were on the most friendly terms with them all. We were trading off our greenbacks for tobacco, and they were getting bacon and biscuits from us. They didn't have any hard feelings against us, and I know we didn't have any, for they showed themselves brave and worthy foes wherever we met the Confederates in battle."
Ralph had listened with delight to his description of the taking of Fort Donelson. But he suddenly recollected that the train must be due, and he reminded Al of the fact.
"That's so, and here I am, going home on a furlough, and forgot all about it, while I was spouting. We'll hurry a little; we are only a block or so from the depot. You're all out of breath!" he said, half alarmed, as he observed Ralph's short, quick breathing, and the pallor of his face. "We'll be there in a jiffy, and you can rest. It's a good thing I'm going to be on the same train, for when we reach Marion, I can take you to your own place. Pa's expecting me, and we'll drop you down at your own door."
This was pleasant news to Ralph, for his home was over a mile from the station, and he sighed as he recalled how little that distance affected him when he was leaving home, but now that he was returning, alas! he knew that he could not walk so far.
CHAPTER XVI. RALPH AT HOME
HOME at last! And when that longing mother took her boy in her arms once more, and looked long and earnestly into his weary face, she saw only the boyish Ralph, whom sickness could not change; he was to her the same lad who had left his home with strong hopes and sunny smile. True, he was older and more careworn looking, but the honest look of his childhood shone from his eyes, and the same truthful, frank expression was on his features.
Ralph, as he rode up from the depot, with his friends, the Boneels, looked around at the old familiar place with eagerness. He expected to find everything changed—he had been absent so long, that to him it seemed as though the landscape, even, must have taken on new features, or at least changed its old. But there was the same gentle slope in front of the door, the same trees in the fields beyond, the same sunny knoll where he had played when a little boy. Oh, how long ago that seemed to him, now, when he reviewed the experiences of the past four years! Al and his father would not enter the house, though cordially invited to do so; they did not wish to intrude upon the sacredness of the first meeting with his mother.
She could scarcely speak for joy. At last she broke forth with words of greeting:
"Oh, my boy, my boy, you are home once more; you have come home to me, and you shall never go away again."
"I am glad to be with you, dear mother; as glad as a little child, who needs a good petting. But it was a bitter disappointment when I found that I could not stay with the brave boys who are offering up their lives for their country."
"Never mind, dear boy. You could not help getting sick. I will bring you back both health and strength, and then—"
"And then they will take me back in the army, again. Oh, mother, do you think it possible?"
Her face grew sad. She had not thought of that, and her heart experienced a bitter pang, for she felt that not even her love and care were to him so sweet and dear as was his country and her cause. It wounded her deeply when she saw that even in the flush of his delight at being home again, he could not help clouding her joy by expressing a wish that in her bosom found no response.
She sighed deeply, and made him no answer, but he was so absorbed in greeting his sisters and friends who had met to welcome him, that he did not notice her silence.
Ralph could not endure patiently having to play the part of an invalid, but the home doctor's peremptory orders were that he should keep his bed, and visitors were to be admitted only when he felt as if he were able to talk with them.
There were many long days when his voice was so faint and his strength so nearly exhausted that he was forbidden the excitement caused by their presence. But as the winter passed, under the tender ministrations of his mother and sisters, hope again sprung up in his breast, that health might return to him, and with health would come a return to the service.
The medical man was using every effort to restore him to health. He was wise, keen-sighted and skillful, and he fathomed the secret of Ralph's low vitality. His diligence and care were at length rewarded, and he had the satisfaction of seeing the elastic, springing step return, the bright color come back to his cheek, and the luster to his eyes, as he grew stronger daily, and to those who had come to greet his home-coming, and had mentally felt they were taking a last farewell, his recovery seemed almost a miracle.
Soon he could walk long distances, and even spring on the back of a horse for a ride. Al Boneel had returned to his regiment, but the young man's father had sent Ralph a horse, with a suggestion that he should ride every day when he was able, a privilege which brought the boy more healing than even the doctor's careful attentions.
He had instinctively shrank from visiting George Martin, although that young man had been to his home three or four times during his illness. It was a fine afternoon, and he knew he was able to ride over to George's father's farm, over three miles distant. He longed to talk over the war with him, and yet he had a feeling of delicacy lest George might be sensitive about any reference to his own misfortune. But he could not help going, and he found George sitting on a bench in the orchard, where the green buds were just beginning to shoot forth their promise for future abundance.
"I'm glad indeed to see you able to come down here, Ralph," was George's cordial greeting. "I've been wishing all day for some one to talk over old times with."
"Old times! Yes, we were happy, good-for-nothing lads in those days, I know, and gave our teachers lots of uneasiness."
"So we did, but I don't refer to those days; I mean the days in the army."
Ralph was all attention at once. "How did you like the service?" he ventured.
"Liked it clear through—way down to the bottom. You know how I lost my arm?" he said, pointing to the empty sleeve.
Ralph nodded. He longed to know more of the particulars, but would not ask.
"That was a great day. You should have been there, and seen a real fight. Not that a fight on land ain't all right, but there's a dash and inspiration about a battle on board ship that I enjoy! You feel as if the boat were your castle—you can't get away from it, and you're bound no one else shall get into it. Then the waves rocking beneath your feet, the shells screaming and dancing over the water, and the thought that your boat is almost a living thing, lends you a desperation nothing else can equal."
Ralph smiled faintly. To his way of thinking those sensations were common to all who went into battle, whether on land or water.
"You know when I went into the service I made my way to Washington at once. I didn't wait to be enlisted here, but I knew Uncle Dick, who lived there, could get me onto a war-ship, and he did.
"Through his influence I went on the Cumberland. She was a wooden vessel, but stanch and trim, with a good commander, Lieutenant Morris, whom we all liked. He was brave, resolute and determined. The Merrimac, under Commander Franklin Buchanan, was trying to raise the blockade, and do us all the harm she could. She was steaming round Hampton Roads, waiting to sink any of the boats that were maintaining that blockade. Commodore Buchanan evidently fancied he had an easy job on hand, but as soon as we sighted the ungainly-looking craft, our hearts were made glad with orders to pour a broadside into her, which we lost no time in doing. We tried our best to destroy her, but her heavy iron plates withstood the assault. Had she been made of wood, we would have made a sieve of her with our charge. We did her some damage, though, for our shot went clear into her open ports, and killed some of her crew. I heard some one say when a man's hit he don't cry out, but I know better, for the shrieks of the wounded on both sides that day, mingled with the roaring of the shells, the crashing of shot against the iron-sheeted monster, and the confusion of voices as orders rang out, sound in my ears yet.
"Lieutenant Morris would not say die, and when the rifled shot from the big house, for that's what it looked like, tore our decks fore and aft, the Merrimac's commander followed it up by turning his boat so that he rammed into our gay little vessel's side, and left a huge gash. Our commander's blood was up. We felt the frigate slowly settling beneath our feet, but not a man dreamed of forsaking his gun, but steadily poured fire into the Merrimac. We were willing to die, rather than surrender, and even though the breath came quick and hard, and we may have quailed a little as we looked at our watery grave, yet we waited calmly to hear our leader's orders, while the enemy was dealing us terrible blows with shot and shell.
"I felt a sharp pang, a numbness followed. The whole world was growing black, and for a second I thought the night had suddenly settled over us, and I knew no more, until one day I woke up in hospital, and found my right arm and shoulder had parted company. A messmate told me what happened after I fell to the deck. Our brave commander would not surrender; the water rose steadily, or, rather, the Cumberland sank steadily, until the waves washed across her gun deck, when the crew sprang overboard, and the ships boats carried them ashore.
"Tom said it was a sickening sight—they had done us great havoc, but all of our wounded who could be dragged into the boats were saved, myself among the number. Tom said it was a gloomy sight when the trusty frigate keeled over, and sank to the bottom, but she went down game, for her top-masts stood above the water, with her flag flapping in the face of the Merrimac and her commander."
George paused. A sparkle was in his eyes, and he laughed aloud at his own idea. He continued: "But I had my revenge when I heard about the Monitor giving it to the Merrimac. You know Ericsson invented that queer boat. It's a curious affair. You never saw it? It looks for all the world like a big cheese box, with a round chimney or turret on it. This turret carries two monstrous guns, and it can be turned round so that they can be pointed in any direction.
"The mischief she did was something worth talking about. Lieutenant John L. Worden commanded her, but he met with a mishap at the start. He was looking through the sight hole, taking observations, when a shell struck it, and hurt him badly, making him blind for a time, and he had to turn over the command to Lieutenant Sam Greene. The two boats kept on fighting wildly, each trying to ram the other. Why, they came so close once in the fight, that both guns went off together, causing such a shock that the crew at the after guns were knocked down, and some of them bled at the nose and ears. They fought four hours, so the paper stated, and the Merri-mac went back to Norfolk, badly used up, for they put her in dry dock."
George would have talked on all night, it seemed, but Ralph, who had enjoyed the brief story of the sea-fight, said he must go, as the sun would soon be down. But that visit was but one of many which he made to George, and each one increased his anxiety to return to the army. He was gaining health under his mother's care and the long rest he was having, and he often laughingly declared that if the regimental doctor could see him now, he'd never believe in his own predictions again.
Grateful as his mother was for his restoration to health, yet it saddened her, for she saw it was useless to keep him back, for he talked of nothing else but returning to the army. She felt that he had done his duty, and she could not see why that did not content him. But she realized that it did not; she saw that he was determined to go, and her heart sank like lead in her bosom at the thought.
The day for parting came, and as Ralph, with a few other soldiers who were returning to their regiments, started for the great city beyond, from which they were to proceed to the front, she thought her heart would break at this second leave-taking. Her boy loved her more dearly than she knew; but he honestly thought his duty to his country was above any private considerations, and that he should be guilty of a great sin if he did not return to that duty.
The news from the front was most inspiring. Each day the "war news" was of more absorbing interest. Ralph wanted to be back with the army. He had no longer any ambition to win any especial distinction, but he was content to do his part as one of the vast army of great heroes of whom the world will never hear, but whose whole duty was done, quietly and unobtrusively.
How many sublime acts of self-sacrifice, of generous comradeship, were performed, on the field of battle, in camp and hospital, and even in prison life, will never be known. But a record has been kept in a higher ledger than a worldly one, and when that is revealed these deeds will come to the knowledge of all men.