WHAT A PHYSICIAN SAW.

109

loss of the "Cincinnati," the latter part of May. We were in full sight of Vicksburg at the time, and could distinctly see the firing, but could not see the ship. After a while there was silence, and intense anxiety. This might have been eleven o'clock. About twelve o'clock, word was brought that "The Cincinnati is sunk." Then our hearts sank. In the afternoon, the wounded were brought in. I will give you the story of one of them. He was a handsome, finely-developed young man of twenty-three or twenty-five years. His wound was of the left leg, shot off just above the knee, but left hanging by a few shreds of

mus cle

In this condition he swam ashore, refusing to be assisted. He was brought aboard pale, haggard, bloodless. Not a murmur, not a groan was heard, but such a weary, weary aspect! Presently he said, "Can you put me to sleep? I am in great pain."

"Yes, yes; we will put you to sleep right away."

His eyes were large, clear, blue eyes, full of an unutterable soul. They continued their wonderful silent eloquence, noiseless, alternate light and shade,- till the chloroform closed them.

Another patient was brought in, also severely wounded, making the same request, "Can you put me to sleep?" So I left the first, before the amputation was begun, to give relief to the second. After a little while I had him very quiet, for he was of a different temperament from the first, and more clamorous. Then I said to the sister, "Watch him for a few moments. If he stops breathing, call me; I must see the other man." I went. The operation was completed. Soon the dressings were applied, and we laid him on a bed. After the other amputation I went to him again. He was awake, and again in pain.

"I want to go to sleep; will you put me to sleep?"

Oh, poor pale face! I see it now. Even the tongue was white. I almost wept. Could I hope? But I could not hesitate what to do. That meek inquiry, "Will you put me to sleep?"-brave, yet bordering on the plaintive, having the slightest touch of piteousness, yet so quiet and so grand! He was teaching me the sublimity of unmurmuring suffering.

"Yes, yes; we will put you to sleep."

His eyes opened and closed so wearily, so wearily! They were wonderful eyes, clear as two perfect stars, and over them was the fine, smooth brow and wavy hair, abundant and beautiful.

"Will you give me some water?"

He drank and lay still again. Presently a little stimulant was brought in. He swallowed it indifferently. "Will that help me sleep?"

"Yes; you will sleep now."

Previously a small anodyne powder had been given him. Then he was quiet for a little while.

a

I had a hope for him, but with it an awful sense that it rested on no foundation. Very soon, he grew restless, restlessness hard for words to picture, - peculiar, and such as I, poor yearling doctor, had already learned to dread. The restlessness became extreme. I left him for a while; then I returned. Will he be asleep?

He is quiet now, and oh! beautiful eyes, beautiful no longer. It was the soul that gave them beauty. Then the soul must be very beautiful! Everything is calm now. Is he asleep? Yes, thank God, asleep now, and an angel will waken him one day.

THE HOSPITAL TREE NEAR FAIR OAKS.

111

IX. THE HOSPITAL TREE NEAR FAIR OAKS.

There is a large tree near the battle-ground of Fair Oaks,' the top of which was used as an observatory during the fight, which stands as a memento of untold, and perhaps never to be told, suffering and sorrow. Many of the wounded and dying were laid beneath the branches of this tree after the battle, in order to receive surgical help, or to breathe their last there more quietly. What heartrending scenes, (wrote a Massachusetts chaplain,) did I witness in that place, so full of saddened memories to me and to others. Brave, uncomplaining men were brought thither out of the woodland, the crimson tide of whose life was ebbing away in the arms of those who carried them. Almost all who died, died like heroes, with scarcely a groan. Those wounded, but not mortally, - how nobly they bore the necessary probings, and needed amputations! Two instances of this heroic fortitude deserve to be specially mentioned. One of them is that of William C. Bentley, of the Second Rhode Island Regiment, both of whose legs were broken by a bomb-shell, and whose wrist and breast were mangled, and who yet was as calm as though he suffered no pain. He refused any opiate or stimulant that might dim his consciousness. He asked only that we should pray for him, that he might be patient and submissive, and dictated a letter to be sent to his mother. Then, and not till then, opiates were given to him, and he fell gently asleep, and for the last time.

The other case was that of Francis Sweetser, of Company E, of the Sixteenth Massachusetts Regiment, who witnessed in death, as he had uniformly done in life, a good confession of Christ.

1 One of the Peninsular battles under McClellan, June 21, 1862.

"Thank God," he said, "that I am permitted to die for my country. Thank God more yet that I am prepared to go;" and then, after a moment's thought, he modestly added, "at least, I hope I am."

When he died, he was in the act of prayer, and in that position his limbs grew rigid, and so remained after the spirit had left his body. We shall miss him at the regiment meetings for prayer, and at our Sabbath worship. We shall miss him at the temperance meetings, nay, everywhere, and always, when any good is to be done for the soldiers, among whom he held an honored, though humble, place.

X. THE WOUNDED AT FORT WAGNER.

This fortress is on Morris Island, in the harbor of Charleston, S. C. It was stormed by our forces on the eighteenth of July last, in two successive attacks, ineffectual, but among the fiercest struggles of the war. In the first charge, the advance was led by the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts, composed, with the exception of the officers, of colored men, one-third of whom were originally slaves, and the others recruits from the Free States. They were under the command of Colonel Robert G. Shaw, who had sought this position to show his faith in the loyalty and courage of a despised race, and his regard for the rights of a common brotherhood. His confidence was not misplaced. After the fire of the rebels had begun to thin their ranks, the men still pressed forward through a storm of shot and shell, with shouts as they advanced. At the distance of a hundred yards from the fort, the battalion wavered for a moment. But the colonel, springing to the front, and waving his sword, shouted, "Forward, once more!" and then, with another cheer and shout, they rushed

THE WOUNDED AT FORT WAGNER.

113

through the ditch, gained the parapet, and fought hand to hand with the enemy. Colonel Shaw was among the first to scale the walls. He was in the act of directing and cheering his men, when he was shot dead, and fell into the fort. His body was found with twenty of his soldiers lying dead around him, two of them on his own body. The regiment went into action with six hundred and fifty men, and came out with a loss of two hundred and eighty, more than a third of the whole number. Eight only, of the twenty-three officers, were uninjured.

Amid all this carnage and confusion, the color-bearer, though he was severely wounded, and obliged to make his escape by creeping on his knees, held his staff erect, and brought off the flag without allowing its folds to touch the ground.

But the saddest scene is yet to be related. The Sunday which followed was a day of distress and mourning in Beaufort. The arrival of the "Cosmopolitan," with the wounded from Morris Island, with intelligence that our brave troops had been repulsed there, cast a gloom over the community, such as had not been felt since the affair at Pocataligo, and the death of the noble Mitchell.

As the vessel neared the wharf, with its freight of suffering, a silent, mournful concourse gathered around the landing, eager to lend a helping hand in removing the wounded to the hospital. As those who were able to walk filed off the boat, and wended their slow way through the crowd, the scene was truly pathetic. The emotional nature of the negro broke forth in sobs and moans of compassion, while the sympathy and commiseration of the white man was shown only in the pale face and trembling lips. The wounded of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts came off from the boat first; and, as these sad evidences of the bravery and patriotism of the colored man passed through the lines of