66 A SOLDIER'S POCKET DIARY. 229 'Monday, 24th. I wish I felt better. Have no appetite. I would like to be at home a few days; spend Thanksgiving there!" 66 Wednesday, a letter from home. How it cheers the sick soldier to hear from the dear ones at home! They long for my return. God grant my return." 66 'Thursday, 27th. My Thanksgiving consisted of a little parched rye and a small boiled potato. I never tasted anything so good as that potato." How significant these brief sentences! "Monday, Dec. 1. Letters from home. How precious they are!" "Saturday, 6th. A cold snow-storm; oh, how cheerless! Wet ground to pitch our tents on, no straw to lie on, wornout shoes, green wood, short rations. A sorry time we are having." 66 Sunday, 7th. I got through the night, but it was tough. I liked to have frozen. I don't think I slept an hour; up most all night; wet feet." How will those who enjoy the peaceful prosperity to secure which our heroic soldiers are enduring such hardships, a few years hence, read these sentences, and how will they honor the memory of these noble men! 66 Monday, 8th. Very cold last night. I am poorly clothed; without overcoat. To-day it is warm and quite pleasant. Health good." Wednesday, 10th. Very pleasant. Cartridges dealt out to-day. There is to be fighting soon." "Thursday, 11th. Received two months' pay, $26. Battle of Fredericksburg. We have been under arms all the forenoon, expecting to be ordered into action every minute. Cannonading is terrific-a continuous roar since daybreak. I am going to send uncle J $20 by " These were the last words he wrote. The regiment went into action immediately. A cannonball took off his leg; amputation was performed; but he died the same night, and his poor body, no more to suffer cold or hunger, lies buried in a pleasant garden in Fredericksburg. The comfort of knowing how he was carried off the field, and how he was sustained, and what his last messages were, and all the particulars of his dying moments, is denied to his friends. The comfort of knowing that one like the Son of God was with him, and that his grace was sufficient, and that in peaceful and joyful triumph he fell asleep, this blessed assurance his friends have. His religious character was so simple and natural, so consistent and unpretending, that we have no doubt what the closing scene was, and what heavenly joy he entered upon. And may God grant to every soldier like precious faith!1 "Twere sweet indeed to close our eyes, With those we cherished near, Or in the battle's van, The fittest place for man to die Is where he dies for man." XXVI. GENTLE AS WELL AS BRAVE. The late Major-General Buford was offered a majorgeneral's commission in the rebel army when he was in Utah, at the beginning of the Rebellion. He crushed the treasonable paper in his hand, and declared that he would live and die under the flag of the Union. No commander, probably, was more loved by his soldiers 1 Abbreviated from a Tract for Soldiers. than he was. A striking instance of his thoughtful regard for the feelings of others is mentioned in connection with his death. A few hours before that event, while suffering from delirium, he roundly scolded his negro servant, but during a brief, lucid interval, understanding what he had done, he called the negro to his bedside and said to him,— "Edward, I hear I have been scolding you. I did not know what I was saying. You have been a faithful servant, Edward." The poor negro sat down and wept as though his heart was broken. General Buford was promoted to the rank of majorgeneral after he had received his fatal wound. On having his commission brought to him, he exclaimed, "Now, I wish I could live." His last intelligible words, uttered during an attack of delirium, were, "Put guards on all the roads, and don't let the men run back to the rear." It was an illustration of the ruling passion, strong in death. It was remarked of him that nothing so moved his scorn as to see men skulking or hanging on the rear. This gallant officer had been trained in a noble school of patriotism, that of the lamented Admiral Foote.1 How brief the interval! Death separated them; death has united them. XXVII. PICKET DUTY. The nature of this perilous service is not understood by every one. It is described briefly, but vividly, in the following sentences. The writer is a clergyman, who relates to us his own experience: 1 See page 90, where the two are mentioned together. Picket duty at all times is arbitrary, but at night trebly so. No monarch on a throne, with absolute power, is more independent, or exercises greater sway for the time being, than a simple private soldier stationed on his beat with an enemy in front. Darkness veils all distinctions. He is not obliged to know his own officers or comrades, or the commanding general, or the highest officer in the land, only through the means of the countersign. With musket loaded and capped he walks his rounds, having to do with matters only of life and death, and at the same time clothed with absolute power. It is a position of fearful importance and responsibility, one that always made me feel solemn and terribly earnest. Often, too, these posts are in thick woods, where the soldier stands alone, cut off from camp, cut off from his fellows, subject only to the harassings of his imagination and sense of fear. The shadows deepen into inky night. All objects around him, even to the little birds that were his companions during the day, are gathered within the curtains of a hushed repose; but the soldier, with every nerve and faculty of his mind strained to the utmost tension of keenness and sensibility, speaks only in low whispers; his fingers tighten round the stock of his musket as he leans forward to catch the sound of approaching footsteps, or, in the absence of danger, looks longingly up to the cold, gray sky, with its wealth of soft and flaming stars. And what an hour for noble, lofty thought, in connection with the subjects of death, eternity, and the future world! LOCK OF HAIR FOR MOTHER. 233 XXVIII. LOCK OF HAIR FOR MOTHER. It was just after the battle of Williamsburg,1 where hundreds of our brave fellows had fallen, never to bear arms again in their country's cause, and where hundreds more were wounded, that a soldier came to the tent of a delegate of the Christian Commission and said, "Chaplain, one of our boys is badly wounded, and wants to see you right away." Hurrying after the messenger, says the delegate, I was taken to the hospital and led to a bed, upon which lay a noble young soldier. He was pale and bloodstained from. a terrible wound above the temple. I saw at a glance that he had but a few hours to live upon earth. Taking his hand, I said to him, "Well, my brother, what can I do for you?" The poor dying soldier looked up in my face, and placing his finger where his hair was stained with his blood, he said, "Chaplain, cut a big lock from here for mother! for my mother, mind, chaplain!" I hesitated to do it. to disfigure my hair. He said, "Don't be afraid, chaplain, come to see me in the dead-house to-morrow." I did as he requested me. "Now, chaplain," said the dying man, "I want you to kneel down by me and return thanks to God." "For what?" I asked. "For giving me such a mother. Oh! chaplain, she is a good mother; her teachings comfort me and console me now. And, chaplain, thank God that by his grace I am a 1 In the Peninsula, May, 1862. |