The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 12, No. 69, July, 1863

"No. Have you no message for home?"—pushing back the yellow hair as gently as a woman. The mild face grew distorted again and pale.

"I've a letter,—in my carpet-sack, in our tent. I wrote it last night. It's to Lizzy,—you will deliver it, Doctor?"

"I will. Yes."

"It may be lost now,—there is such confusion in the camp. The key is in my right pocket,—inside the spectacle-case: have you got it?"

"Yes."

Blecker could hardly keep back a smile: even the pocket-furniture was neatly ordered in the hour of death.

"If it is lost,"—turning his head restlessly,—"light your lantern, Blecker, it is so dark,—if it is,—tell her"—his voice was gone. "Tell her," lifting himself suddenly, with the force of death, "to be pure and true. My loving little girl, Lizzy,—wife." Blecker drew his head on his shoulder. "I thought—the holidays were coming,"—closing his eyes again wearily,—"for us. But God knows. All right!"

His lips moved, but the sound was inaudible; he smiled cheerfully, held Paul's hand closer, and then his head grew heavy as lead, being nothing but clay. For the true knight and loyal gentleman was gone to the Master of all honor, to learn a broader manhood and deeds of higher emprise.

Paul Blecker stood silent a moment, and then covered the homely, kind face reverently.

"I would as lief have seen a woman die," he said, and turned away.

Two or three men came up, carrying others on a broken door and on a fence-board.

"Hyur's th' Doctor,"—laying them on a hillock of grass. "Uh wish ye'd see toh these pore chaps, Doctor,"—with a strong Maryland accent. "One o' them's t' other side, but"—and so left them.

One of them was a burly Western boatman, with mop-like red hair and beard. Blecker looked at him, shook his head, and went on.

"No use?"—gritting his heavy jaw. "Well!"—swallowing, as if he accepted death in that terrible breath. "Eh, Doctor? Do you hear? Wait a bit,"—fumbling at his jacket. "I can't—There's a V in my pocket. I wish you'd send it to the old woman,—mother,—Mrs. Jane Carr, Cincinnati,—with my love."

The Doctor stopped to speak to him, and then passed to the next,—a fair-haired boy, with three bullet-holes in his coat, one in his breast.

"Will I die?"—trying to keep his lips firm.

"Tut! tut! No. Only a flesh-wound. Drink that, and you'll be able to go back to the hospital,—be well in a week or two."

"I did not want to die, though I was not afraid,"—looking up anxiously; "but"—

"But the Doctor had left him, and, kneeling down in the mud, was turning the wounded Confederate over on his back, that he might see his face.

The boy saw him catch up his lantern and peer eagerly at him with shortened breath.

"What is it? Is he dead?"

"No, not dead,"—putting down the lantern.

But very near it, this man, John Gurney,—so near that it needed no deed of Blecker's to make him pass the bound. Only a few moments' neglect. A bandage, a skilful touch or two, care in the hospitals, might save him.

But what claim had he on Paul that he should do this? For a moment the hot blood in the little Doctor's veins throbbed fiercely, as he rose slowly, and, taking his lantern, stood looking down.

"In an hour," glancing critically at him, "he will be dead."

Something within him coolly added, "And Paul Blecker a murderer."

But he choked it down, and picked his steps through scorched winter stubble, dead horses, men, wagon-wheels, across the field; thinking, as he went, of Grey free, his child-love, true, coaxing, coming to his tired arms once more; of the home on the farm yonder, he meant to buy,—he, the rough, jolly farmer, and she, busy Grey, bustling Grey, with her loving, fussing ways. Why, it came like a flash to him! Yet, as it came, tugging at his heart with the whole strength of his blood, he turned, this poor, thwarted, passionate little Doctor, and began jogging back to the locust-woods,—passing many wounded men of his own kith and spirit, and going back to Gurney.

Because—he was his enemy.

"Thank God, I am not utterly debased!"—grinding the tobacco vehemently in his teeth.

He walked faster, seeing that the moon was going down, leaving the battle-field in shadow. Overhead, the sinking light, striking upward from the horizon, had worked the black dome into depths of fretted silver. Blecker saw it, though passion made his step unsteady and his eye dim. No man could do a mean, foul deed while God stretched out such a temple-roof as that for his soul to live in, was the thought that dully touched his outer consciousness. But little Grey! If he could go home to her to-morrow, and, lifting her thin, tired face from the machine, hold it to his breast, and say, "You're free now, forever!" O God!

He stopped, pulling his coat across his breast in his clenched hands,—then, after a moment, went on, his arms falling powerless.

"I'm a child! It is of no use to think of it! Never!"—his hard, black eyes, that in these last few months had grown sad and questioning as a child's, looking to the north hill, as he strode along, as though he were bidding some one good-bye. And when he came to the hillock and knelt down again beside Gurney, there was no malice in them. He was faithful in every touch and draught and probe. With the wish in his heart to thrust the knife into the heart of the unconscious man lying before him, he touched him as though he had been his brother.

Gurney, opening his eyes at last, saw the yellow, haggard face, in its fringe of black beard, as rigid as if cut out of stone, very near his own. The grave, hopeless eyes subdued him.

"Take me out of this," he moaned.

"You are going—to the hospital,"—helping some men lift him into an ambulance.

"Slowly, my good fellows. I will follow you."

He did follow them. Let us give the man credit for every step of that following, the more that the evil in his blood struggled so fiercely with such a mortal pain as he went. In Fredericksburg, one of the old family-homesteads had been taken for a camp-hospital. As they laid Gurney on a heap of straw in the library, a surgeon passed through the room.

"Story," said Paul, catching his arm, "see to that man: this is your post, I believe. I have dressed his wound. I cannot do more."

Story did not know the meaning of that. He stuck his eye-glasses over his hook-nose, and stooped down, being nearsighted.

"Hardly worth while to put him under my care, or anybody's. The fellow will not live until morning."

"I don't know. I did what I could."

"Nothing more to be done.—Parr's out of lint, did you know? He's enough to provoke Job, that fellow! I warned him especially about lint and supporters.—Why, Blecker, you are worn out,"—looking at him closer. "It has been a hard fight."

"Yes, I am tired; it was a hard fight."

"I must find Parr about that lint, and"—

Paul walked to the window, breathing heavy draughts of the fresh morning air. The man would not die, he thought. Grey would never be free. No. Yet, since he was a child, before he began to grapple his way through the world, he had never known such a cheerful quiet as that which filled his eyes with tears now; for, if the fight had been hard, Paul Blecker had won the victory.

Sunday morning dawned cold and windy. Now and then, volleys of musketry, or a repulse from the Southern batteries on the heights, filled the blue morning sky with belching scarlet flame and smoke: through all, however, the long train of army-wagons passed over the pontoon-bridge, bearing the wounded. About six o'clock some men came out from the camp-hospital. Doctor Blecker stood on the outside of the door: all night he had been there, like some lean, unquiet ghost. Story, the surgeon, met the men. They carried something on a board, covered with an old patchwork quilt. Story lifted the corner of the quilt to see what lay beneath. Doctor Blecker stood in their way, but neither moved nor spoke to them.

"Take it to the trenches," said the surgeon, shortly nodding to them.—"Your Rebel friend, Blecker."

"Dead?"

"Yes."

"Story, I did what I could?"