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THE LITTLE ORDERLY, or THE POWER OF LOVE
- _ . - By GENERAL G v^'V
N the latter part of the year 18C4, I had
been on leave of absence to the bedside
of a dying parent, and was returning
by rail to the army in Virginia. It was
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in the dark days of the Co* and as I
joi rneyed, my thoughts 0/ - the situation of af
fairs were made stiff more ?ad by the ioss
which I had’lately sustained. T believed that
T then sa»w the clouds gathering which were
soon to burst in desolating fury upon my de
voted country. 1 was sitting, sad and silent,
at the window of the cars, looking upon a
crowd of persons who had assembled at one of
the stations in South Carolina, where a num
ber of soldiers were taking passage. The scene
was an affecting one. It was evident that the
larger part of the crowd were the relatives
.and friends of the soldiers, and had come there
to bid them, perhaps, a last adieu. “All
aboard,” closed the parting scene, and the
rumbling train drowned the sobs that came
from aching hearts.
As it moved off, a bright youth, of scarce
seventeen summers, in a hurried manner, en
tered the car in which I was seated, accom
panied by a stalwart soldier, whose worn and
rusty uniform told that he had already been,
at the front . The youth, who was clad in a
new suit of gray, and wore a military cap,
which sat in jaunty gracefulness on his close
ly-shorn head, from the attention paid to him
by his companion, seemed to be under the pro
tection and care of the latter. I was struck
with his delicate beauty. His cheek, now
Hushed with more than its natural color, and
his melting eyes, spoke the exciting emotions
that stirred his heart. His air and manner
showed his breeding, and that he had enjoyed
the advantages of culture and refined society.
His whole mien and appearance made a deep
impression upon me. and awakened in my mind
thoughts still more sad. As we whirled on
ward towards the seat of war, and as I gazed
upon his youthful face and fragile form, I
thought of the dangers and hardships before
him, of the dread field of battle and the toil
some camp, of the sorrowing parents he had
left behind, of a home made desolate, and of
hearts that would moirn his fate. I pitied in
ray soul the poor boy and his parents, and
wondered why they had not taken measures
to save a child, so young and tender, from the
perils and sufferings of army life. We were
not long in reaching our destination, Peters
burg. There I lost sight of the youth and his
soldier friend.
At the time of this incident, I was on the
staff of General , then commanding a di
vision. I went immediately to his headquar
ters, a small cottage a few miles from Peters
burg, on the right wing of our army. The
day after my arrival there the youth and his
friend who had attracted my attention on the
train made their appearance at headquarters
and enquired for the General. They were
shown into his presence, and the youth was
introduced to him by the name of Arthur
b . Arthur made known the purpose of
his visit by asking the General whether he
could give him a place at headquarters. I
listened to the conversation with interest. The
feeling of pity which I had before felt was
again excited, and I at once determined, if
I could by any agency at my command, to
save the boy from the lines.
THE GOLDEN AGE FOR WEEK OF SEPT. 11
The General was evidently struck with the
appearance of the youth, and I thought I saw
his face relax with sympathy for him. But
his reply was: “I have no place here for you,
my son, but am sorry that one so young and
tender, as you appear to be, should be con
signed to the ranks.” A feeling of disappoint
ment clouded Arthurs face, and a tear stood
in his eye, as he turned to leave. But before
he left the room, obeying an impulse I could
not resist, I approached the General and said:
“One of our orderlies is absent on sick-leave,
and perhaps you can let the boy take his place
until he reports for duty.” The General again
fixed his eyes upon Arthur, and the expres
sion of his face showed that he could not re
sist the appeal. “Well,” said he, “let it be
so; report for duty tomorrow.” Arthur re
plied, “I will report promptly,” and retired,
casting towards me a glance of grateful ob
ligation.
That afternoon, before the sun went down,
Arthur came to the General’s quarters, with
his cloak and blankets neatly wrapped. He
remained there, as the evening wore on, as
if waiting for orders. At a late hour, the Gen
eral directed one of his aids to assign the
boy to a place for the night. He was told
to occupy the quarters which had been as
signed to the other orderlies, I was present
when the instructions were given. For some
time he remained silent, and then approach
ed me, saying lie had observed that I had taken
an interest in his behalf, and hoped that he
would be allowed to occupy my quarters, giv
ing as a reason that he had not yet formed
the acquaintance of the young men with whom
he was about to be thrown. The request was
made with such an air of modesty and earn
estness that I could not refuse it. I replied,
“Certainly,” and led him to the room occu
pied by myself and a brother staff-officer, who
was then absent.
That night the attack on our lines was
more furious than common. The roar of can
non, intermingled with the, rattle of musketry,
was terrific. The General and his staff re
mained up till a late hour, awaiting the de
velopment of any movement of the enemy
which might put them in the saddle. When
the firing had subsided, we retired to our quar
ters* and on entering my room I found the
soldier-boy asleep. He had made his pallet
in one corner of the room, and was lying with
his face towards me. As the dim light of
the candle which I held in my hand fell upon
his features, they wore such a sweet- child
like expression of innocence and beauty that
I involuntarily paused and gazed upon them,
as if entranced by the picture. I had been
in many trying scenes, witnessed human suf
fering in many forms—ghastly wounds, the
dying and the dead, on the battlefield —but
there was something in the face of the sleep
ing boy before me, and the associations ol
time and place, far more touching than these.
The sensibilities of my nature were softened,
the tenderest emotions of my heart were
awakened, and as I gazed upon his fair face
I felt that I could take him in my arms and
nestle him to my bosom.
I went cautiously to bed, but long hours
elapsed before my eyes were closed in sleep—
the vision of beauty still haunted me.
I awoke just as the gray light of dawn peep
ed through the windows, and, hearing the
cracking of the fire, raised my head, and saw
Arthur, already dressed, sitting by it. Up
so early, my boy?” said I. He answered,
“Yes, I thought I would get up and kindle
a fire before you got up,’’ In a short time, as
1 was getting out of bed, he .left the room,
saying he would go out and see what was go
ing on. I saw no more of him till breakfast
was over, and in reply to my enquiry whether
he had breakfasted, he told me he had been
with the boys and shared’their rations. He
then asked me if he would be allowed a horse
to ride. I told him he would, and put my
self to the pains of choosing one I thought suit
able for a rider of his age and delicate frame.
During that day my duties were active, and
I saw nothing of Arthur till after nightfall,
and then only for a moment, while he was dis
mounting from his horse. When I retired for
the night, I found that Arthur had preceded
me, and the same sweet but sad scene was pre
sented that had so much affected me the night
before. I need not say that I looked upon it
with like emotions. The next morning, when
1 awoke, Arthur had risen and was sitting by
the fire, as he was the morning before. I
watched , his face, as he sat gazing upon the
fire, and 1 saw an expression of sadness flit
across his features and a rising tear moisten
his eye. He is thinking, I thought, of home,
and the dear ones he might never see again.
When I arose from bed, he left the room, say
ing, “I will go and look after my horse.”
The. day wore on, and was one of unusual
activity. The demonstrations of the enemy
indicated a general assault on our lines. The
necessity required constant and rapid commu
nication between headquarters and our works.
I saw Arthur several times in his saddle, bear
ing orders and reports to and fro. The day,
however, ended without any decisive results,
and, worn down with fatigue, I retired early
to my quarters. When I entered I found the
place of Arthur’s pallet in the corner vacant.
His blankets were rolled up against the wall.
The incident ordinarily would not have affect
ed me. But my feelings had become so much
enlisted in behalf of the youth that his ab
sence at once filled me with painful anxiety.
I lay down, but could rtiot compose myself
to sleep—the image of the boy would not leave
my mind. I got up and went out to enquire
after him, but could hear no tidings of him.
With sad heart I returned to my lodgings.
Hours passed away before I fell into an inter
rupted, fitful slumber. I dreamed of dear ones
far away, of faces familiar to me in boyhood
days, of brothers and sisters, of a mother, now
cold in the grave. Arthur’s sweet face also
appeared to me, but it was not the face of Ar
thur sleeping on the pallet in the corner of the
room.
It was now pale, and his features were con
tracted by suffering. I stood by him, and
caught with deep anguish the broken sighs
and faint whispers that came from his lips.
Startled by the dream, I awoke to hear a knock
at my door, and a voice saying:
“We have heard from Arthur.”
“What have you heard?” said I, springing
from my bed.
“He was shot from his horse late this after
noon.”
(Continued next issue.)
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