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Chapter 6 – A Postscript

Louisa May AlcottNov 04, 2016'Command+D' Bookmark this page

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My Dear S.: – As inquiries like your own have come to me from
various friendly readers of the Sketches, I will answer them en
masse and in printed form, as a sort of postscript to what has
gone before. One of these questions was, "Are there no services
by hospital death-beds, or on Sundays?"

In most Hospitals I hope there are; in ours, the men died, and
were carried away, with as little ceremony as on a battle-field.
The first event of this kind which I witnessed was so very brief,
and bare of anything like reverence, sorrow, or pious
consolation, that I heartily agreed with the bluntly expressed
opinion of a Maine man lying next his comrade, who died with no
visible help near him, but a compassionate woman and a tender-
hearted Irishman, who dropped upon his knees, and told his beads,
with Catholic fervor, for the good of his Protestant brother’s
parting soul:

"If, after gettin’ all the hard knocks, we are left to die this
way, with nothing but a Paddy’s prayers to help us, I guess
Christians are rather scarce round Washington."

I thought so too; but though Miss Blank, one of my mates, anxious
that souls should be ministered to, as well as bodies, spoke more
than once to the Chaplain, nothing ever came of it. Unlike
another Shepherd, whose earnest piety weekly purified the Senate
Chamber, this man did not feed as well as fold his flock, nor
make himself a human symbol of the Divine Samaritan, who never
passes by on the other side.

I have since learned that our non-committal Chaplain had been a
Professor in some Southern College; and, though he maintained
that he had no secesh proclivities, I can testify that he seceded
from his ministerial duties, I may say, skedaddled; for, being
one of his own words, it is as appropriate as inelegant. He read
Emerson, quoted Carlyle, and tried to be a Chaplain; but judging
from his success, I am afraid he still hankered after the hominy
pots of Rebeldom.

Occasionally, on a Sunday afternoon, such of the nurses,
officers, attendants, and patients as could avail themselves of
it, were gathered in the Ball Room, for an hour’s service, of
which the singing was the better part. To me it seemed that if
ever strong, wise, and loving words were needed, it was then; if
ever mortal man had living texts before his eyes to illustrate
and illuminate his thought, it was there; and if ever hearts were
prompted to devoutest self-abnegation, it was in the work which
brought us to anything but a Chapel of Ease. But some spiritual
paralysis seemed to have befallen our pastor; for, though many
faces turned toward him, full of the dumb hunger that often comes
to men when suffering or danger brings then nearer to the heart
of things, they were offered the chaff of divinity, and its wheat
was left for less needy gleaners, who knew where to look. Even
the fine old Bible stories, which may be made as lifelike as any
history of our day, by a vivid fancy and pictorial diction, were
robbed of all their charms by dry explanations and literal
applications, instead of being useful and pleasant lessons to
those men, whom weakness had rendered as docile as children in a
father’s hands.

I watched the listless countenances all about me, while a mild
Daniel was moralizing in a den of utterly uninteresting lions;
while Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego were leisurely passing
through the fiery furnace, where, I sadly feared, some of us
sincerely wished they had remained as permanencies; while the
Temple of Solomon was laboriously erected, with minute
descriptions of the process, and any quantity of bells and
pomegranates on the raiment of the priests. Listless they were at
the beginning, and listless at the end; but the instant some
stirring old hymn was given out, sleepy eyes brightened, lounging
figures sat erect, and many a poor lad rose up in his bed, or
stretch an eager hand for the book, while all broke out with a
heartiness that proved that somewhere at the core of even the
most abandoned, there still glowed some remnant of the native
piety that flows in music from the heart of every little child.
Even the big rebel joined, and boomed away in a thunderous bass,
singing –

"Salvation! let the echoes fly,"

as energetically as if he felt the need of a speedy execution of
the command.

That was the pleasantest moment of the hour, for then it seemed a
homelike and happy spot; the groups of men looking over one
another’s shoulders as they sang; the few silent figures in the
beds; here and there a woman noiselessly performing some
necessary duty, and singing as she worked; while in the arm chair
standing in the midst, I placed, for my own satisfaction, the
imaginary likeness of a certain faithful pastor, who took all
outcasts by the hand, smote the devil in whatever guise he came,
and comforted the indigent in spirit with the best wisdom of a
great and tender heart, which still speaks to us from its Italian
grave. With that addition, my picture was complete; and I often
longed to take a veritable sketch of a Hospital Sunday, for,
despite its drawbacks, consisting of continued labor, the want of
proper books, the barren preaching that bore no fruit, this day
was never like the other six.

True to their home training, our New England boys did their best
to make it what it should be. With many, there was much reading
of Testaments, humming over of favorite hymns, and looking at
such books as I could cull from a miscellaneous library. Some lay
idle, slept, or gossiped; yet, when I came to them for a quiet
evening chat, they often talked freely and well of themselves;
would blunder out some timid hope that their troubles might "do
’em good, and keep ’em stiddy;" would choke a little, as they
said good night, and turned their faces to the wall to think of
mother, wife, or home, these human ties seeming to be the most
vital religion which they yet knew. I observed that some of them
did not wear their caps on this day, though at other times they
clung to them like Quakers; wearing them in bed, putting them on
to read the paper, eat an apple, or write a letter, as if, like a
new sort of Samson, their strength lay, not in their hair, but in
their hats. Many read no novels, swore less, were more silent,
orderly, and cheerful, as if the Lord were an invisible
Wardmaster, who went his rounds but once a week, and must find
all things at their best. I liked all this in the poor, rough
boys, and could have found it in my heart to put down sponge and
tea-pot, and preach a little sermon then and there, while
homesickness and pain had made these natures soft, that some good
seed might be cast therein, to blossom and bear fruit here or
hereafter.

Regarding the admission of friends to nurse their sick, I can
only say, it was not allowed at Hurly-burly House; though one
indomitable parent took my ward by storm, and held her position,
in spite of doctors, matron, and Nurse Periwinkle. Though it was
against the rules, though the culprit was an acid, frost-bitten
female, though the young man would have done quite as well
without her anxious fussiness, and the whole room-full been much
more comfortable, there was something so irresistible in this
persistent devotion, that no one had the heart to oust her from
her post. She slept on the floor, without uttering a complaint;
bore jokes somewhat of the rudest; fared scantily, though her
basket was daily filled with luxuries for her boy; and tended
that petulant personage with a never-failing patience beautiful
to see.

I feel a glow of moral rectitude in saying this of her; for,
though a perfect pelican to her young, she pecked and cackled (I
don’t know that pelicans usually express their emotions in that
manner,) most obstreperously, when others invaded her premises;
and led me a weary life, with "George’s tea-rusks," "George’s
foot bath," "George’s measles," and "George’s mother;" till after
a sharp passage of arms and tongues with the matron, she
wrathfully packed up her rusks, her son, and herself, and
departed, in an ambulance, scolding to the very last.

This is the comic side of the matter. The serious one is harder
to describe; for the presence, however brief, of relations and
friends by the bedside of the dead or dying, is always a trial to
the bystanders. They are not near enough to know how best to
comfort, yet too near to turn their backs upon the sorrow that
finds its only solace in listening to recitals of last words,
breathed into nurse’s ears, or receiving the tender legacies of
love and longing bequeathed through them.

To me, the saddest sight I saw in that sad place, was the
spectacle of a grey-haired father, sitting hour after hour by his
son, dying from the poison of his wound. The old father, hale and
hearty; the young son, past all help, though one could scarcely
believe it; for the subtle fever, burning his strength away,
flushed his cheeks with color, filled his eyes with lustre, and
lent a mournful mockery of health to face and figure, making the
poor lad comelier in death than in life. His bed was not in my
ward; but I was often in and out, and for a day or two, the pair
were much together, saying little, but looking much. The old man
tried to busy himself with book or pen, that his presence might
not be a burden; and once when he sat writing, to the anxious
mother at home, doubtless, I saw the son’s eyes fix upon his
face, with a look of mingled resignation and regret, as if
endeavoring to teach himself to say cheerfully the long good bye.
And again, when the son slept, the father watched him as he had
himself been watched; and though no feature of his grave
countenance changed, the rough hand, smoothing the lock of hair
upon the pillow, the bowed attitude of the grey head, were more
pathetic than the loudest lamentations. The son died; and the
father took home the pale relic of the life he gave, offering a
little money to the nurse, as the only visible return it was in
his power to make her; for though very grateful, he was poor. Of
course, she did not take it, but found a richer compensation in
the old man’s earnest declaration:

"My boy couldn’t have been better cared for if he’d been at home;
and God will reward you for it, though I can’t."

My own experiences of this sort began when my first man died. He
had scarcely been removed, when his wife came in. Her eye went
straight to the well-known bed; it was empty; and feeling, yet
not believing the hard truth, she cried out, with a look I never
shall forget:

"Why, where’s Emanuel?"

I had never seen her before, did not know her relationship to the
man whom I had only nursed for a day, and was about to tell her
he was gone, when McGee, the tender-hearted Irishman before
mentioned, brushed by me with a cheerful – "It’s shifted to a
better bed he is, Mrs. Connel. Come out, dear, till I show ye;"
and, taking her gently by the arm, he led her to the matron, who
broke the heavy tidings to the wife, and comforted the widow.

Another day, running up to my room for a breath of fresh air and
a five minutes rest after a disagreeable task, I found a stout
young woman sitting on my bed, wearing the miserable look which I
had learned to know by that time. Seeing her, reminded me that I
had heard of some one’s dying in the night, and his sister’s
arriving in the morning. This must be she, I thought. I pitied
her with all my heart. What could I say or do? Words always seem
impertinent at such times; I did not know the man; the woman was
neither interesting in herself nor graceful in her grief; yet,
having known a sister’s sorrow myself, I could have not leave her
alone with her trouble in that strange place, without a word. So,
feeling heart-sick, home-sick, and not knowing what else to do, I
just put my arms about her, and began to cry in a very helpless
but hearty way; for, as I seldom indulge in this moist luxury, I
like to enjoy it with all my might, when I do.

It so happened I could not have done a better thing; for, though
not a word was spoken, each felt the other’s sympathy; and, in
the silence, our handkerchiefs were more eloquent than words. She
soon sobbed herself quiet; and leaving her on my bed, I went back
to work, feeling much refreshed by the shower, though I’d
forgotten to rest, and had washed my face instead of my hands. I
mention this successful experience as a receipt proved and
approved, for the use of any nurse who may find herself called
upon to minister to these wounds of the heart. They will find it
more efficacious than cups of tea, smelling-bottles, psalms, or
sermons; for a friendly touch and a companionable cry, unite the
consolations of all the rest for womankind; and, if genuine, will
be found a sovereign cure for the first sharp pang so many suffer
in these heavy times.

I am gratified to find that my little Sergeant has found favor in
several quarters, and gladly respond to sundry calls for news of
him, though my personal knowledge ended five months ago. Next to
my good John – I hope the grass is green above him, far away there
in Virginia! – I placed the Sergeant on my list of worthy boys; and
many jovial chat have I enjoyed with the merry-hearted lad, who
had a fancy for fun, when his poor arm was dressed. While Dr. P.
poked and strapped, I brushed the remains of the Sergeant’s brown
mane – shorn sorely against his will – and gossiped with all my
might, the boy making odd faces, exclamations, and appeals, when
nerves got the better of nonsense, as they sometimes did:

"I’d rather laugh than cry, when I must sing out anyhow, so just
say that bit from Dickens again, please, and I’ll stand it like a
man." He did; for "Mrs. Cluppins," "Chadband," and "Sam Weller,"
always helped him through; thereby causing me to lay another
offering of love and admiration on the shrine of the god of my
idolatry, though he does wear too much jewelry and talk slang.

The Sergeant also originated, I believe, the fashion of calling
his neighbors by their afflictions instead of their names; and I
was rather taken aback by hearing them bandy remarks of this
sort, with perfect good humor and much enjoyment of the new game.

"Hallo, old Fits is off again!" "How are you, Rheumatiz?" "Will
you trade apples, Ribs?" "I say, Miss P. may I give Typus a drink
of this?" "Look here, No Toes, lend us a stamp, there’s a good
feller," etc. He himself was christened "Baby B.," because he
tended his arm on a little pillow, and called it his infant.

Very fussy about his grub was Sergeant B., and much trotting of
attendants was necessary when he partook of nourishment. Anything
more irresistibly wheedlesome I never saw, and constantly found
myself indulging him, like the most weak-minded parent, merely
for the pleasure of seeing his blue eyes twinkle, his merry mouth
break into a smile, and his one hand execute a jaunty little
salute that was entirely captivating. I am afraid that Nurse P.
damaged her dignity, frolicking with this persuasive young
gentleman, though done for his well being. But "boys will be
boys," is perfectly applicable to the case; for, in spite of
years, sex and the "prunes-and-prisms" doctrine laid down for our
use, I have a fellow feeling for lads, and always owed Fate a
grudge because I wasn’t a lord of creation instead of a lady.

Since I left, I have heard, from a reliable source, that my
Sergeant has gone home; therefore, the small romance that budded
the first day I saw him, has blossomed into its second chapter,
and I now imagine "dearest Jane" filling my place, tending the
wounds I tended, brushing the curly jungle I brushed, loving the
excellent little youth I loved, and eventually walking altarward,
with the Sergeant stumping gallantly at her side. If she doesn’t
do all this, and no end more, I’ll never forgive her; and
sincerely pray to the guardian saint of lovers, that "Baby B."
may prosper in his wooing, and his name be long in the land.

One of the lively episodes of hospital life, is the frequent
marching away of such as are well enough to rejoin their
regiments, or betake themselves to some convalescent camp. The
ward master comes to the door of each room that is to be thinned,
reads off a list of names, bids their owners look sharp and be
ready when called for; and, as he vanishes, the rooms fall into
an indescribable state of topsy-turvyness, as the boys begin to
black their boots, brighten spurs, if they have them, overhaul
knapsacks, make presents; are fitted out with needfuls, and – well,
why not? – kissed sometimes, as they say, good-bye; for in all
human probability we shall never meet again, and a woman’s heart
yearns over anything that has clung to her for help and comfort.
I never liked these breakings-up of my little household: though
my short stay showed me but three. I was immensely gratified by
the hand shakes I got, for their somewhat painful cordiality
assured me that I had not tried in vain. The big Prussian rumbled
out his unintelligible adieux, with a grateful face and a
premonitory smooth of his yellow mustache, but got no farther,
for some one else stepped up, with a large brown hand extended,
and this recommendation of our very faulty establishment:

"We’re off, ma’am, and I’m powerful sorry, for I’d no idea a
‘orspittle was such a jolly place. Hope I’ll git another ball
somewheres easy, so I’ll come back, and be took care on again.
Mean, ain’t it?"

I didn’t think so, but the doctrine of inglorious ease was not
the right one to preach up, so I tried to look shocked, failed
signally, and consoled myself by giving him the fat pincushion he
had admired as the "cutest little machine agoin." Then they fell
into line in front of the house, looking rather wan and feeble,
some of them, but trying to step out smartly and march in good
order, though half the knapsacks were carried by the guard, and
several leaned on sticks instead of shouldering guns. All looked
up and smiled, or waved heir hands and touched their caps, as
they passed under our windows down the long street, and so away,
some to their homes in this world, and some to that in the next;
and, for the rest of the day, I felt like Rachel mourning for her
children, when I saw the empty beds and missed the familiar
faces.

You ask if nurses are obliged to witness amputations and such
matters, as a part of their duty? I think not, unless they wish;
for the patient is under the effects of ether, and needs no care
but such as the surgeons can best give. Our work begins
afterward, when the poor soul comes to himself, sick, faint, and
wandering; full of strange pains and confused visions, of
disagreeable sensations and sights. Then we must sooth and
sustain, tend and watch; preaching and practicing patience, till
sleep and time have restored courage and self-control.

I witnessed several operations; for the height of my ambition was
to go to the front after a battle, and feeling that the sooner I
inured myself to trying sights, the more useful I should be.
Several of my mates shrunk from such things; for though the
spirit was wholly willing, the flesh was inconveniently weak. One
funereal lady came to try her powers as a nurse; but, a brief
conversation eliciting the facts that she fainted at the sight of
blood, was afraid to watch alone, couldn’t possibly take care of
delirious persons, was nervous about infections, and unable to
bear much fatigue, she was mildly dismissed. I hope she found her
sphere, but fancy a comfortable bandbox on a high shelf would
best meet the requirements of her case.

Dr. Z. suggested that I should witness a dissection; but I never
accepted his invitations, thinking that my nerves belonged to the
living, not to the dead, and I had better finish my education as
a nurse before I began that of a surgeon. But I never met the
little man skipping through the hall, with oddly shaped cases in
his hand, and an absorbed expression of countenance, without
being sure that a select party of surgeons were at work in the
dead house, which idea was a rather trying one, when I knew the
subject was some person whom I had nursed and cared for.

But this must not lead any one to suppose that the surgeons were
willfully hard or cruel, though one of them remorsefully confided
to me that he feared his profession blunted his sensibilities,
and perhaps, rendered him indifferent to the sight of pain.

I am inclined to think that in some cases it does; for, though a
capital surgeon and a kindly man, Dr. P., through long
acquaintance with many of the ills flesh is heir to, had acquired
a somewhat trying habit of regarding a man and his wound as
separate institutions, and seemed rather annoyed that the former
should express any opinion upon the latter, or claim any right in
it, while under his care. He had a way of twitching off a
bandage, and giving a limb a comprehensive sort of clutch, which
though no doubt entirely scientific, was rather startling than
soothing, and highly objectionable as a means of preparing nerves
for any fresh trial. He also expected the patient to assist in
small operations, as he considered them, and to restrain all
demonstrations during the process.

"Here, my man, just hold it this way, while I look into it a
bit," he said one day to Fitz G., putting a wounded arm into the
keeping of a sound one, and proceeding to poke about among bits
of bone and visible muscles, in a red and black chasm made by
some infernal machine of the shot or shell description. Poor Fitz
held on like a grim Death, ashamed to show fear before a woman,
till it grew more than he could bear in silence; and, after a few
smothered groans, he looked at me imploringly, as if he said, "I
wouldn’t, ma’am, if I could help it," and fainted quietly away.

Dr. P. looked up, gave a compassionate sort of cluck, and poked
away more busily than ever, with a nod at me and a brief – "Never
mind; be so good as to hold this till I finish."

I obeyed, cherishing the while a strong desire to insinuate a few
of his own disagreeable knives and scissors into him, and see how
he liked it. A very disrespectful and ridiculous fancy of course;
for he was doing all that could be done, and the arm prospered
finely in his hands. But the human mind is prone to prejudice;
and though a personable man, speaking French like a born "Parley
voo," and whipping off legs like an animated guillotine, I must
confess to a sense of relief when he was ordered elsewhere; and
suspect that several of the men would have faced a rebel battery
with less trepidation than they did Dr. P., when he came briskly
in on his morning round.

As if to give us the pleasures of contrast, Dr. Z. succeeded him,
who, I think, suffered more in giving pain than did his patients
in enduring it; for he often paused to ask: "Do I hurt you?" and
seeing his solicitude, the boys invariably answered: "Not much;
go ahead, Doctor," though the lips that uttered this amiable fib
might be white with pain as they spoke. Over the dressing of some
of the wounds, we used to carry on conversations upon subjects
foreign to the work in hand, that the patient might forget
himself in the charms of our discourse. Christmas eve was spent
in this way; the Doctor strapping the little Sergeant’s arm, I
holding the lamp, while all three laughed and talked, as if
anywhere but in a hospital ward; except when the chat was broken
by a long-drawn "Oh!" from "Baby B.," an abrupt request from the
Doctor to "Hold the lamp a little higher, please," or an
encouraging, "Most through, Sergeant," from Nurse P.

The chief Surgeon, Dr. O., I was told, refused the higher salary,
greater honor, and less labor, of an appointment to the Officer’s
Hospital, round the corner, that he might serve the poor fellows
at Hurly-burly House, or go to the front, working there day and
night, among the horrors that succeed the glories of a battle. I
liked that so much, that the quiet, brown-eyed Doctor was my
especial admiration; and when my own turn came, had more faith in
him than in all the rest put together, although he did advise me
to go home, and authorize the consumption of blue pills.

Speaking of the surgeons reminds me that, having found all manner
of fault, it becomes me to celebrate the redeeming feature of
Hurly-burly House. I had been prepared by the accounts of others,
to expect much humiliation of spirit from the surgeons, and to be
treated by them like a door-mat, a worm, or any other meek and
lowly article, whose mission it is to be put down and walked
upon; nurses being considered as mere servants, receiving the
lowest pay, and, it’s my private opinion, doing the hardest work
of any part of the army, except the mules. Great, therefore, was
my surprise, when I found myself treated with the utmost courtesy
and kindness. Very soon my carefully prepared meekness was laid
upon the shelf; and, going from one extreme to the other, I more
than once expressed a difference of opinion regarding sundry
messes it was my painful duty to administer.

As eight of us nurses chanced to be off duty at once, we had an
excellent opportunity of trying the virtues of these gentlemen;
and I am bound to say they stood the test admirably, as far as my
personal observation went. Dr. O.’s stethoscope was unremitting
in its attentions; Dr. S. brought his buttons into my room twice
a day, with the regularity of a medical clock; while Dr. Z.
filled my table with neat little bottles, which I never emptied,
prescribed Browning, bedewed me with Cologne, and kept my fire
going, as if, like the candles in St. Peter’s, it must never be
permitted to die out. Waking, one cold night, with the certainty
that my last spark had pined away and died, and consequently
hours of coughing were in store for me, I was amazed to see a
ruddy light dancing on the wall, a jolly blaze roaring up the
chimney, and, down upon his knees before it, Dr. Z., whittling
shavings. I ought to have risen up and thanked him on the spot;
but, knowing that he was one of those who like to do good by
stealth, I only peeped at him as if he were a friendly ghost;
till, having made things as cozy as the most motherly of nurses
could have done, he crept away, leaving me to feel, as somebody
says, "as if angels were a watching of me in my sleep;" though
that species of wild fowl do not usually descend in broadcloth
and glasses. I afterwards discovered that he split the wood
himself on that cool January midnight, and went about making or
mending fires for the poor old ladies in their dismal dens; thus
causing himself to be felt – a bright and shining light in more
ways than one. I never thanked him as I ought; therefore, I
publicly make a note of it, and further aggravate that modest
M.D. by saying that if this was not being the best of doctors and
the gentlest of gentlemen, I shall be happy to see any
improvement upon it.

To such as wish to know where these scenes took place, I must
respectfully decline to answer; for Hurly-burly House has ceased
to exist as a hospital; so let it rest, with all its sins upon
its head, – perhaps I should say chimney top. When the nurses felt
ill, the doctors departed, and the patients got well, I believe
the concern gently faded from existence, or was merged into some
other and better establishment, where I hope the washing of three
hundred sick people is done out of the house, the food is
eatable, and mortal women are not expected to possess an angelic
exemption from all wants, and the endurance of truck horses.

Since the appearance of these hasty Sketches, I have heard from
several of my comrades at the Hospital; and their approval
assures me that I have not let sympathy and fancy run away with
me, as that lively team is apt to do when harnessed to a pen. As
no two persons see the same thing with the same eyes, my view of
hospital life must be taken through my glass, and held for what
it is worth. Certainly, nothing was set down in malice, and to
the serious-minded party who objected to a tone of levity in some
portions of the Sketches, I can only say that it is a part of my
religion to look well after the cheerfulnesses of life, and let
the dismals shift for themselves; believing, with good Sir Thomas
More, that it is wise to "be merrie in God."

The next hospital I enter will, I hope, be one for the colored
regiments, as they seem to be proving their right to the
admiration and kind offices of their white relations, who owe
them so large a debt, a little part of which I shall be so proud
to pay.

Yours,
With a firm faith
In the good time coming,
TRIBULATION PERIWINKLE.

 

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