Dead! Dead! Both dead! O my brothers! What have we lived for
except you? We, who would have so gladly laid down our lives for yours, are
left desolate to mourn over all we loved and hoped for, weak and helpless;
while you, so strong, noble, and brave, have gone before us without a murmur. God
knows best. But it is hard — O so hard! to give them up. . . .
If we had had any warning or preparation, this would not
have been so unspeakably awful. But to shut one's eyes to all dangers and
risks, and drown every rising fear with “God will send them back; I will not
doubt His mercy,” and then suddenly to learn that your faith has been
presumption — and God wills that you shall undergo bitter affliction — it is a
fearful awakening! What glory have we ever rendered to God that we should
expect him to be so merciful to us? Are not all things His, and is not He
infinitely more tender and compassionate than we deserve?
We have deceived ourselves wilfully about both. After the
first dismay on hearing of Gibbes's capture, we readily listened to the
assertions of our friends that Johnson's Island was the healthiest place in the
world; that he would be better off, comfortably clothed and under shelter, than
exposed to shot and shell, half fed, and lying on the bare ground during
Ewell's winter campaign. We were thankful for his safety, knowing Brother would
leave nothing undone that could add to his comfort. And besides that, there was
the sure hope of his having him paroled. On that hope we lived all winter — now
confident that in a little while he would be with us, then again doubting for a
while, only to have the hope grow surer afterwards. And so we waited and
prayed, never doubting he would come at last. He himself believed it, though
striving not to be too hopeful lest he should disappoint us, as well as
himself. Yet he wrote cheerfully and bravely to the last. Towards the middle of
January, Brother was sure of succeeding, as all the prisoners had been placed
under Butler's control. Ah me! How could we be so blind? We were sure he would
be with us in a few weeks! I wrote to him that I had prepared his room.
On the 30th of January came his last letter, addressed to
me, though meant for Lavinia. It was dated the 12th — the day George died. All
his letters pleaded that I would write more frequently — he loved to hear from
me; so I had been writing to him every ten days. On the 3d of February I sent
my last. Friday the 5th, as I was running through Miriam's room, I saw Brother
pass the door, and heard him ask Miriam for mother. The voice, the bowed head,
the look of utter despair on his face, struck through me like a knife. “Gibbes!
Gibbes!” was my sole thought; but Miriam and I stood motionless looking at each
other without a word. “Gibbes is dead,” said mother as he stood before her. He
did not speak; and then we went in.
We did not ask how, or when. That he was dead was enough for
us. But after a while he told us Uncle James had written that he had died at
two o'clock on Thursday the 21st. Still we did not know how he had died. Several
letters that had been brought remained unopened on the floor. One, Brother
opened, hoping to learn something more. It was from Colonel Steadman to Miriam
and me, written a few hours after his death, and contained the sad story of our
dear brother's last hours.
He had been in Colonel Steadman's ward of the hospital for
more than a week, with headache and sore throat, but it was thought nothing; he
seemed to improve, and expected to be discharged in a few days. On the 21st he
complained that his throat pained him again. After prescribing for him, and
talking cheerfully with him for some time, Colonel Steadman left him surrounded
by his friends, to attend to his other patients. He had hardly reached his room
when some one ran to him saying Captain Morgan was dying. He hurried to his
bedside, and found him dead. Captain Steadman, sick in the next bed, and those
around him, said he had been talking pleasantly with them, when he sat up to
reach his cup of water on the table. As soon as he drank it he seemed to
suffocate; and after tossing his arms wildly in the air, and making several
fearful efforts to breathe, he died.
“Hush, mother, hush,” I said when I heard her cries. “We
have Brother and George and Jimmy left, and Lydia has lost all!” Heaven pity
us! George had gone before — only He in mercy kept the knowledge of it from us
for a while longer.
On Thursday the 11th, as we sat talking to mother, striving
to make her forget the weary days we had cried through with that fearful sound
of “Dead! Dead!” ringing ever in our ears, some one asked for Miriam. She went
down, and presently I heard her thanking somebody for a letter. “You could not
have brought me anything more acceptable! It is from my sister, though she can
hardly have heard from us yet!” I ran back, and sitting at mother's feet, told
her Miriam was coming with a letter from Lydia. Mother cried at the mention of
her name. O my little sister! You know how dear you are to us! “Mother! Mother!”
a horrible voice cried, and before I could think who it was, Miriam rushed in,
holding an open letter in her hand, and perfectly wild. '”George is dead!” she
shrieked, and fell heavily to the ground.
O my God! I could have prayed Thee to take mother, too, when
I looked at her. I thought — I almost hoped she was dead, and that pang spared!
But I was wild myself. I could have screamed! — laughed! “It is false! Do you
hear me, mother? God would not take both! George is not dead!” I cried, trying
in vain to arouse her from her horrible state or bring one ray of reason to her
eye. I spoke to a body alive only to pain; not a sound of my voice seemed to
reach her; only fearful moans showed she was yet alive.
Miriam lay raving on the ground. Poor Miriam! her heart's
idol torn away. God help my darling! I did not understand that George could die
until I looked at her. In vain I strove to raise her from the ground, or check
her wild shrieks for death. “George! only George!” she would cry; until at
last, with the horror of seeing both die before me, I mastered strength enough
to go for the servant and bid her run quickly for Brother.
How long I stood there alone, I never knew. I remember Ada
coming in hurriedly and asking what it was. I told her George was dead. It was
a relief to see her cry. I could not; but I felt the pain afresh, as though it
were her brother she was crying over, not mine. And the sight of her tears
brought mine, too. We could only cry over mother and Miriam; we could not rouse
them; we did not know what to do.
Some one called me in the entry. I went, not understanding
what I was doing. A lady came to me, told me her name, and said something about
George; but I could not follow what she said. It was as though she was talking
in a dream. I believe she repeated the words several times, for at last she
shook me and said, “Listen! Rouse yourself! the letter is about George!” Yes, I
said; he is dead. She said I must read the letter; but I could not see, so she
read it aloud. It was from Dr. Mitchell, his friend who was with him when he
died, telling of his sickness and death. He died on Tuesday the 12th of
January, after an illness of six days, conscious to the last and awaiting the
end as only a Christian, and one who has led so beautiful a life, could, with
the Grace of God, look for it. He sent messages to his brothers and sisters,
and bade them tell his mother his last thoughts were of her, and that he died
trusting in the mercy of the Saviour. George! our pride! our beautiful, angel
brother! Could he die? Surely God has sent all these afflictions within
these three years to teach us that our hopes must be placed Above, and that it
is blasphemy to have earthly idols!
The letter said that the physicians had mistaken his malady,
which was inflammation of the bowels, and he had died from being treated for
something else. It seemed horrible cruelty to read me that part; I knew that if
mother or Miriam ever heard of it, it would kill them. So I begged Mrs.
Mitchell never to let them hear of it. She seemed to think nothing of the pain
it would inflict; how could she help telling if they asked? she said. I told
her I must insist on her not mentioning it; it would only add suffering to what
was already insupportable; if they asked for the letter, offer to read it
aloud, but say positively that she would not allow any one to touch it except
herself, and then she might pass it over in silence. I roused Miriam then and
sent her to hear it read. She insisted on reading it herself, and half dead
with grief held out her hands, begging piteously to be suffered to read it
alone. I watched then until I was sure Mrs. Mitchell would keep her promise.
Horrible as I knew it to be from strange lips, I knew by what I experienced
that I had saved her from a shock that might cost her her life; and then I went
back to mother.
No need to conceal what I felt there! She neither spoke nor
saw. If I had shrieked that he died of ill treatment, she would not have
understood. But I sat there silently with that horrible secret, wondering if
God would help me bear it, or if despair would deprive me of self-control and
force me presently to cry it aloud, though it should kill them both.
At last Brother came. I had to meet him downstairs and tell
him. God spare me the sight of a strong man's grief! Then Sister came in, knowing
as little as he. Poor Sister! I could have blessed her for every tear she shed.
It was a comfort to see some one who had life or feeling left. I felt as though
the whole world was dead. Nothing was real, nothing existed except horrible
speechless pain. Life was a fearful dream through which but one thought ran — “Dead
—Dead!”
Miriam had been taken to her room more dead than alive —
Mother lay speechless in hers. The shock of this second blow had obliterated,
with them, all recollection of the first. It was a mercy I envied them; for I
remembered both, until loss of consciousness would have seemed a blessing. I
shall never forget mother's shriek of horror when towards evening she recalled
it. O those dreadful days of misery and wretchedness! It seems almost sacrilege
to refer to them now. They are buried in our hearts with our boys — thought of
with prayers and tears.
How will the world seem to us now? What will life be without
the boys? When this terrible strife is over, and so many thousands return to their
homes, what will peace bring us of all we hoped? Jimmy! Dear Lord, spare us
that one!
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 426-34
