And for
himself, he was like the Chevalier of old, "without reproach or fear."
After we had mounted our horses and rode away, we seemed still to feel
the kind clasp of his hand,--to hear the pleasant, genial tones of his
voice, as he bade us good-bye, and hoped that we might meet again. We
never saw him afterward. In two short weeks came the terrible massacre
at Fort Wagner, and the beautiful head of the young hero and martyr was
laid low in the dust. Never shall we forget the heart-sickness with
which we heard of his death. We could not realize it at first,--we, who
had seen him so lately in all the strength and glory of his young
manhood. For days we clung to a vain hope; then it fell away from us,
and we knew that he was gone. We knew that he died gloriously, but still
it seemed very hard. Our hearts bled for the mother whom he so
loved,--for the young wife, left desolate. And then we said, as we say
now,--"God comfort them! He only can." During a few of the sad days
which followed the attack on Fort Wagner, I was in one of the hospitals
of Beaufort, occupied with the wounded soldiers of the Fifty-Fourth
Massachusetts. The first morning was spent in mending the bullet-holes
and rents in their clothing. What a story they told! Some of the jackets
of the poor fellows were literally cut in pieces.
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