The Sure Pay–Master
Dublin Core
Title
The Sure Pay–Master
Subject
Soldiers, Battle
Creator
Unknown
Source
http://addison.vt.edu/record=b1775388~S1
Publisher
Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University
Date
March 1876
Contributor
Katie Garahan, Alexis Priestley
Rights
Permission to publish images from The Gray Jacket must be obtained from Special Collections, Virginia Tech.
Format
Text
Language
English
Type
Short Story
Identifier
LD5655.V8 L4, ser.1, v.1, no.6 (Mar. 1876), p.3
Coverage
Blacksburg, VA
Text Item Type Metadata
Text
A few years ago on a hot summer's evening, as three young men were walking "through" from A— Station on the C. & 0. R. R., they came to the form of a man stretched out on the road side with his face upturned to the burning sun, his hands folded on his breast, his eyes closed and the bloody froth gurgling from his mouth and running down in a stream on either side of his face. His appearance showed every mark of poverty for although a stranger to all who saw him, he had no satchel or bundle, and his body was so thinly clad that his nakedness was scarcely hid.
For a moment these young men stood dumb and horror-stricken. Was the man dead! At first he gave no answer when called, nor showed the least sign of life but when one of them raised him to a sitting position, he opened his eyes, coughed up that bloody froth that filled his mouth and throat, and answered their inquiries in a broken, scarcely audible whisper. His story was soon told. Pointing to two ugly scars, one on either side, showing where a bullet had gone tearing through his lungs, and then to another on his head, and still another on his hand, he whispered—Petersburg—and told in a few words that he had been a native of a -county near Fredricksberg that his family had, after the war, moved down near Norfolk, and that he was then making his way back to his old home. His wounds had nearly destroyed his voice, and left him subject to sudden fits of insensibility, accompanied with hemorrhages, which were liable to come on at any time with no previous warning whatever. Being destitute of means, he was traveling on foot, following the general direction of the railroad, but carefully avoiding the track for fear that he might at any time fall insensible on it and be crushed to death by the locomotive. Trusting for food to the charity of the people who lived on his path, he had had nothing to eat for more than twenty-four hours, although he had stopped at houses all along his journey and begged for food to sustain his weary body.
What a picture was this! Here was a soldier, who had offered and well-nigh given up his lite on the altar of his country, traveling over the very ground where, a few years before, he, in the prime of manhood, had stood a living bulwark between the enemy and the devoted capital of his country, now begging bread of these very people whom he had suffered to protect, many of whom had gained financially, by the fortunes of war, and being refused by them this simple boon. Surely, if there was ever a scene to soften a heart of stone or open the purse of a miser, this was one. What must have been the feelings of this poor soldier as he turned hungry away from the house where plenty reigned, and, as he tell unsensible, not knowing but that he might die there, away from home and
My friends, forsaken by all mankind. friends, this story is not only true in itself, but is a true representative of the manner in which this world rewards its votaries.
Each May brings its memorial day, when the people, all over the country, gather over the graves of our fallen braves and eulogize, in the highest terms, the inhabitants of these silent cities of the dead. Their actions are recounted, their bravery extolled and their sufferings told till a sympathizing audience weeps in admiring sorrow at their memories. One would think, were he present on such occasions, that these people would never forget the soldier, but that they would ever be ready with heart and hand to help him or his widow and orphans, whenever they stood in need; but such is not the case. Men who once charged Confederate soldiers a week's pay for a gallon of butter-milk, are now loudest in their praise and sympathy on such occasions. Whenever it is fashionable, such men are very liberal in theory, but in practice far from it.
I have often thought that if I were a speaker on such occasions, I would take a text something like this : The dead we have with us always, but the living only for a very short time. For, while it is right to meet within each return of spring and strew the soldier's grave with flowers, it is far greater importance that the living wounded soldier, or the soldier's widow be sub plied with the necessaries of lite while this short life last, and that his children be educated so that they may take their proper place in the society of their country, and not be compelled through ignorance to associate with the lowest of the human race.
The soldier is not the only member of the human family who is in this world paid for his life's work in bankrupt notices. The follower of any profession whatever is not exempt from such a fate. The statesman of one generation finds his ideas scoffed at by the next. The merchant, after accumulating a princely estate, often finds himself in old age a bankrupt and dependent on the charities of a selfish world for his meager support. How often does the author, after spending years of labor and hundreds in money, on some work in which his whole soul is absorbed, find that it is not 'the thing for the times, and must therefore prove a failure.
If then, failure is so often the reward of an honest life's work, and success unsanctified by the approval of a just and righteous God is signal failure why, oh, why is it, young man, that you do not enlist in the service of a just and Omnipotent Ruler, whose cause will never be lost, and whose servants will certainly be rewarded.
Behold, he knocks at the door of your heart points to his bleeding wounds and whispers Calvary. Only secure this stranger into your heart ; begin life aright, and you will never have to say as Wolsey did—
"0 Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my King, he would not in mine age, Have left me naked to mine enemies."
For a moment these young men stood dumb and horror-stricken. Was the man dead! At first he gave no answer when called, nor showed the least sign of life but when one of them raised him to a sitting position, he opened his eyes, coughed up that bloody froth that filled his mouth and throat, and answered their inquiries in a broken, scarcely audible whisper. His story was soon told. Pointing to two ugly scars, one on either side, showing where a bullet had gone tearing through his lungs, and then to another on his head, and still another on his hand, he whispered—Petersburg—and told in a few words that he had been a native of a -county near Fredricksberg that his family had, after the war, moved down near Norfolk, and that he was then making his way back to his old home. His wounds had nearly destroyed his voice, and left him subject to sudden fits of insensibility, accompanied with hemorrhages, which were liable to come on at any time with no previous warning whatever. Being destitute of means, he was traveling on foot, following the general direction of the railroad, but carefully avoiding the track for fear that he might at any time fall insensible on it and be crushed to death by the locomotive. Trusting for food to the charity of the people who lived on his path, he had had nothing to eat for more than twenty-four hours, although he had stopped at houses all along his journey and begged for food to sustain his weary body.
What a picture was this! Here was a soldier, who had offered and well-nigh given up his lite on the altar of his country, traveling over the very ground where, a few years before, he, in the prime of manhood, had stood a living bulwark between the enemy and the devoted capital of his country, now begging bread of these very people whom he had suffered to protect, many of whom had gained financially, by the fortunes of war, and being refused by them this simple boon. Surely, if there was ever a scene to soften a heart of stone or open the purse of a miser, this was one. What must have been the feelings of this poor soldier as he turned hungry away from the house where plenty reigned, and, as he tell unsensible, not knowing but that he might die there, away from home and
My friends, forsaken by all mankind. friends, this story is not only true in itself, but is a true representative of the manner in which this world rewards its votaries.
Each May brings its memorial day, when the people, all over the country, gather over the graves of our fallen braves and eulogize, in the highest terms, the inhabitants of these silent cities of the dead. Their actions are recounted, their bravery extolled and their sufferings told till a sympathizing audience weeps in admiring sorrow at their memories. One would think, were he present on such occasions, that these people would never forget the soldier, but that they would ever be ready with heart and hand to help him or his widow and orphans, whenever they stood in need; but such is not the case. Men who once charged Confederate soldiers a week's pay for a gallon of butter-milk, are now loudest in their praise and sympathy on such occasions. Whenever it is fashionable, such men are very liberal in theory, but in practice far from it.
I have often thought that if I were a speaker on such occasions, I would take a text something like this : The dead we have with us always, but the living only for a very short time. For, while it is right to meet within each return of spring and strew the soldier's grave with flowers, it is far greater importance that the living wounded soldier, or the soldier's widow be sub plied with the necessaries of lite while this short life last, and that his children be educated so that they may take their proper place in the society of their country, and not be compelled through ignorance to associate with the lowest of the human race.
The soldier is not the only member of the human family who is in this world paid for his life's work in bankrupt notices. The follower of any profession whatever is not exempt from such a fate. The statesman of one generation finds his ideas scoffed at by the next. The merchant, after accumulating a princely estate, often finds himself in old age a bankrupt and dependent on the charities of a selfish world for his meager support. How often does the author, after spending years of labor and hundreds in money, on some work in which his whole soul is absorbed, find that it is not 'the thing for the times, and must therefore prove a failure.
If then, failure is so often the reward of an honest life's work, and success unsanctified by the approval of a just and righteous God is signal failure why, oh, why is it, young man, that you do not enlist in the service of a just and Omnipotent Ruler, whose cause will never be lost, and whose servants will certainly be rewarded.
Behold, he knocks at the door of your heart points to his bleeding wounds and whispers Calvary. Only secure this stranger into your heart ; begin life aright, and you will never have to say as Wolsey did—
"0 Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my King, he would not in mine age, Have left me naked to mine enemies."