Donahoe's Magazine, Volume 15, No. 4, April, 1886

I went up to the party and asked who was the last victim of the war they were carrying.

"A countryman of yours," was the answer.

I gently lifted the strip of linen, and recognized in the sufferer a youngster from Sligo, of some nineteen years, the only son of his mother, who had joined the Papal service through motives of the most sincere faith and devotedness. To his aged parent, in her humble Connaught cabin, he had sent the twenty scudi he had received as bounty. Andy was his Christian name – I never heard that of his family; but he usually went by the nickname of "Much-a-Wanted." This originated from a habit he had of using the phrase on all occasions, suitable and unsuitable. If it came on to rain, Andy would say, "much-a-wanted;" if macaroni, which the Irishmen unaccountably disliked, were served up from the dinner-boiler, he met it with the same exclamation; if he got a newspaper from home, or won a mezzo-baioccho at pitch-and-toss, it was alike. All were "much-a-wanted." Verily, I believe if he had been sent to the cells on a false charge, the philosophic Andy would have consoled himself with the cheery reflection that it was "much-a-wanted."

On inquiry I discovered he had come in for his fate characteristically. While they had been preparing the mid-day meal for his company, the cook complained of a scarcity of water. The path to the draw-well was in the direct line of a terrible fire; it was positively furrowed with ripping segments of shell. Instead of ordering the men on fatigue duty (whose actual business it was) to go, volunteers were asked for, and Andy and a comrade stepped forward and undertook to fetch a bucket. Hardly had they started into the open on their hazardous errand, when a shell exploded almost at their feet, knocking them over like ninepins, and sending the fragments of the bucket whizzing in splintered chips far asunder. Andy's comrade was hit on the sole of the foot, and broke into a bellow of pain. It was no want of fortitude; the torment must have been insupportable. The net-work of sinew and muscles in that most delicately formed portion of the human framework was torn through, and the dirty leather of the shoe was forced into the flesh, and there was an ugly circle of jagged spokes around like the star-fractures made by a stone flung through a pane of glass. Andy's right leg was shattered a few inches above the knee, and hung on by a shred of skin; the shock must have deprived him of sensation, and the rapid gush of blood caused a merciful swoon. The hemorrhage was stopped by a surgeon on the spot, and a dose of brandy poured down his throat. As he recovered his speech he murmured in a dazed way his old catch-words "much-a-wanted."

While I was learning these particulars, the pathetic little procession was climbing towards the hospital of St. John of God, where the most accomplished of our staff of surgeons were in waiting to perform serious operations, and the zealous brothers of the institution – a sort of anticipatory Red Cross order – were on the constant watch to supply all that science, good nursing and the beautiful compassion of religion could suggest for the benefit of the afflicted.

On the ground floor the operating-room was situated, and thither the party bore their pale-faced, perspiring, still burden. I followed, thinking I might be of use as I understood Italian; and, in any case, when the sufferer returned to consciousness it might be some comfort to him to have the face of one he knew by his pallet. It was promptly decided that the leg should be amputated at the thigh, and as the surgeons, with workmanlike coolness, proceeded with their grim preliminaries, the pain awoke Andy to his situation. And yet not quite. By the wild unrest of his eyes and the working of his features, it was plain that he was in the throes of acute agony; he felt it, but he could not tell why or wherefore it was. He knew too keenly where the seat of pain was, but he could not divine the exact injury he had sustained, and strove almost frantically to rise so as to obtain a view of his lower extremities. He caught sight of me, and besought me to lift him. I laid my hand on his forehead and tried to pacify him, but in vain. He sank back with a moan that went to my very marrow. While he lay thus, as if in the coma of prostration, I asked quietly if they did not propose to administer chloroform, but they shook their heads and said they had none to spare except for officers. I insisted that the boy would die under the knife unless he had something to numb his sensibility, and at the moment he opened wide his eyes, and, with a look of pleading which I can never forget, gasped —

"Gracious God! How I burn. Take me out and shoot me."

Then, in a sharp shout of entreaty as if wrung by a stronger spasm than before —

"If you're friends, if you're men, you'll put me out of pain."

The surgeon-major at last relented and nodded to an aide, who administered the chloroform. Quickly and skilfully the operation was performed, and when the patient came back to things of the world he lay in a ward on the same floor, a cradle over the stump to avert the risk of hemorrhage from the dressings being disturbed. He was very feeble and languid, and spoke like one in a trance.

"Do you feel better after your sleep, Andy?"

"Yes, thank you; 'twas much-a-wanted. But my feet are very cold."

His feet! Then he knew nothing of what had occurred; that he was no longer as others, but maimed in his youth, destined to go through life a cripple – if he ever rose from his bed.

"Put more covers over me," he besought.

He got a stimulating cordial from one of the brothers who specially charged himself with his guardianship, and I passed through some of the remaining wards on my way out. Those who were the least querulous appeared to be the very men who were most grievously wounded, perhaps they were too spent to sigh; those who were loudest in their yells of anguish – there is no other word – were a number of unfortunates who had their flesh scorched and shrivelled by the blow-up of a magazine. It is as trying to hear a strong man yell with anguish as to see a strong man shed tears. Here and there a lighted taper was placed at the foot of a bed, and the white sheet drawn over the mute and motionless occupant told its own story.

The next forenoon I visited Andy. He was weak but sprightly, and still unconscious of his great loss. He asked me how we were getting on, and when we should have the enemy beaten, for he could distinctly hear the whistling of shells and the repercussion of the booming of the big guns.

On the following day there was a change in him for the worse. There were two reasons to explain it; a shell had fallen on the roof of the hospital and crashed into one of the wards of the upper story where it burst. This naturally caused a fearful commotion, and fevered and mutilated patients had started from their beds in panic and crouched in the corridors and on the staircases. But, to my thinking, the alteration in Andy's condition was to be traced rather to another accident. He had learned the extent of his misfortune. A rough, good-natured comrade who had snatched time for a friendly call had blurted it out.

"Keep up your spirits, my hearty; you won't be the first lad to hobble through life on a timber-peg."

The poor fellow turned a ghastly white, gazed around him in a scared, vacant manner – so the brother told me – and asked with dry, tremulous lips for a drink of water. Afterwards he had dozed into a delirious slumber. In his ravings he fancied he was on a lone and dangerous post in advance of our lines, and that his officer had forgotten him.

"I'm perishin' wid the cowld," he peevishly muttered, "and no sign o' the relief. Ten hours on sentry; I give them ten minutes more. If they don't come, I'll go."

Then there must have been a struggle in his harassed brain between duty and the sense that he had been neglected.

"No," he continued. "Desertion before the inamy – disgrace! Can't do that. As I'm here, I'll see it out. I wish the relief would come."

And then the poor crazed youth went through the motions of slapping his hands across his breast to quicken the circulation, and began humming the air of "The Pretty Maid Milking her Cow."

By degrees the motion of his hands slackened, his voice grew fainter, he turned his head on one side, and dropped into a deep, calm sleep.

Duty took me elsewhere, but I returned in a few hours. As I stole up to the bedside the patient was awake and looked brighter and better than before. It was the blazing of the wick before the candle expires.

"He has had a lucid interval," whispered the brother, "and was so meek and patient that it made me weep. But he is delirious again – still yearning for that relief."

At that instant the sunset flame shooting through a window burnished the sufferer's face until it looked like that of some waxen image with a halo; by a powerful effort he propped the upper portion of his body on his left elbow, raised his right arm in salute, and cried —

"Hurrah! I saw the sunlight on yer bay'nets, boys. Andy wouldn't lave his post. But whisper, sargent, ye were much-a-wanted, much-a-wanted!"

And with a glad laugh the boy-soldier fell back.

There was a thin crimson streak upon the pillow. The relief had, indeed, come at last.

John Augustus O'Shea, in Merry England.

Mixed Marriages

Marriage is so intimate a union between man and wife that the hearts of both should ever beat in full and unalloyed sympathy and accord. Above all, the religious convictions of both ought to be in perfect harmony. If there is not in the family a common faith and a common form of divine worship, the consequences are disastrous to home comfort, to religious training, and to faith itself. Show me a family that forms an exception, and you either show a strengthening of the rule, or you show a family that is happy only in appearance. For, even then you will find that the Catholic party has to do a thousand things unknown to the other, and to beg of the children to keep matters secret. There is woe following the telling of the secret. Suffice it to know that the wisdom of the Catholic Church is opposed to these unions; that if the Catholic party die, the children, as a rule, are lost; and that even in the best cases religious indifference is the ordinary consequence.

How often do we meet such an instance as this, nor shall I overdraw it. A young Catholic lady tells her confessor that she intends to marry a Protestant young man. The confessor remonstrates. It is useless. Her mind is made up on the matter. He is a good young man, with no prejudice against her faith, and is satisfied to be married by the priest. Very well; they get married; and six months afterward the bell is rung at the priest's door. A thickly veiled female comes in, and she has a sad story to tell. She has been abused, called names in which her religion was not complimented; and, oh, worst of all, this very day he has thrust her out of doors. Yes; called Papist and thrown down the stoop by the "splendid young man" on whose arm she hung so proudly in the heyday of her foolish fascination!

Some of our young ladies may be educated a little too high for our average young man. And too many of them look down on honest labor – on the young mechanic or tradesman – and cast their eyes on some banker's clerk or broker's accountant, who, with ten or twelve dollars a week, studies the manners of the millionnaire, frequents the opera, and may not be above forging his employers' name. Better to cast her lot with the honest young Catholic tradesman, who attends to his religious duties, is temperate and steady, forgetting altogether that he neither dresses like a fop nor poses like a Chesterfield.

If the man be the Catholic, the case is worse. The mother has most influence with the children. The father worries, drinks, loses his position, and perhaps dies a victim of intemperate habits.

Farewell, My Home

Though sunshine dances merrilyOn wave and stream and trembling leaf,Though wild birds wake their minstrelsy,My heart is full of grief.No sunshine there; 'tis sad and lone;No echo to the wild bird's lay;One only thought – the dear hearth-stoneI loved is quenched to-day.My heart will break; I cannot bearTo part with scenes so loved, so blest.My heart will break; I cannot tearMe from this home of rest.Yet, though I say farewell, my home,'Tis but the lips that speak their part;Believe, wherever I may roam,I leave with thee my heart.Broken, yet clinging still to thee,My home, as to a mother's breast;Broken, yet loving tenderlyMy home, my heart's first rest.Farewell, my home, farewell, farewell;One last, one lingering look I takeOn each dear scene of hill and dell,Of mountain bold and silver lake.Farewell, I leave my bleeding heartWithin thy loved retreats to roam;Farewell, farewell, too soon we part;My home, my childhood's home.Ulidia

Ballycastle, Co. Antrim, Ireland.

Arbitration. – The question of arbitration received quite an impetus at Braddock, Penn., by the selection of Rev. Father Hickey, the well-known pastor of St. Thomas' church, at that place, as an arbitrator. The Bessemer Steel Works, an institution employing six thousand men, was shut down on account of the strike. Father Hickey was selected by both parties, and succeeded in satisfactorily settling the difficulties.

The "Ten-Commandment" Theory

Sir Wilfred Lawson, writing to the Pall Mall Gazette (a London paper), says: – "In a recent article on Home Rule, you declared: 'We are all for Home Rule plus the Ten Commandments. But if the Irish seek Home Rule expressly to violate the Ten Commandments with impunity, then they shall not have Home Rule, let them demand it ever so loudly.' I have my doubts whether it is possible to 'violate the Ten Commandments with impunity,' but we will not stop to argue that point. But what I want to know is, how far you intend to carry this 'Ten-Commandment' theory? Is it applicable to all nations or only to the Irish? If the former, how shall we stand in England? The Ten Commandments forbid among other things, murder, stealing and coveting our neighbors' possessions.

"Do we reverence the command, 'Thou shalt do no murder?' Let the thousands of Zulus, Afghans, Egyptians and Arabs whom we have slaughtered during the last few years give dumb evidence on that point. The slaughter of these unfortunate men, whose crime is that they are worse armed than we are, is duly hailed with public acclamation and with ecclesiastical thanksgiving!

"Stealing is equally popular. At this very moment the press gushes with rapturous delight because Lord Dufferin has succeeded in stealing the territory of the Burmese.

"As to lying, I need say nothing, as we are all fresh from the general election.

"The Irish will be very ingenuous if they can contrive to violate the Ten Commandments more successfully than we do in very many of our public proceedings. The crimes for which we are responsible are, however, mainly committed against feeble foes who have no means of stating their case to the world. But the violation of the Eighth Commandment, which is what you really fear will be endorsed in Ireland, will be committed against the body of Irish landlords, who, up to a recent period, have had their own way in that country. The fear is that the tenants will steal the property of the landlords. In former times the landlords have stolen the property of the tenants. In either case stealing is most deplorable, but I do not know whether, in a moral point of view, the latter is worse than the former. Honest men must hope that both may be put a stop to. Sir, I hold by the Ten Commandments, and I heartily wish that all nations and all individuals would pay them practical deference. All that I maintain at present is, that the fear that the Irish may, on one point, adopt a different course is not enough to justify us in refusing them the benefit of self-government. If we are to wait until we have guarantees for the observance of the Ten Commandments before we grant political rights to nations, we shall have, I fear, to wait until doomsday, or, at the very least, until the millennium is upon us. However, the position taken up in your article may be the right one; but even in that case we shall speak to our Irish brethren with much more effect if we can show that we ourselves are observing the precepts which we are so anxious to enforce upon them."

Bay State Faugh-a-Ballaghs

IV

In the last number of the Magazine we left the patriotic Irishmen of the Twenty-Eighth Regiment in their Camp Cameron, at Cambridge, dreaming of the heroic deeds of their race on foreign fields; of the proud chronicles of the valor of the European Irish Brigade at Fontenoy and Ramillies that illumine the pages of French history; of the saving of Cremona by the Irish regiments under Count Dillon and Col. Burke; of Lord Clare's dragoons at Blenheim, which, although victorious to the arms of John Churchill (great Marlborough), and his Teutonic allies the defeat of Marchal Tallard, commanding the French and Bavarians, was relieved of some of its ignominy by the capture of two standards from the British by these dashing Irish troopers; of the fields of Staffardo under the exiled Lord Mount Cashel, and many other inspiring military achievements and successes of these Irishmen who vowed by Erin's Sunburst:

"That never! No! never! while God gave them lifeAnd they had an arm and a sword for the strife,That never! No! never! that banner should yieldAs long as the heart of a Celt was its shield;While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield,And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field."

The Twenty-Eighth Regiment was formally mustered into the United States service December 13th, 1861, with Col. William Monteith commanding. Col. Murphy, it seems, only assisted in the recruiting of the regiment.

Christmas Day found the command not yet ordered forward, still at duty in the Cambridge camp. The day was duly honored with religious services and social interchanges. The boys were provided by loving friends with the wherewithal to make merry and to toast the sweethearts not yet made exactly of the class of "The girl I left behind me," although in the expression of the conviviality of the hour that and kindred airs were jovially rendered by the rollicking blades who were bound to make the great festival as merry as possible. In the "privates" as well as the officers' quarters during the evening, innocent revels were made up of feasting, the witty jest and repartee, playful jokes, songs and stories until "taps" reminded all through the orders of the officer of the day, that the night of Christmas Day had a new significance for these Irish volunteers. Before another return of it, how many of these fine fellows were food for powder and worms. A touching and very natural little incident in one of the tents will not only illustrate the genuineness of the soldier's heart, but also may be set down as a sample of the kindred feelings of many comrades who shouldered a musket for the preservation of the country. When the lights were put out as ordered by the "taps" patrolling guard, a fine young fellow, who had during the evening been merriest of the merry, was seated near the opening of the tent, bowed down in thought, while the fitful flickering of the expiring camp-fire shone through the handsome, glossy hair that drooped over his temples. His suppressed sighs brought an older and much attached comrade to him, who, putting his arms kindly around the youth's manly shoulders said, in lowered tones:

"Arrah, Jim, ma bouchal, what's the matter with you, at all, at all? Has all the fun gone out of you?"

"No, no, friend Tim! But this night last year I was with my poor old mother. I'm all that's left to her now, and when she hears I am in the war, her poor heart will break, and if it is ever my luck to return to Ireland it will, I'm afraid, be to visit her grave in Kilmurry church-yard."

"Oh, the wirrasthru, and that's the pity av it, Jim. But don't you be thinking of these things and be sad, or faix's, you'll make a fool of a soldier of me with thinking of my sweet Kitty and the two childer. They'll be safe, at any rate for awhile, until we can put in a few good blows for the glorious country that has given us freedom and a home. Jim, me boy, our enemy, England, is at the bottom of this bad business. You know the ould song, 'She comes to divide, to dishonor;' but a tyrant she'll never reign here while we have a hand to lift and" – (Tim just then kindly slapping his chum on the back) "a heart to dare her! – and" —

The fervor of Tim aroused comrades in the tent, who gave signs of approval.

"And, perhaps when we have finished this business, as Secretary Seward says, in three months we'll have a nice training to go across the ocean with our arms, and wollop John Bull out of the dear old land."

"Good boy, Tim! good boy;" were the tokens of approval that came vociferously from all parts of the tent, while at the same time the double quick tread of the patrol guard, preceded by the flash of the corporal's lantern was hastily bearing down on the devoted quarters to stop this untimely ebullition of patriotic fervor, and noticing which Bill and Tim grasped hands fervently, but hastily, in approval of the sentiments of the latter. When the corporal looked into the tent the dozen soldiers it contained were all rolled up snugly in their blankets and sound asleep, apparently. 'Twas to the noise, not to the patriotism to which the corporal objected, fearing censure or worse from his superiors. Had he been off duty, no man likely would have more heartily re-echoed Tim H – 's patriotic expressions.

Days and weeks passed. In the meantime the officers and men, through military routine, were perfecting themselves; but for heavier work than was anticipated.

At last the call came, and amid heart-breaking farewells from wives, sweethearts and children, and the cheers of the throngs assembled to bid the gallant fellows good-by, the Twenty-Eighth Regiment left Boston, January 11, 1862, and went to Fort Columbus, New York harbor, from which place on February 14, it was sent to Hilton Head, South Carolina. The regiment was at a place called Darofusky Island when Col. Monteith was ordered off with the right wing to duty, on Tybee Island, Georgia. It was here that Col. Monteith did his last service with the Twenty-Eighth. The whole command was subsequently transferred to James Island, at which place in an attack on Fort Johnson, the regiment lost fourteen killed and fifty-two wounded. Gen. Benham, U. S. A., paid a high compliment to the command for the handsome manner in which they joined in the assault on the fort June 16. On July 20, the regiment was assigned to Gen. Burnside's Ninth Corps, and after being a while at Newport News, Virginia, landed at Aquia Creek, on the Potomac River, August 6th, to participate in the campaign of Gen. John Pope, "headquarters in the saddle," on the line of the Rappahannock, and which terminated so disastrously to our arms at the second Bull Run battle. Major Geo. W. Cartwright commanded the regiment in this severe engagement and was wounded. Eighteen men were killed and one hundred and nine wounded, with eight missing. This was August 30th. On September 1st at Chantilly, memorable by the death of that daring soldier, Gen. Phil Kearney, the Faugh-a-Ballaghs lost fifteen killed, with eighty-four wounded, and casualties. We find the regiment under heavy fire at South Mountain, and at Antietam's great battle, it crossed the creek at the stone bridge, charged the enemy's right, located in a most advantageous position, and drove them, sustaining a loss of twelve killed and thirty-six wounded.

About one month after this, Col. Richard Byrnes,1 on October 18, assumed command of the Twenty-Eighth at Nolan's Ferry, and on the 23d of November, it was transferred to the Second Corps and assigned to Meagher's Irish Brigade, which was in the division commanded by that much lamented and knightly soldier, Winfield Scott Hancock. At the close of the year 1862, some two weeks after fateful Fredericksburg, the reckoning showed that the Faugh-a-Ballaghs lost five hundred and twenty in killed, wounded and missing. The second Christmas Day for the boys of the Twenty-Eighth brought many sad reminders. Poor Kitty H – and her babies had to mourn the loss of her brave Tim, the Irish patriot of Camp Cameron, and the poor heart-broken mother of his young chum drooped and pined in Ireland for the son who was the solace of her hope and heart. She had the premonition of his death, at the battle of Chantilly, so weirdly given in Gerald Griffin's "wake." She saw the blood-red cloud in the west far out on the Atlantic's tide and while —