The Death of John
Louisa May Alcott
Hardly was I settled again, when the inevitable bowl appeared, and its
bearer delivered a message I had expected, yet dreaded to receive:--
"John is going, ma'am, and wants to see you, if you can come."
"The moment this boy is asleep; tell him so, and let me know if I am in
danger of being too late."
My Ganymede departed, and while I quieted poor Shaw, I thought of John.
He came in a day or two after the others; and, one evening, when I entered
my "pathetic room," I found a lately emptied bed occupied by a large, fair
man, with a fine face, and the serenest eyes I ever met. One of the earlier
comers had often spoken of a friend, who had remained behind, that those
apparently worse wounded than himself might reach a shelter first. It
seemed a David and Jonathan sort of friendship. The man fretted for his
mate, and was never tired of praising John,--his courage, sobriety, self-
denial, and unfailing kindliness of heart; always winding up with, "He's an
out an' out fine feller, ma'am; you see if he ain't."
I had some curiosity to behold this piece of excellence, and when he came,
watched him for a night or two, before I made friends with him; for, to tell
the truth, I was a little afraid of the stately looking man, whose bed had to
be lengthened to accommodate his commanding stature; who seldom spoke,
uttered no complaint, asked no sympathy, but tranquilly observed what
went on about him; and, as he lay high upon his pillows, no picture of dying
statesman or warrior was ever fuller of real dignity than this Virginia
blacksmith. A most attractive face he had, framed in brown hair and beard,
comely featured and full of vigor, as yet unsubdued by pain; thoughtful and
often beautifully mild while watching the afflictions of others, as if entirely
forgetful of his own. His mouth was grave and firm, with plenty of will and
courage in its lines, but a smile could make it as sweet as any woman's; and
his eyes were child's eyes, looking one fairly in the face with a clear,
straightforward glance, which promised well for such as placed their faith in
him. He seemed to cling to life, as if it were rich in duties and delights, and
he had learned the secret of content. The only time I saw his composure
disturbed was when my surgeon brought another to examine John, who
scrutinized their faces with an anxious look, asking of the elder,--"Do you
think I shall pull through, sir?" "I hope so, my man." And, as the two passed
on, John's eye still followed them, with an intentness which would have won
a clearer answer from them, had they seen it. A momentary shadow flitted
over his face; then came the usual serenity, as if, in that brief eclipse, he
had acknowledged the existence of some hard possibility, and, asking
nothing, yet hoping all things, left the issue in God's hands, with that
submission which is true piety.
The next night, as I went my rounds with Dr. P., I happened to ask which
man in the room probably suffered most; and, to my great surprise, he
glanced at John:--
"Every breath he draws is like a stab; for the ball pierced the left lung, broke
a rib, and did no end of damage here and there; so the poor lad can find
neither forgetfulness nor ease, because he must lie on his wounded back or
suffocate. It will be a hard struggle and a long one, for he possesses great
vitality; but even his temperate life can't save him; I wish it could."
"You don't mean he must die, Doctor?"
"Bless you, there's not the slightest hope for him; and you'd better tell him
so before long; women have a way of doing such things comfortably, so I
leave it to you. He won't last more than a day or two, at furthest."
I could have sat down on the spot and cried heartily, if I had not learned the
wisdom of bottling up one's tears for leisure moments. Such an end seemed
very hard for such a man, when half a dozen worn-out, worthless bodies
round him were gathering up the remnants of wasted lives, to linger on for
years perhaps, burdens to others, daily reproaches to themselves. The army
needed men like John,--earnest, brave, and faithful; fighting for liberty and
justice with both heart and hand, true soldiers of the Lord. I could not give
him up so soon, or think with any patience of so excellent a nature robbed
of its fulfilment, and blundered into eternity by the rashness or stupidity of
those at whose hands so many lives may be required. It was an easy thing
for Dr. P. to say, "Tell him he must die," but a cruelly hard thing to do, and
by no means as "comfortable" as he politely suggested. I had not the heart to
do it then, and privately indulged the hope that some change for the better
might take place, in spite of gloomy prophecies, so, rendering my task
unnecessary. A few minutes later, as I came in again with fresh rollers, I
saw John sitting erect, with no one to support him, while the surgeon
dressed his back. I had never hitherto seen it done; for, having simpler
wounds to attend to, and knowing the fidelity of the attendant, I had left
John to him, thinking it might be more agreeable and safe; for both strength
and experience were needed in his case. I had forgotten that the strong man
might long for the gentler tendance of a woman's hands, the sympathetic
magnetism of a woman's presence, as well as the feebler souls about him.
The Doctor's words caused me to reproach myself with neglect, not of any
real duty perhaps, but of those little cares and kindnesses that solace
homesick spirits, and make the heavy hours pass easier. John looked lonely
and forsaken just then, as he sat with bent head, hands folded on his knee,
and no outward sign of suffering, till, looking nearer, I saw great tears roll
down and drop upon the floor. It was a new sight there; for though I had
seen many suffer, some swore, some groaned, most endured silently, but
none wept. Yet it did not seem weak, only very touching, and straightway my
fear vanished, my heart opened wide and took him in, as, gathering the bent
head in my arms, as freely as if he had been a little child, I said,--"Let me
help you bear it, John."
Never, on any human countenance, have I seen so swift and beautiful a look
of gratitude, surprise, and comfort, as that which answered me more
eloquently than the whispered,--
"Thank you ma'am; this is right good! this is what I wanted!"
"Then why not ask for it before?"
"I didn't like to be a trouble; you seemed so busy, and I could manage to get
"You shall not want it any more, John."
Nor did he; for now I understood the wistful look that sometimes followed
me, as I went out, after a brief pause beside his bed, or merely a passing
nod, while busied with those who seemed to need me more than he, because
more urgent in their demands; now I knew that to him, as to so many, I was
the poor substitute for mother, wife, or sister, and in his eyes no stranger,
but a friend who hitherto had seemed neglectful; for, in his modesty, he had
never guessed the truth. This was changed now; and, through the tedious
operation of probing, bathing, and dressing his wounds, he leaned against
me, holding my hand fast, and, if pain wrung further tears from him, no one
saw them fall but me. When he was laid down again, I hovered about him, in
a remorseful state of mind that would not let me rest, till I had bathed his
face, brushed his "bonny brown hair," set all things smooth about him, and
laid a knot of heath and heliotrope on his clean pillow. While doing this, he
watched me with the satisfied expression I so linked to see; and when I
offered the little nosegay, held it carefully in his great hand, smoothed a
ruffled leaf or two, surveyed and smelt it with an air of genuine delight, and
lay contentedly regarding the glimmer of the sunshine on the green.
Although the manliest man among my forty, he said, "Yes, ma'am," like a
little boy; received suggestions for his comfort with the quick smile that
brightened his whole face; and now and then, as I stood tidying the table by
his bed, I felt him softly touch my gown, as if to assure himself that I was
there. Anything more natural and frank I never saw, and found this brave
John as bashful as brave, yet full of excellences and fine aspirations, which,
having no power to express themselves in words, seemed to have bloomed
into his character and made him what he was.
After that night, an hour of each evening that remained to him was devoted
to his ease or pleasure. He could not talk much, for breath was precious,
and he spoke in whispers; but from occasional conversations, I gleaned
scraps of private history which only added to the affection and respect I felt
for him. Once he asked me to write a letter, and, as I settled pen and paper,
I said, with an irrepressible glimmer of feminine curiosity, "Shall it be
addressed to wife, or mother, John?"
"Neither, ma'am; I've got no wife, and will write to mother myself when I get
better. Did you think I was married because of this?" he asked, touching a
plain ring he wore, and often turned thoughtfully on his finger when he lay
"Partly that, but more from a settled sort of look you have,--a look which
young men seldom get until they marry."
"I don't know that; but I'm not so very young, ma'am; thirty in May and have
been what you might call settled this ten years; for mother's a widow; I'm
the oldest child she has, and it wouldn't do for me to marry until Lizzie has
a home of her own, and Laurie's learned his trade; for we're not rich, and I
must be father to the children, and husband to the dear old woman, if I
"No doubt but you are both, John; yet how came you to go to war, if you felt
so? Wasn't enlisting as bad as marrying?"
"No, ma'am, not as I see it, for one is helping my neighbor, the other
pleasing myself. I went because I couldn't help it. I didn't want the glory or
the pay; I wanted the right thing done, and people kept saying the men who
were in earnest ought to flight. I was in earnest, the Lord knows! but I held
off as long as I could, not knowing which was my duty; mother saw the case,
gave me her ring to keep me steady, and said 'Go;' so I went."
A short story and a simple one, but the man and the mother were portrayed
better than pages of fine writing could have done it.
"Do you ever regret that you came, when you lie here suffering so much?"
"Never ma'am; I haven't helped a great deal, but I've shown I was willing to
give my life, and perhaps I've got to; but I don't blame anybody, and if it was
to do over again, I'd do it. I'm a little sorry I wasn't wounded in front; it looks
cowardly to be hit in the back, but I obeyed orders, and it doesn't matter in
the end, I know."
Poor John! it did not matter now, except that a shot in front might have
spared the long agony in store for him. He seemed to read the thought that
troubled me, as he spoke so hopefully when there was no hope, for he
"This is my first battle; do they think it's going to be my last?"
"I'm afraid they do, John."
It was the hardest question I had ever been called upon to answer; doubly
hard with those clear eyes fixed on mine, forcing a truthful answer by their
own truth. He seemed a little startled at first, pondered over the fateful fact
a moment, then shook his head, with a glance at the broad chest and
muscular limbs stretched out before him:--
"I'm not afraid, but it's difficult to believe all at once. I'm so strong it don't
seem possible for such a little wound to kill me."
Merry Mercutio's dying words glanced through my memory as he spoke:--
"'Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but 'tis enough."
And John would have said the same, could he have seen the ominous black
holes between his shoulders, he never had; and, seeing the ghastly sights
about him, could not believe his own wound more fatal than these, for all
the suffering it caused him.
"Shall I write to your mother, now?" I asked, thinking that these sudden
tidings might change all plans and purposes; but they did not; for the man
received the order of the Divine Commander to march, with the same
unquestioning obedience with which the soldier had received that of the
human one, doubtless remembering that the first led him to life, and the
last to death.
"No, ma'am; to Laurie just the same; he'll break it to her best, and I'll add a
line to her myself when you get done."
So I wrote the letter which he dictated, finding it better than any I had sent;
for, though here and there a little ungrammatical or inelegant, each
sentence came to me briefly worded, but most expressive; full of excellent
counsel to the boy, tenderly "bequeathing mother and Lizzie" to his care,
and bidding him good-by in words the sadder for their simplicity. He added
a few lines with steady hand, and, as I sealed it, said, with a patient sort of
sigh, "I hope the answer will come in time for me to see it;" then, turning
away his face, laid the flowers against his lips, as if to hide some quiver of
emotion at the thought of such a sudden sundering of all the dear home-
These things had happened two days before; now John was dying, and the
letter had not come. I had been summoned to many death-beds in my life,
but to none that made my heart ache as it did then, since my mother called
me to watch the departure of a spirit akin to this in its gentleness and
patient strength. As I went in, John stretched out both hands,--
"I knew you'd come! I guess I'm moving on, ma'am."
He was; and so rapidly that, even while he spoke, over his face I saw the
gray veil falling that no human hand can lift. I sat down by him, wiped the
drops from his forehead, stirred the air about him with the slow wave of a
fan, and waited to help him die. He stood in sore need of help,--and I could
do so little; for, as the doctor had foretold, the strong body rebelled against
death, and fought every inch of the way, forcing him to draw each breath
with a spasm, and clench his hands with an imploring look, as if he asked,
"How long must I endure this, and be still?" For hours he suffered dumbly,
without a moment's respite, or a moment's murmuring; his limbs grew cold,
his face damp, his lips white, and, again and again, he tore the covering off
his breast, as if the lightest weight added to his agony; yet through it all, his
eyes never lost their perfect serenity, and the man's soul seemed to sit
therein, undaunted by the ills that vexed his flesh.
One by one the men woke, and round the room appeared a circle of pale
faces and watchful eyes, full of awe and pity; for, though a stranger, John
was beloved by all. Each man there had wondered at his patience, respected
his piety, admired his fortitude, and now lamented his hard death; for the
influence of an upright nature had made itself deeply felt, even in one little
week. Presently, the Jonathan who so loved this comely David came
creeping from his bed for a last look and word. The kind soul was full of
trouble, as the choke in his voice, the grasp of his hand betrayed; but there
were no tears, and the farewell of the friends was the more touching for its
"Old boy, how are you?" faltered the one.
"Most through, thank heaven!" whispered the other.
"Can I say or do anything for you anywheres?"
"Take my things home, and tell them that I did my best."
"I will! I will!"
"Good-by, John, good-by!"
They kissed each other, tenderly as women, and so parted; for poor Ned
could not stay to see his comrade die. For a little while, there was no sound
in the room but the drip of water from a stump or two, and John's
distressful gasps, as he slowly breathed his life away. I thought him nearly
gone, and had just laid down the fan, believing its help to be no longer
needed, when suddenly he rose up in his bed, and cried out with a bitter cry
that broke the silence, sharply startling every one with its agonized appeal,--
"For God's sake, give me air!"
It was the only cry pain or death had wrung from him, the only boon he had
asked; and none of us could grant it, for all the airs that blew were useless
now. Dan flung up the window. The first red streak of dawn was warming
the gray east, a herald of the coming sun. John saw it, and with the love of
light which lingers in us to the end, seemed to read in it a sign of hope of
help, for, over his whole face there broke that mysterious expression,
brighter than any smile, which often comes to eyes that look their last. He
laid himself gently down; and, stretching out his strong right arm, as if to
grasp and bring the blessed air to his lips in a fuller flow, lapsed into a
merciful unconsciousness, which assured us that for him suffering was
forever past. He died then; for, though the heavy breaths still tore their way
up for a little longer, they were but the waves of an ebbing tide that beat
unfelt against the wreck, which an immortal voyager had deserted with a
smile. He never spoke again, but to the end held my hand close, so close
that when he was asleep at last, I could not draw it away. Dan helped me,
warning me as he did so, that it was unsafe for dead and living flesh to lie so
long together; but though my hand was strangely cold and stiff, and four
white marks remained across its back, even when warmth and color had
returned elsewhere, I could not but be glad that, through its touch, the
presence of human sympathy, perhaps, had lightened that hard hour.
When they had made him ready for the grave, John lay in state for half an
hour, a thing which seldom happened in that busy place; but a universal
sentiment of reverence and affection seemed to fill the hearts of all who had
known or heard of him; and when the rumor of his death went through the
house, always astir, many came to see him, and I felt a tender sort of pride
in my lost patient; for he looked a most heroic figure, lying there stately and
still as the statue of some young knight asleep upon his tomb. The lovely
expression which so often beautifies dead faces soon replaced the marks of
pain, and I longed for those who loved him best to see him when half an
hour's acquaintance with Death had made them friends. As we stood
looking at him, the ward master handed me a letter, saying it had been
forgotten the night before. It was John's letter, come just an hour too late to
gladden the eyes that had longed and looked for it so eagerly; yet he had it;
for, after I had cut some brown locks for his mother, and taken off the ring
to send her, telling how well the talisman had done its work, I kissed this
good son for her sake, and laid the letter in his hand, still folded as when I
drew my own away, feeling that its place was there, and making myself
happy with the thought, even in his solitary place in the "Government Lot,"
he would not be without some token of the love which makes life beautiful
and outlives death. Then I left him, glad to have known so genuine a man,
and carrying with me an enduring memory of the brave Virginia blacksmith,
as he lay serenely waiting for the dawn of that long day which knows no