A T Gettysburg, on the afternoon of the third day of July, 1863, Major Henry G. Dunwoody, of the 483d Regiment of Pennsylvania Volunteers, while leading his men into action, was struck by a shell from a Confederate battery. A moment later he was lying upon the ground unconscious, and beside him lay his left leg, severed from his body several inches above the knee.
When the fight was over for the day, the wounded Major was placed in an ambulance and taken to the hospital. A day or two later, the fever having left him, he lay in bed feeling tolerably comfortable. His mind not unnaturally turned to consideration of his wound. He began to think how very inconvenient it would be to have to hop about on one leg during the remainder of his life, and he couldn’t help wondering where his leg was and what would be its fate. He suspected they would bury it; and the notion seemed an unpleasant one.
“I don’t like the idea of being partially interred,”253 he said; “and while I am alive, too. I am too young a man by half a century to have one foot in the grave.”
The latter suggestion struck the Major as being rather a good joke. He resolved to remember it so that he could tell the surgeon.
The Major could hardly persuade himself, at times, as he reflected, that he had really lost his leg. He had a corn upon a certain toe which he could distinctly feel; there were strong sensations which indicated that the leg was still there, and he could hardly resist the impulse to try to lift it in such a vigorous manner as to kick off the covering of the bed. But he knew that this was absurd. While he was thinking about it he suddenly gave a little start, and a shiver ran through his nerves. He felt as if his leg had been plunged into some intensely cold liquid, and before he had quite recovered from the shock he was conscious of a faint suggestion of alcohol. Whether the perfume of the substance had actually greeted his nostrils, or the alcoholic flavor had been conveyed to his senses in some other way, he could not exactly define. He did not try very hard to solve the problem. This was only one of the many odd experiences of the first forty-eight hours, and he was too feeble to make such a vigorous mental effort as was necessary to their proper solution.
The Major recovered, and was enrolled in the Invalid254 Corps. During the succeeding three or four years he drew his pay, lived an easy life, and devoted much of his time to experimenting upon artificial legs of various patterns. He never succeeded in finding one that suited him exactly, and in the course of time he collected quite a curious lot of wooden and cork legs, which he kept standing about in the corners of his room at his boarding-house in Washington, and which were perpetually a source of nervous dread to the chambermaid, who lived in expectation that some day they would fly out at her and kick her downstairs.
One day the Major, while strolling along the street, passed the door of the Army Medical Museum, an institution into which has been gathered by the government a very large number of medical and surgical curiosities taken from the various battle-fields of the rebellion. It is the most horribly interesting place in the city of Washington—that is, to the ordinary lay observer. The surgeons and doctors, of course, regard its trophies with gleeful enthusiasm. To others it serves perhaps a good purpose in suggesting some distinct notion of the fearful suffering which was the price paid for the salvation of the Government, and it may perform a useful office in the future by indicating to persons who are burning with a desire for war and glory, that glory is one of the least obvious fruits of murderous strife.
255 It occurred to the Major to enter the building; and for half an hour he wandered about among the glass cases, studying curiously the strangely distorted fragments of the poor human body which are there preserved. As he turned the corner of one large case, he saw something that induced him to halt. A brief distance in front of him sat a woman intently engaged in drawing upon a piece of pasteboard which stood upon a small easel. It was so unexpected a sight that the Major could not resist the impulse to observe her for a moment. She seemed young and fair; a mass of bright golden hair fell upon her shoulders, and as she turned her head to look at something in one of the cases that she seemed to be sketching, the Major saw that her profile was exceedingly pretty.
He came a step or two closer, and noticed by means of a hurried glance that she had a strange figure of some kind upon the board; and then he passed on.
Just as he got close to her his artificial leg—a leg that he had received a few days before by steamer from France—suddenly launched out sideways. It encountered the foot of the easel, and the next instant Major Dunwoody lay sprawling upon the floor, with the easel across his back and the pasteboard picture lying upon his head. He recovered himself promptly, and turning to the fair artist, who stood above him with a look256 of mingled vexation and amusement upon her face, said,—
“I—I—really I am very sorry. It is shocking, but I assure you I couldn’t help it. I am suffering from a wound, and—and” (the Major did not like to confess so openly to his dismemberment); “and in fact I had not complete control of myself.”
The Major was a handsome man, and either his appearance, his pleading look, the pathetic tone of his voice, or all combined, touched the artist’s heart with sympathy.
“Oh, never mind,” she said, smiling, as the Major thought, more sweetly than woman ever smiled before. “No harm is done. I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”
“You are very kind. No, I am not hurt; but I am greatly mortified at the trouble I have caused you. I hardly know how to express my disgust for my clumsiness.”
“Pray do not distress yourself about it,” said the artist, laughing; “the easel is not broken and the sketch is wholly uninjured. I should not have mourned if it had been destroyed. It is a mere study, and very incomplete.”
“You are too generous,” replied the Major; “but I will take good care not to disturb you again, if I can find my way out of here. Would you—would you—be—be—would you be good enough to call the janitor, or somebody, to help to get me upon257 my feet again? I cannot rise without—in fact, my wound is—is—”
“I shall be more than glad to assist you,” said the artist, with a glance of pity in her blue eyes, “if you will take my hand.”
The Major looked at the hand for a moment. It was extremely pretty; he had an impulse to kiss it, but he restrained himself. He merely clasped it in his own. The artist braced herself firmly, and the next instant the Major stood upright.
“I do not know how I can thank you for your kindness,” he said, “but permit me to offer you my card. I have some influence, and if I can ever serve you in any way I shall greatly rejoice.”
“Major Dunwoody! Indeed!” exclaimed the artist, as she read the name. “You are not one of the Dunwoodys of Clarion County, Pennsylvania, are you?”
“I was born there,” replied the Major with not a little eagerness. He thought he saw a chance to acquire better acquaintance with this lovely and gifted woman. “Do you know any of our folks?”
“Oh, yes,” said the artist, with a bright smile. “My mother came from Clarion County. She was a Hunsicker, a daughter of Hon. John Hunsicker, who represented the district in the forty-first Congress. I have often heard her speak of the Dunwoodys.”
258 “Indeed,” replied the Major. “I knew your grandfather well when I was a boy.”
The conversation need not be given in detail. The artist and the Major developed at some length how a Hunsicker married a Dunwoody; how a Dunwoody eloped with a Moyer, a cousin of the Hunsickers; how a Dunwoody fought a duel with another Hunsicker over a political dispute, and shook hands afterwards; and how the loves and hates, and bargains and enterprises, and contests and schemes of the Dunwoodys and Hunsickers had filled the history of Clarion County for a quarter of a century past.
At last the Major said,—
“But you haven’t given me your name yet.”
“Pandora M’Duffy is my name. My mother, you know, married Senator M’Duffy, state senator. Poor father died many years ago, and we are now living in Washington.”
“Studying art, I presume?” asked the Major, glancing at the easel.
“Yes,” replied Pandora; “I am an artist.”
“Is not this rather—rather a—a queer place to come to for sketches?”
“Oh, no,” said Pandora, laughing; “I came here to study anatomy for a great picture I am going to paint. You see what that is?” said she, lifting the cardboard, and showing the sketch to the Major.
259 “That is a—a—I should say that was a picture of—well, of the elbow of a stove-pipe. Isn’t it?”
“You are not very complimentary,” said Pandora. “I know it is very raw and unfinished; but it is at least a fair likeness of that human leg in the jar of alcohol over there.”
“Oh, of course! So it is, so it is; astonishing likeness! How stupid I am! To be sure. The very image of it.”
“Come now, I know you don’t think so! You are flattering me!”
“No, indeed. It is wonderful! But—why, bless my soul, what on earth do you want a picture of such a thing as that for?”
“For my great painting,” said Pandora, with a pretty little laugh. “I am preparing a picture, thirty-eight feet by twenty-seven feet, of George Washington cutting down his father’s cherry-tree with his little hatchet.”
“What for?”
“I expect to sell it to the Government, and to have it placed among the other historical pictures in the rotunda of the Capitol.”
“But you are not going to put this leg in the picture?”
“Yes; I represent George as being barefooted, and having one trouser-leg rolled up.”
“But then, I don’t exactly see how—well, but George was a boy, and this is a man’s leg.”
260 “I know, but I am drawing all the figures on a heroic scale.”
“Ah!” said the Major. Then he added, “But I must bid you good morning.”
“I shall be very glad to have you come to see me,” said Pandora.
“I assure you it will give me much pleasure to do so,” answered the Major, with a feeling of exultation.
Then he bowed politely, and withdrew.
When Pandora reached home, she showed Major Dunwoody’s card to her mother, and told her of the adventure at the Museum.
Mrs. M’Duffy sat upon the sofa and listened. She was a woman of distinguished appearance; of large frame, not corpulent, but rounded rather m............