Wesley Bradshaw - Angel Agnes
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Wesley Bradshaw >> Angel Agnes
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ANGEL AGNES:
Or, the Heroine of the Yellow Fever Plague in Shreveport.
The Strangely Romantic History and Sad Death
of
Miss Agnes Arnold,
the Adopted Daughter of the Late Samuel Arnold, of This City.
Wealthy, Lovely, and Engaged to Be Married, Yet
This Devoted Girl Volunteered to Go and
Nurse Yellow Fever Patients at
Shreveport, Louisiana.
After Three Weeks of Incessant Labor She Met with a
Painful and Fatal Accident.
_She Died in the Hope of a Blessed Immortality_.
Her Intended Husband, Who Had Followed Her to
Shreveport, Had Already Died, and the Two
Were Buried Side by Side.
Terrible Scenes during the Plague.
by
WESLEY BRADSHAW.
Issued by
Old Franklin Publishing House in Philadelphia, Pa.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
C. W. Alexander, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at
Washington, D.C.
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* * * * * *
ANGEL AGNES.
May God protect you, reader of this book, from all manner of sickness;
but above all, from that thrice dreaded pestilence, yellow fever. Of
all the scourge ever sent upon poor sinful man, none equals in horror
and loathsomeness yellow fever. Strong fathers and husbands, sons and
brothers, who would face the grape-shot battery in battle, have fled
dismayed from the approach of yellow fever. They have even deserted
those most dear to them. Courageous, enduring women, too, who feared
hardly any other form of sickness, have been terrified into cowardice
and flight when yellow fever announced its awful presence.
Such was the state of affairs when, a short time ago, the startling
announcement was made that yellow fever had broken out in Shreveport,
Louisiana, and that it was of the most malignant type. At once
everybody who could do so left the stricken city for safer localities,
and, with equal promptitude, other cities and towns quarantined
themselves against Shreveport, for fear of the spread of the frightful
contagion to their own homes and firesides.
Daily the telegraph flashed to all parts of the land the condition of
Shreveport, until the operators themselves were cut down by the
disease and carried to the graveyard. Volunteers were then called for
from among operators in the places, and several of these, who came in
response to the call, though acclimated, and fanciedly safe, took it
and died. Then it was that terror really began to take hold of the
people in earnest. A man was alive and well in the morning, and at
night he was a horrible corpse. The fond mother who thanked heaven, as
she put her children to bed, that she had no signs of the malady, and
would be able to nurse them if they got sick, left those little ones
orphans before another bedtime came around. In some cases even, the
fell destroyer within forty-eight hours struck down whole families,
leaving neither husband, mother nor orphans to mourn each other, but
sweeping them all into eternity on one wave as it were.
Then it was that a great wail of mortal distress rose from
Shreveport--a call for help from one end of the land to another.
Business came to a stand-still, the ordinary avocations of life were
suspended. No work! no money! no bread! Nothing but sickness! nothing
but horror! nothing but despair! nothing but death! Alas! was there no
help in this supreme moment? There was plenty of money forthcoming,
but no nurses. Philanthropic men and women in near and also distant
States, sent their dollars even by telegraph. But who would go thither
and peril his or her life for the good of the city in sackcloth and
ashes?
Praised be the name of that God who gave them their brave hearts,
there were some who nobly volunteered for the deadly but loving task.
To go was almost certain death to themselves--yet did they go. And
most brave, most distinguished, most lovely among those devoted few,
was Agnes Arnold, the subject of this little memoir.
We have on our title page called her "Angel Agnes." That was what many
a burning lip named her in the unfortunate city of Shreveport, as with
her low, kind, tender voice, she spoke words of pious comfort to the
passing soul, and whispered religious consolation in the fast
deafening ears of the dying. Many had called her Angel, because their
dimming eyes had not beheld a friend's face since they took sick, till
they saw hers. Let us not fill space, though, with encomiums, but let
this noble Christian creature's deeds be recorded to speak for
themselves. So shall you, reader, do justice to the lovely martyr,
whose form, together with that of her intended husband, sleeps in the
eternal slumber far away in Louisiana.
AGNES VOLUNTEERS.
One day Mrs. Arnold, widow of the late well-known Samuel Arnold of
this city, sat in the library of their elegant mansion up town,
leading the daily papers.
It was shortly after breakfast, and presently Agnes, her adopted
daughter, entered the room. The Arnolds had never had any children,
save one, a girl, and she had died when she was three years old. While
going to the funeral, Mrs. Arnold saw a poorly clad lady walking
slowly along with a little girl so strikingly like her own dead child,
that she was perfectly astonished,--so much so, indeed, that she
called her husband's attention to the little one. Mr. Arnold himself
was so surprised that he had the carriage stop, and, getting out, went
and inquired the lady's name and address.
"For, madame," said he, as a reason for his doing such an apparently
strange act, "your little daughter here is a perfect likeness of our
own little Agnes, whose coffin you see in yonder hearse. You must
allow Mrs. Arnold and me to call upon you, though we are perfect
strangers to you; indeed you must."
"Very well, sir," answered the strange lady, "I shall not, certainly
under the circumstances, object."
Immediately after the funeral the Arnolds called at the residence of
Mrs. Morton, whose husband had died more than a year before. She was
obliged to take in plain sewing, and when she could do so, she gave
occasional lessons in French to eke out a livelihood for herself and
child. A very short interview resulted in Mrs. Arnold persuading the
widow to take a permanent situation with her, as her seamstress. And
from that date until her death, which took place five years later, the
fortunate widow and her child lived with the Arnolds as full members
of the family.
With an exquisite and grateful regard for the sensibilities and
possible wishes of her benefactors, the mother of the child
voluntarily changed its name from Mary to Agnes.
"I know you will approve of my doing so," said she, on the occasion of
her daughter's birthday--the Arnolds made quite a time of it, decking
the new Agnes in all the trinkets which had once belonged to the
little Agnes, who was gone--"I know you will approve of my doing so,
and I cannot think of any better way in which to express my gratitude
to you both."
Mr. and Mrs. Arnold were moved to tears by these words; in fact, so
deep and genuine was their emotion that neither one spoke for some
time. They did nothing but fondle and kiss the child they had adopted.
Thenceforward, instead of Mary Morton, the child was Agnes Arnold.
Years went by, and on the day we first introduced her she was
twenty-two years old. Her own mother and Mr. Arnold had passed away
and were laid away to sleep in the dust close by the little Agnes of
old. But like the ivy and the flowers which grew over all their
graves, each advancing year made stouter and stronger the invisible
ivy that bound Agnes' heart and Mrs. Arnold's heart together, and the
same advancing year rendered sweeter and sweeter the fragrance of
those unseen yet ever-present buds and blossoms, that created a
perpetual summer in their minds and affections.
"Mother," said Agnes as she entered the library and drew up a chair
close to Mrs. Arnold's, "I wish to ask your advice about the affair
between George and me. Do you think I ought to take any more notice of
him or Sophia?"
"Well, I scarcely can speak to you advisedly, Agnes, on such a
matter," said Mrs. Arnold. "You are aware that my first and last
thoughts are for your happiness. But, from what I know of the
circumstances, I do not see that you can make any move either one way
or another without sacrificing your feelings unjustly."
"I have kept back nothing from you, mother," replied Agnes; "you know
all, just as well as I do myself."
"Then I think you did perfectly right, Agnes, darling. Your course has
my emphatic approval. I can appreciate perfectly that it must cause
you to feel wretchedly for some time; but the self-satisfaction it
must eventually bring you, will gradually but surely overcome the
first disappointment and regret, just as the ever-shining sun pierces
and dissipates the heaviest storm cloud."
"Well, mother, I will await the turn of events, and whichever way,
whether for weal or for woe, I shall abide it. But should I lose
George through this, I shall never risk a second such mental agony
with any one else."
"Ah," smiled Mrs. Arnold, kissing Agnes, gayly, "young hearts like
yours are not so brittle as to be easily shattered. Better fish in the
sea, et cetera. You know the old adage--but there's the postman, dear;
you run and get the letters he has."
Agnes did as her mother requested her, and in a few moments more
re-entered the room with four letters in one hand, and one letter in
the other. The single missive was directed to herself, in a
chirography which she well knew. Giving the four to her mother, she
sat down and opened her own. It was couched in cold, formal words,
instead of gushing sentences as usual, and to say that it chilled and
crushed her is to say only the truth. When her mother had finished
her's, Agnes handed this letter to her with the quietly spoken remark:
"That severs George and me forever in this world, mother. With a keen
sword he has cut me off from him, like the gardener ruthlessly cuts
the vine from the oak."
As she spoke, Agnes drew from her bosom a gold locket, and, springing
it open, she gazed for a moment upon a handsome manly face which it
contained. That was George's likeness.
"Till eternity George, till eternity--"
She did not finish the sentence in words; but the fond, artless,
fervent kiss she imprinted upon the picture was such a one as is given
to the dead lips of one we love, and are about to part with forever.
She snapped the lid shut again, replaced the closed trinket in her
bosom, and said:
"Mother, all is over. I shall never open it again. But in case I die
before you, I wish you to have this buried with me."
Mrs. Arnold tried to rally Agnes about this, her first disappointment
of the heart, and had the satisfaction of presently seeing her quite
merry. Suddenly Agnes, as she glanced over the newspaper, exclaimed:
"Mother, what a dreadful thing that yellow fever is! Did you read
this? Whole families are being swept out of existence, and have no one
to help or nurse them. It's frightful, and yet we boast of our
Christianity. It's a sin and a shame!"
She continued to read the fearful despatches that had first attracted
her attention, while her mother remained silent.
"Mother," she resumed, when she had finished, "I am going down to
Shreveport."
"What do you mean, Agnes?" exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, glancing anxiously
at her daughter.
"I am going down to Shreveport, to help to nurse those poor perishing
people."
"Agnes!"
"Yes, dear mother. I believe it to be my duty to go and do what little
I can toward alleviating the distress of those stricken sufferers."
"Why, Agnes, dear, you would surely perish yourself."
"O no, mother, you forget how I waited on papa and you when you both
had the fever down in New Orleans."
This was true. Several years before, while the Arnolds had been making
a pleasure tour in the Southern States, they had been seized with the
disorder, and but for the unflagging, heroic devotion of Agnes, they
would most likely have perished.
"No, darling, I could never forget that were I to live a hundred
years. It is because I do remember the horror of that time that I
would not wish you to expose yourself to such another. Besides, what
would I do without you?"
"That is the only subject that gives me any pain, mother; but then God
would take care of you as well as of me, would he not?"
"Yes."
"I know it, mother. You have always taught me that, and I firmly
believe it. God, who sees and notes the fall of even a sparrow, will
not let me fall, except it be His gracious will. No, mother, I feel
that I must go, and you must consent and give me your best blessing.
It is strange that we see no account of ministers or members of any
denomination but the Roman Church volunteering to go to the stricken
city. All seem to stand aloof but them. How noble are those truly
Christian and devoted women, the Sisters of Mercy! And shall I be idle
and listless when I might be saving life, or at least trying to do so.
O, mother dear, I must go. I will come back safely to you. You must
give me your consent."
Mrs. Arnold was herself a truly brave and Christian lady, and a firm
believer in the care that God exercises over all who serve Him. And
therefore, after a short consideration, she gave the required consent
to her daughter Agnes, to go to Shreveport as a nurse.
During the late war, fond fathers sent their sons to the battle-field,
not that they wished to have them slaughtered, but willing that, for
the sake of their cause, they should take the risk.
So now, with much the same motive, Mrs. Arnold gave Agnes her
approbation to go and perform her Christian duty to the sufferers at
Shreveport.
Yet when the parting really came, it seemed as though Mrs. Arnold
could never unclasp her arms from about the form of her daughter.
"God will bring me safely back to you, dear mother," urged Agnes,
gently untwining those loving arms; "Good-by."
"Good-by, darling, good-by."
It was over--the parting was over--Agnes was gone. Mrs. Arnold was
alone--for evermore in this life. Not until the sea and earth give up
their dead--not until the Book of Life might be opened and mankind
summoned before the White Throne on high, were these two destined to
look into each other's face again. Mrs. Arnold could not foresee the
solemn significance of her words as, for the last time, she murmured:
"Agnes, my darling, my angel, good-by!"
IN THE MIDST OF DEATH.
In due course of time Agnes approached Shreveport. While in the cars
she had formed the acquaintance of three Sisters of Mercy, who were
bound upon a similar errand of kindness and peril to her own.
At first, upon learning whither she was going, and what her object
was, these pious ladies were thoroughly astonished; but when they
found by interrogation that she was really in earnest, their friendly
admiration became equal to their previous astonishment.
"Your services will be most welcome, Miss Arnold, I assure you," said
the eldest of the Sisters. "This is the third time I have been
summoned to nurse in yellow fever, and I know that there are never
one-half the number of nurses necessary."
A little short of the stricken city they were all stopped, and it
required the positive statement of the Sisters of Mercy that their
youthful, lovely companion was really going into the place for the
purpose of nursing the sick.
"Miss," asked an elderly gentleman, "were you ever acclimated here?
Because if you were not, we cannot let you pass, for you would only
get the fever yourself, and become a care instead of a help to us. Not
only that, but you would surely be a corpse inside of twenty-four
hours."
Agnes explained to the firm but kind gentleman, her New Orleans
experience, and he relaxed and said:
"In that case, Miss Arnold, I sincerely welcome you, and in the name
of the sick and dying people here, pray God that you may be spared to
help them. Pass through, and heaven bless your brave and noble heart!"
Reader, if you are a man, possibly you have been in the army, and then
possibly you have been in a column, to which has been assigned the
task of storming a well-served battery of pieces. If so, you may
remember the feelings that were within your heart as you left the last
friendly cover of woods, and double-quicked across the open space up
hill, and saw the artillery-men waiting till you got close up before
pulling the primer lanyards, so as to make sure work of you all.
To Agnes Arnold going into Shreveport, the emotions must have been
very much like yours in front of that battery. Yet there was no
fluttering of her pulse.
"Where shall I go first?" asked this splendid heroine of the gentleman
in charge of the district in which she chanced to find herself.
"Not far; right across the street there into that grocery store at the
corner. We haven't been able to send any one there. Just been able to
look in now and then and give them all their doses. Please give me
your name, and don't leave there till I come, and I'll look after your
baggage."
"My name, sir, is Agnes Arnold. I have no baggage except this one
small trunk, and I would rather you let this young man bring it along
directly with me."
"Very well, take it, Ned, and follow Miss Arnold, and see you don't
ask anything for the job."
"Yes, sir," replied the negro porter, and shouldering the trunk he
strode on hastily after Agnes. He would not go further into the house,
however, than the little room immediately in the rear of the store.
"Surely you are not afraid, you who live here!" exclaimed Agnes.
"De Lor' bless your soul, missus. Youse couldn't haul dis yer niggah
furder inter dis yallah house with an army muel team. Don't yer smell
dat 'culiah scent. O, Lor', good-by missus. Dat's de rele Jack, suah!"
And without waiting for any further argument or remark upon the
subject, the terrified fellow clapped his hand over his mouth and
nose, and actually bounded out into the street to where some men were
burning tar and pitch as a disinfectant. Nor did he seem to consider
himself safe until he had nearly choked himself by thrusting his head
into the dense black Fumes.
Agnes would have laughed at the silly man, but at this moment such
violent and agonized groaning fell upon her ears, that she started and
trembled. But it was only for a moment.
In an instant more she had thrown off her travelling costume and hat
and bounded up stairs.
There such a sight met her gaze as would have chilled, the stoutest
heart. In a narrow rear chamber were four living people and two
corpses. The two dead ones were the father, a man of about forty, and
a little girl of six years, his youngest child. The four living people
were the mother, thirty years old, a little girl, and two boys, of the
respective ages of nine, fourteen, and sixteen.
"Don't take us away to the cemetery yet! for God's sake, don't!"
groaned the woman in agony. "We're not dead yet. It won't be long. But
it won't be long. Leave us be a while, and then you can bury us all in
one grave. For God's sake! please!"
"My dear woman, I've come to try and save your lives, not to bury
you," replied Agnes in a low, kindly voice, patting the sick woman's
forehead.
"They take plenty of them away and stick them in the ground while they
are alive yet. Heaven help us, for we can't help ourselves."
These words were not spoken consecutively, but in fits and starts
between paroxysms of dreadful physical suffering. Her racked mind and
body prevented the mother from quickly comprehending Agnes. And it was
not until the latter had talked to her soothingly and cheerfully for
several minutes, that she began to perceive the real state of affairs.
And then the re-action from the depths of despair was like the
infusion of new life and strength to the sick woman. She cried and
sobbed as though her heart would break for several minutes, which
excitement ended in a spasm.
Most women would have been terrified at such a scene as was at this
moment presented to Miss Arnold. But she was not a mere fancy
nurse. Far from it. Up went her sleeves, and for the next two hours
she worked with her four patients like a Trojan, first with the
mother, and next with the children. Her next care was to separate the
living from the dead. The child she wrapped up in a small sheet quite
neatly, and for the father she performed the same sad task, using a
coverlet, so that when about three o'clock the dead wagon came around
with the coffins, both bodies were decently prepared for interment.
"'Bout what time d'ye think I better git back fur t'others, nurse?"
inquired the driver of the wagon, consulting a small pass-book that he
carried in his side coat pocket.
Agnes was horrified to hear such a brutal question propounded to her
in the coolest and most business-like manner.
"What do you mean?" asked she, indignantly.
"Mean jist wot I says! No time to fool round, nuther," was the
answer. "This is the Burton fam'ly, aint it?" he asked, giving his
book another glance, and then pitching his eye quickly up around the
store, as though looking for a sign with which to compare the note
book.
"Yes, Burton," answered Agnes.
"All right, then! They wuz tuk yisterday at noon. There's a man, a
woman, four children!" [He tapped the tip of each finger of his left
hand once with the back of the book, and the thumb twice, looking
Agnes very convincingly in the face all the while, as though to make
her thoroughly understand, without putting him to the bother of a
second statement.] "Six--they wuz tuk at noon yisterday. Two dead this
mornin'. Four more oughten be dead by--let's see--why, time's up now!
t'houten be dead now! By--how's that? You aint foolin', hey? Big
fine fur foolin' the wagon man, you know. Now say, if any on 'em's
near gone it'll do, you know. Save me bother, an' you too, don't you
see? Ef they're near gone, 'nuff not ter kick nor holler wen we puts
'em in, it'll do, 'cause then they can't git better, you know, an'
they're outen their misery sooner."
The insinuating leer with which the wretch ended this speech caused
Miss Arnold's blood to run cold.
"You brute! you fiend! ghoul! or whatever kind of demon you call
yourself, begone! in the name of Heaven, begone!" exclaimed the heroic
girl, her eyes flashing fire, and her whole frame trembling with
disgust and horror.
Her demeanor cowed the fellow, and he actually cringed as he backed
out at the door. But on the sidewalk he seemed to recover his
coolness, or at least he assumed to, for stepping in again, he
exclaimed:
"Mind, I'll be round in the mornin', and I don't want no gum games!
I've got too much to do on my hands now."
Agnes paid no heed to him at all, but hastening back to her patients,
she recommenced her nursing care of them.
There was no fire, and in fact none was needed, except for cooking and
preparing the one or two simple remedies which Agnes used in
connection with the treatment of the sick victims, and which she felt
assured would not interfere with the medicine they were taking.
In truth, during the whole epidemic, it seemed as though mere medicine
was of no avail whatever, and that really the methods and means used
by the natives, independent of the doctors, did all the good that was
done.
First, she got out of the store some mackerel and bound them, just as
they came out of the barrel, brine and all, to the soles of the feet
of both the mother and children.