“ILLEGANT PAIR OF HANDS”
[Phoebe Y. Pember.]
A large number of the surgeons were absent, and the few left would not be able to attend to all the wounds at that late hour of the night. I proposed in reply that the convalescent men should be placed on the floor on blankets or bed-sacks filled with straw, and the wounded take their place, and, purposely construing his silence into consent, gave the necessary orders, eagerly offering my services to dress simple wounds, and extolling the strength of my nerves. He let me have my way (may his ways be of pleasantness and his paths of peace), and so, giving Miss G. orders to make an unlimited supply of coffee, tea, and stimulants, armed with lint, bandages, castile soap, and a basin of warm water, I made my first essay in the surgical line. I had been spectator often enough to be skilful. The first object that needed my care was an Irishman. He was seated upon a bed with his hands crossed, wounded in both arms by the same 122 bullet. The blood was soon washed away, wet lint applied, and no bones being broken, the bandages easily arranged.
“I hope that I have not hurt you much,” I said with some trepidation. “These are the first wounds that I have ever dressed.”
“Sure, they be the most illegant pair of hands that ever touched me, and the lightest,” he gallantly answered. “And I am all right now.”