“YOU WAIT”
[Phoebe Y. Pember, in Hospital Life.]
Pleasant episodes often occurred to vary disappointments and lighten duties of hospital life.
“Kin you writ a letter?” drawled a whining voice from a bed in one of the wards, a cold day in ’62.
The speaker was an up-country Georgian, one of the kind called “Goobers” by the soldiers generally—lean, 94 yellow, attenuated, with wispy strands of hair hanging over his high, thin cheek-bones. He put out a hand to detain me and the nails were like claws.
“Why do you not let the nurse cut your nails?”
“Because I aren’t got any spoon, and I use them instead.”
“Will you let me have your hair cut then? You can’t get well with all that dirty hair hanging about your eyes and ears.”
“No, I can’t git my hair cut, kase as how I promised my mammy that I would let it grow till the war be over. Oh, it’s unlucky to cut it.”
“Then I can’t write any letter for you. Do what I wish you to do, and then I will oblige you.”
This was plain talking. The hair was cut (I left the nails for another day), my portfolio brought, and sitting by the side of his bed I waited for further orders. They came with a formal introduction,—“for Mrs. Marthy Brown.”
“My dear mammy:
“I hope this finds you well, as it leaves me well, and I hope that I shall git a furlough Christmas, and come and see you, and I hope you will keep well, and all the folks be well by that time, as I hopes to be well myself. This leaves me in good health, as I hope it will find you and—”
But here I paused as his mind seemed to be going round in a circle, and asked him a few questions about his home, his position during the last summer’s campaign, how he got sick, and where his brigade was at that time. Thus furnished with some material to work upon, the letter proceeded rapidly. Four sides were conscientiously filled, for no soldier would think a letter worth sending home that showed any blank paper. Transcribing his name, the number of his ward and proper address, so that an answer might reach him—the composition was read to him. Gradually his pale face brightened, a sitting posture was assumed with difficulty (for, in spite of his determined effort to write a letter “to be well,” he was far from convalescence). As I folded and directed it, contributed the expected five-cent stamp, and handed it to 95 him, he gazed cautiously around to be sure there were no listeners.
“Did you writ all that?” he asked, whispering, but with great emphasis.
“Yes.”
“Did I say all that?”
“I think you did.”
A long pause of undoubted admiration—astonishment—ensued. What was working in that poor mind? Could it be that Psyche had stirred one of the delicate plumes of her wing and touched that dormant soul?
“Are you married?” The harsh voice dropped very low.
“I am not. At least, I am a widow.”
He rose still higher in bed. He pushed away desperately the tangled hay on his brow. A faint color fluttered over the hollow cheek, and stretching out a long piece of bone with a talon attached, he gently touched my arm and with constrained voice whispered mysteriously:
“You wait!”