“How could you be enlisted? How old are you?”
“I’m fifteen. I lied, and swore I was eighteen, and my parents wouldn’t let me go, so I ran away, an’—an’ I guess, I’ll never see mother any more.”
The soldier nurse said he was a typhoid case, with a chance of living, if he could have good care, but that he would not be persuaded to eat. I returned to him at once, saying, “Willie, I hear that you don’t eat anything.”
“I can’t eat.”
“O, but you must. Now, Willie, can’t you think of something you’d like?”
“Well,” with a suppressed sob, “if I could get anything like mother used to make, perhaps I could.”
“Now tell me, Willie, what it was, what did it look like, and how did it taste?”
The sick boy’s description was not very clear, but I said cheerfully, “O, I can make that,” and ran off to my tent and soon prepared something which, with a silver cup, spoon, and a tidy serviette, at least looked inviting in contrast with the battered tin cups and plates of camp life. He showed some interest as I said, “Here, Willie, is just what mother used to make.” And he took a few spoonfuls quite cheerfully as I fed him. I asked if it did not taste something like mother made. He thought it did.
Feeling sure that only the greatest care would save him, I went at once to Surgeon Porter, saying, “Doctor, I’d like to have that boy, Willie, for an orderly.”
“What, another?” he replied, laughing. “You have more orderlies now than General Grant himself.”