After a pause he said, “I think it’s hardly worth your time. I shall not recover, but perhaps I could eat some barley broth if it is possible to get it.”
Always strong on the optimistic side, I answered, “I think we can find some, Captain.”
But where? Perhaps not nearer than Washington and forty or more hours away. Here was possibly a life to save. Beginning at the Sanitary Commission, at the head of the agency row, I went to each State agency in a faint hope of at least securing some substitute, but nothing could I find. Barley was such a simple thing; and now might save a life! I racked my brain to find some palatable substitute. As a last hope I went to the Christian Commission with my anxious inquiry, “Can’t you remember if on your list of supplies some thoughtful man or woman has sent this now invaluable donation?”
Mr. Houghten said, “I seem to remember that about six months ago there was sent a little package marked barley, but how can we find it in this great store of supplies?”
“Oh,” I exclaimed, “put on all your men to hunt for it; it may save a life worth saving.”
To my delight, after a long search, a package of about four by three inches was discovered. Losing no time, I ran to my tent and started a few spoonfuls boiling. The surgeon had said not even salt could be allowed the patient, lest it should increase circulation and thus break open the artery scarcely healed.
At last with my special attractive little array of silver cup, dainty doiley, etc., I went to the poor captain. His refined face at once showed his appreciation of the neat service.
“Here’s your barley, Captain,” I said cheeringly; “let me feed you a few spoonfuls now, and I’ll come back and give you a little more bye and bye. And, Captain, I shall leave it all here on this little table; don’t let any one carry it off.”
The poor, feeble cripple, who had not been allowed to change his position for many days, said—“They’d better not touch it!” and he fixed his great blue eyes on the tray with an air of defiance, pathetic to see. So his mind had something to guard, and this somewhat diverted his attention from the dying and suffering men about him. Next day the surgeon allowed a little salt, then a little butter, and at last a little meat. By this time his digestion would allow stronger food, and this was fortunate, for, though I had guarded every grain of the precious little package, it was almost exhausted.
I have often pictured to myself a kindly, country old lady in white cap and kerchief, whose prescience in sending this precious barley probably saved a life, and I wished that she could know it.