“Yes, ma’am; and if I could just slip my arm into my coat-sleeve long enough to have my picture taken, she’d see it was better, and it would set her mind at rest more than all the letters I could write.”
So to satisfy this mother’s heart, the poor wounded shoulder had been forced into its sleeve, giving him, as it did, several weeks of added suffering and confinement to his bed. Can any one wonder that such a man should have won his way to our hearts;—or at our regret, when we found he was to be transferred to another hospital, at some distance from the city? We thus lost sight of him for many months. Several times when I asked after him, at our own hospital, I was told that he had been there but a short time since; sometimes the week before; sometimes only the day before; but it so happened that we never met. His wound, they told me, was far from well, varying very much; some days giving hope that it would heal, and then bursting out again. I had received many and urgent letters from his mother, before he left us, begging me to use all the influence I could bring to bear, to have him transferred to a hospital near his home; (this was, of course, before the present order on that subject had been given) but on applying to the surgeon, I found that he considered his wound far too serious to attempt the journey, and that Robinson so fully agreed with him, that I wrote the poor disappointed mother to that effect, trying to console her with the hope of restoring him to her, ere very long, perfectly cured. The winter slipped away; the pressure of present hospital duties and interests had almost crowded out all thoughts of Robinson, when I am surprised, one sunny April afternoon, to receive a note from one of our lady visitors, telling me of Robinson’s extreme illness, and that it is scarcely supposed he can recover.
An hour later finds M. and myself driving rapidly out to the hospital where he now is; and here we are at the gates; how shall we enter! Ah! we do not now fear a guard with a bayonet, as we should have done some time since; and fifteen minutes more suffices for all the necessary “red tape” connected with admittance, and we are at the door of Robinson’s ward, listening to the wardmaster’s answer to our question:
“Yes, ladies, walk in; but he won’t know you; he’s too low, and he’s flighty all the time.”
“Won’t know us!” Robinson not know us! We cannot believe that; but see! he is leading the way; and we follow to a bed where lies a man tossing restlessly, and talking, or rather muttering to himself in an indistinct tone; his bandaged shoulder and arm resting on a pillow, for an operation has been performed—a large piece of bone extracted—and the result still doubtful. Doubtful? No; too certain; that face is enough. Poor mother in your western home, you can never look upon your boy, till you meet at the final Bar, in the presence of your Judge! God in his mercy grant that it may be to spend a happy eternity together!
And yet, as we stand, we find ourselves almost doubting whether this can really be our merry, laughing, whistling Robinson. Little hope, indeed, that he will recognize us, but let us try.
“Robinson, do you know me?” He starts, and in a moment the vacant gaze changes into one of his old bright smiles of recognition.
“Know you! Why shouldn’t I know you? How long it is, Miss ——, since I have seen you,—and you too,” added he, stretching out his hand to M.; but even as he spoke, his expression changed, and his mind wandered again.
And this was the end of all our care—this the result of so many weary months of suffering. He seemed pleased at our coming, and would answer any direct question, but could not sustain a conversation of even a few moments. We found our old friend, “handsome Harry,” of concert memory, who had been transferred at the same time, established here as Robinson’s devoted nurse, although entirely unable to move without crutches. He told us that the surgeon had told him that morning, that if his family wished to see him, he had better telegraph for them at once. Robinson heard us, and catching the word “telegraph,” said quickly, “Don’t telegraph; father’s poor, and he might come on; I’ll be better soon, and get a furlough, and go out to them.”
“But, Robinson,” said I, “you are very ill; perhaps you may not be better, and you would like to see your father.”