Shortly after Jot’s desertion I went to visit my wounded friend, Chaplain John, who was slowly recovering from his wound. The surgeon who had him in charge explained to me that it was a complicated case. A bullet had perforated his lung and,—but could not follow his diagnosis. (Why can’t a doctor speak plain English?) But what he really meant, I inferred, was, that after a time he would recover if—
The chaplain greeted me heartily. He was cheerful though weak and, as he said, tired out with lying in bed.
I purposely avoided mentioning Lieutenant Nickerson, for I could not bear to discuss his desertion, since I could not explain it to his advantage, and with the facts all against him. My friend himself introduced the subject.
“I am sorry about Nickerson. I know you must feel blue over it, Stark; I do myself.”
“Thanks,” I said, “for thinking of us, when you have so much to bear yourself.”
“Oh,” he said, “this is mere physical pain, isn’t it, after all, the least of pains we have to bear? Mental distress—soul pangs—are the hardest, it seems to me.”
“I don’t know about that,” I replied. “Have you ever had the jumping toothache, or been seasick?”
“Yes,” he replied, laughing heartily, “and they were tough nuts to crack;” and then soberly added, “but, after all, they are not to be compared with mental anguish; for one knows that when they are conquered that will be all of it. Now you are sad hearted and see no way out of it; and there is but one way, and that is by asking help from Heaven. That is never denied us, however great our distress.”
Every word was balm to me, and seemed to bring a benediction. It was as though his courage and spiritual confidence had entered my soul to heal and purify.
Then we had a comforting talk. The mere words were nothing in themselves, it was the spirit of the man. It was such a communion of thought and feeling as I had never had with any one before, except my dear mother—and it seemed at times as though she was present with us.