I NEVER expected to see Joe again; but, six months later, we did meet in
a Washington hospital one winter’s night. A train of ambulances had left
their sad freight at our door, and we were hurrying to get the poor
fellows into much-needed beds, after a week of hunger, cold, and
unavoidable neglect. All forms of pain were in my ward that night, and
all borne with the pathetic patience which was a daily marvel to those
who saw it.
Trying to bring order out of chaos, I was rushing up and down the narrow
aisle between the rows of rapidly filling beds, and, after brushing
several times against a pair of the largest and muddiest boots I ever
saw, I paused at last to inquire why they were impeding the passage-way.
I found they belonged to a very tall man who seemed to be already asleep
or dead, so white and still and utterly worn out he looked as he lay
there, without a coat, a great patch on his forehead, and the right arm
rudely bundled up. Stooping to cover him, I saw that he was unconscious,
and, whipping out my brandy-bottle and salts, soon brought him round,
for it was only exhaustion.
“Can you eat?” I asked, as he said, “Thanky, ma’am,” after a long
draught of water and a dizzy stare.
“Eat! I’m starvin’!” he answered, with such a ravenous glance at a fat
nurse who happened to be passing, that I trembled for her, and hastened
to take a bowl of soup from her tray.
As I fed him, his gaunt, weather-beaten face had a familiar look; but so
many such faces had passed before me that winter, I did not recall this
one till the ward-master came to put up the cards with the new-comers’
names above their beds. My man seemed absorbed in his food; but I
naturally glanced at the card, and there was the name “Joseph Collins”
to give me an additional interest in my new patient.
“Why, Joe! is it really you?” I exclaimed, pouring the last spoonful of
soup down his throat so hastily that I choked him.
“All that’s left of me. Wal, ain’t this luck, now?” gasped Joe, as
gratefully as if that hospital-cot was a bed of roses.
“What is the matter? A wound in the head and arm?” I asked, feeling sure
that no slight affliction had brought Joe there.
“Right arm gone. Shot off as slick as a whistle. I tell you, it’s a
sing’lar kind of a feelin’ to see a piece of your own body go flyin’
away, with no prospect of ever coming back again,” said Joe, trying to
make light of one of the greatest misfortunes a man can suffer.
“That is bad, but it might have been worse. Keep up your spirits, Joe;
and we will soon have you fitted out with a new arm almost as good as
new.”
“I guess it won’t do much lumberin’, so that trade is done for. I s’pose
there’s things left-handed fellers can do, and I must learn ’em as soon
as possible, since my fightin’ days are over,” and Joe looked at his one
arm with a sigh that was almost a groan, helplessness is such a trial to
a manly man,—and he was eminently so.
“What can I do to comfort you most, Joe? I’ll send my good Ben to help
you to bed, and will be here myself when the surgeon goes his rounds. Is
there anything else that would make you more easy?”
“If you could just drop a line to mother to let her know I’m alive, it
would be a sight of comfort to both of us. I guess I’m in for a long
spell of hospital, and I’d lay easier if I knew mother and Lucindy
warn’t frettin’ about me.”
He must have been suffering terribly, but he thought of the women who
loved him before himself, and, busy as I was, I snatched a moment to
send a few words of hope to the old mother. Then I left him “layin’
easy,” though the prospect of some months of wearing pain would have
daunted most men. If I had needed anything to increase my regard for
Joe, it would have been the courage with which he bore a very bad
quarter of an hour with the surgeons; for his arm was in a dangerous
state, the wound in the head feverish for want of care; and a heavy cold
on the lungs suggested pneumonia as an added trial to his list of ills.
“He will have a hard time of it, but I think he will pull through, as he
is a temperate fellow, with a splendid constitution,” was the doctor’s
verdict, as he left us for the next man, who was past help, with a
bullet through his lungs.
“I don’no as I hanker to live, and be a burden. If Jim was able to do
for mother, I feel as if I wouldn’t mind steppin’ out now I’m so fur
along. As he ain’t, I s’pose I must brace up, and do the best I can,”
said Joe, as I wiped the drops from his forehead, and tried to look as
if his prospect was a bright one.
“You will have Lucindy to help you, you know; and that will make things
easier for all.”
“Think so? ’Pears to me I couldn’t ask her to take care of three
invalids for my sake. She ain’t no folks of her own, nor much means, and
ought to marry a man who can make things easy for her. Guess I’ll have
to wait a spell longer before I say anything to Lucindy about marryin’
now;” and a look of resolute resignation settled on Joe’s haggard face
as he gave up his dearest hope.
“I think Lucindy will have something to say, if she is like most women,
and you will find the burdens much lighter, for sharing them between
you. Don’t worry about that, but get well, and go home as soon as you
can.”
“All right, ma’am;” and Joe proved himself a good soldier by obeying
orders, and falling asleep like a tired child, as the first step toward
recovery.
For two months I saw Joe daily, and learned to like him very much, he
was so honest, genuine, and kind-hearted. So did his mates, for he made
friends with them all by sharing such small luxuries as came to him, for
he was a favorite; and, better still, he made sunshine in that sad place
by the brave patience with which he bore his own troubles, the cheerful
consolation he always gave to others. A droll fellow was Joe at times,
for under his sobriety lay much humor; and I soon discovered that a
visit from him was more efficacious than other cordials in cases of
despondency and discontent. Roars of laughter sometimes greeted me as I
went into his ward, and Joe’s jokes were passed round as eagerly as the
water-pitcher.
Yet he had much to try him, not only in the ills that vexed his flesh,
but the cares that tried his spirit, and the future that lay before him,
full of anxieties and responsibilities which seemed so heavy now when
the strong right arm, that had cleared all obstacles away before, was
gone. The letters I wrote for him, and those he received, told the
little story very plainly; for he read them to me, and found much
comfort in talking over his affairs, as most men do when illness makes
them dependent on a woman. Jim was evidently sick and selfish. Lucindy,
to judge from the photograph cherished so tenderly under Joe’s pillow,
was a pretty, weak sort of a girl, with little character or courage to
help poor Joe with his burdens. The old mother was very like her son,
and stood by him “like a hero,” as he said, but was evidently failing,
and begged him to come home as soon as he was able, that she might see
him comfortably settled before she must leave him. Her courage sustained
his, and the longing to see her hastened his departure as soon as it was
safe to let him go; for Lucindy’s letters were always of a dismal sort,
and made him anxious to put his shoulder to the wheel.
“She always set consider’ble by me, mother did, bein’ the oldest; and I
wouldn’t miss makin’ her last days happy, not if it cost me all the arms
and legs I’ve got,” said Joe, as he awkwardly struggled into the big
boots an hour after leave to go home was given him.
It was pleasant to see his comrades gather round him with such hearty
adieus that his one hand must have tingled; to hear the good wishes and
the thanks called after him by pale creatures in their beds; and to find
tears in many eyes beside my own when he was gone, and nothing was left
of him but the empty cot, the old gray wrapper, and the name upon the
wall.
I kept that card among my other relics, and hoped to meet Joe again
somewhere in the world. He sent me one or two letters, then I went home;
the war ended soon after, time passed, and the little story of my Maine
lumberman was laid away with many other experiences which made that part
of my life a very memorable one.
* * * * *