The Better Angels of Our Nature by S. C. Gylanders Read Free Book Online Page A

will ask yourself how you ever managed without me.”
    “If you are not the most audacious—I don’t
need
anyone to black my boots or fetch my coffee. I am surrounded by orderlies enough to sink the
Merrimack,
and if I was so inclined I could have more nigger servants than the biggest chief in all Africa.”
    “None would be more loyal and dedicated than I, sir, I swear it.”
    “I told you last night, do your duty in battle. That will be sufficient loyalty and dedication for any commander. Now get out of here. I have more letters to write.”
    “You always have letters to write. You write too much by the dim light of the candle and smoke too many cigars. That is the reason for your headaches, sir.”
    “Why, you are outrageous—how dare you talk to me in such intimate terms? Damn your impudence—if I did not truly believe you were slow-witted, I would have you arrested. Now get out of here and stop pestering me. What are you doing now?”
    “You advised me to find somewhere warm to sleep, sir. In a corner of your tent is very warm.”
    The commander’s red-bearded jaw fell open.
    “If you need anything in the night, a light for your cigar, or a drink from your canteen, I would fetch it immediately.”
    Sherman jammed the cigar into the corner of his mouth. Then with both hands free, he grabbed hold of the young soldier by the collar of his coat and the seat of his pants and propelled him toward the exit, that hoarse voice issuing a dire warning as he did so. “If I find you hiding in here again, soldier, I’ll have you put in front of a firing squad. Do you understand?”
    “Sir—” The boy struggled as he was evicted from the tent. “I could not help but notice, you have so many books. Would you loan me one that I might improve my slow wits and make myself more worthy to serve you?”

3
    Dare to do our duty

    That was the first sound in the song of love!
Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound.
Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings
Of that mysterious instrument, the soul,
And play the prelude of our fate. We hear
The voice prophetic, and are not alone.
    —H ENRY W ADSWORTH L ONGFELLOW,
The Spanish Student,
act 1, scene 3
    As the day declined into afternoon, and the air, which had been at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry’s thoughts seemed to cloud too. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire…
             
    “What’s a coffee room, Jess?” the soldier asked with a frown.
    The boy laid down the book he had been reading to a small group of patients well enough to leave their cots and said, “I imagine it’s a special room where wealthy men like Mr. Lorry can drink their coffee and warm themselves at the fire.”
    “I reckon yer can have a room to do almost everythin’ if’in yer rich,” said a young sergeant with his arm in a sling.
    “I reckon,” agreed Jesse, only half-listening.
    Across the ward, Dr. Cartwright and Dr. Fitzjohn were engaged in yet another heated argument. “Take a look at the boy’s leg,” the younger man was saying as they stood beside a cot. The sheet was pulled back to reveal a large ulcer, slightly purulent at the base, but clearly showing pink healthy tissue around the edges.
    “I have already looked, three times, Doctor.” Fitzjohn spoke quietly, in a grave monotone, like a man in a funeral parlor stiffly comforting the bereaved. “The leg is gangrenous, sir.”
    “No, no, no.” Cartwright made a sweeping motion with his hand. “That’s just it, you looked
last week,
last week you might have seen
a hint
of gangrene, but not now, now the wound is healing. In a couple of weeks this soldier will be walking around as good as you or me, maybe better,” he added with his twisted smile. “Take a look now, not for my sake, to hell with what you think of me, but for the boy, will you do that, Fitzjohn?”
    “Dr. Cartwright, I would appreciate it,