“Aw, come on, Dent—!” But Alcott said no more, for Dent Rocklin had put up some sort of fence around himself, even higher and more impregnable than the one he’d already built.
Raimey could sense the reluctance in Matron Agnes Huger and didn’t wonder at it. She had come prepared to force her way into the hospital and had started at the beginning of the interview by saying, “You won’t agree with what I want to do, Mrs. Huger, but I’m a very stubborn young woman. I want to come every day and help the men.” Raimey had developed an uncanny discernment and knew at that instant that the matron was searching for a way to refuse her. “My father is Samuel Reed, Mrs. Huger. He’s a very important man. In fact, he’s a personal friend of President Davis.”
Agnes Huger let a smile touch her lips. “So am I, Miss Reed.”
Raimey stopped, thought for a brief moment, then said simply, “Then I can’t threaten you with the president, can I?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Raimey said quietly, “Please, Mrs. Huger, let me do this thing. I want to help so much. I’ll do anything at all.”
The matron was touched by the gentleness of the girl. “We need help, of course, Miss Reed, but I don’t see how—”
“I thought of it before I came. The men must get lonely. Isn’t that so? Well, I can talk, Mrs. Huger—my father says I talk too much!—and don’t some of them need to write letters?”
“Can you do that, Miss Reed, write letters?”
“My maid Dulcie can! She’s an excellent writer, so she could take the letters down, and I could talk.” Raimey leaned forward and said, “There isn’t much I can do. Please let me do this.”
The matron made up her mind. “We’ll be glad to have you, Miss Reed. When would you like to begin?”
“Now! We’ve brought an absolutely huge basket of cakes and pies for the men.”
Her face glowed, and Matron Huger felt a pang of sorrow for the girl but said only, “They’ll love that. Now let me make out passes for yourself and your servant; then I’ll show you around.”
Thirty minutes later Matron Huger had led the two women into the ward and was saying, “Gentlemen, this is Miss Raimey Reed and her servant Dulcie. Miss Reed wasn’t certain that any of you liked cake, so you’ll have to let her know if you do.” She waited until the calls came from all over the room, then nodded. “If any of you need a letter written, Miss Reed’s maid will be happy to write it for you. Now behave yourselves.” She turned to Raimey a little uncertainly. “Would you like for me to take you around, Miss Reed?”
“Oh no,” Raimey said quickly. “Dulcie and I will do very well, Matron.” When the matron left, she said, “Tell me about the room, Dulcie.”
The maid began describing the room, knowing exactly how to present the details. “There’s five rows of beds with aisles between them—” She rattled off the details, then said, “Where you want to start?”
“At the first row of beds.” She followed Dulcie as she usually did, almost by instinct, and when the maid stopped, she said, “Hello, would you like some cake?”
“Yes, miss.” The soldier was smiling and added, “Sure is nice of you … to do this.”
The break in his words had come when he had discovered she was blind, Raimey knew, but she gave no sign. “How about chocolate?”
“It’s my favorite, ma’am,” the soldier said.
“Let me have the basket, Dulcie. You go find somebody who wants a letter written.”
Even as she spoke, a voice to her left said, “Right here, I reckon,” and Dulcie moved to his side, saying, “You just tell me who it’s to and what to write.”
The man began dictating a letter, and Raimey opened the lid of the basket, picking out the chocolate cake. Expertly she lifted the cover, then asked, “Is there a table here?”
“Yes, miss, right here by the bed.” The soldier watched, fascinated, as Raimey moved to the table, put the cake down, then sliced a piece off. As she handed it to the soldier, she asked him, “What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant Hankins. I’m from Arkansas.” Hankins took the cake and began to eat it. He found himself telling her about his farm—and his new bride—that he’d had to leave behind. He was lonesome and finally said, “I don’t know about goin’ home. I mean—well, when I left Irene I had two arms, and now I’ve only got one.”
At once Raimey knew he was worried about how his new wife would take his injury. “Your wife will be so glad to have you back.” She smiled, then began to encourage him. Finally she put her hand out, and he took it. “God bless you, Lieutenant. I’ll pray that you’ll soon be back on your farm with Irene.”
She moved to the next bed, saying, “Hello? Do you want pie or cake?” The soldier, a tall, thin young fellow with both feet heavily bandaged, said shyly, “Pie, please.” Soon Raimey had heard about his injury and knew his parents’ names and promised that Dulcie would write to them for him.
After the first awkwardness, Raimey found it easy. They’re all like hurt little boys, she thought as she moved down the line. Most of them were young and away from home for the first time, and though they would die before admitting it, they were afraid. There was an eagerness in the voices of most of them, and Raimey made slow progress. When she got to the last bed, Matron Huger approached and said, “Well, Miss Reed, you’ve made some of our men very happy. But you’re about out of cake, I see.”
“I’ll bring more tomorrow,” Raimey promised. She moved from the bed of the man in the last bunk, saying, “I’ll bring a copy of that book tomorrow. Maybe you’ll read some of it to me.”
“I’ll do that, Miss Reed,” the soldier replied, nodding, and the matron saw his eyes follow the blind girl as she moved away.
“You did fine. Tomorrow you’ll remember some of them, I’m sure.”
Raimey smiled. “Give me the number of one of the beds, Matron.”
“Why—number sixteen.”
“That’s Charlie Linkous. He’s from Winchester. He’s got a pretty serious wound in his thigh, but he’s not going to lose the leg.”
Matron Huger stopped dead still. “Can you name all the men like that, Miss Reed?”
“Yes. I have a very good memory.” She changed the subject suddenly. “Mrs. Huger, is Denton Rocklin in this ward?”
“Why, yes. Are you acquainted with him?”
“Oh yes. Could I speak to him before we leave?”
“Right over here.” The matron had observed that Raimey hated to be taken by the arm, so she tactfully moved closer, and the girl’s hand went at once to her arm. She led the way to one end of the cots under the windows and then paused. “Here’s a friend of yours, Lieutenant Rocklin.”
“How are you, Dent?” Raimey asked uncertainly. He did not speak, but the matron said, “Take this chair while you visit, Miss Reed. I’ll leave you now.”
Raimey felt the chair, then sat down with her back stiff. Now that she was here, it all seemed crazy. Maybe he wouldn’t even want to see her. She heard a slight sound, bedcovers rustling; then his voice came—“Hello, Raimey.” He grunted with pain as he came to a sitting position, then added, “Nice of you to come.”
His voice was different, she decided at once. He’d always had such excitement in his voice, and now that was all gone. Deborah was right! He’s lost all his hope.
“It’s very bad, the pain?”
“No worse than lots of others.”
She hardly knew what to say, so heavy was the impression she got from him. “I have a little cake left, if you’d like some.”
“No thanks, but you might give it to Simon. He’s got a sweet tooth—” Then he realized she could not see his gesture toward Alcott. “Just leave it here, Raimey. I’ll give it to him.”
She put the cake down, then suddenly held out her hand on an impulse. She felt his hand close around hers and said quietly, “I’m so sorry, Dent.”
He looked at her closely. Her skin was so fine it was almost translucent, and her lips were soft and vulnerable, a
lmost maternal. He was still filled with bitterness over his mother’s reaction, but now as she sat there quietly, her hand resting in his trustfully, he knew that she was grieving over him. He held her hand, marveling at the fragile bones, the softness of it, then released it. “It happens in a war, Raimey.”
“I know.” She sat there quietly, saying nothing. He was glad she didn’t overwhelm him with assurances that he was going to be all right, glad that she just sat there. It helped, in some strange way that he couldn’t understand. Finally she said, “I’ve thought so often of how we danced at the ball. I’ll never forget it.” When he didn’t speak, she said, “You can’t know, Dent, but you did something for me that nobody has ever done.”
“A dance? That wasn’t much.”
“You made me feel like a woman,” Raimey said, so softly that he had to lean forward. “You danced with me and then you—kissed me. It made me feel like a woman for the first time. Thank you for that, Dent.”
He didn’t know what to say. It had been such a small thing to him, but he saw now that it had been very important to her. “I’ve thought of it, too, Raimey. Just before we went in after the Yankees, I thought of that night out on the balcony with you.” He let a smile come to him, thinking of it. “It was sure funny. The bullets were flying, and the shells were bursting—and there I was thinking about that night with you on the balcony. Sure was funny.”
They sat there, each thinking their own thoughts; then Raimey said, “I’ll be back tomorrow. Can I bring you something?”
“A new arm—and a new face,” he said, and the moment was broken. “Good-bye, Raimey,” he said and turned his face to the wall.
It took Raimey only four days to learn the names of every man in the ward, and the men could talk of little else. “Why, she knows who a fellow is as soon as he opens his mouth!” a short captain from Georgia said, marveling. “Never saw anything like it!”
Boredom was one of the worst aspects of confinement. There was nothing to do except talk, and that grew stale. But as Raimey came, day after day, she always had something for the men to do. On her second day, she brought four checkerboards and astounded the officers by winning a game against Simon Alcott. He was a good player and was prepared to let her win, but found himself badly beaten. He had taken a lot of ribbing about the loss but proved himself one of the best players. Raimey organized a checker tournament, and the finals had the men making so much noise that Matron had to come in to see what was happening and quiet the group down. Then she saw Raimey’s small form in the center of a group of the walking wounded, and all the men cheering lustily, and she changed her mind and went back to her office, a smile on her lips.
Still, though Raimey was a success with most of the other men, Dent remained taciturn. Raimey tried everything, but nothing worked. Finally, one day she was sitting with Dent, both of them silent, when she heard the voice of Jemmy saying, “Now, Major Rocker, the doctor says you gotta be shaved.”
“What for?” Dent asked roughly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Jemmy said, “Them whiskers gotta come off. Now you set there and I’ll rake ‘em off.”
“Blasted foolishness!”
“Never mind all that fussin’,” Jemmy said. “Sit up thar and lemme do something ‘bout them whiskers.” Dent had seen her shave Buck Libby, who had lost both hands, and Libby had testified that the old woman had good hands. He sighed and moved to the chair.
She worked up a lather, then carefully pulled the bandage away from the wounded cheek. “I’ll do this hurt side fust,” she announced and, moving carefully around the stitches, shaved that side of Dent’s face. A thought came to her, and she said, “You ever do any barbering, missus?”
“Me?” Raimey asked in a startled tone, then smiled. “Why, no, except for cutting my sister’s hair. I’ve done that often enough.”
“Wal, you ain’t too old to learn,” Jemmy announced. “Come here and I’ll show you how. Major Rocker, here, he’ll be a good one to practice on.”
Dent suddenly laughed for the first time in days. “Jemmy means, I think, if you slice my right cheek, it’ll be a match for the left one.” He saw that Raimey was tempted by the idea and urged her on. “Have a try, Raimey. You can’t do any damage.”
Raimey hesitated; then she had a thought that made her cheek flush. If I could just touch him, maybe somehow he’d know how I feel! Maybe he wouldn’t be so far away.
“Show me, Jemmy!” she said, moving to where Dent was sitting.
“Ain’t nothing to it,” Jemmy said. “You jist use yore fingers ‘sted of yore eyes. Here, the razor—hold it like that. Now gimme yore hand ….”
Dent found the sight of Raimey standing there with a straight razor in her hands amusing. He sat very still as her fingers cautiously moved across his face, tracing his cheek and jawline. Jemmy stood there instructing her, and at first Raimey was frightened. But after she moved the razor down Dent’s cheek, Jemmy said, “See thar! I tole you hit wasn’t nothin’ to barbering. Now the hard part is the lip, so you jist hold his nose with one hand to keep from slicin’ it off—”
When the job was done, Jemmy said, “Feel how smooth his cheek is, jist like a baby’s bottom, ain’t it now?”
Dent felt the featherlight touch of Raimey’s hand and was stirred by an old memory. “You did that once before, remember?” he said, his voice soft.
“I remember.”
Dent said, “The other side’s changed a lot.”
Jemmy said, “It’s a bit harder, dodgin’ all them stitches. But I’m givin’ this job to you, missus. I got plenty of Yankee boys upstairs to barber. Now looky here, gimme yore hand—”
Dent stiffened as he felt Raimey’s fingers trace the scar on his cheek. He wanted to pull away, to shout angrily for her to leave him alone, but there was something in her touch that kept him still. Then the hand was gone, and Raimey said, “I’ll do the best I can, Jemmy. Will you show me how to put the bandage back on? Then let me have some scissors and I’ll cut his hair.”
Jemmy showed the girl how to apply the bandage, then produced a pair of shears. Soon Raimey was working skillfully on Dent’s shaggy hair. “I’m a little better at this,” she said, smoothing his black hair and shaping it carefully. She had found that she could cut hair well. “Cutting your hair is easy,” she commented. “You’ve got such a well-shaped head.”
Finally she was satisfied. She ran her hand over his hair, saying, “How much do you usually pay to get your hair cut, Dent?”
“A quarter.”
“You owe me, then,” Raimey said. She stood before him, a smile on her lips, pleased and excited that she had done something for him. “I’ll bring one of my father’s razors tomorrow. He has one for every day, with the day of the week on the handle.”
“Get the one marked Friday,” Dent said. He rubbed his cheek, saying, “Feels good. I always hated not shaving.”
“I’ll shave you every day. You’ll owe me a lot of money after a week or so.”
Dent’s mood shifted suddenly, and she noticed it. He said nothing, so she asked quietly, “You just thought you might not be here in a week, didn’t you?”
He stared at her, shocked that she should know his thoughts. “Don’t think I like you knowing me so well—but yes, it did occur to me.”
“Would it be so bad, Dent? Losing your arm?”
“Raimey, I can’t say how I feel to you, not about that. I mean, you’ve lost so much more! But somehow I can’t face it. I know there are men here who’d be happy to change places with me, but it’s just the way I am. I’d get by, but it’s not worth it. Besides—”
He cut his words off and then laughed. “You know what I was going to say, don’t you?”
“I think you were going to say something about being scarred.”
He made a grimace, then said, “It’s women who are supposed to be vain. But my own mother couldn’t stand to look at me. I can’t stand the thought of people recoiling from the sight of my face, Raimey
.”
He waited for her to argue, but she did no such thing. “I know, Dent. Do you think I haven’t thought of ending it all?” His face registered shock, and she sensed it. “But God’s given me some good things. And you have so much to give, Dent.”
“It’s—too hard for me, Raimey!”
She seemed to be listening to something far off. She finally whispered, “I believe God is going to give you your arm, Dent.”
“I don’t believe in miracles, Raimey.”
She moved to the foot of his bed, her face composed. “I do,” she said firmly and left the room.
Men said, “Good night,” and she called each name—“Good night, Bax. Don’t forget you promised to write to your cousin Donna.”
After Raimey left with Dulcie, Dent struggled to his feet and moved to the window. He watched her get into the carriage, then kept his eyes on it until it passed from view. Then he turned to go back to his cot. When he sat down, he looked up to find Simon watching him with a peculiar look in his blue eyes.
“You know, Dent,” he said conversationally, “you’re a pretty stupid fellow.”
Dent stared at him but found no anger in the man. “Stupid? I guess so, Simon. In what specific way?”
Alcott shook his head, and there was a vague disgust in his expression. “You’re too dumb to understand how you’re stupid,” he remarked. Then with a shake of his head, he picked up his book and continued to read.
Dent lay down, and his arm began to send daggers of pain that scraped at his nerves. It’s getting worse, he thought as he turned over, cradling the arm. He tried to sleep but could not. It was three in the morning when he was awakened by Sanders, one of the orderlies. “What are you doing?” Dent gasped.
“You’re screamin’ so loud you’re keeping the men awake. This is just some morphine to help you make it.”
Dent tried to protest but could not. The drug took effect quickly, but he knew that he’d come to the end of something. He’d never before let them give him drugs, but now he’d stepped over some sort of line. He had hoped to die, but somehow as he drifted into sleep, he resisted that.
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