Page 12 of For This We Are Soldiers
“Well …” She hadn’t planned to tell him, but it was late, and she was tired. Maybe talking would keep her awake.
The two slats of the ward lamp gave off such a comforting glow. She could almost imagine herself sitting in front of a fire in her own parlor, if she had one.
“I pretend to get letters from my mother.” For just a moment, the sorrow of the whole thing grabbed her. She had not seen her mother in twenty-three years; why should it matter now? She would have stopped if she hadn’t seen such interest in the old actor’s eyes. “I … I address it to Audra Washington and send it to myself.”
“Right here?”
“I give it to a soldier heading to Cheyenne, or maybe Omaha, and he mails it from there. Or he may be going to Billings, in Montana Territory.” She touched his hand. “Or even Deadwood! That way, I’m never quite certain when it will come back. Sometimes …” She paused again, hoping he would not think her foolish. “Sometimes I even forget, and the letter is almost a surprise. As if …”
“Your mother actually sent it,” Lysander Locke finished. “You’re a remarkable lady, Miss Washington.” His voice was lower now, the words strung out. His eyes closed.
“Do you receive other letters, my dear?” he asked, when she thought he slept.
“Who would write to me?” This was becoming too serious; she had to turn the conversation. “Mr. Locke, how does your mail keep up with you?”
He yawned. “My mail? I don’t get much mail either.”
It had never occurred to Ozzie that there were others like her.
“You hear from your family, don’t you?”
“What family?”
“Well, I mean …”
He opened one eye. “I devoted myself to Shakespeare.”
She couldn’t think of anything to say to his artless declaration, mainly because she could not fathom anyone choosing such a life on purpose. How odd; how sad.
“Maybe someday you will settle down and have a family,” she ventured cautiously.
No answer. She peered closer, hoping he would forget this entire conversation. Ozzie sat in silence as his breathing became regular and deep.Poor man, she thought as she stood.
Suh had draped Mr. Locke’s clothes over the foot of the iron bedstead. Moving quietly, she took his suit coat and shook out the wrinkles, or tried to. The material wouldn’t cooperate. She looked closer. The wool was cheap, even though it looked good from a distance. His bright green cravat had been creased and folded many times. How many cravats did Mr. Locke possess, or was this his only one? She put the coat on a peg reserved for patients’ clothing and wet her fingers to smooth out the cravat.
He had a shabby little suitcase; perhaps he had other trousers. She gave the suit her critical appraisal: shiny wool with what looked like bits of filler fabric woven in.
“Mistuh Locke,” she whispered, “fortune has not smiled on you lately.”
Ozzie had seen better shirts in those rummage sales so dear to the hearts of army personnel. Since officers had to pay their own freight from garrison to garrison, any move of significance meant rummage sales to help lighten the load. She had acquired her second-best petticoat that way, as well as the shoes she wore now.
After a good wash, she could turn the cuffs on Mr. Locke’s shirt. His stockings were hopeless, with holes in each heel, but she had yarn and could knit him another pair, considering that she’d be spending nights sitting in the ward so Suh could sleep a little.
She contemplated the matter as she walked up and down the little ward, stopping for a while beside the private with the burned arm. He moved restlessly, even though he was unconscious; his arm surely pained him. She hesitated at first then took his good hand in hers, stroking it until he settled into deeper sleep again.
She returned to her chair beside the actor, wondering how on earth he would fare in Deadwood, Dakota Territory. She had heard some of the garrisons’ wives whisper about what a sinful place it was, with gambling, dance hall girls, and women of the night. She could not pictureKing Learin such a place.
Are you telling us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?she thought, then sighed. Who would lie about Deadwood?
She must have dozed, because she woke up to a light hand on her shoulder. Was it already two o’clock? Startled, she looked up to see Suh holding a finger to his lips, his eyes lively even in the gloom. He looked more chipper than a man should with so little sleep, but Ozzie knew he was used to the twilight life of a hospital steward.
“Everyone alive?” he asked, bending close to her ear.
“Suh, you see them in the same state you left them,” she retorted, enjoying his little joke—and the way his breath warmed her ear and set off prickles down her spine.
He pointed to the door, and she followed. The door to Captain Dilworth’s office stood open, and moonlight streamed into the corridor. A portrait of poor President Garfield still hung there. Any day now, someone from Washington, DC, would surely remember to mail a portrait of President Arthur.
Tired now, she stood next to President Garfield, glad to turn the patients over to someone who could do them more good than she if they woke.
