Christmas Stories of Louisa May Alcott, The. Louisa May Alcott

      "I will, by George! No, by Georgiana! That's a good one, ain't it?" and the whole ward was electrified by hearing a genuine giggle from the veteran sad sack.

      Down went the detested beef broth, and up scrambled the determined drinker with many groans and a curious jumble of chuckles, staggers, and fragmentary repetitions of his first, last, and only joke. But when fairly settled in the great rocking chair, with the gray flannel gown comfortably on and the new slippers getting their inaugural scorch, Turner forgot his bones and swung to and fro before the fire, feeling amazingly well and looking very like a trussed fowl being roasted in the primitive fashion.

      The languid importance of the man and the irrepressible satisfaction of the parent were both laughable and touching things to see, for the happy soul could not keep the glad tidings to himself. A hospital ward is often a small republic, beautifully governed by pity, patience, and the mutual sympathy that lessens mutual suffering. Turner was no favorite; but more than one honest fellow felt his heart warm towards him as they saw his dismal face kindle with fatherly pride and heard the querulous quaver of his voice soften with fatherly affection, as he said, "My little Georgie."

      "He'll do now, Ma'am. This has given him the boost he needed, and, in a week or two, he'll be off our hands."

      Big Ben made the remark with a beaming countenance, and Big Ben deserves a word of praise, because he never said one for himself. He was an ex-patient promoted to an attendant's place, which he filled so well that he was regarded as a model for all the rest to copy. Patient, strong, and tender, he seemed to combine many of the best traits of both man and woman. He appeared to know by instinct where the soft spot was to be found in every heart, and how best to help sick body or sad soul. No one would have guessed this to have seen him lounging in the hall during one of the short rests he allowed himself.

      He was a brawny, six-foot fellow in red shirt, blue trousers tucked into his boots, and an old cap, visor always up, and under it a roughly bearded, coarsely featured face, whose prevailing expression was one of great gravity and kindliness, though a humorous twinkle of the eye at times betrayed the man, whose droll sayings often set the boys in a roar. "A good-natured, clumsy body" would have been the verdict passed upon him by a causal observer, but watch him in his ward and see how great a wrong that hasty judgment would have done him.

      Unlike his predecessor, who helped himself generously when the meals came up and carelessly served out rations for the rest, leaving even the most helpless to bungle for themselves or wait till he was done, Ben often left nothing for himself or took cheerfully such cold bits as remained when all the rest were served; so patiently feeding the weak, being hands and feet to the maimed, and being such a pleasant provider for all that, as one of the boys said, "It gives a relish to the vittles to have Ben fetch 'em." If one were restless, Ben carried him in his strong arms; if one were undergoing the sharp torture of the surgeon's knife, Ben held him with a touch as firm as kind; if one were homesick, Ben wrote letters for him with great hearty blots and dashes under all the affectionate or important words.

      More than one poor fellow read his fate in Ben's pitying eyes and breathed his last breath away on Ben's broad breast—always a quiet pillow till its work was done—then he would heave a sigh of genuine grief as his big hand softly closed the tired eyes and made another comrade ready for the last review. Our Civil War showed us many Bens, because the same power of human pity that makes women brave also makes men tender; and each is the more womanly or the more manly for these revelations of unsuspected strength and sympathies.

      At twelve o'clock, dinner was the prevailing idea in Ward number three, and when the door opened, every man sniffed as savory odors broke loose from the kitchens and went roaming about the house. Now this Christmas dinner had been much talked of; for certain charitable and patriotic persons had endeavored to provide every hospital in Washington with materials for this time-honored feast. Some mistake in the list sent to headquarters, some unpardonable neglect of orders, or some premeditated robbery, caused the long-expected dinner in Wilson Hospital to prove a dead failure; but to which of these causes it was attributable was never known. The deepest mystery enveloped the sad situation.

      The full weight of the dire disappointment was mercifully lightened by premonitions of the impending blow. Barney was often missing, for the attendants were to dine en masse after the patients were done. Therefore a speedy banquet for the latter parties was ardently desired, and he probably devoted his energies to goading on the cooks. From time to time he appeared in the doorway, flushed and breathless, made some thrilling announcement, and vanished, leaving ever-increasing appetite, impatience, and expectation behind him.

      Dinner was to be served at one. At half-past twelve Barney proclaimed, "There ain't no vegetables but squash and pitaters." A universal groan arose, and several indignant parties on a short allowance of meat consigned the defaulting cook to a warmer climate than the tropical one he was then enjoying. At twenty minutes to one, Barney increased the excitement by whispering, ominously, "I say, the puddings aren't very good."

      "Fling a pillow at him and shut the door, Ben," roared one irascible being, while several others not fond of puddings received the fact with equanimity. At quarter to one, Barney piled up the agony by adding the bitter information, ''There isn't but two turkeys for this ward, and they's little fellers."

      Anxiety instantly appeared in every countenance, and intricate calculations were made as to how far the two fowls would go when divided among thirty men. Also friendly warnings were administered to several of the feebler gentlemen not to indulge too freely, if at all, for fear of relapses from overeating. Once more did the bird of evil omen return, for at ten minutes to one, Barney croaked through the keyhole, "Only half of the pies has come, gentlemen." That capped the climax, for the masculine palate has a predilection for pastry, and mince pie was the sheet anchor to which all had clung when other hopes went down.

      Even Ben looked dismayed; not that he expected anything but the perfume and pickings for his share, but he had set his heart on having the dinner, an honor to the institution and a memorable feast for the men so far away from home, and all that usually makes the day a festival among the poorest. He looked pathetically grave as Turner began to fret, Sam began to swear under his breath, Hayward to sigh, Joe to wish it was all over, and the rest to vent their emotions with a freedom that was anything but inspiring. At that moment, Miss Hale came in with a great basket of apples and oranges in one hand, and several useful looking bottles in the other.

      "Here is our dessert, boys! A kind friend remembered us, and we will drink her health in her own cider."

      A feeble smile circulated around the room, and, in some sanguine bosoms, hope revived again. Ben briskly emptied the basket while Miss Hale whispered to Joe:

      "I knew you would be glad to get away from the confusion of this next hour to enjoy a breath of fresh air and dine quietly with Mrs. Burton 'round the corner, wouldn't you?"

      "Oh, Ma'am, so much! The noise, the smells, the fret and flurry make me sick just to think of! But how can I go? That dreadful ambulance 'most killed me last time, and I'm weaker now."

      "My dear boy, I have no thought of trying that again till our ambulances are made fit for the use of weak and wounded men. Mrs. Burton's carriage is at the door, with her motherly self inside, and all you have got to do is to let me bundle you up and Ben carry you out."

      With a sigh of relief Joe submitted to both these processes, and when his nurse watched his happy face as the carriage slowly rolled away, she felt well repaid for the little sacrifice of rest and pleasure so quietly made; for Mrs. Burton had come to carry her, not Joe, away.

      "Now, Ben, help me to make this unfortunate dinner go off as well as we can," she whispered. "On many accounts it is a mercy that the men are spared the temptations of a more generous meal. Pray don't tell them so, but make the best of it, as you know very well how to do."

      "I'll try my best, Miss Hale, but I'm no less disappointed, because some of 'em, being no better than children, have been living on the thoughts of it for a week; and it comes hard to give it up."

      If Ben had been an old-time patriarch, and the thirty boys his sons, he could not have spoken with a more paternal regret, or gone to work with a better will.