Letter-Writer
by
tallsunshine12
2nd Lieutenant John L. Sherman, whose friends called him 'Slim' for his extraordinarily tight, flat-stomached build, limped up to the darkened alcove and tried to see around the shoulder of the doctor tending to his patient. It was too dark to tell who lay there on the cot, but Sherman knew he was the only Southerner in the field hospital that day.
"Why did they bring him in?" he asked, interrupting the doctor's work.
Doctor Paget straightened up. "If you must know, he's been shot, a Minié ball in the lower abdomen."
"Will he live?" Slim Sherman asked roughly. He reached out for the doctor's arm, almost losing his balance on the crutch under his arm. "I asked you, will he live?"
"Not sure, Lt. Sherman. What's your interest in this man anyway?"
"He shot my buddy, then I shot him. That's my bullet that's in him. I wanted to know if it's going to do any good, and kill him."
"Wound's festering, his fever's high—you might get your wish, he might die tonight, tomorrow, or pull through. It's hard to say with such a wound."
"Are you trying to save his life?" said Slim, through gritted teeth.
"That's generally what we do in my profession, Lieutenant."
"Make him comfortable, Doc, and leave 'im. You have other patients far more worthy to worry over than a Secesh!"
"As long as there's life in this man, I'm going to try to save him. Now, you yourself should be in bed, resting that leg."
"I won't rest until I avenge my friend's death. Sandy and I were boys together in Michigan. When we enlisted, we both joined the 24th Michigan Infantry. I wouldn't want his death to have been in vain. A life for a life."
"That's what war is all about, isn't it," said the war-weary doctor. "I outrank you, Lieutenant. I'm going to give you an order. Just before he fell asleep this time, this young man asked me to write a letter for him. I don't have time to, but you do."
"I'm not writing anything for a filthy—"
"Oh, but you are, my good man. You'll sit by his side and jot down everything he says, for he may not live very long. Can you at least do that for his folks?"
"Since you're ordering me to do this, I will. But I won't like it."
"He's asleep now, but as soon as he's awake, I'll call you or get one of the nurses to. I've got to go—there's a head wound that I have to see to," muttered the doctor as he strode off, leaving Slim looking down on the shadowy face of the 'Secesh' on the cot.
Hard-chiseled, dark-browed, firm chin, that was the sleeping face, but the last time Slim saw it in motion, it was yelling that Rebel yell of theirs and firing the gun at his friend Sandy, short for Alexander, killing him. He fired off a shot, struck the Rebel down, and then took a bullet to his own leg from another Rebel. For three days, he had been in the field hospital, refusing to go to the rear until he knew for sure that this man was dead.
And now he had to write a letter for him!
"Francie!" yelled the Rebel suddenly, turning to the side and back again, in the throes of a nightmare.
Taking a seat in the chair, Slim found the paper and pencil where Doctor Paget had left them, in anticipation of writing the letter himself when he had the time.
Slim took it and begrudgingly headed the letter, Francie. Francie what? He turned to the Rebel on the cot with the oozing stomach wound and asked him, "Well, what do you want me to say?"
"Huh, what?" asked the patient, his whole head in the shadow of the alcove, but his hands and wound visible.
"What do you want to say in this letter of yours?"
"Oh, my letter." In many hesitant starts and stops, the Rebel said, "I wanted to say, 'Dear girl, you've been hopin' I'd return home from the war. It's not goin' so good, girl. I may not make it home. I love you, big sister. You'll never know how much." His breathless speech died out, and Slim found himself forced to stop, his hand poised over the page in case there was more. His eyes were wet, as he thought of this boy not going home, of the sister hoping for his return and her hopes being dashed.
He almost didn't hate him as much as he had before the letter. Sure, he had killed Slim's best friend, he had taken all of his boyhood away from him in one single fell swoop, sending him into the loneliest period of his life. But it was war! If that boy on the cot died, then Slim would have taken his life. It was war, that was what happened in war. Men took the lives of other men.
He bent down to the other wounded man and asked him, "Where's this Francie? What's her address? Last name?"
"Harper," breathed the man on the cot, raising a hand to his head and trying to think. "She's a teacher, in Little Bend, Texas, near where we were born."
"I'll have the doctor or one of the nurses mail this. Do you need a drink?"
"The kind of drink I need you don't have, pardner." He laughed slightly, though it hurt so bad.
Slim even smiled, laying the paper and pencil on a small stand next to the cot where he had found them. He got up momentarily, sought out a tin cup of water, and when he returned, he carefully lifted the Texan's head to drink, letting him sip it slowly. He looked down at him. Not the raging maniac now, with the brain-piercing Rebel yell, just a man in need of a friend. For a short while, Slim would be that man's friend.
1873
When Jess came to the Sherman Ranch and Relay Station, he was a wild one, kicking up his back legs and snorting like a colt on his first break-out. Slim never told him about having written the letter for him, not even recognizing him until two weeks after Jess had agreed to stay on at the ranch. He'd seen the bullet wound in his side when they were out working, shirtless, together, but he never said a word about knowing this particular Secesh before he came to the ranch.
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