Page 70 of Under the Tulip Tree
I carried a chair over and sat beside him. With a glance around the room to be certain no one was watching, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the Book of Psalms Sam hadgiven me. To quiet my nerves, I took a breath, then opened the book to the first page and began reading, keeping my voice low.
By the time I reached the end of the third psalm, sunlight was streaming through the windows. I glanced at Wallace. He looked exactly the same. I tucked the book back into my pocket and stood. I had work to do.
Captain Wallace succumbed the following afternoon. I’d arrived early once again to read to him from the Psalms before anyone else awakened. I didn’t know if the man heard me or not, but I was glad I’d followed my heart.
After his body was removed, a pall fell over the other soldiers. The man in the bed next to the now-empty one looked at me as I cleaned the area. “I heard you reading to Wallace.”
I thought my heart might stop beating as everyone turned to stare at me. Would I be punished for having a book in my possession?
Miss Fitzgerald glanced at me from across the room, surprise on her face.
“Would you read to us?” the man continued, his request turning to a plea. Several others chimed in with their concurrence. “I ain’t heard the Bible read in a long time.”
I stood there in shock.
Cait came over and put her hand on my arm. “Would you, Miss Frankie? It might bring the men some comfort on this sad day.”
I looked around the room. Not one of the men appeared angry that not only could I read, but that I had a book hiddenin my pocket. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I nodded. “I’ll read.”
Cait set the chair in the middle of the aisle so everyone could hear. I felt conspicuous at first, and I faltered over several of the words, but no one complained. When I reached the Twenty-third Psalm, some of the men had drifted off to sleep while others continued to listen, the same peace resting on their faces as I’d seen on those of the men in Sam’s room.
The noon meal interrupted our reading, but after the men were fed, some wanted to hear more Psalms. Cait thought it a fine idea, so my afternoon was spent reading the beautiful words.
When I told Sam about it later that evening, he offered to let me take his Bible. “They need it more than I do right now.”
The man’s generosity never ceased to amaze me. “How are you feeling?” I asked, noting he looked better each time I saw him. He still had a long recovery process, but unless infection struck, he seemed to be out of danger.
“Good. Miz Illa says I might leave the hospital in a day or two. She’s found a woman who will let me stay in her house. She has some others there who are convalescing.”
“That’s wonderful news.” While the nurses and doctors in the military hospitals did their best, the care Sam would receive in a private home was sure to be more personal. I hoped the house wasn’t too far away so I could still see him on a regular basis. I’d ask Illa about its location when I saw her next.
My spirits were high when I entered the ward the following day. Cait hurried over.
“There’s a rumor some of the soldiers will be transferred to prison soon.”
I glanced at the men in their beds. Most of them weren’t healed enough to travel. Although I knew them only by their ranks along with a few surnames, I’d begun to think of them as men rather than Confederate soldiers.
I gathered the shaving kit and began my rounds. When I reached the green-eyed lieutenant, I noted he seemed more somber than usual. He never said much to anyone but was always watching. I found his eyes on me often throughout the days, sometimes staring at my hand. I wondered if the loss of his arm made him notice how I got along with only the use of one good hand.
“Good morning, Lieutenant. Would you like a shave today?”
He nodded but didn’t look at me.
I set to work mixing up a lather, then carefully completed the task. When I reached for the towel to wipe the remaining soap from his face, his eyes finally met mine. An intense look filled them.
“Who crippled your hand?”
The low words barely reached my ears. He gripped my arm and tugged me closer. “Who?” he hissed, his grasp tightening.
Startled by his behavior, I couldn’t imagine why he wanted to know such a thing, but I feared he’d make a ruckus if I didn’t tell him. “The mistress of the plantation where I wasborn. She struck me with a fireplace poker when I was six years old. It ain’t been right ever since.”
His face paled. His breath came in hard heaves, and I thought he might strike me for saying such a thing about a white person.
I tugged free from his grip and backed away.
When his eyes met mine again, the hatred I expected to see wasn’t there. Instead, I saw something I couldn’t quite believe.
Shame.
