CHAPTER XX

  “Drink,—­for thy necessity is yet greater than mine.”

  Sir Philip Sidney

The hospital boat, going out of Beaufort, was a sad, yet great sight.  It was but necessary to look around it to see that the men here gathered had stood on the slippery battle-sod, and scorned to flinch.  You heard no cries, scarcely a groan; whatever anguish wrung them as they were lifted into their berths, or were turned or raised for comfort, found little outward sign,—­a long, gasping breath now and then; a suppressed exclamation; sometimes a laugh, to cover what would else be a cry of mortal agony; almost no swearing; these men had been too near the awful realities of death and eternity, some of them were still too near, to make a mock at either.  Having demonstrated themselves heroes in action, they would, one and all, be equally heroes in the hour of suffering, or on the bed of lingering death.

Jim, so wounded as to make every movement a pang, had been carefully carried in on a stretcher, and as carefully lifted into a middle berth.

“Good,” said one of the men, as he eased him down on his pillow.

“What’s good?” queried Jim.

“The berth; middle berth.  Put you in as easy as into the lowest one:  bad lifting such a leg as yours into the top one, and it’s the comfortablest of the three when you’re in.”

“O, that’s it, is it? all right; glad I’m here then; getting in didn’t hurt more than a flea-bite,”—­saying which Jim turned his face away to put his teeth down hard on a lip already bleeding.  The wrench to his shattered leg was excruciating, “But then,” as he announced to himself, “no snivelling, James; you’re not going to make a spooney of yourself.”  Presently he moved, and lay quietly watching the others they were bringing in.

“Why!” he called, “that’s Bertie Curtis, ain’t it?” as a slight, beautiful-faced boy was carried past him, and raised to his place.

“Yes, it is,” answered one of the men, shortly, to cover some strong feeling.

Jim leaned out of his berth, regardless of his protesting leg, canteen in hand.  “Here, Bertie!” he called, “my canteen’s full of fresh water, just filled.  I know it’ll taste good to you.”

The boy’s fine face flushed.  “O, thank you, Given, it would taste deliriously, but I can’t take it,”—­glancing down.  Jim followed the look, to see that both arms were gone, close to the graceful, boyish form; seeing which his face twitched painfully,—­not with his own suffering,—­and for a moment words failed him.  Just then came up one of the sanitary nurses with some cooling drink, and fresh, wet bandages for the fevered stumps.

Great drops were standing on Bertie’s forehead, and ominous gray shadows had already settled about the mouth, and under the long, shut lashes.  Looking at the face, so young, so refined, some mother’s pride and darling, the nurse brushed back tenderly the fair hair, murmuring, “Poor fellow!”