WEN: 2260EE
Exhibitor Name: Jeshua Wickham
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
“When was he wounded?” “In the battle this morning, sir. I found him at noon, and set at once for the nearest town.” He studied the doctor’s face, and seeing written there what he did not want to see, he burst out “Oh please, sir, say he won’t die. He can’t!” “Well, lad, it certainly doesn’t look good. If a doctor had attended him at once I would have said he should be fine, but as it is it is doubtful. You did well to bandage him up at once. I only hope he hasn’t lost too much blood. However, I will do my best.” And, unwinding the blood-soaked makeshift bandage, he expertly cleaned the wound and extracted the bullet. After stitching it up he rebandaged it with clean white cloths and gave some parting injunctions. “Now, then, it is imperative that he not be moved. He will probably awaken soon. If he is kept quiet and fed well, then he may do. We shall hope for the best. Good night, Mr. Newman, Mrs. Newman, as always, a pleasure to see you.” And, shutting the door behind him, he walked out into the warm August night. . . . . . Priscilla brought the plate of food over to the bedside. “Why, thank you! I feel like a prince,” joked Henry, “I haven’t been waited on like this since I had the fever three years ago!” Priscilla smiled, glad to see their guest had improved enough to make a joke. “Well, we will hope to get you on your feet soon. I’m sure you must be itching to rejoin that friend of yours and your regiment,” she returned. “To tell you the truth, I am, but,” he added, “you have all been very kind to me, and it has felt most homelike here. However, I will not deny that it is difficult to lay idle here while my comrades are fighting hard on the battlefield.” The weeks had indeed passed slowly for the bedridden Henry. After making sure that Henry would pull through, Randall left to rejoin the army, with Henry’s earnest thanks. He yearned to be up from this bed, whole and hale, once more striving for the cause he held dear. He yawned and figited, then picked up his pocket knife with a sigh and began to whittle away once more at the small block of wood in his hand.
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