AN INCIDENT BY THE WAY.

A steamboat on the northeast branch of the Cape Fear river carried our paroled men from the station held by General Terry to the city of Wilmington.

One of the principal mansions was owned by a Dr. Wright who had fled with his family on the approach of the Union troops. His fine residence was converted into a hospital for the arrivals who were sick.

During the ride from Goldsboro on top of a freight car, the writer was taken ill and was barely able to walk the steamer plank at the point of transfer. After resting in the little country church he was taken to the Wright House Hospital and assigned a straw bed on the floor of a room in the third story. Soldier nurses proceeded to take off his infested prison rags and to give him a sponge rub. He fainted under the process and had a run of fever during which he was delirious.

When the point of death was apparently reached his vitality took a turn for the better and he rapidly improved.

On the floor of his room were twelve narrow straw beds having a succession of occupants who, with a few exceptions, were soon transferred to their final resting places.

Many of the ex-prisoners having died from the effects of the too early use of solid food, the physicians became extremely cautious and limited the sick to small quantities of the most simple preparations.

During the writer’s convalescence, his ravenous hunger was unsatisfied by the slender allowance. It happened that his bed ended up to a window, and his favorite occupation was to sit on his pillow and watch the proceedings in the yard below. Here was a servant’s cottage occupied by two colored women who evidently had excused themselves from flight with their master. The older one moved about with quiet dignity and doubtless had been the “mamma” of the family. With evident pleasure she watched the new life and movement around her, and held in restraint her young and vivacious companion.

In the yard soldier cooks prepared in large kettles great quantities of beef soup, which was ladled into pails, carried to the kitchen and served to the patients throughout the building.

A young artilleryman from Olean, New York, lay on a straw pallet alongside that of the writer. The one was called “Olean” and the other “Michigan.” From his post of observation at the window the latter, one morning, watched the handling of the soup below with an interest that could not be concealed. “Say, Michigan, what are you looking at?” inquired Olean. “I am looking at them pouring out the soup,” was the reply, “and say, Olean, I wish I could have a good smell of it.”

“Smell of the soup,” said Olean contemptuously; “if I was a wishing I’d wish I had some and not just a smell.” Upon this sagacious remark, a number of the occupants of the other beds passed the wink or laugh with a feeble, hacking sound; their pinched faces brightening with a sense of mirth.

The practical wisdom of the suggestion was not lost upon “Michigan,” who said, “If I was a little stronger I would take my cup, go down the stairs and into the yard and I would say, ‘Boys, I’m awfully hungry; please give me some soup.’” Ah-ah-ah, laughed “Olean.” “Say, Michigan, I’ll bet you five cents you can’t walk the length of your bed and touch the door knob.” Upon this challenge, the other patients from their pillows exchanged glances, several braced up on the elbow and discussed the possibility of one of their number leaving his room without permission to forage for refreshments. The concensus of opinion was that he could not succeed.

“Who are you talking to?” vigorously responded “Michigan.” “You think I can’t do it; I’ll show you what I can do.” Grasping the projecting window moulding he helped himself to his feet, carefully balancing his trembling steps along the narrow space between the beds on the floor, and triumphantly grasping the knob of the door exclaimed, “There now, Olean; I’ve done it; I’ve done it. Where is your five cents?” “Oh, I haven’t any five cents,” replied Olean, “but say, Michigan, you would look mighty fine going down those stairs, wouldn’t you?”

Thereupon the observing comrades laughed in great glee; in weakness, like little children, a very trifling incident amused them; they nodded their heads at each other and exchanged approving glances.

Our regulation costume was a gray army shirt, drawers of like material, and a pair of socks. Thus appareled “Michigan” opened the door into the hall, peered over the railing down the two flights of stairs and, seeing the coast clear, worked along to the newel post and carefully lowered himself one or two steps.

Thinking discretion might be the better part of valor, he tested his strength for the return by trying to retrace the steps down which he had come. He was quite unable to lift himself on the rising, so must needs continue down the two flights, resting his weight on the rail. Dizzy and breathless he stood by the stair post on the main floor. At this juncture the hospital steward suddenly entered and was amazed to find a very weak patient in a state of migration. “What are you doing here?” he hurriedly and angrily asked. “What room do you belong to and who said you might leave it?” “Oh, I’m just taking a little exercise,” was the reply. The steward rang for an attendant, and with an oath said, “No more of this; I will order a man to help you to your room and there you stay.”

But no helper appeared, so our hero summoned all his determination and walked through the hall to the back porch. Here a stack of plain coffins greeted his view; and he fancied that one of them belonged to him. Going down the veranda steps he held to the rail and coming into the full rays of the sun turned faint and for a few minutes was helpless. Again, he summoned all the powers of his will and started down the gravel walk towards the servant’s cottage.

Reaching the porch of the same, he sank exhausted on the steps with head resting against the corner post. Just then the old “mamma” came out of her room and caught sight of the wasted form and pale face of the would-be soup hunter. Gazing pityingly upon his emaciation, and speaking to her assistant, she exclaimed, “Dinah, Dinah, come yeah, come yeah; look at dat ar’ po’ white chile; he bleached so white as linen!”

Then addressing him, she said, “Wah yo’ come from? Wah yo’ come from?” “Oh, auntie,” he gasped, “I came out of the hospital to get some soup and I can’t get any further. Auntie, give me something to eat; I’m awfully hungry!” “Dinah, Dinah,” she said. “Go to the cupboard and git a big slice ob de co’n pone; jes slip it undah you aprun and bring it yeah to me.” Passing the generous slice under her own apron, the old mammy stood by the veranda post, looking the meanwhile intently at a distant object as if oblivious to all near concerns.

Thus she partially screened the invalid from observation, and reaching the portion down to his hand, tenderly said, “Dar now, honey, yo eat dat bread.” No second invitation to indulge his famished appetite was needed. The slice of “co’n pone” speedily disappeared. Strange to say, no inconvenience resulted. The food aroused the dormant vitality and the young fellow eagerly exclaimed, “Auntie, Auntie, that was so good. Give me some more.” “No, honey,” she said decisively, “de doctah see me do dis yah, I done go, suah.” Then the invalid began to cry hysterically. The sympathy of the kind old heart was still further aroused and, spreading her great hand on his head, she said softly, “Po chile, po chile, he want ta see he muddah.”

“Mother, Mother!” How that word stirred his heart and aroused his memory so weakened by suffering. Physical vigor from the dark hand upon his head was surcharged with vitality that probably stimulated the depleted personality.

Again the young man asked, “Aunty, aunty, give me some more,” and again came the reply, “No, honey, de doctah see me do dis, he send me off for suah.” Meanwhile “Olean” was pressing his face against the third-story window to see how “Michigan” was prospering in his quest for soup.

A soldier nurse approached the cottage and “aunty,” who seemed to be on good terms with all, interceded for her guest. “Dis ya chile done cum down fo a wok; he done tiad out, yo’ help him back, won’t yo’, massa?” And he did.

“Dinah, Dinah, look at dat ar po’ white chile; he bleached so white as linen.”