The Saintly Buccaneer Read Free Page A

stumbled up to the hospital and entered. Dr. Williams looked up from where he was bending over one of the men, and rose instantly to come to her. “Glad you came, Charity,” he nodded, his face grim. “Billy’s bad—maybe you can stay with him a little.”
    “Is he... going to die, Dr. Williams?”
    She had not liked the physician at first, thinking him surly and uncaring, but she had soon discovered that his gruff manner was a facade, that he hurt for the men under his care. She had discovered this on her third visit when he had drawn her to one side, saying harshly, “Wish you’d say a word to Sills—boy needs a little comfort.”
    “Which one is he?”
    “Over there by the window. He’s only fifteen—” She saw the look of pain surface in his face involuntarily. “Just the age of my own boy.” Then the curtain dropped, and he went on, his lips tight. “Lost a leg last month, and it’s gone to gangrene. Won’t last long—but I expect he’d like a little word from a woman.”
    Billy Sills was a towheaded boy from Virginia, emaciated and bright-eyed with fever. He had been pathetically grateful when Charity had stopped and offered him a little of the thin stew, but it had been her presence rather than the food that had cheered him. She led him to talk, and soon she knew his family by name. His favorite sister was Melissa,“Missy”—and he used that name for Charity, saying, “You look a heap like her, you do.”
    Dr. Williams went on quietly. “We made a little place for him over by the corner,” motioning to where a tattered blanket was tacked up. He hesitated, shook his head, then added, “Don’t expect he’ll know you. Been in a coma since this morning.”
    “I—I’ll sit with him for a while.” Charity worked her way around the room, making the food go as far as possible, speaking with a tight smile to the patients, then went to Billy with a mug of tepid water. Lifting the blanket, she sat down on the floor using her coat for a pad, and leaned closer to see the boy’s face. The feeble yellow rays of a lantern barely enabled her to make out his features. His lips were drawn back and his eyes were fluttering, revealing a glimpse of the whites as they rolled up in his skull. His chest was rising and falling erratically, and the rasping sound of his breathing struck against her nerves. Desperately she wanted to run away, but she forced herself to mop his clammy brow with a bit of cloth from her pocket.
    Her touch seemed to arouse him, for he rolled his head weakly from side to side. Then his eyes slowly opened and focused on her as she bent over him. He licked his dry lips, and his voice was a croak as he whispered, “Missy—that you?”
    “Yes, Billy. It’s Missy.”
    “Aw—I’m glad—you got here...”
    She reached down, lifted his head, and put the water to his lips. He took a few quick swallows, then pulled his head back and looked up into Charity’s eyes. “Missy—I ain’t—gonna—make it.”
    “Billy...!”
    “Good you came—though. Hate to die—Missy!”
    Tears scalded her eyes and she set the cup down and reached out to embrace his emaciated form, holding him to her breast. “Billy—Billy!” she moaned, but could say no more, for her body was shaken by uncontrollable sobs. She held him like ababy, rocking back and forth and calling his name for a long time; then he pulled back and a spasm racked his body—a violent shudder that shook him until his teeth rattled.
    “Missy!” he cried out, pulling at her weakly. “Don’t let me die, sister! I—I’m afraid!” He gave a great wrenching cough, and when it passed, he asked, “Missy—you reckon—you could say—a prayer?” His eyes were enormous in the golden light of the lantern, and his lips trembled as he whispered, “I—I never got—religion, did I? Mother—she tried to—to talk about God—but I never did—”
    Then his whole body arched and he began to kick the floor, his bare heel drumming in a