Authors: Gilbert Morris
“He looked pretty sick when I saw him,” Thad remarked.
“He suffers all the time. At night I can hear him gritting his teeth to keep from crying out and disturbing the rest of us.” A bitter taste rose to his mouth. “I can’t do a
thing
for him, Thad—not a thing!”
“Reckon I know what that’s like, Davis. Sure eats on a man, don’t it?”
“Maybe you’d like to come for the service?”
“Sure would.” Thad turned and walked into the building with Davis, and when they entered the ward, the Methodist pastor, Reverend Tyler Eubanks, was just getting ready to start. He saw Thad and came to him eagerly. “Lieutenant! You’re an answer to prayer. Help me with the service, will you? You do the singing and I’ll do the preaching!” He nodded at Davis, saying, “This young man is the best gospel singer in the Confederate Army, Lieutenant Morgan. And one of the most faithful members of my church. How about it, Thad?”
“Do what I can, Reverend Eubanks,” Thad replied.
After the preacher opened the service with a brief prayer, Thad’s clear tenor voice filled the room with the old gospel songs. Most of the men, Davis saw, tried to join in, but it was a thin, pitiful effort. He himself made no attempt to sing, but sat holding the paperback hymnal up for Lonnie.
Tate’s face was overcast by a gray pallor, and he could only whisper the words, “There is a balm in Gilead.” And when they sang “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me,” tears filled his eyes and trickled down his cheeks.
As Thad sang, Belle came in and stood with her back to the wall. She didn’t sing, but watched the men with an unfathomable expression in her violet eyes. Once her gaze met that of Davis, and as they looked across the room for that one moment, he felt intuitively that she was the loneliest person present. Not that anything showed in her face, for the texture of her skin and the stillness of her countenance made her seem like a porcelain statue. Finally Thad moved to one side and Reverend Eubanks opened his Bible and began to speak.
Belle looked at the minister so strangely that Davis did not listen to the words at first. As always, it was a tremendous struggle for him when she was around, for inevitably he thought of Lowell. Each time that happened, a refrain would go on inside his head, a voice that said over and over again:
She’s the one who killed him—she’s the one who killed him.
Ignoring the sermon, Davis stared at Belle, the same refrain
“she’s the one” hammering at his skull. Time had done nothing to kill the pain when he thought of his brother, nor had it made his hatred of Belle grow less. There had been moments when he was moved by her selfless attention to the broken and dying men in the ward. He had seen her fight for a boy’s life for hours, as if her own soul depended on it. Hour after hour, in his own ward, she had labored over an older man named Hooker who lingered for two days before dying. During that time she rarely left his side. When the man had died, Davis watched as Belle stood by his bedside, her face not fixed in a set expression as it usually was, but soft and vulnerable as if feeling all the pain in the world at her defeat.
Now he thought of those times, the weeks of ceaseless care given him, remembering that today he was not a cripple because she had waged a war with the doctor to save Davis’s leg. He knew all that, yet the bitterness was strong; even as he stared at her, thoughts of her infidelity and cruelty washed away all tenderness, causing him to turn his head away and listen to the preacher.
“ . . . and so, our most important task on this earth,” Reverend Eubanks was saying, “is not to make money or get an education, nor any of those things that are of some importance in this life. No, those pursuits must give way to that which is, according to the Word of God,
most
important—finding forgiveness for our sins.” He opened his Bible and read: “A certain ruler asked him, saying, Good Master, what shall I do that I may have eternal life?” then looked up and said, “That is the question every man must ask of God: ‘How can I be forgiven and know God as my Savior?’ ”
Davis let most of the words flow by. His eyes were on Lonnie, who was drinking in the preacher’s words as if they were life to him.
Wonder what’s going on in the poor boy’s mind,
Davis mused. He himself had not paid much attention to such things, having been content with a nominal assent to the basic truth of religion. From time to time he had felt a vague alarm, when thoughts would arise about death and
judgment, but not since he was a very young boy had he really felt anything like the fear of God.
His head jerked up at the preacher’s next words. “Some of you may spend eternity in hell, cut off from God, because of
one
idol. I don’t mean that you would bow down to a statue made of clay; none of you here would be so foolish. But consider, for example, the words of Jesus in Mark, chapter eleven. It says: ‘And when you stand praying, forgive, if you have ought against any: that your Father also which is in heaven may forgive your trespasses.’ ”
Eubanks lifted his head and swept the faces of the men who were turned to him. “That’s what you want, for the Father to forgive you, isn’t it? But listen to verse twenty-six—which, in my own mind, contains the hardest word in the Bible: ‘But if ye do not forgive, neither will your Father which is in heaven forgive your trespasses.’ ”
He closed his Bible and stood there—tall, solemn, compassionate. “Those are terrible words—
If ye do not forgive, neither will your Father forgive.
Think of that! There are millions in hell this morning, I fear, who could have known the mercy of God—but they would not forgive. There are, God help us, millions in both the North and the South who have grown bitter in their hearts and are now rotting with hate against a human adversary. They fall under these words: ‘neither will your Father which is in heaven forgive. . . . ’ ”
Davis gave an involuntary glance at Belle, and a strange emotion shot through him as he thought of his adamant hatred for her. He tried to wash the minister’s words from his mind, but could not.
“You say that your son has been killed by the Yankees, or your brother or father? ‘Must I forgive even
that?
’ The scripture rings out, ‘If you have ought against any . . . ‘ You will not be forgiven by God if you do not forgive! ‘But that’s more than a human being can do!’ you say. No, it is not, for Jesus Christ proved that it can be done. Do you remember His cry as they crucified Him? I know that you do! ‘Father,
forgive
them!
’ And do not say that He could do it because He was God, for that is what the Incarnation meant—God became
man,
and it was as a
man
that Jesus forgave His enemies!”
Davis’s hands began to tremble, and he clasped them together like a vise so no one would notice. The words of the Bible rang in his mind:
If you have ought against any.
Never had he been so shaken—not in battle or in any crisis. Fear flushed through him, and he gritted his teeth and looked down at the floor, trying to thrust the fear from his mind.
Thad was watching Davis, and knew instantly that God was moving on the man. He bowed his head and began to pray, asking God to bring a sense of need so great that Winslow would cry for salvation.
Belle, too, was watching, and a strange sensation went through her as she saw the tormented face of the man she knew as Owen Morgan. It was the first time she had seen him show any emotion, other than that strange oblique light which sometimes came into his eyes when he looked at her. Now she pondered the brokenness she could not understand.
Finally, the minister ended his sermon with a plea for every person to turn his heart to God. “No matter what is keeping you from God, it’s not worth what you’re paying for it. Jesus Christ is your only hope for time and eternity. I beg you to forgive those who have offended you, and let God forgive you the way He longs to!”
Davis sat as though transfixed, lost in his silent struggle, and responded only when Lonnie reached out to touch him.
“Lieutenant? Are you all right?”
“Why—yes, Lonnie,” Davis replied quickly. He saw Thad coming toward them, and pulled his shoulders together in an attempt to cover the weakness that had assaulted him. “This is Lonnie Tate, Lieutenant Novak.”
Thad took the chair offered him and began to talk with Lonnie, and Davis got up, found his cane and moved out of the ward. The hall was crowded with visitors, and he edged his way through until he reached the porch, where he was
taken aback to find Belle, standing with her back to one of the pillars, staring out across the lawn.
She heard the tap of his stick and turned to face him. “Hello, Owen,” she said quietly, then turned back.
Davis stood there, in a quandary. He wanted to leave, but that seemed graceless. Yet she showed no desire to talk to him, so he hobbled off the porch and moved along the walk again. Nearing the corner, he looked over his shoulder and saw her in the same position, motionless as a statue. He circled the hospital, and when he came back, she was gone. He sighed with relief. He didn’t want to talk with her or anyone else, so he avoided everybody by finding a bench under one of the trees where he could sit locked in his own thoughts.
****
That night he awoke with a start, confused as to where he was or what had aroused him from a sound sleep. Then his eyes adjusted to the dim lamplight at the end of the ward, and he turned his head, peering to his right. “Lonnie—are you all right?”
Hearing only a faint sound, Davis carefully swung his feet out of bed and leaned over to see better. Lonnie was staring up at the ceiling, his body racked by great tremors. Davis made a lunge at his cane, and hobbled out of the ward and down the hall. Usually one of the orderlies was nearby. No one in sight! He moved quickly along, calling, “Orderly!”
A door burst open, and Belle cried, “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”
“It’s Lonnie! He’s very bad.”
She ran lightly down the hall, and by the time he got to where she bent over Lonnie, Davis’s leg was throbbing with pain. He ignored it and went to his bed, standing there as Belle bent over the boy. She had moved a lamp on the shelf over his head; and by the flickering light, Davis saw that Lonnie’s eyes were set, fixed on the ceiling. “Is he dead?” he whispered.
“No—but he’s going, I’m afraid.”
She held her hand on Lonnie’s forehead, staring into his face. Davis’s legs suddenly gave way, and he dropped on the bed, fear knotting his stomach. “Isn’t there
something
to do?” he asked.
Her eyes were filled with an enormous sadness as she looked at the dying lad. “No. There’s nothing anyone can do.”
The words hit Davis like a blow. He clamped his lips shut, wishing there were some way he could run away from it. But there was no escape, and as the two waited, they could hear the raspy breathing growing fainter.
From time to time tremors would shake Lonnie, but they became less and less frequent, and each less potent. Davis feared that each one would be the last, and shut his eyes every time the fragile body arched upward in a spasm.
A long time passed, and then Lonnie opened his eyes. “Hello—Miss Belle,” he whispered.
“Lonnie . . . !” she said, choking with emotion. She bit her lips to stop the tremble, all the while stroking his forehead.
He turned his head, and his eyes were calm as he said, “Lieutenant, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me, Lonnie.”
The boy’s lips curved in a smile, and he closed his eyes as he moved his head back. He seemed to be resting. In a moment he opened them and studied Belle’s face. He reached out a thin hand and carefully touched her cheek, then whispered, “It’s time, ain’t it, Miss Belle?”
She blinked. “Time for what, Lonnie?”
“Why—time for me to go,” he replied, and seemed surprised that she would ask.
“Oh, Lonnie! Lonnie!” she cried, and he felt the hot tears falling on his face.
He touched his cheeks, and shook his head. “Why, Miss Belle—it ain’t no call for you to cry—not for
me!
” His voice got stronger, and he nodded at her. “I been wishin’ to go for a long time now. I hurt so bad . . . !” Then he raised his
hand to her cheek again. “But you been so good to me, Miss Belle—so very good!”
She caught his hand and pressed her lips against it, but could not utter a word. Davis watched as the tears flowed from her tightly closed eyes over the boy’s hand, and felt his own hot tears rise to his eyes.
“You know what, Miss Belle?” Lonnie said in a voice filled with wonder. “It don’t hurt no more!” He turned his head to smile at Davis. “Ain’t that wonderful, sir?”
Davis managed to nod, but could not speak. He reached out his hand and Lonnie placed his in it. “You’re such a good man, Lieutenant!” Lonnie whispered, resting his hand in Davis’s. It felt like a bird’s claw to Winslow. “All this time you’ve been so good to me! I reckon—the good Lord—will have to reward you—now that I’m—leaving.”
He arched, gave a great cough and cried out. Both Davis and Belle thought he was gone, but the tremor passed and he said, “You two—you been my best friends—outside of family. I sure do—thank you . . .” He paused, his head pushing back into the pillow. His eyes opened wide and he whispered faintly, “Tell my ma—I’ll see her—in heaven!” Then his eyes began to close, and a smile crested his lips, as if he had thought of something very wonderful.
“ . . . and I’ll—see you, Miss Belle—and Lieutenant . . .”—he whispered so faintly they could barely make it out—“ . . . I’ll see—you too . . .”
The smile remained on his lips, and he gave one great sigh—and lay still.
Belle put the lifeless hand on the boy’s chest, and Davis got his cane and pulled himself to his feet. They stood there looking down at Lonnie’s ravaged features, and suddenly Belle gave a great choking sob and turned blindly toward Davis. Without thought, he put out his free arm and she fell against him. As he held her, he felt the quick loosening of her body and the onset of her crying. She would have fallen, he knew, if he had not supported her, for her strength had
drained from her. It was as though the iron control he had noted in her had slipped away with the spirit of the dying boy.