The Southerner: A Romance of the Real Lincoln Part 16

"What's it like?" he asked at last. "Can't you take bitters for it in time to stop it? How do you know when it's come?"

"You begin to feel drowsy, a whitish coating is on the tongue, a burning in the stomach, the feet and legs get cold. You're restless and the pulse grows weak."

"How long does it last?"

"Sometimes it kills in three days, sometimes two weeks. Sometimes it's chronic and hangs on for years and then kills."

Every morning through the long black summer of the scourge he asked her with wistful tenderness if she were well. Her cheerful answers at last brought peace to his anxious heart and he gradually ceased to fear. She was too sweet and loving and G.o.d too good that she should die. Besides, both his father and mother had given him a lesson in quiet, simple heroism that steadied his nerves.

He looked at the rugged figure of his father with a new sense of admiration. He was no more afraid of Death than of Life. He was giving himself without a question in an utterly unselfish devotion to the stricken community. There were no doctors within thirty miles, and if one came he could but shake his head and advise simple remedies that did no good. Only careful nursing counted for anything. Without money, without price, without a murmur the father gave his life to this work.

No neighbor within five miles was stricken that he did not find a place by that bedside in fearless, loving, unselfish service.

And when Death came, this simple friend went for his tools, cut down a tree, ripped the boards from its trunk, made the coffin, and with tender reverence dug a grave and lowered the loved one. He was doctor, nurse, casket-maker, grave-digger, comforter and priest. His reverent lips had long known the language of prayer.

With tireless zeal the mother joined in this ministry of love, and the Boy saw her slender dark figure walk so often beside trembling feet as they entered the valley of the great shadow, that he grew to believe that she led a charmed life. Nor did he fear when Dennis came one morning and in choking tones said that both his uncle and aunt were stricken in the little half-faced camp but a few hundred yards away. He was sorry for Dennis. He had never known father or mother--only this uncle and aunt.

"Don't you worry, Dennis," the Boy said tenderly. "You'll live with us if they die."

They both died within a few days. The night after the last burial, Dennis crawled into the loft with the Boy to be his companion for many a year.

And then the blow fell, swift, terrible and utterly unexpected. He had long ago made up his mind that G.o.d had flung about his mother's form the spell of his Almighty power and the pestilence that walked in the night dared not draw near. An angel with flaming sword stood beside their cabin door.

Last night in the soft moonlight a whip-poor-will was singing nearby and he fancied he saw the white winged sentinel, and laughed for joy.

When he climbed down from his loft next morning his mother was in bed and Sarah was alone over the fire cooking breakfast.

His heart stood still. He walked with unsteady step to her bedside and whispered:

"Are you sick, Ma?"

"Yes, dear, it has come."

He grasped her hot outstretched hand and fell on his knees in sobbing anguish. He knew now--it was the angel of Death he had seen.

XIII

Death stood at the door with drawn sword to slay not to defend, but the Boy resolved to fight. She should not give up--she should not die. He would fight for her with all the hosts of h.e.l.l and single-handed if he must.

He rose from his knees still holding her hand, his first hopeless burst of despair over, his heart beating with desperate resolution.

"You won't give up, will you, Ma?" he whispered.

She smiled wanly and he rushed on with breathless intensity: "I'm not going to let you die. I won't--I tell you I won't. I'll fight this thing--and you've got to help me--won't you?"

"I'm ready for G.o.d's will, my Boy," she said simply.

"I don't want you to say that!" he pleaded. "I want you to fight and never give up. Why you can't die, Ma--you just can't. You're my only teacher now. There ain't no schools here. How can I learn books without you to help me? Say you'll get well. Please say it for me--please, just say it----"

He paused and couldn't go on for a moment, "Say you'll try then--just for me--please say it!"

"I'll try, Boy," she said tenderly at last.

He flew to the creek bank and in two hours came home with an armful of fresh sarsaparilla roots. He cut and pounded them into a soft pulp and made a poultice. Sarah helped him put it in place. He made his mother drink the bitters every hour. He got stones ready and had them hot to wrap in cloths and put to her feet the moment they felt cold. He wouldn't take her word for it either. He kept slipping his little hands under the cover to feel.

The mother smiled at his tender, eager touch.

"Now, Boy," she said softly. "I'm feeling comfortable, will you do something for me?"

"What is it?" he cried eagerly.

She smiled again:

"Read to me. I want to hear your voice."

"All right--what?"

"The Bible, of course."

"What story?"

"Not a story this time--the twenty-third Psalm."

The Boy took the worn Bible from the shelf, sat down on the edge of the bed, opened, and began in low tones to read:

"The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want----"

His voice choked and he stopped:

"O, Ma, I just can't read that now--why--why did he let this come to you if He's your Shepherd--why--why--why!"

He buried his face in his hands and her slender fingers touched his hair:

"He knows best, my son--read on--the words are sweet to my soul from your lips."

With an effort he opened the Book again:

"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;

"He leadeth me beside the still waters.

"He restoreth my soul:

"He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

"I will fear no evil; for thou art with me----"