Being fond of the night side of nature,I was soon promoted to the post of night nurse,with every facility for indulging in my favorite pastime of "owling."My colleague,a black-eyed widow,relieved me at dawn,we two taking care of the ward,between us,like the immortal Sairy and Betsey,"turn and turn about."I usually found my boys in the jolliest state of mind their condition allowed;for it was a known fact that Nurse Periwinkle objected to blue devils,and entertained a belief that he who laughed most was surest of recovery.At the beginning of my reign,dumps and dismals prevailed;the nurses looked anxious and tired,the men gloomy or sad;and a general "Hark!-from-the-tombs-a-doleful-sound"style of conversation seemed to be the fashion :a state of things which caused one coming from a merry,social New England town,to feel as if she had got into an exhausted receiver;and the instinct of self-preservation,to say nothing of a philanthropic desire to serve the race,caused a speedy change in Ward No.1.More flattering than the most gracefully turned compliment,more grateful than the most admiring glance,was the sight of those rows of faces,all strange to me a little while ago,now lighting up,with smiles of welcome,as I came among them,enjoying that moment heartily,with a womanly pride in their regard,a motherly affection for them all.The evenings were spent in reading aloud,writing letters,waiting on and amusing the men,going the rounds with Dr.P.,as he made his second daily survey,dressing my dozen wounds afresh,giving last doses,and making them cozy for the long hours to come,till the nine o'clock bell rang,the gas was turned down,the day nurses went off duty,the night watch came on,and my nocturnal adventure began.
My ward was now divided into three rooms;and,under favor of the matron,I had managed to sort out the patients in such a way that I had what Icalled,"my duty room,"my "pleasure room,"and my "pathetic room,"and worked for each in a different way.One,I visited,armed with a dressing tray,full of rollers,plasters,and pins;another,with books,flowers,games,and gossip;a third,with teapots,lullabies,consolation,and sometimes,a shroud.
Wherever the sickest or most helpless man chanced to be,there I held my watch,often visiting the other rooms,to see that the general watchman of the ward did his duty by the fires and the wounds,the latter needing constant wetting.Not only on this account did I meander,but also to get fresher air than the close rooms afforded;for,owing to the stupidity of that mysterious "somebody"who does all the damage in the world,the windows had been carefully nailed down above,and the lower sashes could only be raised in the mildest weather,for the men lay just below.I had suggested a summary smashing of a few panes here and there,when frequent appeals to headquarters had proved unavailing,and daily orders to lazy attendants had come to nothing.No one seconded the motion,however,and the nails were far beyond my reach;for,though belonging to the sisterhood of "ministering angels,"I had no wings,and might as well have asked for Jacob's ladder,as a pair of steps,in that charitable chaos.
One of the harmless ghosts who bore me company during the haunted hours,was Dan,the watchman,whom I regarded with a certain awe;for,though so much together,I never fairly saw his face,and,but for his legs,should never have recognized him,as we seldom met by day.These legs were remarkable,as was his whole figure,for his body was short,rotund,and done up in a big jacket,and muffler;his beard hid the lower part of his face,his hat-brim the upper;and all I ever discovered was a pair of sleepy eyes,and a very mild voice.But the legs!very long,very thin,very crooked and feeble,looking like grey sausages in their tight coverings,without a ray of pegtopishness about them,and finished off with a pair of expansive,green cloth shoes,very like Chinese junks,with the sails down.This figure,gliding noiselessly about the dimly lighted rooms,was strongly suggestive of the spirit of a beer barrel mounted on cork-screws,haunting the old hotel in search of its lost mates,emptied and staved in long ago.
Another goblin who frequently appeared to me,was the attendant of the pathetic room,who,being a faithful soul,was often up to tend two or three men,weak and wandering as babies,after the fever had gone.The amiable creature beguiled the watches of the night by brewing jorums of a fearful beverage,which he called coffee,and insisted on sharing with me;coming in with a great bowl of something like mud soup,scalding hot,guiltless of cream,rich in an all-pervading flavor of molasses,scorch and tin pot.Such an amount of good will and neighborly kindness also went into the mess,that I never could find the heart to refuse,but always received it with thanks,sipped it with hypocritical relish while he remained,and whipped it into the slop-jar the instant he departed,thereby gratifying him,securing one rousing laugh in the doziest hour of the night,and no one was the worse for the transaction but the pigs.Whether they were "cut off untimely in their sins,"or not,I carefully abstained from inquiring.
