Benefits Forgot Part 6

Jason's fourth letter was urgent and prompt in reply.

"DEAR MOTHER:

"I am going into the army, mother. The need for surgeons is urgent and I've got to help lick the South. I thought, barring the five from you, I could raise enough to buy into practice with Dr. Edwards before I leave, so that if I live, I will have that to return to. It will cost a hundred dollars. But I can't do it. So I guess you'll have to sell Pilgrim. I hate to ask it of you but after all he's only an expense to you and I'll buy you another, after the war. Sell him to the government for an army horse. Mr. Inchpin will attend to it for you.

"Lovingly, "JASON."

Jason's mother read the letter with tears running down her cheeks. It was November. Drearily the Kentucky hills rolled back from the river and drearily the Ohio valleys stretched inland. Pilgrim plodded patiently toward the stable and his mistress, huddled in the saddle, gave him no heed until Pilgrim stamped impatiently at the stable door. Then she dismounted and the great horse stamped into his stall.

"O Pilgrim," she sobbed, "Jason is going to war. Jason is going to war.

I can't lose him too!"

The horse turned his fine head and nickered softly as he rubbed his soft nose on her shoulder.

"And I've got to let you go, old friend," she added. "I know that I don't need you, Pilgrim. It's just that you are like a living bit of father--and if Jason would only seem to understand that, it wouldn't be so hard to let you go. I wonder if all young folks are like Jason?"

Old Pilgrim leaned his head over his stall and in the November gloaming he looked long at his mistress with his wise and gentle eyes. It was as if he would tell her that he had learned that youth is always a little hard; that only long years in harness with always the back-breaking load to pull, not for oneself, but for others, can make the really grateful heart. One of the sweet, deep compensations of the years, the gray horse seemed to say, is that grat.i.tude grows in the soul.

So Jason and Old Pilgrim both went to war. They did not see each other, but each one, in his own way, made a brilliant record. Pilgrim learned the sights and sounds and smells of war. The fearful pools of blood ceased to send him plunging and rearing in harness. The screams of utter fear or of mortal agony no longer set him to neighing or sweating in sympathy. Pilgrim, superb in strength and superb in intelligence, plodded efficiently through a battle just as he had plodded efficiently over the circuit of Jason's Methodist father.

And Jason, cool and clear-headed, with his wonderful long strong hands, sawed and sewed and probed and purged his way through field hospital after field hospital, until the men began to hear of his skill and to ask for him when the fear of death was on them. His work absorbed him more and more, until months went by, and he neglected to write to his mother! Just why, who can say? Each of us looking into his heart, perhaps can find some answer. But Jason was young, and work and world hungry. He did not ask himself embarra.s.sing questions. The months slipped into a year, and the first year into a second year. Still Jason did not write to his mother, nor did he longer hear from her.

In November of the second year Jason was stationed in a hospital near Washington. One rainy morning as he made his way to the cot of a man who was dying of gangrene, an orderly stopped him.

"This is Dr. Jason Wilkins?"

"Yes."

"Sorry, Doctor, but I've got to arrest you and take you to Washington--"

Jason looked the orderly over incredulously. "You've got the wrong man, friend."

The soldier drew a heavy envelop carefully from his breast pocket, and handed it to Jason. Jason opened it uneasily, and gasped. This is what he read: "Show this to Surgeon Jason Wilkins, ---- Regiment. Arrest him.

Bring him to me immediately.--A. LINCOLN."

Jason whitened. "What's up?" he asked the orderly.

"I didn't ask the President," replied the orderly dryly. "We'll start at once, if you please, Doctor."

In a daze, Jason left for Washington. He thought of all the minor offenses he had committed. But they were only such as any young fellow might have committed. He could not believe that any of them had reached Mr. Lincoln's ears, or that, if they had, the great man in the White House would have heeded them.

Jason was locked in a room in a Washington boarding-house for one night.

The next day at noon the orderly called for him. Weak-kneed, Jason followed him up the long drive to the door of the White House, and into a room where there were more orderlies and a man at a desk writing. An hour of dazed waiting, then a man came out of a door and spoke to the man at the desk.

"Surgeon Jason Wilkins," said the sentry.

"Here!" answered Jason.

"This way," jerked the orderly, and Jason found himself in the inner room, with the door closed behind him. The room was empty, yet filled.

There was but one man in it besides Jason, but that man was Mr. Lincoln.

He sat at a desk, with his somber eyes on Jason's face--still a cool young face, despite trembling knees.

"You are Jason Wilkins?" said Mr. Lincoln.

"Yes, Mr. President," replied the young surgeon.

"Where are you from?"

"High Hill, Ohio."

"Have you any relatives?"

"Only my mother is living."

"Yes, only a mother! Well, young man, how is your mother?"

Jason stammered. "Why, why--I don't know."

"You don't know!" thundered Lincoln. "And why don't you know? Is she living or dead?"

"I don't know," said Jason. "To tell the truth, I've neglected to write and I don't suppose she knows where I am."

There was a silence in the room. Mr. Lincoln clenched a great fist on his desk, and his eyes scorched Jason. "I had a letter from her. She supposes you dead and asked me to trace your grave. What was the matter with her? No good? Like most mothers, a poor sort? Eh? Answer me, sir?"

Jason bristled a little. "The best woman that ever lived, Mr.

President."

"Ah!" breathed Mr. Lincoln. "Still you have no reason to be grateful to her! How'd you get your training as a surgeon? Who paid for it? Your father?"

Jason reddened. "Well, no; father was a poor Methodist preacher. Mother raised the money, though I worked for my board mostly."

"Yes, how'd she raise the money?"

Jason's lips were stiff. "Selling things, Mr. President."

"What did she sell?"

"Father's watch--the old silver teapot--the mahogany hat-box--the St.

Bartholomew candlestick. Old things mostly; beyond use except in museums."

Again silence in the room, while a look of contempt gathered in Abraham Lincoln's eyes that seared Jason's cool young soul till it scorched him.

"You poor fool!" said Lincoln. "You poor worm! Her household treasures--one by one--for you. 'Useless things--fit for museums!' Oh, you fool!"

Jason flushed angrily and bit his lips. Suddenly the President rose and pointed a long, bony finger at his desk. "Come here and sit down and write a letter to your mother!"

Jason stalked obediently over and sat down in the President's seat.