A Father's Gift

A Father's Gift

by Annie K Cowgirl

Rating: PG

When Ben Cartwright entered Union Methodist Episcopal Church, a horrendous stench of alcohol and decaying flesh met his unprepared nostrils. It was so powerful, that the middle aged man actually took a step backwards, a hand covering his nose and mouth until the olfactory nerve grew accustom to the fetid odor. Making his way as fast as he could through the milling crowd of doctors, nurses and invalids, he eventually got the attention of one of the attendants.

“What is it!” The woman snapped; she was in her forties although her work had hardened her before her time, making her look closer to sixty.

“Please, ma'am—my son, Captain Cartwright—I was told he was a patient here. Could you take me to him?”

The lady seemed to soften a bit at the gentlemanly tone and she gifted him with a rare smile.

“Yes, Mr. Cartwright, this way.”

As he commenced to follow her down the corridor, Ben couldn't help but relive the moment the notice had arrived five days ago while he was on a rare visit to Boston...

“A telegram for you, Sir.”

Glancing up from his cup of coffee, Ben spotted the hotel desk clerk standing impassively beside his dining room table.

“Thank you, Miles.” He took the scrap of paper from the proffered tray, nodding to the man in dismissal. He would never get used to being waited on hand and foot.

“Well, are you just going to sit there like a fish out of water, Benjamin, or are you going to read that note?” Abel Stoddard's gruff voice pulled the younger man out of his revery; nodding, he tore the envelope apart to view the contents. What he saw made his heart cease to beat.

DEAR, PA—STOP--RECEIVED TELEGRAM FROM ARMY—STOP—NOTE INSIDE—STOP--HOSS--STOP

TO MR. BENJAMIN CARTWRIGHT—STOP--YOUR SON, CAPTAIN CARTWRIGHT, GRIEVOUSLY WOUNDED—STOP--WILL BE SHIPPED TO CAPITOL—STOP--MY CONDOLENCES—STOP--COLONEL P. J. STANTON—STOP

“Benjamin, what's wrong?” Abel noticed the blood draining from his son-in-law's face and knew something had gone terribly wrong. Tossing the parchment down on the tabletop, he hurriedly finished off his coffee and stood.

“When does the next train leave for Washington?”

“Here we are, Sir.” He nearly ran headlong into the nurse's back, her words drawing him into the present. She pulled the curtain back from around the small space so that he could enter.
“Thank you, ma'am.” With a nod, the orderly was gone, leaving him and the patient alone.

“Dear Lord!” He moaned as he caught sight of his son for the first time in four years. He was thin—not that he had ever been fat—truly rail thin, the outline of his ribs evident through the rough sheet that covered his gaunt body. His chest barely rose and fell, a scraggly half-grown beard covered the lower half of his once handsome features; he had not expected this...this wraith of the formerly strong-willed hard working son of his. Even though those things sickened his fatherly soul, what really broke his heart was the absence of a lump beneath the blanket where his child's left foot had once been.

“Oh, Adam!”

He felt as if someone had placed an invisible weight on his shoulders and with a sigh, Ben lowered himself to a sitting position on the bed. Visions of the past floated through his memory.
Adam as a tiny ink-haired baby trying to sit upright. Adam taking his first step...six years later the boy was protecting his little brother with all the love and attention of a father. Adam helping with the construction of the ranch house and playing with a three-year-old Little Joe. Adam heading off to college and returning with a bachelor's degree in architecture...Adam standing on the platform two years later in his uniform, his sword gleaming in the sun, its tassel moving slightly at the call of the wind....How had his eldest's life culminated into this nightmare?

During all his years upon this earth, Ben had never imagined any of his children being maimed, having to go through life without a limb.

Oh God, how will he be able to perform everyday things like walking up the stairs? How will he be able to build like he's always wanted to? Who will marry a one legged man? How will he live?

The half prayer-half frenzied cry for help seemed to bounce off of the ceiling instead of rising into the heavens; with a groan, he placed his wizened head into his hands and sobbed.

* * *

“Sir?”

The gentle voice startled Ben into wakefulness and he rubbed the drowse out of his eyes before peering up at the figure before him. It was a man dressed in a black cowl—reminding Ben for all the world of a medieval monk preparing for vespers—his white clerical collar marking him as a priest and not of the monastic order.

“I'm sorry to disturb ye, but the doctor is here to examine his patient--”

“Oh, yes! I must have dropped off, the train ride....”

Ben flushed, here he was rambling on to a complete stranger as if he were a fishwife. He rose from his slouched position, pulling the partition apart enough to slip through the opening, he followed the priest down the hallway to a waiting area nearly emptied of its occupants.

“I'm Father Mulligan.” The man's fiery hair and deep brogue proclaimed him to be Irish. Ben took the proffered hand, feeling the rough callouses of a working man beneath his own scarred palm. After introducing himself, the pair chose a pair of vacant chairs and slid into them.
“I don't mean to be pry, but it seems like there is a lot on yer mind; do ye want to talk about it?” Father Mulligan's question blind-sided him. Unsure of what to say, the silence seemed to loom between the two men until Ben could stand it no more.

“How can God be cruel to one so young, Father? My son is twenty-eight-years old, he has his whole life ahead of him...how can God let him live out the rest of his days as a cripple? I was raised to believe that He was caring and merciful...a loving God! Why my child? Why Adam?”

The hatred and confusion welled up inside of him until he felt as if he would burst if he did not release it somehow.

“I canna give ye an answer, Mr. Cartwright—me not being God—but I dinna understand yer anger; yer boy-o is still alive. God coulda let him die out there on the battlefield, but He dinna.”

A long pause ensued before the Irishman spoke again.

“It may not seem like it now, but God;s given ye a gift.”

“Gift? What kind of gift?” Ben gazed earnestly over at Father Mulligan, hardly daring to breathe lest he miss the reply.

“The gift of yer son's life; that's reason enough to be thankin' Him instead of railing at Him.”

All the fury, guilt and hopelessness fled with that simple sentence.

“Mr. Cartwright, you may come back in now, the doctor would like to have a word with you.” An orderly, who had seemingly popped out of nowhere, interrupted. As he rose to return to his son, Ben thrust out his hand and grasped the priest's hand in a strong grip once more.

“Bless you, Father.” He whispered, and then he turned and left the room.

* * *

A few hours later—after a sponge bath, a shave and a hair cut—Adam looked like a new man, barring the bandaged stump just above where his ankle once was.

“How is he, doctor?” Ben whispered, not wishing to disturb the prone figure.

“May I be frank with you, Mr. Cartwright?”

“Please.”

“In all my years of medical practice, I haven't seen anything like your son's case. When he was brought in, gangrene had already set in on the would on his foot, he had infection in the bayonet's slash across his midsection and he had a high fever. We amputated immediately, but the infection was growing worse instead of better. Three nights ago, I wouldn't have given him another night to live, but Father Mulligan wouldn't give in. He's the chaplain for your son's regiment; he stayed with your son all night, praying. Since then, he has improved remarkably. Mr. Cartwright, if I was a religious man, I'd say God has some divine purpose for this young man....”
The physician left the statement hanging when he noticed a small smile creeping over Ben's face.

“Thank you for telling me, doctor.” The man nodded and then left the tiny room.

“A Father's gift to his child, yes, Father Mulligan, you were right.” And for the first time since he received the telegram, Benjamin Cartwright had hope.

--The End