Lost Cause (5 page)

Moving on toward the summit they spread out
among the splintered stumps and worked their way to the top in
irregular groups of tens and twenties. A great rustling of leaves
and snapping of twigs rose up above the height of the bluffs
announcing the advance of the Union forces. Corporal Campbell moved
close to Jack and they fell in behind the flag barrier and followed
a sergeant named Nash up the slope toward the sound of bayonets
clanking. A knot of blue clad soldiers spilled over the summit and
Jack fired his musket and Campbell fired his and Sergeant Nash fell
to the ground bleeding from his right leg and a hot flash of pain
laced through Jack’s left shoulder and he went tumbling backwards
down the incline. As he struggled to get to his feet a blue shadow
blocked out the moon and Jack pulled his pistol and fired a round.
A Union lad fell heavily at his feet staring up at the waning moon
seeing whatever the dead see. Sergeant Nash lay a yard away in a
smear of blood and urine. Jack crawled to his side prepared to
apply a tourniquet but the man was already dead. There were others
to locate, however. He couldn’t see Campbell within the shroud of
black smoke that had rolled down the face of the mountain like an
avalanche. Musket fire popped all around and men cried out as
canister rounds filled the air with lead tearing flesh and crushing
bone. A musket round struck Jack in the head and he went down and
tried to stand but a darkness deeper than the night consumed him
and he saw nothing more.

He woke to the sound of hooves clomping and
he raised his head to see the tail of a mule swinging like a
metronome in front of him. He was in an ambulance bouncing along on
the bridge heading back toward the center of town. The sound of
battle clamored in the distance but the covered bridge provided
adequate shelter from small arms fire though they were no doubt in
range of one of the big guns positioned on the bluffs above the
river.

Jack looked to his right and saw Corporal
Campbell with a big ragged hole in his face and his white teeth
foamed with blood. A wounded private lay next to him gripping the
wagon rail with white knuckled ferocity. He was a small man with
chin whiskers now matted with blood. He wore his over blouse
buttoned tight around his collar and had his trousers tucked into
knee high boots that appeared two sizes too large for him. Jack
couldn’t help wondering how much longer he would survive his
wounds.

Outside of the ambulance it was nearly dawn.
The infirmary was blaze with lantern light and the silhouettes of
the surgeons and nurses moved behind the backlit canvas tent like
characters in a kabuki play. Someone lifted Jack from the wagon; an
orderly, his face dark and shiny, like old saddle leather. Two
stretcher-bearers took over and carried Jack into the tent. The
first face he saw was that of Miss Marie Hayes. She was damp with
sweat and there was blood on her face and on her apron and there
were tears in her eyes. Jack began to talk and she tried to shush
him but he prattled on saying, “there was a roar and then a sharp
pain and I tried to breathe but my breath wouldn’t come and I
thought I was dead and it had been a mistake to leave you alone.
And then I felt myself fall and slide backwards down the slope and
something hit my head and then there was nothing until now.”

Marie Hayes was talking to him with gentle
words. “Jack. Jack, you must be quiet.”

“Is my wound fatal?”

“I think not. But I’m not a surgeon.”

“Campbell? Is he alive?”

“He’s with Dr. Weaver. I don’t know his
condition. Now I must help the others.”

“But my wound.”

“Other men are dying, Jack. Please, be
patient.”

Outside the tent a great many men waited for
medical treatment. The ambulances carried the wounded in and
orderlies brought them into the tent and the cots filled up and the
men with lesser wounds were placed outside on the ground under the
trees. Jack saw light coming from the front of the tent and when
the flap opened he could see the dead piled up on a wagon like
lengths of cord wood. Inside the tent the surgeons were working
with their sleeves rolled up and their aprons as red as butcher
blocks. They were running out of stretchers; some of the wounded
came in on the shoulders of men still healthy enough to walk,
others limped in unaccompanied and were quickly moved to the
makeshift annex under the juniper trees. Some of the men moaned or
groaned but most were quiet, no doubt in shock. The breeze picked
up and blew dust through the tent flap and the lantern light
flickered ghostly on the blood-stained floor of the dressing
stations. Nurse Mason stopped by to clean Jack’s bullet wound with
hot water and Jack asked about Corporal Campbell.

“His wound is very serious,” she said.

“His face. Will he be disfigured?”

“Let’s concentrate on your injuries, Corporal
Saylor.”

“But I saw his teeth.”

“Turn around please, I need to inspect your
head.”

Jack complied and Nurse Mason cleaned the
gouge behind his left ear and a sergeant in charge of the orderlies
made Jack give up his stretcher for a soldier missing the lower
half of his right arm. There was so much dirt and powder residue in
the wound that the blood dripping on the floor looked like sorghum
molasses. Jack’s shoulder had not felt bad until the hot water
softened the dried blood but now the damaged muscle had stiffened
and the hole made by the 44.40 slug began to throb in cadence with
his pulse. He was sitting up against one of the wooden supports
waiting his turn to see the surgeon. When the doctor finally
arrived he went right to work on the shoulder wound. He was a tall
man and wore tiny spectacles with thick lenses spattered with
droplets of fresh blood.

“It’s not serious,” he said after a cursory
exam. “The bullet passed through the trapezius and exited out the
other side. You’ll be fine, if it doesn’t turn septic.”

“What about my head?”

The surgeon took a quick peek. “Superficial.
You’ll not be needing a haircut for a while, though.”

The surgeon left to tend to the other wounded
and Jack looked through the crowd of people searching for Marie
Hayes. The tent was packed with wounded men and medical personnel
as well as orderlies and local civilians doing what they could to
assist the doctors and nurses.

Finally Marie Hayes made her way to his side
and he gripped her arm and she pushed the hand away and applied a
cotton bandage to his head. “Thank God you’re not hurt bad,” she
said.

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“Compared to others I mean.”

“Have you seen Campbell?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He’ll live. But. . .”

“Tell me.”

“His mandible is severely damaged. He’s lost
some teeth.”

“Deformed, right? A freak?” She said nothing
and Jack said, “Better off dead.”

“He’s alive, Jack.”

“At what cost? He’s a young man. What’s he to
do the rest of his life looking like a freak? How’s he supposed to
spark a girl with his jaw shattered and half his teeth
missing?”

“Jack, you’re experiencing shock. You need to
relax and let me dress your shoulder.”

She went to work and Jack watched her face
and tried to ignore the smells in the tent; chloroform and sweat
and urine and vomit and the sweet coppery odor of spilled
blood.

“Would you like a drink of rum?” Marie asked.
“It will settle your nerves and help with the pain.”

“I’d rather have a kiss.”

“Jack, I’m working.”

“You said I need to relax. A kiss might just
do the trick.”

“So will rum. You’re such a naughty boy.”

She left briefly then returned with a tin cup
containing whiskey. “There was no more rum, but you should have
some of this moonshine.” Jack drank it down choking on the strong
liquor.

“How are you feeling now?” Marie asked.

“Numb.”

“Good, but it won’t last. The worst of the
pain hasn’t started yet. Shock dulls the pain, but that will wear
off. Drink some more whiskey. He took another sip then leaned back
against the support.

“How’s your head?” Marie asked.

“Numb.”

“Good.”

Sweat ran down Jack’s face mingling with the
dried blood on his cheek. “Lord but it’s hot,” he murmured.

Two orderlies came for Jack and Marie patted
his arm and the men helped him to his feet and walked him out of
the tent to the infirmary annex. Outside the sergeant in charge of
the orderlies knelt down beside Jack and asked him his name.

“Jack Saylor. With a Y.”

“Middle name?”

“Don’t have one.” The sergeant wrote
something on a scrap of paper and said,

“Rank, corporal, regiment, Second Dismounted
Calvary; commanding officer, Captain Frederick Ross. That about
right Corporal?”

“Yes.”

“Good, stay put, someone will be along
directly with a change of clothes, Yours are in a pretty sad
state.”

‘Thank you,” Jack said.

The pain that Marie had warned him of started
in earnest and Jack found his teeth chattering uncontrollably.
There was a soldier lying next to him with bandages on his hands.
He didn’t seem to be in much pain but he was breathing heavily and
Jack wondered if the pink foam on his lips meant he had a more
serious injury inside his chest or stomach. There wasn’t much time
to ponder the rhetorical question because the stretcher bearers
picked up the man and hauled him inside the tent leaving Jack to
watch the blood spot on his shoulder bandage grow larger by the
second.

Orderlies placed another soldier beside Jack
and carried the bloody stretcher back to the tent. They weren’t
gone five minutes before the man began to hemorrhage. Blood poured
from the wound in his chest and he began to strangle on blood and
vomit. Jack called for the orderlies but his cry went unnoticed in
the general din of many voices talking and shouting and crying out
in pain. Jack crawled to the man’s side and rolled him on his
stomach so the blood and vomit would expel on the ground. The man
was a private from Jack’s regiment. His name was Miller and he
hailed from a small town not far from Jack’s own homestead. Jack
held his hand and made him as comfortable as he could while the man
bled out and eventually died. His face was white like ivory and his
gray eyes fixed Jack with the vacant unfocused stare common with
the recently dead. Directly a surgeon came by and approached the
man and Jack said, “he’s dead,” and the surgeon shrugged and moved
on to the next man lying under the canopy of the juniper branches.
The sun was up now and the grass seemed greener than usual and the
blood splattered on the switch grass looked brighter than usual and
Jack wished it would be dark again so he wouldn’t have to see the
blood and the broken limbs and the torn flesh or hear the agonized
cries of men undergoing the knife of amputation or see the face of
his dearest Marie Hayes streaked with blood and anguish and tears
stained red by the blood of so many butchered men.

The effect of the whiskey was beginning to
wear off and the pain increased until Jack could bear sitting still
no longer. He rose on unsteady legs and walked out to the
thoroughfare intent on going back to the barracks and drink wine
until the sights and sounds of the last few hours faded away into
inebriated obscurity.

Chapter 8

That evening Jack was in his bunk and an
orderly from the infirmary stopped by to bring him clean clothing
and to tell him he would be receiving a visitor. It was an
obscenely hot day and flies buzzed around the room singularly
focused on the pail of vomit beside Jack’s bed. The wine had been
sweet and effective but the bottom of the bottle contained thick
dross which twisted Jack’s stomach into a sour knot.

A shadow crossed the door and Jack looked up
to see the priest looking concerned. “How are you Jack?”

“Wounded. But alive.”

“I can only stay a minute. It’s getting
late.”

“It’s not that late, Padre. How was
supper?”

He smiled thinly and said, “Quiet. No one to
joke about prostitutes.” He sounded tired. And sad. “Thank God you
survived, Jack. I miss your conversation at the mess tent.”

“I wish I could have made it. I always
enjoyed our little talks. Maybe tomorrow, eh?”

“I brought you something,” the priest said.
He took the chair by the bunk and removed a flask of peach brandy
from his breast pocket. “Drink?” he asked.

“My Lord no. Have you not seen that mess by
your feet?”

“Self medicating, huh?”

“Surviving. I’m glad you came, Padre.”

“I’m making my rounds.”

“Any converts?”

“No. Just the opposite. Men tend to be angry
at God when their friends are blown apart before their eyes.”

”You’ve never been angry with God?”

“No. Only his adversary the Devil.”

“Huh. Have you seen Campbell?”

“Yes.”

“How is he?”

“He can’t talk very well. But he was able to
ask me if I had been to the cantina to visit a senorita. I was glad
to see that he still has a sense of humor.”

“What’s the matter, Padre? You seem awfully
tired.”

“I am tired. “It’s the heat.”

“Not the war?”

“Ah, the war.”

“Did you always love God, Padre? Or is it a
recent thing?”

“You call me father and you’re not even
Catholic.”

“I’m just being respectful. The war, it has
you down doesn’t it?”

“Should it not?”

Jack groaned and sat up in bed. “I’m so sick
of war. Why can’t we just finish it so all of us can go home?”

“There is no end to war,” the priest
said.

“Sure there is. We kill more of them than
they kill of us and they give up. We win and the war ends.” The
priest shook his head.

“War is not won by one side defeating the
other. What if the Confederacy won every battle from here on out?
What if Lincoln surrenders tomorrow? Do you think that would stop
the conflict? I say it would not. A new nation would be formed, the
Confederate States of America, and then the government in Richmond
needs money for reconstruction and they raise taxes on cotton and
tobacco and maybe even lobby to tax slave ownership, and before you
know it there’s another rebellion followed by succession. No Jack,
conflict between nations will never end. Not as long as men are
given over to their carnal natures.”