Lincoln in the Bardo
Page 10
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And he was gone.
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His shabby uniform pants raining down, and his shirt, and his boots, and his cheap iron wedding ring.
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Some of the lesser members of the gathered crowd now began running amok, mocking at the soldier, inflicting various perverse and disrespectful postures upon his sick-mound—not out of meanness, for there is no meanness in them; but rather from excess of feeling.
In this they can be like wild dogs let into a slaughterhouse—racing about upon the spilled blood, driven mad by the certainty that some sort of satisfaction must be near at hand.
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My goodness, I thought, poor fellow! You did not give this place a proper chance, but fled it recklessly, leaving behind forever the beautiful things of this world.
And for what?
You do not know.
A most unintelligent wager.
Forgoing eternally, sir, such things as, for example: two fresh-shorn lambs bleat in a new-mown field; four parallel blind-cast linear shadows creep across a sleeping tabby’s midday flank; down a bleached-slate roof and into a patch of wilting heather bounce nine gust-loosened acorns; up past a shaving fellow wafts the smell of a warming griddle (and early morning pot-clangs and kitchen-girl chatter); in a nearby harbor a mansion-sized schooner tilts to port, sent so by a flag-rippling, chime-inciting breeze that causes, in a port-side schoolyard, a chorus of childish squeals and the mad barking of what sounds like a dozen—
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Friend.
Now is hardly the time.
hans vollman
Many apologies.
But (as I believe you must know) the thing is not entirely under my control.
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The crowd, having suspended its perversities, stood gaping at Mr. Bevins, who had acquired, in the telling, such a bounty of extra eyes, ears, noses, hands, etc., that he now resembled some overstuffed fleshly bouquet.
Bevins applied his usual remedy (closing the eyes and stopping as many of the noses and ears as he could with the various extra hands, dulling, thereby, all sensory intake, thus quieting the mind) and multiple sets of the eyes, ears, noses, and hands retracted or vanished (I could never tell which).
The crowd returned to its abuse of the soldier’s sick-mound, “Badger” Muller pretending to piss upon it, Mrs. Sparks squatting over it, screwing her face into an ugly grimace.
Look here, she grunted. I leave the coward a gift.
hans vollman
XLII.
And we proceeded on.
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Walk-skimming between (or over, when unavoidable) the former home-places of so many fools no longer among us.
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Goodson, Raynald, Slocum, Mackey, VanDycke, Piescer, Sliter, Peck, Safko, Swift, Roseboom.
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For example.
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Simkins, Warner, Persons, Lanier, Dunbar, Schuman, Hollingshead, Nelson, Black, VanDuesen.
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These were, it must be conceded, in the majority, outnumbering our ilk by perhaps an order of magnitude.
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Topenbdale, Haggerdown, Messerschmidt, Brown.
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Underscoring the exceptional qualities of those of us who soldiered on.
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Coe, Mumford, Risely, Rowe.
Their places were so quiet, and from these, at dusk, as we whirled out of our respective home-places, nothing whirled out whatsoever, and the contents of their—
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Sick-boxes.
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Lay down there inert, discarded, neglected.
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Regrettable.
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Like discarded horses waiting in vain for beloved riders to return.
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Edgmont, Tody, Blasingame, Free.
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Haberknott, Bewler, Darby, Kerr.
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These were a chirpy, tepid, desireless sort, generally, and had lingered, if at all, for only the briefest of moments, so completely satisfactory had they found their tenure in that previous place.
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Smiling, grateful, gazing about themselves in wonder, favoring us with a last fond look as they—
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Surrendered.
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Succumbed.
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Capitulated.
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XLIII.
We found the gentleman as had been described to us, near Bellingwether, Husband, Father, Shipwright.
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Sitting cross-legged and defeated in a patch of tall grass.
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As we approached, he lifted head from hands and heaved a great sigh. He might have been, in that moment, a sculpture on the theme of Loss.
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Shall we? Mr. Vollman said.
I hesitated.
The Reverend would not approve, I said.
The Reverend is not here, he said.
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XLIV.
In order to occupy the greatest percentage of the gentleman’s volume, I lowered myself into his lap and sat cross-legged, just as he was sitting.
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The two now comprised one sitting man, Mr. Vollman’s greater girth somewhat overflowing the gentleman, his massive member existing wholly outside the gentleman, pointing up at the moon.
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It was quite something.
Quite something in there.
Bevins, come in! I called out. This is not to be missed.
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I went in, assuming the same cross-legged posture.
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And the three of us were one.
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So to speak.
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XLV.
There was a touch of prairie about the fellow.
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Yes.
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Like stepping into a summer barn late at night.
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Or a musty plains office, where some bright candle still burns.
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Vast. Windswept. New. Sad.
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Spacious. Curious. Doom-minded. Ambitious.
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Back slightly out.
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Right boot chafing.
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The recent entry of the (youthful) Mr. Bevins now caused the gentleman a mild thought-swerve back to a scene from his own (wild) youth: a soft-spoken but retrograde (dirty cheeks, kind eyes) lass leading him shyly down a muddy path, nettles accruing on her swaying green skirt as, in his mind, at the time, a touch of shame rose up, having to do with his sense that this girl was not really fair game, i.e., was more beast than lady, i.e., did not even know how to read.
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Becoming aware of that which he was remembering, the man’s face reddened (we could feel it reddening) at the thought that he was (in the midst of this tragic circumstance) remembering such a sordid incident.
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And he hurriedly directed his (our) mind elsewhere, so as to leave this inappropriate thought behind.
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XLVI.
Tried to “see” his boy’s face.
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Couldn’t.
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Tried to “hear” the boy’s laugh.
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Couldn’t.
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Attempted to recall some particular incident involving the boy, in hope thi
s might—
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First time we fitted him for a suit.
Thus thought the gentleman.
(This did the trick.)
First time we fitted him for a suit, he looked down at the trousers and then up at me, amazed, as if to say: Father, I am wearing grown-up pants.
Shirtless, barefoot, pale round belly like an old man’s. Then the little cuffed shirt and buttoning it up.
Goodbye, little belly, we are enshirting you now.
Enshirting? I do not believe that is even a word, Father.
I tied the little tie. Spun him around for a look.
We have dressed up a wild savage, looks like, I said.
He made the growling face. His hair stuck straight up, his cheeks were red. (Racing around that store just previous, he had knocked over a rack of socks.) The tailor, complicit, brought out the little jacket with much pomp.
Then the shy boyish smile as I slid the jacket on him.
Say, he said, don’t I look fine, Father?
Then no thought at all for a while, and we just looked about us: bare trees black against the dark-blue sky.
Little jacket little jacket little jacket.
This phrase sounded in our head.
A star flickered off, then on.
Same one he is wearing back in there, now.
Huh.
Same little jacket. But he who is wearing it is—
(I so want it not to be true.)
Broken.
Pale broken thing.
Why will it not work. What magic word made it work. Who is the keeper of that word. What did it profit Him to switch this one off. What a contraption it is. How did it ever run. What spark ran it. Grand little machine. Set up just so. Receiving the spark, it jumped to life.
What put out that spark? What a sin it would be. Who would dare. Ruin such a marvel. Hence is murder anathema. God forbid I should ever commit such a grievous—
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Something then troubling us—
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We ran one hand roughly over our face, as if attempting to suppress a notion just arising.
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This effort not proving successful—
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The notion washed over us.
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XLVII.
Young Willie Lincoln was laid to rest on the day that the casualty lists from the Union victory at Fort Donelson were publicly posted, an event that caused a great shock among the public at that time, the cost in life being unprecedented thus far in the war.
In “Setting the Record Straight: Memoir, Error, and Evasion,” by Jason Tumm, “Journal of American History.”
The details of the losses were communicated to the President even as young Willie lay under embalmment.
Iverness, op. cit.
More than a thousand troops on both sides were killed and three times that number wounded. It was “a most bloody fight,” a young Union soldier told his father, so devastating to his company that despite the victory, he remained “sad, lonely and down-hearted.” Only seven of the eighty-five men in his unit survived.
Goodwin, op. cit.
The dead at Donelson, sweet Jesus. Heaped and piled like threshed wheat, one on top of two on top of three. I walked through it after with a bad feeling. Lord it was me done that, I thought.
In “These Battle Memories,” by First Lieutenant Daniel Brower.
A thousand dead. That was something new. It seemed a real war now.
In “The Great War, as Described by Its Warriors,” by Marshall Turnbull.
The dead lay as they had fallen, in every conceivable shape, some grasping their guns as though they were in the act of firing, while others, with a cartridge in their icy grasp, were in the act of loading. Some of the countenances wore a peaceful, glad smile, while on others rested a fiendish look of hate. It looked as though each countenance was the exact counterpart of the thoughts that were passing through the mind when the death messenger laid them low. Perhaps that noble-looking youth, with his smiling up-turned face, with his glossy ringlets matted with his own life-blood, felt a mother’s prayer stealing over his senses as his young life went out. Near him lay a young husband with a prayer for his wife and little one yet lingering on his lips. Youth and age, virtue and evil, were represented on those ghastly countenances. Before us lay the charred and blackened remains of some who had been burnt alive. They were wounded too badly to move and the fierce elements consumed them.
In “The Civil War Years: A Day-by-Day Chronicle of the Life of a Nation,” edited by Robert E. Denney, account of Corporal Lucius W. Barber, Co. D, 15th Illinois Volunteer Infantry, combatant at Fort Donelson.
I had never seen a dead person before. Now I saw my fill. One poor lad had frozen solid in the posture of looking down aghast at his wound, eyes open. Some of his insides had spilled out and made, there on his side, under a thin coat of ice, a blur of purple and red. At home on my dressing table was a holy card of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and this fellow looked like that, only his bulge of red and purple was lower and larger and off to one side and him gazing down at it in horror.
In “That Terrible Glory: A Collection of Civil War Letters from the Men Who Fought It,” compiled and edited by Brian Bell and Libby Trust.
And Mother fire had swep through the frozen dead and hurt where they lay. We found one still kicking among them and was able to bring him back still alive not even knowing which side he was on, so burned was he, and naked except for one leg of his pants. I never did hear how he made out. But it did not look hopeful for that poor divil.
In “Letters of an Illinois Soldier,” edited by Sam Westfall, account of Private Edward Gates, Co. F, 15th Illinois Volunteer Infantry.
Two or three of us would grab a fellow and haul him away just as we found him, as it was cold and the bodies were completely froze. That day I learned a person can get used to anything. Soon it all seemed normal to us, and we even joked about it, making up names for each, depending on how it looked. There was Bent-Over, there was Shocked, this was Half-Boy.
Brower, op. cit.
We found two little fellers holding hands couldn’t been more than fourteen fifteen apiece as if they had desided to pass through that dark portel together.
Gates, op. cit.
How miny more ded do you attend to make sir afore you is done? One minit there was our litle Nate on that bridge with a fishpole and ware is that boy now? And who is it called him hither, in that Notice he saw down to Orbys, wellsir, that was your name he saw upon it “Abaham Lincoln.”
In “Country Letters to President Lincoln,” compiled and edited by Josephine Banner and Evelyn Dressman, letter from Robert Hansworthy, Boonsboro, Maryland.
XLVIII.
He is just one.
And the weight of it about to kill me.
Have exported this grief. Some three thousand times. So far. To date. A mountain. Of boys. Someone’s boys. Must keep on with it. May not have the heart for it. One thing to pull the lever when blind to the result. But here lies one dear example of what I accomplish by the orders I—
May not have the heart for it.
What to do. Call a halt? Toss down the loss-hole those three thousand? Sue for peace? Become great course-reversing fool, king of indecision, laughing-stock for the ages, waffling hick, slim Mr. Turnabout?
It is out of control. Who is doing it. Who caused it. Whose arrival on the scene began it.
What am I doing.
What am I doing here.
Everything nonsense now. Those mourners came up. Hands extended. Sons intact. Wearing on their faces enforced sadness-masks to hide any sign of their happiness, which—which went on. They could not hide how alive they yet were with it, with their happiness at the potential of their still-living sons. Until lately I was one of them. Strolling whistling through the slaughterhouse, averting my eyes from the carnage, able to laugh and dream and hope because it had
not yet happened to me.
To us.
Trap. Horrible trap. At one’s birth it is sprung. Some last day must arrive. When you will need to get out of this body. Bad enough. Then we bring a baby here. The terms of the trap are compounded. That baby also must depart. All pleasures should be tainted by that knowledge. But hopeful dear us, we forget.
Lord, what is this? All of this walking about, trying, smiling, bowing, joking? This sitting-down-at-table, pressing-of-shirts, tying-of-ties, shining-of-shoes, planning-of-trips, singing-of-songs-in-the-bath?
When he is to be left out here?
Is a person to nod, dance, reason, walk, discuss?
As before?
A parade passes. He can’t rise and join. Am I to run after it, take my place, lift knees high, wave a flag, blow a horn?
Was he dear or not?
Then let me be happy no more.
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XLIX.
It was quite cold. (Being in the gentleman, we were, for the first time in—
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Ever so long.
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Quite cold ourselves.)
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