by Ralph Peters
Yet, the gunfire did not slacken or rush toward us. Some in Union blue were standing to put up a fight.
I hurried the ambulances along. Thinking on a thousand things, I looked casually to the side and saw blue ranks on a slope below me, visible only from the waists down, upper bodies blurred with smoke. One after another of them splayed backward. But the line held. I still saw no Confederates.
We had to pause while a regiment came on at the double, tripping in the slush the road had become. Then a battery nearly ran us into a ravine, racing forward like madmen. An officer screamed at me:
“Get those goddamned meat wagons off the goddamned road.”
I pressed forward. In the background, I heard a wild keening, a high banshee scream, that chilled me. It was odd, you see. I do not recall a fear of the bullets spitting past—but that queer shouting made me want to flee.
Men surged back and forth across the road, sometimes moving by company but often in smaller groups. Lost officers shouted regimental numbers, while sergeants cursed their charges into line. I noticed how many soldiers lacked gloves, and remember thinking that their hands must be awfully cold on the steel and wood of their muskets.
A quartet of our soldiers came marching along, escorting three forlorn prisoners. You will not credit this, but only one of the captured fellows had proper shoes, while the worst off had only rags upon his feet. They looked crushed. And, yet, there was a residue of anger in them, but whether at themselves, their own superiors or at us I cannot say. They looked like they had been ill fed all their lives. I could not imagine that such ravaged creatures might make worthy soldiers.
The guns boomed all around us. Black smoke floated over white snow. We had taken on enough badly wounded men to turn three of my ambulances around, while, another had lost a wheel to a ditch. Two went astray, and I had only a pair of vehicles left with me.
Down in the trees, men shouted for ammunition. I saw the orange belch of cannon, but could not see the guns themselves. It was midday, but the sky had burned twilight pink above the smoke.
A boy clawed at my bridle, asking me if he would be all right. I nearly slapped him off before I saw that his skull had been sliced away.
I would not have thought such a one could live. But he was standing upright, tugging at my horse and speaking clearly, if hastily. “Will I be all right, sir? Am I gonna be all right?” With half his brain exposed to the air and blood down the side of his head. He should have been dead, or at least unconscious.
I called for an orderly to help him into an ambulance.
The boy’s face calmed and he smiled. He let go of my bridle. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Thank you a hundred times.” With that, he pitched backward into the muck, eyes wide, brains squeezing out of him. He was dead, as he should have been well before. I was glad I offered him that last, false comfort.
I still could not find a proper line of battle. The fighting seemed all a-tilt. I thought I saw General McClernand in the distance, but may have been mistaken. We passed one of our batteries, where man and horse lay dead, the guns silenced. I wondered if the battle had somehow passed us by, if I had led us astray.
I had a sketch of the roads—no proper map—and I pulled off my gauntlets to draw it from my pocket. Then it happened. A gray-brown line swept over us, shrieking. That banshee howl came from the Rebels, you see. It is some sort of battle cry. You might have thought a tribe of primitives was attacking.
How do men manage battle? Everything happens so fast. One instant, I was unfolding my sketch of the tracks and lanes, the next the enemy flowed around us. Most of them rushed by, driven on by officers in proper uniforms. But a pack of ragged men surrounded me.
“Git off thet harse,” a fellow in a farmer’s hat called through broken teeth. Their speech is so curious I had difficulty understanding the man. Another of them, a boy in scavenged breeches, grasped my reins. I recall the redness—the awful redness—of his ankles in that cold, and the unmatched brogans on his feet. His rifle was as tall as he was.
“Git down, you sumbitch,” the farmer fellow said.
I felt I needed my horse. To attend to my duties.
“Look here,” I said. “I’m a doctor. I’m here to care for the wounded.”
Farmer rammed his muzzle into my ribs. It hurt not a little.
“Git down, or yer gonna be a daid doctor. Git off thet harse.”
It was no good arguing with them. I dismounted. I have no idea what they thought they had accomplished, for none of them climbed up in the saddle. They simply trailed after their comrades, leading their booty behind them.
I clambered up beside the teamster on the lead ambulance. His face was white. I had to manage the horses until he came around again.
“Damnation,” the driver said, over and over.
In a swale of scrub timber, we found a devil’s harvest. They must have stumbled upon one another. For every man shot, another lay in the snow with his head smashed or his face crushed inward. Now you have spoken to me of the bayonet, but few men use them here. They employ their discharged muskets as clubs, or use their fists, or rocks, or even their teeth. I did not see a bayonet unsheathed all day.
It is as well, for such wounds do not heal.
We loaded the ambulances without preference to the allegiance of the wounded. Some of my men complained, but I cut them short. A wounded man is a soldier no more. We left those whom I judged as doomed behind, for two ambulances were nothing to the numbers of the fallen. I will never forget that: Men with their guts strewn around them, pleading for succor, or lying broken-backed, or hemorrhaging beyond my capacity to aid them. A man may be fully sentient on his way to death, and damning eyes followed my progress. Those men will carry their hatred of me with them to whatever lies beyond the grave. For I was the one who walked among them, saying, “Take him, but not that one.”
They cried for mothers and sweethearts, or wished me to Hell, as our wagons creaked away.
And then I found the horse. Not my own, but another. He was standing by the side of the lane, with his head down, as if sniffing for grass under the snow. I do not believe I have ever seen a more beautiful stallion outside of a racing paddock. That horse was bred for running, not for battle. What sort of man had brought him to the field? The saddle was no military issue, but sleek and oiled soft, and the thick cloth beneath it was gray with a yellow border. One of those high Southern gentlemen must have ridden him into battle. I knew not the rider’s fate, but from that moment the horse belonged to me. I called him “Reb,” which the fellows thought a great joke.
Mounted again, I guided the ambulances back along our route—or believed I did. I could not always recall which fork to take, and clouds of smoke had settled in the hollows, thick as a London fog. The battle continued at a furious heat, but we seemed well away from it again. I shall never understand war’s turnings.
I led the wagons across a frozen stream bed, careful of the wheels and wounded—for the latter’s cries and pleas wrenched the heart. At once, my spirits soared! I saw a ridge ahead of us and our flag waving handsomely between the bare trees. My horse, too, longed to run toward those dark blue ranks, as if he had changed allegiance with his change of rider. But I dared not hurry the second ambulance, which was having difficulty with the streambed.
A horseman broke from the ridge and rode for us at a gallop, slashing his horse with a crop. He applied great energy to his task and reached me just as the second ambulance pulled free.
“Sir,” he cried, pulling up breathless, “General Grant sends his compliments and asks”—here a brief pause and pant—“if you could hurry these ambulances along”—pant—“so our guns may fire upon the enemy.” He gestured to whence we had come.
A gray line of a thousand men stretched across the fields.
I moved the ambulances as briskly as I could, keeping the suffering of the wounded in mind. The moment we reached the shadow of the slope, our cannon opened fire over our heads.
Grant waited at
op the ridge. His staff officers, most of whom I knew, wore pale and serious faces, but the general smiled and motioned me over.
“My apologies, sir,” I said, saluting. “I did not comprehend the situation.” I think he heard me, despite the discharge of a nearby battery.
His smile broadened.
He reined his horse closer to mine. Grant is, by the way, a superb horseman. He leaves his staff behind on their jaunts.
“Doctor,” he said, “you are one brave fool.”
Another section of guns released its salvo. My horse, to its credit, did not shy, and I leaned toward the general. I felt I must say something in response, for though clearly a fool, I had not the least bravery to my credit.
Grant spoke again before I could find appropriate words.
“Looks like you’ve picked up quite a mount there,” he said. “But I can’t have my officers making off with contraband. It’s illegal, Doctor.”
“Sir . . .” I stammered, “ . . . General . . . the Confederates seized my own horse . . . they . . . I . . .”
He winked at me and called out above the shouts and volleys, “Well, I’m going to look the other way, Doctor Tyrone. This once. But the next time you come upon a horse of that quality, I want him turned in to my headquarters so I can induct him into Union service myself.”
Just then, General Wallace trotted up, with a worried look. I believe I have mentioned him in a previous missive. He has a special fondness for the classics.
“General,” I heard him say to Grant, “my apologies for the violation of your orders . . .”
Grant shook his head. “No apologies, Lew. You did just right. My thanks.”
The battery fired canister down the road. The louder report made every horse prance or rear—except my mount and Grant’s. General Wallace’s bay took an effort to control.
Grant . . . seemed unshakable.
“What do you think, Lew?” he asked.
Wallace’s horse had a last dance, then submitted. The general stared off toward the enemy, although there was little to see for all the smoke. “I believe we will hold, sir.”
Grant nodded. “That we will. Got ’em now. Damned fool Pillow. Had his chance and lost it. Now he’ll take his whipping.” Then he remembered me. Looking up from a dispatch he had begun to scribble in the saddle, Grant told me, “You are dismissed, Doctor. With my compliments for your valor.”
Now any man likes such words applied to him. But what shall we do, my friend, when we know our actions did not merit such a response? I rode off feeling a fraud.
You may hear complaints that Grant was not at his post when the attack began that day, for he was in conference with our Naval arm upon the Cumberland, some miles below the fort. But he “rode to the sound of the guns,” as you old soldiers say. Lew Wallace was the hero of the hour, for he moved his regiments where they were needed without awaiting permission. He shored up McClernand’s broken line. To those upon the field, it seemed a desperate day. But Grant was unperturbed from start to finish. A man of astonishing calm, he appears to see through the mystifications and confusions of battle with uncanny clarity. Medical Science would, I think, find him an interesting subject.
I rode back to my butcher shop. For such it was. The contest went on without me, but I saw its hideous residue. I like to think the note Grant was writing as he sent me off was the order to General Smith to counterattack the Confederate works. For hollow though we know such matters to be, we all would feel ourselves a part of history. And I had little else of glory.
With the Rebels contained and their defenses compromised by their own inadequacies, their surrender was only a matter of time. The night before they struck their colors, a cavalryman named Forrest slipped his command through our lines to escape, refusing ever to surrender to Yankees. But the remainder of them surrendered well enough. Their officers were full of bluster and nonsense, but the men wept in their shame. We captured nearly as many of them as we had soldiers of our own.
The following days were a blood-soaked blur to me. With human wreckage enough of our own, we had to take responsibility for the captured Confederate wounded, as well. The houses of the little town of Dover were full of bleeding men. We did our best for them, but there were not enough skilled hands or supplies. Despite Dr. Brinton’s remarkable efforts, we are not yet a service fit for war. In the end, we will lose as many to gangrene and neglect as fell upon the field.
I cannot write of all the horrors that lay on my surgeon’s table, for no language in my command contains words of sufficient description. I would need to make the noises of a brute. I began by trying to save limbs and ended by sawing away lives. I know, I know. You will insist that I must have done some good. But not enough, my friend. The carnage was too vast. For every two I cut, one died. And for every one I cut, another perished waiting for my knife. We buried the bodies or torsos in temporary graves, but the ground was frozen hard and willing hands were few, so we burned the mounds of limbs that fell from our surgery tables. That will always be my image of our great victory at Fort Donelson: a heap of limbs soaked down with kerosene and set ablaze, blackened fingers curling against the sky.
Grant wants to move south, but there are reports of jealousy over his victories. We are stopped, and know not when we will proceed. Perhaps it is as well. The next slaughter can wait.
Before I close, I must tell you of an incident that occurred this afternoon. The affair began a week ago, shortly after the surrender, when I rode into Dover to ascertain the needs of the Confederate wounded. I made my rounds, spending hours in makeshift hospitals that were little more than charnel houses. Not all of the attending physicians appeared to be men of advanced skill. Twice, I took over at tables where a country doctor was destroying the remnants of a life. I fear I was sometimes rude.
As I prepared to leave the village, a delegation of Confederate officers on local parole approached me, asking if I were not a surgeon. I told them that I was, indeed, although not as much of one as I had long imagined myself to be.
“Doctor,” the ranking man began afresh, with the deceptive softness of the Southron gentleman, “I must swallow my pride and ask a service of you. As a gentleman and man of medicine, I hope you will not refuse me, sir.” He was a small, upright fellow, bald-headed, with his hat held at his waist in supplication. His uniform, once fine, was tattered.
“What’s the trouble?” I asked. Or snapped, perhaps. For I was weary. And his sort were the ones who made this war.
“Doctor, there is a young man who I fear will die if not attended. A young gentleman, sir. He requires a surgeon.”
“Can’t your surgeons do it, man?”
He lowered his eyes. In shame at the need to beg me. “Doctor—Major, sir—this here young man is the son of a senator from Miss’sippi. His father is a powerful man. Our doctors . . . are afraid to operate on Captain Barclay. They insist he cannot be saved, sir, and will not touch him. I fear they do not want the blame for his death under their knives, sir.” He brushed a finger across his eyes, then cocked his head back proudly. “It is a disgrace, sir, and I am mortified to discover such cowardice among my own people.”
I went to look at the officer. Now I always insist that patients be treated equally, whether rich or poor, as beautiful as Helen or ugly as mud. But our hearts are moved against our will. The young man, a captain while yet a boy, was blond and handsome to break the heart of every girl in his state. But his days of romance were over. He stank of urine, as he will for the rest of his life. Both his legs were shattered at the hip, and he had suffered dreadful local mutilations. His legs were rotting on him, and I have never seen a surer candidate for gas gangrene. He should have undergone amputation days before.
I made no secret of his advanced condition, yet I gave him a choice. I had no chloroform with me, and the Confederate supplies were long since depleted. I could either operate immediately with nothing to allay the pain, or return in the morning with an adequate supply.
The young man
looked up at me with steady eyes of blue. “Doctor Tyrone”—he had instantly digested my name, as these “gentlemen” will—“I would not be so discourteous as to expect such a journey of you.” He gathered himself for a moment. “But I would be grateful for your present services in relieving me of these legs. I have grown tired of them, sir.”
We lugged him to a knacking yard. I made the bastards wash their knives and saws, which had not seen water in days. Then I set to work. His friends held him down, although one of them soon found he was unequal to the task and left the table weeping. The young captain suffered dreadfully, I assure you, although I am a quick saw. He did not so much as groan. Nor would he even bite down on a rag. He closed his eyes and fought himself, ashamed at his body’s quivering rebellion as I took his legs off. I have never seen his like.
Well, this afternoon, with time to spare at last, I looked the fellow up. I found him alive, bedded in a chapel that had been turned into a hospital. The other Confederate patients ignored me, turning their backs on my blue coat. Not one asked me to so much as examine a wound (their bandages, I must tell you, were filthy, and I will see to the matter). But the young captain recognized me at once, greeting me with a display of gentility. I fear I was a bit gruff, for I am no friend to aristocratic airs, but he pretended not to notice. He might have been holding court on a grand estate.
In fact, he lay on the floor, on rancid bedding stuffed with hay. But he smiled so easily you would have thought him on holiday. He barely winced when I examined my gory work. I think, by the way, that he will heal.
Suddenly, I sensed a change in the air. A cold curtain of hostility descended. I heard whispers, and noted that the men’s eyes were fixed upon me.
