It would appear that there is a blockade.
It would appear that if President Davis himself were suffering from the pip, perhaps he might be served.
Might the Secretary of War be served properly? Might General Winder? Let us say that is a moot question.
As I recall now, you were overjoyed, Surgeon Crumbley, when a bottle of paregoric was found—a medicament to relieve your wife—in the recesses of some friend’s closet in Albany.
Let us not seek narcotic for our senses, sir. Twill be unavailable.
For diarrhoea? Red pepper, and decoctions of blackberry root and of pine leaves.
For coughs and lung diseases? A decoction of wild cherry bark.
For chills and fever? A decoction of dogwood bark.
If fever patients seem to crave especially something sour, let us dose them with the weak acid made by fermenting a small quantity of meal in a barrel of water. Vinegar? My flask is empty, I regret to say. My vinegar is a tiny vial of fresh water sprayed into the Sahara sands.
Let us consider gangrenous sores. Ha, ha—here is the specific: peanut oil, no less! May we hope that the hospital orderlies do not steal it for a slosh in which to sop their corn bread! Dear, dear—why be picayunish about the matter? Gangrenous patients will die anyway; the hospital orderlies might live, and not eventually join their fellows amid pine straw, amid oozing holes where stumbling sick have let go their bowels, amid pools where stumbling sick have let go their bladders. What fun if the hospital orderlies were to be tricked—damn Yankees anyway, and Paroles, what’s more—and let them have a ration of castor oil instead! What a lark!
How many are you empowered to admit today, Surgeon Crumbley? Five patients? The same for myself, sir. So we shall stand in our rude pens at the gate and observe the flow, the crawling and the carried.
...My, my, here is a grand ulcer, to be sure: at least four inches in diameter, on the calf of the leg. . . . What have we here? Necrosis of the jaw. Hold still, patient. Keep him still, friends of the patient; hold the patient, let me make an examination with my fingers. . . . Huzza! Necrosis indeed. A piece of bone nearly an inch long came out attached to my finger.
...It is my opinion that the diarrhoea commonly observed hereabouts is an attendant symptom of scurvy, not to be confused with the ordinary camp diarrhoea observed in our own army.
...Generally there is an enervation of the nervous system. It runs down in consequence of the dietary condition. Naturally the nervous system must sink under such pressure. I observe the effect manifested in idiocy, dementia and other mental weaknesses.
...Yes, yes, I should expect that morally such abject circumstances would produce deep humiliation and resignation. However, the effect seems otherwise: the moral attitude of the prisoners declines, men seem to abandon themselves. The well will steal from the sick, the sick will steal from the dead. Why, by God, it has come under my observation that the sick will nerve themselves to remarkable accomplishments, and steal from the well!
...That man with the bucket in his mouth, gripping the bail of the bucket as a dog would hold a bone? I have seen him frequently. He crawls for his rations.
...Surgeon Crumbley, have you observed the deadhouse in the hospital lately? When first I went there, there were boards forming a shed. Goodness sake—but the boards disappeared. I presume that they were stolen by those inmates of the hospital able to crawl. Lately the dead have lain with no shelter whatsoever, until wagons and mules and niggers came to cart them away.
...Did you observe that patient bearing the name of Clayton? Yes, yes, carried away just now . . . but you should have heard him exclaiming how he was put upon! He had a good stout belt—buckle and all—and he contended that the orderly fancied the belt. He said that he woke up; his arm was open and raw, as you remember, and he declared—it was in the night—that the orderly was rubbing gangrenous fluid into his sore. The belt, you see. What matter now? A false accusation, perhaps . . . naturally, yes: the orderly was a Yankee as well.
...For the treatment of wounds, ulcers, etc., we have literally nothing except water. The wards, some of them, are filled with gangrene, and we are compelled to fold our arms and look quietly upon its ravages, not even having stimulants to support the system under its depressing influences.
...Ulcers are produced from the slightest causes imaginable. A pin scratch, a prick of a splinter, a pustula, an abrasion, or even a mosquito bite are sufficient causes for their production. The surface presents a large ash-colored or greenish-yellow slough, and emits a very offensive odor. After the slough is removed by appropriate treatment, the parts beneath show but little tendency to granulate. Occasionally, however, apparently healthy granulations spring up and progress finely for a time, and again fall into sloughing, and thus, by an alternate process of slough and phagedenic ulceration, large portions of the affected member or large masses of the body are destroyed. In this condition gangrene usually sets in, and if not speedily arrested soon puts an end to the poor sufferer’s existence.
...On examining the roster I find that twenty-four medical officers are charged to the hospital, and yet but twelve are on duty. The rest either by order of General Brown (at their own request) are off on sick leave or leave of indulgence. In order to attend to the wants of the sick and wounded, not less than thirty efficient medical officers should be on duty in the hospital.
...The corn bread received from the bakery, being made up without sifting, is wholly unfit for the use of the sick, and often, as in the last twenty-four hours, upon examination, the inner portion is found to be practically raw. . . . The corn bread cannot be eaten by many, for to do so would be to increase the diseases of the bowels, from which a large majority are suffering, and it is therefore thrown away. All then that is received by way of subsistence is two ounces of boiled beef and a half pint of rice soup per day, and under these circumstances all the skill that can be brought to bear upon their cases by the medical officers will avail nothing.
...Surgeon I. H. White, chief surgeon post, informed me that timely requisitions have been made on the quartermaster’s department for the necessary materials to make the sick and wounded comfortable, but thus far he has been unable to procure scarcely anything.
...Feeling we have done our whole duty, both in the eyes of God and man, we leave the matter to rest with those whose duty it was to furnish supplies and build up a hospital that might have reflected credit on the Government and saved the lives of thousands of our race. . . .
Harrell Elkins believed truly that he had done his duty in the eyes of God and man. But he had not done all his duty; his work would end only with the termination of the hospital, with the last death there, the last removal. He went home in the dark. He had served an hour and a half past his time. Scarcely had he seen Lucy since Ira Claffey left. Harry did not allow himself to think of her when he was at work; but he could not keep her out of his thoughts at other times—especially in those many occasions when he was too tense for sleep, when he could not relax, when he lay taut as a ramrod, feeling thin and hard as a ramrod. Mrs. Effie buzzed about, but discerned soon that the young man was actually too worn to engage in professional discussion. She recognized that Elkins had toil and nuisance thrown in his face in a quantity beyond her accumulated experience. She thought that she might derive benefit from him in the future, if the cyclone of foreseen defeat did not tear him away from this region.
Harry remembered a period of shellfire when missiles came down and burst interminably. He had thought then, along with the rest of the troops, Won’t it ever stop? I’m so weary of it. Can’t they ever stop firing those shells? Can there be anything else in existence beyond this constant crouching, waiting, fearing, jarring? . . . So battle recurred to him now, in the form of hospital and stockade gate. Will it ever cease? Nay, never. It cannot, cannot, will not, never will cease.
November wind hit him and it was dark, dark; the surface of th
e lane was so ruptured that he stumbled even though he knew the way. He reached an open area of lawn behind a fence at the corner of the Claffey orchard. A lantern was being carried to the rear shed where Elkins always stopped to brush and examine his clothing. Someone had been watching, someone had made out his approach and was ready with the lantern (for the supply of oil was low: one could not leave a lantern hanging alight indefinitely, one took care, one saved and saved). He went up the drive and into the shed corner. There the lantern waited, hung on its peg; but hands which had carried it and hung it were gone away. He thought he knew whose hands. He took off his jacket, shivering in cold. He shook the jacket, worked over his shirt with the brush he kept in this shed, brushed the jacket, brushed his pants. He felt an itch. He closed the shed door, removed his shoes, took off his pants and shook them violently, turned them inside out, examined the frayed seams. He killed four graybacks, he could find no more. A flea went hopping into space. Harry wiped his shoes with a rag, and then dressed once more and carried the lantern into the rear hall of the house. Reflected gleam of candlelight drifted from the library ahead. He blew out the flame, put the utensil on its shelf, and went hesitatingly to the library door.
You are late, Cousin. Lucy was curled at the end of the sofa in folds of a faded shawl, she held a book.
Yes, late, he said. What have you been reading?
Keats.
I wish that I were not too weary to play the Poetry Game with you.
She came to meet him in the doorway, her voice telling a secret. We are alone.
Alone?
Our neighbor, old Mrs. Bile, is said to be dying. She’s been poorly for a long time, and Mrs. Effie was sent for. Jonas took her to the Bile place and fetched back a note saying that Mrs. Bile’s condition was grave. Thus Mrs. Dillard must needs spend the night.
Do you think that I might be of service over there?
I doubt it, Harry. She is very old, very frail. I presume twould be merely a case of rest and quiet—mild stimulants perhaps.
Should you be there yourself, Lucy?
She had lowered her face but lifted it quickly. I thought that you would need me, she said.
Suddenly he could not breathe.
No Game for you, sir. No tug and pull upon that tired brain! I had Naomi put by a few necessaries before she went to the quarters. She’s left a fire, so now I shall prepare your supper.
Somehow I feel especially soiled tonight. A weak chuckle caught in his throat.
Your pitcher is filled, I trust. But I’ll just bring some hot water, Cousin. The large kettle is on—
You will not tote water for me, said Harry firmly. He followed her out to the kitchen. She went ahead, carrying a candle, holding her hand to shield the flame.
Do you go scrub now, she told him when she had filled the pitcher. I’ll make ready, and serve you in style upon a tray.
With an apple in my mouth and sausages about my neck?
He heard her quiet, Most assuredly, coming after him. In his room Harry Elkins stood upon the mat and bathed. He owned some clean clothes, for he had been given most of Sutherland’s. Certain garments had been a trifle tight for him before, they were tight no longer. The trousers were now too loose. He belted them tightly, put on slippers and jacket, arranged his maroon stock. Maroon might have done for Sutherland Claffey; Harry thought that in his own case maroon was absurd; but still it was the only such scarf he owned. He went down into the library. Lucy had put his supper tray upon a table, and stood rubbing her thumbs against her first fingers in a display of nervousness quite adolescent. Through strained silence Harry could actually hear the pressure and squeezing of flesh upon flesh. Later he could not recall exactly what was said. He remembered an overpowering sense of isolation, and then recognition of a long tortured defeat: it was as if Ira Claffey directed the thought to him across chilly dark miles which separated them. He had a notion that Lucy spoke of ham and warmed-up biscuits, he was not sure. Rising out of knowledge that the two of them were alone, sole alone, alone in the house, alone and unwatched and unguarded, there shafted suddenly an enormous desire. The candle was behind Lucy, so light which shone from it made transparent delicacy around the outer surface of her hair . . . candlelight limned her figure, made it dark and solitary and haloed. Why should stockade and hospital diminish into oblivion now? They had refused to diminish before. Harry’s weariness gave desperation, desperation gave strength. He started to say, the morning you kissed me, the other time I held you in my arms. . . . He was shocked at the harshness of his own voice. He could say nothing more, he whirled Lucy against him. God, God, he heard her gasping, before her mouth was smothered by his. The two of them pushed against the table, wrapped close: over went the candle upon the tray, there was a flash and sizzling, the light went out, there was faintest smell rising from an edge of ham newly scorched.
...And my darling, my darling Harry, I’ve never before, as you know, because it’s sinful. It’s— I shouldn’t ask you if you have— No, no, I daren’t ask.
But Lucy, I—haven’t.
Never before?
Never.
They were in his room; somehow each felt that it would be an additional wickedness to have gone to hers.
Soon as we’re married, Lucy whispered, lifting herself up to peer closely at him in gloom— We shall move in here, shan’t we? Somehow, my room— It was always mine, my maiden room. Actually this is larger—
He drew her face down into the hair of his chest. You know, he said, and well aware that simple frankness was ridiculous— This is adultery. We’ve committed adultery, are committing it.
She breathed, Yes, yes, Harry. Will we burn in Hell?
Myself, perhaps yes. No one could burn you, no power of fiends.
But—the Bible— Uncle Dayto, and sermons— All the prayers I’ve uttered and other folks have uttered. Oh I declare, we’re so wicked, aren’t we? . . . Why didn’t you love me before? Why didn’t you let me know that you loved me?
You know.
No, my darling, I don’t, I don’t. Tis the same old hospital, same old horrid stockade, the same nasty knowledge of men dying, dying, dying, watching them die, smelling them die. It must have been the same today for you.
Harry told her, Not the same now. Suddenly I felt that I must turn to you.
Darling.
There was only their struggle and rapid breathing for a time.
Afterward he was the first to speak. Should you wish to play the Game? he asked.
Yes, yes, yes. . . .
I shall let you into the secret without a Black Mark. Proverbs, Fifth Chapter: Rejoice with the wife of thy youth. Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe; let her breasts satisfy thee at all times; and be thou ravished always with her love.
Lucy began to whimper. But I’m not your wife, you see.
Do you suppose the Lord will forgive us for being a bit hasty, Lucy? Possibly we could do penance as Catholics do. Just for the sake of a few days?
My love, twill be weeks. There are the banns.
Something else, said Harry. First Corinthians, somewhere or other: But if they cannot contain, let them marry. So we shall, Lucy.
She repeated, We shall. And presently she asked as they lay side by side gazing up into dark, What would Suthy think?
He would shoot me, beyond doubt.
He cannot shoot you now.
Again they were silent for a long while, until timidly Lucy began to trace the pattern of his eyebrows with her finger. In turn she pushed down the weary crumpled eyelids and let her hand pass smoothly and coolly over the closed eyes. So odd to see you close, even in dark, without your specs. Harry, you must know I’m very wicked. I suffer lust. Harry, I—I’ve dreamed of you.
So have I dreamed of you.
In this way they broke the dignity of rearing, cut through the veil of morality in which bo
th had been draped. They were shocked to discover that they did not feel at all depressed about it. They kept reiterating that they should be sunk in remorse, should be praying for forgiveness. The staunch pure code forever applied—and especially in Lucy’s case—seemed a shriveled broken hedge behind them. They had crashed through it, had cavorted in Eden.
I wonder, said Harry, when the Fall will occur, Cousin?
Dear Harry, you must call me Cousin no longer. Soon you will say Wife, soon say Mrs. Elkins, Ma’am. She tittered at the thought; then relaxed wide awake and glowing, a little sore in intimate portions; but enriched by joy. She believed that her joy would be perpetual.
Old Mrs. Bile died the next morning, and Mrs. Dillard was driven back to the Claffeys’ at noon by a Bile nephew. Effie’s mind was filled with recollections of a peaceful passing; she thought of agèd death as a release from all sin and pain, a glorification to be envied; she continued in busy thought, concerning herself also with Heaven, and the notion of her own children and grandchildren reveling there. In this mood she scarcely recollected that Lucy and Harrell Elkins had spent a night to threaten chastity. She presumed that she knew a gentleman when she saw one, and a lady as well. She knew that no gentleman such as Elkins would presume to dishonor a pure young lady, that no pure young lady such as Lucy would presume to desire to be dishonored.
The footsore Ira came trudging up with the dusk—thwarted, charged with dread weight of the invasion he had witnessed, dread knowledge that he had started for Richmond too late. . . . Twould have done no good in the end, Poppy, Lucy soothed him. And God let you come back to us safely through all dangers. When they sat alone later, with Mrs. Effie sleeping, and Elkins not yet come from the hospital, Ira saw the new Lucy. He recognized much, almost he guessed and could imagine more.
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