The Deserter

by Jane Langton

  They ate an early supper in a jolly pub near a large square in the center of town. Then they wandered along the streets of Gettysburg to explore the shops selling books and Civil War memorabilia.

  In one they bought a map of the town, and then, exhausted, they went back to the car, meaning to drive straight to the motel and go to bed. It was somewhere out of town, but where?

  Mary turned the map this way and that, but it was no use. Folding it again, she said, “We’ll have to ask.” At the edge of town, they stopped at a store called Bart’s Battle Flag Books to inquire the way—and then, of course, there was no harm in looking around.

  Bart’s was an antiquarian bookstore. A regimental flag hung in the window, a yellow banner with crossed cannon and the embroidered words Seventh N. Y. Heavy Art. The inside of the shop was dark and interesting.

  “It’s like Gwen’s attic,” murmured Mary. “I mean the way it used to be.”

  “You mean before Ebenezer came along.”

  They began with the books. “Surely,” said Mary, “they can’t all be about the Civil War.”

  “Well, they are. Look at this—Gettysburg the First Day, Gettysburg the Second Day, Gettysburg Day Three.”

  “And look, Homer, every general has his own biography. I mean, it’s not just Grant and Lee. Who’s this handsome general?”

  “John Gordon,” said Homer. “One of the best of the Confederates.”

  “I must say, I like good-looking generals. This one must be a Yankee, Winfield Scott Hancock. Yes, I remember Hancock. Wasn’t he in this battle?”

  “Was Hancock at Gettysburg?” Homer snorted. “The only thing Hancock did at Gettysburg was win the battle almost single-handed. No kidding. He was everywhere, moving troops around in a hurry and filling gaps in the line.”

  “But why are there so many books about the Civil War? Why such a fascination with this one little piece of history?”

  Homer stared at the crowded shelves. “It’s because the stakes were so high. So much bloodshed, so many terrible battles. Every human emotion ratcheted up to its highest point. The normal laws of human behavior turned upside down.”

  “Still—”

  Homer was carried away. “Civilization grinding to a halt. Primeval savagery taking over. The pitting of one snarling beast against another, thousands of men against thousands, the games of strategy, the weather, the mud, the bad luck, the colossal mistakes.”

  “But it’s so terrible. There ought to be other ways to settle a dispute.”

  Homer wasn’t listening. “And then there are all the fascinating details, the thousands of separate stories, one for every man who fought on either side. There’s no end to it.” Then Homer stopped ranting and said, “Well, look at this. What have we got here?” He was trying on a pair of old-fashioned spectacles, hooking them over his ears.

  Mary laughed. “Oh, Homer, you look sweet.”

  “Can’t see a thing.”

  “May I help you?” It was the proprietor, a thin bearded man in a Robert E. Lee T-shirt.

  Homer put down the specs and grinned at him politely. “A rebel sympathizer, I guess?”

  “No,” said the man, “I don’t take sides.” He patted his chest. “Half the time it’s Abraham Lincoln. Name’s Bart. What can I do for you?”

  Homer took Mary’s arm. “We’re from Massachusetts. Just tourists, looking around.”

  “Help yourself,” said the proprietor. At once he was captured by another customer.

  “Hey, Bart,” said the customer, “you know the cavalry battle on the third day, Stuart and Custer? What’ve you got on the Spencer repeating rifle?”

  “Got a book,” said Bart. “Follow me.”

  Mary and Homer drifted to the front of the store and looked at a table covered with antiquities. The wall behind it was hung with looped flags and a pair of moth-eaten coats, one gray, one blue.

  “Oh, Homer, look at this, an old stereoscope and a set of cards to go with it.”

  “I remember those things.” Homer put a card in the holder. “Here, try it.”

  Mary lifted the contraption to her eyes and stared. “It’s not working.”

  “You have to adjust the focus.”

  She moved the card holder back and forth, and exclaimed, “Oh, it’s so real. Oh, Homer, we’ve got to have this.”

  “Well, how much is it?”

  She found the price tag. “Twenty-five dollars. Oh, but Homer, it’s so charming.” They looked for Bart, but he was still busy with his customer.

  Waiting, they lingered beside the table, inspecting a pair of gold-fringed epaulets in a metal box, half a dozen squash-fronted caps, the tall hat of an officer from Louisiana and a display of regimental belt buckles. There were cartridge boxes and canteens on the table, along with swords, knives and guns. Under a glass dome a small case held a photograph. “Oh, Homer,” whispered Mary, bending close, “look at this.”

  “What?”

  “The photograph, look.”

  Obediently, Homer peered at the little case, which stood open like a book. One side was padded with velvet, the other displayed a photograph in an oval frame. “Some soldier’s wife?”

  “But Homer, I’ve seen her before.”

  “In a book?”

  “No, not in a book. In my house.”

  “Your house? You mean in Gwen’s house on Barrett’s Mill Road?”

  “Yes, yes. I recognize her. It’s a family picture. She’s somebody in our family. Oh, Homer, we’ve got to have this too.”

  “Good grief. Well, all right, if it means so much to you.” Homer turned to look for the proprietor, then jumped, because Bart was right behind them.

  Mary pointed to the small case. “How much is it?”

  Bart looked at her. He looked at Homer. They were outsiders, well-spoken tourists. “A hundred and fifty,” said Bart.

  Homer winced but reached for his checkbook.

  “Actually it’s part of a set.” Bart extracted the little case, wrapped it in tissue paper and handed it over. “Belonged to a member of the Second Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry, a guy named Pike. Otis Pike—he died at Gettysburg.”

  “Pike?” Homer looked at Mary. “He’s on the wall, remember? Otis Pike—his name’s on one of the tablets.”

  “What tablets?” said Bart.

  “Oh, Homer, so he is.” Mary explained it to Bart. “In Memorial Hall at Harvard. There are a lot of tablets inscribed with the names of students who died in the Civil War.”

  “No kidding.”

  “It’s part of a set?” Mary tried to sound casual. “What else is in the set?”

  There was a pause. “Oh, a lot of things,” said Bart. “I’ve got ’em out back.”

  “Well, may we see them?” said Homer.

  The pause was longer. “Well, they’re pretty precious. Because it’s a whole collection, you see. For one thing, there’s a letter.” He looked at them to see the effect of this delicious item.

  “A letter?” said Mary. “Who is it addressed to?”

  Instead of answering, he listed something else. “And a play.”

  “A play?” Mary was puzzled. “You mean a play in a book?”

  “Right, with the words for one part underlined.”

  “What play is it?”

  But Bart had saved the best for last. “And a coat, a Union army sack coat.”

  “A coat!” Homer and Mary said it together.

  He leaned forward and whispered, “Bloodstained.”

  Homer glanced at Mary, then asked again, “May we see them?”

  Bart blinked. “Well, it would be a whole lot of trouble.” Instead of leading the way to some treasury in the back of the store, he stayed put.

  Mary controlled her irritation and said softly, “Would twenty-five dollars pay for your trouble?”

  “Fifty,” he said at once.

  Disgusted, Homer jerked at Mary’s elbow, but she reached into her bag and counted out the bills. “And twenty-five for the stere
oscope.”

  Bart dropped the stereoscope and the set of cards into a bag. “Wait here,” he said, walking briskly away. “I’ll be right back.”

  Homer growled, “What a creep.”

  “Of course he’s a creep,” murmured Mary, “but I want to see what he’s got. Because there’s some connection with this woman, and I recognize her, I know I do.”

  “But she was Otis Pike’s girlfriend. Are you people related to Otis Pike?”

  “Not that I know of. But I do know her, I swear I do.”

  “Well, good for you.”

  When Bart came back he was carrying a dusty blue coat. He laid it gently on the counter, then lifted the chain pinned to the collar. “Identification tag.” He tipped the metal disk toward the light. “Not government issue, they ordered them special.”

  They bent to look. “George Washington,” said Homer.

  “Other side.” Bart turned the metal tag between his fingers. “See? 2 Reg Mass Volunteers. That’s the Second Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry. His name sort of curves around the outside.”

  “So it does,” said Mary, turning her head sideways. “It says Otis M. Pike.” Trying not to show her excitement, she murmured to Homer, “Second Massachusetts, the same regiment. Seth Morgan was in the Second Massachusetts. Homer, they must have known each other.”

  “Mmm.” Homer looked doubtfully at Bart. “You said the coat was bloodstained? I don’t see any blood.”

  “Inside.” The proprietor lifted one side of the coat.

  They touched the fabric. It was true. The lining was stiff and stained brown where blood had clotted.

  “How much for the whole collection?” said Mary boldly.

  He answered promptly this time, having worked out the price in the back of the shop. “Two thousand.”

  “Two thousand!” She was shocked.

  “Oh, come on,” said Homer, pulling at her arm.

  “Very rare,” called Bart as they stalked away. “You don’t get bloodstains every day. You don’t get coats. By rights I oughta ask more.”

  “We forgot to ask him how to find the motel,” said Mary as Homer pulled the car away from the curb.

  “Well, I don’t dare ask anybody now,” said Homer grouchily, “or you’ll find something else you’ve just gotta have.”

  But Mary was groping happily in the bag from the bookstore. As the car headed vaguely out of town, going in the wrong direction, she fitted a card into the holder.

  It was a double image of dead men on the Gettysburg battlefield. The bloating of the bodies showed clearly in three dimensions.

  PART VIII

  THE

  SLAUGHTERHOUSE

  That slaughterhouse! O well is it their mothers, their sisters cannot see them—cannot conceive, and never conceived, these things. One man is shot by a shell, both in the arm and leg—both are amputated—there lie the rejected members. Some have their legs blown off—some bullets through the breast—some indescribably horrid wounds in the face or head, all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out—some in the abdomen—some mere boys—many rebels, badly hurt—they take their regular turns with the rest … the pungent, stifling smoke—the radiance of the moon.…

  —WALT WHITMAN

  IT WAS THE

  GENERALS

  Almost fainting, Otis dragged Seth’s body far into the underbrush. As he laid it down on its side on the ferny bank of a stream, a twelve-pound shell screamed through the treetops and dug a hole on the path where they had been standing only a moment before.

  Otis reached out for support and his trembling hand found a tree, but his fingers refused to take hold. He slid down the tree and slumped to his knees. A second shell burst right over his head and another tree cracked and crashed down, but halfway to the ground it hung up in a crotch.

  Otis no longer cared. It wasn’t the danger that was enfeebling him, it was the shock of what he had this moment done to Seth. Oh, Seth, it wasn’t me, it was this war. It was the generals. They’re out to kill us all.

  It was not good enough. There was no pardon, no excuse. Sobbing, Otis struggled to his feet and fumbled through the trees, the thorny undergrowth catching at his trousers. At the edge of the woods he stood panting and looking out on an open field. Gulping lungfuls of the sunlit air, he had the odd notion that he had seen it before, this field, only yesterday, when the regiments of the First Division had been summoned away from Culp’s Hill and ordered south. Somehow his frantic gyrations around the battlefield had brought him back. He had come full circle.

  And then there was a tremendous shock, and Otis shrieked as something knocked him flat on the ground. Rolling his head sideways, he saw that he had not been struck by a shell but by a maddened horse galloping away lopsided on three legs. Otis leaned up on his elbows and watched it plunge wildly away in the direction of the Baltimore Pike.

  The boom of the guns had stopped. Pulling himself upright, he tried to collect his wits. Somehow the blow from the horse had knocked the sobbing out of him. As he walked back to the place where he had left Seth, a plan began to blossom in his head.

  So far he had avoided looking at Seth’s face, but now he forced himself to reach down with shaking hands and turn Seth over on his back. The sight was sickening. The cartridge of Otis’s revolver had destroyed Seth’s jaw and sent brain matter gushing from the side of his head. When a bottle fly buzzed down and landed on an open eye, Otis swept it savagely away. Then he hobbled sideways and bent over double, trying to control the shits, the upheaval in his stomach, the outpouring of saliva into his mouth.

  But the convulsion passed, and a fit of cold dispassion took its place. Bracing himself, Otis turned back to look carefully at the body on the ground.

  The front of Seth’s coat was drenched with blood, but a white handkerchief was still jaunty in his breast pocket. Otis remembered that Seth had worn a handkerchief every day, whether in bivouack somewhere or in winter quarters.

  The handkerchiefs! The men of Company E had teased their first lieutenant about his pretty handkerchiefs, each with its initial S embroidered in one corner. They had laughed and elbowed each other and called out, “Don’t he cut a swell.” But Otis knew they envied Seth his loving wife at home.

  Now he took the handkerchief out of Seth’s pocket and inspected it, finding only a little blood along one side. He folded it and put it back. Then, ransacking the rest of Seth’s pockets, he found nothing but a small case containing a letter and the photograph of a pretty young woman.

  She was Seth’s wife, the one whose devoted hands had made the handkerchiefs. Otis looked at her hungrily and stroked the glass over her face. It occurred to him that her husband no longer had any rights in the matter. Why shouldn’t Otis Pike be the possesser of this sweet creature? Hastily Otis snapped the case shut, tucked it into his pocket and sat down to get his tangled thoughts in order.

  Before long it was clear what he must do. He would have to obliterate everything that made this piece of mortal flesh recognizable as First Lieutenant Seth Morgan of Tom Robeson’s Company E in Charley Mudge’s Second Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry. No enlisted man or officer in that regiment, no friend in another outfit must be able to recognize those mild blue eyes, that generous nose and what was left of that amiable mouth.

  Steeling himself, Otis cocked his revolver and waited for another burst of cannonfire. It did not come. Sobbing again, he took aim and pulled the trigger.

  Oh, Seth, oh, God forgive me, Seth. Blood was erupting in another fountain. Blubbering, Otis backed away, but the crimson gout soon stopped and he could see that he had been successful. No one would ever recognize that butchered carcass now.

  The rest of the task was also brutally distasteful. By the time Otis had unbuttoned and removed Seth’s sack coat and heaved the body back and forth and wrestled it into his own coat, his hands were sticky with Seth’s blood. Then, flinching, he had to thrust his trembling arms into the sleeves of Seth’s blood-drenched coat and pull it close and button i
t over his own chest.

  The next task was harder still, the exchange of official identities. It was truly fortunate that both of them had invested in metal name tags. Seth’s was pinned to his coat. Otis had his on a fancy chain. Gritting his teeth, he dragged the chain down over the hideous head and settled it around Seth’s grisly neck. Then he unpinned Seth’s star-shaped tag and threw it into a bushy tangle.

  Finished at last, he collapsed a few feet away from the body and wept and cursed the generals, wept and cursed the war, wept and cursed himself. When the fit subsided he lay down exhausted and drained of all feeling, uninterested in the sound that floated toward him on the breeze, threadlike and delicate, the sound of cheering.

  Stay put, he told himself. Wait till it gets dark. No living soul would be out there in that swale after dark. And anyway the presence of a man in a bloodstained coat carrying the body of a fellow soldier would seem perfectly natural.

  The fact that this body was being brought forward rather than away would not be noticed in the dark.

  And the air seemed to promise rain. The fierce moonlight that had poured down over the field of battle yesterday would tonight be lost in clouds. At midnight he would set down in the middle of the swale the remains of that gallant warrior, Otis Mathias Pike, a hero in the battle for the possession of Culp’s Hill.

  MORNING REPORT

  Next day the morning report for the Second Massachusetts was as melancholy as that of any other regiment in all the seven corps that had fought in the three-day battle.

  First there was an address by Major Morse, who had taken the place of Colonel Mudge as commander of the regiment. His speech was partly a congratulation to the troops for the courage of their assault on the trenches the day before. “Did you see that, boys? General Slocum, his whole staff, did you see the way they took off their hats?” But mostly his address was a eulogy for Colonel Mudge. The colonel’s death was no news to the remaining members of the regiment. They had all seen Charley Mudge go down.

  It was raining when the first sergeants called the roll. The men stood huddled under their blankets, wincing at the pauses when nobody answered. Although all the men in Company E knew about Captain Tom Robeson, they hung their heads when he failed to respond.