by J. R. Ayers
The road turned sharply upward again and the regiment commenced to climb back toward the bluffs overlooking the town. Jack could look down through the splintered trees and see far below where the Big River bathed in moonlight separated the two opposing camps. They moved along the rough road and followed the crest of the ridge to the apex of the bluff. Ahead the road dropped out of sight through the trees. There were Union troops on the road and some canon drawn by horses and mules hauling carts of ammunition and dried beans and sacks of corn flour along with canvas bags filled with U.S. mail. On the other side of the bluff were the broken houses and decimated sheep herds of the Mexican peasants who had regrettably fallen prey to the invading Union army.
Jack’s regiment attacked the Union convoy, who fought hard, but were soon out gunned and the ones who weren’t shot down surrendered under the color of a white flag. Their captain was the talkative sort and readily announced the position of the main Union force. “They’ll be all over your ass’s directly.” he said. Jack’s captain had the Union captain gagged and assigned a man to guard him with instructions to shoot promptly if the captain made a move to escape.
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.”
“You’re some kind of philosopher aren’t you, Padre?”
“I read history. Everybody hates this war, Jack. But not enough to come together and work out their differences. Greed, that’s the culprit in this war, just like all wars. Everyone wants something the other has. The north wants cheap cotton and higher taxes, the south wants autonomy and freedom to own slaves. The slave issue wouldn’t be an issue at all if the north wasn’t as industrialized as it is. Anyone who thinks the northern states wouldn’t gladly support slavery if their economy depended on cotton and tobacco production is greatly mistaken.”
“Yep, the rich politician
s start the wars and the peasants like me fight it for them,” Jack said.
“That’s always been the case, Jack. But why speak of it so long? This conflict will run its course and then there will the Indians to fight and then maybe the Spanish. It never ends. The Devil will see to that.”
“Well, all I know is I’m tired of it all,” Jack said.
The priest uncapped the flask and took a sip. “Sure you won’t join me?”
“Why not, I have a bucket handy.”
They drank brandy and talked about the causalities and Jack asked about the outcome and the priest said the regiment had lost forty-one men, twelve killed, twenty-nine wounded. “Including you Corporal Saylor.”
“Did the yanks make it across the hills?”
“Apparently not. It seems it was a stalemate.”
“But we took some prisoners. That counts for something.”
“We’ll just have to feed them. Rations are tight as it is.”
“Yeah, but they won’t be shooting at us anymore.”
“Point taken. Are you suffering much, Jack? How’s your head?”
“It hurts.”
“Have some more brandy. Then I’ll leave you alone to mend.”
“Have you seen Miss Hayes in your travels, Padre?”
“Why yes. She’s a very busy girl.”
“Tell her I asked about her,” Jack said. “Tell her I love her.”
“Love?” the priest said. “That thing you feel for her is only passion and lust. When you love a woman you want more from her than just sex.”
“Guess I don’t know how to love.”
“You will. Someday. I know you will. Then you will be truly content.”
“I’m content enough now I guess.”
“That’s something you can’t identify unless you actually experience it.”
“Well, if I ever stumble across it, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Good.”
“So if I ever really love a woman I’ll be all content and happy?”
