Grant Comes East - Civil War 02 (21 page)

July
18,1863 11:45
p.m.

Lin
coln slowed his pace as he walked into the fort. Now he was seeing it up close for the first time. Torches flickered on the parade ground, which had been turned into a temporary hospital, the men waiting for the ambulances that would take them back into the city and out of harm's way if the battle should resume tomorrow.

It was a enamel house, thick with the stench of torn flesh, vomit, excrement, gun smoke, with the faint whiff of ether and chloroform. He wanted to shut out the sound of a surgeon at work, taking a man's leg off, operating on a rough plank set up on sawhorses right out in the open, two assistants holding lanterns to either side of him.

He spared a quick glance; the surgeon did not even see him, so intent was he on his work, struggling to loop a string of catgut around a hemorrhaging artery. A male nurse, middle-aged, white-flecked beard, was beside the surgeon, ready to hand over more looped strings of ligatures. The man looked somehow familiar, and their eyes met It was the poet he had heard so much about and read. The poet smiled, and the gesture was strange until he realized it was a look of encouragement, an almost fatherly gaze. Lincoln nodded and turned away, fearful that if he actually saw the operation in its entirety, the leg dropping off, he would become ill.

He carefully stepped around the wounded, most of them so preoccupied with their personal hells that they did not know who was walking past them. To the east side of the parade ground there was a long row of still forms, the dead; a couple of orderlies staggered by, carrying a body away from where the wounded were spread out. They dropped the body and went back, walking slowly.

He saw a knot of officers gathered on the parapet, and approached. One of them turned, whispered, and the others came about, coming to attention. He recognized Heintzelman in the middle of the group, arm in a sling.

He had not held much confidence in this man, and still had doubts as to his fitness to manage an independent command, but Heintzelman had proven in the moment of crisis that he had courage, personally going back in to lead the countercharge, getting wounded in the process.

Heintzelman fumbled for a second to salute, grimaced, letting his right arm drop back into the sling, and then saluted with his left hand as Lincoln carefully ascended the steps to the gun platform where the officers were gathered around the thirty-pounder.

"They're still out there, bringing in their wounded," Heintzelman said.

The president didn't need to be told. The ground before him at first glance looked like a summer meadow covered with fireflies. The lanterns swung back and forth, bobbing up and down, some not moving, resting on the ground, casting enough light to reveal a stretcher-team bending over to pick up their burden. Ambulances were lined up alongside a row of torches, men being lifted into the back. Cries of anguish echoed across the field.

Bright flares were set along the top of the fortress wall, illuminating the moat below and the wall of the fort. Men were sloshing through the muck, pulling out bodies, dragging them up the opposite slope.

"Sir, perhaps it's not wise for you to be this close. Those are rebs working out there," Heintzelman whispered.

A bit surprised, Lincoln suddenly realized they were indeed rebels, not thirty feet away, moving like ghosts in the dark. One was humming a hymn, "Rock of Ages," as he helped to pull a wounded man up out of the moat. But his hymn was all but drowned out by the low, murmuring cries, sounding like the damned trapped in the eternal pit below.

"I'm safe here," Lincoln replied softly. "General Lee is scrupulous about a truce, his men will honor it"

"Sir, I took the liberty of loaning them twenty ambulances with teams; they were short"

"Short?"

"One of their doctors told one of my staff that their army was bogged down on the roads, leaving all their baggage and nearly all their artillery behind. The ambulances were left behind as well. They only had a few dozen with them."

"It was right of you to do so, General."

It was an interesting bit of intelligence, explaining perhaps why they had not attacked with more strength.

"I also sent over several wagons of medical supplies. We've got warehouses full of ether, bandages, medicine; I just couldn't stand to see brave boys like those out there suffering needlessly now that they are out of the fight"

Surprised, Lincoln looked over at the general and nodded his approval.

"You did the proper thing, General, and I thank you."

He stood silent and no one dared to interrupt.

"If they want more time after dawn, do not hesitate to give it to them. The same stands for ambulances and medical supplies. I will not have wounded men out there suffering."

"Yes, sir," Heintzelman lowered his head, "and thank you, sir."

"Thank you?"

"This morning, sir. What you did on the road. The entire army is talking about it."

Lincoln felt himself flush. He had done nothing out of the ordinary and he was still a bit shocked by the terror he had felt when the enemy battle line came into sight, flags held high, that terrible screaming yell resounding. Certainly his three months in the militia years ago had not prepared him for this moment of crisis and the overwhelming emotions that came with it. That was play soldiering. This was the real thing. It was not just terror for himself, but terror as well that here was the ending of it, that he had lost the war, that the republic would be forever sundered, and centuries of division, woe, and yet more war were now the fate of this world.

He had hardly been able to think of anything else, even as the reinforcements stormed up the road, deployed, and then struck with such terrible fury, losing a third of their numbers, but hitting with such ferocity that the enemy attack had faltered and withdrawn.

He started to turn and leave but then recognized a diminutive officer standing at the edge of the group. He approached, the officer stiffening, saluting. Lincoln extended his hand.

"Shaw, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"I know your parents."

"Yes, sir, they are honored to have your acquaintance."

"As I am now honored to have yours, Colonel. Your men were magnificent this day. The entire nation shall know of them."

"Thank you, sir, but we were just one regiment out of many who did their duty here today."

He could sense that the other officers were watching. Some might be jealous of the attention, but Shaw's words had the proper diplomatic effect and he could see a couple of the generals behind Shaw nodding with approval.

"Your men proved something today, Shaw. In this time of crisis I hope we can raise a hundred thousand men of color in short order. Your example will open that way."

"Thank you, sir."

"Once the crisis of this-moment has passed, Shaw, I'd like you and several of your enlisted men to visit me in the White House."

Shaw grinned.

"An honor, sir."

"I will confess to being exhausted tonight. I might forget this invitation, so please send a messenger to the White House. Have him ask for Mr. Hay, and an appointment will be made."

"Thank you, Mr. President"

Lincoln lightly took his hand, shook it, and then left the gun position. He could hear the chatter behind him, one of the generals offering Shaw a cigar, telling him that he was certainly the "trump card" tonight.

As he stepped off the ladder, the horror was again before him. Half a dozen ambulances were lined up, stretcher-bearers swinging their loads in, four men to an ambulance on stretchers, one or two lightly wounded sitting up and riding the buckboard, another upright wounded man forward on the seat with the driver. As the ambulances jostled into motion, cries and groans erupted. Men who had struggled so hard to hide their pain as they believed soldiers should, once inside the confines of the ambulance and concealed by the canvas walls, could at last give voice to their pain—and most did.

He took his hat off, watching as the ambulances moved out of the sally port. "Mr. President." He turned. It was the poet "Yes?"

"Mr. President, I was
just helping a boy. He saw you
come in and asked to speak with you. He says his ma knows your family."

The escort of cavalry that had trailed behind him at a respectful distance came in a bit closer. A lieutenant, who had replaced the young captain who was now dead, tried to interrupt

"The president has had a hard day, sir, perhaps another time."

"Mr. President, he won't live much longer. I feared to leave his side to help that surgeon you saw me with even for a moment. He's dying, shot in the stomach."

Lincoln nodded.

"Yes," was all he could say, not sure if he could bear what was coming.

The poet led the way, weaving past hundreds of wounded lying on the ground, makeshift surgical stations set up under awnings, a pile of arms and legs stacked on the ground so that he slowed, wanting to offer a protest; decency demanded that these shattered limbs should be hidden away. But how can you hide away a hundred limbs when every second was precious, every orderly staggering with exhaustion, the surgeons slashing and cutting as fast as they could to stop hemorrhaging, plug holes in gasping chest wounds, dull the pain of a chest so badly shattered that the broken ends of bare ribs were sticking out, push back in loops of intestines, or still the hysterical babbling of a man whose brains were oozing out?

The poet slowed, then looked back at the president "Sir, one thing." "And that is?"

"He's a Confederate soldier, sir." Lincoln slowed, paused, and then nodded his head wearily.

"That doesn't matter now."

The poet offered a reassuring smile, took him gently by the arm, and guided him the last few feet

The boy was curled up on his side, panting like an injured deer, in the flickering torchlight his face was ghostly pale, hair matted to his forehead with sweat. His uniform was tattered, his butternut jacket frayed at the cuffs and collar, unbuttoned. The boy was clutching a bundle of bandages against his abdomen. In the shadows the stain leaking out seemed black. He looked up, eyes unfocused.

"I brought him to you," the poet whispered, kneeling down beside the boy.

The boy looked around, a glimmer of panic on his face, and he feebly tried to move, then groaned from the pain.

'I
can't see."

Lincoln knelt down, then sat on the ground, extending his hand, taking the boy's hand, touching it lightly. The skin was cold.

"I'm here, son, I'm here." "Mr. Lincoln?" "Yes, son."

"Private Jenkins, sir. Bobbie Jenkins, Twenty-sixth North Carolina."

"Yes, son. You asked for me?"

"My ma, sir. She was born in Kentucky. When she was a girl she took sick with the typhoid."

He stopped for a few seconds, struggling for breath.

"Your ma, Mrs. Hanks, helped take care of her. You were a boy then, sir, she told me, she remembered you bringing some soup to her. Do you remember her?"

"Of course I do," he lied. "A pretty girl, your ma."

The boy smiled.

"Mama," he gasped, and curled into a fetal position, panting for air.

"It hurts," he whispered.

Lincoln looked at the poet sitting on the other side of the boy.

"Anything for the pain?" Lincoln whispered.

"As much as we dare give him," the poet replied softly, leaning over to brush the matted hair from the boy's brow.

"In spite of this war," the boy sighed, "Ma always said you and your kin were good folk."

"Thank you, son, I know you and your ma are good folk, too."

"The man here, he told me I'm going to be with God soon."

Lincoln looked up at the poet and was awed by the beatific look on the man's face as he gently brushed back the boy's hair, using a soiled handkerchief to wipe his brow.

"I'm afraid, sir," the boy whispered. "Please help me. Will you write to her? Tell her I died bravely."

"Yes, son."

"Help me," the boy whispered, his body trembling. "I'm afraid."

Lincoln lowered his head, slid closer, and took the boy into his arms.

"Do you remember the prayer your mother taught you? The one you said together every night when she tucked you into bed?"

The boy began to cry softly.

"Let's say it together," Lincoln whispered.

The boy continued to cry.

"Now I lay me down to sleep," Lincoln began.

The boy's voice, soft, already distant, joined in.

"I pray the Lord my soul to keep
...

"If I should die before I wake
...

"I pray the Lord my soul to take..."

Even as the last words escaped the boy's lips, he shuddered, a convulsion running through him.

Lincoln thought of his own boy, of Willie, his last strangled gasp for air.

There was a gentle exhaling, the tension in the boy's body relaxing, going limp, his last breath escaping, washing over Lincoln's face.