Wars Within

Armory Square Hospital: 13th January 1864

It was the coughing woke me. Mine this time.I seized up at dawn, chest a blade of paincutting loose the tinny taste of blood, thensomething more, as a second fit pulled meoff my pillow. I felt a plug of phlegmfly out my mouth and watched it spin in air,then soak my sheets—a couple rusty spotslike bullet wounds, gouged-eye stare of my owndeath. Then a warm brown stink. Manure. Againmy own. No help for it, I broke down, bawled;leastways my wrung-out lungs kept my cryingquiet, men sleeping uneasy as daycame on: row on row of fever, pus—richharvest of disease. Then a doorway voice:

Name’s Whitman, Major. Heard you’re shorthanded.Can I help?—a low rumble, silhouettedrifting my way through dawn and candlelight,Dr. Sawyer’s By all means, much obligedtrailing a swish of linen, penny smellof soap, the sudden hover of his face.All beard at first it seemed like, grizzled butsoft too, like his voice again: “What’s your name,soldier?”        “Chandler, sir, Josi—” I couldn’tsqueeze my name out whole before anotherfit came, hot gravel in my chest. More phlegm.I ague-shook my knees upright and triedto hug the bedclothes tighter, hide my stench.“Josiah Chandler,” Dr. Sawyer said.

“I’ve got the scours sir, I’m sor—“        “Son, save yourbreath,” the stranger said. “Major”—motioningtoward moans an aisle away—“I can sit herea spell. You have clean sheets, a shirt maybe?”Even in half-light Sawyer’s face was gray:“I don’t know. There’s been so many … I’ll see.”He turned down the row, dark coat flickeringtorn snores, chloroform. I tried tugging mymattress closer but Whitman pulled my handsfree, held them to my chest. “Josiah, there’sno need. You smell like life at least.” He smiled,gave me back my hands; I mind the soap-cleansmell, feel of his. He spoke from what seemed along way off. “My first whiff of war—Falmouth:

    a knee-high pile of arms, legs blackening    ripe in winter sun. Tent flaps like open    wounds. In one, my brother—just a shrapnel    scratch, thank God, but everywhere the copper    smell of blood, feral hiss of teeth, whiskey    screams, pulp-hard scrape of saws on muscle, bone …    I almost puked at first, but I stayed on.    And now I’m here.” His eyes were gray-cool kind    in a way that drew me out: “I was there    too, at Fredericksburg. Cold stars. Rifle fire    washing down hill-high, canister and grape    exploding men each side of me—shredded    screams, then bloody mist, a slick squish beneath    and I’m atop a pile of someone’s guts.

    That fall saved my life.” My chest cratered out    again. I had to stop. “Son, you’ve lived what    war is: life piled on death. Breath in, breath out.     I’d give you my lungs if I could but this    will have to do.” He reached into a bag    slung round his shoulder I’d not seen before    and fetched out a small package and a jar.    “Here’s a bit of biscuit, some peach preserves—    a taste of sweet, weevil-free. Call me Walt.”    He laid the jar against my cheek; its round    coolness calmed my cough still. Then he placed it    in my hands like a small sun and smiled, said    “Rest easy, Josiah. I’ll stay here till    you’re clean again.” I felt my eyes go down.

Neponset, Illinois: 20th April 1874

A second spring come round without Alicein it. Funny what you think of, plantingbeans—dark hillocks made from earth you’ve just turnedover, like the humps of battlefield-freshgraves I still remember marching past. LikeAlice’s small ridge settling soft last yearwhen I laid her stone: Beloved Wife. Theraw rain. This year, a smooth green carpet. Walt’sbook comes to mind, grass like “the beautifuluncut...