82
The three contract surgeons in filthy uniforms sat around a rickety table. Their hands were filthy too, stained with dirt and blood, as they were whenever the surgeons examined wounds.
One of the three picked his nose. The second surreptitiously rubbed his groin, an oafish smile spreading over his face. The third doctor drained a bottle of alcohol meant for the wounded. One of these, limping pitifully, was shown in by an orderly, who acted like a mental deficient.
"What have we here?" said the surgeon who had been swilling the alcohol; apparently he was the chief.
"I'm hurt, sir," said the enlisted man. "Can I go home?"
"Not so fast! We must conduct an examination. Gentlemen? If you please."
The surgeons surrounded the soldier, poked, probed, conferred in whispers. The chief stated the consensus: "I'm sorry, but your arms must be amputated."
"Oh." The patient's face fell. But after a moment, he grinned. "Then can I have a furlough?"
"Definitely not," said the surgeon who had been rubbing his privates. "That left leg must come off, too."
"Oh." This time it was a groan. The patient again tried to smile. "But certainly I can have a furlough after that."
"By no means," said the nose picker. "When you get well you can drive an ambulance."
Roars of laughter.
"Gentlemen — another consultation," cried the chief, and back into a huddle they went. It broke up quickly. The chief said, "We have decided one last procedure is necessary. We must amputate your head."
The patient strove to see the bright side. "Well, after that I know I'll be entitled to a furlough."
"Absolutely not," said the chief. "We are so short of men, your body must be set up in the breastworks to fool the enemy."
Out of the darkness, massed voices roared again. Seated cross-legged on trampled grass, Charles laughed so hard tears ran from his eyes. On the tiny plank stage lit by lanterns and torches, the soldier playing the patient shrieked and ran in circles while the demented surgeons pursued him with awls, chisels, and saws. Finally they chased him behind a rear curtain rigged from a blanket.
Applause, yelps, and whistling acknowledged the end of the program, which had lasted about forty minutes. All the performers — singers, a banjo player, a fiddler, one of Beverly Robertson's troopers who juggled bottles, and a monologist portraying Commissary General Northrop explaining the healthful benefits of the latest reduction in the meat ration — returned for their bows. Then came the actors from the skit, who got even louder applause. Some anonymous scribe in the Stonewall Brigade had written The Medical Board, and it had become a favorite on camp programs.
Shadow masses stood and separated. Charles rubbed his stiff back. The mild June evening and the campfires shining in the fields away toward Culpeper Court House brought images of Barclay's Farm to mind. Barclay's Farm and Gus.
Ab was thinking of less pleasant subjects. "Got to find me some Day and Martin to shine my boots. Damn if I ever thought when I joined the scouts that I'd have to get so fancied up."
"You know Stuart," Charles said with a resigned shrug.
"On some occasions I wish I didn't. This is one. Goddamn if I want to go paradin' for the ladies on Saturday."
The two men crossed the railroad tracks, retrieved their horses from the temporary corral, and started for the field where they had pitched their tents with Calbraith Butler's regiment. A massive movement of forces was under way below the Rappahannock; Ewell and Longstreet were already at Culpeper with infantry.
Charles knew nothing of the army's destination, but lately there had been much talk of a second invasion of the North.
Somewhere above the river there were certain to be Yanks. Yanks who would want to know the whereabouts of Lee's army. So far as Charles could tell, no one was worried about the Yankee presence or its potential threat. Stuart had settled down at Culpeper with more horsemen than he had had in a long time — close to ten thousand. Some of those were on picket duty at the Rappahannock fords, but most were being allowed time to prepare for Stuart's grand review for invited guests on Saturday. Many women would be coming by rail and carriage from Richmond, as well as from the nearer towns. Charles wished he'd had time to invite Gus.
The review was certainly typical of Stuart, but it struck Charles as inappropriate when mass movement of the army was under way, and that army was not in the best of condition. These days he saw many sore, swollen backs among the horses; sixteen or seventeen hours a day was too long for an animal to be saddled. In Robertson's brigade he had seen horses frantically chewing each other's manes and tails — starving even in the season of growth. In the brigade of Old Grumble Jones, the slovenly general whose liking for blue jeans and hickory shirts earned him the dubious honor of being called the Zach Taylor of the Confederacy, Charles had only yesterday spied half a dozen men riding mules. The best replacements they could find, he supposed.
Sweet clover scented the June night. The fires shone along the whole southern horizon. In camp, a few men were resting, writing letters, or playing cards with decks in which the court cards were portraits of generals and politicians. Mr. Davis, popular in the first year of the war, was seldom seen in the newer decks.
Most of the troopers had no time for recreation, however. They were sewing and polishing because Stuart had ordered every man to find or fix up a good uniform for the review. Much as Charles disliked the whole idea, he intended to look as presentable as possible and even unpack the Solingen sword. If Jeb wanted a show, he would do his best to contribute.
Brandy Station had been named for an old stagecoach stop famous for apple brandy served to travelers; the apples grew in orchards close by. Now the Orange & Alexandria line served the place. On Saturday the special trains started rolling in early, the cars packed with politicians and gaily dressed ladies, most of whom would attend both the review and General Stuart's ball at Culpeper that night.
In open meadows near long and relatively flat Fleetwood Hill, just above the village crossroads, Stuart's cavalry performed for the visitors. Columns of horse charged with drawn sabers. Artillery batteries raced, wheeled, loaded, and fired demonstration rounds. Flags and music and the warm smell of summer moved in the breeze that brushed over vistas of tasseled corn and flourishing wheat. Charles and the rest of Hampton's scouts took their turn galloping past the guests and reviewing officers gathered along the rail line. Speeding by, Charles saw the black plume on Stuart's hat dip and flutter; the general had bobbed his head when he recognized his old West Point acquaintance.
After the long and tiring review, Charles returned to his encampment, anticipating a good meal and a sound sleep. Tomorrow he had to scout the river near Kelly's Ford. He was putting up Sport when an orderly appeared.
"Captain Main? General Fitzhugh Lee presents his compliments and requests the captain's company at his headquarters tent this evening. Supper will be served before the ball, which the general may not attend."
"Why not?"
"The general has been sick, sir. Do you know the location of his headquarters?"
"Oak Shade Church?"
"That's correct, sir. May General Lee expect you?"
"I don't plan to go to the ball either. Tell Fitz — the general I accept with pleasure."
That's a damn lie, he thought as the orderly left. Everyone knew Fitz was Stuart's favorite and still jealous of Hampton outranking him because of seniority of appointment. Hampton's partisans, in turn, sneered at Fitz, saying he had risen rapidly solely because he was Old Bob's nephew. Might be something to it. Two of the five brigades of horse were led by Lees — Fitz and the general's son, Rooney.