The Black Flower Page 18

  Bushrod Carter had been listening to the girl talk, though he did not suppose she was speaking to him. It was a strange music, her voice, and he wished he could sit and talk to her a while. He was thinking about that when a new face swam into his vision: a man, bearded, cheeks glistening with sweat, with the stub of a cigar in his teeth. The smell of the chewed cigar made Bushrod want to throw up again. He heard the girl’s voice: “What can you do for him?”

  The surgeon had been on his way to answer a call of nature, and he was in fact both drunk and walking in his sleep. He had lost track of the number of arms and legs he’d removed since sundown, and the pounds of lint he’d stuffed into bullet wounds, and the yards of sutures he’d sewn, and the cigars he’d smoked, and the grains of morphine he’d taken, and he was too far gone to want to fool with a man hurt no worse than this one. But the woman who’d waylaid him belonged to the house, and the surgeon had been a man of sensibilities once, and if she wanted him to look at this fellow, well—

  The surgeon bent over Bushrod, blue threads of smoke curling from his cigar. His blunt fingers probed various places on Bushrod’s head, and he pried open the damaged eye and peered within. Then he settled back on his heels.

  “His head ain’t broke, God knows why. Took a bad lick on the eye but it’s still quick, there ain’t any damage, I guess. You might want to wrap up that finger—pour a little whiskey on it first, mebbe, if you got any. It’ll mend, most likely.”

  “How about his nose?” Anna asked. “It looks mashed to me.”

  “Aw, that ain’t nothin,” said the surgeon. He grunted and bent forward and took Bushrod’s nose between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed. Anna heard the crunch of gristle and winced. Bushrod let out a howl. “Now then, if you’ll ’scuse me,” said the surgeon, and he rose and staggered away.

  “Oh, great God,” said Bushrod, his hands hovering around his nose. “Good God in the mornin—”

  Anna was kneeling beside him again. “Does it hurt much?” she asked.

  “Hurt!” cried Bushrod. “Hell fire and damnation, it hurts like everything!”

  “Well, don’t be cussin at me, sir,” said Anna.

  “Well, you asked, and I told you,” said Bushrod.

  Anna could not argue with that, so she sat on the bottom step again and regarded the soldier. “It seems to me you are makin a big fuss over nothin,” she said. “You ought to see some of the boys in here.”

  “Is this a hospital?” asked Bushrod.

  “It is my cousin McGavock’s house,” Anna said.

  “I asked was it a hospital!” Bushrod demanded.

  Anna clenched her teeth, fought against a sharp reply. “Yes,” she said. “They are usin it for that.”

  “Then I know all about what it looks like,” said Bushrod, “and I can’t see a thing. Not a damn thing.”

  Anna had noticed the man’s haversack and canteen beside him. She picked up the canteen, shook it, heard water slosh around inside. No tellin what mud hole this came out of, she thought. But it was water nevertheless, and she unstoppered the cork and soaked her handkerchief.

  “You don’t go pullin away again, I will fix it so you can see,” she said. She began to wipe the blood and rheum out of Bushrod’s eyes. He winced and sucked in his breath.

  “Don’t be such a baby,” she said. When she had unglued his eyes, she took the canteen and poured some of the water over the severed joint of his finger.

  “God-dammit!” Bushrod wailed.

  “I never heard such language,” said Anna. “What is your name, anyhow?”

  “Oh, mankind,” said Bushrod. “What?”

  “Your name, sir. So I can write home about you.”

  “Oh, me. It is. …it is Bushrod. Carter. Bushrod Carter.”

  “That is an odd name,” said Anna, and began to wipe his face again. “That truly is an odd name. Where you come from, they would give you a name like that?”

  “I need to drink some water, if you please,” said Bushrod.

  Anna put the pewter spout of the canteen to Bushrod’s lips. “You talk like you’re from one of those deep-south peckerwood districts,” Anna said. “Alabama or one of those, where they would name somebody Bushrod.”

  Bushrod tilted the canteen and drank greedily until he choked and nearly threw up again. “See there?” said Anna. “If you would just hold your horses—”

  “Oh, what makes you so hateful!” Bushrod said.

  “That does it!” said Anna. She rammed the cork back in the canteen and stood up. “Call me hateful, and here I am tryin my best to help you. I’ve half a mind to put you out of this house!”

  “Why don’t you try it then,” said Bushrod.

  “Well, I might,” said Anna.

  “Well, go on and do it then!”

  Anna gathered her skirts. “If you keep on, then I will, see if I don’t!”

  Bushrod was about to speak again, but checked himself. In his view, the conversation was taking a bad turn. He looked at the girl, he could see her better now that she’d wiped his eyes. What he saw convinced him to mind his tongue—she would do it all right, she would put him out in the yard where the cigar-smoking man could get hold of him again. But that was not all. Suddenly he did not want her to go away. He waved his hand as if to brush away all that he had said. “Oh, don’t mind me—you are not bein hateful. I have been knocked in the head, is all.”

  For her part, Anna thought she probably was being hateful. She sighed, sank wearily to the bottom step again and tucked her knees under her chin. “No, you are right—I have been hateful to you. I am only tired, I guess.” She looked at the soldier, found herself wanting to talk to him about something, anything, as long as it was not about wounds or battle or death. He had a pleasant voice, she was sure it was not always as raspy as it was now. “What’s that medal on your watch chain?” she asked.

  The soldier looked down, smiled. “Ah, that is good Saint. …” He stopped, frowned, touched the medal with his good hand. “I forgot,” he said.

  “Oh, well, that’s—”

  “No, I know!” said Bushrod. “It is Saint Michael.” He smiled again. “He is on furlough, I reckon.”

  “Oh,” said Anna, though she had no idea what he meant.

  There was a silence then, as both of them tried to think of something to say. Finally, Bushrod spoke. “Can I ask you somethin?”

  “Proceed, do,” said Anna.

  “Sometimes I don’t remember things,” said Bushrod. “What is the name of that village yonder, over by the river?”

  “Oh,” said Anna, “that is Franklin. Franklin, Tennessee.”

  “And there was a battle?” asked Bushrod.

  Oh, me, thought Anna—do they never think of anything else? “Yes, there was a battle,” she said. “There was indeed.”

  “You must tell me what happened.”

  Anna sighed. “The Yankees were over in Franklin, and you all came across the fields. Now the Yankees are gone, and you all are still here, so you must’ve won. That is all I know about it!” And all I want to know.

  “Won?” said Bushrod. “We won this battle?”

  “I suppose you did,” said Anna.

  Bushrod laughed, and the sound of it struck a nerve in Anna and she flared up in spite of herself. “What do you want me to tell you, then? Where you think I been while all this butchery was goin on? You think I was—”

  Bushrod lifted his hand. “No, no. Peace, now—it ain’t you, Missy. It’s just funny how—”

  Bushrod was interrupted by a shout from the parlor, and they both turned to look. A man appeared in the parlor door, unraveling a bandage from the stump of his arm. He shook the bandage off and it fluttered to the floor. Then, as they watched, the man struck his fist against the stump again and again until blood sprayed on the wallpaper. Then he saw Bushrod and Anna and lurched toward them. “Look what they done!” he cried, waving the stump. “After I tol’ em and tol’ em not to do it!”

  Bushrod tried
to get up but couldn’t. “Get away from here, you damn fool,” he said.

  The man looked wildly about, eyes glittering with pain. He pointed toward the open front door with the thin, bony fingers of his remaining hand. “There!” he told Bushrod and Anna. “It’s out there somewheres! I’ll find it! See if I don’t, by God!” Then he began to sob; he stood above them, swaying and sobbing, until an orderly came and led him away.

  When she knew the man was gone, Anna opened her eyes. She had bitten her lower lip so hard it was bleeding. She pressed the wet handkerchief to her mouth.

  “My, he was a dandy,” said Bushrod. “One of the triumphant, no doubt. Reckon what it’d be like around here if we’d lost.”

  “Oh, shut up, do,” said Anna.

  “Oh, me,” said Bushrod. “Here, you have hurt yourself. Did that fellow scare you?”

  “I have seen lots worse tonight,” said the girl, but Bushrod could see that her hands were trembling.

  “He’s gone now,” said Bushrod lamely. “But just to make my point—I was about to say how funny it is. … I mean, I am so use to losin, I thought winnin might be different—but it ain’t, not so’s I can see. Ain’t that funny?”

  “Oh, I am bowled over,” said Anna dryly. She put a hand on the newel post and pulled herself up. “I have to go now and—”

  “No, wait!” said Bushrod. “I mean. …don’t leave yet. You got to remember, I been knocked in the head—I am pretty agreeable when in my right mind.”

  “I am sure you are,” said Anna. “But I have to find my cousin Caroline McGavock and get somebody to go with me—” She looked up the stairs. “I have to go back up there,” she said, as if to herself.

  Bushrod squinted up the stairwell. “What’s up there?”

  “Nothin.”

  “Then what are you afraid of?”

  Anna turned on him. “Why do you say I am afraid?” she demanded.

  “Because—” Bushrod began, but his face twisted and he sneezed a dark gout of blood. “Damn,” he said. “Oh, damn!”

  Anna wiped the blood from his mustache. “Why did you say that. …like that?” she asked.

  “Because I can tell,” said Bushrod. “Because I am an expert on bein afraid. But never mind that. I will go with you.”

  “What? You?”

  “Right as rain,” said Bushrod. “I will go up yonder with you, but first you have to get me a biscuit or somethin and some coffee—I am about to die for—”

  “Coffee!” said Anna. “You can’t even stand up.”

  “I will practice while you are gone,” said Bushrod. “Listen, if there’s soldiers around here, there will be some coffee. Then I will help you, honor bright. Ask for First Sergeant Bill Williams and Mister Eugene Pitcock—they are makin some, I saw them—they are down by a stone wall, under a big tree, you must know the place—say to them Bushrod Carter sent you—I mean, asked you, if you please—say to them. …” Bushrod stopped. He frowned and rubbed his forehead. “No, that can’t be right,” he said. “I must be thinkin of another time.”

  Anna shook her head. “You are truly a mess,” she said.

  “Well, I am feelin pretty low,” said Bushrod. “But if you will get me some coffee and somethin to eat, then I will do better. I promise.”

  Anna had her doubts, yet the boy did seem to be coming around, and he did seem to have a spark in him, and it wasn’t likely she would do any better among this crowd of played-out Rebels. And he was, or appeared to be, a real soldier, whatever that meant. And maybe it would be nice to have his company. … Anna shook the thought away. “All right,” she said. “I will see about it. By the way, what regiment do you belong to?”

  “Do what?” asked Bushrod.

  “Your regiment. What is your regiment?”

  Bushrod pondered a moment. The number, which he knew to be important, seemed to have drifted away like a skiff in a fog. Then he caught sight of it. “Oh,” he said. “It is the Twenty-first.”

  “The Twenty-first what?” Anna said.

  “Hmmm. …oh! It is Mississippi. The Twenty-first Mississippi was my regiment.”

  “Aha,” said Anna. “I knew you were a peckerwood.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Never mind,” said Anna. “I will try to find out what became of them for you, and I will get you some—”

  “No, no,” said Bushrod, shaking his head. “No, you won’t find them. They are all. …they are all. …”

  “They are all dead,” said Anna, flatly, as if she were discussing the weather.

  “Yes,” said Bushrod. “They are all dead.”

  “I am sorry. I cannot imagine what. …what it must be like.”

  Bushrod was silent.

  Anna left the bottom stair then and moved into the hall. She looked back at him. “But you are not dead.”

  “No. …no, I suppose not.”

  “Think on that,” said Anna. “I’ll be back directly.”

  “Wait a minute!” said Bushrod. He tilted his face up at her squinting. “What is your name?”

  “Anna,” she said. “Anna Margaret Hereford of Fayetteville, Tennessee.”

  “Miss Anna,” said Bushrod. “Well, I am pleased to know you.”

  For reasons she did not have the energy to examine, Anna was glad he spoke her name. She made a small curtsy, something she hadn’t done in years. “Mister Carter, the same. Now don’t go wanderin off where I have to hunt for you.”

  “I am riveted to this spot,” said Bushrod, and watched her walk away. She moved down the hall, her head up, nodding to the soldiers who stepped aside and swept off their hats in the old deference that not even catastrophe could wean out of them. Then she was gone, out of his line of vision beyond the stairs. Bushrod wondered what such a one as her could possibly have to be afraid of. He glanced up the stairs. Whatever it was, he would find out directly. If she came back. No, she would come back. Surely she would.

  Slowly, with infinite care, Bushrod tried sitting upright. He supposed that if he were missing any other parts, it would become evident right away. He was relieved when he’d sat up and everything held together. He moved his legs experimentally, noting with irritation that someone had taken his good shoes. Well, he had taken a few pair himself in his time, and would no doubt take another before the night was out.

  When he thought he could stand, Bushrod gathered his legs under him, pushed off from the stair, and rose to his feet—too fast. He nearly fell and had to cling dizzily to the newel post while lights spun in his head. Oddly, the spinning lights made him think of the machine at the University they called Barlow’s Planetarium, and how the tiny moon swung around the tiny earth and both whirled in harmony around the brass globe of the sun. Bushrod had felt profoundly educated the first time he had observed the device; the feeling lasted for almost an hour, until he left the lecture hall and looked up at the moon. Now, standing shakily on his cold bare feet and gripping the newel post, Bushrod watched the familiar constellations of his life spin away with the feeling that he no longer stood at the center of the universe. The battle had jarred him loose, as if he’d stepped into a blast of double-shotted canister and been scattered in fragments across the night.

  Memory played itself out in brief, murky scenes that jumped across time and space. He saw himself in line of battle, saw the girl’s face again, watched himself running, his rifle coming down to charge-bayonet; saw Nebo Gloster turning toward him, passed again over the lonely corpse of the staff officer, was in line of battle again. …in line of battle, looking out over the broad open ground, wondering what was going to happen. …

  Well, something had happened all right. He had always thought it would be Death, but in that he was mistaken. Death took all the other boys and left him clinging to a newel post, trying to keep from falling. No, it was not Death that had happened to him after all—it was Life. He was alive, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

  He did know one thing, however: this was his last battle. He was finished,
he had acted well his part and now he was through. He had discharged himself, sent himself on permanent furlough. The boys were dead, and the Bonnie Blue Flag was their winding sheet, and Bushrod Carter was done with soldiering forevermore.

  Deserter, said the old familiar voice.

  “Fuck you,” said Bushrod.

  He moved his legs, trying to work the stiffness out so he could be useful to the girl when she called on him. For an instant he regretted his promise to her—how much easier it would be just to disappear into the chaotic night. But her face came to him again, and her hands wiping the bile from his mouth, and the glimpse of her bare ankles where she sat on the stair—

  He grinned, and shook his head. Around him, men struggled with their various burdens of duty and suffering and grief, but none of that concerned him now. Except the grief, perhaps. He figured that would catch up to him directly, somewhere down the road in a world he could not imagine at the moment. But that was later, when he would really start to remember things. For now, he only hoped the girl Anna would return and bring him a cup of coffee.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hattie woke to the voices, low and murmurous though they were. At first she thought she might be dreaming, so she pinched herself, which she had been told was a sure-fire method. It was: she was not dreaming. Then she thought it might be the men outside on the gallery; she vaguely remembered Anna speaking to them out there. Then she heard movement—a rustle of clothing, a clinking on the bricks of the hearth—and she knew with a sudden rush of fear that the voices were in the room with her. Moreover, she discovered she was alone in the bed.

  Hattie was so tired of being brave. She had been brave for years and years, it seemed like, and now she was nearing the end of her tether. But Anna was not here, and Mother was not here, and that left her in charge again—she was a McGavock, after all, and McGavocks were brave, after all, and that was all there was to it. So she clasped her hands, made a brief but fervent appeal to the Deity, and rose from her pillow.

  The first thing she saw was Winder, his back to her, looking at the fire. Hah! He was messing with the fire, a thing strictly forbidden, and she had caught him at it. “Winder McGavock!” she said. “What are you doin over there?”