Torn Realities

by Post Mortem Press

  Augie closed his eyes and willed the pain to subside. The white flash behind his eyes faded. "Why did you do that?" he croaked through his parched throat. "To his finger."

  Mr. Bagby held the severed finger as one holds a sausage. The end was puckered where it had been cut, though there was no blood, the corpse having been long dead. There was a horrific moment when Augie feared that the strange man would eat it. "I’m no grave robber," he said. "Not in the way you’re thinking."

  "Put it back," Augie commanded.

  Mr. Bagby shook his head. "I can’t." He slipped the finger into a cloth bag slung on his belt and patted it for safekeeping. "This is not for me, it’s for them."

  "Don’t you have any respect for that man?"

  Mr. Bagby’s genteel eyes unexpectedly flashed with anger. "I gave him more respect than the one that shot him."

  Augie noted that the soldier wore a gray Rebel uniform, and he truthfully couldn’t say whether he himself had been the one who had shot him.

  The odd creature surveyed the ground, and, evidently satisfied that his work was completed, offered his weight as counterbalance to the young man to get to his feet.

  "Got something for you."

  Mr. Bagby went to a two-wheeled handcart laden with a mishmash of parcels and sacks of indeterminate contents. From within a bag he extracted a round tin as used by ladies for cosmetics, unscrewed the lid, and scooped out two fingers of a golden salve, which he then wiped on the soldier’s sleeve. "Slather this on the wound."

  Augie tested the substance—it was sticky and smelled sweetly of clovers. "This is honey."

  "An old, old remedy to fight infection."

  Augie wiped his sleeve on the grass.

  "Come on with me, then," Mr. Bagby said. "I’ve some business with the sawbones and he can look at yer head."

  Mr. Bagby wheeled the cart with a porter’s skill, evading every obstacle in his path across the ravaged field. For the first time since he awoke Augie was able to view his surroundings. A day before the field had been cornstalks as high as his cap—they had been cut down by gunfire as though threshed with a blade. Instead of the crop, the field’s harvest was blue and gray uniforms blackened with blood, and the pale flesh of the dead.

  Careful where they tread, they made their way to a hospital tent erected near a whitewashed farmhouse. Bandaged soldiers hobbled from the tent, smoking cigarettes and learning how to walk again with only one leg.

  "Are you with Meade’s men? Or Hooker’s?" Augie asked.

  "Nah. I’m my own," Mr. Bagby said.

  "What happened here at Antietam Creek? Do you know?"

  Mr. Bagby’s response took some time in coming. "Bloodiest day I’ve seen, and I’ve been around a long, long time. This is hallowed ground you’re walking on. It’s been consecrated a thousand times beyond what any priest could do." They had arrived at the tent; Mr. Bagby peeled back the flap. "Here—the doc’s expecting me."

  Augie ducked under the flap. A surgeon stood over a body pinned down by four assistants. Saturated in sweat and gore, the doctor tossed a bloody bone saw into a plush-lined case of gleaming silver instruments.

  "That’s all I can do for him. Sew him up."

  The hunk of flesh that had been amputated from the patient’s arm was carried to a pile on the floor where blood drained into the soil. An assistant sewed a mangled flap of skin over the end of the bone while the surgeon washed his hands in a basin. Dr. Hawthorne, with his brush beard, was a well-known sight to all the regiments. Upon seeing Mr. Bagby, his weary face became sharp.

  "Christ, Bagby, not in here."

  Mr. Bagby had doffed his cap indoors, revealing a speckled bald head circled with sparse gray hair. "It’s this young soldier that needs ya," Mr. Bagby said.

  The doctor regarded Augie as another irritant, but motioned for him to sit on one of the tables. "Let me look at it."

  Dr. Hawthorne put a shiver in the most stalwart of men. Many feared falling under the butcher’s knife far greater than they did dying in battle. Upon examining the wound, Dr. Hawthorne displayed new sensitivity to his patient. "Gunshot to the back of the head. I can see into the skull. You’re lucky to be alive, private."

  Augie wondered if the doctor had the same response to the men who he had just chopped off their legs.

  Dr. Hawthorne spent some time stitching up Augie’s head. He dipped the needle in ether and gave Augie a bottle of whiskey to drink. "It’s all we have left," he said. Augie felt the tug of the thread through his skin, but otherwise suffered more from the severe headache than from the wound.

  "Fine job a’ stitching, doc," Mr. Bagby said while a nurse wrapped Augie’s head in linen. Dr. Hawthorne’s eyes bored into him, and Augie deduced that much history had passed between the two men.

  "See that this man gets some rest," Dr. Hawthorne told him.

  "Oh, he’s not with me," Mr. Bagby said.

  "He can’t be by himself. The companies have all gone. All that’s left are the casualties."

  Mr. Bagby appeared quite nervous and leaned closer to the doctor. "But the bag, Sawbones, the bag."

  Dr. Hawthorne retrieved a sack from the field hospital floor as if it were an odious task. Mr. Bagby accepted the bag gladly.

  "And for my part," he said, and produced a vial with a brass stopper containing amber liquid.

  Dr. Hawthorne slipped the vial in his trouser pocket and said to Augie, "We don’t have any antiseptic to spare. Find yourself a honey tree and gather as much as you can. Apply the honey to the wound twice a day. That should cut down on infection."

  Mr. Bagby’s face widened in a grin. "Told ya."

  "Now get out. I have plenty more boys to see."

  "Sir," Augie said. "Could you tell me if you’ve seen a George Nace in here? He was wounded real bad, sir."

  Dr. Hawthorne frowned. "Nace, eh? Hmm." He consulted a ledger book at his desk and was quiet for a time. "Doesn’t look like he made it, son."

  Augie nodded numbly and slipped off the table. "Thank you, sir."

  On the field, a body was being carried by stretcher for burial. One of those was George Nace. One of them should have been August Boorman. Augie noted that the body was missing a finger.

  Mr. Bagby hugged that bag, as pleased as a cat with a canary.

  "What did you give him?" Augie asked.

  "An elixir, to keep him alive throughout the war."

  "Does it work?"

  Mr. Bagby’s eyebrows were bushy caterpillars that seemed to move independent of his brow. "I drink it every day. As you can tell, Sawbones and I have an arrangement that works to both of our desires."

  "He goes on living, and you get a bag. What’s in there? Are all those fingers?"

  Mr. Bagby pried open the bag and peered inside. "Oh, yes. A goodly number of them." He drew it shut and tied the strings in a knot.

  "I don’t get it," Augie said as Mr. Bagby slung the bag across his handcart. "What do you take them for? Mementos?"

  "No, that ain’t it at all. I’m protecting them."

  "They’re already dead."

  "Not their bodies." Mr. Bagby’s radiant demeanor dimmed. "You know that darkness, don’t you—hanging on us all like a shroud. It’s being well fed by this war. I save them from the darkness."

  "You mean their souls," Augie said.

  "If that’s what you believe."

  Cognizant of the glaring eyes from the wounded, Augie lowered his voice. "How does desecrating their bodies save them?"

  "The sacrifices must be intact. Every bit," Mr. Bagby said. "So I thwart them." He chuckled. "Take a finger, a little snippet, and then they’re no good to the dark."

  Augie looked at the scab on his finger. "That’s what you were doing to me. Saving my soul. Why a finger?"

  "Because of its power." Mr. Bagby waggled his own flaccid finger. "With the finger you direct the sword, you draw the bow, you pull the trigger. It’s the essential piece of the warrior, and the most coveted. Besides, it’s small, and I have many
to carry." He gripped the cart handle. "If you’re done with yer questions, I’ve got much to do."

  Mr. Bagby dragged his cart away, and Augie kept alongside him.

  "Let me come with you."

  "No way. Go back to your division."

  "I can’t. They’re long gone. I don’t know where they are."

  "Then stay here, convalesce."

  Augie stepped into Mr. Bagby’s path, forcing him to stop. "I can help you," he said. "And there’s something else I need to do. My friend George—we each had a letter to take to the other’s family in case...well, in case. I have to deliver this, but I’m not well enough on my own. You wanted to save me—I need to do the same for George."

  Mr. Bagby’s nostrils flared like he was preparing to sneeze. "All right."

  He continued on ahead in a straight path. Augie stepped aside and fell in behind him, a company of two.

  "How do you know where you’re going?" Augie asked.

  Mr. Bagby sniffed the air. "I can smell it. Death. Can’t you?"

  *****

  My dear, dear mother,

  I write you with the gravest news. I have sought to never bring you suffering, but I fear that is what I have done. That you have received this letter is testimony that I have fallen in battle. I pray you can endure this blow. It breaks my heart to think I am causing you anguish.

  Know, Mother, that I regret nothing of my early life, except for Charlie’s death these seven years. If only he were there to comfort you, I would feel better. But depriving you of your second son is my fault. Do not be angry about my death. You are not the only mother to lose a son, and I have been responsible for the suffering of other mothers. That weighs on me heavily. I wish that this war would end, but not at the expense of this great nation. I believe in this struggle, in the Union. Of my later life, I do not regret its sacrifice, only the pain it will cause you and others dear to me.

  Please extend my sincerest wishes to my father and to my sister, Mrs. Lydia Bellamy, and equally to Miss Betsy Lynn. I am unable to write her. Every time I put pen to paper I haven’t the words. I request one thing only—that you welcome Betsy as your daughter, for she would have been whence I returned from the war. Let her know, if you please, that my heart burned like a furnace and that though my life has ended, the embers still burn. I am afraid I am inadequate to the task of telling her my feelings. Perhaps allow her to read this note.

  I shall be waiting for you at the Gate, Mother. I plead that you and Betsy draw strength from one another.

  All my love, for eternity,

  George Nace

  *****

  Augie read the letter at every stop. He had memorized each word, tracing the script across the page as if they were his own thoughts. He carried the letter in his coat, close to his heart, hiding it from Mr. Bagby so as to preserve the spell of his delusion.

  Mr. Bagby had become such a familiar figure to Augie that he scarcely noticed the man’s eccentricities anymore unless they were contrasted against the folks they came upon in their travels. Strangers took pains to avoid the duo—which was for the best, considering their vocation—but Augie did miss the pleasures of commonality, of conversation and a firm handshake and a warm smile. All these were missing from his life. Still, Mr. Bagby was an amiable companion, and Augie had taken to thinking of the fellow with affection, as one would a favorite horse.

  The scent carried them fifteen miles a day along well-trampled roads, less if they came upon fallen soldiers and added to their collection. They often did. Mr. Bagby then cured the fingers with salt to keep them from rotting.

  When they came to a crossroads, Augie learned to trust Mr. Bagby’s peculiar olfactory sense.

  "Are we still in Pennsylvania, you think?" Augie kicked at crinkled leaves with each step.

  "Maybe Virginia. Haven’t crossed a river in a ways."

  "So, we’re in their country."

  Augie’s Northern prejudice had sometimes brought a gentle reminder from Mr. Bagby that the differences weren’t as important as the similarities.

  "Prettiest land I’ve seen anywhere is in the South," he said, admiring the play of sunlight and shade through the naked forest. "You ought to see more of it. To my eyes, Kentucky is truly God’s country."

  "Where do you come from?" Augie asked. "You don’t speak like a Southerner."

  "Know many Southerners?"

  Augie shook his head. "Before the war I had never been outside of Pennsylvania."

  "I’ve been many places."

  "Always doing this work?"

  A jay swooped overhead to a branch, then cawed at them. "Not always," Mr. Bagby said. "I was a soldier myself once."

  "You’re old." Not meaning offense, Augie clarified. "You talk with experience."

  "Experience isn’t hard to come by."

  "How old are you? Did you fight in Mexico?"

  "Oh, it was long before—"

  Mr. Bagby abruptly hushed, and held up a finger for Augie to do likewise. They listened intently. There was the chatter of woodland creatures. The crunch of leaves alerted them too late. The soldiers stepped out from the trees.

  "Who goes there?"

  Augie was relieved they were Union soldiers on picket duty, but Mr. Bagby stiffened.

  The soldiers spread out to block the road. Three rifles were leveled at them. The corporal in the middle, his gaunt face hidden behind a thick wiry beard, jabbed his bayonet close to piercing Mr. Bagby’s protruding belly. "I said, who are you?"

  Mr. Bagby’s trepidation melted away. "Merchants," he said, flashing his gap-toothed grin. "A fellmonger, and his assistant."

  The corporal grimaced. "What are you hawking?"

  "Pelts," Mr. Bagby said. "If you’ll permit me?" He held up his hands to show they were empty. The corporal considered, then nodded curtly. Mr. Bagby drew open a sack from his handcart and produced a black-haired animal skin. "I bet you fighting boys could use some fur on cold nights."

  The corporal set down his rifle, leaning it against his leg, so he could feel the fur. Then, simultaneously, Augie and the guards noticed the twin white stripes running down the pelt.

  "That’s a dang skunk. What’re you trying to pull, toady?" The corporal crammed the pelt into Mr. Bagby’s face, shoving him and the cart to the ground. The bag of salt spilled out like sand. If the soldiers discovered the collection of severed fingers, they might just shoot.

  But something else drew the corporal’s attention. The mud and grime might have concealed the Confederate coat Mr. Bagby wore, but there was no mistaking his brass CSA belt buckle.

  "He’s a damn Reb!"

  Ignoring the guns thrust in his face, Mr. Bagby feebly reached for the hat the soldier had knocked off, but his portly shape made such movement awkward. "I am not a Confederate," he said.

  Augie stepped up and retrieved the hat for Mr. Bagby. "He’s not lying. He found that coat. Look at him. Does he look like Johnny Reb to you?"

  The corporal turned his attention to Augie.

  "What about you, private? Who are you?"

  The question struck Augie mute, and a cold spread down his arms. Since Antietam his Union blue had been just a coat. But he had skedaddled from the army; if they found out he was alive, he’d be hanged as a deserter.

  The corporal ripped the identification card from Augie’s shoulder. The practice, when going into battle, was to pin a card with a soldier’s name and company to his coat so his body could be identified.

  "Private August Boorman," he read.

  Augie’s mouth was dry.

  "Is this the sap you stole the coat from?" The corporal waved the card in his face. Augie grabbed for it, but the corporal shoved Augie hard in the chest.

  Augie retaliated, but the corporal slammed a fist in his mouth. His knuckle split on Augie’s tooth, spurting blood.

  "Son of a bitch!"

  Augie cupped his hands to his face, leaving himself exposed. The corporal kicked him in the gut, then in the face and again. Augie curled up in
the road and groaned.

  The jay cawed and twitched its head.

  The corporal’s anger was spent and he calmed down. He picked at the flap of skin on his knuckle. "Get off this road. We see you again and we’ll shoot."

  When the soldiers were gone, Mr. Bagby helped Augie sit up. His bandage was stained; the head wound had opened up. He coughed up blood and a couple teeth.

  "Stupid thing you did, boy." Mr. Bagby placed a rag in Augie’s hand and positioned it to his mouth to staunch the bleeding. "Hate to have to bury you."

  Augie tongued his lacerated gums in the front and winced. "Not all of me."

  *****

  They continued on through winter.

  The bandage came off eventually, but Augie’s hair never grew back. The top of his head remained bare, tonsure-style, though the sides were long. The outward wounds healed, at least.

  Augie determined he wouldn’t be caught vulnerable again. He searched for a pistol or saber, but though the bodies they found were left behind for burial, the weapons were never abandoned.

  They were never sure which army they were following, for they came upon the dead of both sides. Some, like Augie, were not yet deceased, and Mr. Bagby waited with them until the light in their eyes went out. One cold night they sat for eight hours with a Confederate infantryman suffering from a gut wound. The septic stench from his gashed entrails overwhelmed Augie, but his companion persevered and comforted the tragic soldier. He was afraid of dying until the last moment when an angry howl burst forth in his final gasp. That was why soldiers were taught to fear the bayonet above all.

  Mr. Bagby brandished the cigar cutter, but Augie held out an open palm.

  "I’ll do it."

  He didn’t understand all that Mr. Bagby had told him about the purpose of their collecting the dead’s fingers, but he believed it was to honor them. Using the hand with the ringed scar around his own finger, Augie attached the clamp, and, muttering a brief prayer from childhood, snipped.

  The land renewed itself as the weather grew warm. Mr. Bagby often pointed out different species of birds, and Augie learned to hear their songs.