‘Yes, doctor,’ the nurse said and beckoned one of the other orderlies to come and help change Jed’s bedding. The other men in the hut watched, silent. Poor bastard, he had the sickness.
Half an hour later, shaved and washed by the nurses, Jed was able to sit up in the bed. The doctor who had seen him earlier came in. He was a new one, Jed thought. About twenty-five with a shock of brown hair and gentle, brown eyes. He wore a long, gray smock over civilian clothes. His fingers were long and tapered and he carried a sheaf of documents beneath his arm.
‘Your name is Strong?’ he said to Jed.
‘That’s right.’
‘Any kin to the Culpeper Strongs?’
‘My father … was David Strong of Washington Farm.’
‘Was? He’s dead?’
‘Yes,’ Jed said. ‘Early last August.’
‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’
‘No, I don’t.’ Jed said puzzled.
‘My name is Billy Christman,’ the doctor said. ‘My mother was your aunt, Mary Strong. You’re my cousin, Jed.’
‘It’s … hard to believe. That you would be here, and I … My father hadn’t heard from his sister since they were kids.’
‘She led a wandersome life, my mother.’ Billy Christman said. ‘Her and my father both.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘Mother died in ’37. Cholera. But Pa’s fine, spry as a goat. He’s a doctor in San Francisco. Very Society, although some of his Nob Hill patients would throw a wobbler if they knew where he got his training.’
‘You must tell me about him.’ Jed said. ‘We’ve always wondered—’
‘That can wait,’ Christman said. ‘There’s something much more important to talk about.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘You had a seizure,’ Christman said. ‘Did they tell you what caused it?’
‘No,’ Jed said.
‘What you had was something they call withdrawal symptoms. They’re finding cases of it all over the place. Something in morphia causes an addiction. While you’re getting regular doses there’s no problem. The minute the medication is discontinued, the patient has a seizure. Believe me, they get much worse than the one you had.’
‘Isn’t there any cure?’
‘They’re trying a new treatment,’ Billy Christman went on. ‘Instead of morphia they’re giving heroin. The theory is that the two drugs will cancel each other out and kill the addiction.’
‘And does it?’
Billy Christman regarded him somberly. ‘Jed, if they ever give you that stuff, you’ll be hooked on it. Believe me. I’ve made a study of narcotics. If you don’t break the habit, you’ll have to take drugs for the rest of your life. Now let me ask you something, and think carefully before you answer: what effect does morphia have on you?’
it kills the pain,’ Jed said, it makes me feel … euphoric. As if I was floating.’
‘Any physical reaction?’
‘Give me a for-instance.’
‘A glow in the belly. A thrill all over, almost sexual?’
‘I’d have noticed that,’ Jed said with a grin. ‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Good, good,’ Billy nodded. ‘Current thinking is that opiates only produce a physical response in disordered personalities. As their bodies become accustomed to the drug they find they can no longer obtain the sensation it first caused. The only way they can is to increase the dose – and that way lies perdition.’
‘Well,’ Jed said. ‘I don’t think I’m a psychopath.’
‘That’s a much-abused word, too,’ Billy said. ‘People tend to think of someone with a butcher knife looking for babies to murder. In fact, a truer definition would be that it is someone who’s out of mental equilibrium, at odds with society. Not insane at all.’ He pulled a watch from his pocket and grimaced. ‘I’ve got to go.’ he said. ‘I’ll try to come back tomorrow. As for you, eat, get your strength back. I’m going to try to get you out of here.’
‘How many of the boys have had the sickness, Gerry?’ Jed asked Hampson later that evening.
‘Purt’ near all of us, I’d say,’ Gerry replied. ‘Some real damn bad. You okay now?’
‘Thanks,’ Jed said. He wondered whether to tell Gerry what Billy Christman had told him. That the only way to break the hold of the morphia was to go through the seizure and out the other side. There was no alternative. It was a damned bleak prospect; but the other was even bleaker.
Billy Christman came back the next day carrying clean clothes, some fresh-baked bread and fruit. The shirt felt incredibly clean and luxurious, the woolen pants soft and warm. There was a decent pair of boots, a little battered but serviceable, and a warm pea-jacket.
‘As the lady said when her husband died … ’ Jed said.
‘I know, I know,’ Christman grinned. ‘I feel like a new man.’ He arranged for Jed to be paroled in his care and they walked down to the town from the hill on which the hutments for the wounded stood. South of the town, peaceful and browning-green in the slanting autumn sun, lay the fields and woods over which the great battle had been fought. Way off to the southeast lay Little Round-Top and Big Round-Top, two hills which had been the scene of some of the bloodiest fighting. Cemetery Ridge looked peaceful and undisturbed.
‘It looks all right from here,’ Billy said. ‘It’s a little less pleasant close to.’
They walked past brick shops, wooden houses. Christman told Jed that a man named Wills had bought fifteen acres of the battlefield to set aside as a cemetery for those who had fallen at Gettysburg. There was talk of the President coming down to attend the dedication, maybe give a short speech.
‘I’m hoping by that time, you’ll be long gone, Jed,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to get out of that damned place up there before they make you an addict for life!’
‘What about the others?’ Jed asked.
‘What about them?’
‘They’re good men. They deserve as much of a break as I do.’
‘I don’t doubt it for a second,’ Billy said. ‘But you can’t get two or five or ten men paroled to me.’
‘Has anyone tried to get away?’
‘A few. Not many. They’ve usually been caught quite soon, begging for food, or lying in a ditch dying of pneumonia.’
‘What makes you think I can do it?’
‘Because I’m going to help you,’ Billy said.
As they walked, he told Jed about his family. They had lived a wandersome life, all right, Jed thought as the story unfolded. Ike Christman – ‘Doc’ as everyone called him– was a rolling stone. Part-time confidence man, he was a tall, imposing figure of considerable presence, who sported a goatee and a luxuriant moustache which he was fond of stroking. He knew nothing of his own family and was not even sure where he had been born, but it was sometime around 1800. Whenever it was, he was at the head of the line when the charm was handed out.
He met Mary Strong while he was bringing his medicine show through Culpeper, but what Doc had expected to be the painless seduction of a simple country lass behind a haystack, turned into a brawling, noisy marriage – if you could call the ceremony which they went through a marriage – that produced six children. In between the traveling and the children Mary, with her mane of black hair and her lively intelligence, soon figured out that the best way to get a crowd around the wagon was to give them a bit of a show. She taught herself to play the guitar and sang the old songs in a velvet-sweet voice that brought tears to the eyes of even the foulest-mouthed roughneck.
‘She not only knew the words of the songs, she actually knew what they meant,’ Billy said. ‘Anybody can sing a song but very few people can make you see it. My Pa says that when Mama sang “The Ministrel’s Return From the War”, it like to broke your heart.’ After the singing, she’d move among the crowd, selling Doc’s Genuine Kickapoo Indian Elixir, while Doc gave them the spiel. It was a damned good elixir, according to Doc. Nothing in it that would hurt a body like some. Just natural thin
gs and a smidgen of wood alcohol to give it a kick.
‘All of us were born in the wagon,’ Billy said. ‘She called us after whatever place we were in. Virginia was the first; she died a-borning. Then there was Carolina, and Tex, for Texas. Washington next, then California. If I’d been born ten days earlier than I was, my name would be Monterey, but when I arrived, Mama didn’t have a decent name handy, so instead I got the name of the traveling preacher who baptized me.’
‘She died of cholera, you said.’
‘I was still a baby. Asiatic cholera, they called it, out on . the plains. Mama and three of the kids died. Caro was real sick but she pulled through. Pa brought us to California. He said it was a coming place and he was right. He tried mining when the Rush was on but he never had that kind of luck. He found that the miners would pay anything for medical treatment; by this time, he’d learned simple things, how to lance a boil, set a broken bone. He set up as a doctor. Nobody seemed to mind. He made a lot of money. I mean a lot. We moved down to San Francisco and became “respectable”. And when the time came, he sent me east to medical school, here in Baltimore. Everyone there was drafted for duty when the casualties started coming in off the battlefield.’
‘And Doc still lives in San Francisco?’
‘He does,’ Billy smiled. ‘In considerable style.’
They walked back up the gentle slope towards the raw, churned ground where the hospital buildings stood. Jed felt better than he had done in a very long time.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Billy said. ‘You’ve got to make your break as soon as possible.’
‘When?’
‘I’ll come for you tomorrow.’ Billy said. ‘We’ll take a ‘walk, just like we did today. Only this time, you won’t come back.’
‘They’ll arrest you for breaking your parole.’
‘Not the way I plan to do it,’ Billy said with a grin. ‘Go on, get back to bed. Rest up as much as you can. And Jed …’ He put a finger to his lips. Jed nodded. He’d thought over what Billy said about telling the others and Billy was right. A group of crippled men in tattered Confederate uniforms trying to walk back to Virginia would be as easy to spot as a spider on a whitewashed wall.
He slept badly that night and rose early, impatient for Billy Christman to come. He arrived shortly after three, carrying a small grip. In it, he said, were extra socks, a warm scarf, a glove, some jerked meat, chocolate.
‘How about a walk?’ he said cheerfully. Jed nodded, unable to trust himself to speak.
‘See you later, Jed.’ Gerry Hampson called as he went out. ‘There’s a game tonight.’ They played penny-ante poker almost non-stop. Jed felt like a traitor as he raised his hand in acknowledgement. I should have told Gerry, he thought. At least Gerry.
He walked down the hill to the town with Billy Christman. Dry leaves skittered along the road in front of the fitful wind. The twin hills to the south looked dark and near: rain coming, Jed thought.
‘Which way will you go?’ Billy said as they turned into Baltimore Street.
‘I’ll take the Emmitsburg Pike. Cross the Potomac at Antietam or Point of Rocks. I’ll have to see. Work my way south down the Shenandoah Valley, I guess. Try to find our army.’ He hated lying to Billy, but thought it the best thing to do. He didn’t think Billy would willingly divulge the information. But there were other ways they could make him talk.
‘That’s a long walk,’ Billy said.
‘I’ve seen barefoot kids do it under a hundred-degree sun,’ Jed said. ‘I’ll make it.’
‘All right,’ Billy said. ‘Now listen to me. You’ve been getting five grains of morphia a day. I’ve mixed you forty grains. You’ve got to taper yourself off as you get stronger. You understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Take five grains the first two days. Then four the next three days. Three the next three. Two grains for four days after that, then one grain on the last day if you still need it. Use the measures on the bottle.’
‘Will I still get withdrawal symptoms?’
‘Some. All we can hope is that they won’t be too bad.’
‘I’ll take my chances. Now, how about you?’
‘That’s easy.’ Billy said. ‘Look in the bag. At the bottom.’ Jed rummaged beneath the clothes and felt the cold solidity of a pistol barrel. Jed peered inside. It was El Gato’s gun.
‘Where did you get it?’ he asked, astonished.
‘They had it with your personal belongings,’ Billy said. ‘I sort of – borrowed it. There’s some ammunition. Not much.’
‘You’re a goddamned wonder, you are!’ Jed said. ‘What do I do now, shoot you?’
‘Perhaps something a shade less drastic,’ Billy grinned. ‘But when we get to the trees, down there along the pike, I want you to give me a good tap on the head with it.’
‘The hell I will.’
‘Jed, don’t be a fool!’ Billy Christman said sharply. ‘We’ve got to make it look good. I can’t go back up there and tell them I let you walk away. We don’t want them to know you’ve got a gun. That only leaves one way to do it.’
Jed nodded slowly. ‘I can’t think of a way to begin thanking you, Billy,’ he said slowly.
‘Then don’t try,’ Billy said. ‘Cousin. Let’s hope we meet again … one day.’
‘Aye,’ Jed said. ‘One day.’
The gun felt very heavy as he took it out of the bag and hefted it. Billy Christman turned around to face the town, half a mile away, and Jed hit him with the barrel of the gun. Billy crumpled at the knees and stretched out on the ground. Blood trickled down the side of his head.
Jed stuck the gun into his belt beneath the pea-jacket, locked the bag and slung it by its strap over his shoulder. Then he set out purposefully down the Emmitsburg Road, a solitary figure moving south. Among the trees he could see the wreckage of the battle, shattered wagons, the gleam of bones, knapsacks moldering in the grass.
By nightfall he was many miles from Gettysburg. He felt glad to be moving again, glad to be filled with purpose. But he wasn’t going south to find Lee’s army. He had lied to his cousin about that. No, Jed was going south to try to find Edward Maxwell. He was going to do it if he had to spend the rest of his life at it.
And then he was going to kill him.
Twenty-Six – The Story of Andrew Strong
May 1864
It was a different war now.
In March 1864, Grant was made commander-in-chief of all the Federal armies, and ‘Old Brains’ was demoted to the post of chief of staff. Grant moved his headquarters to Culpeper and after almost three years Andrew Strong came home. Home: it was an empty word. His father was dead, the grave still unmarked. The savage destruction which had been visited on Washington Farm appalled him.
‘It used to be so beautiful,’ he said sadly. Jessica took his hand and kissed it.
‘We’ll rebuild it, Andrew,’ she vowed. ‘I’ll rebuild it.’
A week after their arrival in Culpeper, Andrew found old Aunt Betty working in an army field kitchen. Their reunion was joyous, yet sad. She told him about his father’s funeral, about Jed. There was no word of Jed. All he knew of his brother was that Jed had been with Jackson and Jackson was dead. Jed had been with Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia and that army had been cut to pieces at Gettysburg, and was about to be cut to pieces again, and again, and again, until there was nothing left to fight.
They brought old Aunt Betty back with them to Washington Farm and installed her, with Jessica, in the old living quarters behind the house where David Strong had lived.
‘We are going to make it as it used to be, Andrew,’ she promised him. ‘So it’s up to you and General Grant to make sure I’m not disturbed while I’m doing it.’ It was not altogether a joke: the Confederate Army was no more than a few miles to the south, holding the Rapidan.
‘It’s dangerous, Jess,’ he said. ‘I wish you’d stay in Washington, till they’re pushed back.’
She kissed him and smiled and told him t
o go away and get on with winning the war. She was confident that the Rebels would never again come north of the Rappahannock and, as it turned out, she was right.
It had been a triumphant winter for Grant and an even sweeter spring. His home county in Illinois gave him a diamond-hilted sword in a gold scabbard. Congress approved the revival of the rank of lieutenant-general, and Lincoln conferred it upon him early in the year. In March he was summoned to Washington to be appointed commander-in-chief of all the Federal armies. Cheering crowds waited for a glimpse of him outside the White House.
‘Well, general,’ Andrew said to him. ‘You’re famous.’
‘My God!’ Grant said, as if that was the worst thing he could imagine.
As soon as headquarters were established in Virginia, Grant began his reorganization. He put ‘Little Phil’ Sheridan, one of the few officers he had brought with him from the Military Division of the Mississippi, in charge of the cavalry. He appointed General George Meade, the hesitant victor of Gettysburg, as his right-hand man. They told him Meade was proud, touchy, irascible and had a temper like a Turk. They said that unless it was absolutely necessary to deal with him, the best plan was to give him a wide berth. Grant heard them all out and nodded his agreement.
‘All you tell me is true,’ he said. ‘But this is the man we need. We are not going to win this war, as Colonel Strong here never tires of telling us, until we completely break the military power of the Confederacy. Our next offensive, gentlemen, is going to be a total one. We have the manpower and we have the machinery. All we need is men with the know-how, and Meade is such a man. He’s over-cautious, yes, but he’s safe. He’s reliable. If I give him a job, he’ll do it, but that’s all he’ll do. And that, gentlemen, is the kind of general I need right now!’
‘About that manpower, general,’ Andrew said. ‘I can get you more.’
‘How?’ rasped Grant, scowling as usual.
‘We’ve got over eight hundred thousand men on the muster rolls,’ Andrew reported. ‘Of those, perhaps half a million are nominally available for duty. But in fact, general, the figure is more like four hundred thousand. There are a lot of men sitting on their butts in soft garrison jobs up North, guarding supply lines that don’t need guarding.’
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