Gob's Grief

by Chris Adrian

  The men of the Ninth stabbed viciously at the now shy, shrinking Rebels; some of them, their guns knocked from their grip, held up their hands in demure gestures against the bright steel, as if to say, No thank you. It’s a wonder I’m not shot, Tomo thought to himself as he stood there looking. He was keenly aware of the bullets, but felt no urge to move. He was thinking how the sound the minié balls made was very singular indeed, and quite impossible to describe, except that he thought he heard in it something of the buzzing of a bee, the mewing of a kitten, and the snapping of fingers. He left his reverie only when he noticed a Rebel threatening Raimund Herrman, tracking the big man smoothly as he ran towards a captured Union battery. Tomo was quite hidden by the corn as he ran. If the Rebel marksman had looked he might have thought some elemental of the air was rushing towards him, but he never turned. Tomo struck him in the hip just as the Rebel fired, and when he fell among the stalks, Tomo stepped up and swung his rifle over his shoulder, like an ax, and crushed the man’s throat. Then Tomo ran after Raimund Herrman, who was poking his bayonet at a Rebel beside a shiny napoleon.

  “This gun is ours, you shithouse sergeant!” cried the Reb.

  “No,” said Raimund Herrman, “this gun is unser.” Tomo came up behind and whacked the Reb in his kidney. When he fell to his knees, Raimund Herrman stabbed him through the head. To Tomo it seemed a rude gesture, that stabbing. He would have preferred that all of them lay about them with their stocks like civilized folk, but that was not happening. All around him, the Ninth was stabbing away at the Rebs, and carrying the moment. The Rebs broke and ran as another Union regiment came up to the recaptured battery. Tomo returned to the brigade with Raimund Herrman, where the enemy was crowding in now on the left, and the Ninth charged again. They were incorrigible chargers. “Any excuse to fix bayonets!” joked other regiments, and they asked why the Ninth bothered at all with ammunition.

  Tomo was not the least bit tired during the battle—there was a thrill in his blood so strong he did not think he’d ever sleep again—but it seemed like a sweet rest when he got to lie prone behind a felled tree and shoot across a field at the Rebs. Aaron Stanz had found him and scolded him, then hugged him fiercely. Now they were shooting side by side, their lips, teeth, and tongues black from tearing open cartridges. Johnny was shooting, too, cursing viciously between shots. “Jeff Davis drives the goat!” he shouted into the din. “Mrs. Lee is a crusty old whore!”

  The fighting seemed to stop very suddenly. One minute Tomo was lining up a Rebel hat to shoot at, and the next the Rebs were all gone, and there was nothing to sight on but the shadows between trees. Farther up the line he could hear them still pounding away, but where the Ninth was it was all peace and quiet. The Ninth took advantage of the lull to take their first meal of the day. Tomo was so hungry he ate a half pound of unrinsed salt beef, which stung his blistered tongue, and puckered up his face so tight he could barely open his eyes. The quiet stretched on and on, into dusk, so the Ninth thought it was done for that day, but just as the sun passed over the ridge an incredible abundance of Rebels came screaming out of the woods. They charged through the field of low grass, across to the trees where the Ninth sheltered, and almost overwhelmed them.

  It was then that one of the Weghorst twins died. As they rose to fall back with the rest of the company, he opened his mouth to say something to his brother, and got a bullet there, through his mouth and out through the back of his head. Tomo heard quite distinctly the noise of his shattering teeth, a terrible sound. When he heard it, Tomo was frightened for the first time. He wanted to run, then, away from the echoing noise in his head, away from the living Weghorst’s screaming, away from the charging Rebs. But Tomo wasn’t Gob. He wouldn’t run away to Homer and hide under the bed.

  Tomo backed off slowly, loading and firing as he went, until he walked into a private of another Ohio regiment, come up with a whole division to reinforce them. The line held till full dark came. Tomo kept firing blindly into the darkness. Eventually Aaron Stanz came and put a hand on his shoulder, and pushed his arm down so his gun touched the earth.

  “No more tonight, Fenzmaus,” Aaron Stanz said, and then he yawned, so big Tomo thought his whole face would disappear into his mouth, and so hard his breath washed over Tomo’s face. Tomo went to the rear, then, at Aaron Stanz’s insistence, while the rest of the unwounded Ninth began to throw up earthworks. At the hospital tents, Tomo said he had only come to serenade the wounded, but the truth was he was feeling sicker. He was hot with his fever now, instead of cold, but that suited him fine, because it was turning out to be a frigid night. He was having strange visions, too. He supposed his brain was too hot, so he dunked his head in a basin, but still he saw a black bug crawl out of a wounded man’s ear and circle his head before crawling back in, and twice he saw the moon turn into an eye and wink at him.

  Tomo played sweet music for the wounded all through the night because he could not sleep. A hospital steward brought him hot food; crisp bacon and a stew of chicken and hardtack. At the bottom of the bowl was a hard-boiled egg. Tomo fished it out and ate it with great precision, nibbling away the white until he had a perfect globe of yolk pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He swallowed it like a pill. When he finished eating, he went to visit the living Weghorst twin, thinking to play him something to comfort him, but when he found him still weeping over his brother’s body, all he could do was stare numbly and clutch Betty to his chest. He thought of his mama, back in Homer. If she were there, she’d say that the dead Weghorst now inhabited the Summerland, a place where all good spirits lived.

  He went and sat next to the surviving Weghorst, put his hand on the big fellow’s hand, and burst so violently into tears he felt as if his whole head had exploded in a shower of salty water. Tomo cried because it is a terrible thing that brothers should be separated, and because he missed his own brother. He suffered suddenly from the unreasoning conviction that Gob was dead, that a Rebel bullet had traveled hundreds of miles up to Homer to shatter his brother’s teeth and blow out the back of his head all over their bedroom wall. Tomo put his head on the dead twin’s chest and wept, thinking he would keep on until he was only dry skin and bones and brittle desiccated organs. The living twin petted Tomo’s hair, to comfort him, which was not the plan at all, and the world seemed to Tomo a place entirely mixed up and unjust before he suddenly fell very hard into sleep, as if into a deep ditch.

  The next morning, Tomo woke suddenly to the noise of cannon. He had been having a dream: he was in the house at Homer, sharing a plate of pancakes with Gob, while their mama read aloud from The Tempest. There was a big fire built in the hearth, and Tomo was comfortable and very happy because his grandpa Buck was dead—his head was stuffed and mounted above the mantel. Tomo shoveled pancakes into his mouth: they were drenched with butter and tasted very salty. Suddenly there was a noise outside, like thunder, and his mama leaped from her chair, shrieking, “Oh Rosy, there was no hole but the one you made! Yet now truly there’s a hole in our center and Longstreet has seen it!”

  Somebody had put Tomo under a tent with Johnny, who slept through the artillery noise, hugging his drum. Tomo rose and poured water over his hot aching head, and drank a cup of coffee. Johnny woke up and hastily scribbled out a note with his parents’ names and address, which he pinned to his coat. “Ought to have done this yesterday,” he said. After a few moments’ reflection, Tomo did it too. He wrote his real name, and then his mother’s name: “Victoria C. Woodhull (The Great), Town of Homer, Licking County, Ohio.”

  Tomo and the rest of Company C were two miles north of the hole in the line into which Longstreet poured three divisions later that morning. Just after noon two-thirds of the Army of the Cumberland was in headlong flight up the road to Rossville and Chattanooga. Old Rosy was nobody’s man that day; he fled to Chattanooga. Tomo did not flee there, though he still had in him a hankering to see the place. He stayed with the Ninth, who got called up, just as things were falling apart, to Snodgrass
Hill, where Thomas made his famous stand.

  Tomo spent the whole day up there. Twice the Rebs crested Tomo’s portion of the hill and planted their colors on it; twice Tomo rushed out with the Ninth to push the colors over and bludgeon the panting Rebs. All pooped out from their run up the hill, the Rebs had very little fight in them by the time they reached the top.

  A third time the Ninth charged out. The Rebs had a round of canister and grape ready for them when they rushed out from behind their works. Tomo tripped and fell on his face, and the volley passed over him. Raimund Herrman lost his head to an erroneously loaded cannonball. His big body took a few more steps and then seemed to kneel down before it fell over. A load of shot took the living Weghorst twin in the chest. Aaron Stanz, in the rear of the charge, kept running after Tomo, stranded in the front, after his comrades had turned back or flattened themselves on the ground. The artillery spent itself as Aaron Stanz ran, and did not touch him, but then he came under furious, withering rifle fire, and seemed to disappear before Tomo’s eyes. Little pieces of Aaron Stanz—a finger, a portion of his hat, part of his nose—were suddenly not there, and then he proceeded to disintegrate as butterfly-sized pieces of flesh and bone flew away from him. He ran to within a few yards of Tomo before there was not sufficient body left for his will to propel.

  That horror caused Tomo to experience a reversal of feeling. Now all his former battle-mindedness left him, replaced by terror, which rose up in him until he felt he could not breathe because he was drowning in it. It was so much worse than what he’d felt the day before. Now he did want to run away to Homer, to cower under the bed and not ever come out. He and Gob would have a stolen pie and a jug of cider, a candle, and a book. What else did a boy need besides all that and his brother? They could eat and read and scratch each other’s back. They could look out into the darkness beyond the candle and say it together: “I’m afraid. I’m afraid to die.” Overcome by fever and fear, Tomo closed his eyes and rested his head on the ground.

  It was night when he woke to the noise of Rebels cheering their victory. The sound was muffled by the dead piled on top of him—one Union and three Rebel, entwined in a heavy confraternity that must have protected him from flying bullets. He emerged from under the bodies. General Thomas was gone, leaving Tomo and the dead behind him.

  Tomo went west, walking, where he had to, over the soft bodies of the dead. Amid the cheers of the Rebels he heard the moans of some wounded, and he was certain his steps would elicit a groan at some point, but they never did. He kept walking towards the ridge, dodging campfires. When he heard a group of Rebs approaching him, he fled into a patch of woods, becoming quite lost there among the pine and scrub oak, where more dead lay scattered amid the smoldering underbrush. Eventually, Tomo lost sight of the ridge, lost all sense of direction, and came at last to a swift cold creek, which he passed over, sliding down one steep bank and clawing his way up the other, grateful for the chance to dunk his whole body. Tomo felt so hot now he thought he must soon burst into flame and draw the Rebs down on him like moths. Not knowing that he was completely turned around, he headed east on the far side of Chickamauga creek. “Gob,” he called out softly as he walked through the dark woods. “Where are you?”

  His fever visions kept up. An owl alit on a low branch and said, “Tomo! Tomo!” The moon flipped in the sky like a tossed coin. A little boy brandishing a wooden sword led a troop of headless soldiers towards the creek. And a man in an immaculate white chiton rode out from a shadow on an elephant the size of a pony.

  “Thomas Jefferson Woodhull,” he said. “I know you.”

  “I don’t know you,” said Tomo, sitting down and rubbing his eyes. He did know him, though. He recognized him from the stories his mama told about her enormous destiny, about all the spirits in whose shadow she walked. He began to cry.

  “There,” said the man. “There now. There’s no need to cry. You wanted to see the elephant, didn’t you? Well, here he is!”

  Tomo said nothing, but only put his head in his hands and cried harder. The elephant played a friendly tune on its trunk as the man dismounted and came to sit by him. Only then did Tomo notice he’d lost Betty in the creek. The man took Tomo’s hands from his face and held them in his own. His hands were cool and dry and too smooth to be made of real flesh.

  “Oh my boy,” he said. “Your troubles are almost over. You are very near the road home. In yonder clearing squats an officer who can send you on your way.” The man in white raised a bare arm and pointed. Tomo got up and ran, not so much because he believed the fever-vision, but because he wanted to get away. Sure enough, there was a figure in the clearing, squatting next to his horse with his pants down.

  Tomo’s half-spoken friendly greeting turned to a howl of rage when he saw the man in the clearing was a Rebel, and a general for that matter—his stars shone very clearly in the bright moonlight. Tomo brought his gun up as he ran, but when he fired, he missed. As he neared the General, he flipped the rifle and caught it by the barrel, lifting it above his head, ready to deliver a crushing blow. The General raised his pistol and shot twice before Tomo could reach him. The first bullet went wide, but the second passed into Tomo’s left eye, and killed him dead. Tomo fell down in the cool grass, and his fever began very slowly to depart from him. The General came over on his knees to better see his assailant. Already, there was noise in the trees. The General’s staff was coming to look for him—his camp was not very far away.

  When the General saw it was a little boy he had killed, he pounded his hand against his head and tore out a piece of his hair, cursing the Yankees that they should send children against him, and, because he happened also to be a priest and a bishop, he prayed gently and sincerely over the boy’s body, pleading with God to please, please give this little one a home in Heaven.

  EVERY NIGHT FOR A THOUSAND YEARS

  Sorrow ([illegible]) grieve sad mourn (I use) mourning mournful melancholy dismal heavy-hearted tears black sobs -ing sighing funeral rites wailing lamenting mute grief eloquent silence bewail bemoan deplore regret deeply loud lament-pitiful loud weeping violent lamentation

  anguish wept sore depression pain of mind passionate regret afflicted with grief cast down downcast gloomy serious Sympathy moving compassion tenderness tender-hearted full of pity obscurity partial or total darkness (as the gloom of a forest—gloom of midnight) cloudy cloudiness (cloudiness) of mind mind sunk in gloom soul ((sunk in gloom)/ dejection dejected

  [illegible]) shades of night heavy dull-sombre sombre shades sombre(ness) affliction oppress-oppressive oppression prostration humble—humility suffering-silent suffering burdensome Distress—distressing calamity Extreme anguish (either of mind or body) Misery torture harassed weighed down trouble deep affliction plaintive Calamity disaster something that strikes down—

  WALT WHITMAN

  A collection of vocabulary for

  “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d”

  1

  WALT DREAMED HIS BROTHER’S DEATH AT FREDERICKSBURG. General Burnside, appearing as an angel at the foot of his bed, announced the tragedy: “The army regrets to inform you that your brother, George Washington Whitman, was shot in the head by a lewd fellow from Charleston.” The general alit on the bedpost and drew his dark wings close about him, as if to console himself. Moonlight limned his strange whiskers and his hair. His voice shook as he went on. “Such a beautiful boy. I held him in my arms while his life bled out. See? His blood made this spot.” He pointed at his breast, where a dark stain in the shape of a bird lay on the blue wool. “I am so very sorry,” the General said, choking and weeping. Tears fell in streams from his eyes, ran over the bed and out the window, where they joined the Rappahannock, which had somehow come north to flow through Brooklyn, bearing the bodies of all the late battle’s dead.

  In the morning Walt read the wounded list in the Tribune. There it was: “First Lieutenant G. W. Whitmore.” He knew from George’s letters that there was nobody named Whitmore in the
company. He walked through snow to his mother’s house. “I’ll go and find him,” he told her.

  Washington, Walt quickly discovered, had become a city of hospitals. He looked in half of them before a cadaverous-looking clerk told him he’d be better off looking at Falmouth, where most of the Fredericksburg wounded still lay in field hospitals. He got himself on a government boat that ran down to the landing at Aquia Creek, and went by railroad to the neighborhood of Falmouth, seeking Fer-rero’s Brigade and the Fifty-first New York, George’s regiment. Walt stood outside a large brick mansion on the banks of the Rappahan-nock, somebody’s splendid residence converted to a hospital, afraid to go in and find his mangled brother. He took a walk around the building, gathering his courage, and found a pile of amputated limbs, arms and legs of varying lengths, all black and blue and rotten in the chill. A thin layer of snow covered some of them. He circled the heap, thinking he must recognize his brother’s hand if he saw it. He closed his eyes and considered the amputation; his brother screaming when he woke from the ether, his brother’s future contracting to something bitter and small.

  But George had only gotten a hole in his cheek. A piece of shell pierced his wispy beard and chipped a tooth. He had spit blood and hot metal into his hand, put the shrapnel in his pocket, and later showed it to his worried brother, who burst into tears and clutched him in a bear hug when they were reunited in Captain Francis’s tent, where George sat with his feet propped on a trunk and a cigar stuck in his bandaged face.