Andersonville (52 page)

Lucy whispered, Question Forty-two.

Ah, in the Shorter Catechism? You learned it all so well. You were a good child, you’ve always been a good child.

The sum of the ten commandments is, To love the Lord our God with all our heart, with all our soul, with all our strength, and with all our mind; and our neighbor as ourselves.
Poppy, I did. I tried to. With emphasis upon the neighbor part—

My dear, in loving thy neighbor you are also loving God. That’s apparent within the Scriptures. And outside them.

I tell you, I tried!

Good child.

Don’t call me blithe spirit, Poppy. I’ll never be again.

Yes, yes, you’ll—

Never! Poppy, I want to— I want to
damn God.

Oh, poor Lucy. Poor—

What did you do, to deserve this? What did I do? What did
she
do?

Nothing at all, my dear. It’s—but a misery—

Is not all life, as it’s come to us? Oh, dear God, let me damn God! Let me damn Him and damn Him and damn Him—

Now the weeping came with a puppy’s cry, and Ira stood holding the girl as she sagged. Behind them Veronica told Lucy to use caution. Never waken little Arwood, she said. Troubled with colic as he is.

 XXXI 

S
ometimes Our Dear Lord (or was it Our Lady?) let Father Peter Whelan dream, and did not cause him to repeat endlessly in ritual the offices he managed through waking hours. Sometimes Our Dear Lord made him a boy again, running through dim beech woods in County Meath. Our Dear Lord allowed him to go for an evening stroll, as when he was in the seminary, and he heard cosy laughter of Terry Shanahan ahead of him and the solemn grunt of red-faced John Gilligan waddling black-cassocked close behind, the solemn voice of John Gilligan declaring that primroses were worldly objects and so not to be admired, since admiration might lead to worship, and thus would be committed a transgression of the soul if not of the flesh. Sometimes. Only sometimes.

Father Peter Whelan was a very old man, aging a year each day he served in Andersonville. He had come to Andersonville from Savannah on the sixteenth of June, bearing in his hand and in his intelligence the same Roman Ritual which Benedict the Fourteenth authorized over one hundred years before. When he slept he was an effigy, except that no effigy wore so many facial lines, compressed into the texture of woven fabric, perhaps coarse linen, perhaps fine lace. When Father Whelan slept he seemed to be dead. There was the smallest possible respiration of his thin chest, his gray hands were folded across his body, he lay motionless upon his back, the wide thin firm lips did not twitch.

Only bright watery blue of his eyes made Father Whelan live when he opened his eyes; still, the prisoners never saw him asleep, they did not know that he went into death when he slept. When they saw him it was to observe him prowling without rest, papery under weight of an old umbrella with broken bows, an umbrella faded, mildewed, hit by the steady sun; but the umbrella became a symbol of strength which amounted to audacity in one so frail, so old.

Haley Ladden was dying, Haley knew that he was dying, his breath was a long hard rattle. Priest— Father. His imaginings twitched off to Dubuque and he named Father Whelan as Father Jackson whom he had known when he was a little boy.

No, no, me son. I’m Father Whelan.

Not—same priest—here—awhile back?

In May, me son? Twas Father Hamilton from Macon. I’m Father Whelan. Sip of this water now, me boy.

A surgeon would have said that Haley Ladden was close to total blindness from extravasation of blood as well as from fluid in the posterior parts of his eyes. A surgeon would have said, His ulcers have assumed a phagedenic appearance and extend over a large extent of surface, and present irritable, jagged, and everted edges, and are destroying the dead tissues down to the bone. Except that no surgeon had observed Haley Ladden because he had no friends to carry him to the gate for examination; and when Haley had been able to totter in that direction supported by his own limbs and canes he had not been able to get within fifty yards of the gate.

How old are you, me boy?

Don’t know. Nnnnnnn. Sseventeen. . . .

And where was your home?

Dubuque . . . Ioway. . . .

And are you a Catholic, me boy?

Yehhhhh. . . .

Oremus. Domine Deus, qui per Apostolum tuum Jacobum locutus es: Infirmatur quis in vobis? Inducat presbyteros Ecclesiae, et orent super eum, ungentes eum oleo in nomine Domini—

Ernst Kamphoefner was dying, Ernst did not know that he was dying; instead he would be paroled, and his captain and the village grocer and a girl named Anna had just called on him to tell him so; they said, Pack your plunder, boy; home we go maybe tomorrow, and forget all about what happened to the Seventy-fourth Pennsylvania nearly a year ago—

Here, me son. Let me wipe your poor mouth; and taste the cup of cool water I bring you.

Ja. . . .

And what is your name, me poor lad? And where do you come from?

Anna, she was by me. The parole I got now.
Ja,
I go home. Ernst Kamphoefner writhed and thought that he was standing, thought that he was walking off between Anna and Captain Dromke; but he was only lifting his head a trifle; more of the evil liquid poured from his mouth; and a surgeon would have said— What would a surgeon have said?

Ah, I know that you’re a good Catholic, me brave boy, for you’ve got the Holy Cross around your neck. Taste another sip of the water I’ve brought you.

Ja. . . .

Tattered umbrella building its shade upon them, the bone handle of it thrust into oozing ground.
Et oratio fidei salvabit infirmum, et alleviabit eum Dominus: et si in peccatis sit, remittentur ei: cura, quaesumus. Redemptor noster—

A surgeon would have said, In cases of ulceration of the mucous membrane of the intestinal canal, the fibrous element of the blood is increased. Bill Skelly would have said, Ah, I fear to die, Father, for I’ve sinned— How I’ve sinned— But Bill Skelly could not speak; only his great swollen eyes could roll wildly, watching the seamed austere but gentle face pushing close above.
Gratia Sancti Spiritus languores istius infirmi, ejusque sana vulnera, et dimitte peccata, atque dolores cunctos mentis et corporis ab eo expelle—

Eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth, hands, feet. The smell of oil upon the cotton, little wads going into the bashed tin cup, the dab of corn bread rubbed upon Father Whelan’s thumb; fire reaching for these remnants once Father Whelan was finished with them. Oh, were other deeper more dangerous fires reaching for Tim and Jackie and Barney and Olin and Fritz and Owen and the rest? He must hasten, he must tread far and pray long, he must not let the flames sear the young pale souls which had been caged within rotting ribs and horny skin, but which would soon be freed. They must go shrived if they were to be freed.

Violet stole hanging on the tall frame, that frame wasted by age and by the giving out of unmeasured pity . . . sun coming through a split in the umbrella’s top to blaze upon the violet stole and try to fade it.
Et ne nos inducas in tentationem.

Hoarse mumble of response made by Father Whelan himself, because the dying boy could not speak the words.
Sed libera nos a malo.

Salvum fac servum tuum.

Mumble running down into a whisper.
Deus meus, sperantem in te.

Some might have thought that the bishop should never have sent so elderly a man to labor amid agonies, but to Peter Whelan this was the accolade supreme: ardently he had dreamed of martyrdom, this was martyrdom, it was a reward scarce to be expected while he remained upon earth. He went about his tingling earnest creepings nerved by bitterness of the task. He felt a pride; pride was sin, he recognized this sin in himself, he was abject, he prayed with humility again.
Refresh the soul which Thou hast created, that being bettered by Thy chastisements, he may feel himself saved by Thy healing.

Are you a Catholic, me son?

Mais oui.

Ah. And what might be your name?

Please. André Fromentin.

Ah, I’ve never the French to help you—the vernacular—and I pray daily that the good bishop may see fit to send Father Clavereul from Savannah, for he’s French and could warm your soul with his speech, me boy.

Please—
Monsieur le Curé.
We get exchange,
non?

Now, me boy, concern yourself with affairs of the spirit, concern yourself with God.

But, you hear—? Those officers, of
la Confédération.
We get exchange, very quick now,
non?

Me son, those are temporal affairs, I have no knowledge of them. Truly it’s enough, and it’s essential, that you heed only the word of God, the love and law of the Mother Church.

But,
Monsieur le—

There were so many of them, too many of them. More and more Father Whelan found it necessary to employ the short form for Extreme Unction, the short form for the Apostolic Blessing. A demented man rambled in confession and recited all manner of lewdness, another demented youth begged to partake of Communion (it turned out that he was a Campbellite, not a Roman Catholic; that was the form of Communion he sought). Father Whelan turned his wet blue gaze toward the depot when, once out of the stockade, he set out on a tiring homeward march. Perhaps others would be sent to aid— Not him, he wanted no aid, he asked for none. But to aid those dear lads yonder, whose souls were crying for blessings, who might sputter and yell in pits and lakes of The Damned if the Rites were not available.
Ego, facultate mihi ab Apostolica Sede tributa, indulgentiam plenariam et remissionem omnium peccatorum tibi concedo, et benedico te.
Oh, let the poor child be strengthened to resist all temptations of the Devil and to die happily in the Lord! Eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth, hands, feet? Nay, no time for that—the gagging sounds in the throat, the eyeballs are glue— Quick swipe of oil on the forehead only, a hasty jumble, Latin falling over Latin with recklessness to beat the fiends, to exorcise them permanently.
Per istam sanctam Unctionem, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid deliquisti. Amen.
And
now the boy is dead, but—kiss the Holy Cross— He died in the Lord, he died happily in the Lord!

Perform only the essentials, the skeleton rite established by Christ. Give the Sacrament without additional prayers ordained by the Church. It is a sadness but— Give it, give it— Quickly—

If Father Clavereul should be sent to help the prisoners Peter Whelan would kneel in thanks. There had been some talk of sending also Father John Kirby from Augusta. And— Ah, the Jesuit from over Mobile way, Father Hosannah— He spoke three or four languages, perhaps more. Perhaps in time Bishop Verot himself might appear; he had hinted as much; and with him might come the vicar-general, Father Dufan. These were a hope, they could be sought in prayer. They might never be secured but they could be prayed after.

O Lord, hear my prayer.

And let my cry come unto thee.

During those weeks when Father Whelan was on the point of taking up his burden and did take it up, Andersonville suffered the loss of another benignant influence and was afflicted with a baleful one. Lieutenant-Colonel Persons was relieved of his command: the creased spongy face of John Winder pushed above the Georgia horizon. It was an added cruelty that General Winder should arrive to assume personal control at the very moment when Alexander Persons had finally achieved some success in his long hunt for lumber. Rolling stock was at a premium but Persons possessed the grave stubborn spirit which does not recognize defeat. He knew but to apply and receive a rejection, make a new application, find it rejected or ignored, apply again. The first train which he won was composed of nine carloads of lumber, the second—weeks later—of six, the third held eight cars. Lumber was being unloaded from Persons’ sixth train on the afternoon when General Winder and his little party descended upon the graveled platform of Anderson Station. Persons had gathered fifty-one carloads of lumber in all. Long yellow planks lay stacked in an orderly little city and sent up their fresh clean odor to vie with the stockade’s efflux. Then disaster stamped down from a newly-arrived train, the meaty face came pressing.

As I remember it, Colonel Persons, you were the first officer to suggest that the hospital be taken out of the local stockade.

No, sir, that’s scarcely correct. Captain Wirz came to me, urging the removal.

What was your reply?

I told him, sir, that I had no authority to effect the transfer.

And then you addressed a communication to me in Richmond?

Yes, sir, that is correct. I asked for permission to take the hospital outside.

Can you recall the reply?

As I recall it, General, the permission was denied.

I presume you have copies of the correspondence in your files, Colonel Persons?

Sir, I retain all copies as instructed.

If you chose to refresh your memory you would find that permission was most definitely denied. I don’t forget things like this, God damn it!

The general choked with rage and walked up and down the platform for a time, muttering to himself; you could see his jowls twitching spasmodically, his face growing dark, then lightening gradually as a new thought came to him. He halted, turned, and crooked a finger at Persons, who moved forward in obedience to the silent summons but was consumed with a fury to match Winder’s.