Raiding With Morgan (26 page)

E
ven with the stiletto at his hip, Ty's nerves were too frayed for him to rest. On top of that, the ceiling lanterns were relit to accommodate the continual coming and going of the nurses and a burial party between three in the morning and dawn. Ty was too new to the hospital to ignore what was happening around him. Four patients died in that brief span of time. One of the deceased occupied the cot beside Shawn Shannon.

Ecstatic over his good fortune, Ty didn't ask anyone's permission to move. He limped to the empty cot and settled himself on the rough canvas. The blankets he inherited were much cleaner, with minimal scales and stains. The poor fellow hadn't spent much time in the cot before dying.

Shawn Shannon was asleep and Ty didn't wake him. He winced at the severe swelling of the Ranger's face and the rattle in his throat. Ty was relieved that he hadn't yet developed the sore throat or back pain affecting the lieutenant. The bumps breaking out on his cheeks were not thick, and those scattered on his hands and the rest of his body were small in number. He did find he had to spit a great deal into the spit boxes, located a mere two feet from the top of his cot, to clear his throat.

At midmorning, Nurse Lyle, offering no objection to Ty's new location, gave him two teaspoons of a light liquid that had no notable taste. He left the medicine bottle and spoon with Ty. “Same dose, three times a day. It's called Number Two. You appear to have a light case, but you need to rest and let the pox run its course. The doctor makes his rounds in the afternoon.”

The morning meal was the same as the evening before. Ty was still hungry afterward. Nurse Lyle informed him that a woman selling milk and buttermilk for ten cents per quart came within a few yards of the hospital at midmorning. At noon, a different vendor had apples and cakes for sale. Nurses purchased and delivered these items at no charge to patients with coin money. Ty had a genuine craving for milk, but his funds were resting in the commissary bank and he had no one to bring money to him. His nerves finally settled and he dozed off, smacking his lips in his sleep as he dreamed about Miss Lydia's cinnamon-dusted custard.

He slept beyond lunch. Dr. Craig awakened him during his rounds and confirmed Nurse Lyle's diagnosis. “You have a light case and should be out of here in a few weeks. Except for bodily functions, stay in bed and rest.”

Ty had to ask. He nodded toward Shawn Shannon's cot. “What about the lieutenant? Will he recover?”

Dr. Amos Craig sighed. “His chances are slim to none. The pox has a real hold on him. Disease doesn't fight fair. It ravages as it pleases. Our saving grace is vaccine, when it works. When it doesn't, we have an ongoing epidemic and the healthiest and strongest of men perish with the famished and the weak. That's what makes medicine a damnably hard field to pursue, young man. Despite all our training, there's much we don't know, and a good physician wants every patient to survive. Believe you me, every patient lost takes its toll on a caring heart.”

Closing his satchel, Dr. Craig said, “Make sure to take your medicine and comfort your lieutenant the best you can. No man deserves to pass away alone amongst strangers.”

Over the next week, Ty hovered and prayed over Shawn Shannon like a hawk circling its prey. He sat on the rail of his cot every hour he was awake. Whether it was good for him or not, Ty had water available for him around the clock with the cooperation of Nurse Lyle. On the fourth day of the week, the lieutenant depleted his failing strength extracting a promise for Nurse Lyle that Ty was to inherit his boots. On the fifth day, the lieutenant could eat only little nibbles of cracker and lost the ability to speak. By the seventh day, Ty was certain he was no longer coherent. Not once had Shawn Shannon whined, complained, or shown his pain.

Ty watched his mentor and best friend waste away for another three days. Toward the end of the lieutenant's suffering, Ty adopted the notion that a soldier with the deep pride of Shawn Shannon, accustomed to playing a vital role in whatever endeavor he undertook, preferred death to life as a disfigured, chronically weakened shell of himself dependent on others for sustenance. That reconciliation of his feelings kept Ty from breaking down completely the morning he clasped Shawn Shannon's fingers and discovered they were cold as ice.

When the burial detail and Nurse Lyle answered his summons, he pleaded with them to let him accompany them to the graveyard. Nurse Lyle denied his request. “It's for your own good. The weather's foul and you're not well. Lad, take my word for it, the pox graveyard isn't a place for sane people. I was plagued by nightmares for weeks after one visit and I have a strong stomach. I'll have the guards tie you down, if necessary.”

After the burial detail removed Shawn Shannon's body, a dispirited Ty plopped on his cot and stared at those familiar holes in the roof of the ward. Lord, how he wished he had wings to soar through them to freedom, the miseries of Camp Douglas a forgotten chapter of his part in the war.

It hurt him terribly that he was unable to arrange a proper burial for his best friend, as Shawn Shannon had his father, and he hated that Shawn's demise and quick removal transpired so quickly that there hadn't been time to arrange for a man of the cloth to say a few words over him. Ty's resolve not to cry evaporated and he sobbed with his hands covering his mouth to keep anyone from hearing.

Would he ever again experience a fortnight of more joy than grief?

 

With only himself to worry about, Ty's prime goal was to secure a release from the ward and return to Barrack Ten, for nursing Shawn Shannon had kept his attention elsewhere and helped him hold the stark reality of his surroundings at bay. With the lieutenant's passing, however, the horrific everyday events and conditions of the ward attacked his senses with a vengeance.

The wailing of groaning, dying men, the pleadings of out-of-their-minds patients for forgiveness of sin and a return to the bosoms of their mothers and the arms of their loved ones, and the endless procession of nurses and burial details with their crude coffins, made sleep nearly impossible. Rotting human bodies, unwashed bedclothes, human waste, and the very air of the ward exuded a raw stench that had Ty longing for the outside world with its clean bathing water and glimpses of sunlight. It intrigued him that the religious paper with the stars and stripes on its masthead delivered to each patient was used mainly for keeping flies off their faces and was seldom read, in some curious way confirming the ungodliness of the pox hospital.

The first step toward his release was a change of medicine. Nurse Lyle started him on Number One, a dark liquid with a bitter taste. “This will dry up your spots and make you hungry. Your spots should start to scale off in nine days. Then you can return to the barracks.”

A delighted Ty ate a second piece of bread and two dried apples at supper, was happy to see mealtime come thereafter, and in forty-eight hours the bumps on his face developed dark spots, a clear indication that the drying phase of the pox was under way. Dr. Craig checked on him and encouraged him to walk about the ward each morning.

The hardest part of the healing process for Ty was to fight the perpetual temptation to scratch his face and hands. Left alone, the scabs peeled off on their own, leaving small light-red places instead of pits. Ty asked Nurse Lyle for a mirror and studied his facial skin. Anybody watching would have caught his smile and figured he was a roguish young ladies' man admiring himself, which was close to the truth. Though not terribly vain, Ty was thrilled the pox hadn't seriously scarred him. Courting Dana Bainbridge with a limp was obstacle enough. To do so with a repelling face was a horse of another color, one he didn't care to mount.

A disturbance in the middle of the night created a minor panic in the southern wards of the hospital. When Nurse Lyle reported for morning duty, he gave the ward a succinct explanation. “Four night nurses are missing. The guards have search parties out in all directions. One or two usually get away.”

Reports of frustrated and disgruntled guards the following day, relayed by Nurse Lyle, indicated the four Reb nurses were still on the loose and were presumed to be beyond the camp's reach.

Ty wondered if Jack Stedman's son had gone with them. He cornered Nurse Lyle on his next round, described his father's killer, and asked if he was one of the escapees.

“You mean the gray-eyed bastard that lets the rest of the night nurses do the dirtiest of the work? I'd like to know myself. I'll ask, but the guards keep a tight lip regarding escaped prisoners, and nurses caught passing information about them are treated more harshly than the escaping prisoners when they're recaptured. The guards assume that if you're talking about who's already escaped, you're probably planning to make a dash for it yourself. The guards these days are ripsaws pining for dry wood. I hear General Orme's irate over escapes from here and from inside the stockade,” Nurse Lyle said.

In the early-morning hours eight days later, Dr. Craig declared five patients, including Ty, fit for removal to the convalescent ward. A smiling Nurse Lyle handed Ty a shallow pan and he went to the hydrant outside the door of the ward and washed his face and hands for the first time since being diagnosed with the pox. It had been so long that watching dirt from his body turn clean water brown was nearly a divine experience.

Ty had helped Nurse Lyle tend patients as he grew stronger. As Ty made ready to depart, the overworked Reb presented Ty with four large apples and a quart of sweet milk. Ty shook Lyle's proffered hand and followed after Dr. Craig and the others, stopping to say good-bye to those who beckoned to him and wanted to thank him for his kindness and his willingness to assist the nurses on their behalf.

Shawn Shannon's boots were a little loose, but not enough to make Ty awkward on his feet. As he exited the ward, he understood why the lieutenant had insisted Ty have his footgear. There was no other means by which Ty could keep the stiletto out of sight during his transfer to the convalescent ward, for strict orders prevented healing patients from taking anything with them but their clothes and food items they could hold in their hands.

Without gawking or swiveling his head, Ty kept an eye peeled for Jack Stedman's son, but he didn't catch a glimpse of him in the wards they passed through. The convalescent ward was near the center of the hospital, leaving southern wards that Ty had no cause to visit. He sighed. If the Stedman offspring had escaped, he might never know the whereabouts of his father's murderer. Not knowing one way or the other meant he had to keep his guard up and sleep with one eye open. He was looking forward to gathering his barracks friends about him again. They offered a protective shield that might warn him of impending danger.

Ty and his fellow convalescents were promptly ushered to the breakfast table in the ward's kitchen. There were two separate tables: one for Ty's group and one for the nurses, cooks, and Yankee guards. Coffee with sugar provided by the cooks and a dab of Ty's sweet milk, which he gladly shared, provoked much slurping and lip smacking. The assembled prisoners were aware that, if the rumors were true that Prisoner's Square was on strict bread-and-water rations, they might not taste such a delicacy again for a long while.

After breakfast, a Confederate doctor new to Ty's bunch appeared and, without any kind of examination, recorded each person's name and ruled they were fit to return to camp. They were then led outside, where iron tubs awaited them in an open, roofless shed. After drawing water from a nearby well, they filled two barrel boilers fueled by a wood fire and obeyed the order to strip to bare skin. A Yankee private hauled their old duds away in a wheelbarrow. Ty was much relieved when they were allowed to keep their shoes and boots.

Once the three bathing tubs in the roofless shed were filled with hot water, the convalescents divvied them out amongst the five of them. Because Ty had shared his milk for their morning coffee, he was given his own tub. He sank into the scalding hot water to his neck, not caring if it burned him. He accepted the rags and bar soap handed him by a Yankee attendant and used both liberally and thoroughly. The thickness of the brown scum that accumulated on top of his bathwater was downright insulting to a Baptist taught from childhood that cleanliness was next to godliness.

He lingered in the tub and, out of the blue, thought how fine and wonderful it would be if he were sharing his bath with Dana Bainbridge and blushed all over. He couldn't shake his imaginary picture of how beautiful she would look nude and became rock-hard aroused. Luckily, the water turned ice cold as he sat there daydreaming and dampened his ardor before he was ordered from the tub, saving him from an acute embarrassment that he might not live down. Being the butt of raucous barracks teasing wore thin quickly. He toweled himself off, certain his nighttime dreams had forever been altered.

Ty and his equally naked companions were herded into the convalescent ward by Yankee guards and given new clothing, consisting of thin shoes without socks for those without usable footgear of their own, unlined blue pants without drawers, a quality gray shirt, and a thin black frock coat with a claw hammer tail. A red cravat tied “a la Brummell” completed their toilet.

Though he didn't have access to a mirror, Ty was certain he looked like a peacock at a gathering of somber-clad Baptists. If childhood friends Rory Howard and Abner Downs saw him now, they'd have clever Joshua Holder draw a sketch of him, have it printed into handbills at the Holder Print Shop, and distribute them the length and breadth of Elizabethtown. Sometimes it paid for certain things to happen to you far from home.

Their final hospital dinner was a bountiful dish of beef, bread, and a bowl of vegetable soup. Hawkeyed Limon Fox joked that such plentiful fare made him feel like he was eating his last meal before his execution, instead of his discharge from a doctor's care.