Fitz awoke with the shuddering of the car. Men groaned or screamed in pain as shattered bones bit into flesh. Open wounds twisted as the car swayed to a stop, and men cried for stewards, water, or the relief of death. They were someplace in Virginia, Fitz heard one of the stewards comment—a day’s journey from Washington. The stale air in the car stank of decay and the corruption of gangrene. Fitz turned his head toward a narrow slit in the car wall; beyond it, the full purity of summer. He saw trees fat with leaves that quaked with life in the faint breeze that teased them and carried into the car.
There was something else, an evil scent that reminded him of the dead carried on the train. He knew the smell—the thick and syrupy stink of flesh decaying, meat falling from bones, maggots swarming over vessels that had once been men.
They were carried off the train on stretchers and laid under tents as white as clouds. Surgeons and stewards moved among the long rows of wounded, replacing bandages, dispensing medicines, and giving the live-saving elixir of water. A male nurse, a gentle man with a bushy beard, slipped a soft hand under Fitz’s neck and lifted his head. Fitz felt the smooth lip of a tin cup at his mouth. Cool water ran down his throat, and Fitz begged for more. He was given nearly half a cup, but the nurse stopped.
“The surgeon will have to look you over first, Colonel,” the nurse said, guiding Fitz’s head to the canvas. “There are some ladies from the Sanitary Commission who will stop by. They will write a letter to your loved ones.”
“Washington?” Fitz asked, his mouth dry. He wanted more water. “How far?”
“Sixty miles,” the nurse said. He glanced at Fitz’s arm.
“How does it look?” Fitz asked, hoping the man would not answer.
The nurse smiled and stood. “The surgeon will be along. I’ll come later with more water.”
Fitz closed his eyes, sickened at the thought that he might yet lose his arm. He had seen the stacks of limbs near the surgeons’ tents. Shattered arms and legs, inarticulate pieces of meat, skin sagging for want of life, streaks of blood still draining from gaping wounds. Marching past the sight for the first time he had thought of hogs scalded and butchered, their parts stacked for salting.
A large woman carrying a stool appeared and, placing herself next to Fitz, pulled a sheaf of papers and a pencil from oversized pockets sewn onto her dress.
She smiled at Fitz, and for an instant he saw a pity in her eyes that said she was looking at a dead man. He calmed himself and forced a smile in return.
“I’m here to write to your loved ones,” the woman said, her voice surprisingly childlike. “What is your name?”
Fitz licked his lips. “Colonel Thomas Fitzgerald Dunaway.”
“A colonel,” she replied, impressed. “To whom shall I address the letter?”
Fitz told her and began an account of his condition. Asia must be informed of his wound and that he was in route to the Armory Hospital. He made light of his condition, hoping his description was not too shocking.
He did not reveal the truth. He was afraid he’d offend the woman scribbling dutifully. He could not bear to trouble Asia. She would know soon enough.
The pain was nearly overwhelming at times, knives piercing his flesh, scraping the muscle from his bone, but he knew if he could only get off that infernal train, he would feel better. He prayed to God that he would. It was an awkward effort; he had few conversations with the Almighty that weren’t firmly planted in a string of oaths.
The woman left, assuring Fitz that she would post the letter, and the nurse returned with more water, although not as much as Fitz wanted. The surgeon, some pale balding man with a weak chin, followed. After examining Fitz’s arm, he commented, “They’ll tend to this in Washington.”
Fitz felt hollow as the words echoed through his mind. They’ll tend to this in Washington.
He awoke, realizing that he was moving. His stretcher was being carried onto a train. He watched with a sense of longing as the cool tents that had housed him for such a short time receded.
Fitz felt the train move steadily, the swaying now reduced from a sharp pitch from side to side to a gentle oscillation, the train calmed by its impending arrival at its destination.
They entered the city in darkness; Fitz was surprised by the rush of lights visible through the louvers. He was alarmed by the city’s appearance. Lamps glowed in the darkness; wagons moved about freely, people behaving as if they had nothing to trouble them. He became unaccountably frightened by the disinterest and thought he would be pitched into a hospital and forgotten. His return to Washington plunged him into melancholy. It was no longer a city; it was strange and bewildering landscape of foreign sights.
He counted three changes, yard engines moving cars about, shuttling them to spurs that led to hospitals. He heard men shouting orders as cars were unhitched from the trains, and then the bump as an engine locked into the coupling. His excitement built at each movement, and he desperately wanted to scream at the voices to hurry, for God’s sake, hurry. They took their time, however—more evidence that unfeeling dullards populated the city.
The rumble of the large loading door being thrown open frightened Fitz. He was not prepared, and he cried out in alarm, then gratitude. He was relieved, almost giddy, as two soldiers took hold of either end of his stretcher and carried him out into a night of sparkling torches. He wanted to thank them, to pay them for their compassion, but he could not trust himself to speak for fear he would begin crying. He lay still instead, squeezing his eyelids shut and thanking God.
A familiar, high-pitched voice brought him around. His eyes fluttered open. He wondered what time it was, and thought by the slant of the sun’s rays through the open windows it must be well after nine o’clock. He caught sight of a black figure standing near the head of his bed, and as he twisted his head to make out who it was, a steward brought a chair over and sat it next to him.
Lincoln sat down in the chair, settling his long legs in the narrow space between the hospital beds. “If it isn’t my old friend, Dunaway.”
Fitz tried to pull himself up on his pillow.
“No. No,” Lincoln said, patting him solidly on the shoulder. “Just lay there and rest easy.” A doctor leaned down and whispered something in Lincoln’s ear. “I understand you’re banged up a bit. You’re a young man; you’ll come out of it. I did. Got kicked in the head once when I was a boy. Folks gave me up for dead.”
“I’ll be fine, sir,” Fitz managed, hoping that he sounded better than he felt.
“I know you will, Dunaway,” Lincoln agreed. “My, you gave me a start. I just stopped in to see how some of the boys were doin’, and here you lie.”
“I’ll be well soon enough, sir,” Fitz said. No one was listening to him. All they were doing was staring at his wound. How could people be such dullards? He had to get back to his regiment.
“You need anythin’, Dunaway? Has your family been notified?”
Fitz managed a nod.
“You’ve got to rest up.” Lincoln rose, his arms and legs locking into place. He towered over Fitz. “You get well, and we’ll find somethin’ for you to do. The Union can’t afford to lose a fella like you.”
Lincoln was gone, leading a pack of officers and doctors down the broad aisle that led out the door. The ward’s customary noises returned—men moaning in pain, the clank of bedpans, the whispers of stewards dispensing medicines, the rhythmic squeal as wheelchairs rolled by. As Fitz lay in his bed, staring up at the joists of the whitewashed ceiling, he found the noises of the long ward reassuring. It was the stench of decay, the heavy odor of men’s bowels failing them, and the sweet fragrance of blood that frightened him. He knew it was the smell of death.
Asia appeared on the afternoon of his second day in the