When the War Is Over (2 page)

It was a boy, all right. With white-blond hair. Corporal Godwinson slapped him backhand. Ah, valor.

“Godwinson,” Catto said, “leave him be. It was me he shot, and I rather a gang of armed men go easy on a child. If you take my meaning.”

The boy was skinny, ragged, his eyes a shiny bright blue. No one spoke for a time. The soldiers rested in the shade of the redbuds and examined their prize. Catto was tired; he glanced down at the pistol, frowned, restored it to its holster. He sniffed: they all smelled bad. Not like the woods or the blue grass, not aromatic, only stinking soldiers. In all wars, he supposed, in all centuries, the same smell. Catto too. “You smell like livestock,” he said. “Don't you ever wash? How the Christ can you share a tent?” Godwinson shied, blinking.

The boy was barefoot. Tattered brown trousers, too short, a homespun shirt, collarless. Powder horn, pouch, knife.

“Somebody take that knife. Where's his rifle?”

“Here.”

“God's sake,” Catto said. “A Kentucky rifle.”

“This is Kentucky,” Carlsbach said.

“Yeh.” He hefted the rifle. Long barrel, fine balance. “This piece was made before the oldest man here.” On the stock in small neat curly letters, was incised
WILLIAM MARTIN
. “William Martin,” he said. “That you?”

The boy stood sullen.

“Speak up, boy. Or I'll give you back to that corporal.”

“My father,” the boy said.

“Voice is hardly changed,” Godwinson said.

The boy was tanned, and his face was round, with a modest natural pout to the lower lip. His hair was almost chalk-white, and he had no whiskers, just a fair down on the upper lip, and more on the cheekbones. Maybe one of those albino people, Catto hazarded to himself; but they were said to have pink eyes or ears or some such thing. “He can shoot, though. What's your name?”

“Thomas Martin,” the boy said.

“Where you from?”

“Over east.”

“Over east. What are you doing here?”

The boy only glared.

So Catto sighed and said, “Maybe we ought to just shoot him now.”

They all stood staring at the boy.

“You realize you just shot an officer in the United States Army,” Catto said. That too sounded silly

“I'm a soldier,” the boy said. “That's what I signed on to do. Made my mark, anyway.”

“Ah. What army you in?”

“Confederate States of America.”

“Where's your uniform?”

“They didn't have none.”

“Not even shoes.” Godwinson snorted. It occurred to Catto, that was the kind of man Godwinson was: the kind of man who knows how to snort.

“They take them young,” Catto said. “It's all they have left. How old are you?”

“About sixteen,” the boy said. Catto felt old.

“Bottom of the keg,” Carlsbach said.

“Shut up,” Catto told him. “He shoots better than you.”

“A damn guerrilla,” Godwinson said.

“I ain't a guerrilla,” the boy said, in the firm, admonitory tones of a schoolmaster. “I signed on with Colonel Jessee.”

“Well. One of Colonel Jessee's riflemen. Where's the colonel now?”

“Don't know. The orders was just to do all the damage we could on our own.”

“That's pretty close to a guerrilla,” Catto said thoughtfully. “Anyway you did some damage. Give me your horn and pouch.”

“They were my father's.”

“Look, boy, you're a prisoner now. Count yourself lucky we don't just save ourselves the trouble of taking you in.”

“They said you'd kill me,” the boy muttered.

“Well, they were wrong. Give me the horn and pouch.”

The boy handed them over. Catto passed them to Haller. “Save these for me.”

“What do we do with him?”

“Take him in,” Catto said. “What else? Tie his hands and let's go. My day's work is done.”

“How is it now?” Haller asked.

“Hurts like hell itself,” said Catto.

“Lie down there,” Phelan said. “What will they do to him?” Phelan was a tall black Irishman with a face like the man in the moon, round, pocked and pitted and pored by ancient acnes, but lent a scowling force by the belligerent black handlebar mustache. The first surgeon to repair Catto was called Swartz, a pale Dutchman with glasses; that was at Stones River, which they sometimes called Murfreesboro. Then they acquired Phelan, and never saw Swartz again. Phelan talked a good deal. He had hazel eyes, almost yellow with little flecks of brown. They were mild eyes and when you came to know him, sad.

“Court-martial,” Catto said. “Never mind about him. Relieve my pain.”

“You are only a lieutenant,” Phelan said, “who has allowed himself to be half killed by a child. I remind you that I am a captain and entitled to exquisite courtesies.” He was cutting away Catto's shirt. “Threads. Damn threads ground right into you. Easy now. Let me slip it off you.”

“You butcher,” Catto moaned.

“A butcher is all you deserve. What were you doing? Dreaming of women? Fat white bottoms waggling at you?”

“Now there is a subject I would much enjoy discussing someday. The fact is I was watching some pigeons.” Catto was lying nervously on his own cot with blankets heaped up under his head and shoulders, while Phelan snipped. Outside the tent men were laughing and cursing, and he heard a mule clop. “A big flight of passenger pigeons. They darkened the sun. Pretty.”

“Ah, the poet in you,” Phelan said. The shirt was off. “All right. Simple. An inch lower and it had your lung. But with the luck of fools it's nothing. Phelan can do this with one hand.”

“It hurts now. At first there was no pain at all.”

“No. You poor lad. You bird-fancier. What you need is warm milk and a few drops of hartshorn. But you will have to settle for a swallow of Saint Kentigern's tears, also called Uncle Mungo's bone solvent. I happen to have about me a quart or more of that sovereign remedy. Spermaceti, spermaceti.”

“Why don't you shut up and just do your job.”

“Well, now,” Phelan beamed, “part of my job is to comfort the afflicted. Like a priest at home. When asked what was best for the barrenness, he said knightly attentions from a baron. This will leave you a pretty scar.”

“What's one more?”

“Right you are. Now when you have finished showing off your hot cross bum you will have to give the ladies a look at the front of you. That is if they can get close enough.”

Catto sucked long at the bottle. “You are a filthy man and a disgrace to your profession. A barber. When you have finished with that you may give me a trim. Not too short on the sides, please.”

“A wiseacre,” Phelan murmured. “An infinitely amusing young man. Be careful or I will dock you while I am about it.”

“You could do that by accident,” Catto said. “You know where the shoulder is, I trust.”

“I hear the boy is only fifteen,” Phelan said. “I will assume that you have been holding your own with little girls.”

“It was a pretty shot.” Catto drank deep again. “If I hadn't started to drop he'd have had my heart sure.” The whiskey generated a rich heat; fumes rose within him. He drank little in the field and this was blurring him quickly. It was, he imagined, a bit like drowning.

“They're better shots than we are,” Phelan said. “Hunters. I mind my uncle Fabricius, out fowling when he came upon Howie O'Toole and Mary Spain, at it like great pink pigs—”

“For God's sake. Will you put your mind to the work at hand.”

“Just lie back, now,” Phelan said, soothing, “and get more of that into you.”

“Where you off to?”

“Why, to fetch my gleaming instruments. And an orderly with hot water. Nothing is too good for officers.”

“This is fine stuff.”

“It will shortly be my turn. Save me about three inches. The sight of blood turns me giddy. Now I must go and heat up my bayonet and cross-cut saw.”

“A great comfort you are. And me dying.”

“Omnia mors aequat,” said Phelan.

“What is that? Latin?”

“Latin it is. Death makes all men equal. Anyway it was not I that was ass enough to get shot. It was Lieutenant Marius Catto, our hero and leader.”

“I shot a few myself. This is how I pay for it. Makes it less …”

Phelan paused at the flap. “Less evil, you're trying to say. But the word comes hard.”

“That's it.”

“Well, it's still evil. God grant you don't have to pay for it in some other coin.” Phelan frowned, as if he knew the future.

“It's a necessary evil.” Catto swallowed uneasily. Phelan and God: an unlikely pair. “Go ask Jacob how necessary. This damn black man's war.” But he had killed and known exultation, and he too feared a revenge; from or by whom or what, he was not sure.

Phelan hooted cheerfully. “Oho. Now you want me to go to a nigger for instruction in the moral philosophies.”

“Why not? They never kept slaves.” Catto laughed, suffered pain, and fell silent. He gurgled more whiskey into himself. “Very good stuff. I must get myself shot every week or so. But I meant it about paying up. That's my lot and not to be complained about. Not too much, anyway. As yours is the stink and pus of your work, or the death of your patients.”

“You talk like a man who has been drinking,” Phelan said. “Phelan's patients never die. That is the first rule of physic.”

“Glad to hear it,” Catto said slowly. “I think I will soon sleep for a bit.” He spaced the words deliberately. “Once we shot about a thousand in half an hour. Over by Pingree Grove. We filled a wagon. It was too many, and we fed the leftovers to the pigs. We killed and killed. As fast as we could load. Three, four with one blast.”

“Be quiet, now, and sleep.”

“You're the doctor,” Catto said. “As a fact, you are two doctors. I see two Phelans. One was more than enough but for my sins I have been shown two. You're the doctors.”

“I am really a veterinarian,” Phelan said, “and was sent for specially. Keep drinking, lad.”

Five days later Catto was still in pain. So much for Phelan. They heard that Atlanta had fallen. Catto's platoon came by every morning to pay their respects or make fun of him, and Lowndes, who always carried a banjo when he was not fighting, said, “Maybe it will all be over soon,” and plucked a triumphant chord. Haller sat with Catto outside the tent, talking little. Catto asked him again if he would care to be a lieutenant, and Haller declined again. It was an old argument. “I've been a sergeant too long,” Haller said. “And then I'd always have to be polishing a sword and probably trip over it on parade. And then—”

“Go on.”

“Well, you know some of these officers. But I shouldn't be saying that.”

“I know them, all right.” Some of them, God knew why they were officers. An uncle at the courthouse, or elected because they had a horse. Catto had come in a private, by God. Some of them could not be trusted to carry messages if there were any Johnnys on the way. It was not precisely a question of courage. No one knew what that was: a form of insanity, perhaps. With those fellows it was more a question of not getting your nails dirty.

But life yielded up minor blessings: Catto's counterpart in the second platoon had risen above wealth and good looks, and did his job without fuss or fribble. Lieutenant Silliman's father was a rich miller and had considered running for Congress; Lieutenant Silliman was nevertheless a virtuous man (barring an icy, savagely efficient passion for poker) and an estimable soldier. “I'm sorry you hurt,” he said. “Do you need anything? I have some extra sugar. And coffee.”

“That is excessively kind of you,” Catto intoned, and Silliman colored immediately. “What do you want to be such a gentleman for? Why don't you tell me what a fool I was to be shot like that?”

“Anybody can get himself shot.”

“But first lieutenants aren't supposed to. Second lieutenants, yes, you, but not a serious professional like me. And now you'll have extra work because I'm out of it.”

“I don't mind that. And I feel sure that the killing is almost over. I really do.”

“You feel sure. Ned, you are either the damnedest fool in the whole world or the hope of the future, which is unlikely.” Catto considered this young fellow gravely. Tall. Curly blond hair. White teeth. Neat and balanced features. Stank rarely. Clean-shaven. In garrison he would be kind to his orderly. He would call old men “sir” and offer an arm to old ladies. “And you come over here to tell me you're sorry I hurt.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“Never mind. Coffee is a good idea. But we'll drink mine.”

“All right.” Silliman sprang to work. In time of peace he would wear ruffled shirts. “And you can tell me about the wound. Did it hurt when he dug for the ball?”

Phelan had mined a small chip of collarbone from Catto's flesh and worried that there might be others. Catto could not move in any comfort so spent most of his day sitting back against a tree, with his shirt off. The sun was pleasant and there were those little birds. Men moved about as if they had things to do, but you could tell from their faces and their slouch that it was aimless motion. The cooks kept busy. Jacob worked hard. Jacob was a freed slave. He was their carpenter, porter, skinner, runner, latrine orderly, trash collector and second cook. He earned his found and two dollars a week in silver. Catto did not know what he did with the money. Perhaps buried it. Jacob ate a lot and cadged tobacco for his cherry-wood pipe, and wore cast-offs. He was an average-sized man, pretty strong. He liked that pipe. It was hardly ever out of his mouth except when he was feeding his face. He was another quiet one. Always looking at his feet.

So Catto sat and watched wise, indifferent mules shuffle past. Either the regiment had removed itself from the war or Thomas Martin was the last guerrilla; patrols went out half asleep and returned half asleep. You would not have thought they were at war except for the number of slovenly malcontents wearing uniforms. Thieves and liars who never washed. Perhaps they had existed in time of peace too, but when, as a boy, Catto had dreamed of the army he had imagined men who bore themselves with pride and knew what they were about. This mob was always on the lookout for entertainment. Cards and tall stories and sometimes a cock fight, two bedraggled roosters each more frightened than the other. If the men had been cavalry they would have laid out a race track. Haller complained about them once, long and loud, and then no more; doubtless he had been in the trade long enough to accept anything.