Percy leaned forward and sniffed, his nose quivering. “That’s why I sent for you, Doc.” He glanced around warily. “But remember, not a word of this. I could get in real trouble. But I didn’t think Tom’s foot was bad enough to amputate.”
“Jesus help me, no,” Tom Nelson agreed.
Doc left the foot alone and let Anthony wipe up the effluvium. He was encouraged by the clear pus now draining from the wound. “Where you from, Tom?”
“Moline, Doc. A town over west on the river. Pap has a hardware store. Mama was so delighted that I was sent here to guard Rebs. Figured I’d be safe from getting shot or killed.” He made a face. “And then I step on a nail. A single, solitary nail, and they’re talking about taking my foot! What kind of life would that be? Huh?”
Nelson turned, eyes pleading as he lowered his voice in mimicry, “’Where’d you lose your foot, son? Antietam? Gettysburg?’ And all I can answer back is, ‘Walking across the infirmary yard at Camp Douglas!’ I’d be a laughingstock.”
Anthony crossed his arms. “I’d tell ’em Chickamauga with Thomas, saving the Union center.”
“I can’t lie, Percy.” Nelson dropped his head back on his arm. “Man’s gotta have some sense of honor. Ain’t that right, Doc?”
“I suppose. Though this damn war makes me wonder sometimes if whatever you want to call honor isn’t being used as a weapon by the political bosses to turn us all into animals.”
“You mean Jeff Davis?” Anthony asked.
“Him and Abe Lincoln. And the congresses in Washington and Richmond. And the generals on both sides. Let’s not leave them out.”
“Both sides?” Nelson asked.
Doc hitched his butt onto the table to take the weight off. “Back when the war started, I read the papers from North and South. All the fiery editorials. Each side was going to save the Constitution, defeat tyranny, and ensure freedom and democracy. One side wanted to stop Yankee despotism, and the other wanted to stamp out secessionist despotism. How could the North and South each be fighting for their freedom and the ultimate salvation of democracy and in defense of the same constitution?” He shrugged. “I guess I found that little philosophical problem worthy of Socrates himself.”
“What about slavery?” Nelson asked. “That’s at the root of all this, isn’t it? You Rebs want to keep slaves.”
“The high and mighty do.” Doc sighed. “Those politicians we were talking about? The rich ones? They’ve jiggered this whole thing. Most people in the South don’t want to run out and get shot just so that the landed gentry and slave traders can keep Negroes in bondage. They’d rather be left alone to raise their crops, see their children grow, and enjoy their lives.”
“My mama didn’t want me getting shot in the process of freeing no niggers, neither,” Nelson asserted. “Everything’s different in the war now that Lincoln announced that emancipation.”
“Should have been a way to keep from fighting a war over it,” Anthony said softly, his eyes distant. “What about you, Doc? You for slavery, or against it?”
“Against. Prior to the war, a growing number of Southerners were of that opinion. That’s changed some since the fighting started. Hardened what was once reasonable discourse. Death and destruction make people kind of crazy.”
“So, what would you have done different?” Anthony asked.
“Let the South go. The market for Confederate cotton is in Europe and New England where slavery is despised and revolution and human rights is in the air. I’d bet that in less than a decade the cry for free-labor cotton would be so persuasive the slave owners would be figuring a way to pay Negroes rather than own them. And it would be a hell of a lot cheaper than fighting this damn war, and lot more humane for the Negroes making the transition.”
“You’re not so bad a feller for a Rebel, Doc,” Private Nelson told him. “Don’t know how I’m gonna explain that I owe my foot to a dirty louse-infested prisoner.”
“Louse-infested!” Doc protested. “I stand before you as a fine Arkansas physician and surgeon. One that not even the most impetuous louse would dare to infest.”
“Then what’s that crawling across your left sleeve, Doc?” Anthony asked.
Doc glanced down, spotting the little beast as it scrurried toward a hole in his sleeve.
“There you are!” Doc cried, pinching the vermin between thumb and forefinger. “Trying to escape, weren’t you?”
“Not even the most impetuous louse?” Nelson asked slyly.
“Why, he’s not mine,” Doc replied seriously. “I just borrowed him from my friend James. I use him in my introductory lessons with each batch of Fresh Fish that come in. I want them to be able to recognize a real Yankee louse when they see one.”
“What in hell are you talking about, Doc?” Anthony asked.
“Well, Percy, in order to understand Rebels, you need to realize that we’re an egalitarian lot. New prisoners coming in want to share in all the things us canned mackerel—you know, the old-timers—take for granted.”
Doc lifted the louse that was wiggling between his thumb and forefinger and studied it. “Wouldn’t want them to feel left out or deprived, so I make sure they know just what to look for as they take off in search of their own personal herd of Yankee lice.”
“Yankee lice?” Nelson asked. “They different than Rebel lice?”
“Most assuredly, Private. Yankee lice are more industrious. They like to chew on a fella all night long whereas Rebel lice knock off at midnight and don’t go back to work until dawn.”
And saying that, Doc stuck the vile little creature in his pocket and turned to Nelson. “Now that that’s settled, let’s see if we can’t get some more pus out of this foot of yours.”
40
October 29, 1863
Something was wrong. As Billy rode down the Spring Canyon trail he felt it even before he caught the faint scent of something sour. He knew that smell: the tang of severed and spilled guts. Billy stopped and shifted his old .36 caliber muzzleloader from his shoulder.
He had
