Lincoln in the Bardo(29)

In “The Civil War Years: A Day-by-Day Chronicle of the Life of a Nation,” edited by Robert E. Denney, account of Corporal Lucius W. Barber, Co. D, 15th Illinois Volunteer Infantry, combatant at Fort Donelson.

I had never seen a dead person before. Now I saw my fill. One poor lad had frozen solid in the posture of looking down aghast at his wound, eyes open. Some of his insides had spilled out and made, there on his side, under a thin coat of ice, a blur of purple and red. At home on my dressing table was a holy card of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and this fellow looked like that, only his bulge of red and purple was lower and larger and off to one side and him gazing down at it in horror.

In “That Terrible Glory: A Collection of Civil War Letters from the Men Who Fought It,” compiled and edited by Brian Bell and Libby Trust.



And Mother fire had swep through the frozen dead and hurt where they lay. We found one still kicking among them and was able to bring him back still alive not even knowing which side he was on, so burned was he, and naked except for one leg of his pants. I never did hear how he made out. But it did not look hopeful for that poor divil.

In “Letters of an Illinois Soldier,” edited by Sam Westfall, account of Private Edward Gates, Co. F, 15th Illinois Volunteer Infantry.

Two or three of us would grab a fellow and haul him away just as we found him, as it was cold and the bodies were completely froze. That day I learned a person can get used to anything. Soon it all seemed normal to us, and we even joked about it, making up names for each, depending on how it looked. There was BentOver, there was Shocked, this was Half-Boy.

Brower, op. cit.

We found two little fellers holding hands couldn’t been more than fourteen fifteen apiece as if they had desided to pass through that dark portel together.

Gates, op. cit.

How miny more ded do you attend to make sir afore you is done? One minit there was our litle Nate on that bridge with a fishpole and ware is that boy now? And who is it called him hither, in that Notice he saw down to Orbys, wellsir, that was your name he saw upon it “Abaham Lincoln.”

In “Country Letters to President Lincoln,” compiled and edited by Josephine Banner and Evelyn Dressman, letter from Robert Hansworthy, Boonsboro, Maryland.





XLVIII.

He is just one.

And the weight of it about to kill me.

Have exported this grief. Some three thousand times. So far. To date. A mountain. Of boys. Someone’s boys. Must keep on with it. May not have the heart for it. One thing to pull the lever when blind to the result. But here lies one dear example of what I accomplish by the orders I— May not have the heart for it.

What to do. Call a halt? Toss down the loss-hole those three thousand? Sue for peace? Become great course-reversing fool, king of indecision, laughing-stock for the ages, waffling hick, slim Mr. Turnabout?

It is out of control. Who is doing it. Who caused it. Whose arrival on the scene began it.

What am I doing.

What am I doing here.

Everything nonsense now. Those mourners came up. Hands extended. Sons intact. Wearing on their faces enforced sadness-masks to hide any sign of their happiness, which—which went on. They could not hide how alive they yet were with it, with their happiness at the potential of their still-living sons. Until lately I was one of them. Strolling whistling through the slaughterhouse, averting my eyes from the carnage, able to laugh and dream and hope because it had not yet happened to me.

To us.

Trap. Horrible trap. At one’s birth it is sprung. Some last day must arrive. When you will need to get out of this body. Bad enough. Then we bring a baby here. The terms of the trap are compounded. That baby also must depart. All pleasures should be tainted by that knowledge. But hopeful dear us, we forget.



Lord, what is this? All of this walking about, trying, smiling, bowing, joking? This sitting-down-attable, pressing-of-shirts, tying-of-ties, shining-of-shoes, planning-of-trips, singing-of-songs-in-the-bath?

When he is to be left out here?

Is a person to nod, dance, reason, walk, discuss?

As before?

A parade passes. He can’t rise and join. Am I to run after it, take my place, lift knees high, wave a flag, blow a horn?

Was he dear or not?

Then let me be happy no more.

hans vollman





XLIX.

It was quite cold. (Being in the gentleman, we were, for the first time in— hans vollman

Ever so long.

roger bevins iii

Quite cold ourselves.) hans vollman

He sat, distraught and shivering, seeking about for any consolation.

He must either be in a happy place, or some null place by now.

Thought the gentleman.

In either case is no longer suffering.

Suffered so terribly at the end.

(The racking cough the trembling the vomiting the pathetic attempts to keep the mouth wiped with a shaky hand the way his panicked eyes would steal up and catch mine as if to say is there really nothing Papa you can do?)

And in his mind the gentleman stood (we stood with him) on a lonely plain, screaming at the top of our lungs.

Quiet then, and a great weariness.

All over now. He is either in joy or nothingness.

(So why grieve?

The worst of it, for him, is over.)

Because I loved him so and am in the habit of loving him and that love must take the form of fussing and worry and doing.