I Shall Be Near to You(40)

‘Now read it back to me,’ he says when he’s spent, and hearing those words is about as sad as standing round a grave.

April 12, 1862

Judiciary Square Hospital

Dear Mama,

This letter is not written in my own hand but these words are mine. I have lain in Judiciary Square Hospital in our Fair Capital almost since I have been wounded, as You have reason to know. Only this few days past, the Surgeon here, Willard Bliss, has been obliged to take from me my hands. They were, as he said, not healing as would be hoped. I have had my Surgery now and hope you can Visit me here.

Should you get this letter in good time, I shall still be here, but do not tarry. I fear I am in Dying Condition. The Surgeon says my wounds Will Heal now the worst of them are gone, but I am afraid there is no hope for me. I do so wish to see you.

If I cannot live to see your face, do not weep for me. I have died Serving this great Union. I have seen the enemy and know that God must be on Our Side, though He has yet seen fit to Reward us with Victory. I will take my place in Heaven with those who Fought before me and I will Welcome those who come after. If I do not see you before I leave this World, I will look for you on the other side. Give my love to Fannie and tell her her brother will Look Upon her from Heaven.

Most Affectionately,

Your Son, Joseph



He nods to me when I am done reading. ‘It’s a fair hand. You’ll take it to post for me?’

‘Of course,’ I say, because it is the only right thing. ‘Have I got an envelope here to suit your fancy?’ I show him the Lady Liberty and Lincoln and McClellan.

‘Oh, the Lady to be sure,’ he says, and then he tells me the address he wants it directed to.

‘Now the arms,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Burning,’ he says, his mouth barely opening for the tightness of his jaw. ‘Hurts something awful. Get me laudanum and some cool air on these arms. And then fresh bandages.’

‘Oh, I ain’t got the touch …’

‘Just get the laudanum,’ he growls.



INSIDE THE WOODEN cabinet by the door are shelves of mostly identical brown bottles. The first one I grab has a paper label saying Paregoric. I shove it onto the shelf and the next one says Ether and then finally there’s one that says Laudanum, with a rubber dropper tip.

Back at Joseph’s bed, he is whimpering with his eyes closed like he don’t even know the sound he’s making.

There is a pitcher in a bowl on the bedside stand, and a cup next to it that I fill with water, only I don’t know how many drops of laudanum he needs.

Joseph says through gritted teeth, ‘The full dropper. Put all of it in.’

The sweet-smelling liquor swirls as the laudanum clouds the water. I help him sit up and drink. As soon as the water crosses his lips he falls back into the pillows.

‘Better soon,’ he says, breathing that starts as a sigh and ends in a moan.


ACROSS THE AISLE Mrs. Chalmers is petting a soldier’s hand, singing ‘Home Sweet Home’ quietly, and I should’ve thought to sing to keep that boy easy.

‘I need your help,’ I say when I reach her, my voice quiet but sharp. ‘He’s wanting new bandages. I ain’t got the knack of it.’

‘It doesn’t take much skill, just steady nerves and a light touch,’ she says.

‘You show me. I’ve never done doctoring except for cows and horses.’

‘You’ll excuse me, Lawrence?’ she says to the man whose hand she’s been stroking, and picks up her basket.

‘Hello there,’ she says when we get to Joseph, but it’s like he don’t even hear her. Mrs. Chalmers looks at me and says, ‘Did you give him laudanum?’ When I nod, she says, ‘Well then, it’s working,’ and throws back the covers.

‘Oh,’ she says, like two half arms ain’t what she was thinking on seeing. ‘Help me hold his arm.’

She unties the spiderweb knot on the left arm, carefully lifting his arm just enough so she can pass the roll of bandage under it.

He gets to whimpering again, but she is calm, unwinding that bandage like he ain’t making a sound. The closer she gets to the end of the stub, the worse it looks with map lines of veins running in red streaks up Joseph’s arm. Once the flannel is unwrapped, there is nothing but the hot red arm and a clump of rust and yellow clotted lint at the end of the stump. Mrs. Chalmers drops the flannel to the floor and picks at the edge of the lint, trying to get it loose, but it sticks fast.

She wets a cloth from her basket, gently running it down Joseph’s arm, the water dripping through the lint pad and onto the floor, making a pale pink stain on the old bandage lying there. Then she wrings that cloth out into the bowl by Joseph’s bed and runs it over his arm again and again. Holding his upper arm, I feel it getting cooler, but the heat still burns from deep inside and it won’t be cool for long.

When the lint is wet through, it peels off easy in Mrs. Chalmers’ hands. This don’t seem any better than those parts by the door outside, only it’s got a body attached to it. At the end of the stump the skin folds over on itself, held with a line of black horsehair stitching, smeared with thick lemon-curd-yellow pus, a sickly sweet smell coming from it.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says, ‘that’s the laudable pus. The surgeon says it’s a sign of healing.’