When the War Is Over (10 page)

So Catto saw the blue eyes, or thought he did, that far off, and stood fast until the troop trotted close, and noticed again the incipient double chin, noticed it this time with surly satisfaction. They trotted nearer. Hooker inspected Haller with a deliberate and obvious cock of the head. Then they were within saluting range. Catto and Silliman did the correct thing. Catto stood once more like a wooden soldier, eyes front, immobile (but his teeth were set, and he ached), and gathered in Hooker's image only for a brief space, the plumed hat, the blue eyes, the rosy cheeks, the—by God!—broad smile, and then the general kicked his racy gray into a canter and Catto turned his back.

By noon Haller was almost unconscious. Catto and Silliman carried him into their shack, laid him down, rubbed his limbs. Godwinson ran for Phelan. Phelan ordered Haller to the infirmary, and Catto told him all about it.

“Hooker is a strange man,” Phelan said. “Do you know he told the surgeons he would like to be remembered for the best military hospitals in the whole Union army? He
knows
things. He gives orders. He wants bromine used for gas gangrene and he says sodium hypochlorite is as good as carbolic. He personally forbids leeching. He inspects. He spends time with the sick. And then he does something like this. Ah, well. The human race is a great mistake.”

“I liked him when I met him. You know how you like some people right away. Now I think he is a savage. Or maybe touched.”

“No.” Phelan thought it over. “He's a bad general in the fighting, and when things go wrong, but a good one otherwise. I heard the eastern armies were swimming in their own sewage before he came along. Beans killing more than bullets. He cleaned them up.”

“Good. Tell Haller.”

A day later Phelan poked his homely face into Catto's shack. “Well, boy. And guess who spent an hour with Haller this morning.”

Catto sat there with his mouth open.

“I'm sorry,” said General August Willich on McLean Street in Cincinnati. “I will try again, yes. But it is not the army way. When the war ends your man can go home.”

“Sir,” said Catto, and saluted, faced about, marched off, deciding that generals bored him considerably. He met the boy outside. “Well. You again. How goes it?”

“Just fine.” The boy was always smiling, it seemed. Bearishly Catto wondered what the hell he had to smile about. “Better'n freezing to death in Kentucky,” the boy went on. “This is some winter, ain't it? A ball-buster.”

“In Kentucky too, I hear.”

“It's only across the river.”

“As I know to my sorrow. Tell me something. Been meaning to ask but I don't see you much. What happened to that rifle of your father's?”

The boy glanced at Catto's shoulder.

“Never mind that,” Catto said in mock anger. “You got to stop remembering that bad shot. You ought to be ashamed, not proud.”

The boy laughed and said, “General Willich's got it. When I go home I get it back. Pouch and horn too.”

“Good. You keep an eye on all that. We got some furacious soldiers around here.”

“Yeh?” The boy was plainly upset. “What's that mean?”

“Thieves. All shapes and sizes. If I were you I'd plan to move out of here and go on home the very day the war ends. Don't hang about. We'll have a hundred men a day leaving Cincinnati with anything not nailed down.”

“I don't suppose they'd rob the general,” Thomas Martin said.

“They'd rob Lincoln. And that's a fine rifle. You mind what I say.”

“It may be you think more of that rifle than most,” the boy said.

“Don't sass. Want to walk along a bit?”

“Can't. Got to report, and then bring Jacob a sweater.”

“Haven't seen Jacob. How is he?”

“He's fine. Said he saw you many times.”

“Maybe he did. You take care now.”

“I'm sorry,” Catto said. “There's still hope, but not much.”

Routledge fell back on his bunk, coughed harshly, and seemed to settle like a bad pudding. He was pale and unclean, a prisoner in a cold season; his presence rose to Catto's nostrils.

When it was certain that Routledge had nothing to say and could not be comforted, Catto left him. “You better humor me, Ned. I'm about to declare war on the army. My God, man, what a prehistoric organization!”

“That's a disgraceful thing to say. You take their money.”

Catto had an excuse to curse, but refrained. “Silliman, you're a nice boy,” was all he said.

The ladies sipped wine, the gentlemen gulped whiskey, a waiter called Curly hovered. Bloodless Stanley in another part of the house greeted and smiled. Phelan's Nell was colored like Catto: a healthy reddish tone to her, nothing scarlet or even pink, but a summery, fleshy rubescence like a cherry just turned. Dark yellow hair like silky autumn grasses. A bit older than Charlotte, who was twenty-seven, and a bit skinnier. Catto preferred his Cleopatra with the unpronounceable last name. Greek, he had thought. “French,” she said.

Now Phelan was saying lazily, “Something of interest in the doorway.”

Catto was replete: venison, potatoes, much beer, pie, coffee. He swigged once more at the tumbler and only then asked, “What?” Nell and Charlotte had seen, and oohed, but Catto would not turn.

“A gentleman of importance.”

“You don't mean it,” Catto murmured, tightening. “Alone?”

“A captain with him.”

“Tall, blond, no lips?”

“That's the fellow.” Phelan feigned respect. “You seem to know just everybody, Lieutenant.”

“Dunglas. An aide, or a pimp, or something like that.”

Silence settled upon the table. Nell and Charlotte turned pale and furious; Phelan shot Catto a glance of pain, anger and contempt. Oh God damn me for that word, Catto thought, near to tears. Oh Jesus cut out my tongue. He closed his eyes. Rats gnawed his heart. Grow up, grow up, grow up! You have killed!

“Perhaps he will stop by and favor us with conversation,” Phelan said lightly.

Catto turned to Charlotte, who sat regarding her wineglass. He looked at Nell, who would not meet his eye. Phelan emanated courteous despair.

As his heart broke, because we are all such sad creatures, Catto reached for Charlotte's hand; she let him take it; he carried it to his lips and gently, gravely, kissed it. She squeezed his fingers and smiled sadly.

“We shall have to order you some knee-breeches,” Phelan said softly, and Nell laughed a warm pardon.

“And what is the general doing now?” He did not release Charlotte's hand.

“Well, he's moving this way,” Phelan said with brisk interest. The saloon seemed to dim briefly as talk and laughter thinned. “Shall we notice him?”

Charlotte reclaimed her hand and touched her hair.

“Only if he notices us,” Catto said. “Common decency. Don't want to spoil the man's evening.”

Then he saw Phelan rise, and he glanced up with interest but no haste. “General Hooker, sir,” he said affably, and reared up slowly, blinking, a half-smile on his face, altogether the well-born client greeting a rich grocer.

Hooker shouted laughter; heads turned. “By God, boy,” he crowed, “you'll do. You'll do. And you, Surgeon: keep an eye on this young fellow. Damned if he doesn't run the whole show someday. And you, Catto: be careful. With another general you'd have been over the line long ago.”

“Yes sir,” Catto said quickly. “May I present Miss Charlotte and Miss Nell. General Hooker and Captain Douglas.”

“Dunglas,” said Dunglas, and smiled, bowing slightly. Hooker was inspecting the ladies, friendly yet aloof, some hint of the grand manner to him; he smelled of whiskey, and with the whiskey, Catto thought, a musky sort of tired-rakehell lechery, like a great lover trying to accomplish his possible before the buttocks went stringy or the teeth brown. “How do you do, ladies.”

The ladies returned his salutation with gracious curtsies of the head and a glimpse of gum. Catto saw how nervous they were, and suppressed a laugh.

“I must say, Dunglas,” Hooker observed, “that the level of manners in this country is rising fast. Not only these charming ladies smiling at me; even lieutenants stand up at my approach. Tell you what, Catto.”

Catto fell serious; there was that in the general's voice. He straightened. “Sir.”

“You keep at it,” Hooker said roughly. “Never lose faith in the army. Even when the politicians come meddling. You keep at it, hear me? You're the right sort, boy.”

“Thank you, sir. I, ah—”

“What is it?”

Catto was resisting affection. This was Hooker, fifty years old, a libertine, bad tactician, maker of excuses and not victories, hothead, martinet; not a tender and reliable old gaffer to be cherished. But Catto liked him (or was in envy? or fear? Damn!) and for a moment could not speak, torn between his pleasure and his confusion. And Phelan probably grinning inside!

Sharply Catto expelled a deep breath. “I'd like those stripes back, sir.”

Hooker murmured, “You would, would you?” They were silent. “We seem to be attracting attention. Come along, Dunglas. Ladies. Gentlemen. Ah: Surgeon Phelan.”

“Sir.”

“I notice calomel and tartar emetic at the hospital.”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you approve?”

“No sir.”

“Then …”

“I couldn't say, sir.”

“I see. Surgeon Andrus. Well, he's leaving us.”

“He's a very good surgeon, sir.”

“Yes. He is. And knows nothing about food or medicine or cleanliness. I know the kind. I saw what they did to Hammond and Letterman.”

“Yes sir.”

“Anyway he's leaving,” Hooker said wearily. “I may have some good news for you shortly.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Good night to you all.” He led his aide away.

Catto and Phelan sat down. Phelan said to Nell, “You see. Important men, we are.”

“All the same,” Catto said, “there's a shine in your eyes. They glitter like gold leaves.”

“Go to the devil,” Phelan said, with a monstrous cheerful grin.

Catto reached for his cigar, and was as astonished as any of them at the tremulous flutter of his dancing hand.

Behind the screen, in their sleazy, glorious, partitioned loving room, Phelan lowed and clucked, proposed and ratified, flattered, nuzzled, discovered, invented, made public moan, boasted. Nell twittered and shifted. Catto was less hurried now. For a time he and Charlotte sat side by side like children, holding hands. The single lamp cast an eerie glow, reinforced by a January moon above the groves, pale and cold at the window; trapped between two friendly fires Charlotte gleamed, and was a girl again. Catto kissed her, unhurried, again, again, her own moons and groves. Whatever weary habit she had dragged to that room vanished, defeated or disguised. “You're
funny,”
she said. He roamed her again. “Oh God,” she said. Slowly she bore him away on witches' wings. Why, he wondered, do we bother with anything else? He smiled gratefully into the night. Slept in peace. Woke with the sun high, and turned away from her sour breath, and rose and washed, and brushed his teeth with whiskey, and wanted to weep.

Otherwise it was a dull life. About a week later Haller came trudging up to him in evident despair. “You got to help me again, Lieutenant.”

“Haller. How's your nose?”

“That's all right. I got a skin like leather anyway. It's no worse than a bad bruise now. The worst was those headaches. That night and all the next day.”

“What did Hooker talk about?” Catto felt excessively casual as he asked, like a spy perhaps.

“Mexico. And he wanted me to know why he done it to me.” Haller snorted, and cursed with no real anger. “He was just making himself feel better. Everybody's papa.” He cursed more imaginatively.

“Did he mention Silliman or me?”

“No. But never mind him. Now look here, Lieutenant.”

“Yeh. You need help. What is it now?”

“Got a minute?”

They walked together to the barracks and marched inside, and Godwinson shouted the men to attention, and Catto told them to carry on. He followed Haller down the aisle, past the stove, his heart sinking at this new trouble, it could be nothing else, and at Haller's bunk the old private bent, grunting and wheezing as he dragged out that same chest. Haller flung it open and Catto saw several pounds of coffee, and several pounds of sugar, and some tea; twenty-two small candles, seventeen bars of yellow soap, and four pairs of brand-new boots size nine.

“It was nice of them,” Haller said, “but next time that son of a bitch will shoot me.”

V

“I ain't fooling,” the boy said. “It hurts terrible.” His face was chalky, the eyes like blue moons. As he doubled up Catto winced with him, gasped with him.

“We better do something. Jacob, go see if you can find Phelan.”

Jacob fretted, wagging his head: “He been like this all day. Maybe this March thaw got him upset.”

“You go fetch the surgeon.”

Jacob patted the boy in passing. “You trust in God, now.” Thomas tried to smile.

“For God's sake, lie down,” Catto said. Thomas dragged himself to the cot and fell supine. Catto groaned wearily, hiked to the door and slammed it shut. “This damn door. This damn army. This damn winter.”

“Oh be quiet,” Silliman said. “Thomas, do you want a drink?”

“No.”

“Do you know what it is, Ned? Any idea at all?”

Silliman nodded. “Side pleurisy. An aunt of mine—an aunt of mine had it.”

“Died of it,” he had been about to say, and Catto knew it. Catto had been depressed for some weeks, bored beyond endurance, and now he was trapped between fear for Thomas and a natural interest in whatever relieved the monotony. He woke with great reluctance these mornings, rising through layers of gum and bog toward an unnecessarily bright day, barking and swearing and spitting. He drank too much and Silliman worried.