Chapter 8

Benjamin

"Though things are bad now, they will not always be so." ― Horace

July, 1863

Benjamin watched with puffy eyes as the coffin was lowered into the ground. He had pulled strings and spent precious gold to ensure Jimmy received a proper burial in an established cemetery rather than an unmarked mass grave, as was the case for many of the fallen soldiers of Gettysburg. Above him the sky was cloudless and blue, a brilliant sun sparkling on the horizon. Before him, the chaplain intoned the familiar words of prayer for the soul of the departed. There were few people here to commemorate the passing of Jimmy—just himself and Sergeant Stevens from his regiment, along with a nurse from the field hospital who had cared for him.

Benjamin had woken this morning with a pounding in his head, the result of overindulgence in whiskey last night. He had doused himself in water, swallowed a bitter cup of coffee, then dressed in full regimental uniform to see off his friend. As Jimmy was lowered into his final resting place, Benjamin stared without really seeing, his mind at work remembering his friend. The boy with an easy smile who had loved horses all his life. The cheerful young man who had accompanied him to war and kept him sane these past two years. "Farewell, Jimmy," he thought. "I shall miss you."

Few lingered when the service was over. Everyone had things to do, including him. As they walked away from the grave, Sergeant Stevens spoke, "I understand Private Reeves's father and mother are employed on your family's estate in Ohio, is that not so?"

"Yes," replied Benjamin.

The sergeant sighed. "I would have wanted to grant you leave to go home and convey the news to them in person, but we are short of men and cannot spare anyone. I will be writing an official letter of condolence to them today. Should you care to write a personal missive of your own, we can have it sent out in the same packet."

"I would," said Benjamin.

The sergeant, a man of few words, nodded. "Good."

They reached their horses, mounted them and rode back to camp. A short time later, Benjamin sat down to write.

July 8th, 1863

Dear Papa,

I hope both you and Mama are in good health and that all is well at home. News of our engagement with the Confederate army at Gettysburg may have already reached you by now, and that we were able to repulse the Confederate advance towards Washington. I am happy to report that I am unharmed and in sound health.

However, I do bear some sad news. Our dear friend Jimmy passed away yesterday from an infection caused by a gun wound to the shoulder. I was with him throughout his final hours on this earth and offered him whatever comfort I could. He was given a Christian burial this morning, his final resting place in hallowed ground, the grave marked for posterity. He served his country with dignity and honour, and his sacrifice shall not be forgotten. A letter from Sergeant Stevens, notifying Jimmy's parents of his passing, should be in the same packet in which you receive this missive. I would ask, Papa, that you be the one to break the news to them.

I leave with my regiment tomorrow, as we pursue Lee's retreating army in Virginia. I hope this will herald the beginning of the end to this protracted war. Give my love to Mama.

Your loving son,

Benjamin Stanton

Benjamin sealed the letter carefully, then pulled out some more sheets of paper. They would be on the move tomorrow, and today was perhaps the last opportunity for some time in which to correspond with the rest of his family. He would write letters to England. He knew that a large convoy of patients from the field hospital would be transferred to Baltimore tomorrow. He could give the letters to Nurse Walters, who had tended to Jimmy and attended his funeral, and trust that she would post them for him from Baltimore. He began with a letter to his brother. It was short, for he could think of nothing more to say but the basic facts.

Once he had sealed this letter and the one to Bella which was equally short, Benjamin began another, this time addressed to Sarah. He paused for a minute, re-arranging his thoughts. This letter would not be short. There was so much he had to say. It was odd really. He had not seen Sarah in years, and only met her a handful of times before being parted from her. Yet he felt closer to her than to anyone else in this world. He could tell her anything. To her, he could speak his truth. He picked up the pen again and began to write.

July 8th, 1863

Dear Sarah,

I've been wondering lately about the fate of the letters I send you. Do they overcome the numerous obstacles in their way—the raid of railcars they are transported on, the destruction of ships on which they sail, and all manner of other troubles—to reach you? And if they do not do so, then what is the point of my writing? Is it simply a way to purge my thoughts, a journal of sorts never to be seen by anyone but myself?

If that is the case, then perhaps I may put down on paper the unspeakable thoughts in my head. Sarah, dear invisible friend, I am sick of it all. I am sick of this war, sick of my fellow man, sick of myself. I have lost count now of the number of lives taken by my own hands—a half dozen? Or much more? It is a travesty in itself that I cannot account for each one of these departed souls. Yet still they come back in my dreams to haunt me.

I cannot recall anymore what all this misery was in aid of. Some noble cause perhaps? In battle I charge my horse and see men on the opposing side that look just like me—only the colour of their uniform is different. They speak the same language as me, worship the same God. They cry the same cry as they fall to their deaths, their blood spilling on the fields of battle to mingle with that of their enemy. These men have mothers and wives back home as we do, and who is to say which side mourns their loss the most? A just and noble cause indeed.

I went to see Jimmy yesterday. He took a bullet to the shoulder during the engagement at Gettysburg a few days ago. Since then, he has been at Camp Letterman, a field hospital on the outskirts of the town. He has been housed in a tent, along with a dozen other wounded men. Despite the best efforts of the valiant medics and nurses, the stench of putrefaction and death could not be hidden. It permeated all surfaces.

Poor Jimmy. We were hopeful at first that he would pull through, but a gangrenous infection set in and ravaged his body. Yesterday morning, I sat with him, listening to him speak in his delirium. Much of it did not make sense. I am not sure he was even aware of my presence until he clutched my arm and stared at me with burning eyes. "Grace," he said. I thought at first he meant it as a prayer, asking for God's grace. But then he repeated over and over, "My child, my girl. Anna. Grace called her Anna." Then he fixed me with his delirious stare and demanded, "You will tell her one day about her pa. Promise!"

Such was his agitation that I could not avoid but do so. After that, he went quiet, his mind seemingly at ease while I tried to make sense of this revelation. I could only suppose that Jimmy believes my cousin Grace's daughter is his own. I do not know the truth of the matter, though I have always wondered about Grace's hasty marriage to Benedict. Could it have been because she was carrying Jimmy's child?

Be that as it may, a promise is a promise. I suppose one day, I shall have to speak to Grace and let her know Jimmy's final wishes, for soon after this, he took his last breath and was gone, another casualty of this miserable war.

Last night, I drowned my sorrows in whiskey and a visit to the local whorehouse. You may think it strange that I chose this way of honouring Jimmy's passing. I cannot explain it myself; I felt a compulsion. There was no great pick of whores to choose from, but I did not care. A woman of indeterminate age and melancholic eyes took care of my needs.

In the room she led me to, which reeked of body odour and cheap perfume, I threw myself atop her on the bed and ripped away the bodice of her dress to reveal her bountiful breasts. Then, releasing my aching member from my pants, I drove myself inside her, and even in these insalubrious surroundings, I felt the ecstatic relief of sinking into soft female flesh. Over and over, I plunged my swollen shaft into her body, seized by a frenzied madness, remembering just in time to have enough gallantry to consider her pleasure, until finally we both achieved our release.

When it was over, I dropped my head to her breast, overcome with shivers, and shed hot tears. The kindly whore held me to her while I cried, repeating in soothing tones, "There, there, it's alright." May God have mercy on her, and on me. Eventually, I calmed enough to get back to my feet and adjust my clothes. In acknowledgement of her kindness and my bestiality, I emptied the remaining contents of my purse, though this did little to assuage my guilt.

This morning, Jimmy was buried in a cemetery on the edge of the town. I have written home to inform my family, and now I sit to write to you—or is it to myself? No matter. What is done is done. Tomorrow, my regiment leaves this town. Now that we have buried our dead and taken the injured to be cared for in hospitals, we will continue our campaign, heading south in pursuit of the retreating Confederate army.

If you get this letter, Sarah, then I ask you to please burn it after reading, and with it burn all memory of my shame. I hope all is well with you. Perhaps you have finally had your wish and married Mr Templeton, or some other worthy person. Are you heavy with your first child? In which case, you will not be wanting to be importuned by my words. Erase them then from your memory, and should more missives of mine come your way, feel free to throw them in the fire without first reading them. I have no right to burden you with my misery.

Ever your friend,

Benjamin Stanton