A Stillness at Appomattox (41 page)

When
the
wagons
were
loaded
there
had
been
a
further sorting
out.
Some
of
the
men
could
sit
up,
and
empty
ammunition
boxes
were
supplied
for
them
to
sit
on,
so
that
sometimes
six
or
ten
could
ride
in
one
wagon.
With
the
amputees there
was
a
different
classification.
It
was
quickly
discovered that
men
took
up
less
room
if
they
lay
on
their
sides
than
they required
when
they
lay
on
their
backs,
so
the
leg
cases
were grouped
accordingly:
if
each
man
in
an
ambulance
had
lost his
right
leg,
each
man
could
lie
on
his
left
side—for
however many
terrible
hours
the
trip
might
last—and
they
could
fit
together
nicely,
like
so
many
spoons,
and
it
was
so
arranged.
⁸

It
was
about
one
in
the
morning
of
May
9
when
the
head of
this
great
caravan
of
misery
came
creaking
down
into
sleeping
Fredericksburg,
a
wrecked,
half-lifeless
town
that
lay across
the
path
of
war,
which
had
seen
much
suffering
and now
was
to
see
more.

It
had
been
a
drowsy
pleasant
place,
once.
In
the
old
days the
tubby
English
merchant
ships
drifted
lazily
up
the
river and
moored
here,
and
the
grave
men
in
knee
breeches
and silk
stockings
who
traded
in
them
had
built
formal
homes
of red
brick
on
the
quiet
streets,
and
back
of
the
town
on
the heights
they
had
put
up
mansions
with
white
pillars,
so
that an
eighteenth-century
air
of
order
and
certitude
had
given the
place
a
special
flavor.
But
the
old
days
were
long
dead and
now
there
was
a
bitter
new
flavor,
and
the
very
name
of the
town
had
taken
on
a
hard
ring,
and
in
many
homes
North and
South
it
was
a
name
of
death
and
deep
shadows:
a
sinister
word,
carrying
a
shudder
with
it,
one
of
the
homely American
place
names
made
dreadful
by
war.
The
town
had known
violence
and
gunfire
and
screaming,
and
the
meadows beyond
had
seen
naked
corpses
turning
blue
under
a
frozen moon,
with
guns
flashing
from
the
hilltops
and
the
wreckage of
old
houses
littering
the
streets.
All
of
that,
earlier
in
the war,
and
now
this:
seven
thousand
wounded
men
coming
in at
one
in
the
morning,
with
no
one
riding
on
ahead
to
announce
their
coming
or
to
get
things
ready
for
them,
and
not one
sullen
resident
owning
the
slightest
desire
to
help
the Army
of
the
Potomac
in
any
way
whatever.

A
regiment
of
dismounted
cavalry
had
come
along
as
train guard,
and
it
sent
men
scurrying
about
to
knock
the
town awake
and
find
places
to
put
the
wounded.
Churches
were taken
over,
and
warehouses,
mills,
public
buildings,
and
the larger
private
homes,
and
all
through
the
night
the
wagons were
laboring
up
to
these
doorways
and
unloading.
In
some cases,
wounded
officers
of
rank
were
quartered
with
Fredericksburg
families,
and
these
men
got
along
well
enough. Nobody
in
town
had
any
sympathy
for
Yankees,
but
the
people
were
not
brutal
or
callous,
and
so
a
very
fortunate
few
of the
wounded
got
into
real
beds.

Most
of
them
were
simply
laid
on
the
floor—any
floor
that was
handy.
Many
buildings
were
still
half-wrecked
from
Burn-side's
bombardment
of
December
1862
and
contained
puddles of
stagnant
rain
water
that
had
come
in
through
gaping
holes in
the
roof,
and
men
were
dumped
down
in
this
seepage
so that
the
pools
became
bloody.
One
warehouse
which
had
cont
ained
leaky
barrels
of
molasses
had
a
quarter
inch
or
more of
gummy
treacle
all
over
the
floor.
No
straw
was
available for
bedding.
There
was
nothing
for
it
but
to
put
the
men
on the
bare
floor—in
rain
water,
half-dried
syrup,
or
whatever— and
hope
that
they
could
make
the
best
of
it.

The
best
was
not
very
good.
Washington
had
had
no
warn-ing
that
this
move
was
coming,
and
so
no
supplies
had
been sent
down.
There
were
just
thirty
army
doctors
on
hand
to look
after
the
7,000
wounded,
all
of
whom
by
now
needed attention
very
badly;
needed
at
the
very
least
to
be
bathed and
given
fresh
clothing
and
hot
soup,
and
to
have
their bandages
changed.
Practically
none
of
these
things
could
be done,
partly
because
of
a
woeful
shortage
of
help
and
partly because
the
medicines,
fresh
dressings,
and
food
that
were on
hand
were
strictly
limited
to
the
little
that
had
been
carried
in
the
wagons.
The
man
who
got
so
much
as
a
hardtack and
a
drink
of
water
that
day
was
in
luck.
It
took
more
than twenty-four
hours
just
to
get
the
men
out
of
the
wagons.
A good
many
of
them
died,
which
meant
that
some
of
the
attendants
had
to
ignore
the
living
and
serve
on
burial
details.®