The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

“All day long, I sortied up and down the line, exhorting our boys and offering what cheer I could. I sent first one boy off, then another, to carry a message downstream to Major Duncan. I never saw either of those boys again.” He rubbed his forehead.

“With each pass along the line, I couldn’t help looking into my tent. I worried, you see, about the bat. I worried that the noise and the smoke would panic him and send him blundering into the cross fire. He was my bat by then, you see.”

I nodded. I did see.

“The powder smoke filled the air until the sun was blotted out. You couldn’t see more than five yards to either hand.

“At sunset the onslaught eased up, I suppose so the Federals could partake of some dinner. My boys stayed in their holes and ate cold biscuit. Those that had pen and paper wrote their last letters to their families and pressed them on me and begged me, if I survived, to see them delivered. Many of them clasped my hand and told me good-bye and bid me to pray for their souls and their families at home. One unlettered boy followed me back to my tent and begged me to write his letter for him. I opened the flap with great apprehension, sure that my bat had panicked and flown away.”

I held my breath and sat like a statue.

“But there he was. Fast asleep. As far as I could tell, he had not stirred from his upside-down perch all day. If the boy noted the strange small parcel hanging there, he did not remark upon it. His thoughts were far away with his family.

“I wrote his letter for him to his mother and sisters in Elgin. He told them not to cry overly long for him and to make sure they got the corn in by June. He told me there was no man left on the place, and he did not think they could manage without him. Tears came to his eyes at the thought of their situation. He had no thought of himself. I took his hand and pledged that I would do my best to see his family through all right. He embraced me and called me Cap. He thanked me and said I had relieved his mind and he could die without worry that day. Then he left me and returned to his place in the line.”

Granddaddy pulled his big white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face.

“I looked at my bat,” he said. “I pulled up my chair and studied him from inches away. He was perfect in every way. Perfect. He must have felt my presence because he opened his eyes and blinked at me. He was exceedingly calm. The noise and vibrations outside seemed not to bother him at all. He stretched his wings wide for a moment and yawned and then refolded himself and fell fast asleep again. I never wanted to leave that tent.

“But the firing started up again. I stayed there studying him until I was sent for. I didn’t want to go.”

We sat in silence. Then I said, “Did he die?”

Granddaddy looked at me.

“That boy,” I said. “The one from Elgin.”

“He didn’t die that day.” After a moment he said, “He took a ball in the knee. He lay in a field of the dead and dying, all calling out for water, for mother, for mercy. We listened to their terrible cries growing weaker until the middle of the night, when it was safe to crawl out and drag them back. Our surgeon worked all through the night while we held rushlights overhead. If a soldier was not badly wounded, he would keep. If a soldier was too badly wounded, he was put aside and given a canteen and a grain or two of morphia and any comfort he could take from the chaplain. The ones with the shattered arms and legs required urgent amputation before they bled to death, or before the dry gangrene or the wet pus set in.

“Then, as the sun came up, it was the boy from Elgin’s turn. He was pitiably weak. We lifted him onto the table. It was thick and warm with blood. I gave him the chloroform. As I put the funnel over his face, he looked right at me and smiled and said, ‘Don’t mind about me, Cap. I’m all right.’

“Then I pulled on his leg as hard as I could while the surgeon sawed and made his flap. Suddenly the leg came off in my arms, and I stood there cradling it as if it were a child. It’s a surprising thing, you know—how heavy a man’s leg is. I stood there and held it. I didn’t want to throw it on the pile with all the others. But in the end, that’s what I did.”

“You saved him,” I said. “Didn’t you?”

After a while, Granddaddy said, “He never woke up.” He stared into the corner for a long time and then said, “Two days later, we got word that the war was over. They told us to go home, to take all the provisions and equipment we could carry, but there was little enough left. A handful of cartridges, a pound or two of beans, a moldy blanket; there would be no more pension than that. I knew that I might be in desperate need of my tent. But my bat was still there. I didn’t know how I could leave him or how I could take him. Finally, I went to the surgeon’s tent and stole the Yellow Jack from his trunk. Do you know the Yellow Jack?”

“No, sir,” I whispered.