him shudder. He knew it was the right word. And he knew he might have to be alone for some time to come. In a deep and secret way he wanted to be alone, but being marooned had none of the euphoria he had felt on the trip out with Timmons.
This was sobering.
He ate a skimpy dinner and filled out his first day’s report. Lieutenant Dunbar was a good writer, which made him less averse to paperwork than most soldiers. And he was eager to keep a scrupulous record of his stay at Fort Sedgewick, particularly in light of his bizarre circumstances.
April 12, 1863
I have found Fort Sedgewick to be completely unmanned. The place appears to have been rotting for some time. If there was a contingent here shortly before I came, it, too, must have been rotting.
I don’t know what to do.
Fort Sedgewick is my post, but there is no one to report to. Communication can only take place if I leave, and I don’t want to abandon my post.
Supplies are abundant.
Have assigned myself cleanup duty. Will attempt to strengthen supply house, but don’t know if one man can do job.
Everything is quiet here on the frontier.
Lt. John J. Dunbar, U.S.A.
On the verge of sleep that night he had the awning idea. An awning for the hut. A long sunshade extending from the entrance. A place to sit or work on days when the heat inside the quarters became unbearable. An addition to the fort.
And a window, cut out of the sod. A window would make a big difference. Could shrink the corral and use the extra posts for other construction. Maybe something could be done with the supply house after all.
Dunbar was asleep before he’d cataloged all the possibilities for busying himself. It was a deep sleep and he dreamed vividly.
He was in a Pennsylvania field hospital. Doctors had gathered at the foot of his bed, a half dozen of them in long, white aprons soaked with the blood of other “cases.”
They were discussing whether to take his foot off at the ankle or at the knee. The discussion gave way to an argument, the argument turned ugly, and as the lieutenant watched, horrified, they began to fight.
They were bashing each other with the severed limbs of previous amputations. And as they swirled about the hospital, swinging their grotesque clubs, patients who had lost limbs leaped or crawled from their pallets, desperately sorting through the debris of the battling doctors for their own arms and legs.
In the middle of the melee he escaped, galloping crazily through the main doors on his half-blown-away foot.
He hobbled into a brilliant green meadow that was strewn with Union and Confederate corpses. Like dominoes in reverse, the corpses sat up as he ran past and aimed pistols at him.
Finding a gun in his hand, Lieutenant Dunbar shot each of the corpses before they could squeeze off a round. He fired rapidly and each of his bullets found a head. And each blew apart on impact. They looked like a long line of melons, each of them exploding in turn from perches on the shoulders of dead men.
Lieutenant Dunbar could see himself at a distance, a wild figure in a bloody hospital gown, dashing through a gauntlet of corpses, heads flying into space as he went.
Suddenly there were no more corpses and no more firing.
But there was someone behind him calling in a beautiful voice.
“Sweetheart . . . sweetheart.”
Dunbar looked over his shoulder.
Running behind him was a woman, a handsome woman with high cheeks and thick sandy hair and eyes so alive with passion that he could feel his heart beating stronger. She was dressed only in men’s pants and she ran with a blood-drenched foot in her outstretched hand, as if in offering.
The lieutenant glanced down at his own wounded foot and found it gone. He was running on a white stump of bone.
He came awake, sitting upright in shock, groping wildly for his foot at the end of the bed. It was there.
His blankets were damp with sweat. He fumbled under the bed for his kit and hastily rolled a smoke.
This was sobering.
He ate a skimpy dinner and filled out his first day’s report. Lieutenant Dunbar was a good writer, which made him less averse to paperwork than most soldiers. And he was eager to keep a scrupulous record of his stay at Fort Sedgewick, particularly in light of his bizarre circumstances.
April 12, 1863
I have found Fort Sedgewick to be completely unmanned. The place appears to have been rotting for some time. If there was a contingent here shortly before I came, it, too, must have been rotting.
I don’t know what to do.
Fort Sedgewick is my post, but there is no one to report to. Communication can only take place if I leave, and I don’t want to abandon my post.
Supplies are abundant.
Have assigned myself cleanup duty. Will attempt to strengthen supply house, but don’t know if one man can do job.
Everything is quiet here on the frontier.
Lt. John J. Dunbar, U.S.A.
On the verge of sleep that night he had the awning idea. An awning for the hut. A long sunshade extending from the entrance. A place to sit or work on days when the heat inside the quarters became unbearable. An addition to the fort.
And a window, cut out of the sod. A window would make a big difference. Could shrink the corral and use the extra posts for other construction. Maybe something could be done with the supply house after all.
Dunbar was asleep before he’d cataloged all the possibilities for busying himself. It was a deep sleep and he dreamed vividly.
He was in a Pennsylvania field hospital. Doctors had gathered at the foot of his bed, a half dozen of them in long, white aprons soaked with the blood of other “cases.”
They were discussing whether to take his foot off at the ankle or at the knee. The discussion gave way to an argument, the argument turned ugly, and as the lieutenant watched, horrified, they began to fight.
They were bashing each other with the severed limbs of previous amputations. And as they swirled about the hospital, swinging their grotesque clubs, patients who had lost limbs leaped or crawled from their pallets, desperately sorting through the debris of the battling doctors for their own arms and legs.
In the middle of the melee he escaped, galloping crazily through the main doors on his half-blown-away foot.
He hobbled into a brilliant green meadow that was strewn with Union and Confederate corpses. Like dominoes in reverse, the corpses sat up as he ran past and aimed pistols at him.
Finding a gun in his hand, Lieutenant Dunbar shot each of the corpses before they could squeeze off a round. He fired rapidly and each of his bullets found a head. And each blew apart on impact. They looked like a long line of melons, each of them exploding in turn from perches on the shoulders of dead men.
Lieutenant Dunbar could see himself at a distance, a wild figure in a bloody hospital gown, dashing through a gauntlet of corpses, heads flying into space as he went.
Suddenly there were no more corpses and no more firing.
But there was someone behind him calling in a beautiful voice.
“Sweetheart . . . sweetheart.”
Dunbar looked over his shoulder.
Running behind him was a woman, a handsome woman with high cheeks and thick sandy hair and eyes so alive with passion that he could feel his heart beating stronger. She was dressed only in men’s pants and she ran with a blood-drenched foot in her outstretched hand, as if in offering.
The lieutenant glanced down at his own wounded foot and found it gone. He was running on a white stump of bone.
He came awake, sitting upright in shock, groping wildly for his foot at the end of the bed. It was there.
His blankets were damp with sweat. He fumbled under the bed for his kit and hastily rolled a smoke.
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