LITMIR.BIZ

      The Devil had the lowest bid. He and his fellow demons had contracted with the army to ship poor wounded soldiers, in condemned cars, over pitted iron rails that had been hastily laid on gravel roadbeds.

      Fitz, like his fellow inmates packed in the crowded ambulance cars, rocked back and forth in agony as the train thundered on its endless journey north. Occasionally a steward would squeeze between the stacks of beds and wipe Fitz’s face of soot and sweat, or glance indifferently at his heavily bandaged left arm. Sometimes water was provided, and twice a day broth, and bread for those who could handle the rock-hard substance. When the train stopped, a surgeon would sweep through the car, tossing out rapid-fire orders, and the stewards changed bandages or cleaned wounds or, if the patients were lucky, dispensed lemon halves to each man. Fitz sucked his down greedily, chewing at the pulp and even the bitter rind. If wounded officers are treated this way, Fitz reasoned, then how horrible must conditions be for the common soldier.

      Some men died. Fitz would hear a hurried conference of nervous whispers and then several stewards would carry the blanket-covered body down the narrow aisle to the end car.

      The stewards talked about the defeats. This general or that general was to blame, and the talk turned against the government and Lincoln. Fitz ordered them to stop that nonsense, but then realized he had not uttered a word. Perhaps he was dreaming.

      “Get me water,” an officer several beds down ordered. “My leg. Oh, it hurts so. Give me water, won’t someone?”

      A man across the aisle from Fitz, an officer with yellow skin and sunken eyes, glanced in his direction. “I wish someone would drown that creature.” He lifted his head with great effort. “Your arm, eh? Well, you’ve still got it. I can’t get rid of this sickness. I’m through with this war. Through with the army, and Lincoln, too.”

      Fitz was too weak to talk, but he was tired of the other officer already. He had seen despair creep through the camps, soldiers sullen and despondent because they had fought the enemy and lost. Officers such as the sick one next to him were no help. If they did not discourage the men, they did not encourage them either. The officer continued speaking—the next election would see Lincoln and the Republicans out, let the South have its way—there was no reason for Americans to fight Americans.

      Fitz was awake enough to speak. “Shut up, you cowardly creature. If you can’t pitch in fully then don’t pitch in at all.”

      “I have a right to an opinion,” the officer said.

      “Yes, and I have a right to draw a pistol and shoot you,” Fitz returned. “If you must talk, step out the nearest door and have at it.”

      The voices died down in response to Fitz’s outburst. He felt good. He was a plain-spoken man—much more so than some people liked. Hot-tempered, one officer noted.

      Fitz slid in and out of consciousness, gritting his teeth each time the train rattled over a worn rail.

      The pain was almost unbearable, but Fitz also struggled with the other trials of being wounded. His body defied him. His wound would not let him turn, seeking a more comfortable position. His bowels refused to function, unless the steward gave him a coarse medicine that rocked his stomach before it produced a watery mix. Lice became his constant companions, hundreds of them. Setting up housekeeping in his bed, crawling over his body, and milling about in the foul mass that covered his bedding. They invaded his bandages, hiding in the wound that protected them from his efforts to dig them out with his dirty fingernails.

      The pain never left him. The stewards gave him a teaspoon of a hideous concoction they informed him would help with the pain. It did not. It made him light-headed and filled his brain with warped dreams of Asia, and dead soldiers, and lice gnawing his arm from his body.

      He kept his mind focused on Asia Lossing as much as he could. Her name suited her. She was as mysterious as the Orient, he had remarked to her. Yes, she agreed, but not nearly as distant. He took a carnal inventory of her hips, arms, legs, and breasts, and reminded himself of the times that they had shared in her bed. Fitz found himself aroused as he thought of her, and glanced down sheepishly to see if the bulge in his blanket betrayed his thoughts.

      I will ask her to marry me, Fitz vowed. She had spoken about marriage before, and he had halfheartedly agreed it was the thing to do. His reluctant response had hurt her, and now he felt guilty he had not asked for her hand then. You must hurry, she had warned him; at thirty I am an old maid. He had surprised himself with his chivalrous response. At any age, Fitz had said, you are beautiful. I will ask her when I arrive in Washington. If I arrive, he reminded himself.

      The surgeon—another one, not the man who wanted to remove his arm—had told him he would have to spend some time in the hospital. “You won’t be able to use your arm for a while,” the surgeon had said. He was a major with a thick head of white hair, far too old for his position. But Fitz liked him because he was profane and blunt. They had a great deal in common. “I’ll send you up to the Armory Hospital. It’s practically within sight of the Capitol.” He examined the wound after carefully unwrapping it, and he filled the air with the curious physician’s incantations of “mmm”s before scowling at Fitz. “You’ve given some of our people a hard time, Colonel, but here’s my advice to you. Keep your damned mouth shut and do

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