by Gordon Laws
Black flies bounced off his hat and settled on his neck. They hovered over the swollen, blackening, butternut-clad lumps whose pants had burst, whose shirts had been ripped away by hogs in the night. Those clumps that littered the fields around the house just south of Gettysburg. He had a wagon to his left, moldering remains laid out on the bed. Beside him was a partially excavated hole where the sixth body of least ten had to get out of his garden, away from his well, and find its way to the woods.
John Rose leaned against his shovel, smelled a new draft of death rise from the ground. He nearly retched again, but held off just as Mary, his oldest teenage daughter, came into view from the woods. She smiled—as if she had a secret to tell or was privy to a joke.
“Pa, I have been for a walk today, and I have reached a conclusion.”
“What’s that?” he said.
“The saying is true. A rose by any other name would smell the same.”
“Okay,” said John.
“He or she, as the case may be, would smell nothing but death.”
John shook his head, breathed the foul air as much as he could tolerate. Her words were not a secret and not quite a joke; from her, they had to be a realization. Of course, his own words had failed him. “I need to get these moved from the garden. Mother could use help in the house.”
“Oh yes, Pa,” said Mary. “I am going there straightway. I will help pluck worms. We must control the flies.”
John smacked a fly on his neck and muttered, “Control the flies.”
Pluck worms? Control the flies? He started to open his mouth, to ask her something he couldn’t quite place, but Mary moved to the house. John watched her for several moments, then returned to digging—the garden dead were all officers, he had found, men worthy of early burial. The enlisted and the conscripted, many of them anyway, were lying unburied in the wheat field and wood lot.
It took him three hours in the humid, death-filled July air to get all ten officers into the wagon. It had rained on July 4, and the creek in the woods was over its banks, its waters clogged by swelling, rotting bodies. They were calling it the Battle of Gettysburg, but he lived in Cumberland Township—a name, like his, that almost no one would ever know.
It was now the Sabbath, but their church was full of wounded and the work here was too pressing. John walked beside the horse, reins in hand, leading it into the woods on the worn path. He stopped maybe a hundred yards in and began pulling bodies out of the back. They flopped onto the damp earth, gases escaping them when they hit ground. A foot and boot came off in his hand. He laid the dead out in a line, intending to bury them, but he was exhausted, had had nothing to drink, and needed to retch. Above ground or below, what was the difference? At least his well would not be fouled. He left the officers to the elements.
***
That night, the breeze did little to ease the sweating from the humidity. He lay awake listening to his wife’s breathing, the creaking in the house when a hot child rolled over, the flies buzzing outside the front door and bedroom window. He lapsed into a shallow dream-like state, seeing the contorted, dirt-caked faces of the officers he had moved. He jolted awake to screaming and raced down the hall to the girls’ room, Anna Eliza just behind him.
He grabbed a lamp from their nightstand and lit it.
Ella Eugene sat in Elizabeth’s arms, her knees pulled up to her chin, tears streaming. Mary sat a few feet removed on the bed.
“What is the meaning of this?” said Anna.
“She attacked me,” said Ella, nodding toward Mary.
“I think Mary Jo had a bad dream,” said Elizabeth to Ella in a soothing voice.
“Mary Jo?” said Anna.
Mary looked at her parents. “It was not a bad dream, Mother. I had to beat the hand off Ella.”
“The hand?” said John.
“Yes,” said Mary. “It is sticking out of the ground. I saw it on my walk. The boy said it comes alive at night to pull little girls into the grave.”
“What boy?” said Anna.
“I don’t know his name,” said Mary. “He’s very sad. He asked me to help him get the worms out of his eyeballs.”
Anna turned to her husband and whispered, “She is suffering hysteria.”
“Yes,” said John.
“Mary Jo,” John said, “bring a blanket and come with us.”
“I promise, I was just helping,” said Mary. “Ella is safe now.”
“We understand,” said John. “Just come with us, please.”
Back in their bedroom, Anna sat with Mary on the floor and stroked her hair until she fell asleep on her blanket. Then Anna crawled back in bed next to John.
“She is very sensitive,” she whispered.
“Yes,” said John. “A bee buzzing near her ear is to her what a train passing by a few feet away is to us. You must see to her, keep an eye on her.”
Anna laid a hand on his chest. “I have the little ones, and she is our oldest. We have no food. We need errands run to pick up supplies from the sanitary commission. I need her to help with the kids or run errands or help you get the land back in order.”
John breathed deeply. “She can’t. It’s too much. We have to see to her somehow.”
***
Francis Ogden, their tenant farmer, had told John that the east wheat field was a total loss. John had not been able to face it—not when bodies were still buried next to his front porch, when the garden was full of bodies, when the lawns and the paths to the wood lot were littered with the unburied. But four days along, he had moved bodies to save the well, cleared the porch area, buried some in the paths, and dragged others off the lawns and out of sight.
So now he had to see it. He went with Francis and young William Ogden, just twelve years old. They passed over the rocky hill and down a trail through the woods where bodies still sat, leaned against trees and draped over fallen logs. A light drizzle fell, and the three wore wide-brimmed hats. When they emerged from the tree line, John paused, stunned. He was not sure whether the carnage or the number of living people surprised him more.
The wheat was trampled to hell—this year’s crop was destroyed. Mounds of dirt dotted the field where Union burial crews had been through to tend to their own. Many were marked with wooden headboards—wood that had come from Rose fences, barn doors, and trees from the wood lot.
The butternuts were unburied, bloated, blackened, some gutted by animals. They had been moved into lines. Soldiers in blue moved around the field, picking up discarded canteens, rifles, and bedrolls. Civilians had found the field too—women walked among the dead holding their children’s hands while covering their noses with handkerchiefs. A young boy, maybe seven or eight, chased another boy with a broken bayonet. At the bottom of the slope near the line of gray-clad bodies stood several men next to one of those picture-making things.
“You see?” said Francis.
“Who invited all these people?” said John.
“Some of them are from Philadelphia, some from New York, some from Boston. A fellow here from one of the New York papers is looking for his son, said to be killed,” Francis replied.
John shook his head. “We’ll never farm this field again.”
Motion from his right caught his eye. Moving swiftly away from the woods, Mary Jo was barefoot under her skirt.
“Hello, Pa,” she said.
John looked around him. To his left was a discarded ramrod from a Springfield. A few feet from that was a bent bayonet. He looked at Mary. “You should not be without shoes.”
Mary lifted her skirt and revealed wet calves dotted with red blemishes. “I had to remove my shoes to soak my legs in the creek.”
John recoiled.
“I had no choice,” said Mary. She looked at William. “The rain helps cool things, yes, William?”
William squinted at her.
“What do you mean you had no choice?”
Mary clapped her hands, then crossed her arms and scratched underneath her sleeves. “The issue, Pa, is the worms. I have been trying to dig them out, but they are vile little creatures. They hide in the blood.”
John’s mouth went dry. He lifted his own callused right hand, saw one of his scars from the slip of a hatchet, thought of the blood that had flowed that day. “What worms? What blood?” he stammered.
Mary rolled up her sleeves to reveal fresh cuts all over her forearms. “The worms are burrowing under my skin on my arms and legs. When I feel them, I try to dig them out, but I don’t catch many of them. They are wicked creatures and dig so deep that I cannot reach them without it hurting too much.”
Francis patted John’s shoulder, then squeezed and looked him in his eyes. “William and I can give you all a minute. We are headed to the western wheat fields to move bodies. We will see you tonight at the house.” John watched as the two moved away. William glanced back, but Francis patted his back and moved his gaze forward.
John stepped toward Mary, reaching for her cut up arms.
“You are digging into your skin?”
Mary pushed her sleeves back down. “Yes, Pa. Captain Fuller said if they reach my belly and chest, I am done for. That’s what happened to him.”
“Captain Fuller?”
Mary nodded energetically. “He is a fine young man. Had they not buried him by the creek and had the worms not gotten him, I should think that he may wish to court me. As it is, he popped up to advise me to soak my arms and legs in the creek that I may drown the worms. It is not so bad if the water is fouled. More worms will die that way.”
John froze. Finally, slowly, he raised his arms and said, “Come here, child.”
Mary moved to him and slipped into his embrace. John wept into her hair, kissed the top of her head. “Go up to the house,” he said. “Help mother with the chores. Go with her to Fahnestock’s place this afternoon to get the food from the sanitary commission. I will send for Dr. O’Neal.”
Mary pulled back. “Whatever for, Pa?”
He looked at her through blurry eyes. “He will have tonics to rid you of those worms.”
She kissed John on the cheek and headed up the path.
***
With forty thousand wounded men strewn about a town of two thousand, Dr. O’Neal was not available for weeks. Every able hand ministered to the wrecked bodies and souls of the armies until Dr. Letterman’s massive medical crew evacuated the wounded to a massive tent hospital on the northeast side of town. Meanwhile, the Roses and Ogdens struggled to remove bodies from freshwater streams, cover the dead, repair their house and barns, and restore what plantings they could, all while going daily to town for necessities provided by the Sanitary Commission.
Strangers, soldiers, souvenir hunters, and kindred of the unclaimed dead swarmed their property. John talked daily with new arrivals from both North and South seeking information about which units had been where, whether he had heard of an Officer So and So or Private Whoever from Wherever in Whatever Regiment. Sometimes, he and Francis found people digging on his property, unearthing men they had only recently covered. Most of that unearthing was fruitless, and families rarely did much to cover again those who weren’t their kin.
John was powerless to stop any of it, though he wouldn’t have anyway. Francis had a boy with the army, a young man who at that moment was marching south in pursuit of Lee. Given different circumstances, the Ogdens could be among the searchers on farms they didn’t know looking through decomposing remains to find identifying rings or buttons so they could collect a box of grotesquerie and bring it “home.”
What all this meant, though, was that with fifteen people between the Ogden and Rose families and their hirelings, Mary Josephine battled the worms alone. It was not that John and Anna didn’t try. They kept Mary in their room at night, Anna frequently falling asleep on the floor next to her. In the mornings, Anna gave Mary a list of chores to help with, almost invariably within Anna’s presence. But between kids coming and going, gravediggers and officers stopping for water, and visitors asking for directions, Anna could not keep track of everything, and Mary would slip away to fight her worms. John would find her half submerged in the creek where she would cheerily exclaim, “Captain Fuller assures me that the angel will stir up the waters to kill the worms!” Or he might find her under a tree, digging deep into a wound whose scab she had picked. When confronted, she would say, “I thought I had gotten him out yesterday, but alas, either I did not or he has friends.”
Thus they lived for a month before Dr. O’Neal made his first visit. After examining Mary, he asked to speak with John and Anna outside. They stood in the yard, the grass dormant from the summer sun, and Dr. O’Neal pulled from his bag a small bottle of powder and his script pad. He handed the bottle to Anna, began to write, and said, “I’m writing her a script for Dover’s Powder, but I have a small amount for you to start her on right away.”
“Okay,” said Anna.
“That will help calm her nerves, and it promotes sweating, which will help relieve the sensations she feels in her body. She doesn’t have worms, as I am sure you know, but her mind is overactive from recent events, and she gets a nervous sensation all over her body, which she tries to alleviate by scratching or by immersion in water. Mix five grains in sweet tea or honey to help with the bitterness. Give it to her before bed at night.”
***
Mary got her first dose that night and was a very mild patient—she was happy to take anything that might kill the worms. For two weeks, the medicine seemed to help. She was lethargic and lost her appetite, but she stopped scratching and digging as much, and many of her scabs healed. But she lost weight, appeared gray and thin with a vacant look in her eyes, and she sweated constantly.
One morning, she appeared in the front room and declared to Anna that the worms were back and she needed more medicine. Anna resisted at first, saying it was for nighttime, then caved and dosed her. Morning and night doses became regular, and the lethargy and weight loss worsened. They called for Dr. O’Neal again who declared that twice a day was not ideal but okay if Mary’s nerves stayed calm. He rewrote the script and went on his way.
A week after that, digging on the property began anew—now it was Basil Biggs and a crew of black men from the west side of town disinterring Union dead for reinterment at a new cemetery on Cemetery Hill. John met with them almost daily to point out Union burial spots versus Confederate. Basil and his crew worked only on the Union burials.
On their second day of work, Mary burst from the woods at full sprint and rushed to John in the east wheat field. Between gulps of air, she exclaimed, “The coloreds have taken him!”
John was examining some of the burial spots, turning up the earth to reveal detritus so he could verify what side was buried there. He pulled his rake to his body and said, “What is that, child?”
“The coloreds have dug up and stolen Captain Fuller!”
John set the rake down and moved to her. He put an arm around her and said, “Mr. Biggs and his men are removing our sacred dead from these unholy killing fields and moving them to a place of honor. It is just in town, and you can visit Captain Fuller in a place of quiet and rest anytime you’d like.”
Mary pulled away from him, put her face in her hands, and cried, “Oh, Papa, you do not understand!” Then she dashed away toward the house.
***
After the scratching resumed and after another visit from Dr. O’Neal, John went to Fahnestock’s in town to fill the latest script. Buildings were shot full of holes from musketry, and windows were still being replaced. The streets were full of people carting away materials from the Sanitary Commission and other donors. Fahnestock’s had a line out the door. Across the street were kids skipping rope. He heard the children rhyme as they skipped—
Mary Jo, Mary Jo,
Why does your blood flow?
Went to bed, lost your head,
And the worms just grow and grow.
***
Within another week, John had the worst of all worlds with Mary. She was picking scabs, digging into her skin, and talking incessantly about the worms. She was also lethargic, sweating, and wasting away while begging for more medicine to kill the worms. Some of her wounds were infected and oozing, and her moods swung wildly.
They sent for Dr. O’Neal for a fourth time. This time, after examining Mary, he told John and Anna privately that the medicine was no longer effective, that Mary should come off it, and that to manage her, they would need to employ a straitjacket. Doing so at night would help her to stop scratching and sleep. The pressure might ease the stimulation coming under her skin. They could also use it during the day if she could not stop scratching. He illustrated how to get somebody into it. Then, he headed out, leaving them the model he had brought.
After the other kids were in bed, they explained to Mary how they would put her in it so that it could calm her.
She looked distracted but agreed. They helped get her arms situated and tightened the jacket, then led her to their bedroom. John gave up his spot in the bed for her. Anna helped Mary lie down, then lay next to her and put an arm around her. John lay sleeplessly on the floor, a blanket between his body and the wood.
He listened in silence as his wife’s breathing grew rhythmic and deep. Mary’s breathing, though, did not. She fidgeted, the bed creaked, she strained and grunted, and she whimpered. Outside, the crickets and katydids hummed and chirped. The wind rustled the drying leaves on the outside trees.
Then, an unintelligible whisper. Syllables, repeated over and over. More creaks and movements on the bed. The syllables grew louder, gradually, so gradually. Mostly, the whispers were overwhelmed by the bed movements.
Now Anna’s groggy voice, “Shhhh, child. I’ve got you.”
Now more struggling, the syllables louder. He could make them out now.
“The worm dieth not. The fire is not quenched. The worm dieth not. The fire is not quenched.”
“Mary, honey, Mother is here. It’s okay.”
“The worm dieth not. The fire is not quenched.”
Now Mary struggled against both the restraints and her mother.
“Settle down!” Anna commanded.
“The worm dieth not! The fire is not quenched!”
John heard little feet in the hall.
“Papa?”
“Go back to bed, Ella,” said John. “Mary Jo is having a hard time but will be okay.”
“The worm dieth not! The fire is not quenched!”
John heard Elizabeth’s voice. “Ella dear, come to bed.”
“The worm dieth not! The fire is not quenched!”
She was thrashing and kicking now. Anna had her arms around her, straining to hold her still, but Mary jerked back and cracked Anna’s nose with her head. Blood burst onto the pillows and bed sheets, and Anna shot up from the bed holding her nose, blood drenching her hands.
“Oh God!” she cried and rushed from the room.
“The worm dieth not! The fire is not quenched!”
Mary thrashed, kicking the wall, bashing her head against the headboard. For a moment, John froze. Then, another kick against the wall moved him. He climbed onto the bed, lay on top of Mary, and pressed hard down on her with all his weight.
“The worm dieth not. The fire is not quenched,” she squeaked.
“There are no worms,” John whispered.
“I can’t breathe, Papa,” she squeaked back.
“There are no worms,” he said again. “Now go to sleep.”
Her body went limp beneath him—she had passed out. John rose up off of her and heard her suck in a deep breath. He waited for her to awaken and thrash, but she remained still, breathing quietly.
***
Late that night, probably two or three in the morning, after he had helped bandage Anna’s nose with cotton lint and gotten her back to bed, after he had stopped by the children’s room to assure them that Mary was asleep now, he slipped out the front door and into the starlight that dimly lit his yard. He walked to a boulder, sat with his back against it, and gazed at the endless star canopy. He felt tiny and pointless, and he bowed his head and, like the prophet, whispered, “It is enough, Oh Lord. Take away my life.”
The wind passed over him, cooling his skin. He gazed up again, pondering whether there could be any sign from the heavens. The breeze stirred again and he caught a whiff of decomposition, probably from the graves that Basil’s men had newly opened. But then the wind rustled the woods, the home of poplars and red and white oaks he had grown to love. It was late August now, and the smells of decaying leaves and the tannins of crushed acorns reached him. He breathed that in deeply—death and rebirth, decay and seed. He glanced at the spiraling stars, his senses alive to the occasional chirp, the shifting smells, the air on his skin, the variations in light. His eyes filled with tears and he wept in terrible shuddering gasps.
–
–
–
Gordon Laws’s fiction has appeared in Irreantum, The Wrath-Bearing Tree, The Line of Advance, The Word’s Fair, and Cutthroat: A Journal of the Arts. Born in Virginia and raised in Texas, he now lives in Massachusetts and oversees curriculum development for Coursera.
–
–
–