Andersonville by Edward M. Erdelac Page A

stockade tomorrow. The only way out of Andersonville. In through the North Gate, out through the South.
    Charlie worried over him. He even kneaded his slender hands like an actor in a stage play pretending to be worried, which made Barclay smile.
    Charlie put something wet to his face. It was cool, but his back beneath him was on fire, a pulsing open wound, heaving blood.
    “Damn, you’re still bleeding,” Charlie muttered.
    “ ’Course he’s still bleeding,” came a voice from the doorway. “You got to clean and bandage that wound at the least.”
    “Who the hell are you, mister?” Charlie snapped to the unseen visitor.
    “Bill Mixinisaw. I come by to see how he’s doing.”
    “Well, you can see how he’s doing. What do you care, anyway?”
    “He spared me some pain and an empty belly,” the man returned. And when he leaned over, Barclay saw it was the Indian again. “He’s gonna die still we don’t fix him up.”
    “Well, I don’t know nothin’ about doctoring,” Charlie said. “What about you?”
    “No, I don’t know much either,” Bill admitted. “But we can take him to Doctor John,” he said thoughtfully.
    “What, the witch doctor?” Charlie said.
    “He ain’t no witch doctor; he was our damn field surgeon,” Bill said. “Can you help me carry him?”
    “Yeah,” Charlie said, sighing. He’d just carried Barclay across half the camp.
    “Well, come on,” said Bill, moving to Barclay’s feet. “I just hope we don’t kill him gettin’ him there. Lift.”
    Barclay wailed as Charlie slipped his arms under his raw shoulders and hefted him from the ground, his bloody wounds sticking to the dirty blanket and then pulling away. He passed out.
    —
    In his dreams, he was a boy of nineteen again, rapidly hammering at the
segon
drum with his hand and the stick, keeping time with the deep boom of his father’s
maman
drum beside him as the worshipers shrieked and hooted all around, their dark skin showing through their white clothes.
    His mother, the
mambo sur pwen
, assisted the cigar-smoking old
mambo asogwe,
his great-aunt, in her white turban. The two women chanted, and in between leading the singing, the old
mambo
blew clouds of acrid smoke into the face of his twin sister, Euchariste, as she cavorted and shook.
    When her eyes rolled up, showing only the whites, it was Erzulie the goddess who looked out, smiling and thrusting, rolling her hips and flirting with the other dancers, male and female.
    She whirled and danced toward the only white member of the congregation, sniffing at him curiously.
    Barclay grinned at the other boy’s embarrassment. The
lwa
were bringing them together, bringing out what the both of them had so foolishly denied.
    —
    When Barclay woke, he was in an unfamiliar white canvas tent or, rather, two tents stitched together. He was lying on his stomach on a relatively clean blanket, and his back was covered with billowy cotton and a linen bandage.
    A short-haired Indian with a goatee was kneeling beside him, peeling the bandage away. He had the look of a man who once had weighed a great deal, but now the skin on his face sagged, making him appear older than he was.
    Barclay grunted.
    “Oh, hey, you’re awake. Good. John Penaisnowoquot. But don’t worry about tryin’ to massacre my name. It’s Ojibwa, and I don’t expect it to roll off no colored man’s tongue. Just call me Doctor John. Everybody does.”
    He balled the bloodstained cotton up and handed it back to Bill Mixinisaw, who was kneeling in the corner of the tent. In the light of day, Bill had a harried look, drawn face, weary eyes, much like the other prisoners and yet somehow more.
    “Take care of that, will you, Bill?”
    “Not as much blood on that as I would’ve guessed,” Barclay mumbled.
    “Better not be. You been lyin’ there three days.”
    “Three days?” Barclay exclaimed, rolling over on his side. He groaned at the pain. It was a blunted pain now, though, not the razor agony