Chapter One

Late September 1865 / City Point, Virginia

Ding ding ding.

He found himself lying under white sheets with very little idea of how he had gotten there. It was the morning he woke up. A piercing, repetitive noise broke like thin glass over his consciousness. It was the sound of a dinner bell. He heard rolling carts, the jingle of dishes rattling against one another. His head felt tight, and he didn't know why.

He seemed to have been there for some time.

People nearby were talking. Everything was painted white: the walls, the center posts, a wooden roof overhead. A hot breeze moved down the aisle between rows of beds.

He looked down and saw that his coverings were neat and unbloodied. His hands were laid on top of the sheets as if carefully placed there one by one. The bed was too short for him. They always were. On all the beds were men; most of them were bandaged, some had crutches. The low murmur of conversation went on and on. He saw that he did not have his clothes on, but instead a sort of nightgown. He could smell vinegar and boric acid.

A young man came walking down the aisle and stopped by the foot of his cot. The boy's hair was as spiky as a porcupine's, and he paused with a deep lean forward to look closely into the tall man's face. Canvas curtains at the far end lifted and fell with the breeze.

He slowly pieced together the fragments of his present situation. He was in a field hospital somewhere. He was still in possession of both arms, both legs, a pair of feet, and a pair of hands. He could see out of both eyes. His head felt as if it were encased in a bucket. He quietly regarded the young man standing at the foot of his bed. He wondered if he were some relation to him.

After a moment he said, "Who are you?"

A pause of astonished silence and then, "Oh God, you're talking." Tears came to the boy's eyes, and the tip of his nose became bright red. He said, "I am a nurse." He came to stand at the bedside as if he could not believe his eyes. He put one hand on the tall man's shoulder. "Wait, I am going to call the doctor."

"Very well. I won't go anywhere." He drew up one leg. He couldn't understand why the nurse had tears in his eyes. He saw that the men on the beds were eating their dinner, reaching for more from the cart.

The boy hurried away. Shortly he came back with a man whose thick dark beard straggled over his collar and the lapels of a soiled corduroy coat. Both hands hung from the man's cuffs like lead weights. His nails were thick with dried blood. He had something in his fingers. A feather.

"Well, well," he said. "This is a pleasant surprise." Then he paused and looked carefully into the wounded man's light-colored eyes. He came to sit on the bed and the nurse hovered behind while the man on the bed watched carefully to see what this man with the feather was going to do.

"I'm Dr. Jameson, and I want you to look at this." The man in the corduroy coat held up a quill pen. "Watch it," he said. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes." He moved his head from one side to the other as if stretching against a collar that was too tight. The bucket on his head made scraping noises. It hurt. The doctor took hold of his chin and jaw and then let go.

"Don't move your head, just your eyes."

"All right." His eyes tracked the quill as it moved up and down and then sideways. "Good!" the doctor said in a bright tone. "Excellent!" Then the doctor reached out carefully and put his hand over the tall man's left eye. "Now do the same."

And so he did, first one eye and then the other, watching the feather dip and wave.

He heard a pleased murmur from the nurse, and the doctor said, "Very good. Now, do you know where you are?"

"No."

"What was the last place you remember?"

"The last place I remember." He repeated this in an undertone and then turned his head with great care to look down the long center aisle; he saw men sitting up in bed to spoon food into their mouths, speaking to one another in low tones, three others who had ranged themselves around a companion's bed to play cards, men with bandages, men who slept deeply or perhaps were on the last slide down to death. One patient nudged another and nodded toward the little group at the wounded man's bed.

Excerpted from Chenneville by Paulette Jiles. Copyright © 2023 by Paulette Jiles. Excerpted by permission of William Morrow. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.