Chapter Seventeen
General gripped the bed sheets with his bare hands, causing a slight rip as he waited to hear Dr. Colson’s report.
Since he had woken two weeks ago, Dr. Colson had come three times to check on him, only to give the same results.
“Get some rest and you should be able to walk in a month or two,” he’d say.
“Do your exercises for ten minutes a day.”
Those exercises were useless. That old, fat mammy of Josie’s would massage his feet and stretch and pull in many different directions as Colson had taught her, and they didn’t help a lick, because General still couldn’t feel his feet.
Sometimes he’d suffer a cramp, but each time he tried to stand and show the doctor he was strong enough to walk, he’d collapse to the floor.
Colson continued to write in that tiny notebook of his, recording every moment of his observation as though General was a circus animal.
Experimental surgery, my foot. What was he—an experimental specimen?
He went to West Point at the age of sixteen and was promoted to colonel during the Mexican-American War, earning his title as a war hero.
Being reduced to a test subject was beneath him, an insult to his contributions to the Confederacy.
General pursed his lips as his rage bubbled to the surface, causing him to rip another hole in the sheet. The doctor was useless garbage who couldn’t help him. What was a doctor good for if he couldn’t heal a patient properly?
General would rather die than be labeled as a useless cripple.
How could he live in this confined room?
He was no prisoner—never had been, and never would be.
That’s because he was an invincible warrior.
He may have had a scarred face, but he wasn’t bedridden yet.
No doctor would make him a laughingstock.
He survived it all—hardly a bullet in him except once, and that didn’t put him down.
He kept fighting, striking down every Mexican soldier in his path.
Then, he made his way to the medical tent just in time before he could bleed to death.
He didn’t earn his title by sitting in bed and having his wife’s Mammy bathe and spoon feed him.
He earned it by toughening up and not letting any emotions cloud his judgment.
He pushed through and guarded himself like a steel wall.
He wouldn’t be weak like his father, who chose to kill himself rather than face his problems.
Melancholia—that’s what those physicians had diagnosed his old man with. General’s father couldn’t get off opium after his wife died. The grief destroyed him, but General pushed through his mother’s death. West Point made him a man, a man his father couldn’t be.
Doctor Colson put his notebook inside his coat pocket and retrieved his stethoscope. He placed it on General’s chest like many times before. General breathed in and out.
“Again,” Dr. Colson said.
General took a large gulp of air then exhaled.
He was ready for his examination to be finished.
It was time for business again. He needed to find that wife of his and later teach the doctor a lesson.
No, he’d teach those surgeons a lesson first. What a joy it would be to shake them up a little!
A tiny chuckle escaped his exhausted lungs.
Revenge was sweet—General could taste it like honey straight from the comb.
Oh, what a time that would be to see their agony and admit their faults.
They’d pay a great price for tampering with America’s finest hero.
Dr. Colson pulled out his notebook again and began writing. “Have you been taking the morphine I prescribed for you?”
“Every day,” General answered. How many more times do I have to repeat myself?
“How about the exercises?”
“Ten minutes a day, as you prescribed.”
Dr. Colson nodded. “Excellent. We shall double that to twenty. Your muscles should recover smoothly, and you’ll walk by Christmas or so.”
General wanted to huff aloud. No, he’d walk before then. He’d triple those silly exercises. Nothing would confine him any longer.
“Have you been drinking?”
Mammy kept her head down in the corner, looking at her feet. General chuckled.
Dr. Colson cocked a brow. “How much?”
General crossed his arms. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Dr. Colson closed his book. “General Wellington, the amount of alcohol you’ve been drinking can ruin your chance at a quick recovery. You suffered a severe brain bleed. You should be dead! Take a break from drinking and let your body rest.”
“That is preposterous!” General exclaimed, his fists curled. “I’ve been drinking since I could lift a bottle to my mouth. If it is that severe, I would have died long ago.”
“You have a life-threatening injury. That brain of yours has pieces missing. The surgeons had to drill open—”
General gritted his teeth as his anger heated. “Stop that! I don’t want to hear it! How much longer do I have in this God-forsaken bed?”
Dr. Colson didn’t look up from his supply bag. “We’ll have to wait and see. If you quit drinking, maybe I can arrange a chair.”
A chair? What was he, a cripple? He wouldn’t be seen as a laughingstock. “Are you an idiot? I won’t be confined to a bed or chair! I want to walk! Do your job and make me better. You’re a physician for goodness sakes!”
Dr. Colson’s lips pursed as his nostrils flared. He closed the bag in haste. “A tantrum won’t help you recover faster either. I’ll be back in three days to check on your progress.”
“Don’t even bother coming back!” General shouted through gritted teeth.
He removed the pillow behind him and pulled out a nearly finished bottle of whiskey. He downed it as fast as he could then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Mammy!”
The plump woman peered up from her spot in the corner, her posture slumped and her eyes timid. General threw his bottle against the wall. The sound of shattering glass made Mammy jump out of her skin.
“Where is my wife? You better tell me she’s returning now!”
He wouldn’t be bathed by any servant. This was embarrassing enough having an absent wife who wasn’t there to nurse him. What use was she being with someone else’s family? He wouldn’t dare send her away on her own.
Mammy’s gaze remained at her feet. “Missus Wellington ain’t sent word, General suh. I’m sorry.”
General pointed his finger. “You better find out where she is and tell her to get her sorry little self over here now, or her torn-up hide will be on your hands.”
Mammy nodded.
“Do you hear me? Answer me, you stupid woman!”
“Yes, suh.”
General sat back against his headboard. “That’s more like it. Be a good girl and get me another bottle of whiskey. We’re going to show that Dr. Colson what a real tough man this general is.”