Excerpted from That Deadly Space depicting wounded patient Conor Rafferty’s confrontation with a fellow patient in Richmond’s Chimborazo Hospital.
After his daily session of walking around the hospital grounds for nearly an hour to build his endurance, Conor heard the sudden piercing scream of a nurse as he came back to his ward. There, a truculent young patient from another ward was holding a surgeon’s scalpel to the throat of a doctor who had been attending to an amputee. The startled nurse stood nearby, her hands over her mouth, fighting back tears of fright and panic.
“They’re trying to kill me, so I’ll kill them instead,” the wild-eyed, gaunt, shaggy bearded man shouted.
The middle-aged doctor tried to remain calm, but the prospect of having his throat slit was making it difficult.
“They don’t think I know what they’re planning for me. The voices tell me. The voices tell me everything. They want to kill me, to get rid of me. And I won’t let them.”
The other patients in the ward watched but said nothing.
“Put the scalpel down, sir,” Conor called forcefully, approaching to within fifteen feet. “Let the doctor go and put the scalpel on the ground.”
“Who the hell are you?” the man said, his expression hard and threatening. “And try to take another step toward me and this here doctor will be dead before your foot hits the ground.”
Conor stopped, noticing the additional pressure applied to the doctor’s throat.
“Are you a soldier? Where did you serve? Were you in the battle at Manassas like I was?” Conor asked, softening his tone.
“Ain’t none of your business. I’m here to get even with these doctors.”
“Forget the doctor. Tell me about where you served. Were you there at Manassas like I was? Now that was one hell of a fight, wasn’t it? I’ll bet you were there. Am I correct?”
After a long pause, the man eased his grip slightly. “I was there. C Company, Second South Carolina. Captain Dan Remington was my commanding officer. Who were you with?”
“B Company, Seventh Georgia,” Conor answered. “What’s your name, soldier?”
“Grimes. Private Eric Grimes. This doctor here knows all about me. And he and his fellow butchers are trying to kill me. But today they’ll lose and I’ll win. It’s a war with them. It’s nothing but a damn war.”
“Put down the scalpel, Eric. These doctors are not here to hurt you or kill you. They are trained to heal, not harm. And besides that, they’re on our side.”
“How the hell do you know that? Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m Captain Rafferty. We fought together at Manassas, you and I, on the same field. And you and I helped win a great victory that day. Put down the scalpel, Eric. You’re a soldier. You don’t hurt innocent people. That is your duty. This doctor is helping lots of soldiers here. That is his duty. You hurt him and we’ll lose someone who is helping us, who is helping our fellow soldiers, and who won’t be around to help those who will be coming here after us. Now put down the scalpel.”
Two sergeants from a security detail, their pistols drawn and cocked, suddenly entered the ward, walking slowly and deliberately toward the scene.
“Tell those people to stay put, Captain, or I’ll kill the doctor. Tell ‘em I’ll do it.”
Conor turned and caught the attention of the two men. “Don’t come any closer,” he said in a calm, steady voice. “This is Captain Rafferty, and I’m ordering you to stay where you are and hold your fire.”
“We’ve been ordered to stop this man and take him into custody, Captain.”
“I’ve just put a hold on those orders for now. Stay where you are.”
Conor then turned to Grimes. “There, Eric. They’ve stopped. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I’m coming over there and I want you to hand me the scalpel.”
The doctor’s eyes bulged. Grimes stared at Conor but said nothing.
“You and I fought together, Eric. You’re a soldier in a hospital, and I’m asking you as a fellow soldier to release the doctor, let him go home to his family tonight. If your mom were here, she would be saying the same thing. She would be telling you not to hurt anyone. Captain Remington would tell you the exact same thing. He would never want to hear about one of his C Company soldiers hurting an innocent man. Now give me the scalpel.”
Conor took a step toward Grimes, then another.
“That’s far enough, Captain,” Grimes said as he released his hold on the doctor and shoved him away. “Go on, doc. Go on home to your family.”
Grimes then plopped down on the floor and burst into tears, the scalpel still in his hand. The two soldiers promptly rushed Grimes, their pistols aimed at Grimes’ head.
“No, don’t shoot him,” Conor called loudly.
“He’s a crazy man,” said one of the sergeants. “He’s a danger to everyone here.”
“He’s a soldier, not a mad dog,” Conor countered. “I’m ordering you, do not shoot him.”
Conor calmly walked to Grimes’ side and took the scalpel from his trembling hand, then patted him softly on the shoulder. Grimes looked up, his eyes wet with tears, a pleading expression on his face.
“I want to go home, Captain. Please tell them to just let me go home.”
More soldiers from the security detail arrived. They brought Grimes to his feet, tied his hands behind him, and quickly whisked him from the ward.
The still-shaken doctor returned soon thereafter and thanked Conor.
Nothing further was ever heard about Eric Grimes.
