The existence of the special hospital outside of Richmond wasn’t a military secret, and he’d heard mention of what the soldiers termed the “All Saints Place.” Now he was here—put in charge. Throughout the day he had seen dozens of patients. Often, it was better to see a man maimed and bleeding than one entering the final stages of syphilis. The wounded man had the chance. The man dying of syphilis did not. “He’s the worst of them, sir. A Captain Henderson, artillery, old fellow, shouldn’t have been in the service, you know, but ... well, he was a good, loyal Southerner and so he upped into the army.” The man lying on the bed had obviously suffered from the disease for many years. In the first stages, ulcers appeared; they might then go dormant, and a man might think himself cured. But the disease didn’t go away; it just waited. Then it ate at the body and the mind, and eventually ... He lay on the bed, groaning. He looked at Brent with pleading eyes. Not for help. He knew that he couldn’t be helped.
