LULLABIES OF BROADMOOR: WILDERNESS

by Steve Hennessy

Wilderness is one of four plays published under the title of Lullabies of Broadmoor and was first produced by Theatre West in October 2002.

All four plays in Lullabies of Broadmoor are based on true stories of Broadmoor inmates during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Wilderness focuses on DR WILLIAM CHESTER MINOR, who had been a surgeon in the Union Army during the American Civil War. He was traumatised by the experience and soon after arriving in London he shot and killed George Merrett, a furnace stoker at the local brewery who was walking home after shift work. MINOR was delusional, thinking that Merrett had tried to break into his lodgings. Soon after, MINOR was committed to the Broadmoor asylum where he remained for 38 years. Merrett’s widow, Eliza, visited him, bringing papers and books for his research (he submitted entries for the Oxford English Dictionary from Broadmoor). In the following monologue, MINOR is alone in his cell, reminiscing about his experiences in the American Civil War.

DR MINOR

Winter rains uncovered the skeletons of men who died in the previous year’s battle. Two soldiers played catch with a skull. I begged respect for our fallen comrade. They laughed in my face, smashed the skull against a rock until it shattered.

We crossed Virginia into a region named ‘The Wilderness’, seventy square miles of hardwood trees. From the rocky heights overlooking it, green virgin forest as far as the eye could see, as if the hand of God had just made it. And very rugged – thick underbrush, ravines, few clearings except for pockets of swamp. As if Nature was trying to create one place we could not dump the filth of war. She failed.

(Distant sounds of gunfire, artillery, men’s cries.)

Never this close to battle before. Men fight their way through brambles and thorns as artillery shells and explosive bullets rip them to pieces. Trees hung with human flesh drip blood on those who struggle beneath. Fires sweep through the dry brush. Our dressing stations overwhelmed; the most terrible injuries. Men blackened, burned beyond recognition, with shattered limbs and holes through their bodies who will never survive. Clawing me with sooty fingernails. ‘Don’t let me die, doctor! Save me…’

Twenty-seven thousand die in two days, countless more maimed in body and mind. What do I do? Report the two soldiers I saw smashing the skull. ‘I have slightly more important matters to worry about,’ the senior officer drawls, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. I persist, and without looking up from his desk he says, ‘Dr. Minor. Go to hell.’

(Lights change to red. Smoke drifts across stage. Battle noises louder from this point, eventually MINOR will have to shout to be heard. Walls of cell start bulging inwards in several places as if people are trying to break in. Fire glows brighter, redder.)

Many wounded lie out in the undergrowth, unable to crawl back to their lines, choking on the smoke…roasted alive. After the screams stop… POP! POP! Unused rifle cartridges in their belts going off in the heat. POP! A cheerful sound. Like firecrackers on the fourth of July.

Forty-eight hours awake, sawing off limbs and still a queue of men on stretchers waits to go under my knife. Trees by the field hospital catch fire. Smoke pours in, and sparks rain down on us. I look up and see soldiers advancing, like devils through the flames. Our men or theirs? I no longer care. We have turned a primeval garden into Dante’s ‘Inferno’. How can it ever be turned back?

On that day I fix an opinion. Despite all our culture, books, music and everything noble that humankind has ever achieved, this earth would be a better place if we had never existed.