Lewis
1855
There are grey hairs at his temples. Relief and utter weariness vie for prominence
in his thin face.
June 1855
Well, sis, so
she is a mother again, a son this time, George after his doting father who is
fit to be tied. A big baby, larger than the first who was but six pounds, this
one was seven and more; she looks so very, very weary.
I think it
has been hard for her to sustain this so soon after losing our darling little
girl. I have noticed her spirits flagging, this time around, which they rarely
used to. It is none of my business but surely this little one must have been
conceived very soon after their loss, and she was so ill for such a long time
then, I wonder at George but I am not a husband so what can I say. I guess
there is comfort from grief to be found in the marriage bed.
This time
there was hushed talk of a nasty tear and loss of blood, I’m not supposed to
hear these things being a bachelor but the Lord knows my love and concern cd.
be no greater were she my own beloved wife, that is the simple truth as you
know Suzy; I am not such an innocent or ignoramus as that in these things. I
shrink to imagine her suffering. Every time I swear I shall not set words to
paper on the subject of this hopeless love of mine and then another occasion
arises when I must, or else burst with it. Suzy you don’t breathe a
word, do you, swear to me you don’t, for if I thought I was transparent to
anybody but you I shd. wish myself dead.
I am to be
godfather again, an honor my heart swells in accepting; I only hope I am
worthy.
I think the
move here while she was in a delicate state of health took a greater toll on
her than she admitted. It is hard out here in the frontier forts, life is not
laissez-faire and luxuries by a long way. You know how it is to be sensitive to
every thing, those early days, and how Dr Greaves insisted upon rest and no
excitement for you until the blessed event was well under way. Sometimes I
think George takes her good health for granted, being so robust himself, and
not having had, as I did, the harrowing experience of seeing her close to
death, in extremis, for days on end: he
was in Washington, as you may recall, at the time of our tragedy and her severe
illness.
Still, the
future looks bright for this family I cherish as my own, these dear friends who
if they had any idea of the extent of my care for them wd. be as profoundly
shocked as I should, to have it thus discovered.
George Mather
Hamilton, is his name. I almost burst out laughing when George unwrapped him
with a father’s pride to show his little manhood off to me!! His tiny kidneys
must be in splendid order, for then he managed to get a bull’s-eye on his
father’s nose; if any of the men had been present to see that genial face
spluttering and dripping with baby’s —— he wd. not hear the end of it for many
a day. I had to turn aside & chew my lips, not to bust out laughing. I did
offer him my handkerchief.
I shall do my
best by him, dear little fellow. Send me news of Caleb Jr. soon, since they are
as good as cousins, I am godfather to both after all and that is almost the
same thing. I was hoping for another little girl I confess, a possible bride
for my young nephew — what ridiculous maudlin
fancies fill the bosom of a man with too much time on his hands, I hear
you say. George wanted a son; he told me so, many, many times.
I argued
with him, not being able to see it myself, I mean that one should care so much
for one’s posterity that passing on the name should become of paramount
importance; but he has not been blessed, as I have, with such a sister to teach
him the true value of the fairer sex. I have no time for the kind of fellow who
considers his wife his moral superior and speaks to her as if she were a child.
But then, it would be impossible for every fellow to have, as I do, the most
precious and perfect sister in the world; as I count myself fortunate above
all, to call myself
yr.
loving bro. Lewis
P.S. Last time I
was home I visited Mr. Snyder’s bank and discussed some investments with him.
Can you find out for me, what has happened in the matter? I hope he has followed my instructions — I
cannot afford to be profligate on a Lt’s pay. Love, L.
Eliza
1856
I recall – why I am not sure, but it was one of those moments that stays when so many more dramatic ones have faded – I recall coming out of our tent one hot, dusty evening. We had just pitched camp: it bore the usual reek of smoke and sweat and mildew. I suppose we must have bivouacked by a creek after a long march, as we often did. George, uncharacteristically still, sat under a cottonwood tree a few feet away. I remember so clearly the look upon his face, an expression of utter, unguarded tenderness. He glanced up and saw me; frowned ––– “Hush,” he said, “— don’t wake him.” I was ready to round the sloping grey canvas and find the sweet form of our little son curled in slumber. I imagined the tumble of his curls, the golden round calves of his little-boy legs, the flush in his cheeks, the sweep of his lashes. It was a moment to touch a mother’s heart: George normally had little time and less patience for such gentle fancies.
But I was mistaken. As I approached, Georgie could be heard a few yards away, down by the water’s edge, crowing upon the shoulders of his favorite trooper. His father seemed unaware of our son’s presence – of his existence, I almost thought, in that instant. The silver-green leaves fluttered and rustled. A cicada whirred from some high twig. At my feet lay the object of the fond vigil I had disturbed – a tall, slight form in stained Cavalry blues, stretched out upon the rutted earth without so much as a blanket.
His thin face was streaked and drawn. His cheek lay on a tussock of wiry grass. Shade dappled with gold-doubloon spangles of sun danced across his shoulders. He had ridden the length of the column ceaselessly, since early morning, passing us as he went up and down every half-hour or so throughout the day. Dustier and more caked each time, he had saluted little George without fail. Our place was in the middle of the column, with George half-a-mile in front of us at the head. Lewis kept the van and rear in pace with one another as a sheepdog would, bringing-on stragglers, slowing the advance. Just now I had stood by the stream, after we stopped at last, waiting for my tent to be put up. I heard him behind me rubbing-down his mount with wisps of grass, his voice a low murmur, the sharpness of wild thyme mixed in with the rank sweat of horse and man.
Now his chest rose and fell with the slow rhythm of the truly weary. Something about him pierced my heart. Perhaps it was how tired he looked; perhaps it was that boyish abandon, the helpless sprawl of him, having succumbed where he lay. His hat had rolled a few inches from the slackened grip of his long fingers. His hair was crimped by it still, dark with sweat.
A sharp sadness welled up in me, coupled with – what? The wish to lift his head gently from the ground and cradle it to my lap? Certainly; and other, confused, wistful things besides. And something fierce, akin to George’s sentry-frown. I looked from one of them to the other, then down at my feet, before my own thoughts were as patent as the devotion that had lit my husband’s spaniel-brown gaze. But I had no cause to fear George’s jealousy: satisfied that I would make no sound to disturb the sleeper, his glance had already turned from me and come to rest once more upon the dear, familiar lineaments of his friend.
I would have joined them, sweaty and tired as I was –– I remember how sweet the dusty shade of the cottonwood-tree seemed to me, and the way the leaves moved to and fro. Yet something about their stillness precluded intrusion, like an out-thrust hand, and so I stepped aside to pass them and went down the riverbank after my son and his red-bearded Irish friend instead.
A little scramble down a steep, muddy slope brought me to the creek. It took a turn just there, leaving a sandy shingle tongue at low-water. I kicked at the pebbles. I remember the big mussel-shells, the prints of creatures in the mud – the slender twin-pointed slot of a deer’s foot, a raccoon’s little hands everywhere. Reaching for a willow-branch, I tugged at it till it bruised my fingers. I wanted to watch him too. So rare and precious a thing, to watch someone sleep. At least, when you care for them. Perhaps that is how you know – when it almost disembowels you to see them so vulnerable. A touchstone, a compass-needle, the heart’s unerring pointer. That lurch in the stomach, so counter to the indifference or irritation one feels upon beholding the slumber of a stranger. I wanted to note each breath, to study him in these moments of secret scrutiny, to store up each detail of his being and stitch them into my soul breath by breath as I would my child’s – the garnet beads of dried blood across his cheekbone, strung there by some low, sharp branch – the flare of his nostril – the way the stubbled flesh folded under his chin – the shadows lining his eye-sockets, the crust of ochre dirt in the crease of each lid. Glimpses to steal like a jackdaw hoarding glitter.
There was no mistaking the look on George’s face: that unsheathed, helpless love. I had seen it on Lewis’s, in
I might be George’s wife: but I was not his friend, had not fought beside him, seen him through dangers and saved his life and accepted his offered as risk for mine. I had not given him covering fire, nor shared a tent with him when he had dysentery. He was loyal to me in the way that a decent man is, to his wife: he cherished our times together, even, I am sure, and found my company pleasant, my bed necessary. He was proud to have fathered our children.
But he had only one dearest friend, and that was not a wife’s place to come-at in his soul.
I didn’t know it was there, that naked place in him, till I saw it.
I stripped the willow-leaves from the trailing stem and dropped them into the stream. They floated down past my toddler and his Irish idol. The splashing and high-jinks gave me a minute’s respite to reflect. I stared at the mother-of-pearl and indigo of the river-mussels, the curve of their shells, the milky luster at the center. “Hush” – that softest of sounds, filled with comfort and care. I thought I remembered Lewis saying it to me, once, and feeling that I should be safe, that all would be well – hush, so tenderly – the bitter fire of brandy and laudanum in my throat – surely I must have dreamed it.
I walked away, before anyone could see through me – before I saw too deeply through myself.
Or George, for that matter. So flayed, so captured by his sleeping friend.
There are times in army life when a woman knows she is barely tolerated, hardly welcome. I had always supposed they were the danger-times, when men doubted their capacity to protect us. Now, I realized, I had found another kind altogether: with four words, without a gesture even, I had been shown where I did not belong, was not wanted, might not trespass. As I also knew that on some other level, beyond words, I had always known it.
Lewis
1856
He is in his dressing-gown, with a blanket around his shoulders for good measure. Beside his desk an open wooden box with a brightly-colored label proclaims, “Peninsular and Oriental Tea Company, Ceylon & Bangalore.” It is lined with tin and packed with wood-shavings, and discloses a treasure-trove of gifts from home, so far away. There is a boyish pleasure in his face as he bends over the wretched, sawdust-coarse Army-issue lined paper to write back in thanks.
Dear Maisie,
What
a kind thought of yours to make up the horehound candy for my throat and send
it all the way here. You don’t know what such a comfort from home means. It
arrived safely this morning, the clever little box was as snug as when it left
your hands. These raw foggy nights are powerful hard on the tubes, as I can
hear your dear voice telling me.
Besides the
pleasure of receiving the package I must tell you the greatest happiness was to
know I was kindly remembered at home, by my old playmate now turned linch-pin
of the entire household. I know you are busy and have a thousand and one tasks
to occupy your time, so I know therefore how I am honored, that you turn your
hand to making this. No-one does it half so well as you, Maisie, money for sure
can’t buy any thing with half the powers your love and care bestow on your
confections.
Also it
arrived just when I needed to have my spirits lifted from the melancholy they
have been in since saying goodbye to my friends Maj. & Mrs. Hamilton last
month. We have been together so long that I had all but forgot that the Army
disposes of us not unlike the Almighty: not according to our will ——
! They are gone so far away – as far as
Yes, I shall
do my best to keep warm, as you instruct. You must do the same yourself in this
damp weather, before rheumatism sets in and lays you up like poor Aunt Peg. We
know one another so long now that I shall not blush to recommend an extra pair
of flannel drawers — I have found the same to be a great comfort this raw
weather, especially about the loins and kidneys. We’re neither of us getting
any younger, I fear. My old wound from
May God bless
you, Maisie, and preserve you many more years to enjoy the affectionate friendship
of your old partner in scrapes, now yr. devoted friend
Lewis
A. Armstrong.
Eliza
1858-60
I remember as if it were yesterday hearing that Lewis was
dead. We were stationed in
It was rough, too.
I remember how he walked about the post looking lost, and blinking and sighing. One morning he forgot to shave: plumb forgot. I reminded him as he gave me his kiss goodbye for the day. “Oh,” he said, “oh, damn. Oh, well.”
It was so unlike him that even the post commander
overlooked it. George wouldn’t touch his
dinner, even, which was unheard-of. When
he had come home to me in
It had been one of a stack of letters, including even an earlier one from Lewis himself hoping he found us as well, etc. and inquiring kindly about his godson and how we did so far away. George brought them home, as he always did when a steamer had docked, and we took turns opening and reading them, sharing any significant news and setting them aside for one another’s perusal.
Till he came to that one.
“No,” was all he said.
His voice was such that I looked up at once from my mother’s letter.
He was staring at the page as if he expected it to turn into something else, or to dissolve and the news it contained with it. His eyes had a tendency to bulge slightly when he was most moved; they did so now.
I tried to imagine what could be so terrible.
I guessed correctly. Nothing else could be as bad as that. “It’s Lew, isn’t it,” I said. “What? What’s wrong?”
“He’s lost,” he said.
I didn’t know what he meant: was he mislaid, like an umbrella? Was he wandering somewhere in the West without a map and compass?
He wasn’t dead: he couldn’t be. Not Lewis.
You have that disbelief at first, you can’t help it. Everything seems so normal, the way it did a second before you heard the news; nothing has changed, so how can it be true? I felt something shatter inside me, something fragile I had been holding and not known how tightly I gripped it till it was too late.
George looked as if he was about to have an apoplectic fit.
“It can’t be true,” he said, knowing it could.
“What happened!” I cried.
He waved the letter at me and I took it from his slack fingers.
The colonel had written, knowing of our friendship: he was very sorry.
He hadn’t been able to get word out till the first thaw; the snows had been unusually deep. The news was months old already.
George’s face was pinched and white, and he drank the last drop of spirits we had in the house and went out looking for more. I drifted through the hours like a ghost. We would have to go on, of course, but it was as if a lynch-pin of our marriage had fallen-out. Even when Lewis was nowhere within a thousand miles, just the knowledge of his existence had upheld us: his occasional affectionate letters, his emotional presence in our lives as strong as ever. We took him for granted. Just how much, I only saw when he was no longer ours to do so.
I thought of him alone out there in those boundless plains, prey to savages or frozen to death. It hurt me not to know how he had perished: I imagined a thousand and one different fates for him, each of them worse than the last. The kindest was that he had lain down in a snowdrift and gone to sleep like a baby; the worst was — well, it involved scalping, and other atrocities even more cruel than that.
I know George was thinking the same things, because I
would wake in the night with a start and find him lying rigid beside me,
breathing through his mouth. I did not
share the details of these fears with him:
he was suffering enough, I could tell.
By day his face was haggard. He
had been witness to the things I only could imagine, when we were stationed in Forts Belknap and
I did ask him if dying from cold was as gentle a death as they say it is.
“Gentle enough I pray to God it took him that way,” is all he said.
I kept seeing Lewis, all alone. I wanted to cradle him, comfort him in his last moments; I did not want animals gnawing at his bones. George I think felt helpless; and responsible, as if he ought to have been able to save his friend, even from a distance of a thousand miles. What I remember most of all is that we almost stopped talking to one another at all, as if even a word about the weather would leave us too raw.
Neither of us cried, I remember that too. Not till the next steamer, that brought the news he was safe after all.
George came to my bed again, then, even more roughly than before.
I was the one that cried.
George teased me about it: but he kept the letter inside his breast-pocket for days, till it was all worn at the edges and sticky and greasy, damp from sweat and (when I finally got it back to read again) tear-stained.
It was from Lewis himself, uncharacteristically terse, saying only that he had indeed survived and he hoped we had not been put to any too great emotion thinking otherwise.
What is any too great emotion? Does such a thing exist? I must remember to ask him, I thought; if it is in proportion to the regard in which one is held, can there be anything too great?
Well, he ought to know – Lewis. About being put to too great an emotion, for too long, with no comfort in sight: the strain of it. I did not ask George if he thought it was possible to care too much.
* * *
Lewis’s letters had had a distant quality, since his
winter on the prairie. They were
shorter, less chatty, and more irregular in their arrival – when we first
parted in
He used the same phrases to me that he always did, his kindest regards or his most sincere respects. George was always requested to convey these to me: a charge I might add in which he never failed. George would smile at me, folding the letter; pass it for my perusal, afterwards. He liked to read Lewis’s letters out loud, when we first received a new one, and then carry it around with him for several days to share with our other friends: Garnett, Col. Johnston. Sometimes I waited a day for him to get home, if he had been away; I never broke the seal. That would have hurt him – I knew this, did not have to be told it. He kept them somewhere among his files. He was not sentimental, though – not a person to get out old letters and pore over them when he missed his friend. George lived in the present. I think he kept them because he could not countenance doing otherwise: after all, who could let a piece of paper sent so far and freighted with so much affection slip unvalued from their hand into the waste-paper-basket?
The last time I saw them, they were in a pair of cigar-boxes with George’s drafting tools. Somehow they were mislaid, on our return back East in ’61; George was sorry then, I must say. But that was later.
In the meantime, someone came out from those parts that had seen Lewis within the last six months, and said Lewis had seemed moody, the last occasion he had run into him. We fretted, but there was little we could do. George thought the political situation might be troubling him. The animosity between the differing ways of life in our young nation was turning very bitter indeed, and the idea of a federal government dictating to states what they might and might not do was unwelcome to many. Lewis was sensitive to that kind of thing, said George, he hates discord and strife. Many a time if there was a quarrel at the Point between two other individuals, old Lew would just get up and leave the room, he said. Not that he won’t finish one, if you start it – but he don’t care for it.
I just thought he was lonely. It’s a fact of army life, that no sooner do you become close to someone than you are posted to opposite ends of the country.
We had been very close.
* * *
When word arrived the following year that Lewis was to
join us in our posting all the way out in
George became increasingly excitable as the date of Lewis’s arrival neared. He could hardly wait to see his friend: went to the dock a dozen times, laid-in cases of wine and spirits, reminded our son to mind his manners when he saw Captain Armstrong again… oh! and how proud and delighted he was, when Lewis stepped ashore in the rig of a full major. Typically, it hadn’t occurred to Lewis to tell us of his promotion when he wrote that he was coming; as if it were somehow irrelevant.
George stepped across those few feet of planking to him first, his arms wide-open, and gathered Lewis into them with all the joy he owned, slapping him on the back and exclaiming: damn! damme, Lew, you’re a fine sight – look at you! Major Armstrong! It’s been a long time, Lew, a damned long time –!
Yes, said Lewis, yes it has… dear lord! Is that your boy? And ’Liza – ! How – how – how do you do?
George, say good afternoon to the major, I whispered, and he stepped forward and tilted his little head up and piped it clearly: Good afternoon, Major Armthtrong!
Lewis took his hand and shook it, his chest working with some violent emotion.
There was something still lost-looking and faraway in his eyes, as if the dazzling snowbound Plains had burned the horizon away from his sight and left behind the bewilderment of having no reference-point any more.
He couldn’t speak more than a word or two all the way home.
Then again, perhaps it was not the blizzard after all but the sight of us that dazzled him.
At first I wondered if they had tortured him – the Sioux. George was everlastingly curious, plied him with questions, and Lewis did his best to answer them; but his reluctance was clear even to George after a while, and he kindly turned to other topics to spare his friend.
Lewis never did like to speak of it much, not directly, although if the mood was on him he would volunteer scraps here and there, insights into the ways of the Hunkpapa and their beliefs and customs. He taught little George their string-games. He told us much of them as a people; almost nothing of his own experiences living so closely with them, or what it was like for him. George teased him about turning native, and Lewis shook his head and did not share whatever it was that clouded his eyes. He told us about it as if it had happened to someone else, I realized – or, more accurately perhaps, as if no matter how much he said, there was so much more he couldn’t or wouldn’t say.
George was just so pleased to see him that he didn’t see it at all. It takes a particular kind of intuition, to hear what isn’t being said and notice the gaps. George took people at face-value, and believed what they told him, and took it for all there was to tell. He knew Lewis didn’t like to speak of it, but it didn’t occur to him that he might be holding anything back. George never held anything back in his life.
But that was George.
Lewis
1858 – 59
A leanness to him, more strongly-marked than ever, as if he has been reduced to sinew and sentience.
His eyes do not seem to focus within so small a space as the room: they seek a broader horizon, and – failing to find it here in the rough log walls chinked with grey mud – turn their look inward, where the world is limitless and bare:
March
1858
Sis —
Yes, I am
alive. It is from a chastened but
living bro. that you learn that you were misinformed as to my fate. I am not
after all reduced to a sad pile of bones bleaching out upon the high plains, tho’
I came closer than a whisker to achieving this state & it was by no virtue
of my own that I escaped it. But as you see, by the grace of a kind Providence
and the generous hospitality of a very singular kind of Good Samaritans, namely
a band of the Hunkpapa Sioux Indians, I am restored to my post, my duty and to
your worried heart, very little the worse for wear save a couple of toes the
fewer, wh. is hardly to be complained of
when I contemplate what could have been!
I shd. need
to write an entire book to you, to recount my adventures with anything
approaching completeness, but will give you an outline now and save the rest of
it for our next meeting.
That it
happened at all is entirely my own doing. We had had a tedious time of it
through the last few weeks and the garrison larder was sadly depleted of fresh
meat; Lafayette Codrington & I were fairly chafing for some kind of
excitement & stimulus beyond the common dreary round, a state of mind I
look back on through the sad lenses of experience, I guess we got more than we
bargained for. Faye & I set out on a fine cold morning for a day’s hunting,
then, looking for at least a little sport & hoping with luck to come upon a
buffalo or a fine buck, before the bad weather shd. set in & confine us,
meatless & sportless, to the fort for the long snowy siege. He was always a
crack shot & as you know I am no mean one myself, so we had high hopes of
the day. How quickly our blind optimistic plans may miscarry.
It will be
cause for the bitterest regret until the day I die that ever we devised it so,
since his fate was sealed the instant we rode out of the gate with no more than
our rifles, a pack animal & a light meal along, as we expected to be back
within a few hours. The glass had begun to fall, but we thought little of it.
Oh God, if I cd. undo our decision, what wd. I not give! And yet -
who can say or see why things turn out the way they do?
We had gone
some fair distance from the fort, in a westerly direction. How fine it felt to
get out & indulge ourselves in a good gallop! We spied a nice buck a little
way off, from the top of a slight rise, & set off in pursuit. Faye was a
few yards ahead of me when his luck ran out. The ground seemed perfectly smooth
but all of a sudden his mount stumbled going full tilt & pitched him off
over its head. He sailed through the air & fell very heavily, I fear upon
his head. It is my belief that the poor fellow’s neck was broke at that moment,
for tho’ I did all I could, he never regained consciousness. Had we been closer
to the fort perhaps he might have been saved, I cd. at least have fetched the
surgeon, but as it was there was nothing I cd. do, & I cd. tell by his
breathing that the end must be near. He lingered until just before nightfall.
His animal broke a leg; I had to destroy it.
I thought I
shd. do best to spend the night out there & return with him the next day,
as soon as it shd. be light, but fate had not yet finished with me. As it grew
dark the weather began to take a turn for the worse. A perfect blizzard blew up
in the night & by morning it looked very bleak indeed. I shall not dwell on
the next day & night but you may imagine the seriousness of my plight. I
had lashed poor Faye over the pack-horse & was determined to reach the
fort, but the snow was thick & drifted impossibly deep in places, I cd.
barely make a few yards where but the day before we carelessly rode out for
miles. I had breakfasted on horsemeat; then made but a few miles at best the
whole day & with the greatest difficulty. The second night I passed rather
more miserably than not in a snow cave I had dug into a hollow.
Our failure
to return caused no little consternation at the fort, but an expedition to find
us returned without success - they
had to turn back to save themselves when the weather worsened, having not the
least idea of our direction, even. Their worst fears were thus realized when
days passed with no sign of us: if the
harsh elements had not done for us, they reasoned, murderous Indians must soon
finish the job. Thus they gave us up as lost, and I fear wrote you so.
My poor Suzy!
I hope you have not ordered my memorial. Well if you have I guess you shd. just
hold onto it, since after all it is bound to come in useful one of these days,
just so it’s not too ostentatious. On my return to
Well honey,
fortunately I was wearing that hat with the cunning sealskin flaps you were so
kind as to procure for me, squashed down tight upon my head, to which thanks to
you honey I owe the continued possession of
both my ears in their entirety, it’s too bad I didn’t have ditto in the
boot line.
Sis the next
day is a blur to me. The fall had cracked the crystal of Faye’s compass, so
that ice formed inside and froze the needle; the sun hid behind cloud & I
cd. not be sure of my direction; the snow was thick, the horses stumbled and
swam in it. When the sun finally came out I thought I shd. be better off, but
it made such a great glare on the snow that within a couple of hours I cd. not
see. I made a kind of shade for my face, cutting slits in a red spotted
handkerchief, but I lost it somehow. I do not know how I survived. Thus I was
in desperate case, by no means able to fend for myself another night without
food or shelter, when found by two braves of the Hunkpapa Sioux.
Now you will
gasp here and say ‘my poor brother — those horrid filthy savage Indians ’ —
& I confess I have written you in the past in less than enthusiastic terms
of their smell, their unpredictable temperament & rude, alien ways. We have
had troopers singled out for torture and murder; there have been scenes of
wanton cruelty and uncivilized acts, unprovoked attacks upon farmers and
travelers. They are a fierce & warlike people: this much is true.
And yet Suzy my
own experience in their midst was quite, quite other than that. You may well
marvel at what I am going to tell you; but all races have their saints and
sinners, their decent people & their troublemakers; no less so does the
Indian. And it was my great good fortune to be found, in such dire straits, by
a good and kind man; and brought back to their winter camp, where I was
tenderly restored to life in his lodge, or tipi.
Now if this
were one of Mr. Cooper’s romantic and thrilling books, I shd. have to describe
their bristling aspect and stern faces, their war paint & tomahawks.
Actually Sis I cd. barely see; I wondered in a strangely detached way wh. my
fate was to be, and had resigned myself to meeting my Maker pretty soon one way
or the other, either swiftly at their hands or slowly and suffocatingly in the
snow. They took my reins and led me away. I was too far gone even to care about
my safety: I wanted of all things for it to be over, I didn’t much care how. I
thought I shd. never be warm again.
But my
rescuing angels brought me inside, and Sis you cannot conceive of how snug and
cosy is the skin tipi of the Indian as winter shelter, even in the cruellest
weather. They keep a low fire constantly, and direct the smoke by means of
flaps and long poles. I was snuggled
into a bed of buffalo-hides, strong-smelling but quite the most comfortable and
luxurious of litters.
By some act
of Providence, which must be preserving me for some future fate I cannot now
imagine, I was slightly acquainted with one of their elders from an incident
some time previously, and he knew me again even in that condition. They
amputated two of my toes — only the smallest two on the right foot — wh.
threatened to turn gangrenous from frostbite. I barely miss them honey, so
don’t be upset. I wish I had their receipt for a herb poultice to apply to such
wounds, because it healed up like the dickens, you & Maisie wd. want to
make some up I know.
Their
hospitality was of the most complete and magnanimous kind. I was fed, tended,
healed and treated quite as one of the family, wh. is the highest kind of
loyalty they know. Sis you may have formed an impression of the savage and
un-Christian life of the Indian. I can only tell you that when the chips are
down I had rather have fallen into the hands I did, than almost any of the
congregation of our Church in
Look at the
parable of the Samaritan, honey, and consider:
he was an outcast in Our Lord’s time even as the Indian is to us. And
yet he it was that rescued the benighted traveler, bound up his wounds and gave
him succour. (How I love that word. Do
you know it is a name, a woman’s name, in Spanish? – Socorro. I little knew I
shd. come to find its true meaning at the hands of a band of red men!) Such
were my Samaritans; unstinting in their care of me.
Within their
own society they are a proud & attractive people. Parsimony is unknown to
the Indian: hospitality is a sacred duty with them. I wonder whether they are
essentially any more murderous in their essential nature than we shd. be in
their circumstances, devoid of government and the outwardly imposed rule of law
and order? There is only one Judge, & I believe that when He looks into the
hearts of men we shall find that we do not, in our arrogance, have a prior call
upon His attention. I left many of my certainties behind in that snow, before I
was done there.
To be sure,
the intimate arrangements of their social existence are a shock at first to a
white person. Modesty seems unknown to them, and upon entering one of their
lodges a range of odours greets the nose that are quite unknown, and at first
distasteful, to one of us. Yet doubtless they experience a similar surprise,
bewilderment and disgust, when they consider the eccentricities of our
arrangements.
It was not
long before I found their food at least edible if not of the most palatable,
hunger being as you know the best sauce; tho’ I doubt you wd. have stomached
it. In some ways it was little different than the fare we subsist on at the
western forts in the winter, tho’ with some very odd combinations of flavor
& rather swimming in grease. Their company was both stimulating and
pleasant. Their domestic skills are remarkable. I was privileged to hear many
of their stories, some sacred in significance, and tho’ the mythological import
was beyond my limited powers of understanding I was much moved by their
passionate reverence for all the forces of Nature and the Powers of Creation.
My hosts
enquired of me one day, in the kindest way, whether I had wives among the
wassichoo people, for so they call us. When I replied that I had not, I was
assailed by a sense of desolation and loneliness whose depths I have not
allowed myself to plumb in some great while. E’s face came before my eyes. Would
she even have grieved beyond the common lot, if I had perished in the snow?
Whenever I do go, Suzy, when I am called to my Maker, who besides yourself and
Caleb will there be to miss me? Oh, George would go about for a few days with a
long face, and think sadly back to the old days when we were the closest of
pals; and she would shed some tears I believe; but wd. I leave a terrible hole,
a great void, in anyone’s life? I think not.
Why be vague
with you? While among them I formed a domestic liaison wh. has since given me
cause for much reflection re. decency, virtue, honor, concupiscence &
indeed love itself. In case you are frowning and trying to read between the
lines wondering if I mean what you fear I do, let me save you the time and say
that that is exactly what I mean. It is over now, much to my sadness in many
ways.
Suzy I have
been so very lonely: I hope you will not
judge me for wh. I have told you. It has been fully ten years since I have
known any such comfort; years of heartache and despair. They have a very
matter-of-fact approach to these matters among my hosts, it wd. almost have
seemed — it did seem — more discourteous, to refuse. You may have trouble in
accepting this idea & not being repulsed and nauseated by the very thought,
and I ask not for you to condone or sanction, but merely to understand. It is
not at all an uncommon thing to occur out here, in fact; upon my departure it
was the occasion for much heart-searching, whether to turn my back, or
contemplate its continuing in some more formal fashion. But I cd. not see a
future of happiness in a combination of such different lives and circumstances.
Is our
social structure at home any healthier than theirs, where this was not
considered wrong? Wd. my life have been happier, if I had not spent it
hopelessly in love with a woman I can never have, and thus miserably continent
and decently, desperately chaste? You are not naive Sis, you know what some
fellows in my position resort to, wh. I have always avoided like the plague.
And yet I am a man, I have no less need for connection & for affection than
any body.
I consider
sometimes Sis, and now more than ever, whether I cd. not be satisfied in a
companionable marriage with someone other than E. I have looked at many a fine
and admirable young lady. And not so young, too, for that matter. I have a
tender heart where all women are concerned as you know, and am very susceptible
to a blushing look or the glimpse of a pretty ankle. Only each time all I can
think is — nice, very nice, quite acute, polite, pleasant, nothing wrong with
this person and much to commend her save that she is not E!!! — and my
heart stalls, and refuses to listen to reason, and I had rather remain
unbeholden to any, than to go through the motions of a passion I do not, cannot
feel.
If the Sioux
have a word for ‘love’ I did not learn it. They are the most practical,
pragmatical, unsentimental of people. I can only tell you Sis of my profound
relief in spending even so brief a time free from warring with, and trying to
contain, the realities of my natural, not to say God-given constitution. It is
our customs that seem hard, false and unnatural to me just now, like breaking a
horse to halter. It may be necessary but it ain’t kind to the dumb beast. It
was not entirely the truth that I wrote you at the top of this letter, that I
was but little the worse for wear. Bodily, that is so; but spiritually, in
truth I must tell you it has left me shaken & not entirely the fellow I
was.
O what is
love, Suzy? I used to think I knew, but I don’t, I don’t. Perhaps it’s a
constellation of things, not at all poetic in actuality, and not at all given to happy endings as the
novelists wd. have us believe, not pretty even — chief among which is a gnawing
pain in the gut — and a loyalty wh. somehow against all the odds succeeds in
transcending grinding jealousy, to wish in the end only for the good of the
beloved. But how bleak a notion this is.
And to my
Sioux friends this dialectic wd. be meaningless. ‘Do you worry about the leaves
of the cottonwood tree in the fall, Strong Arm?’ they asked me ‘for you worry about everything
else!’
May God bless
them, innocent of such cares.
What is a
Christian? Are we Christians, truly? Open your Bible to a different page now
Sis, and look at that passage in Matthew. Truly, Suzy, I was an hungred, and
they gave me meat: I was thirsty, and
they gave me drink: I was a stranger,
and they took me in: naked, and they
clothed me: sick, and they visited me.
So shall the King say unto them on His right hand, Come, ye blessed of my
Father, inherit the Kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.
For inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of my brethren, ye have done it
also unto Me. Inherit the Kingdom,
it says, which I fear is far from the future that is in store for them, within
a few generations, if the experience of the Eastern tribes is anything to go
by. We are a greedy nation, Suzy, there is no end to our ambitions. When it is
all under the plow, where will they go? How many lines have been drawn, &
overstepped? They had better look forward to their place in the
The Dept of
the Army must have a sense of humor, for the Col. informed me drily upon learning
of my frostbite that we are to prepare ourselves for a removal to Fort
Snelling, in Minnesota. A capital place for a fellow who is two toes the poorer
already!
I really
don’t know wh. else to tell you, just now. How I wish I was back home in
I’ll write
again soon.
Now what
shall I sign myself? Yr. resurrected bro! — Lewis.
Exhausted from the re-telling, but also relieved by its kind catharsis, he goes to his cot and huddles under a thin blanket. March is not yet spring, far from it, and he is cold inside and out.
* * *
There is a case of whisky bottles under his cot, half of
them empty.
January
1859
Well
Sis, this time it’s a scrape you can’t get me out of: I am on report for being
drunk on duty. As it’s a first occurrence I have every hope that I shall be
dealt with leniently. There is nothing to be said by way of excuse; it was a
grievous error of judgment on my part, I thought to have sobered up by morning
but failed to do so.
This winter
has been a weary one and I have frankly sought solace too often in that way.
Sleep has not come easily for a long time now and I guess I have been too ready
to find a solution close at hand in the bottom of a bottle. What a disgusting
emotion self-pity is. When I examine it, I want nothing to do with it! And yet
—
Oh God Suzy I
have never been so unhappy in all my life. I have entirely lost that capacity I
used to have, so essential to any peace of mind, of making the best of any
circumstance. The winter days are short and joyless, it seems but unremitting
tedium, toil and responsibility. My old complaint is no better; we all have
chilblains, and while we sleep the water in the ewer freezes over. Often we
hear the howling of wolves outside in the wilderness. The society here is
narrow and for the most part ungracious -
since she left no-one has re-organized our old chorus, even. I have
acquaintances here but no friends. My life seems to have no point, no purpose,
nothing to look forward to. I have not had so much as a letter from G. & E.
these last two months. I shall always be an outsider, always a friend never the
beloved, indispensable to no-one; I thought it would suffice but it don’t.
I guess
that’s why the charge: in this state of
mind I am a lightning-rod for trouble and disgrace. The only good thing to be
said is that I have not descended to gambling, at least not yet. Our
illustrious forbears would blush in shame to acknowledge me as their
descendant. My life here is empty, no more than a constant ache and an
intolerable amount of labor. My dreams bring no rest. Clearly if I don’t change
my ways or my approach, the future is bleak — more and longer drunks like my
old friend Sam Grant, an ignominious quitting of the service, a descent into
despair. What haunts me is to think that I have achieved nothing in this life
that someone else cd. not have done equally as well, if not better; & that
when I leave it, it will not be substantially any different, for my having
passed through it. Who will care, even? An unanswerable question. I hope Spring
comes soon.
By the time
you get this I’m sure things will look better. I almost hesitate to send it but
Suzy I have no wish to hide from you or put a false face on. You have always
loved me no matter what, and this I guess is a pretty good ‘what’. To every
thing there is a season, says the good book, and so this is my season for being
blue, that’s all.
Don’t worry
about me honey, it’ll all come right in the end. I am not likely to be
dismissed the service for a single episode of intoxication. Remember me kindly
in your prayers tonight?
Yr.
scapegrace of a bro, Lewis.
It was winter when the wasichu came to our camp. I
say ‘came,’ but he never would have found us without Storm Cloud and
Raccoon. He was fainting and falling
from his horse, chilled to the bone, icicles in his moustache, dazzled by the
snow when they found him beside the frozen
Storm Cloud and Raccoon took the bridles of the wasichu horses and brought them around the bluffs through the grove of cottonwood to the hidden valley where we set up our family’s lodges every winter.
They stopped outside my uncle’s lodge. The wasichu fell off his horse. Raccoon wanted to kill him and keep both the horses. My uncle Storm Cloud said he might be useful. Raccoon’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing. In our village, people listen when Storm Cloud speaks.
I was sitting visiting by the fire of my sister when Raccoon pushed into their tipi. It was obvious that he was in a bad mood. ‘Red Feather,’ he said, ‘your uncle has found some trash out by the big river. He has brought it home for you. Go see.’
I gave my sister’s toddler back to her and stood. ‘Watch out,’ said Raccoon in a mocking voice. ‘It’s wearing a blue coat.’
Our people had a long and unhappy history of dealings with the wasichus in blue who rode together and carried rifles. I wondered what my uncle had done now.
But when I saw the wasichu I felt sorry for him. He was on his knees in the dirty snow, rubbing his face. He tried to get to his feet, but fell down again. I wondered if he was drunk on that strong whisky the wasichus make, which puts fire in your belly and then makes a fool of you. I opened the flap of the tipi, then my uncle Storm Cloud picked him up under the armpits and dragged him inside. His heels made long marks in the snow.
It was the bitterest month, the month after the shortest days, when even the hare is the color of snow, and there is never enough to eat. Storm Cloud propped him up against a pile of buffalo robes, close to the fire. The wasichu closed his eyes. They were red and caked with ooze. His clothes began to steam. Water dripped from his moustache. Snot ran from his nose. He breathed like a deer that has been run too far, fast and shallow. His cheeks had hollows in them.
‘He looks half-starved,’ said my uncle. ‘I will share my meal with him. Is it hot, Red Feather?’
‘Yes, my uncle,’ I said, and passed him the gourd from its warm place behind the stones of the fire. The wind shifted in a gust, and smoke blew back down inside the tipi in a wreathing blue dance. The wasichu coughed.
I had prepared a rich dinner for my uncle, because he was going out to hunt and would be chilled when he returned. In the gourd dried chokecherries were plumped up in a stew of shredded meat and grease. Corn was in there too. I fed my aunt, who lay behind us on the softest robe of all. She had lost the use of one side of her body the previous Spring, and could not speak. I chewed her food, to make it easy for her to swallow. My uncle, my mother’s brother, fed the wasichu from his own gourd.
I was busy with my aunt, so I could only turn once in a while to see the wasichu. Gravy ran from the side of his mouth. He tried to chew and swallow, but it was hard for him. ‘My uncle,’ I said, ‘eat your food. I will boil a plain broth for the wasichu. This is too rich for him.’
‘You’re right,’ said my uncle, just as the wasichu doubled over and vomited. I gave my aunt’s bowl to my uncle, and turned my attention to the wasichu. He had only eaten a little, but he heaved for a long time. When he was done I cleaned him up with a soft piece of old deerskin. Then I laid him out straight on top of my buffalo robe, and began to take off his clothes. His skin was white, except where it was bruised purple or burned red by the freezing wind. When I pulled his boots off he made a sound. Amongst our people it is considered shameful to moan in pain: it is one of the earliest lessons we teach our children, to suffer in silence with a blank face. It is necessary. The wasichus, I have found, seem to have no such training. This was the first time I had heard a grown man whimper like a child.
I saw what hurt him: he had cracked chilblains, and some of his toes were black. I held them between the palms of my hands, and chafed his feet; they felt frozen. I wrapped them in rabbit-fur, with a hot stone, and took off the rest of his clothes. He was wearing a lot of thin things, one on top of the other, but nothing that would keep a person warm and dry in the weather we had had. My uncle had worn fur-lined leggings and buffalo-skin. The wasichu wore only blue cloth leggings that went up to his waist, and under them the same garment but in white. Well, grey, and soiled, now, but inside the creases you could see it had been white. Both were wet through.
When I got all his clothes off I stared at him. I had never seen a wasichu naked before. He had a band of dark hair across his chest, and a ribbon of it going all the way down his belly to the dark curls in which nestled his manhood like a blue-white snail. His arms and legs, too, had black hair on them. It was a funny sight. I covered his nakedness with soft buffalo robes, and came to sit by his head. My aunt had finished her meal, and was staring at him with glittering black eyes from her corner of the fire. She chuckled to see him with no clothes on.
This made my uncle very happy. It was hard, to keep my aunt’s spirits up when she could no longer express herself in words. She used to laugh all the time. We had not heard her chuckle in a while.
‘I’ll take care of him, uncle,’ I told Storm Cloud. ‘You see about the horses, and the dead wasichu.’ My uncle rose, and went outside the lodge. I moistened a corner of the wasichu’s thin white shirt in hot water from the pot beside the fire, and bathed his crusted eyelids. He said something in a weak voice, but I couldn’t understand him: he didn’t speak properly, not like a real person. I hushed him. Behind me, my aunt began a tuneless humming, as she had used to soothe her babies years before. Words eluded her, but this age-old sound she produced with obvious pleasure. I joined in, and between us we soothed the wasichu tenderly to sleep, as if he had been a baby.
When it was time to go to bed, I slipped out of my elk-skin garments and shared the warmth of my body with the wasichu, as I would have done for any frozen creature, human or not. He had warmed up a little, under the heavy buffalo skin, but his bare skin was still cool next to mine. I curled up against his back, my cheek beside his shoulder-blades, his buttocks cupped in the hollow of my belly and drawn-up thighs, and so we slept. Once or twice in the night he moaned; I put my hand gently over his mouth, and he stopped. His moustache tickled my palm. His chin had a prickly black stubble on it.
In the morning he was much better. His body was as warm as mine. Fast asleep, with his thing stiff, he reminded me of my husband. I wondered how many wives he had. I rose before everyone, dressed and tended to the fire, so that I could greet my uncle and aunt with a hot broth when they woke. Sage tea on a winter morning is one of the great blessings of life.
Still the wasichu slept. He must have been exhausted. My uncle went out to fetch Lame Elk, to show him what he had found.
Lame Elk grunted as he stooped to enter our tipi. I made a respectful sign to him and went to kneel behind the pile of robes where the wasichu lay, so as to be out of the way. Lame Elk held a finger up to me, in blessing. The cruel purple scar across his empty eye-socket held no terror for me, but was simply a part of this face I had known from my earliest childhood. The light of kindness and knowing shone in his remaining eye. It was Lame Elk who was the go-between for my husband, Fat Pony, when I married. I was beautiful then, and a virgin of course, and much sought-after. Fat Pony was by no means my only suitor. He was an important man in our village, a good ten summers older than I, with many ponies and buffalo robes. His first wife had died at the end of the hungry season. Lame Elk wanted to see me married to someone of substance, without too many relatives crowding into his lodge and eating his food. It was so.
I became Fat Pony’s wife. He tried hard to make a son, twice a day sometimes, but my belly stayed flat. Then the month came when one-third of our village fell sick with the wasichu pox. We called it The Year The People Sickened for ever after that. It was the most terrible thing I had seen in all my life. Swollen pustules covered their bodies and faces, including my husband, Fat Pony. They all died. Since then Lame Elk was once more looking for a possible husband for me. I think he had half a mind to take me for his third wife, which I would not have disliked, at least not on his account; but his first wife was barren and a shrew because of it, and his second wife bore him four sons, all of whom have been disappointments in one way or another. Raccoon is one of them, my sister’s husband. So it would not be a happy household to join. I preferred my uncle’s tipi; and as long as I was useful, he and my aunt made me welcome and provided for me. Fat Pony’s horses ran with my uncle’s. After my aunt’s illness I was needed more than ever, which I liked. I hate feeling like a useless mouth to feed. It is good for a woman to work hard.
So imagine our surprise, then, that morning, when Lame Elk looked at the wasichu and said, ‘Hey, hey, this one I know.’
‘How do you know him?’ asked my uncle. ‘They all look the same to me.’
‘I have seen him at the fort to the East. When Hawk got into trouble at the trading post and was taken away by the wasichus and we went to get him back. That was before our neighbors killed those wasichu in the great white wagons, that made so much trouble between us – two summers ago, when the wasichu would listen before they shot their guns. I saw this one at that fort. He was there. He spoke.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I couldn’t tell you – they didn’t say it in the language of the People. But the wasichu were angry, the trader raised his voice and the wasichu chief also, and this one spoke quietly; but they listened. And later Hawk was let go, we paid in ponies for the damage but Hawk was not punished.’
‘This one is not the chief, then?’
‘No, but the chief listens to him, he is one of their braves, not the kind they have that just do what they are told. I don’t believe he has ever done us harm, not this one.’ Lame Elk pondered the wasichu for a while in silence. We waited respectfully till he spoke again: ‘It was a good act, to save his life, Storm Cloud. I see no reason to kill him, now. He has done us no harm. His friendship might be useful.’
At the sound of the voices the wasichu stirred and woke. It was already mid-day. He sneezed twice, wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and sat up blinking. Only when he sat up did he realize that beneath the hairy robe he was naked. The draught from the doorway reached his shoulders and he pulled the robe up to his chest.
‘Wasichu,’ said Lame Elk, in a mild voice.
The wasichu frowned, then rubbed his eyes and broke into a smile. Once you have seen Lame Elk, it is hard to forget his face. Lame Elk returned the smile, nodding gravely. ‘He knows I know him,’ said Lame Elk. ‘He is not afraid. That will make it much easier for both of us. Now he is awake, let us see if he can talk. Perhaps he knows the signs.’
He knew a few. His story was simple: some signs and a few words told it.
No-one had attacked the wasichu; he had become lost in the blizzard two days before, that was all. Oh, and his friend had died out there, so he had lashed the body across his pony to bring it back to the fort for proper burial.
‘He can’t possibly return to the wasichu fort till next month at the earliest,’ said my uncle. ‘His horse is weak, just like him. We have no ponies to spare. Besides, they would sink into a drift and die there. He would never complete the journey.’ He signed, You must stay here.
The wasichu became agitated then.
‘I think he is upset about the other wasichu,’ I said.
‘We will treat the body with respect,’ said Lame Elk. ‘When the time comes, he can take the bones back with him, if he wants.’
The wasichu looked unhappy, but seemed to assent. Then smoke blew in his face again, and he turned up the whites of his eyes and swayed. My uncle laid him back down onto the buffalo robe. ‘He hasn’t eaten,’ he explained. ‘I gave him my dinner last night, but he puked it up again. Then he slept, until just now.’
Lame Elk patted the wasichu’s hand before he left, to let him know he was safe and would be well cared for. I fetched the broth from the morning meal, and held the wasichu, and fed him sips from a little bowl. This time he didn’t gag. My aunt chuckled again, in pleasure at seeing him eat. He said something in wasichu-language. When he saw I didn’t understand, he put his hand over his heart and bowed his head briefly. I did the same thing. Then he lay down again, as if he were very tired still. His breath made a bubbling sound in his chest, like water boiling in a pot. I rubbed his back: after a minute or two he coughed up some phlegm and spat it weakly into the fire, and the bubbling sound eased.
I threw a handful of balsam and resin onto the fire, as I would for a child with croup: it opens the passages for the breath to come in and out without a struggle. Then I turned to my aunt and attended to her needs. The next time I looked at the wasichu he was asleep again. He did not snore like Fat Pony, but made a soft sound with each intake of breath. The rhythm was slow and even. Listening to him while I cleaned up, I felt a tingle spread slowly between my legs. For a wasichu!
While he slept I thought about his feet that had gotten frozen, and I prepared a paste with dried jewel-weed and other astringent herbs from my summer gathering. I spoke to my uncle about what to do with toes which have gone black, and we agreed that they would have to come off. So the next time the wasichu woke from his wasichu dreams, it was to find us at the foot of his bed, the robe lifted, looking at his toes. He appeared bewildered until my uncle pinched one of his toes; then he said something in wasichu with a great deal of force. My uncle motioned to him to sit up. Together they looked at his feet. My uncle patted all the toes on the left foot, to show him they would be good. The smallest toes on the right were still black and had no feeling, even though they were no longer frozen. My uncle made a chopping motion with his hand. The wasichu swallowed. We showed him with signs how the blackness would spread up his foot and leg, if the toes didn’t come off. The wasichu sighed and nodded.
My uncle asked me if I had the herb-mash all ready. I showed it to him, and we discussed the herbs I had used. ‘Good,’ said my uncle, ‘very good.’ And he got out his sharpest little knife. The wasichu went white when he saw it. I thought he was white already, till I saw the color his face went then. My uncle held the wasichu’s leg bent at the knee and his bad foot down flat on a board. I went to the wasichu on the other side and held him in my arms and cradled his head to my breast. My uncle held the good toes out of the way and one at a time he took off the two bad ones. I knew how it felt, for after Fat Pony died I cut off the top joint of my little finger, in mourning.
The wasichu gasped. His breath whistled through my robe; but he didn’t cry out. I was proud of him. I held him while Eagle Owl stopped the bleeding and bound up his foot with the herbs I had prepared. They smelled sharp in the tipi, a healing smell. My aunt crooned.
Afterwards, I rubbed the wasichu’s body with grease made into an unguent with wild mint and willow-bark. It is the same I use on my aunt, four times in every moon, to soothe her aches and bring the blood to her skin. I rubbed him for a long time. When I began he was shivering. By the time I was finished he slept. My touch had given him an erection. I was not displeased.
His foot healed up well. Within a couple of days he was hobbling on it, going outside to relieve himself. He was very modest about that: we all found it very funny. My sister’s children followed him to the place we used, and squatted to keep him company, and he would try to shoo them away; but after the second or third time he gave up being angry, and laughed with them instead. Still, they said, he blushed. When they saw his shit was just like ours they gave up bothering him quite so much.
Raccoon and my uncle came to some private agreement about the dead wasichu’s pony. It involved our receiving a pile of fine robes from Raccoon, so it seemed that Storm Cloud had surrendered his claim on what they had found to Raccoon in exchange for the robes. My uncle got the worst of the bargain but he was a generous man and didn’t make a fuss.
The wasichu ate and grew stronger. At first he would not eat the rich stews I prepared for my uncle, with all the good grease that is needed to keep one’s strength up in the winter; he tried, but that food still made him gag. So I made him plainer meals of corn flapjacks or mash, and soup from strips of dried squash or camas-root. My uncle got a plump partridge one day and we all shared it, not a lot for each person but it was succulent, roasted over the fire. When I saw how much the wasichu liked it I gave him my piece too. One time I showed the wasichu how to scrape down a skin till it is soft as buffalo-grease, and another afternoon he watched while I made a basket from stripped willow-wands gathered earlier in the year. My aunt took a liking to him, and he sat with her while I was busy. After dark he made shadow-shapes on the walls of our lodge with his hands, to entertain her. A few times I heard him singing wasichu songs to her.
I asked him his name, one day. He thought a while, and said something in wasichu. I shrugged. Pointing to myself, I said, ‘Red Feather. Red Feather.’
His eyebrows raised in question: he shook his head apologetically. He tried to repeat the syllables, but it was clear they had no meaning for him. My aunt made a noise behind us. I turned to see what she wanted: she was staring at the neck of her best tunic, which was hung beside her to cheer her with its bright colors. It was stitched with elks’ milk-teeth and shells and red and blue feathers. I laughed, and congratulated her on her cleverness. ‘Look, wasichu,’ I said, and showed him. ‘Red Feather.’
He nodded. I could see he understood. He was not stupid, the wasichu, despite his ignorance of so many things, his odd appearance and hairy body. He was quick to catch on.
Then, pointing to himself, he made a gesture with his arm. He made me feel the muscle. It was hard, like his male part in the mornings which he always tried to hide while he dressed. ‘Strong Arm?’ I said. He repeated my words, then said it in wasichu, squeezing his arm to show me, and again in our language.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Strong Arm.’ It was good to know each other’s names.
After he had been with us about a week, I suppose, I decided it was time to stop pretending that I didn’t see his state of desire. My husband, Fat Pony, liked to be made comfortable in the early mornings before rising; I presumed the wasichu would also, but that he was too shy – or lacked the words – to ask. I therefore took matters into my own hands one morning, and crept from my blanket, where I slept between him and my aunt, under his. I looked at his face, asleep in the dim light. I was becoming fond of it, in the oddest way, even with the pinched wasichu features and unhealthy, pasty color. He was not swaggering and virile, like the young braves of the Sioux, but Lame Elk respected him, and he had a quietness and, in his wasichu way, a kind of courage. His kindness to my aunt was genuine and disarming: I had come to enjoy his modesty.
At first I lay beside him and watched him breathe. After a while, I put my hand gently on his thigh. He sighed. I moved my hand slowly, across the feathery soft sac of his scrotum to his erect shaft, which I held. I closed my fingers around him. He gasped and woke up.
The look on his face was one of shock. His soft sleep-breathing had turned ragged. Right away he took hold of my wrist with his hand, and moved my hand away from him, staring into my face like a violated maiden. I tried to appear indifferent, but my eyes filled with tears. I had meant to please him, not to startle and offend. How could I know he would not like it, when all the evidence had suggested to the contrary? His mouth opened and shut like a fish’s, but no sound came out: he knew his words were no good, here. He bit his lip. It went white under his teeth. Then he said, very quietly so as not to wake my aunt and uncle, ‘Please. Red Feather.’ He repeated my name. Then he brought my hand up from under the robe – his fingers were still grasping my wrist: they shook – and held it in both of his. He put his mouth on it, the way mothers kiss their babies. Then he took my other hand, and pressed them both against my breast: giving them back to me, telling me without words to keep them to myself. And yet it seemed a struggle for him to do this. We stared into each others’ eyes for a long time, without understanding. I thought maybe his wasichu wives were very jealous. He said my name again, regretfully.
My uncle grunted and stirred. I slipped back under my own blanket. I couldn’t get back to sleep, though, so I rose. I took my time dressing. I felt the wasichu’s eyes on me as I bent naked over the fire and blew on the embers. I heard his breathing. It was not smooth. The feeling of him alive under my hand remained with me in spite of everything, as though I still held a hot stick.
My sister had another baby. We try not to bring little ones into the world, in the months of cold and hunger, but sometimes they come anyway. I moved into her tipi, to help. She was not bedridden, as I have heard the wasichu women are when they have dropped their young, but she was thin and tired, with no-one to help her prepare the food, and four other young children to care for. Raccoon was a very demanding man who liked things to be just so, or else he would think it reflected badly on him and lose his temper. I visited my uncle’s lodge during the day, to be sure they were getting by without me.
The wasichu was tending to my aunt. She seemed not to mind: on the contrary. Their lack of language made a kinship between them. His hands were as gentle as a woman’s. I watched him wash her face. He did it with a very good grace; clearly, she enjoyed the change. I brought them food at night, which I had cooked from our stores but at my sister’s fire. In the mornings they ate what was left over, cold. The wasichu produced a little metal thing from the leather bag his horse had carried. It had a handle and three spikes lined up in a row, curved. I watched him mash up buckwheat griddle-cakes with it, soaking them in broth, the way I would use a pestle and mortar, and feed the resulting gruel to my aunt.
Sometimes his eyes followed me as I reached for something or bent over, the lines of my body showing through my clothes as a deer’s shape ripples under its skin. Then he would look away and swallow hard. I pretended not to notice. My uncle saw it, too. I talked to my uncle about it one day. I said I didn’t understand why the wasichu didn’t sleep with me, when he clearly wanted to. ‘I don’t know,’ said my uncle, ‘but wasichu women are different, I have heard. They are even more modest than the men. They never take off their clothes, not even to sleep. I think you need to leave it to him, to make the first move. He is getting used to us, now. I think he will, soon, from the way he looks at you, if you leave him be. Though he will not force himself on you, not this one. But if you want him to...’
‘I do,’ I said. ‘I don’t think he is ugly, not now, though I used to. He can’t help looking like a wasichu. He is kind to my aunt. He spills in his bed, sometimes. I should like him to spill in me.’ I said nothing to the wasichu, though; I took my uncle’s advice, and waited.
The snow began to melt, in patches. It was not the full thaw of spring, but a little respite in the grip of winter. I went out along the creek to look for fresh greens sprouting under the winter blanket of snow.
The wasichu was not a skilful tracker – if I’d been a deer I would have escaped him easily. I heard him approaching from a long way off. I had a pouch with green shoots in it, cress and the tips of young sorrel. The wasichu was wearing a funny mixture of his own clothes and my uncle’s, the blue tunic with shiny buttons over winter moccasins and fur-lined leggings. His chin was pink, where he had scraped off his wasichu whiskers with a sharp blade he kept. He greeted me by name. I think he didn’t want to talk inside the lodge, in front of other people.
‘Strong Arm,’ I said in reply. ‘The day is fine.’ That much he was beginning to understand.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘What is it, Strong Arm?’ I asked.
He flushed. Stumbling over the words – they should take different endings, but he didn’t know that – he used the same word of me that I had used of the weather. ‘Red Feather is fine,’ he said. He looked as if he would have said more, if he could.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what he wanted. I knew what I hoped he wanted, what a man from our village would want if he followed me out in the melting snow to talk to me alone, but the words weren’t there for us. I took his hand and put it on my left breast, which pushed up the soft deerhide of my dress with the pointed shape of a woman who has not born children. The pupils of his strange and wonderfully blue eyes widened.
‘Red Feather and Strong Arm?’ I said, and clasped my hands together like two bodies making one.
‘Red Feather and Strong Arm,’ he repeated, and caressed my breast oh so gently with his thin careful fingers, and his nostrils flared, and then he took hold of my face in both his hands and did that strange and tender thing the wasichu do even when it is not a mother with a baby: he put his mouth on top of mine, and kept it there.
I didn’t know how to draw breath like that, at first, then I realized I could breathe through my nose. His mouth was warm and wet. It plucked at my lips, and I did the same thing back. His tongue came into my mouth. I thought when I’d heard other women talk about it that it was disgusting, but I knew it was what the wasichu do when they couple, and that thrilled me. I began to tremble with pleasure. My knees felt weak. His hunger spoke to mine without need of any words. I broke away from him and bent down to pick up my pouch.
‘Red Feather – ?’ he said.
‘Tonight,’ I said, before I ran away.
It was late before I came to my uncle’s tipi. My sister’s newborn babe was fretful, and then her husband wanted to be rubbed until he spilled before I left. I knew he would bother her if I didn’t take care of him, so I did. I didn’t like him and it was a chore. When he snored and the children breathed their soft sleep-breath, I slipped out.
Everyone was asleep in my uncle’s lodge. Even the wasichu. I think he had given up waiting for me. I pulled off my dress and moccasins and leggings, and slipped into the warmth of his bed. I wore a little bag of dried wild rose petals round my neck on a cord, like a bride does, where the warmth between my breasts made the fragrance come out. He lay on his side, facing me: I lay the same way and snuggled my buttocks against his belly and loins. He woke with an intake of breath, and then his arms enfolded me. He began to stroke my breasts with his hands, reaching round in front of me, gently at first but with growing urgency as he felt their response: my nipples pressed into his palms like acorns. He moaned and I felt his erection pushing against my buttocks. We were both desperate and struggling for breath. My uncle made a noise and turned over; I thought the wasichu would stop and wait to be sure he slept, since he was so modest about these things, but he only moaned again and nuzzled at my ear. His hands cupped my breasts and swept back and forth across them until I could bear it no longer and, still curled together like that on our sides with him behind me, I guided his stiff man’s part into my hot, wet woman’s one and thrust myself down onto him.
He groaned then, so sharply that both my aunt and uncle stirred; I took his mind off them by moving onto him with all the hunger I had built up in my two years without a man.
He was really quite big, there, in that part, and I was filled with him. He began to move also, to my rhythm, and with each deep thrust his breath came hot on the back of my neck with a small sound: mmh, mhh, ohhh... He kept rubbing my breasts the whole time. Each of his fingers in turn caught against my upstanding nipples, back and forth until they hurt but I didn’t want it to stop. Inside me he was so swollen that I could feel his shape distinctly. With each movement that roundness like a plum stroked all the knotted strings that held my being together and plucked them till my woman’s place went crazy and began to suck and squeeze at him. I pushed myself down onto him till he was deeper inside me than I could have thought possible.
I squeaked: when we in our village make love inside a lodge with others asleep, we try to be quiet, but I could not contain the sounds in my throat. He was hot and hard and as aroused as I was; when my opening started squeezing him he ejaculated into me in a scalding burst that went on for a long time. He throbbed with each spurt. I thought of a thunderstorm when it breaks, rain pouring on the dry earth, the sky crashing and flashing with the energy of that vast coupling, the way you know it is coming ahead of time and still it makes you jump. His stifled groans were loud in the quiet tipi. My aunt and uncle were pretending to be asleep, as good manners demanded; but the moon was up and I could see their faces: my uncle’s was shining with sweat, no doubt aroused himself, and my aunt was smiling.
We stayed like that. Neither the wasichu nor I wanted our bodies to break apart. He went to sleep with his hand resting on my breast, still held inside me. It was the sleep that follows the act of coupling, sweet and drowsing and heavy-limbed. Some time later I woke to the delicious sensation of his flesh moving in me again, very slowly and gently. He lifted my braids aside, so he could rub the nape of my neck with his nose and moustache and his lips. I reached behind me and put my hand on his rocking buttocks. We were very comfortable like that. It was sweeter than maple sugar, falling asleep joined and waking up joined and doing it again the same way, his chest against my back. This time was gentler and lasted much longer. Even his sighs were long, soughing like the wind in the cottonwood leaves. It was a long night. The third time he did it the wasichu way, face to face with him on the top and his mouth on my mouth. You would think he had not had a woman in a year, the way he was. After that third time I saw my aunt roll her eyes. This time it was I that smiled.
In the morning I got up and prepared a hot broth for all of us, moving quietly so as not to disturb the sleepers any more after their broken night.
I knew when he woke because of his deep sigh. Our first look at each other was a very nice one, silent but filled with gratitude and relief that it had happened at last. I wanted to snatch him up to me again and rock his face to my breast, the way I had when my uncle was cutting off his toes. Then he smiled, and something in his smile was sad. I poured a cup of broth, and handed it to him. He sat up. It was too hot to drink: it steamed in front of his face and he blew on it. Still we didn’t say anything. When my aunt woke up and saw us looking at each other without words, she giggled. He dropped his head then and stared into his cup, the wasichu-thoughts he was thinking making lines between his eyebrows.
I served my uncle and aunt their broth. ‘Some dreams I had,’ said my uncle. ‘I thought the tipi was shaking in a strong wind.’
The wasichu looked at me. He didn’t understand everything my uncle had said, but he knew what he was talking about. His cheeks flushed red, like a child who has been discovered doing something forbidden, but his eyes were dignified.
‘You know how it is, uncle,’ I replied, ‘when there has been no rain for a long time.’
My aunt rocked with laughter: she almost tipped over her bowl.
‘I had better find myself a sturdier tipi, then, if it’s that season now,’ my uncle said, and to be sure the wasichu knew it was all right he gave him a wide grin that turned into a deep chuckle, and then we were all laughing, the wasichu too, laughing till the tears came to our eyes, setting each other off again when one would stop for breath, laughing till our sides ached and we shook our heads.
I didn’t sleep in my sister’s lodge any more nights, after that. I cooked dinner for her family and made her baby clean and comfortable in his cradleboard, then I returned to my uncle’s lodge and the wasichu. He liked me to sleep beside him under the same blanket, without even a breech-cloth, even when we were not coupling. He wanted that closeness even while we slept. Our skins touched and were warm together. Sometimes in the night he would reach out, and I would hold him. He liked to be held. Sometimes we went back to sleep, thus: other times we nuzzled each other into arousal, and tried not to wake my aunt and uncle as our bodies twined in heat and urgency together. I felt jealous of his wives, to whom he would return as soon as the thaw came, who would then be getting this while I would have only the memory of it, like the tawny prairie remembering the rain.
I know I turned to him even more eagerly than is usual, between a man and a woman, knowing that it could not last long. I was afraid of wanting him too much, like a whole pack of greedy wives for a tired husband to satisfy, but his flesh stood up in greeting at my touch and he seemed pleased, grateful even, that I wanted him as much as he wanted me. We did not need a lot of words between us. Our spirits came out and recognized each other like the stars do, and our bodies kindled without speech. I would get wet just from the way he looked at me. We had to keep our hands off each other in the daytime, or else it was too hard to wait until night. If it had not been winter we would have coupled all up and down the banks of the stream and in the cottonwood groves and out in the hollow places of the prairie. It was a good time in my life. It was short: too short.
He never spoke of his wives, though, so one day I asked him. He understood more of our speech, by then, having learned from my sister’s children, who were patient in teaching him. When I was busy at my woman’s work during the day, pounding dried roots into powder and taking the little bones out of seethed meat for my aunt – tasks with which he wanted to help me, at first, but I shooed him away for the sake of his dignity, so no-one would see him doing woman’s work – while I was busy thus I often heard them laughing, and saw the wasichu’s tall figure among the little ones.
Among our people a brave of his years would never join in children’s games. His standing as a warrior would not allow it; he would be the object of ridicule, not fit to keep company with men. But the wasichu went by his own rules. He liked the children’s company, and unlike my sister and the wives of Lame Elk they weren’t nervous around him. He learned a lot of cat’s-cradles from them, which he would then practice with me when I had time, and allowed him to. When I laughed at him he just laughed back. He took a childlike delight and a great interest in the way we lived. When we sat round the fire at night and told stories his mouth hung open listening, like a child’s. Objects and skills I had always taken for granted I saw differently in light of the wonder in his eyes. My parfleche embroidered all over with dyed porcupine-quills was as remarkable to him as the cunning shape of the little metal buckles on his pouches were to me. He had a round flat thing, the size of a river stone, that made a sound as if it had an insect inside; he said it was to tell how high the sun was in the sky. ‘Why don’t you just look?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s good in the night,’ he said.
‘Why would you want to know, in the night?’ I asked him. He couldn’t answer. After a while he stopped twiddling the little nipple that stuck out of its side, that kept the insect clicking, and looked at the sky instead, like us.
So he spoke and understood enough to have a simple conversation, then, the way you would with someone slow-witted, or a child. ‘How many wives do you have, Strong Arm?’ I asked. We were eating dinner with my aunt and uncle. He had got used to the good stews of shredded dried meat or fat beaver tail and tart dried summer fruits, now. My cooking had put the pink color back in his wasichu cheeks, like wild roses in the month of the rains out on the prairie.
He seemed not to understand my question. I put my bowl down and made the shape of a woman with my hands. ‘You. Strong Arm. Wasichu wives. How many?’ I asked again.
He laughed, then bit his lip and shook his head. For some reason the idea seemed to amuse him.
‘Yes, tell us how many,’ said my uncle. ‘You couple enough to keep two happy, at least.’ He meant it pleasantly, as a compliment.
The wasichu’s face changed then, as if my uncle had mentioned something shameful. He set his bowl aside. It took a long time for him to finish chewing the mouthful he had, and swallow it. He blinked, staring into the fire.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No wasichu women. Strong Arm no wives.’
My aunt clucked. He turned to her. ‘No Red Feather in wasichu village. No woman for Strong Arm,’ he said.
‘Not even in Wash-ing-ton?’ asked my uncle.
‘Not even in
‘Then who do you couple with?’ I asked, shocked that such a healthy and important man should sleep alone, in the land of the wasichu.
The words came hard to his tongue in reply. I don’t remember what it was he actually said and what we understood by his gestures, his hands making the negative, a flat motion sharply away from him: nothing, never, no, no-one. Then he got up from the fire, leaving his food uneaten, my hand falling from his knee as he stood, and left our lodge. I went to follow him, but my uncle stopped me.
‘Let him come back when he is ready,’ he said. ‘He is ashamed, that he has no wives. We asked him a question, not knowing his shame, and he has lost face. Leave him be.’
My uncle was wise.
He did not return until after we had gone to bed. I heard him come in. I opened my arms to him, under the blanket. I wore nothing, but my skin was warm. He was dressed, but he shivered. I held him to me. We did not make love. His body twitched in my arms. Silently, so the elders would not hear him, he struggled to contain a great grief. I couldn’t know what it was, but that didn’t matter: I held him anyway, and felt his tears on my neck as he shook in silence; in silence.
We teach our children not to cry, by the time they are toddling. As adults we wail to mourn a death. How different from us are the wasichu! And yet, in their human needs, how much the same. If he wanted a wife, why didn’t he get one, I wondered, and thought that I should never understand the ways of the wasichu. Was he being punished? Had he done something wrong, so no-one would give him their daughter? Did he not have enough ponies? Had he had a wife he loved so much that when she died he refused to replace her? Whatever it was, my body could not comfort him that night, nor for a while afterwards.
I did not ask him any more about life among the wasichu, after that. I did not want to make him sad again. The next time we coupled I was specially attentive to his pleasure, but still it was not the same as before. From what I knew of the wasichu then I was not surprised that he seemed reluctant to go back. But we all knew that there could be no permanent place for him among us, not with things the way they were between our peoples. So Spring came, though it was the first time in my life I was not glad to see the days lengthen and the winds blow out of the south, the heaviness of my heart outweighing the gnawing of my belly even as the signs promised an end to the hungry season.
One day I saw him speaking to my uncle about a pony. Together they walked over to the herd. The animals were thin and shaggy, after the lean months of chewing on strips of cottonwood bark instead of sweet grass, but winter was passing and the pasture was turning green. Strong Arm could even have gone earlier, a full week before the day he finally chose to depart. We got the remains of the other wasichu down from the funeral scaffold my uncle had made, and wrapped them up in a fine blanket lashed with strips of hide, for him to take back. My uncle was going to go with him, to be sure he got safely back to the wasichu fort. It would be a shame, my uncle said, if we had gone to all this trouble to rescue him, only to have some trouble-maker like Raccoon or a warrior from another tribe kill him for the sake of stealing his horse – or just because he was a wasichu.
I would have liked to be his wife, and go back to the fort with him, but he did not ask me to. I was too proud to ask him. I prepared food for their journey. My body was numb. It made me clumsy. My aunt looked at me, more than usual. I asked her a favor, and her eyes smiled ‘yes,’ so I took one of the red feathers from her best dress and slipped it inside the wrappings of the traveling food I was making.
Under the blanket that night he stared past me into the fire and despite my touch his man-part stayed limp. I wanted to comfort him, but there was nothing to say. It was a long time before he slept.
I woke because his breath was hot on my face. He spread my legs with his hand and entered me roughly, right away. I was not ready for him and it hurt. He had never done this to me before. His thrusts were hard and swift. I thought, ‘this is the last time,’ and met his movements with my own anyway, making no indication of the pain I felt.
I don’t think there was much more pleasure in it for him, though. He stopped before spilling, as if he wouldn’t or couldn’t – another thing he had never done – and pulled away from me, and got out of bed.
I saw my aunt’s dark eyes catch the light, two little slits, looking at him standing there by the low fire, his manhood stiff, and such pain in his face. He saw her looking at him. She held her good arm out to him under her blanket, and he drew in and let out two or three quivering breaths, and then suddenly he went to her and knelt down and laid his head on her withered breast, and she patted him and crooned to him; and this time when he wept he let the sounds come; and my aunt rocked him with her crippled body, under her soft robe.
I knew what to do for him, then, when coupling was no good. I fetched the rubbing-grease, and I began with his feet, and rubbed and kneaded all the way up to his head, while my aunt stroked his hair, and my uncle got out of bed and took soot from the fire, and pigment, and made the marks on his arms and chest of our family, the clan whose totem is the wolverine. And he lay there by the fire, on my aunt’s soft bed, and let each of us do what we could, to comfort him.
His own horse, a big wasichu Army breed, needed to gather its strength in the spring pastures: it was not bred for survival on our winter-sparse diet of bark and little fodder. Its ribs stuck out under its hairy brown coat, and it was lame in one of its hoofs. My uncle gave him a big paint instead, not as big as that horse but the tallest of our ponies, tough and wiry. He had to leave his saddle behind, as it was no good on that animal, and ride it with a blanket like one of us. He wasn’t used to that; my uncle said when they got to the wasichu-fort he could hardly walk, which made it look as if we hadn’t taken very good care of him.
We kept his saddle for a while. I thought he might come back for it, but he never did. I could have traded it, but I didn’t want to. There was nothing the trader had that I wanted instead of it, useless though it was. In the season of yellow leaves I gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. They loved to climb over that saddle as they grew, and hear stories of their wasichu-father. My aunt would take them into bed with her and hum her wordless, tuneless humming. Even when she was weak and failing, her eyesight going too, she loved to have them near her. I thought of the pleasure he took in children’s company, and how he would have liked to play with these little ones of his own. There was a lot of him in their nature, my uncle said, that quietness that people listen to. We asked for him at the fort, that summer, thinking he would like to know he had a child coming, but they said he had gone away, and these were different soldiers.
After my aunt’s spirit slipped away suddenly and without fuss one night to join the skeins of geese that were flying overhead, calling to her with their loud honking to come south with them on their migration, my uncle spoke with Lame Elk and things changed. Lame Elk gave him six ponies for me, and so I became Lame Elk’s third wife, after the other two. Lame Elk was a kind and wise husband, very patient and not at all violent; he was impotent, though, yet he liked to lie with me and play with my body. Sometimes I would remember how it felt to have Strong Arm’s hands on me, his member inside me, instead of the gnarled fingers of an old man, until even without coupling I would tremble and burn. That made Lame Elk happy; as I have said, he was fond of me and very kind. Lame Elk was also a devoted father to my children, and would not let his other two wives speak harshly to any of us.
My uncle married a girl who was a relative of Lame Elk. All that coupling he had to listen to between me and Strong Arm must have given him a terrible hunger for it again himself. So we no longer shared a lodge.
The next year I heard from another band of Sioux who had gone East that there was a wasichu named Strong Arm at another fort up that way, who spoke our language. He drank, they said. But by that time I was already married to Lame Elk, so I did not go looking for him. Once the wind has passed you, you can never catch up with it; it is foolish to try.
While the wasichu was with us I refused to satisfy the curiosity of the other women, whether he slept with me or not; though my sister had her own ideas. When my belly swelled, though, it left little doubt about what had happened. They gossiped with all the women of our village, when we came together in the spring out of our winter camps. So then they all wanted to know about him. Was he as much of a child in bed as he was out of it? Was it true what the other women who have married them say, that wasichu men last longer and put their mouths all over you? You should just wish, I told them, that one day you may sleep with a man that hot for you; and half as tender, even. I couldn’t help smiling when I said that. The most envious was the first wife of Lame Elk, who had been the shrillest in calling him names while he was with us: ugly and scrawny, babyish and stupid, naive and not really a human being at all.
When Lame Elk was slain I was married to a strong warrior who blustered and liked to talk about coupling even more than he liked to do it, which was a lot. But in the mornings sometimes he would hit me and complain that I was not respectful enough to him, which was true, or was lazy and clumsy, which was not, so that when he came creeping under my blanket in the night looking for satisfaction it was not the same thing that it was with Strong Arm. Also he liked to do it with all the women he could, which was not like Strong Arm either, even though he never was my husband, and had no reason to be faithful to me.
My son’s name was Looks Far and my daughter’s name was Kildeer, the brown and white bird that flies low over the grass and cries a lonely cry. They were good at reading what other people were thinking even without words, like their father, and they had long, bony fingers and high foreheads. But the wasichu soldiers killed them anyway. Those years were very hard for our people.
Then, later, on the Rosebud, we killed Yellow Hair and a lot of wasichu soldiers, to teach them what it was like. They wore the same clothes that Strong Arm wore that day when I undressed him. We left their bodies naked on the hillside. I looked all among them in case Strong Arm was there, even though it was twenty years, but he wasn’t. That was a good thing anyway, that he didn’t come back with Yellow Hair to kill us after everything that had happened.
I believe he was a good man, in spite of being a wasichu: I really do. They are not all bad people. I, who have woken in the grey smoke before dawn to hear the whoops and shrieks of our children being slit with swords and shot where they slept, our tipis dragged over and set on fire, our women and old men clubbed and hacked to death by the brave wasichu soldiers, our lands violated and despoiled, our buffalo slaughtered by the thousand and left to rot and stink where they fell – still, I know this to be true, that not all of the wasichu are like that. It burns like an ember in the cold ash of my heart. One of them, the one I knew best, was a human being, and behaved like one. Perhaps there are more like him.
I hope he found a wife, far away from here, away from this cursed and bitter land that once was endless, unfenced, beautiful as a maiden’s brow. I hope he has many sons and is happy. I hope he still thinks about us sometimes, about that time, that short time all those years ago, as I do.
Lewis
1860 – 61
Eyes as blue as ever, but a faraway, dazed look in them. He has the appearance of one shipwrecked, who finds himself cast up on a strange yet familiar shore, grasping at the very sand under his fingers.
Just off the steamer
June
1860
Well honey I am
safely arrived in
What
mysteries and enticements that name holds — a kind of El Dorado, tho’ you know
what the only treasure is so far as I am concerned: some of the fellows are chafing to go up
North to see if the gold is all panned out; but my earthly riches, such as they
are, met me here at the steamer dock.
It has been
fully four years since I laid eyes on them. How the little fellow has grown!
When we said farewell in
G. has put on
some flesh & looks very well. He has begun to instruct young G in the
management of a little pony, but does not have the temperament required of a
teacher — so I am to have the job! ‘Always admired your seat, Lew,’ says George
to me almost as soon as my feet are on dry land — ‘you’ll do it, won’t you, old
fellow?’ This is his way of welcoming me I reckon, to let me know that I am
wanted.
The child
looked up at me & confided, ‘Mamma said you’ll be patient with me, and not
shout, sir.’ so I have a lot to live up
to! Actually I was quite unwell the latter half of the journey with little
appetite & consequently do not feel my self yet; I hope I can live up to
his hopes of a kind & patient teacher while I have the gut-ache.
He has the
makings of a good little horseman, from what I cd. see in our first lesson together, if he can but curb his
impatience & learn to take instruction. I regret to say he has picked up a
couple of bad habits already wh. he must unlearn before we progress.
They have a
pleasant little house at the far end of the quarters, next to the Colonel’s.
She has fixed it up to be just like home, as always. Army wives are paragons of
making-do and ingenuity, Suzy, you wd. be astonished at what a lot they can do
with a very little! Our lives wd. be rude & cheerless without their
presence, for sure. It’s exactly like old times again, George has even had a
piano sent down from
I haven’t
written about her yet, I know. She has got quite bronzed in the sun out here,
which ain’t the style but looks very well on her. O God Suzy she clasped my
hands in hers on the carriage-ride back to the post, and I gulped like a fool,
my poor tongue cleaving to the roof of my mouth, as the psalmist put it so
well, it wanted to blurt out ‘my darling, oh my darling,’ — the words I can
never, never utter — & therefore was tied altogether for fear they shd.
slip out in spite of all my care. My stomach was churning till I feared I shd. be sick. I said nothing, all
the way - nothing at all! -
I couldn’t.
G. claims he
never for a moment believed I had perished out on the Plains. He also laughed
at E. & told me, much to her discomfiture, that she had cried even harder
when told of my safe return than when first they heard I was missing. It was
but the one week between mail-steamers with the news, first of my absence &
then of my resurrection, & their letters at the time were full of concern
for me, but omitted the detail that she wept. I
wanted to think she had, but to hear it was balm to my heart.
In
celebration of my arrival we came down to a sandy beach in a little cove not
far from here, with a basket of food packed & every thing you cd. wish for.
I kept young G. entertained for some good while with string games wh. I learnt
among the Hunkpapa. After we ate al fresco, G. senior stretched out for a
post-prandial repose ‘to aid his digestive processes’ (wh. do not appear to me
to need any help, he is as sleek as a puppydog)
and E. asked if I shd. like to walk down the beach with her & look
for shells.
The boy ran
ahead of us, our pace too tardy for him. He has inherited his father’s
impatience, I think. We had much to catch up on. She stopped to pick up this
& that as we walked, & once she knelt down beside a dead gull that was
washed up. Its feathers were spangled with dew drops & from a distance it
had flashed white fire, making us wonder wh. it cd. be. I offered my arm to her
in rising, & she did not relinquish it for a long time after that, a good
half-mile to the end of the beach and back. The wind whipped her hair around
her face, stealing it from its confining pins & velvet ribbon at the nape
of her neck. I don’t remember half the things we talked about, only that when I
bent close to hear wh. she said it danced across my cheeks. I can feel it now.
Please excuse
the blot.
At the end of
our walk I gave her a shell I had been carrying. She & the boy listened to
the sound of the sea in it. Do you remember, Sis, the walks we wd. have on the
Gulf coast when we were young?
I have a
single large room here in the bachelor quarters, wh. I have divided by means of
a canvas into sleeping and living areas. I do not like for visitors to be
confronted with the sight of my bed & all my clothes hung up against the
walls for lack of a wardrobe. It’s still not too well suited for entertaining
but it’s adequate for such modest needs as mine. I have no furniture as yet but
several of the enlisted men are capable carpenters, so I shd. soon be fixed up
in the lap of luxury.
Meanwhile the
Colonel’s wife promises a dance next week to welcome the new officers, when our
full-dress uniforms may have been aired & pressed & our sea-tarnished
buttons polished. There aren’t many wives here so those there are won’t lack
for dancing partners!
E. says she
will wear the lace mantilla I brought from our overland crossing through
Nicaragua. I hope you have received the identical one I sent you. It will look
well with your persimmon watered silk, if you still wear it — at least that’s
what I thought when I picked it out for you. Tho’ I don’t know what’s de
rigueur in the fashion line in Richmond, & maybe you are wearing bigger
hoops this season. But that color always brought out your looks, honey.
I hope it has
not been lost in the mails, wh. are supposed to be unreliable from there.
Still, it surely beat a longer journey by way of the Horn & I am heartily glad to have come the way
we did, thieves or no thieves.
I am to get a
puppy from Lt. Fogarty, a brindle hound, as soon as he is old enough to leave
his dam. He has big feet & falls over them. I intend to call him Richmond.
It will be pleasant to have the word upon my tongue again. The hunting out here is nothing to speak of I
am told, the back country is little but brush & dry arroyos, a few jackrabbits
& lizards; but a dog makes a loyal companion & will keep my bed warm,
if I let him!
A cordial
howdy to M. I’m tired & will not begin another page just now, so here
squeezed into a corner of the sheet is but a poor squashed representation of my
love for you — respects to Caleb as always — yr. br. L.
* * *
Less shipwrecked now, some measure of calm and a great deal of resignation returned: patience, too, and even lightheartedness. Their frowns are alike, brother and sister, a thousand miles distant.
U.S.
Garrison, The Angels
that’s what it
means you know – Los Angeles
Nuestra senora de, our Lady of…
January 18th 1861
Sis —
Just a
note, to follow up my last — I am over the chill & wish to let you know
that your likely fear of its turning to pneumonia was unfounded.
I am determined
not to discuss politics in this letter. We are all heartily sick of the topic,
here, yet can’t seem to stop worrying at it like dogs at a dry old meatless
bone.
I also note
the sad anniversary wh. has passed since last I wrote, and cannot remember whether
I alluded to it then. You must know I send my love to you, and blessings on the
little sleeper under that heartbreakingly small headstone, one more year. You shall
meet again, I know it; the Lord is kind, and all your little ones will be
restored to you in heaven, I doubt it not. They await you, darling.
Our news is
slight. E. has some new sheet music from New York, it came on the last packet
and was almost lost at sea — but she is determined that we shall not lack for European polish and culture here in this
outpost. We are to be the most refined garrison upon the continent, I swear.
Quite different from Down in the Valley and all the other songs we grew up with
I must say.
How we fall
on the mail whenever it arrives, by whatever route. Thank you so much honey for
the good brushes. You must let me know what I owe you. Now that I am a full
major I can afford to buy my own supplies!! I am presently working on adding to
my bird sketches, you know theirs is such a singular beauty, a hundred attempts
don’t capture it, & I am no Mr.
Audubon! – but I like to try. Have been looking over the studies I did in the
Blue Ridge mountains that time we were all together, of the moths we would find
on our morning walks, dazed and exhausted on the ground after their night’s
excitements. What a long time ago that seems! Happier days, too, Sis.
D—n! There it
is, in spite of all my good resolutions to the contrary, another reference to
our present troubles. How it will sneak in no matter what, when we are anxious
over some thing!
Suzy, keep me
informed. We are on tenterhooks for each crumb of news. We get the newspapers
here – eventually – but mostly Yankee ones; and I value your perspective above
all, with your sensible head and lack of inflammatory passion. I particularly
wish to know what you think of this Mr. Lincoln — some of the fellows here hold him in utter
disregard, but he appears shrewd in a lawyerish kind of way to me. I like a man
that don’t show off his brilliance until it’s called for. I have a feeling he
is one such. He had something to do with our fellow Virginian Fancy George
Pickett getting in at the Point, I heard, tho’ that may be a mixed blessing,
not that George P. don’t mean well for he does, and intelligence ain’t
everything. But it seems to me that our nation has a crucible to pass through
one way or another, that much has been plain for some time – we have all seen
the writing on the wall. So much hatred and discord, greed, posturing,
name-calling and self-righteousness to be overcome. Is Lincoln the man for it?
He has so many enemies, and no confidence in him from the South at all. I am
praying on my knees for a peaceful outcome.
My love to
Maisie and tell her thanks for the lozenges. No time to write more, the mail is
to leave right away — hastily but affectionately, yr. bro. L.
* * *
In his fingers the closely-written sheets of paper curl, taking the flame ever so slowly at first, licked by it like a lover, flirting along a golden edge, surrendering a corner and then a whole line, a sentence, a paragraph, flames consuming now a word, now a blot – ‘honor’ – ‘dearest’ – ‘know you’ – ‘cannot’ – ‘ever’ – or was it ‘never’? It is too late to tell; it has burned up altogether, and he is holding just a corner, and it has gone up in smoke, all of it, all.
“Better out than in,” as Maisie would say.
Maisie. Who would see through him in a minute.
What else would she say, if she could see him now? Marse Lewis, chile, you is all et-up with this, an’t you. Hush, baby. It be all right. You git it outa your system an you feel a whole lot better. Gotta spew some things up, ain’t no two ways ’bout it.
It had been a relief, strangely, letting the words come freely for once, not biting them back, not forcing his thoughts elsewhere. He had welcomed them even as they clawed their way out so furiously, as they left him lacerated, not pausing while he scribbled whatever insisted upon being said. The forbidden expressed at last, even if only for an hour; his throat and heart open this once like a lark, or a cry of pain, or both…
My darling –
What would I say to you, if ever I could tell you all
that is in my heart? Or even a part of
it –– ?? Tonight by the piano as you
played and sang I thought I must burst like a broken dam, a torrent of feelings
so strong I should drown in them even were they licit –– which they are not.
I am sorry for that.
But God knows I have tried to conduct my self with honor.
Why, I ask sometimes, did He make us so fitted for one
another, men and women, only to give us yearnings that confound all
reason? I have crushed mine down these
fifteen years and more, and yet they grow in spite of all. The more cruelly denied, the more powerful
they become. Where is the sense in
it? Why was I made to want you and only
you, whom I can never have?
Whom I can never even tell –––– ?
What would I tell, if I could?
There are so many things, my dearest, how do I
start? By telling you that I love the
way you smile with half your mouth, leaving the other half for a little wistful
note alongside? Your thick straight
brows, unplucked, determined, no more cognizant of their beauty than your naked
cheek, your unpainted lips? But these
things are no more than the shell of you.
It is your straightforwardness I love – your understanding ––– your essence. Oh, God, and how essential you are.
I know you through and through, Eliza. More than you think, for sure. I could never let on one-hundredth of what I
know, or else you would have my secret out in a heartbeat. I know when you have a headache, and even (I
think) when that time of the month is upon you. I know these things because you
are transparent to me. Because I see you
with the eyes of one who never tires of looking. I know all the ways you move – fluid – straight – soft – stiffly. I know when you are angry and choose to say
nothing and look aside with a pleated mouth.
I know the curve of your neck as nearly as I know amo, amas, amat,
or “pre-sent arms!”: I see it
in my sleep, I fancy it in the dust-coils when we ride out, or the bend of a
sapling, I find it in the crescent moon, the throat of a lily, a robin’s
breast.
God help me, I cannot turn my thoughts from you any
more than I can choose not to breathe.
No, I will say nothing – never, not once, not as long as I live will I
give you cause for alarm or embarrassment, no nor George neither, I promise you
that. You have my word on it. I hope you know that counts for something, in
spite of all. Even the times I have
fallen from all grace and honor with
you, it has been my private cross to bear, not yours. Sometimes I think it is the only thing left
to hold on to –– that you shouldn’t know of my feelings for you, that you must
never know.
But how can you not?
Do you?? That would be another
fifteen-year’s torture, that alone, wondering if you do.
I don’t think he does.
But I can’t know that for sure, either.
Only that he would die before he called me on it, if indeed he did.
George, George.
My friend. God knows I know him
too – the way he counts on you to guide him even while he appears to take the
reins – his need for our love and approbation, as if our good opinion were
bellows to his own – so bold and bright on the outside, but a fire built
hastily, apt to waver in a draft – I
know your tolerant glance, the things you feel when he blusters and
struts, that mixture of affection, pity, indulgence, understanding. The way he trusts in your wifely submission,
and you choose to make a gift of it, though at times it galls you – the
tenderness in your eyes when he is speaking in one of his passions. How straight he is, the proverbial
arrow. How loyal. God forgive me.
I cannot help it.
I love you as a husband would, I think – at least, it
is a fancy of mine, that the first rapturous blaze of joy and passion are left
far behind: I see you not from the
outside, nor upon a pedestal, nor even in a silken bower, but twisted round my
soul as if you had taken root there, part of my strength, my very self. Not that the desire is past – would I tell you
of that, too, if I could tell all my heart?
I suppose I must, to be honest, since there is no point in holding-back
this flood of thoughts – yes, I want you, I could no more pretend I do not than
I could claim to be the man in the moon.
I want you as a man longs for water when he is athirst, for bread when
an-hungered. I long for your touch like
a parched field for rain. The very
thought of it makes my flesh leap and my soul faint. When your gaze found mine upon you tonight I
did not know what to do with my self. As
I do not know, so many, many nights, as I lie aching – if I could come home
into your arms just once, once even, once in a lifetime of yearning for you, if
only, if only –––––––– ah, dear God –––––
I confess I have dreamed it, now and then. A dance,
you passing from George’s arm into my embrace, whispering, “it’s your
turn now…” …the white lawn and lace of
your petticoats, swanlike, your arms open, bidding me come all the way in to
your heart –– so sweet I cannot bear it –– so lonely I want to die when I wake
a-trembling and ashamed. Who would
guess at such midnight scorchings? I
should hardly cut much of a figure as a lover, not now, not after all this
time. A pitiful sight, if anyone ever
were to guess what bonfires torment this worn-out body, unless ridicule were more
appropriate. This wrenching need for
your embrace which I can never know – along with the ague, once in a while, not
to mention the bouts with dysentery ever since Mexico, where I left my health
and my youth these many years ago –
fortunately, I suppose, since I must appear by now quite harmless and
middle-aged, my true disguise, hardly a
threat to anyone’s connubial bliss, most especially not that of my closest
friend. Impossible, to imagine such a
dull & wretched fellow burning-up, drawn moth-like to the candle of your
being.
You see, I do know where this flight leads, I have
always known; and still I do not turn from it
–– would not, if I could.
So I will go on, then, watching and listening and
hoping to see you smile, even make you laugh out loud once in a while. Grateful for the share of kindness that is to
be had at your family table. For your
mending my clothes, stitching my cuts, playing the songs you know I like
best. For the ball you suddenly turn
and throw my way with an impish look, to surprise George. For the times you ask my advice, and listen
gravely. For George’s friendship, and
yours. Do not think I discount the value
of that – your friendship. I cherish it
above all worldly gains: return it with
all my heart. I know I cannot ask for
more than that.
I remain at your service, until I can no longer move
nor speak, or longer yet if will alone suffices. Of that I am sure.
And what would you say, if you read this? Though I should die before you did.
“Oh, my dear,” perhaps. How I should like to hear even that.
But you say my name gently: I can hear it now, in your low voice. It will do.
It must.
Dear God.
Now what?
The flame, is what. The paper consumed with a clear bright tongue, making fiery sparks as he blinks.
The smell of burning …
The empty bed.
* * *
“Lewis,” she says one day, while she is sewing and he is painting a California blue-jay’s feather in his bird sketchbook and George is stretched-out under a tree inspecting (so he says) the inside of his eyelids, “Lewis, do you remember how you told me you taught your servant to read and write? The one that’s with your sister now?”
He draws a deep breath, notices she has tactfully used the less loaded of the two words that begin with ‘s’ to describe Maisie. “You remember that? God, that was years ago!”
“I remember lots of things,” says Eliza, taking careful neat blind-stitches.
Lewis flushes. “So I did, yes,” he says.
“Even though it wasn’t allowed.”
“That’s right.”
The papers have been full of rhetoric and bombast, lately; the instability is mounting, back East. Out here in California the afternoon is sleepy, buzzing with cicadas. Since their first conversation on the subject, so long ago, Eliza has lived in the South; seen its beauty and brutality for herself, recoiled from it, brought her Northern judgments and had them confirmed a thousand times over. But not rubbed his nose in it, since the system is none of his doing.
Today, though, with everything that is fomenting, she has to know. “How can they think it’s right, to keep people in ignorance as well as servitude?” she asks him: “Can you defend it?”
The brush, loaded with steely-blue, jolts on the page: a long smear. He swallows; tears out the page he has been working-on for the last half-hour; folds it carefully, as if it were still useful; puts it in his pocket. “No,” he says huskily, “no, I cain’t.”
She sets down her sewing in her lap, not before jabbing her fingertip with the needle. “What do you think will come of it, Lew?”
“Nothing good,” he says, “that’s for sure. But, ’Liza – it’s like a lie, d’you see? Something bad at the beginning, something rotten at the center, and then you have to buttress it with other bad things, more lies, more wrongs, to keep it going – after a while it gets so entrenched, there’s no end to it… ”
“And you can make that argument to defend it? You can accept it?”
“No,” he says, “no, I can’t. ’S one reason I came here, left for the military – I didn’t want that life, wanted to stand on my own – but it’s the way it is, back home… God only knows how to change it: I don’t… there’s other wrongs, everywhere, you know, that’s not the only one, now, is it…?”
“What wrongs?”
“Oh, drunken husbands that beat their wives and have title to all their property – children born out of wedlock and blamed for it, as if theirs was the sin — the way we sign treaties with the red man and then just tear them up when it suits us – hypocrisy, ’Liza, it’s everywhere, don’t you see it?” He is shaking; there is a white line around his mouth.
“How do you do it, then, how do you put on that uniform every day, if you represent something that doesn’t always do right?”
He stares at her, a long unhappy stare. So fine a face, she thinks: he ought to have been a teacher, a minister, had the tender of men’s souls and minds, not their arming and provisioning and drilling in bloodshed.
“I have no answer for you,” he says at length, “ – none for myself, neither. Unless you want to talk about loving a thing even when you know it ain’t always right, but you promised to stick by it and so you do. And besides, this is all I know how to do.”
She looks over at her husband under the tree. Sometimes George is hasty; often he is brusque, unkind even in his impatience, although always sorry for his cutting words afterwards. Can one be wed to a country in the same way?
Lewis is looking at her: she feels his gaze even while she cannot meet it. “Your finger,” he says, “quick, now – it’s all set to bleed on that shirt you’re hemming.”
He is right: the bead of blood is ready to drip. She catches it, just in time; brings it to her lips quickly, before it spoils George’s shirt-front. It tastes of iron and salt.
Lewis wonders how he saw it through the blur. It was so bright, he supposes, that small splash of color in the paleness of her – one would put just so small a dot of red in a painting, and the eye would be drawn to it instantly also.
She thinks: he sees everything I do. He is watching me suck my finger, now.
He is not, though; he is looking over at George, and she sees a sparkle trembling on the surface of his eyeball.
“What will you do if Virginia secedes?” she asks him softly, since this hurt is already raw and if there ever was a time to ask this, it might as well be now.
“I don’t know,” he says, “god help me, I don’t, Eliza.”
“What do you think you’ll do?”
George sits up, rubs his eyes. “Old Lew’ll do his duty, won’t you, Lew,” he says heartily.
“I didn’t know you were awake,” says Eliza. Why didn’t you stay quiet, George, she thinks, feeling cheated of her answer.
Lewis gets up, excuses himself with a small bow, ever the courteous one; walks off to empty the colored paint-water from his beaker.
“He was ready to reply, George,” she says quietly, as much of a rebuke as it is in her nature to make.
“I know,” said George, “and I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear it – or he, to come out and say it. It’s eating him alive, Lizzie.”
“But he’ll have to decide – and we’ll have to know, sooner or later.”
“Not unless it comes to it,” says George: “pray that it won’t, Lizzie, pray with all you’ve got that it don’t.”
Little George comes back with Lewis, his knees grubby, bearing three small panfish and a large grin. “There ain’t no more’n a mouthful on each of ’em,” Lewis is saying, “but I’ll help you gut and scale ’em, sir, if you’d like.”
George is almost six years old, and he would like it very much indeed.
Lewis
California
1861
His fingers do not want to hold the pen:
California,
April
1861
Dearest
Susannah,
I write
to tell you I have decided to resign my commission in the Army of the United
States. It is not at your urging, although I know you wish it; but you of all
people must know that I do not do so lightly.
Sis, I have
prayed that this day could be postponed, diverted, somehow never to come: but circumstances leave me no choice, in all
conscience. If I remain in the U.S. Army, I must be ordered to take up arms
against my native state: it will be my duty to invade my own homeland as
conqueror, representing a foreign power, to fire upon the people and soil of
Virginia, which as you know I consider, if not sacred, then sacrosanct. This
compulsion I believe to be unconstitutional and against every thing our
ancestors fought for in ridding themselves of tyranny, by wh. I understand the
subjection of a people to a power they do not recognize!
This I cannot
do. How I can do what I must, though, I do not yet know: for the alternative is no less unthinkable —
if I am unwilling to fight Virginia, then I must be prepared to fight instead
my own brother officers, the Army of the country which up till now I considered
my own, and still heartily wish it were!
Sis it fairly
tears the heart out of me — there are fellows jumping up and down and
demonstrating in the streets back home so I hear, rabid for Secession, for
independence, for self-government, and all I can see is waste and destruction
and heartbreak. I doubt they can have been to war, as I have, and seen at first
hand what it truly is. Damn them for hot-headed fools: they have played into the hands of the most
rabid Unionists, no more than cat’s-paws, manipulated into becoming the
aggressors in a conflict no-one can win, only lose. Which of us will lose the
most? That is all it remains to find out now.
But what else
can I do? What does my honor as a Virginian require of me? As an officer? As a
man?
Col. Johnston
is to travel home across country to join our new nation — shall I ever get used
to thinking of it thus? Heaven help it! I shall join him. There are several of
us here in similar case. I expect to be offered a colonelcy as they must make
the most use of every professional soldier they have got, specially those of us
who have attended the Point and have real fighting experience.
I don’t
suppose Caleb feels as torn as I, since he is not regular Army, and his loyalty
to the State of Virginia has already led him into the State Militia. O Suzy,
Suzy, what a disaster! What a terrible thing this is!! Can these political
fellows not pull something out of the fire, to save us all from this? If they
were the ones to pay the price they surely would! Is it really too late?
Upon
examination I question whether our position may be tenable, Sis. Privately I am
uneasy about the institution of slavery— you know my views on the subject. I
would not happily ally myself with those who wd. uphold or defend it. I do not
believe a country wh. practices it can continue unscathed. It will have its
price in blood. If we had stayed in the Union it wd. have been my fondest
desire to see it ended legally and constitutionally. We shall pay a different
coin, now, and not undeservedly. We march into the future shackled by it.
Have those brave
Carolinians dancing in the streets considered our lack of foundries? factories?
railroads? War is not won with spirit, Sis, or not only so, tho’ it is an
essential part and one wh. I hope I do not lack: but where are our small arms & ordinance
to come from? Cannons must have ammunition — whence is our gunpowder to be
procured, once seized Federal arsenals have been used up? And they will be, if
this thing blows up in our faces. We are not in for a quick skirmish, if we
take on the Union.
Who will lead
us? They had better find a man of superhuman spirit, Sis, because we don’t have
the rest of the equation — materiel, we call it honey, and the South is long on
cotton, short on materiel. We will have to import it, capture it or go without,
while the North can make all it wants and to spare. Those who do not on
reflection see this may be disappointed in the long run. I question, if they
have taken it into account sufficiently in Government!
Great Britain
knows what side her bread is buttered on, & it ain’t ours, cotton or no
cotton. Industry counts, cotton don’t.
Glory, glory,
that’s what they call for I hear, well I’ve had my fill of glory in Mexico and
a stiff ankle to show for it, not to mention more dysentery than a man shd.
have to suffer in a lifetime, and what glory is to be found in firing upon my
former countrymen I am hard put to imagine.
Duty, however,
is something I can understand and shall do, as I have done, as best I
understand my duty to be. Under what authority I place myself is my free
choice, as a man; then I shall follow orders.
George of
course being a Pennsylvania man has no such decision to make. I wonder, if he
were not, wh. he wd. choose? Would he agonize over it, as I have done, or wd.
his path be as clear and simple as it has always been?
I hope to God
that after the shock of actually firing on one another has shaken the States to
their foundations, they will come to their senses and find a way to settle
this. For the North won’t let us go quietly, Sis, to set up a new country on
their doorstep. They are as determined to uphold the Union at all costs as we
are to leave it! How I hope I may not be naive in believing it can be
accomplished somehow. Opinions predict a swift and easy victory, in the
conversations I have had — unfortunately, depending on whose opinion, the
spoils go to one side or the other: I
don’t know.
Can we have
our independence, without war? We could not, last time. Now our own fellow
states have become the tyrant whose yoke we chafe under. Yet how can any of us
act, if not from the conviction that we are in the right and do wh. we must?
That is a very terrible resolution Suzy — one I fear will bring much
destruction before this thing is done. I know I am going on but you can’t
imagine how I have pondered all of this in the years and months and weeks up
till now.
So Suzy dear
I shall see you shortly, I dare say, and tho’ it promises to be far from the
happiest homecoming in the world it will have flags I expect, & gold lace
& drills & parades, and my darling sister to welcome me as always,
whatever the wounded state of my heart & conscience, believing me to be
fundamentally decent & loveable, no matter wh. scrapes I have gotten
into: for wh. you don’t know Suzy, you
can’t know, how I do thank you.
I have not told her
yet, but I think fr. the way she looks at me that she knows wh. I must do. I
have found myself under her gaze once or twice lately with an expression of
great sadness & compassion in her eyes. If I were not so well schooled at
keeping my composure I shd. surely have wept upon her bosom in response, by
now. Perhaps one day I shall yet, when all this is over. What a relief that wd.
be! Tho’ I fear once I started I should not stop for a good while — I must have
an ocean of unshed tears by now I sometimes think, not too manly an admission
but there it is, no-one’s fault but mine. It is an ache you know Sis, that
never quite leaves. If it were gone I shd. miss it, I think, not unlike a limb.
Later
Well I
thought I shd. get this sent to you, it will take you a week to read it this
far! but now I have sth. more to relate since my spirits are calmer, &
would like to re-tell some moments wh. surely must count among the sweetest
& most poignant of my life.
Suzy I told
you she suspected wh. I must do — I have just now come from speaking, first
with her & then with G. also.
I passed her
on my way to the mess & she stopped me, laying her hand on my arm: How troubled you look, she said. She called
me her dear. It must be dreadful, to be torn so, she said. She looked into my
eyes. In truth I can have no secrets from her when she does so. Her tone had a
stillness wh. I yearn to feel in myself, tempest-tost as I am. O! Suzy.
She wanted me
to know — she repeated this — before I shd. say, wh. I have chosen to do: she wanted me to know her opinion of me as a
man of honor and conscience. Whatever I decided, she said, she felt sure it wd.
be from my heart: whose loyalty and
integrity, she said, have never been in question; nor are they now. No-one cd.
fault me, she told me, for doing wh. I believe to be right.
And what if I
tell you I’m leaving, I said — it came out harsher than I intended — to fight
for Virginia?
She replied
with profound sincerity that she regretted it, but that she had meant every
word she said: and fixing me with her
wide grey gaze, as deep as the sea it seems to me at times like these, she told
me she knew me through and through; knew I was incapable of an unworthy act;
knew that I shd. do my duty. Lewis, that’s all anyone can ask of you, she said,
& she looked through my face into my
soul, I swear: that’s all you can ask of
yourself, she said, truly, Lewis; truly.
O Suzy
imagine how I felt!!! Hearing such kindness from one whose understanding has
come to matter to me so! To find words to comfort & uphold me, even tho’ I
must turn my face from her, from her country — once mine! — and her people!
What feeling, what loveliness of spirit are hers!!! If all parties approached the dilemma with
such magnanimity, surely we wd. not be taking up arms!
George came
up then, seeing us engaged thus, and spoke straight out as is his way: Well. Lewis, what’s it to be? he said, bluff and hearty as if he were
enquiring what was for breakfast. — Can’t sit on the fence much longer you
know, old man!
Virginia, I
said. The single word says it all, for me.
Thought so,
he replied, and clapped my shoulder. — Well! Strange times, eh?
Strange times
indeed, Sis. God grant they may yet not turn to catastrophe. Where will it all
lead? Are we to be two separate nations? What if we are divided again? Once one
admits of the right to Secession, there may be no end to the fragmentation of
our once glorious Union! At what cost is it to be accomplished? I hope I do not
lack the courage, to see this through as it must be seen through, all the way
to its conclusion, by resolute action in the face of necessity & adversity
& all kinds of disaster: even by
laying down my life, if need be.
Suzy I have
loved Virginia all my days. I am her son. She has given me without stint the
blessings of home, family, the sweetness of belonging. Now she is calling in
her debts. I shall be true to her. As she has nurtured my flesh & blood
& taught me honor, so these are due her now. Where do I come from, if not
from Virginia? Certainly not from a Union wh. does not include her. I shall do
whatever she requires of me, cheerfully, the best way I know how. It is that
& that alone wh. must count; for I know of no higher natural duty, save
that I owe to God. Thus it is decided: thus I must be sustained.
What a solemn
letter! I know I have begun to repeat myself, so I shall stop here. Can there
truly be jubilation over this, back at home? Are they sensible of the gravity
of what they do? It has helped me considerably honey, finding the words to
express to you the tangled skein of thoughts wh. have been twisting in my
breast for so long. Do you find that it helps you, to marshal wh. you think on
paper, in trying to explain it to another?
Bless you
dearest Sis. Hard times are ahead, there can be no doubt of that. As I count on
you honey, in feast and famine, so be assured you must likewise count always on
the unchanging affection of your brother
Lewis
A.A.
And so it begins, the nightmare without end, and becomes normal, banal even, as the most terrible things have a way of doing, after a while.
War.
Civil War.
Brother against brother: friend against friend. Well, yes –– shrug: what did they expect? Duty. A task to do; training and habit to help get it done. The unthinkable is now his daily routine; is familiar; must be not only thought, but endured, prosecuted, to the fullest extent of his ability.
He is extremely able.
Eliza
California
1861
When it became clear, in the Spring of ’61, after Mr. Lincoln’s inauguration, when the news of the firing upon Fort Sumter had reached us, that the Union was broken asunder and that a war was inevitable – a war in which our friends must change their uniforms for those of their own states, no longer in our Union – when this lay terribly clearly before us, so clearly that they had resigned their commissions, our friends Lewis and Col. Albert Sidney Johnston and a dozen others – George threw a party.
That was like him. If you couldn’t get everything you wanted, in George’s book, why then you darned well celebrated whatever you had.
We were in California. The East seemed ten thousand miles away, the infernal machine of its politics grinding toward a disaster no-one wanted, one we were entirely powerless to prevent; but it was grinding its way towards us. There was a lot of talk of honor and duty, and sacrifice; freedom and rights, and all those high-sounding words that sooner or later demand their price in the shriek of artillery and poor mangled men. It must be a blessing, that we chart our courses into the future without benefit of a crystal ball, or else we must have seen the unimaginable horror and desolation which were to come; though doubtless we would have refused to believe it. But the talk that night was of attachment more than abattoirs. Attachment to our home states: to our country, whatever we surmised that to be; to each other.
The optimistic ones among us thought it would be over in a few months. (We have all heard that before!) We toasted one another in champagne. George never did things by halves.
George and Lewis laughed and drank together, more than usual by a long way, and swore to remain friends, come what may. Then they wept and swore they would not hurt a hair of each others’ heads, not directly, if they could help it. Lewis clasped George by the shoulders: ‘You cannot know what this has cost me – !’ he said. I saw the tracks of tears down his cheeks. George went very red, and said nothing. Then they laughed some more, and someone asked me to play the piano one last time for all of us together.
I could have sat down to it more easily without those three poignant little words sticking in my throat, but I did so. We sang ‘The Minstrel Boy’ and ‘Home Sweet Home’, and some of my favorite spirituals: ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’ and ‘Give Me Jesus’.
‘Sing that at my funeral,’ said Lewis, with a smile even more lopsided than usual. ‘Never mind those prosy old hymns: When I come to die – oh; when I come to die – oh; when I come to die, Give me Jesus. Dark midnight was my cry – dark midnight was my cry; dark midnight was my cry; Give me Je – sus! His voice blended with mine.
Overcome, I got up from the instrument then and slipped away from the company out of doors. Someone took my place.
Lewis’s voice said my name across the rocky path. The ocean was not far away; its roar and suck came to us clearly on the salt breeze. He joined me. Neither of us spoke. What was there to say?
I looked up at the stars, burning overhead with a cold fire. They seemed hopelessly beautiful; so remote – so serenely, perfectly indifferent. You don’t see them like that here in Philadelphia, not nowadays, with all the street lamps, but that night they would have taken your breath away.
He had taught me their names, in a happier time. He was a born teacher, he had that passion for sharing knowledge for its own sake, for the pure delight of it: the names of things, the whys and wherefores. He and George shared that burning curiosity about the world, that never sees a thing without asking questions about it: George, so that he could bend it to his will and master it; Lewis, for the sake of understanding it. In teaching little George to ride, he had also taught him the names of all the pieces of harness, all the parts of the horse: my son absorbed it all as easily as a draught from a clear spring.
‘It doesn’t matter to them, does it,’ I said. ‘The stars. They just stare down from that impossible height, cold-hearted — unfeeling...’
‘They could hardly do anything else,’ he replied. ‘Put our troubles in perspective, don’t they?’
‘No,’ I said.
He knew I was right; he’d been trying to put a brave face on it, for my sake. I didn’t want that from him then. I wanted the truth.
A crunch of footsteps sounded on a patch of gravel behind us, light running steps, the fat legs of a little boy: my son.
‘George,’ I greeted him, ‘you said you’d go to sleep.’
‘I will,’ he replied amiably, ‘but I didn’t say when. I heard you talking. I knew it was you. What are you talking about?’
‘The sky,’ said Lewis.
Among other things, I thought. All the things we’re not talking about.
George looked up. The moon was so bright, it threw shadows. ‘Lewis, is there really a man in the moon?’
Oh, I thought, he’s only five; let him be a child a little longer. Don’t tell him there isn’t. We are shattering enough illusions as it is, right now. I looked at Lewis.
Lewis smiled. ‘Well, look for yourself,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’
‘How could he burn his mouth on cold pease porridge?’
‘Well, I guess it would depend on what he was used to,’ Lewis replied. ‘Maybe there’s nothing but ice up there. It looks like ice, don’t it? Colder than you could imagine –!’
George’s mouth hung open. ‘Did your toes really get froze?’ he asked, in a child’s effortless non-sequitur.
‘Really,’ said Lewis. ‘That’s why I haven’t got them any more.’
‘Doesn’t it hurt?’
‘Not at all. You know, George, the Indians think it’s a woman.’
‘What?’
‘That face. Up there in the moon. She’s being punished. She’s in exile up there. She wants to come down, and she can’t.’
‘Oh,’ said George. ‘Papa makes me stay in my room like that when I’ve been disobedient. I guess she does look kind of sad.’
‘I’ll say,’ Lewis said. ‘Now say goodnight to your mama and leave her be, sir. It’s past your bedtime, on your honor now, ain’t it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ George admitted. ‘Goodnight, mama. Sweet dreams.’
‘Sweet dreams,’ I tried to reply. My voice had to squeeze past the constriction in my throat, so it came out reedy and high-pitched.
George saluted and ran off back to the quarters. ‘I’ll miss him,’ Lewis said.
Ice. Thin ice. Say it.
‘Goodbye, Eliza,’ he said.
I took his hands in mine. ‘Oh, Lewis. Oh my dear. I can’t tell you what your friendship means to me,’ I told him.
‘I’m glad, if I’ve been of service to you,’ he said.
‘I’m not talking about service,’ I said, and took his face in both my hands and kissed him.
He drew breath sharply. I threw my arms about him, and after a moment’s hesitation he did likewise. I kissed him, not as a friend but as a sweetheart. He let go of some inner restraint – I felt his posture change – and kissed me back, with a great deal of feeling. As I held him to me I felt his body’s helpless response. After so many years of taking his tenderness for granted, this jolted me. Of course: of course, he was a man, with a man’s passions and feelings! But I had rarely allowed myself to consider the physical force of it, reined in, kept in check. All this time, unrelenting: sixteen years; more. I knew, of course I knew: I claim no naiveté, as to his regard. Not after those moments in the middle of the night in Texas. A man leaving you to go stand under the pump is hardly a thing you could misunderstand. Perhaps way back at the beginning, in New Orleans, I hadn’t believed it could be me; but what with one thing and another, anyone who cared for him as I did could not fail to know sooner or later. However, an intuition and an actual embrace are two very different things. Oh, Lewis, my dear.
I thought of him differently, after that. I stopped pretending to myself. Sometimes I found myself wondering... well, it may be guessed, as to what.
Our embrace lasted a few seconds only. That was all he let himself have; it was already more than he would ever have taken, left to his honorable self. Gently he unlinked my fingers behind his back, and holding both my hands in his he stepped back to look at me.
‘God keep you, Eliza,’ he said, his voice strained.
‘And you, Lewis,’ I said. ‘I shall pray for you, my dearest.’
He stared at me as if he could never get enough of staring; as if he were going to starve, and needed to store up the sight of me against all the days to come. ‘Goodbye, then,’ is what he said.
‘Goodbye,’ I said.
He closed his eyes, and opened them on a sigh. Then he kissed my hand and strode away back up the steps.
The send-off the next day was not private: just waving and blown kisses and handkerchiefs fluttering, and shaken heads, and more sighs – putting a brave face on the unthinkable.
George and Lewis embraced again, right before the little column mounted-up. George cleared his throat, looking as if he had mislaid something and didn't quite know what – casting around as if he might come to recognize the thing he had lost. The group prepared to ride out. Perversely, there was a sense of relief, this agonizing chapter at least now drawing to a close.
George stood to attention – they all did, those who remained behind. These were their brothers and comrades bidding farewell – not yet their enemies. Not yet.
I could not take my eyes off Lewis.
He was all ready to leave, second in line, mounted behind Colonel Johnston. The colonel’s horse pawed skittishly; Lewis’s stood still, waiting.
I went to him, in that last moment while I still could; put my hand over his where it rested lightly on his knee holding the reins. He looked drawn, as if he had not slept – pale but determined. I didn’t know what to say – only that I could not let him go like that. Or at all. My mouth felt full of ash. I looked up at him. He had never looked more remote – or more dear. I don’t know what he saw in my face. He bent towards me.
How useless words were. “Please – take care — ” I told him.
He looked away, down the horse’s glossy flank, then met my gaze again. His eyes were wet and bright. “I’ll try,” he said. “Thank – thank you — for saying-so.”
“Goodbye, Lewis,” I said.
A pulse flickered in the hollow of his cheek. “Goodbye,” he replied, and hesitated – “Eliza — ” – and then he nodded, touched his hat to me formally, gave his horse a little heel so that it pulled away from me. His eyes held mine a moment longer: “ – my love — ” his mouth formed in addition, soundlessly. I knew he said it. He knew I saw; had meant me to. No-one saw it but me.
After sixteen years, he let his lips shape the words. And I knew instantly he never expected to see me again – or else it would still have remained unsaid. But it had come down to this, and he chose to tell the truth: all of it. This one time, when it was too late for anything else.
My intestines cramped. Why is it only at leave-takings that we permit ourselves to feel fully what it is we are about to lose? Let me not have to say any more good-byes in my life, please, dear God. I have had more than enough for one lifetime. This one alone was worth half of them.
He bowed once more from the saddle, very slowly and deliberately; blinked several times; tried to smile, and failed; touched his spurs just barely to the flanks of his horse, and turned from me to ride on. His back was straight and thin. We watched until the cloud of their dust hid them entirely from our sight, and longer still.
I went to my room, sat on my bed, and put my head in my hands. My throat was too dry and full of dust to weep.
I have made up for it since.
George came in soon after, and began to unfasten his britches with a sharp glint in his eyes. Grief did that to him – he always wanted to run away from it and hide in me. I made my body acquiesce even while my soul flinched. He needed me.
I wasn’t sure that Lewis had ever needed me – after all, he had done without all this time. Just wanted; yes, that was all – the way a man in the desert wants water.
If he had ever asked – ? But then, that would not have been him.
I kept seeing his face as he said it, right before he turned and rode away. The sense of something stripped – something rawer, nobler still underneath it.
And pride; regret; and an extraordinary calm, a mingling of relief and resolve. Nothing left to lose, any more. We knew what was in each others’ hands, always had – but now, finally, all the cards lay face-up on the table. His, anyway.
And I heard it, afterwards, endlessly, unvoiced as it was – as he had meant me to; must have –
My love.
And George —
what did he think, watching them ride off?
What loyalties,
what thoughts, what emotions stirred in his bosom?
He was never one
to say much on that score, although he was never short of conversation: except about the things that matter the most,
hurt the most. He was always silent
about those.
A friend, the
dearest one he had, leaving him to take up arms against him: dear God, what
must it have cost him to watch Lew ride away?
To throw that party as if it were just another posting?
At the time we
were so absorbed in it that it seemed some dread inevitable dream unfolding,
from which we wanted to wake up but could not;
so we went through all the motions with one another.
Characteristically,
though, George’s response was one of generosity.
Of course: what else?
It was, after all, one of his signal virtues. We all loved him for it. And George was never lacking when it came to
acting decisively. He often let it speak
for him, the things that were hardest to say.
He blinked a
lot, I remember. First he had dressed
again and splashed water on his face and gone outside to regroup, along with
the others who had stayed behind, to get past their shock, begin the task of
carrying on as if all were perfectly normal.
As if half of our friends had not just ridden off into the desert to go
home and fight us.
He came back to
our quarters that were so empty now, and sat down heavily in the best
parlour-chair.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, pushing back his glossy hair from his brow, ‘but I gave him your picture. Old Lew. To take with him. Well, I didn’t give it to him. Not exactly. It might’ve... well, I put it in his bag. I reckoned I could get another one easier than he could.’
My picture. I looked grave in it: one did, the plate took forever to record the image. One stared sternly into the distance, tried not to move. George’s almost always came out blurred.
I thought about my face, about what he could have meant by such a gesture. My severe expression in the picture: my mask of calm now. Were my eyes red?
‘That was kind,’ I said. ‘Did you put in yours and little George’s, too?’
‘I didn’t like to take them off your dresser,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, the picture of you belonged to me, so I figured...’ He didn’t complete the sentence. I kissed his cheek. ‘Dammit, I’ll miss him,’ he said, turning aside. ‘I hope to God —’ And he smashed his fist into his palm several times. I said nothing. I had learned not to, at such times.
George; George. My still-handsome, curly-haired husband of sixteen years; Lewis’s friend for longer than that. What an extraordinary gift for him to have made.
There were still some loyalties that came above country, then, I thought.
Thank God.
Lewis
California & Overland
1861
Ashes.
The last year in California – a year he never could have imagined, worse than any nightmare. Hope is exhausted, leaving nowhere to turn any more. There is no ground on which to stand with honor, except to make himself their enemy. Thus: the one thing more painful than staying with them – leaving.
Packing his few things to ride out at dawn with Colonel Johnston, he forms farewells in his mind, but cannot bring himself to commit them to ink-and-paper.
The leave-taking – harder than anything they had imagined.
He mouths the words to Eliza, knowing if he does not do
so he never will: my love.
May God and George forgive him.
And afterwards, round the campfire, that first night out, the few of them gather in a circle, meeting each others’ gaze with a weary recognition, somber, the weight of it freshly on them, the journey ahead, the loss they cannot escape no matter what the outcome. He unwraps his bedroll, to lie down on the stony ground, and something falls from it.
Her picture.
The grave look she sometimes has, as if deep in thought. So beautiful: the height of her brow and her hair’s dark wings lifting off it together wring his bowels, knowing he will most likely never see her again.
Wrapped round the small frame, a note from George, a scrap torn from a lined exercise-book, that dashing hand legible even by camp-fire-light.
Six words: George was always economical.
I thought you should have this.
The look on his face as he realizes all that is being said –– now that it is too late for anything but the truth between them, and almost too late for that.
But not altogether, as George’s gift implies. Not too late, not quite yet. Just late enough that the truth is all that matters, since nothing else does, any more: this extraordinary simple shattering gift, a loyalty of another kind, not to country but of the heart.
As George must have intended – he could hardly have meant it any other way – he looks back by its light down all the years, re-colored now; and bears its tender flame ahead into the blank, implacable future where all he knows is that he has been seen all along: seen, and forgiven.
Lewis
On Campaign, Virginia
1862
He sits up late, by candle-light, a small writing-desk open on a folding camp-stool, and shares his heart with Suzy: the habit of twenty years, now more than ever offering solace and leading him kindly, mercifully toward sleep.
He even finds an amusing story for her, his furrowed brow
lightening in the telling of it. There
are lines across it now that do not disappear when his face is in repose, so
this brief lifting of cares lends him a youthful look for these few
minutes. He lifts his chin, looks into
the creamy-grey canvas of his field-tent, all spotted and mildewed; sighs, and turns once more to his page.
In the Field,
May
12th 1862
Dearest Suzy,
A quick
line to reassure you of my wellbeing. Could you use a small chuckle? I shall
tell you of my adventures after our brigade was caught in a little skirmish
last week. Things are brewing for a fight., I wd. say. Well, when all was quiet
once more I went out with just the one companion to round up a few stragglers
and make my own reconnoissance. My adjutant’s horse went lame so I went on
alone. In a barn I found a little fellow
from Harry Dove’s regiment, couldn’t have been a day over sixteen, sitting
beneath a great black iron cauldron on his lap wh. was bigger than he was! The
farmer had boiled up some mush in it for the hogs and most humanely neglected
to wash it afterwards — my young private was scraping out the dried-up crust
with his bayonet.
I greeted him
softly, so as not to alarm him, and he squinted up at me through the darkness
as if he suspected me of wanting to share his good fortune. He was so intent on
his task that had I been a Yankee picket I could have garroted him; but
fortunately I wasn’t, and didn’t.
I reassured
him; he cd. not see my rank, I think, only hear a familiar Virginia voice: ‘Finish your dinner, son,’ I said, and told
him where to find the rest of us when he
was done. As I was leaving I heard a muffled clucking.
‘And have you
taken a prisoner, too, son?’ I asked.
He hung his
head. You know we have very strict injunctions against stealing from farmers,
my boys will freeze before they break down a split-rail fence and let animals
into a hard-won crop just for a little firewood, tho’ the Union soldiers
couldn’t care less. But God knows I know what it is to be hungry. ‘Here,’ I
said, giving him a couple of coins, ‘leave this where they’ll find it when they
get back. Then it won’t be stealing. And be sure to invite me to your dinner
tomorrow.’
‘You bet,’ he
said. ‘Whose outfit’re you in, old man? I’m in ole Strongarm’s, the 5th
Virginia, Co. H.’
‘Why, I guess
I’d have to say my own,’ I told him.
‘I’m your brigade commander, sonny. You’re in my brigade, are you? Well, I
guess you’ll know where to find me with that invitation.’
The poor lad
snapped a salute and stood up, & the chicken saw its chance at freedom and
ran out of the sack he was sitting on — his bayonet clattered into the
cauldron, and what with one thing and another there was such an unholy ruckus I
was afraid the Yankees would find us again! I helped him catch the chicken and
must tell you that we deemed it best to sacrifice the poor bird before there
shd. be any more outcry.
My stomach
was rumbling loud enough to hear, but I declined his offer to share the
swill-pot and accepted a green apple out of his haversack instead, for the sake
of being a gracious guest, and went on my way. It’s a shame we can’t keep them
better fed. I surely cd. use one of your good pre-war dinners just now. I am
salivating just to think of it. I know you send whatever you can spare, this is
not a request for more — you have been so very generous, with Caleb to
supply also.
More news
whenever I can manage it — yr. own devoted
L.
* * *
He is wet and shivering;
exhausted, too. But this letter
will wait no longer:
Beside
the Chickahominy,
Northern
Virginia
June
2nd 1862.
Darling Sis,
Sit
down. Yes, bad news; not the worst.
I wish I were
not the one to bring this news to you. I cannot break it softly: Caleb is
missing.
We had a
large engagement near Seven Pines two days ago and I sought word of him
immediately afterwards. Now honey before you fall in a faint, I repeat he is missing
— I have myself looked all over for his body, or his face or uniform among the
wounded. I have questioned the survivors of his regiment closely and they were
hard-pressed overrunning the Yankee lines when the enemy rallied and
counter-attacked — so it is my dearest hope that he has been captured by the
Yankees and is unharmed in their hands. My old friend Oliver Howard has a
command over there, I saw the colors of a regiment in his brigade — he is
Regular Army, a gentleman and a thoroughly decent fellow, so we must hope for the best. If Caleb is with Ol he’ll
be well treated.
Once more
Suzy, read this carefully. I have looked on the faces of all our slain, the
drowned included, a ghastly and piteous night’s work concluded with the aid of
a pitch-pine torch, but a task I gladly undertook for your sake honey, and he
was not among them. I was as thorough as I cd. be. I found my poor little
mess-mate of last month. I therefore
have every hope that Caleb is safe and sound in Yankee hands and that you will
soon hear of his parole. No news is good news honey, you know that, you must
believe it. Keep your faith in a wise and loving Providence, Which graces us
without stint.
I hear George
is over there too somewhere under McClellan, who is nothing but a coxcomb, a
useless quarter-master mannequin of a soldier:
George is worth ten of him, he must be chafing that they have so far not
thrown their full force against us all at one time, for if they should do so it
wd. surely bring us close to disaster — we are fortunate that George is not yet
entrusted with higher command: long live
caution. Suzy, if George comes across
Caleb you may be sure he will be treated royally. Of that you can have no doubt
Sis: some loyalties transcend even this
frightful conflict.
My heart
aches for you, I’ll write again as soon as ever I can — I’m sending this now by
one of the surgeons, to be sure it gets into your hands without delay. I will
come to you myself as soon as I may. Trust in Providence. Tell Maisie I am
counting on her to care for you.
Oh honey —
all my love, and prayers — your bro. Lewis
George
Near Malvern Hill, Virginia
1862
George sits over his camp-desk and stares into the fire.
He sees their faces so clearly, although it has been fully a year since he last laid eyes on Lewis.
The Lewis he sees is not the heartsick and drawn-eyed major who rode out that morning with Colonel Johnston, however. This vision is another one, not the last time he saw him, but a younger one: though still, in this image from their Texas days that floats before George’s eyes, his friend looks haggard here also.
And asleep, as is Eliza.
George stands in the doorway, upstairs. They are both asleep, in George’s own marital bedroom. He tilts his head, sees Lew stretched-out on the bare floorboards, his head pillowed on his arm – beside the bed that holds his wife, who is just as lost in slumber.
Lewis in his shirtsleeves, unshaven, his jacket on the back of the chair; Eliza in her nightgown, the top unbuttoned. The room in disarray: towels, empty water-pitchers, soiled clothing not yet washed.
At nine o’clock in the morning.
No-one else anywhere in sight: George has been in the saddle since first light, come home now to his quarters in Fort Belknap dusty and sore, his heart turned to stone by the news that met him on the way home.
And finds — this.
They look for all the world like a pair of lovers. And there is no-one here but the two of them, and this sacred stillness in the room. They both look worn and ill: there are bruises under their eyes. George has never seen either of them looking so spent, so fragile.
God, what is he to say?
If he wakes them now, will they start to explain and apologize for what he might be thinking?
He isn’t thinking it, is he?
No: he will not allow himself to.
They cannot be lovers; they would never do such a thing, never. Lewis would kill himself first. George is as sure of this as he is of the sight that meets his eyes now. This is innocent; Lewis has been tending to his wife, because he was not here to do so himself. And fallen asleep exhausted on the hard floor.
But if he says something, clears his throat, they will wake and be startled, think they have to tell him all of that. Their mutual innocence will be shattered, this innocence they have maintained through all of it. Lewis will have no choice but to acknowledge his feelings, and Eliza protest her virtue: George can see it now, hear their voices hoarse with denial.
No; there is an easier way.
He turns on his heel, as softly as a man may in riding-boots, and leaves them.
He finds his little daughter’s grave, in the small post cemetery, and stands over it a long while with his head bent. Then he returns home, being sure this time to make a great deal of clatter and noise as he enters; calls out for Eliza, as he ought to have done the first time – except that he did not wish to disturb her, if she was sleeping.
As indeed he succeeded.
Lewis comes downstairs to him, holds out his arms.
He sees as if it were yesterday the wide guileless eyes, brimming-over to see him.
And here he is now, all these years later, on campaign in Virginia, fighting to take Lewis’s home state, the one he left them to go protect. George hopes Lewis is not out there in front of him.
He prays it too, every night.
He is looking smarter than ever in the gilt regalia of a major-general, rubbing his eyes again over his smoking camp fire. The last few engagements have been badly prosecuted; they are fumbling this Virginia campaign, wasting men and opportunities they will not have again. Caution be damned: it will never win against boldness, never – didn’t they learn anything, at the Point and in Mexico, those in command above him? His friends in grey surely seem to have! The outnumbered Rebels are running circles round them. George itches to get his hands on this army and shape it into the tool he knows it is capable of being, that will smash the ill-begotten Confederacy once and for all and let everyone go home again. To see it so mismanaged galls him bitterly. Tonight in particular he feels ill-at-ease, jumping out of his skin, conscious of a shadow behind him.
Is it death? Or just his regrets and concerns for the future, if this army does not get a better commander?
The sparks flare their bright trails upwards. He sighs.
Was I a fool, for not saying anything? he thinks. All those years, I could have; but I chose not to.
Should I say it now?
Isn’t it too late?
Perhaps not.
Another moment comes to mind, and he squirms at the memory. It is a bitter one, that brings him a hot shame to think of it.
He sees himself sitting alone in his office in Fort Belknap, still so soon after losing his baby girl that he feels shattered within, wonders how he will cope. Mustn’t let on, of course: he has to be strong, for Eliza. They are all three raw, stunned. He is uncomfortable with the news he must break to his friend; he is not sure whether he can bring himself to do so. He imagines Lewis’s reproachful eyes on him; thinks of all the things Lewis will think and not say.
How could he have been so selfish as to have impregnated his wife again, while she was still so frail?
God, Lewis would understand, if he had a wife, wouldn’t he? — besides Eliza, that is, whom he loves like one but does not have?
Lewis doesn’t understand how hard it is to refuse something when you know you may have it – he has only had to refuse that which he cannot have, no matter how sharply he aches. It’s altogether different, when she’s in the bed beside you and she is yours, doesn’t he see that? All the world of difference.
I could have kept away from her, if she wasn’t my wife, George thinks: I know it. But when you sleep with a woman, feel her, smell her – need her, to lose yourself in ——
Lewis will find it hard to forgive him, he knows that. He is struggling to forgive himself, knows he ought to have been more considerate. When she told him, he hated himself for it immediately; how can he expect his friend to feel any more kindly?
He tries to imagine what words he will use.
Perhaps he should just wait, till it is common knowledge around the fort, as these things always are sooner or later? That way he will not have to see the hurt in his friend’s face when he first learns that his darling’s life is in danger again.
Their darling.
And that it is George’s fault.
He sighs deeply. Run away from a difficult task? Himself, George Hamilton?
Never.
Lewis deserves better treatment than that. After all, George would not want to learn something so vital except from one of the principal parties, would he?
He stares at his hands on the desk in front of him. They are square and tidy, with small tufts of dark hair on the backs of the fingers and short, strong nails. He turns them palm-up and stares at them. What has he ever done to deserve all he has been given, to keep in these hands?
He tries to deserve it.
Sometimes, as now, he fails.
He knows Lewis would make her a better husband than he would; at least, at times like this he fears it.
But that is not the way things have turned out, and so he does his best.
George’s best consists of treating those he loves most dearly the way he himself would like to be treated: kindly, fairly, loyally – with trust, with discretion: apologizing, when he has been hasty or just plain wrong. He does not like having his nose rubbed in things, especially those he cannot help – such as this lustful need he has for his wife when he cannot contain his emotions – and so he forbears to do it to them, either. Although he thinks that if Lewis reproaches him, he will have a hard time staying silent.
But what would that serve, if he lashed out with his tongue?
Nothing; only make it harder to bear, any of it: all of it.
He gets up with a scrape of his chair, goes outside to where the evening sky throws long shadows and a mockingbird is singing in a tree. He walks over to the corral, where Lewis is often to be found at this time of the afternoon; goes inside the large wooden stable.
It is dim in there; motes of dust turn in the light from the doorway like specks of gold-dust.
Lewis is looking-over the tack.
George goes to him. “Anybody else here, Lew?”
“No,” says Lewis, “don’t think so. They’ve gone for chow, most of ’em. I wasn’t hungry.”
“Hm,” says George. Tonight is not one of the nights Eliza is entertaining, not even Lewis alone; she has been nauseous, stayed indoors. Lewis has not been over for dinner in a week, although he has brought small offerings of food and dainties from the sutler’s almost every day. Canned peaches; sardines; corned-beef; dried-apricots; prunes; damson-jam… that way, he tells, George, they won’t have to cook.
Lewis not hungry again? “No wonder you’re so damn thin,” he says, affectionately.
“Guess so,” says Lewis.
“Something I got to tell you,” says George.
Lewis turns to face him. Their eyes meet. George’s are guilty, responsible, like a schoolboy who has been caught.
Lewis’s are bright. “It’s all right,” he says quickly, to spare his friend, “you don’t have to tell me. I already know.”
George slumps. “You know?”
“I got eyes,” says Lewis, doing his best to sound direct and not accusatory, and failing. “How much of a fool d’you take me for? She was almost throwing-up again, at that picnic last week… I didn’t want to believe it, but — I guess it’s so... she told me, anyways — ” He puts a hand up to forestall George’s distress. “No, only because I was afraid she was having a relapse, and I asked her, about her health, you know? About the nausea, and — the circles under her eyes… ”
He realizes what he is saying, and who he is saying it to, and stops.
It is the closest he will come to a reproach.
George stares ahead, dully. “I know I shouldn’t have,” he begins.
“God,” says Lewis, “sweet god, George –!”
“Christ!” groans George, face-to-face with what he has done in the eyes of his friend, “what if I lose her, Lew?”
“You won’t,” says Lewis staunchly, and holds his arms open.
George comes into them and they clasp each other, slapping one another on the back a couple of times.
George sniffs sharply. “Forgive me — ” he rasps.
“I don’t think it’s my place to do that,” says Lewis softly.
“Do it anyway,” says George, “so I can look you in the eye.”
“Yeah,” says Lewis. “Sure. Anything. Everything. Always.”
George breathes in the smell of the stable; horse-dung, straw, sweet hay, leather, sweat, piss, metal-polish, liniment, saddle-soap… wipes his nose with the heel of his hand, breaks away from that swift rough embrace.
“Reckon I’ll be getting along, then,” he says, “ – she’ll be looking for me, I don’t doubt.”
“Sure,” says Lewis.
“Stop by later?” asks George.
“I don’t want to tire her,” says Lewis.
“She was asking after you,” says George. “Be a weight off her mind to see you, I dare say.”
“Oh,” says Lewis.
And mine, George thinks, but does not say it.
“Sure thing, then,” says Lewis, “ – after dinner. Give me time to find some flowers, won’t it.”
“Mm,” says George, who cannot see himself out picking wildflowers, not even for his wife’s table, not even knowing how she loves them. Some things he just doesn’t do, and picking flowers is one of them. Women do that, women and children. Lewis doesn’t seem to mind, though: give him something to do. He’s the artistic one, after all. “She’ll like that.”
“See you later, then.”
“See you.”
George strides off across the center square of the fort, his spirits so relieved he has to clear his throat and shake his head. He is still culpable of failing to care for this treasure they have been lent; but Lewis does not hate him.
He does not think he could bear that, to lose his wife and his friend at the same time, the one to death and the other to blame. But he should have known he could count on Lewis to come through – to bite his tongue and not say the words that wound the worst and can’t be taken back.
Just as he does.
They count on one another.
* * *
So many shadows in the fire.
Well, so here they are, no longer together, and it is all broken now, they are at war – and if that other shadow dogs his heels much longer he will take it as a sign that his part in this little drama is almost over.
What would he have done differently if he could have?
Nothing.
What ought he to do now, if this is death coming for him?
He thinks of them both, the two he holds dearer than his own life. He sees the face of his son, feels so proud he could almost burst with it. Too bad you never had children, Lew, he thinks; what a father you’d have made.
Well, if the time comes, you ought to have mine. You’d do right by him, I know that. He’s headstrong, a streak wilful – needs a firm hand, not to go wild. You’d know what to do, how to handle him. He needs your sweetness: he’s got plenty of my haste.
It has been a long time since he has felt in so sentimental a mood. He almost chides himself for it – but then he imagines a world without himself in it.
The fire is burning down to embers; the sparks are few and far-between.
Why should it be any colder and more lonely than it has to be, this world he may quit so soon, if there is anything he might yet have to say about it?
They deserve a proper goodbye from him, both of them.
He hopes they will remember him fondly, for all his imperfections.
He rises, rubs his stiff knees; goes to his tent, brings out paper and a lantern to see by. The Virginia air is soft; the shape of Malvern Hill lies against the sky, the way Lewis told Eliza about the mountains in Mexico so long ago, blocking-out the stars with its dark mass.
He stares a good long time, searching for the words in which to address his wife: not words that come easily to him, but he owes them to her, and he knows he does.
He saves writing to Lew for afterwards; it was always easy, to spill whatever was on his mind to Lew. He’ll understand.
Lewis
Virginia
1862
George: George. The news has just reached him.
Dear God, George.
He is brought almost to his knees upon hearing it; turns aside, grips the table so as not to collapse altogether.
George…
So I shall never see him again, he thinks dully, not this side of the grave.
Why him and not me?
Bruised heart finds no answer, not in prayer, nor in memory; not in conscience, nor the deep blue sky at evening.
There is no making sense of any of it.
He writes, first to her and then to the other her; because he finds comfort in it; because he must. The words find their way onto the page one by one, like slow and painful stragglers, in the second letter; but at last it, too is written. He sends it out under flag of truce.
The first was a little easier:
In
the Field,
July
6th 1862
Suzy, George
is dead!!!
O, is she to lose
every thing dear to her? I cannot believe he is gone — blown to bits by a shell
at Malvern Hill, I heard today. It will be in all the Northern papers, since he
was recently made Major-General — as you know, Sis, quite deservedly so and
none too soon, because he was one of their very best, God knows — able,
brilliant, a fine soldier and a finer man. The finest friend.
I never
thought I shd. live to see this day.
Sis, you know
what he was to me, what we were to each other. This senseless slaughter makes a
mockery of every thing. I am barely fit for duty Sis, I go outside my tent to
give orders and I cannot bring myself to speak, my throat is too full — tears
spring to my eyes in front of the men. Oh God Sis, I loved him so — I cannot
even remember now, if I even told him so, not in so many words. It’s too late
now.
I shall write
to E., of course, I have already begun that letter a dozen times this morning
and torn it up — what can I say!
Perhaps only
that I do not know, what I can possibly say? Does that sound ridiculous, Suzy?
How can I begin, even?
Well, I’ll
try again. Writing this to you has surely helped. I’ll have to get my letter to
her across under a flag of truce, I guess, God only knows if or when it will
arrive.
You know all
these years I’ve told you not to weep for me. Well you may do so today, if you
shd. feel like it: I lift the
prohibition.
Do you
remember, when I was a small boy, how you wd. comfort me? I think of after Mama
died. I wish I cd. find such comfort now, Sis. I don’t think it’s to be had, in
this world. Your
brother, L.
Overwhelmed by
memories, it is a long time before he sleeps.
Faces parade
before him.
His aide’s, upon
mentioning the news to him casually and seeing his brigade commander stagger
under it – what was the blow? The young
man thinks, a union general dead – one down, scores to go… Lewis had tried to explain, helplessly. He was my dearest friend, he says,
choking: I cannot tell you…
A man that would
give me his wife’s picture, upon parting, because he knew I should treasure it
above all things, even above his own… he
thinks this, does not say it, of course.
George; George.
* * *
A thundercloud still hovers about his brow: not one to hold a grudge, this time he is nauseated and furious still. His cold narrow cot will wait a good many hours before he retires to it tonight.
In the candlelight, the lines in his face appear to have bitten by copper-etcher’s acid:
In the Field
August
1862
Suzy honey,
Well I lost
my temper today, lost it by a good mile & threw a fit the boys won’t soon
forget. I am still sickened at the thought of what occurred, & wd. give
much to have been able to prevent it. They are not bad boys, but wanting in
judgment sometimes: today, most
egregiously so. Shall I tell you what took place? I guess I must, having begun
it. It’s not a pretty tale I shd. warn you, sis.
About ten
o’clock in the morning - we
did not cover any ground, today - I
was coming back from the hospital tents at the rear and happened to take a side
road, as I like to do you know - my
aide was with me, & a couple of other officers -
we passed a barn & saw some of the men lounging about outside it; on seeing
us they looked discomfited, wh. is a sure sign of wrongdoing as they know I am
no fire-eater to punish them for taking a little ease when they may. I
dismounted & went into the barn. One or two of them tried to prevent me,
saying in loud tones, O General, sir, it’s just a harmless bit of fun, it’s
beneath your dignity, sir - with
wh. warning, & upon my entry, the dozen or so men inside froze, including
the one whose — was sticking up in the air, his britches round his ankles, in
the act of ——— with a young woman in the hay.
Where’s the
harm in that? you may ask. Soldiers will
be soldiers, after all. And indeed I was ready to walk out again, when it
occurred to me to ask how long this had been going on, & how many of them
had participated. They shuffled, & gave me no answer, wh. was answer
enough.
‘Cover
yourself, Private,’ I said to the one in flagrante delicto, and then to
the young lady, ‘Miss, come along now, I think it’s time for you to go
home: you must have done well enough for
yourself, this morning.’
‘She didn’t
charge nothing, sir,’ said a voice behind me, and the poor girl stood up without
a stitch of clothing on and said, ‘Would you like a turn?’ to me in the most
obliging of tones. The men nudged each other, ready to regale all their
comrades with the story, but O dear God, Sis, the young woman was a half-wit,
clearly mentally deficient, & thus the reason for their guilty
countenances.
My gorge
rose, but I mastered myself & spoke gently, for her sake. ‘Do you know, my
dear,’ I told her, ‘this isn’t a good thing for you to be doing. Now where are
your clothes?’
‘I lost
them,’ said she, giggling. I was perfectly furious with the men, but determined
at all costs to treat her like a lady, as they had not. ‘I expect a shirt &
a pair of britches within thirty seconds,’ I said. They appeared in short
order: the men know from my tone when I
mean business, & it has nothing to do with raising my voice. ‘Now get these
on, Miss,’ I told her, ‘make yourself decent, and I shall bring you home.’ And
I ordered the men out of the barn, their names to be taken & to report to
me before sundown; & turned my back while she dressed.
‘Now you must
not let anyone take advantage of you like that, Miss,’ I explained -
I reckon she had the understanding of a six-year-old, more or less -
‘it wasn’t so very wrong of you, for I see you are a very good-natured person,
and you weren’t to know it was wrong; but it was very, very wrong of them, and
in the future you must not allow anything of the sort. Will you promise me?’
‘If you say
so, mister,’ she said.
I brought her
back to her dwelling, wh. was perhaps half a mile down the road. We
walked: she told me of the boys in blue
coats who taught her what they liked best to do. ‘I never had so many boys say
they liked me,’ she said. I suppose not. It is a cruel world, is it not, Sis?
She lived with her aunt, it turned out, who was all set to belabor me with a
frying-pan for bringing her back without her clothes, & I was lucky she had
not got some old fowling-piece to hand or else I shd have been peppered before
I had even a chance to explain. But then she saw my rank, & my staff
officers waiting mounted at the gate,
& stopped. I told her briefly what had occurred, making it plain that no
force had been used, but without going into detail about the number of men
involved — the tale was sorry enough as it was! — and expressed my regret that men under my
command should have behaved so.
She asked me
for money, to replace the child’s clothes and against the possible
consequences. I gave her wh. I had on me, wh. was but little. The girl had gone
into a corner of the cabin, where she picked up a doll made of rags &
hugged it to her breast, rocking from side to side & crooning to it. O Suzy
how desperate each of us is for the slightest kindness, in our own way, what
crumbs of human contact we hunger for:
somehow it is never enough, & leads us thus into such sad straits as
hers, and theirs; and mine.
I told the
men concerned of my shame & disgust, in short order; that they cd. have so
treated an innocent who shd. have commanded their protection & care -
what if it were a sister, I asked, or God forbid a daughter of theirs: would
they want her used thus? One of them muttered that she had readily consented,
at wh. I flew into a rage, if they cd.
so miss the point of my address. ‘And is she capable of consent, sir, in any
meaningful way?’ I cried. ‘Would you rape a child, sir? -
for that is what you have done!’
They hung
their heads. They had meant no harm, they said. Then my tongue ran away with
me, & I added that they might think I knew nothing of their plight, or how
it was for them to be so far from comfort and lonely for their wives & for
the company of the fairer sex; but they wd. be wrong, I said, I may be your
commander but I am also a man just as you are, I have been in the army since
before many of you were born, I told them, out on campaign & in the
remotest places; I know what it is to be starved for that, and yet I had rather
shoot myself, than do what you have done today. I was altogether beside myself
sis, or I shd never have spoken so; quite trembling with rage.
I put them on
the hardest & foulest duties for a fortnight, & dismissed them. It is
not that I take a harsh position upon
immorality as such, you know, tho’ for my own part the likelihood of
acquiring a disease has been a powerful restraint upon my conduct when tempted
to buy such affection — there is a ranking officer in this Army I shall not
name whose health has been entirely ruined by a dose of the —— acquired in New
York City while a cadet at West Point — but this was other, Sis, it had nothing
or little to do with that and everything to do with common human
decency. My outrage has given me such a sour stomach — I have been seized with it several hours
& do not expect I shall be able to sleep, plus it has brought on a debilitating
attack of my old trouble wh. returns at times of upset, which is why I am
writing you instead of slumbering peacefully under my blanket.
You know how
slow I am to anger, Sis, but once roused it churns in me & will not let up.
O Suzy there
must have been a score of men or more — her eyes were like those of a dog Sis,
guileless and eager to please, hurt at being accused of wrongdoing, confused.
She was quite stout and seemed like a great white moth that had blundered into
the dim barn. I shall not soon forget the sight. O for pity. O for this to be
over, and I never again responsible for the conduct of another human being
besides myself. This episode has entirely knocked the stuffing out of me, Sis,
on top of my despair at everything else.
What place is
there for decency in this world we have made?
I am sick to
my very soul of killing & torn flesh & want, destruction &
blown-off pieces of human being — & of outraged innocence, & violated
trust, & all the betrayals we practice upon one another.
This
sensibility is my curse, Sis, I cannot close my eyes without the ghastly parade
passing before them. How can I ever know peace whilst I must feel for the woes
of every creature I meet? And yet the alternative must be callousness and
indifference. I was not born for this profession, my heart is too tender &
my guts too precarious. I envy the surgeons, who use their skill for an
unequivocal good.
I have not
dear George’s sang-froid, nor his nerve, his courage, his ability to distance
himself as is needed, nor even his sunny nature. Everything that came so easily
to him I insist upon making hard for my self; where he acted, secure in the
conviction that he must be right, I repine in self-doubt and second-guessing.
Perhaps it should have been I, not George, that stood in the path of that shell.
He leaves his dependents, unprovided-for I fear and missing him each hour;
whilst I shd. leave no-one besides yourself. O dearest George. I miss him so.
How readily we used to laugh.
Don’t think I
let on any of this before anyone but you. These are my night thoughts, when I
cannot sleep, and come morning I lock them away in my bosom & turn with the
best cheer I may to the tasks of the day. The men take their tone directly from
their officers & I am determined to give them all the hope & spirit I
may. Certainly Providence has blessed our endeavors with miraculous success,
given the realities of our situation. All we need is a signal victory or two,
so that we may get recognition from England for our fledgling country. They must
see now that we mean business. Pray God it comes soon, before we are all worn
out.
I must turn
in, or I shall be of little use tomorrow. I
need new shirts & drawers — a half doz. of each. Can you oblige?
Has there
been any word at all of Caleb? I know you wd. have written me, but I could not
keep from asking anyway. Good night Sis from yr. tired old bro. Lewis.
* * *
It is dripping inside his field-tent. He coughs.
Sept 1862
Suzy dear,
A
dismal day today, a cold thin rain all morning turning to a driving downpour before
we halted. My rubber cape saved me from the worst of it, but we were a pretty
wretched crew of drowned rats as we encamped. Now I have moved my bed away from
the largest of the leaks, so may wake up tomorrow no more than tolerably damp.
On a fine night I sometimes simply catch a few hours under a tree, but today
thank heavens for rank and a tent, however patched!
So you &
Maisie are curious, how we manage in this rag-tag-&-bobtail of an Army,
compared with my days under the spit & polish regime of Uncle Sam? You say
you cannot imagine what it must be like out here?
Frankly
honey, neither can most of us, but we make the best of it. You wd. be
pleasantly surprised by the good cheer and ingenuity of the men. No, we have no
bread ovens, unlike the Federals, for several reasons, not the least of which
is that we usually have no flour. When we do get it, the boys simply make an
elastic paste of it, wh. they wind around their ramrods & cook it in the
fire.
I swear by
now they all know three dozen ways of preparing fat bacon with cornmeal or
field peas. The taste cannot vary very much, but the consistency does at least,
variety being the spice of life even in these straits. Their haversacks have
got so greasy they swear they will boil them up for a nourishing soup one of
these days. Tho’ I fear it wd. be a foul one, if it smelled like the chief
ingredient! When we are about to go into
action it is customary to order three day’s rations to be cooked and carried
along. The less disciplined (or more fatalistic?) take the view that they may
not live to enjoy it at their leisure, so they eat it all at once, wh. defeats
the purpose somewhat, tho’ it is a powerful argument I admit. The old hands
know it will be a while before they see any more, and save theirs as long as
they may.
But it is
thirst which prevails on the battlefield Sis, a cruel raging thirst you cannot
imagine & I surely hope will never know. We go to all possible lengths to
see that their canteens are filled with sweet water before an engagement.
Oh, and
flies, afterward; and before; and constantly. You can have no notion of the
infinite number of flies attendant on an army. It almost leads one to question
the wisdom of the Creator in ever having conceived of such a thing as a fly.
Or a human
being for that matter.
How are my
duties different, you want to know, than when I was but a Colonel? Do you
imagine me sitting back in my tent sucking on a cheroot, or riding around to
take the air with a splendid gaggle of staff officers to add to my consequence?
Hardly, honey.
Well, I am
responsible for the disposition of my brigade, their morale, guidance of the
junior officers upon matters of discipline — on wh. subject I cd. write you a
treatise as important in its way as Hardee’s tactics — and for our effectiveness
in a fight.
They are good
boys and willing, worthy of nothing less than the most conscientious command.
Many of them are educated & come from the highest levels of society. Others
come from remote mountain hollows and swampy creeks in the back country, dirt
poor but fierce as all h-ll.
They are remarkable shots with a rifle, particularly the lads from the country,
& I encourage this with regular
competitions. For prizes we award some small treat from the officers’ dwindling
private supplies, or extra rations, or failing these a certificate penned by
myself. These are hotly vied- for.
I drill them
hard on marching order, since tidy and efficient marching, being able to change
from four- to two- abreast as the roads demand without snarls and tangles, is
essential to our timely progress. The boys know I will not call them on a
little ragged order in the field, since I
believe it is more important to make every shot count, but I like them
to be able to advance as if they meant business, which they do, bless them.
All of them
are here out of their passion to defend their rights and their homeland, and
those of us who wd. lead them wd. do well to remember that. The mountain boys
have often left behind families in hardscrabble conditions, & a letter from
home complaining of want unmans them. I
have instructed my officers to distinguish with the greatest care between those
few who are lazy shirkers & stragglers, parasites upon their fellows; &
the good decent boys who may become slightly insubordinate in a moment of
despair and exhaustion.
It’s a fine
line to tread, Suzy, for I’m damned if
I’ll be thought of as lax, excuse my language, but when on a mettlesome horse
one needs a light hand on the reins, letting him know who is master without
brutality; it is no different here. They know the punishments wh. are possible;
they know I will apply them, if they are merited. To my satisfaction that has
not been necessary above a handful of times.
Most
noticeable among the trouble-makers are the original fire-eaters, who with
their hasty tempers got us all into this infernal mess. Now they are reaping
the whirlwind of their own devising, & they like it but little. Meanwhile
the rest of us, reluctant to take up arms, now knuckle down and give our all,
to finish what they began, with their fancy tailored uniforms now torn and
stained like the rest of us.
The other
morning before dawn one of the pickets discovered a field full of something
more valuable than emeralds to us: it was studded all over with glimmering
white mushrooms! — thousands of them. With commendable honesty he reported the
find to his commanding officer, so that instead of a lucky few gorging
themselves, & the rest going without, there were enough for his entire
regiment to have a taste — plus a hatful
for myself and staff.
Such
generosity wd. be impossible if they regarded us as slave-drivers, to be
hoodwinked & got the better of whenever possible. This latter is a state
one can easily induce in a body of men, by closer attention to the letter of
the goddess Disciplina than to the reason for invoking her in the first
place.
Now you are
not to construe this as making a case for a soft heart, nor a weak bid for
popularity. The first task of a general officer is to win his fights: let there be no doubt about that. What I have
told you speaks to the willingness of his men to do what they must, when it
comes down to it.
The general
officer must pay the strictest attention to all of the circumstances over wh.
he may exert any control at all: you may
imagine what these are — the clarity & directness of his orders, his own
understanding of his position in the overarching plan, the effective placement
of the batteries under his command, the clearest possible knowledge of the
terrain, in particular the direction & location of roads, tracks,
railroads, creeks — whether fordable or not, & where bridged — & any
thing that may prove to be of tactical importance. This latter is an ongoing
task, I believe I have mentioned it to you before. There is no substitute for
gathering this information in person.
Then there is
the matter of protecting the lines of supply, such as they are, (ha! ha!), of
getting the artillery and mule-trains out of the mud, ensuring an adequate
supply of munitions, etc. & ingenuity in the absence of essentials. We are
grateful, not to say beholden, to Uncle Sam for shouldering the burden of
supplying both sides in this quarrel – he shares his bounty with us very
generously considering everything. When our cavalry liberates his supply trains
we eat well for a little while! Ditto U.S. issue rifles, shoes, blankets,
coffee, writing-paper & all the other comforts a fellow might want, &
can have little compunction in removing from one who can have no further need
for them on this Earth.
All of this,
then, must occupy its place in the consciousness of the gen’l officer, if he is
not to betray his command. Judicious delegation is clearly necessary, but he
must know wh. of his subordinates are qualified, & how they will respond under
the direst conditions.
And then when
it is all going to h–ll he must be able to think clearly & decisively while
splattered with his aide-de-camp’s brains, to see wh. may be saved of the
situation & the reverse of fortune countered, even taken advantage of — &
provide an example of personal courage to call from his men their very utmost
efforts.
They won’t go
into battle for a coward, Suzy, they are no fools. I cd. name some gen’l
officers who have the reputation among the men for skulking in the rear in their
tents when the going gets too hot for them, not only Confederate ones either,
for you know the pickets gossip across the lines when things are quiet, they’re
not supposed to but they do, & nothing will prevent a soldier from
complaining about a bad officer, they take that harder than any thing.
Now why, you
will ask, since I am such a paragon of
knowledge on the subject, do I languish
in command of a mere brigade, instead of being given field command of the entire
army? Ah, dear, I can do my part, and I work at doing it well, such as it is;
but what I do not do at all well, is to risk
it all in the grand maneuver, the bold daring plan, that decides the
fate of all of us. That is more responsibility than these frail
shoulders can bear. Tom Jackson does it brilliantly: he was born to win fights.
My ambitions
are smaller — to do my duty without vainglory or pomposity, and to throw away
not a single man’s life through incompetence or oversight. It takes a sort of
doggedness more than any thing. I am the
main-trace, if you like, having no desire whatever to drive the carriage!
Still, I must
be tireless. Fatigue is no excuse for mistakes wh. may cost us disaster.
And yet I do not always sleep when I
may. I am not so troubled by dreams of her as I once was; there is plenty for
my brain to dwell on when I close my eyes. And yet I find it a comfort, when at
last I fall into my cot, so filled with
care that sleep eludes me, to make believe that her gentle presence is close
by. And once in a while, since I am compelled to be honest with you, I recall pleasant hours spent in the company of
my Hunkpapa sweetheart, as if in another life; and sometimes I wonder why God made me as I am, or made me at
all even, and what His purpose for me can possibly be, and how this nightmare
can be part of it.
For I must
tell you Sis that it is not the buzz of minnie balls past my ear like angry
hornets which threatens to unman me, not even when the very air is humming with
them. It is not even the frightful crash of an artillery bombardment, shells
bursting all around; not at the time. For then I am conscious only of my
duty: that I have a task to do, and so I
do it.
No; it is the
aftermath I can hardly bear to face, there is not a man in the Army that wd
tell you different I suppose: the
pitiful scenes when the engagement is over, the waste & the carnage, the
screams of dying boys, shot through the bowels, the face, the groin. The
ghastly work of the surgeons, probing, sawing, telling the man in agony that he
must meet his Maker, and that until he does there can be no remission of that
agony. The cart-loads of severed shattered limbs, the feet that once ran or
followed the plow down the long furrows; the hands, O the poor empty hands that
now will never hold a newborn babe or shuck an ear of corn, weigh out a pound
of pease or touch a lover’s face.
And all the
mangled bodies, hardly recognizable as human, so much flayed skin & offal,
who will never again delight a mother’s eye. O mercy that their mothers never
see or even imagine them thus. Let them at least think them whole, slumbering
under the heavy clay. Those are sights I would blot out, if I could. O if I
only could.
I am sorry,
to have written you thus. Let me finish here. That is enough.
Well honey,
does this give you a better picture of your bro. hunched over his desk in a
dripping tent, writing you? I hope you will forgive even more readily than
before the erratic nature of my correspondence, knowing the other cares wh.
weigh upon
yr.
no less devoted bro. Lewis.
* * *
There is a light in his eyes, today, one that has not shone there for many months. His pen makes flourishes upon the page, skips into little adornments at the end. Such is the gift of grace, however and wherever found. He is more alive to beauty than ever, in all this horror; at first he found it odd and reprehensible in himself, a character-flaw, a weakness, perhaps a way of submitting to the temptation of distraction.
Now he is simply grateful for it.
Maryland,
September
1862
A short note
Sis because I thought of you today —
I
passed a fence, like the kitchen-garden one at home, quite over-run with
morning-glories. A riot of them. Their faces all turned the same way, a hundred
azure trumpets with throats of white.
Each one
fresh today, another to take its place tomorrow. Such carefree innocence! Even
in the very midst of all our waste and destruction, there is beauty and hope to
be found if we will but take notice of it. They said, ‘O Man, what have you
wrought this day to compare with us?’
And I thought
of all the young men snatched away in bloom thus, their lives only a little
less ephemeral, and I had no answer for them; nor for their Creator, except ‘my
duty.’
O Father,
forgive us, for truly we do not know what we do. And yet we must believe, we must,
in the continual offering of redemption. We cannot stray so far from God’s
grace that He will not call us to the knowledge of it, even with a fence
covered in morning-glories. Let us give thanks. — Lewis.
Lewis (& Friends)
Virginia
1862-3
A shaking pencil, the lead breaking:
October
1862
I
don’t know the date
Sis I am all right
don’t fret your self – can you read
this? I can’t! – it’s been pretty rough
— much pain & fever — but I’m on the mend and in good hands. Now sit down
Suzy dear and compose yourself. I have lost my left arm. Now don’t get in a
fret Suzy. I shall manage fine. Thank God it was no worse honey. I am being
well looked after in a private house & hope to be home with you in a couple
of weeks for convalescence.
More details
next time — I am too tired to write more just now — L
Not his hand, these next pages: several crabbed and closely-written sheets, the careful script and genteel sentiments of one educated in an earlier age, before war and destruction and horror became everyday matters.
In every line, more forceful than the fussing words composing them, such care – a fierce, obstinate, indomitable devotion that will wrest his life from the very teeth of Fate. There is a battle to be fought, here, and these two tough old biddies are set on victory. Unlikely warriors; an extraordinary fight. Even in extremis, something in him somehow summons their dried old-maids’ hearts to such extravagant depths of tender, unmaidenly feelings that they do not quite know what to do with themselves, except to care for him as if he had been sent to them by God… which, possibly, they reflect (and he also) he had indeed.
He will bless them every day for the rest of his life.
Charles Town,
October
2nd 1862
Dear Mrs. Caton,
We would have
written you Sooner, but your Brother would not Hear of it, he Insisted upon
Waiting until he could Write you at Least the enclosed little Note himself, so
that you should not be too Alarmed.
His
Determination to do so has been quite Remarkable, since only the Day before
Yesterday was he Recovered sufficiently to give us your Direction lucidly.
As you see,
he has suffered a Severe Injury but after some Setbacks and Fever we Pray he
may have Turned the Corner toward Full Recovery.
My Sister and
I have had the Charge and Privilege I might add of Nursing your Brother in this
Our Countrys Time of Need. Its Almost two Weeks now and I Assure you that No
Care or Tenderness you might Wish for him to Receive has been Lacking at our
Hands, around the Clock in Turns.
His Claim
upon us as Patriots would Suffice, since to tend a Hero to our Cause must
always move a Female heart, a Southern heart; but all the more Particularly are
we Moved to do so, by his Singular Qualities of Character.
I do not wish
to Alarm you, by hinting at his Suffering, but you must from his own News be
able to Picture Some of what he has Endured. You must be so very Proud of your
Brother Mrs. Caton, his Fortitude and Graciousness under the most Extreme
Circumstances would Furnish an Example to Any Body.
If we Only
had a Thousand more like him we should Soon prevail!!
He tells us
you fairly Raised him after your Mama became an Invalid in his youth, well Mrs.
Caton I Declare if you could but Hear him thanking my sister Martha in all
Sincerity for changing his Dressing, when it so Pains him that he must needs
Bite down upon the Sheet to keep from Alarming us with his Cries you must have
Wept to see your Care and Lessons so taken to Heart. He is so Grateful for
every little Thing.
He speaks of
you with obvious Devotion. Martha and I could well wish for such a Brother,
there could be none more Dear to us. Were we but Younger...!
The Doctor is
very Pleased with his Progress now that the Fever and Swelling have subsided.
It looked very Bad indeed for a while, we Feared a return of the Gangrene which
he could not have Survived, but the Discharge runs almost clear from the Second
Surgery and without Odor, there is Granulation at last and Closing of the
Wound. It has been Quite a Struggle but with the Lords Blessing your Brother
has been Spared, against great Odds.
Now that he
is come to himself, we are able to Sustain him with a Low Diet of Clear Broths,
Buttermilk, a little Sago Jelly, thin Gruel and Herbal Infusions, fed from a
Spoon of course. Today he even managed an Egg, lightly boiled and perfectly
Wholesome from our own Chickens. Soon we Expect he will be able to Digest more
Substantial Nourishment, nothing highly Seasoned of course! He says So Long as
it Aint Salt Belly and Hardtack he wont Mind what it is. Your Brother enjoys
his Little Joke, doesnt he.
Martha has
Plans for a Mutton Stew cut up Fine, not too rich, and Rice Custard tomorrow or
the next day. Also Buttered Hominy, perhaps even a Potato. She goes to Market
herself to See what is to be Had, hoping to Tempt his Appetite and put a little
Color back into his Cheeks.
The Hospital
from which he was Removed into our Care is in a dreadful State, Overcrowded with
poor wounded Men. They have Lost many a Promising Case to that terrible
Erysipelas, even some of the Nurses are ill with it, but by Moving him Here we
hope and Pray that your Brother will have Escaped that Scourge. So far he shows
no fresh Sign of it, nor of Pneumonia which can be so Deadly in cases such as
His as I am Sure you know.
I shall Write
you again to Keep you Informed of his Condition. You may well Believe that
besides your Own there can be no more Fervent or Heartfelt prayers for his
Daily Improvement than those of Martha and myself. We have offered him the
Comfort of Religion, and whilst we understand that you are Episcopalian we are
Sure, that you Would not Mind our own Minister from the Presbyterian Chapel
visiting him as soon as he Feels Up to Receiving Any Body.
In the
Meanwhile we have Encouraged him to offer his Suffering up to our Lord, from
whom no Secrets are Hid, thus turning it to Good. As soon as he can Concentrate
his Mind to Listen, I shall relieve the Tedium of his Days here with dear Dr
Hoxseys Sermons, which are so very Improving and Inspiring to one of Faith.
Have no
Concern that your Brother suffers the Least Neglect, far from it! For between
Martha, who is so very Taken with his High Rank and Gentle Ways that she has
Already Confided half her Lifes Story in him, her Blasted Hopes in Youth and
the Consolation she finds in Religion, as I say Between her and Myself he is
probably more in Danger of being Cossetted and Spoiled than Any thing, such a
Dear as he is. He wears our late Lamented Fathers Nightshirts and Nightcaps and
is in my own Bed, lying upon my Best Featherbed. We Change his Sheets Daily and
Air out his Room when it is Warm. We keep a Fire for him against Draughts, we
do have a Servant but All his Care is at our Hands, since we are Glad to do All
that is Necessary for one so Brave and Uncomplaining.
One thing
More. Do let us Know, if you can come by any Medical Sedative of any Kind in
Richmond, since we are Close to the Fighting here which has been quite Dreadful
and there is Nothing to be had Locally. Send Whatever you can, it would Ease
his Sleep and the Changing of the Dressings which is an Ordeal as I mentioned.
Also he did once ask for Coffee and we have only Rye. He drank it but I could
tell he was Disappointed.
Fresh Oranges
would also be such a Treat for him, we have Stewed Prunes but not much Else,
although he does Enjoy Martha’s Currant Jelly.
Now I will
get this off to you Right Away so that you may Get Word of your Dear Brother as
soon as Possible.
Respectfully,
Ada
McAllister (Miss).
* * *
He sits by the grate, staring into the flames, wishing himself at home – a place he has not been for more than a few days in twenty years. Where is home, indeed? The Misses McAllister have tucked blankets round his thin shoulders, being oh so careful of his bandages, and a warm fleecy lap-rug across his bony knees. He wears their father’s dressing-gown, an imposing brocaded affair in bottle-green quilted silk: it would contain him twice over. The late judge must have cut a striking figure, to be sure, whether in it en deshabille or fully dressed – the thought brings a fleeting smile to his lips. These are tight with pain and still grey. He shivers a little, despite the fire and all the wrappings.
Charles
Town,
November
1862
Suzy,
I shd.
like to come home to you soon, I am almost well enough to travel the distance
and long to see you. Will you make up a bed for me downstairs, so I may rest
during the day without the fatigue of climbing stairs? Will you come for me, in
two or three days’ time? How I look forward to the sight of your face, the
sounds and smells of home, the view from your window.
Here since I
was first wounded the corn is all harvested –
how bare the fields look. Tawny & tall & rustling when we fought
in it. Bare again now. Some of my boys were buried where they fell, rolled into
pits by the Federals without even a marker. We do the same, when we must. So
the corn will grow taller there, for a while. Please God that not be the sum of
their accomplishment.
Melancholy
thoughts. How fine it will be to sit by the fire with you & toast crusts on
the end of a fork.
Save me the
newspapers with the latest of our fighting. I have got behind the times since
Sharpsburg. So long honey, I hope to see you very soon. Yr bro, L.
* * *
Christmas has come and gone. 1863: He is on active duty again.
This letter lies under a round stone on his writing-desk. The stone has a fossil in it: threads of ancient corals. He picked it up by a river somewhere, weeks ago; smiled; put it in his pocket; smiled again on pulling it out.
Outside his tent, though he does not know it, a knot of soldiers wait. They are not standing to attention; they are here having strayed one by one from their camp-sections, each an emissary of a company, because they want to be reassured before they turn in for the night that ole strongarm is all right.
They wait quietly, gossiping in low tones and occasionally cracking a grim joke, until his aide emerges and tells them that the general is bruised, but unharmed; and, now, sleeping like a baby.
It is Eliza’s breast he has his head pillowed upon; though this harmless little pretence is between his heart and his conscience, and no-one would guess in a thousand years, to see that coarse and flattened canvas-covered miserable excuse for a bed-pillow, doubling duty as an ambulance-cushion by day, that it lived so rare and tender an existence by night.
April 1863
In
The Field
Sis —
as you
see from the scrawl, I have not yet perfected the art of writing at a flimsy
camp desk without means of securing the paper:
but thought I wd. just let you know, how I am coming along.
It was a rude
shock, physically speaking, to return to the rigors & privations of the
soldier’s life after spending the entire winter being cossetted by you and M.,
living like a lord. I find I have not recovered as much of my strength as I had
thought, now that it is put to the test, & it is all I can do to remain in
the saddle all day while my boys cover the same ground on foot. Often I used to
make 30 or even 40 miles in a day going
up & down the column, while they wd. march 8 – 15 depending on the terrain
& how desperate the need to make the distance. Today I cd. not, I have not
the stamina.
I find that
when I am fatigued my balance begins to fail, & my thighs have not the
strength they had before, wh. has led to a couple of falls. Nothing serious.
The last was before the men, though, this morning — something flashed suddenly
in bright sunlight & startled the mare I was on, not my old Pegasus but a
new chestnut, we are not yet accustomed to each other & both of us are
rather highly-strung I fear — any how, I cd. not contain her & I hit Mother
Earth with a hard thud that quite knocked the breath out of me. You know how
that is.
Fifty or so
of the boys broke ranks & raced up to me:
I wd. have told them not to be alarmed, but cd. not speak clearly at
first. Two of them picked me up & dusted me off; a third poured the water from
his canteen upon my brow, clucking, while yet others felt my limbs for
fractures, chafed my hand, ran to fetch my hat: O, General, Sor, dear, are you
hurt? cried an Irish lad, and they all chorused, Where are you hurt, Sir? and
yelled back to the column, It’s ole Strongarm, he’s fell off his horse, quick,
run after it!
My aide came
galloping up, snapping at them to make way, I guess he felt responsible for my
mishap, & they snapped right back at him:
we was jest picking him up, sir!
I’m all right, I gasped, thank you, boys, but they made a pile of their
blankets for me to sit on until I shd. be able to catch my breath.
My side is
sore, I came down to the left where I can no longer break my fall, I guess I am
so wary of over-balancing to the right that I corrected too far, not having the
way of it yet — but it all happened so fast, I can’t remember. For shame, tho’,
a former cavalry officer unable to keep his seat on a plunging horse! I was
bleeding a little from a cut on the head, & the boys wouldn’t let poor
Jimmy get at it until they had finished their ministrations, washed the blood
from my eyes etc.
I have known
of their affection before now, but this demonstration of it touched me
unexpectedly. My return to the Brigade has been greeted with cheers and
individual acts of kindness wh. have brought me close to tears. I had little
notion of the degree to wh. my concern for them was reciprocated. Being no
great stump orator as you know, when my feelings run at their highest my tongue
remains tethered, so when first greeting them en masse after my return to duty I said
simply that, as they cd. well see for themselves, the Yankees had failed to
lick either of us, since we were all still here; and we still had a task to do,
so with a good heart & cheer we shd. go on & do it together, that was
all — & I think their cheering lasted longer than my entire speech by a
good way!
To be sure,
they are a raggedy-looking bunch, with their wild hair & dirty faces,
clothes in rags & half of them shoeless. I am reminded of the Duke of
Wellington’s assessment of his army: Frighten the enemy? I cannot tell you,
sir, but by G-d they terrify me! — ah, but their hearts are tender as any
woman’s when their loyalties are engaged, Sis, they are both tigers and tabby
pussy-cats — not to say yowling old toms, at times. There never was an army
with the heart of this one, Sis, never. Our boys will see this thing through to
the end no matter what it takes. You must know we are outnumbered but never can
we be outmanned.
Gen’l Longstreet
sent to see if I shd. prefer the comfort of an ambulance, but I wd. be
mortified to give in so easily when they must keep going. There is nothing
wrong with me that fresh air and exercise & this daily toughening will not
amend. Still, it was kind it him, tho’ I have never yet seen old Pete himself
use one. My boys march miles each day with pneumonia, diarrhea, fever, bloody
blisters. God forbid I shd. need to follow them in the comfort of an ambulance!
Now Jimmy has
already found me another mount, I fear some cavalry officer is bemoaning his
loss! — he is a noble thoroughbred gelding, & will do nicely until Pegasus
recovers from his lame forefoot. He is not as skittish as the mare I tumbled
from, his name is Rob Roy and he wd. take your grandmother out for a day’s
hunting, & if she didn’t open her eyes, she’d think she had never left her
rocking-chair on the front porch. His gait is very smooth, is what I am trying
to say, tho’ he likes to show off a little when reined in, & does a little
curvetting dance before coming to a stop, as if to say, ‘Aren’t I handsome?’ —
which he is, being a glossy very dark brown with a noble face. I regret that I
cannot saddle him myself as I always liked to do before, but I keep his feed –
what there is of it – with my own things to be sure he will get it, and I shall
share my evening apple with him when I can get one. My orderly has a way of
producing a little wizened thing once in a while & I do not ask him what
lengths he has had to go to, to procure it, for fear I shd. not like to hear
the answer.
Oh, tonight I
joined my staff for an hour’s frolicking in a little swimming-hole. The water
was brisk but invigorating. I find I can still swim, tho’ again tire easily,
but it is a relief to know I can keep my head above water. I have a perfect
horror of falling from one of our rickety pontoon-bridges, in the middle of the
night, and being swept away helpless in the current. I shall never forget going
among all the corpses after the engagement at Seven Pines, looking for Caleb —
sorry, dear, if that memory pains you — but some of them drowned, you know, in
that muddy creek there, without so much
as a wound on them, they couldn’t swim & the press of men was such that
they simply found themselves out of their depth in the swamp or the creek. Is
it more pitiful, when such a loss is so unnecessary? What constitutes a necessary
loss, indeed?
By the way, I
heard another old friend, Ol. Howard, of the Federals, is in the same case as
myself, this as a result of a wound he got at Seven Pines. It was his right,
though, poor fellow. If we were privates, you know, they would ship us off
home; but general officers I guess are expected to make their contributions
with their brains, such as they may possess.
Well this has
gone on longer than I intended & I have yet to say much positive, about
being back, but whilst I am needed there must always be satisfaction in being
at my post. I had missed the company of my fellows and staff, not in any way to
disparage yours honey but there is a camaraderie in all the hardship &
mutual exertions wh. expresses itself in deep attachments & even high
spirits, most restoring after my long & tedious convalescence.
I have come
in for some good-natured ribbing about succumbing at last to a full beard, but
rather than explain about the trouble of having others do for me what I used to
do for myself, namely open razors, strop them, etc., not that I couldn’t for I
can, if put to it, but it is frustrating to be dependent upon my orderly for
all the other parts of my turnout I am still clumsy with — rather than go into
all of that, I have taken to saying simply that I have found the ladies to
prefer it. George Pickett seems find this
amusing in the extreme. The day I smell like Gen’l Pickett you may have
me taken away in an ambulance, before I upset the horses, stinking of pomade. I
shd. give much, to have a supply of coffee half as regular as his seemingly
bottomless one of toiletries! He is
courting some young thing & forever has his mind on writing her little love-notes.
I had rather write you Suzy.
Speaking of
letters, I had the dearest one the other day from the Misses McAlister,
enquiring as to how I did, & claiming the fondest memories of my sojourn
with them. As much of this latter to my recollection was spent in their
changing my linens, dressing my oozing wound & emptying my slops, not to
mention tending my person in the most intimate & distasteful necessities,
this must be a tribute to the power of mind over memory. I have replied, but
wd. take it kindly in you if you cd. also send a word, as they receive but few
communications & the arrival of a letter in that household is a grand
event.
They saved my
life you know Suzy, there is no doubt whatever on that head: I shd. have been carried off by any number of
complaints in that hell-hole of a hospital. I cannot tell you of their kindness
to me. At any other time, to be the sole object of attention to two lonely
spinsters must have been wearing, a labor of courtesy if not a complete trial;
but when that solicitude takes the form of ceaseless nurture and the tenderest
ministration to a helpless & prostrated soul, broken in body & utterly
enfeebled, you will understand Suzy that its worth is above diamonds &
rubies: above any thing. May God bless
them for their devoted care of me. You shd. never have seen me again, had it
not been for them. I have told them so, many times.
If only Caleb
could have received such care, oh Sis he might not have succumbed. But it was
not to be. Do you know honey, I sometimes avoid mentioning those precious
members of your family — our family — who have passed on into a better world,
for fear of causing you pain: but Suzy what my experience teaches is that to
those who love, the thought of the beloved is ever present, and thus to allude
to it must produce more gratitude and fellow-feeling than sorrow. By speaking
of them we keep them alive in our hearts, where they already dwell; not to do
so consigns them to a double oblivion.
Well honey
it’s late; my candle is guttering inside its little lantern; I have written
more to you than the page or two I intended when I sat down, and I am fatigued;
but once I begin to open my heart to you my dearest Sis as you see there is
little use trying to stem the tide of
feeling until it is spent.
You will
notice, being perspicacious as I well know, that I have spoken but little of
military matters. On that subject I shall only say, you shall hear more as soon
as I am able to disclose it.
I kiss you
goodnight before climbing into my old cot. Give my fondest regards to Maisie,
and to you, all the love in the world from yr. somewhat the worse for wear, but
essentially sound & cheerful (thank God!) bro. L.
P.S. You have
leave to spend my inheritance on contraband coffee, if you can get any: keep half & send me the rest — what good
is money in the bank, these days? Let us enjoy it while we still can. — L.
* * *
The sun is setting; they have stopped to make camp.
He has always loved birds, and can not stop now, just because he is in the middle of a war. The kestrels flash before his eyes and he wishes he had had the time to sketch them. Perhaps he will, one day soon, if they stay in camp above a few hours.
Outside, a few tents away, a lad takes off his pack and pulls a cloth-covered bundle from it. Unwrapping the red, tattered layers – a flannel petticoat? a child’s blanket? – he lovingly draws a battered fiddle from the folds and lifts it to his chin…
In the Field,
May 1863
Suzy, dear,
My last
to you two days ago was all news, and little of note has happened since; but I
wd. write you again anyhow, if only for the pleasure of calling you to mind and
scribbling whatever thoughts find their way into my head.
Such as — how
the kestrels love telegraph-poles! What did they do, when there were only trees
for perches? I noticed so many today, one or two every half-mile, perched on
high and surveying the shivering fields of green wheat and rye for the least
movement, any little creeping thing.
What a
handsome bird it is, Sis – have you observed one at close quarters? Such
colors, steel-blue wings, the breast rosy rust fading to buff, smartly streaked
with black. To be sure, I shd. not like to be a mouse! How fittingly all the
wild things of Creation are made to fill their peculiar purposes! What, I
wonder, looking at my own hands – hand! I shd. say, my pen runs ahead of my
brain – at my hand and heart, at our signal endowment of intellect and
soul-full-ness, what is ours?
I cannot help but
believe that the Lord will judge us, not on how well we fought, but whether we
stopped to help a fainting comrade; not on the sharpness or deadly effect of
our aim, but how valuable we judged all the rest of His Creation
which He has set before us.
Are we
stewards or wanton despoilers? Defenders of a sacred soil & high
principles, or only of our own arrogant vanity? Some things may be worth dying
for, Sis, I am very sure of that; but what is worth killing for? The kestrel
sits on his wire with his deadly beak and talons, and fulfills his
kestrel-ness, his absolute nature. And when he is fed he kills no more. What
will it take to satisfy the monstrous hunger of this dire hawk War, in whose
talons we are crushed and bleeding? What will be accomplished, by it?
Questions
without answers. Mere empty rhetoric, perhaps. But you know Sis I have always
had ten questions for every answer. How much easier it must be to go through
life with an answer for every question.
A boy is
playing the fiddle just now. A single fiddle, to break your heart.
I guess I
have been certain of two things in all my life:
my duty, and those I care for. There at least no doubts assail me. When
I lose sight of everything else, those two stars remain fixed and unmoving
before me. I mean not only my darling E. but you also, and George while he lived.
From them the compass-needle of my heart will not deflect, while I yet
draw breath.
Whatever love
is, it must be real. It cannot be an illusion. Is it not in fact the well from
which duty flows? What will we not do, for its sake? What is valuable, that has
not its source in love? Ambition, pride, greed – all, all must cede rank to it.
O Suzy is it not the realest thing of all, in the end?
Yrs
unswervingly therefore, & unanswerably I fear! – Lewis.
* * *
‘Stonewall’ Jackson –– Thomas J., that is, his proud and moody contemporary at West Point and General Lee’s right hand, that blue-light-prayerful unnervingly-staring military genius who saw the vengeance of the Lord smiting the enemy in his own shabby-coated arm –– the mumbling cadet-school instructor turned instrument of the Almighty’s desire for wholesale slaughter –– General Jackson is shot by their own pickets while reconnoitering behind the lines. His shattered arm is amputated, but his weary and overtaxed system does not survive the shock and he sinks into a fatal decline, slips from this struggle into eternity with his wife at his side.
The Army of Northern Virginia reels from the loss.
Lewis looks at his own mutilated body and wonders once more why he was spared, when there was so much greater need of Jackson.
He is bearded, gaunt, weary beyond words. He has just recovered from yet another bout of dysentery; its claw-marks are still visible in his face. He has acquired a slight stoop, perhaps from the pain in his gut this past month.
They have turned their march northwards, toward Pennsylvania.
Is it possible…? Could he have lived his whole life in order for this day to come?
He sets pen to paper, writes to Suzy of the cornfields in silk and tassel and his brave boys; and – his heart in his mouth – his wish to see Eliza Hamilton once more, since this opportunity presents itself. His pen wavers and he pushes it across the paper swiftly, before he can think too much about all he feels.
I cannot say
much to you of our direction — but it may be after all this time, that I shall
have the opportunity to see E. again. There’s a fine place for my pen to give
me away with a splatter, betraying to you the real subject of this letter…
….. I must see
her again. Sis, you understand, don’t you? Even if I never see her after this,
I cannot come so close and fail to have the courage to look her up.
The boy will be
eight, now. I shd. like to see him again, too.
I shd. so
very much like to talk with her, one more time, Suzy — to hear the sound of her
voice wh. has been in my ears all this time, in the sighing of every wind: to see the familiar dear expressions move
across her face like the shadows of clouds across the hills.
The sky was
so very beautiful before the sun set, tonight.
Wish me luck
in finding her, Sis!
He stares into the lamp’s glow, wonders if that is the scent of approaching rain on the wind-gusts. How sweet the dusty leaves will smell.
He signs himself with a wry smile,
Your ever affectionate, though foolish
Brother.
* * *
The next night they make camp further up the valley: the town over the hill is the one whose name makes his mouth dry and his heart thud.
Closer; they are coming closer.
Will she hate him?
How can he stay away?
He gets permission to leave on a brief private errand, tells his aide-de-camp not to come with him.
The rain has left the leaves freshly-washed.