Gloryland

by Shelton Johnson

  She was tall, straight as a tree that never knew the wind, and her long brown fingers were wrapped round the handle of her umbrella in such a way that I began to envy that umbrella. She was as pretty as the statues you see outside public buildings.

  There are things you get hungry and thirsty for when you go without, particularly things you can’t find in the army. I mean things so pretty you want to pick them up and hold them in your hands, get their scent and taste, and if they tasted all right, bite into them and never regret swallowing, the feel of something real good going down. You can’t find those things in the army.

  This woman gave so much to the day, to the light from the sky and the air around her, but the people around her never noticed. They were just looking for the president and blind to all else. Maybe what they really needed to find was sitting right beside them the whole time. Maybe it was that little child in a wagon, or the hand of a loved one in their hand. I don’t know, I don’t even know what I was looking for, or hoping for, but something found me when I saw that woman.

  I wanted to get closer without being noticed. I didn’t want to be caught, although she had already caught me and didn’t even know I was hers. I think I was moving without being aware of moving. All I wanted was to get closer, like a moth dancing round the fire of a candle.

  By the time I was only ten feet away, she wasn’t even human anymore, gone way past human to something higher. Like when I was a boy in church, walking up to the place where the deacon stood, and I figured that was where God was too. With every step I was getting closer to a place like that, and it started to choke up my heart.

  She was so beautiful.

  I was right behind her. I could see her chest swell up and fall as she breathed. I could see little drops of sweat on her neck, and how smooth her skin was, shining with moisture, and there was a softness about her that went beyond what you could touch with your hands, a softness you could only feel in your mind.

  I wanted to reach out and touch her, but I couldn’t. She was a fine woman, a respectable woman. Anyone could see that. She wasn’t like the women I was used to seeing and touching and holding in those times when you don’t have time to talk, to find out and consider what it means to be close to another human being. That was different, sinful, what the deacon railed against when I was a boy. It was something wrong that felt all right after months or years of not feeling anything that mattered.

  This here wasn’t lust. It was desire, but more than wanting a body to hold through the night. It was a different kind of hunger and thirst. Until I saw this woman, I didn’t know my soul was starved and my heart was parched for something besides the flow of blood. She woke me up from a sleep so deep I didn’t even know I’d been dreaming all my life.

  What do you do when you wake up for the first time? There I was standing next to the very thing, the very woman, the something without a name that I’d been looking for without knowing I was searching at all, and I was paralyzed at the thought of speaking, struck dumb by even the idea of touching.

  I stood a foot or so back from her, close enough to breathe her in, and I breathed so deep of what I thought she might be that my lungs hurt from filling them up. There were flowers coming off her, I could smell them, and they were all kinds, just mixed up and rising off her. I don’t remember if my eyes were closed or open. I don’t think it mattered. You don’t need eyes to see beauty once you’ve breathed it in. You don’t need ears to hear beauty once you got it inside your head. You don’t need hands to feel beauty, once it seeps into your bones.

  Yeah, I was taking her in all right. I was getting so much of her that I wondered how there could be any left to cast a shadow on the ground.

  She went on paying no attention to the man behind her, who could pay no attention to anything but the woman in front of him.

  And then I saw her stiffen a bit and tremble like a tree the first time it ever felt a breeze, from a thrill that I couldn’t understand. I wondered how this woman could be so excited just to see Roosevelt? He was President of the United States, but I didn’t think he had that kind of power.

  And then I saw and understood right away.

  There were Ninth Cavalrymen escorting the president, and one corporal seemed to be looking and leaning out the same way this woman was looking and leaning in. When their eyes finally met, I mean, I couldn’t really see that, but her body vibrated like a banjo string that’s been plucked. Something shook in her and in him, they heard it in each other and felt something the whole world round them couldn’t feel.

  It was just one look, cause he was riding by, but the look was long and full of something I’ve never had. I don’t even know what to call it. But whatever it is, you can’t buy it nowhere. It was obvious that each of them belonged to the other in a way words ain’t got the power to tell. Being president is one kind of power, and this was another.

  Life’s got a kick worse than an army mule. It’ll knock you over and leave you shaking your head wondering what happened.

  All those people crowding round trying to get a glimpse of one man who didn’t really care that they were there at all! And right here in front of everybody was something many people never get to see or hear or feel. Yeah, there was something special going on that day at Crissy Field.

  After the president passed, the crowd moved into the hole he left behind, and the woman was gone.

  I never saw her again.

  I went out to Crissy Field hoping to get a glimpse of the President of the United States, but I forgot to look. I did get a good view of something I’d been looking for but didn’t know till I saw it. Something I wanted more than anything in this world moved into my life without really touching it, and then moved out. It was a glimpse of a better way to be with someone, and my heart saw it plain.

  Rallying

  To give the troopers the habit of rallying promptly, after having

  been dispersed, the Captain places the squadron at the extremity

  of the ground; and after giving notice to the files on the flanks of

  platoons to remain upon the line with him, he causes the charge

  as foragers to be sounded. At this signal the troopers disperse and

  charge as foragers; when they are at the distance of 150 or 200 paces,

  the Captain causes the rally to be sounded, which is executed as

  prescribed, No. 294.

  from Cavalry Tactics

  lombard gate

  Sergeant Yancy,” said Second Lieutenant Rubottom, “get the stock ready, and inform the men that we’re heading out.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir, but headin where?” I asked.

  He swiveled his head away toward the east. “Troop K has been ordered to Yosemite, Sergeant Yancy, and we’re going to make the best of a bad assignment.”

  I thought a minute and then asked, “What’s Yosemite?”

  “Yo-sem-i-te,” began Rubottom wearily, stretching out the word till each syllable stood by itself, “is a thing called a national park, bout two hundred miles from here, up in the Sierra Nevada.”

  Every time Rubottom answered a question, he had a habit of making new ones. It wasn’t easy talking to the man. I had no idea what a national park was, but the train that brought us to the Presidio from Florida had taken us through California’s Sierra Nevada, a range of big mountains to the east that even now, in May, were all buried in snow.

  Rubottom seemed in a hurry, as usual. Being around him made me anxious cause it felt like something was about to happen, even though nothing usually did. Now he looked like he wanted to be gone, but I had another question.

  “Lieutenant Rubottom, sir. What’s a national park?”

  “Yancy,” said Rubottom, “a national park is a problem for the United States Army created by the secretary of the Interior. At least that’s how General MacArthur sees it, and I agree with the general, but unfortunately the secretary of war feels that Troops I, K, L, and M will provide a suitable solution. Now do you understand?”
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  “Yes sir!” I said. I didn’t, but it seemed best to pretend I did, or I’d just hear more questions dressed up as answers.

  “Good,” Rubottom continued. “Now, in two hours I will have prepared detailed instructions regarding our departure from the Presidio, and I expect that you will carry out these instructions with your usual zeal. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir!” I said again. Responding with a “no sir!” when an officer’s expecting a “yes sir!” usually just led to misery.

  “That’s fine, Sergeant,” said Rubottom, sounding like a mule with colic. “Well, those are our orders, but we must hope that someone like MacArthur can conceive a way to countermand this ridiculous assignment, so we can get to the real work of the military.” He walked away muttering what might have been curses. Rubottom had always been short-tempered, with a very low opinion of anything or anyone other than Rubottom.

  I still didn’t know what a national park was or what I would be doing with the rest of Troop K in Yosemite, but claiming ignorance was not a bad strategy when things went to hell and Rubottom was looking for someone to blame.

  In less than two days we were on the move, equipped for extended duty in a place few of us had ever heard of. A farrier at the Presidio told me the army had been in Yosemite since 1891, protecting the park during the summer months. He said this national park wasn’t like something you’d find in San Francisco. Apparently Yosemite was more than a grassy area with fountains and shade trees, so I thought it was strange they called it a park. Folks went all that distance just to take in the scenery, but I guess some took a little more than that, like timber or deer, and others had been grazing livestock there illegally. That’s why the park needed protecting. I guess winter took over that duty once the soldiers left.

  I still didn’t know enough to look forward to the destination, but I looked forward to the change. Being away from a garrison with its endless drills and inspections would be a relief, even if Yosemite was, according to Rubottom, “a waste of military time.”

  I’ve forgotten most of that farewell day in San Francisco, but I do remember the slow ride out from the Presidio, up the winding road from the stables in columns of two, the hard clatter of hooves on harder ground, the creaking of caissons and wagons as the mules strained to pull them along, and the band playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” What I can’t forget, though, is a short conversation with some sentries when we finally got to the Lombard Gate of the Presidio. As we rode through, a couple of mules ahead of us got into an altercation, so we had to stop while the teamsters calmed them down. I heard the sentries talking.

  “How come these niggers get to go to Yosemite?” one asked.

  “Yeah,” commented the other, “that’s a plum duty and it’s going to niggers instead of white soldiers. There are days I just don’t understand the army.”

  It was right about then that my opinion of Yosemite began to improve.

  “Hey, boys,” I shouted to the soldiers, “I hear the fishin is pretty good up in the Sierra. If you’re nice, maybe I’ll bring you back some catfish or bass or maybe trout. I can’t say which cause I just don’t know what-all’s up there in those mountains, but I figure we’ll have plenty of time to find out!”

  Some of the boys riding behind me started laughing, but not those sentries. I couldn’t hear their comments once we started up again, cause the noise drowned out their voices, but I could see the meaning plainly written on their faces. It was a sight to make you smile.

  It felt real nice to be starting the trip with the warm regard of my comrades. I was feeling pretty good bout myself till I turned in the saddle and looked straight into the glare of Second Lieutenant Rubottom, who was looking back at me with contempt. Contempt is a word the lieutenant likes using and demonstrating, particularly in regard to me. In this case the translation roughly meant, “Yancy, I’m going to make you wish you’d never been born!”

  That’s what’s so wonderful bout military life. After a while, officers get to know you so well they don’t even have to talk anymore, they can just hit you over the head with a look. Must be special training cadets get at West Point, to get their faces to communicate so clearly what ain’t proper to say. The second lieutenant must’ve scored high on that drill.

  San Francisco was cold, but the coldness coming off Rubottom was going to give me frostbite if it lasted much longer. Still, it was worth it just to see those sentries choke.

  Maybe Yosemite wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Practice of Paces for Maneuver

  The remount horses must now be carefully practiced, as all the

  regimental horses must be, at the paces of maneuver.

  from Cavalry Tactics

  trail hazards

  Horses and mules, heads rising and falling, clatter of hooves, wagons rolling along, creaking. The wind blows dust and grit into you till you can’t tell where you’ve been from where you’re going: Lombard Gate, San Bruno, Mayfield, Santa Clara, Madrone, Wilson’s Ranch, Mountain House, Los Banos, Firebaugh, Madera, Raymond, Crooks Ranch, Wawona, Camp A. E. Wood. Just names on a map and signposts in my mind, marking out miles of rolling hills, the Central Valley, foothills, and finally the Sierra Nevada.

  There were campfires at night, a bugler putting you to sleep and waking you up, telling you to go to mess and eat, and then “Boots and Saddles.” So get the horses ready and assemble in some field you’ve never seen before, probably won’t see again, and a long ride through the heat of the valley, the sun riding high, till the watering call played, like that bugle knew the horses were thirsty and the men parched. We stop, too short, then ride on through the country between sunrise and sunset, but late in the day something’s bothering the first sergeant, and the bugle tells us we got to stop so a private from Troop L can help a teamster fix the wheel that came off a Dougherty wagon, and we got to listen to Leo Frye, the cook from Troop I, curse and swear at the mule who did it.

  On and on till finally we’re in our blankets staring up at the stars. And the next day’s the same, the next night, and the day after, a routine of things you do or don’t do, the second lieutenant watching the enlisted men but not looking like he’s watching, Captain Young breaking from the column to adjust his saddle but then watching us as we ride by, an inspection, no warning, and you hope you get by him without hearing a shout to stop, and when you do you realize there’s a God after all. And it all happens without a break in your mind, like water in a creek flowing, until after eleven days we reach the foothills, which ain’t the right word for a sea of flowers blooming wherever the ground’s never known a plow.

  So much color hurts the eyes after the gray fog of the Presidio, but sometimes pain is good when it’s a rainbow or the sun going down or your back and legs hurting from being in the saddle, cause that’s what it means to be a cavalryman. A Ninth Cavalryman, the sight surprising to a little white boy we passed in a field near Wilson’s Ranch, from the look on his face, him pointing at Bingham, who’s black as burnt wood, a color the boy wasn’t expecting, pointing at him with his mouth open, not expecting Bingham to point back with his mouth open too, and there was laughter on Bingham’s face but not the face of the boy who had never seen colored soldiers. I thought it was odd for him to be surprised, in a field of flowers that had so much color you’d think God had swiped that rainbow from the sky to paint the grasses round the boy’s feet, cause a boy playing in a field needs more than the color green to get through the day. Growing up in South Carolina, I sure did, but there was probably a law in Spartanburg about having too much of the wrong kind of color when there’s work to be done.

  I’m working now at trying to remember the ride from and to, and I can’t help that it all gets mixed up in my mind so it sounds like this, cause remembering is whiskey with no food in your gut, setting your belly and your mind on fire.

  I could handle Firebaugh, just a town, and Madera was no problem at all, just a town, but that sequoia they called the Grizzly Giant, that wasn’t
just a tree. It had outgrown the word tree the way I had outgrown the word boy, and busted out in every direction with branches the color of sunset, branches that were trees, busted into my mind so I started wondering, If this was tree in Yosemite then what was mountain in Yosemite, or waterfall?

  Nothing here seemed to fit the word they used to describe it, especially the word park. Resnick told me there were bears, lions, mule deer, bobcats, wolverines, and coyotes wandering around in what they called a park. If this is what park meant, then what did cliff mean here or canyon or river? Yeah, it was pretty all right, the prettiest place I’d ever seen. A knife can be pretty too, but that don’t make it any less sharp.

  I learned about beauty those early months in Yosemite, and I also learned how death can hide in beauty.

  There I was, on patrol in the shadow of mountains like none I’d ever imagined, riding under trees I’d never touched before, looking out into distances I’d never taken in before, and I had so few words to describe not just what I saw but how it made me feel. At those times death is the last thing you’d think of, but it was round every bend in the trail if you forgot for a moment where you were.

  It was the path coming out of Bloody Canyon, one place in particular that was kind of falling away, so you had to move your mule close to the uphill side or the trail might give way underneath you. Death was waiting for you to forget that the ground couldn’t always be depended on.

  It was all the creeks you had to pass in the high country, little streams that flowed into the Merced or the Tuolumne, silent and dry by late summer but hell to cross in the spring when they were violent with snowmelt. I’d turn my mule upstream trying to find a safe place to ford, but each time I got a slightly different view of death compared to the ones downstream.