by J. R. Ayers
But it was not to be. He was waiting behind the infirmary in the darkness of the trees when Miss Hayes arrived dressed in purple and rose.
“Do we have to meet here?” asked Jack. He could barely see her eyes in the still shadows and the golden mass of her hair lay hidden behind a scarf made of white lace.
“There isn’t any other place,” she said.
“What about the tent?”
“There are sick soldiers in there.”
“The river maybe.”
“Why don’t we just sit here in the grass for awhile,” she said.
They sat on the hard smooth ground and Jack held Marie’s hand. She wouldn’t let him put his arm around her shoulder and her light grasp on his fingers suggested restraint on his part.
“You looked tired?” she said.
“Not really.”
She looked down at the grass and sighed. “This is an atrocious game we’re playing, isn’t it?”
“What game is that?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Jack.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“You’re such a rogue,” she said. “You play the game as well as you know how, but you’re way out of your league.”
“Do you always read people so well?”
“Not always. But I read you like a book.”
“Oh yeah, what does my cover say?”
“It says you want to lay me down in the grass and have your way with me.”
“Oh my, I must install a dust cover.”
“Wouldn’t help.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to pretend you love me just to see if I’ll give myself to you.”
“But I do love you.”
“Please, let’s not re-cross that bridge. Maybe another subject. Tell me about your family.”
“They’re mostly old.”
“Mother?” Father?”
“A grandmother. Very old.”
“I see.”
“So, where can we be alone?”
“Jack, you’re spoiling the evening. Can you not woo me at all?”
“I am wooing you.”
“Where are the compliments then?” Where are the flowers? Where is the interest in something about me except how willing I am to give myself to you? Do you know how old I am?”
“I was taught not to ask a lady her age.”
“I’m twenty-six, Jack.”
“So?”
“How old are you? Twenty, twenty-one maybe?”
“About that.”
“Look, Jack, you’re a very nice boy. You don’t have to say you love me to get me to see you.” She stood up and put out her hand. “I’ll say good-night then.”
“I want a kiss.”
“No,” she said. “Go away.”
“Kiss me, and I will.”
They kissed briefly and she broke free and walked away into the night.
It was a quiet evening and there was something going on in the hills above the camp. Jack watched the flashes of musket fire beyond the heights and listened to the splash of cannon balls hitting the river below. He stopped in front of Lupe’s Cantina and listened to the Tejano music blaring inside. The shutters were open and a woman was singing in Spanish and the whores were jingling their money and the men laughed and drank and cried in their tequila.
Dispirited, Jack went back to the barracks sad and regretful. Campbell came in while he was undressing.
“Missed you at the cantina. Where have you been?”
“Went for a walk.”
“Miss Hayes again huh?”
“Give it a rest, Carl.”
“Now that’s a fine idea. Gotta rest up for Miss Mason.”
“Oh?”
“Yep, we’re going on a little trip to Galvston together.”
“By ship?”
“Oh no, Jackie, by train.”
Chapter 6
Jack’s regiment went out on patrol the next morning and they chased three Union soldiers through the mesquite until they plunged into the Rio Grande and swam for their lives to the other side. The regiment returned to camp in the late afternoon and Jack stopped by the infirmary where the wounded from Rip Ford’s unit were receiving medical attention. Miss Hayes was much too busy dressing wounds to say hello and Jack took his bloody knees and wounded pride back to the barracks to change his trousers and sulk.
Corporal Campbell and four other soldiers were on assignment escorting Nurse Mason and five civilian merchants to Galveston to procure medical supplies.
After cleaning up and changing clothes Jack went outside and sat in the shade of the covered well. It was impossibly hot and the sky was bright and blue and the thoroughfare was white with dust. Jack sat with his back against the well and watched a regiment pass by heading for the main camp. The men were hot and sweaty. Some wore their over blouses while others wore shirts of butternut trimmed in yellow. Most carried muskets slung over their shoulders and haversacks and cartridge packs and gleaming bayonets shining in the sun like white fire. The enlisted men wore kepies and the officers all wore broad brimmed hats with the side bills folded over like tent flaps. Jack identified them by their regimental banner as part of Colonel John Ford’s command. It was clear by their bloodied, sweat-streaked faces they had recently seen hard fighting.
They marched on by, and then crossed the river at the arched bridge on the south side of town. Jack saw a horse ambulance moving in the opposite direction toward the infirmary. A soldier lay on the rear rail looking at Jack as the wagon rolled by. His forehead was bleeding below the hair line and his nose appeared to be broken and there was dust and black powder on his face and in his hair. He smiled weakly and Jack gave him a small wave and turned back toward his room.
When he got back to the Barracks it was seven o’clock and Jack sat by the window in his undershirt and watched the sun drop below the hills. In the two days since Campbell had been gone the barracks had been quiet. The other occupants washed their clothes and cleaned their weapons and made frequent trips to Lupe’s cantina to drink and partake of whores until their money ran out. There was word going around that a new offensive was to start soon and the men were beginning to grow tense and wrote letters back home. Jack thought of writing but there was nothing to write about except blood and death and misery. He wished to God the war would be over. Maybe it would end this summer if Lee could take Washington. Maybe the northerners would crack and demand that Lincoln capitulate and put an end to the wholesale slaughter. Some people were saying the Confederacy was finished. It was just a matter of time before they were forced to quit. They couldn’t keep fighting without enough ammunition and food. Jack didn’t see it that way; the south had more to fight for than the Union. Freedom was at stake as well as the capacity to self govern and the ability to make a living on land bought and paid for with the blood of those who came before. The way Jack understood it, the only thing Texans ever wanted was to be left alone to govern themselves as they saw fit.
But the war was still raging and there was fighting in the hills around Sabine Pass and the coastal regions of Galveston and all along the banks of the Rio Grande. Marie Hayes was a sweet distraction from the savagery, but as long as the canons fired and the muskets spat out hot lead and men died like rabbits in the field there would never really be a distraction from the horror of the conflict. He wished she was there now so he could hold her hand and listen to her crazy talk and maybe steal a kiss or two. Maybe they could go somewhere quiet outside the town and drink wine and discuss the possibility of marriage if they could get the young priest to read the vows. Maybe she would pretend that he was her beaux, the one who was killed, and let him into her secret place where only a betrothed should be allowed to enter. Maybe.
But reality was such that the night was full of sounds of distant battle. Outside the open window small bats flew silently hunting the moths dancing by the lantern light conducting a war of sorts of their own. Jack had to conclude there was no real peace to be had in that mise
rable place apart from the sight and scent of Miss Marie Hayes.
Men talked too much at supper and the priest drank a little wine and Jack had black coffee and talked with the priest about family. It seemed he came from fine Louisiana stock with a fine name and a long history of service to the Lord. “There’s not much more to it than that,” the priest said. “My father calls me father and my sister calls me father and even dear old mum calls me father. Strange existence is it not?”
“Yes, father.”
“Good one Saylor. I haven’t seen Corporal Campbell around lately. I sort of miss his chiding.”
“He’s on an escort mission. Galveston I think.”
“Isn’t it dangerous on the water?”
“They went by train.”
Jack couldn’t resist a laugh and the priest looked confused and Jack endeavored to explain himself. “Campbell likes to travel by train. He sees it as a great adventure where upon he might relieve some tension.”
“From the war?”
“Something like that.”
The priest said, “hum,” and sipped his wine and Jack smiled pleased with himself for being so coy, though he guessed he had committed some grievous sin by misleading the young priest.
The conversation turned serious and the priest denounced the war and slavery and the whole idea of Americans killing each other over State’s rights or economics or whatever it was causing men to slaughter each other on such a horrific scale.
“You don’t think men have a right to live free from the heavy hand of a centralized tyrannical government?” asked Jack.
“I think men should be free. All men,” the priest said.
“Ah, the slavery issue.”
“Indeed. Enslaving a man is an ungodly practice.”
“That is if you accept the premise that a black man is a man.”
“And you don’t?”
“Let’s put it in these terms,” Jack said. “Suppose the Africans had been an advanced race instead of the European Anglo-Saxons. Let’s say they sailed to England and landed among the unsophisticated heathen populating the coastal region. These people of course having white skin and speaking a different language would appear to the culturally advanced Africans to be no more than a higher form of animal, much the same as the monkeys they were familiar with on the African Continent. Let’s also say the Africans were an advanced agriculture based society with a need for cheap labor to plant and harvest their crops. You don’t think they wouldn’t take advantage of the culturally and intellectually inferior Anglo-Saxons?”
“Even if it did happen that way, it still wouldn’t be right,” the priest said shaking his head.
“I agree. But before you condemn the white man, think about all the nations who have enslaved people weaker and less sophisticated then themselves.”
“It’s still ungodly.”
“What about the Romans during the time of Jesus? There were more people in slavery than free men back then. I don’t recall reading where Jesus condemned slavery. In fact he admonished slaves to obey their masters.”
“He also told us to treat our neighbor as ourselves. Would you enslave yourself?”
“The key word there is neighbor.”
“Anyone alive is your neighbor, Jack.”
“Even those Yankees across the river there?”
“All men.”
“You said you came from a rich family. Your folks didn’t own any slaves?”
“We had servants, yes.”
“Black servants?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my dear priest, I am struggling not to see you as a hypocrite. Am I wrong to think that way?”
“Perhaps. But we didn’t keep our servants in chains and feed them slop. And they were free to leave our employ anytime they wished.”
And you think that makes it alright? To have a man subjugate himself to you because he has no other means in which to support himself?”
“If it’s his choice, yes.”
“By definition, he doesn’t have a choice. Did your folks pay these servants any wages?”
“They had comfortable quarters and adequate food and clothing.”
“But no wages?”
“If memory serves, no they did not receive wages.”
Jack retreated to his thoughts and the priest finished his wine and Jack said, “The way I see it Padre we’re all slaves to one thing or another. I to the Confederacy, you to your God.” The priest smiled thinly and said,
“I can not argue one syllable of that assessment, Corporal Saylor.”
At that point the priest left and Jack walked through the town toward the infirmary. He found a seat on the bench in front of the infirmary tent and waited for Miss Marie Hayes to appear. The surgeon major appeared instead. “Evening Corporal,” he said. “Marie asked me to tell you she’s not able to see you tonight.”
“Oh,” Jack said. “Is something wrong?”
“She’s not feeling well.”
“Oh. Do you think I can call on her tomorrow?”
“Probably.”
“Alright. I’ll say good-night then.”
Jack walked away feeling rebuked and lonely and empty. He couldn’t help thinking the major had told him a lie. It was true that he had lingered long over coffee chatting with the priest and had failed to check his watch and probably enjoyed the conversation more than he should have. Still, the hour wasn’t that late. Surely Miss Hayes had time for one goodnight kiss or at the least a warm smile to help him through the lonely night.
All war was hell, as Jack well knew, including the war between the sexes. So far he had been out flanked out maneuvered and out gunned. Miss Marie Hayes was turning out to be every bit as formidable as any Union field general he’d ever encountered.
Chapter 7
The next afternoon Corporal Campbell returned with a disappointing report. It seemed he hadn’t needed his coat after all. One of the civilians had corralled Nurse Mason in the smoking car and chatted her up the entire journey back from Galveston. During the trip Campbell had heard there was to be an attack up the river that night and their regiment was to lead the charge. Nobody in the camp had heard a thing about it, but the men all oiled up their muskets and packed their haversacks with extra cartridges and black powder and ate all their canned peaches in case they didn’t make it back alive.
Around three o’clock that afternoon the captain came by the barracks and said there was indeed a mission planned for that evening. They were to muster at five p.m. near the drill field and wait further instructions. The men all spoke in hushed tones and sat cross-legged on their bunks and wrote hurried letters to loved ones and passed them off to the mail clerks. Some said prayers, others drank coffee and stared at the distant hills knowing they would soon be marching directly into enemy canister rounds and repeating rifles firing 44-40 caliber bullets with amazing rapidity.
Jack slipped away and headed straight for the infirmary and found Nurse Mason outside the tent loading supplies into a horse drawn ambulance. “Miss Hayes?” he inquired.
“She’s busy. We’re all busy.”
“Please.”
She hesitated a moment then disappeared into the tent and shortly Marie Hayes appeared wearing a frown.
“I stopped by to see if you were feeling better,” Jack said.
“I’m fine. It was the humidity. Really sapped my strength.”
“We’re going out tonight.”
“When will you be back?”
“In the morning. I hope.” She unclasped something from her neck. It was her Saint Christopher medallion. She put it in his hand.
“Come see me as soon as you get back,” she said
He looked into her eyes and put the medallion in a breast pocket and said, “I’ll keep it safe for you.”
“Keep yourself safe instead.”
“Well, I guess it’s goodbye then.”
“No,” she said, “Not goodbye. You come back to me Jack Saylor.” She began to cry and Ja
ck took her hand and she cried some more. “Be safe, and please be careful,” she sobbed.
“Can I kiss you?”
“No, not until you get back. Go on now before I make a fool of myself.”
Jack walked away and looked back and saw her standing by the flap and she waved and Jack waved back and blinked away a tear. He removed the Saint Christopher and held it in his hand; a tiny silver orb on a circle of velvet with the warmth of her skin and the scent of her perfume lingering on the ribbon like a fading memory.
At precisely five fifteen they marched out with the westering sun in their faces and headed toward the river. The bridge groaned and creaked under their weight and men threw up and other men cursed as they trod in the vomit and the officers barked commands and the dust rose up like the smoke from a giant furnace. The road curved across the river and the advanced guard saw a group of red-shirted canoneers lounging in the rocks drinking coffee. Jack’s regiment caught them by surprise and took their side arms and a ten man squad marched them as prisoners back toward the river. Then the remainder of the regiment advanced through the foot hills and climbed a steep bluff off to the east of the river. Union soldiers were camped on an opposite bluff a mile away their cook fires beckoning like beacons in the deepening twilight. Jack looked back down the hill and saw the smoke from the town’s cook fires suspended above the trees along the main thoroughfare. He thought of Marie Hayes, but only briefly as the regiment was on the move again with the intent of flanking the Union line.
Beyond the hills the woods were void of foliage and the regiment climbed through the rocks and then turned down the shoulder of a long hill back toward the river valley. There were trees along both sides of the river and through the thick clumps of mesquite Jack could see the Rio Grande running clear and swift and shallow where rocks protruded like thick fingers from the dark water. Striations of black and gray pebbles lay spread out on the sandy bank like diamonds on a jeweler’s cloth. Further downstream Jack saw deep pools swirling and eddying, the water pitch black and mysterious under the obsidian sky. He saw the arched bridge in the distance and once again thought about the pretty blonde nurse and the Saint Christopher medallion nestled in his breast pocket.
