Woe to Live On

6

THAT NIGHT A certain sort of apology, or so I chose to view it, was tendered me as a result of my earlier oration. Arch and Pitt and Turner ambled over to me and dropped at my feet all the letters they had plundered.

“You might read ’em,” Arch said. “I won’t.”

“Can’t,” said Pitt.

“Won’t ’cause I can’t,” Arch admitted.

“Take these with ’em,” Pitt said. He dropped a cloth satchel of mail they’d found when they first took the prisoners. “There’s not a thing of use in here, Black John says. Just home letters and relative talk.”

This gift was an outlandish gesture for my comrades to make.

“Why?” I asked. “Why give the letters to me?”

“Oh,” Arch said, and stammered around on his feet a bit. “Oh, we just figured you might find a thing or two of use in them. That’s all. That’s what we figured.”

“I don’t know what it would be,” I said.

“Aw, hell!” Pitt snapped. “Read ’em or burn ’em, Dutchy! Whatever you want to do, you do it!”

Turner sat beside me then, and Arch and Pitt walked away. They seemed to think I had not been gracious.

Rustling his hand in the pouch, Turner found a letter that he pulled out. He held it toward me.

“Woot dat tay, Yake?”

His mouth parts were still out of step, and he was a good man, but mocking him was not a safe idea.

I held up the piece of mail.

“It says, ‘For delivery to John Plater or Dave Plater, Fourth Wisconsin Cavalry, Liberty, Missouri.’ ” I looked at poor swollen Turner. He was trying to be a comrade to me. “It’s from Wonowoc, Wisconsin, Turner. Ever been that far north?”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head and his long hair flopped about. “Neber no weason to go dat fur nort.”

“Nor I,” I said.

“Weed it,” Turner mumble-mouthed. He hunkered toward me, grinning like a boy. “Cood oo weed id ad me?”

There was the thick odor of woodsmoke wafting from clothes and persons. We had been in the bush a good long while and our scent proved it. Perhaps a piece of mail would bolster spirits, but we never had any that was meant for us. We were not alone but lonely, and a trifle queasy about who we were.

“Yes, Turner. I’ll read it at you.” I popped the wax seal back with my thumb and unfolded the paper. The script was black and spidery and spotted. An unfirm hand had beared down on this note. “ ‘Dear sons,’ ” I read. “ ‘No word of you in so long. Right past first frost of the year last. Father worries. His feet are bloated and he won’t walk right on them.’ ”

At this point Babe and Ray Hudspeth, Jack Bull, Josiah Perry, Holt the nigger, Riley Crawford and Big Bob Flannery wandered to hear me read. They all squatted in a clump and looked on me raptly.

“That’s thicked-up blood does that,” Josiah said. He had just a patch of face showing between his beard and hair, and his body was ox-size. “Thicked-up blood bloats the feet.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, then read on. “ ‘A fire hit the old church. Burned down. The new one was just ready so no great trouble was had of it. No pigs was lost. Margaret has married since the frost of this year last. You wouldn’t know it for how could you. Her husband is Walter Maddox. He is out of the war. One arm was busted up at New Madrid but it works fine enough. This spring the dirt was turned over and the smell and deepness gave me heart. It is just black-rich and feels good in the hand. You boys know how that is.’ ”

“My daddy was up there,” Riley said. His thin young face was bright with recollection. “He was up there once long ago, long ago, way before they hung him. He said the dirt was so rich you could eat it like porridge.”

“They have very good dirt up there,” Jack Bull said. “But a short grow season.”

“It sounds like real good dirt to me,” Riley said. “Daddy told me it was.”

I read on.

“ ‘Louetta Hines tells me Bernard Lafton from over at Suskanna Creek is dead in the war. Bless his soul. He was at Tennessee and tick fever got him. That girl Dave got sweet for is in town and still single and about. She asks of you but I have no news since first frost of the year last. Without news I cannot answer her.’ ”

The boys were somber listening to this. For so many of us, home was now the place where we were most likely to be recognized and killed. This was not always the case, and even where it was the odds were often bucked for a good strong mother hug.

“ ‘I hope and father hopes you will write more. Do you need anything just ask. The seed is in the ground now tho you both are missed there is that to give thanks for. Little green sprouts will soon poke up and look good. Your Mother.’ ”

The men were lulled silent for a moment, then Riley, the youngest of us all, said, “She sounds about like my mother, that old woman does.”

“One mother is much like another,” Jack Bull said. “But don’t be fooled by a mother’s words, Riley. Her boys will kill you if they can. Remember that.”

“I pretty much always do, Jack Bull.”

I folded the letter back up, then tapped the square of it on my knee and my leg bounced a sit-down jig, mashing my boots in the dirt.

“You know, boys,” I said, and I was looking to the treetops while my heels jumped on the earth, and all these hard boys and the nigger stared on me, and I held the letter up and waved it like a battle flag. “Boys, this is a wonderful big country.”