Call Each River Jordan

by Ralph Peters (as Owen Parry)

  He pleased the eye and, somehow, made you fear.

  The white man turned, slower and annoyed, while the black fellow pranced around him in a tease. Refusing the Swede’s embrace with a mocking smile. The onlookers cursed the Negro, shouting for him to wrestle like a man. But the Moor went on with his jigging. Until the Swede seemed baffled as a cow. Then the Negro tightened up his circles, the way a tiger works around a camp. He stalked, and feinted with his mammoth hands.

  Close up, you saw the Negro’s thousand scars. He was acquainted with the cat-o’-nine-tails and with irons, that one. His back looked like a crocodile’s pelt, the flesh a black-and-purple scape of callus, from the cord that held up his trousers to his skull. Men die from lesser beatings. And animals, as well.

  My escort to Captain Lott, yet another lieutenant, edged us into the crowd with a look of excitement. I did not understand what I was seeing and thought the boy careless of his duty. But let that bide. The soldiers looking on were the troublesome sort. Betting men they were, who wanted blood. A vicious, baying pack of tarnished souls. No doubt, the loudest of the loud had cowered by the river Sunday morning. But the harm that comes to others has a savor, and men are ever ready to look on. Nor did I turn away myself, I confess.

  The wrestlers smacked together.

  The crowd was white, and race will cheer its own. Their voices backed the Swede, as muscles strained. Sweat darkened each man’s trousers at the small of the back. The faces of the contestants grew ferocious, while the faces of the spectators went cruel. I do not think they would have stopped a killing.

  The struggle kicked up clots of earth that were drying from mud to dust. The Negro’s barefoot soles showed pink as mine. Twas odd, as if his blackness had worn off.

  Neither man could break the other’s stance. The spectators waved money, spitting and railing. If bulk were all, the Swede would have won with ease. But there is more to victory than size, as well I know. The Swede went bursting red and his chin slimed over. The Negro’s eyes held steady as his grip. Four feet dug in, and four legs strained under rough cloth. You sensed no bit of muscle went unused.

  Suddenly, the white man barked a curse.

  Profanity helps no man. His grip failed. And his legs gave. The Negro swept him high into the air. It was incredible. The pink-fleshed giant might have been a rag.

  The earth shook underfoot when the Swede come down. Oh, twas a slam.

  The Moor dropped on the fellow like a tiger, artful in the use of every limb. And something cracked.

  The Swede bellowed. A cry of sudden agony it was.

  The crowd surged in, forged to a single creature. Roaring. Those who bet and lost would have revenge.

  A pistol discharged. Its barrel flamed above the pack of heads. And motion ceased. The single muscle of the crowd relaxed, and men became their separate selves again, the way a company will after a battle.

  Gamblers muttered in their disappointment, turning away from the Swede and the anxious comrades kneeling by his side, away from the Negro who had thwarted them all. The Moor bent over, gasping from his effort.

  Twas then a voice come over us like thunder:

  “Behold His work. Goliath is brought low.”

  “LIFT UP YOUR EYES and see His mighty work. Behold the angel of His vengeance. Chastised, spurned and humbled . . . lashed . . . every blow increased His servant’s strength ten-fold . . .” The speaker waved a black slouch hat at Heaven. Erect and tall he was, hewn sharp by life. His long beard shook. “Jehovah is a God of fear and wonder!” He stepped closer to the Negro. “Raise up your swords against the plague of slavery, and surely you will triumph in His name. Leviticus, chapter twenty-six, verse thirty-two: ‘And I will bring the land into desolation: and your enemies which dwell therein shall be astonished at it.’ That land of desolation is the Southland, Brothers . . . great Babylon, who tried to make all nations drink of the wine of her fornication . . .”

  Soldiers drifted off to other pastures, but a few remained to keep the ranter hot. I fear there was less reverence in them than a craving for a break in their camp routine.

  A knot of spectators loosened itself and I saw the preacher full. Twas the fellow who had passed me on the road to Sherman’s headquarters, leading his band of horsemen. It struck me, late, that this was Captain Lott. A coal-ash beard descended to his chest, extending a visage fiercer than a hawk’s. His eyes lurked deep, but sparked when his voice swelled up. The man was rage made flesh. I knew the sort. The country parson brimming with damnation, who loves God’s wrath and aims his wrath at love.

  Truth be told, I like religion quiet. Unless there is a hymn sung fine and true. God does not hear us sooner when we shout.

  Lott put on his hat and laid the hand thus freed on the Negro’s shoulder. The preacher looked the elder by some decades, but strong enough to finish a scrap himself. His muscles were a workingman’s, the sort life winds from hard and ill-paid labor.

  “Tell me, Brothers,” Captain Lott stormed on, “is any man among you such a heathen . . . that he has not received the Holy Word? Do you recall our Savior’s loving promise . . . that the meek shall inherit the earth?” He clapped the Negro’s back, spattering sweat. “Behold the meek raised up!”

  “That nigger don’t look all that meek to me,” a sergeant said.

  AND THAT IS HOW I come to Captain Lott. Or Reverend Lott, as he was sometimes called. Such he was, it seems, before the war.

  Sherman’s staff man was anxious to be gone, although he had enjoyed the wrestling session. He made his introductions and withdrew, promising a horse would be delivered for my use, although the battle had left a terrible want of the animals.

  That is another story, the horse business. I do not like the beasts and ride reluctant. Infernal as the juggernaut they are. Monstrous. I would sooner face a Sindhi cobra twice my length as hold a set of reins. In all my wars I marched and got there fine. But legs are not sufficient for America. Here all will ride and have no interference. Americans are not fond of their feet and hate to walk as if it were a sin. They mount a horse to go across an alley. But let that bide.

  “Welcome, Brother,” Captain Lott declared. He tried on a smile, but his features did not like the fit. “It is pleasing to the Lord that His generals have seen the light. Though the wasted days will count against them. Sin must be pursued, the wicked chastised. Rip out evil by the roots,” he said, and looked the man to do it. Bad skin gathered round his flaring eyes. “When innocents are slaughtered like the infants of Bethlehem, I hear the trumpet of the final days. Yes, Brother, the end of days is near upon us. The great day of His wrath is coming, when the sinner shall drown in a river of wormwood. That a Testament in your pocket?”

  He was observant, I will give him that, and knew what soldiers carried and just where.

  “That it is, sir,” I told him.

  He took me by the arm. His grip was strong. And then I noticed the fellow had a tattoo, like a sailor come out of China. Just behind his knuckles, seven blue stars curved toward his wrist.

  “Twice welcome then, Brother,” he told me. “‘Also thou shalt not oppress a stranger: for ye know the heart of a stranger, seeing ye were strangers in the land of Egypt.’ Exodus twenty-three, verse nine.” He looked me over. “Have faith. The lame shall walk. Come on and meet the brethren.”

  First, he introduced the Negro fellow. Twice my weight and twice my size he was. “Angel,” Lott called him. We walked together toward a shattered grove, past picketed horses and into a clearing. Bright green grass, fresh thrusted, made a rug. The air was gray, but soft.

  I smelled them first, as fragrant as perfume. And then I saw them, four fat hens on spits, dripping as they browned above the fire. Twas only after that I marked the men.

  The hens were more appealing, I will tell you. But then I am a prisoner of my past, and like neat camps and uniforms and order. Captain Lott’s detachment was irregular, composed of fellows dressed as their pleasure took them. Unshaven all, as if a beard were vi
rtue, they wore their hair as scraggled as did the Rebels. Even a balding pate trailed a greasy fringe. They had the fierceness of Pushtoons armed for war, and the same watchful eyes. At ease here in their camp, they all wore pistols. And Bowie knives, as I believe they are called. Their shirts were patched, but all their boots were good. And their guns were clean.

  Of course, I did not get the names of all. They come too fast, the nods and proffered hands. They made me welcome, I will give them that. To them, their leader, Lott, could do no wrong. One of them was even a Red Indian, the first such fellow who had crossed my path. His hair was sleeker than that of his comrades, long and straight and black, streaming with pink ribbons to his waist.

  “Billy Wright,” Captain Lott told me, “of the Choctaw nation.” The Indian looked up from a saddle’s repair. He did not rise or shake my hand, but only gave me a glance with solemn eyes. “Goes by ‘Broke Stick,’ most of the time,” Lott went on. “The Lord has blessed him with a deep knowledge of this country, this wicked Egypt. A knowledge superior even to mine own.”

  We turned from the Indian and my host said, “I made Broke Stick’s acquaintance back when I rode circuit, doing the Lord’s work in Pharaoh’s garden. Before the priests of Egypt drove me into the desert. He was one of the first to answer the call.”

  Now, I would not be a servant of my appetites, but the little tin of oysters had been all my noonday meal. And those hens smelled as lovely as the lilies of the field, if you will pardon the comparison. Twas all that I could do to keep my hands away and stop myself from ripping off a leg. I feared to pass them again.

  I bantered with the men, though some were reticent. Country folk are often shy of words. They tallied one short of a dozen, until another fellow ambled in. He rose up from a draw like a corpse from a grave. Doubtless, he had been at private matters.

  Lott changed. Forgetting me entirely. As if I had been swept from the face of the earth. The captain stood, black coat worn brown and beard mighty, raptly watching the last man’s approach.

  And then I saw the man was but a boy.

  And then I saw a boy he would remain.

  You knew at just a glimpse the lad was simple. His mouth hung open and his eyes roamed round. He wore a battered derby hat over dust-drab hair. Despite his outdoor life, his skin was pale. And blotched. All twitching leanness, he loped straight for Lott, calico shirt half tucked and trousers ragged. When he smiled, his left eye ticked.

  A dozen strides away, he broke into a run. Stretching out his arms in a child’s greeting.

  Simple or not, the fellow wore a pistol. And a cutlass.

  Lott embraced him, reeling from the collision. And I will tell you: In that moment, vengeance disappeared and hard words faded. The captain closed his eyes and love softened his face. The hand with the tattoo of stars stroked and patted the boy.

  A minute passed before their hugs untangled.

  “My son,” Lott told me. “Major Jones, this is my only son, my Isaac.” Where rage had been, a father’s pride remained. He made me think of the Reverend Mr. Griffiths, whose daughter was that tyrant’s only joy.

  I looked at the boy, Isaac, and filled with pity.

  Captain Lott could read a fellow plain. And he read me. But no harsh judgement passed his lips this time. He only said:

  “The Lord has blessed my son with innocence. He knows no evil.”

  And yet, he had that gun and the dangling cutlass.

  THE HENS MADE LOVELY EATING. Filling up the mouth with juice all hot. Broke Stick carved as clean as a Musselman slaughterer, and I was passed a portion equal to any. Remembering my wife’s concern with manners, I tried not to be vulgar or to gobble. She does not nag, but chides from time to time. Still, I devoured that chicken with some haste.

  Cakes of corn had been cooked in the ashes, a sort of bread that was all new to me. It chewed a little mealy, but made a welcome change from hardtack biscuit. A block of butter lay spread on a kerchief, strong of smell and specked, but rich to taste. It bettered up the cornbread to a fineness, once I got the nerve to help myself. For we must not be forward among strangers, nor take too much when other mouths must eat. But I will tell you: I could have gobbled up the lot myself, the hens, cornbread and butter, and the bones. I am a fellow grateful for his victuals. I even licked my fingers, I confess.

  My manners, I fear, were not the worst in that company. Although the faults of others do not excuse our own deficiencies. Their great, fat knives were fork and spoon in one. But, to their credit, no man drew out whisky. If Captain Lott seemed otherwise intemperate, he had no toleration for the bottle.

  “This is no common war, Brother,” Lott said, as we chewed on. “It’s a holy crusade.” He pointed past my shoulder with a drumstick, showing me those blue stars on his hand again. The son beside him tracked the gesture’s line. “And this is a crusading army. Oh, they don’t know it yet. Man’s lot is ignorance. We do not see His ways until the seals are opened. But they’ll learn. Know that verse, ‘Thrust in thy sharp sickle’? This army here’s that sickle. And the South is the tainted harvest. Yes, Brother. The Southron is steeped in sin. He bears a thousand other sins, but none so black and deep as human bondage. Yonder, there’s a chapel named in blasphemy. Slaver Methodists called it Shiloh, a name of peace and purity. Now it’s no accident that this battle took place upon these fields, that the shadow of Armageddon fell upon us here. The Lord will not be mocked. He will have vengeance. He will not wait until Babylon is fallen.” He looked at me, as sober as a clerk, and said, “The end of days is at hand. The signs are upon us.”

  I was not shocked or even much insulted by his comments about Methodists. For I had learned the hard way back in Washington that in the South some Wesleyans kept slaves. My uniform was cursed in a Georgetown chapel. But he troubled me with his talk of the end of days. Despite the warmth of the meal, I felt a chill. No man likes to think upon such things.

  Lott put a remnant of yellow bread on his son’s plate, then sat back against his saddle. The gray light had gone dreary as night approached. More rain would fall.

  “I was driven from this land, Major Jones. Because I told them the Negro was not the son of Ham, but the true son of Abraham. Scorned, I went into the wilderness. Into Missouri. And Kansas. Where His fiery sword lay heavy on the land. I did His handiwork at the side of other righteous men. I claimed the great John Brown as my acquaintance, a herald sure as John the Baptist was.”

  He leaned sideways, elbow over the leather and beard brushing the earth. His son curled by him as a spaniel will, gnawing the last sweet flesh off a bone. “Now I have returned,” Lott said. “And I come quickly. A tool of His judgement. Yes, Brother. When I returned I laid aside the Gospels. The Old Testament is what these Southrons need. That’s the only God they understand.”

  Glancing around at his followers, some of whom had nudged up close to listen, Lott said, “We are few. But we are strong in the Lord. ‘And ye shall chase your enemies, and they shall fall before you by the sword.’” He looked beyond us, beyond the splintered trees and resurgent green. Into the darkening wood. “‘And five of you shall chase an hundred, and an hundred of you shall put ten thousand to flight . . . and your enemies shall fall before you by the sword.’ Leviticus, chapter twenty-six, verses seven and eight.” He turned to me and grease shone in his beard. “Crave another cut of chicken, Major?”

  TWAS THEN MY HORSE ARRIVED. I would have rathered have a bit more chicken.

  A sergeant led him in, a German fellow. And clear it was the horse was other-minded. “Verdammt noch mal, Du Teufel,” the sergeant told the creature, which promptly kicked its hind legs in the air. “Verstehst nur die Peitsche, nit?”

  Now I have learned a little of that language, and what I thought I understood was bad.

  “Who ist Major Jones?” the fellow cried, as if he had to hasten to a latrine.

  “That there’s him.” One of Lott’s men pointed.

  The sergeant brought the beast to me and I nearly bac
ked into the fire. Its face was a devil’s, long and vile and fierce. Yet, the others seemed to think the animal fine. They gathered around, commenting and cooing.

  “That is one fine piece of horseflesh,” a fellow said with a whistle. “Bet they stole him down outa Kentuck.”

  “Naw, that’s a Tennessee horse. Look how he lifts them legs.”

  I would have sooner looked into a snake pit.

  “You ist Major Jones?” the sergeant asked me.

  “I am he,” I admitted. Struggling to put up a valiant front.

  The German held out the reins and the monster whinnied.

  I forced myself to accept the leather straps. Now, I have been on horseback a pair of times. They did not turn out well. I had hoped—prayed—that an alternative form of transportation might present itself. Yet, I had known this moment had to come.

  The horse loomed huge as a dragon.

  Lott’s men petted the creature as children do, avoiding only the range of its rear legs.

  “Beautiful horth . . .” a hard man missing front teeth told his fellows. “ . . . juth beautiful . . .”

  Freed of the animal, the sergeant made his report. “The compliments of Cheneral Sherman, Herr Major. He sents on down to Sergeant Ike and tells him, ‘Sergeant Ike, you knows them horses all gut and how many was kilt and not. You gif that major the fine, big horse. You do that, Sergeant Ike. You gif that man the best horse you got down there. Gif that man a horse fit for a cheneral, a horse what runs from them Rebels every which way.’ And I do what the cheneral is telling me. Jawohl, I do. His name is Rascal. Ach, Gott sei dank, ich bin diese Pferde los!”

  The fellow clipped a salute and disappeared.

  Lott stroked the animal’s forehead, where a white star blazed upon the reddish-brown. The captain’s petting calmed the beast remarkably. Isaac, his son, caressed the animal’s neck.

  Lott told me, “It looks like General Sherman’s appointed himself your guardian angel, Brother. Out in Kansas, I’ve known men to die over horses of less quality.”

  The fellows assumed I would try my mount while a bit of light remained. But I was not prepared for that ordeal. Morning would be time enough for misery. So I lied. Yes, lied. I told them that my leg had cropped a bother. At that, Lott had the Negro take the reins. Angel led the horse to where the other mounts were picketed, saying, “Come on, Rascal . . . you come on with Angel now . . .”