No Common War

by Salisbury, Luke;

  We told Moreau the heads couldn’t talk or see. They were dead. Mary even said the story wasn’t true, but the child knew it was. Something that awful had to be true. I told him he wasn’t responsible for the old killings. None of us were.

  “Are Salisburys cursed?” little Moreau asked.

  “No one is cursed and no Salisbury has died in a war since 1675.”

  But Salisburys went to war. My father a lieutenant in 1812. His father a militiaman called to the Revolution. A Salisbury survived the Plains of Abraham. Nine bullets in his coat. Stories. Wars distant and heroic, or distant and awful, but distant. No one died.

  Until now.

  As the hours dragged on, I tried to sleep, but failed. Who can sleep surrounded by ghosts? I remembered two North Country men, shades now themselves, who went on fools’ errands to Rochester—Charles Finney, the evangelist, and daredevil Sam Patch. Finney went to save souls for the Lord, Patch to leap a hundred and twenty feet off a tower into the Genesee River. Neither succeeded, though Finney survived. Finney preached that nothing is predestined. Talk to God directly. Save or damn yourself. He didn’t shout like the preachers who see the devil at their heels and yours. Finney argued a case. Finest talker in the North Country.

  Talk.

  I traced an M on the window with my finger. Then another. My son was beyond talk. So was my brother. My nephew was dead.

  Visibility from the train window was only a few hundred feet. The “burned-over district” of central New York was under sheets of snow and sleet. I stared at the storm and thought of men I knew as boys, now under the ground or waiting spring burial. I remembered little Jackie Barney pulling the tail of our cat Rufus. Major Andrew Jackson Barney of the 24th New York Volunteers was dead. The boy visited by a dyspeptic mathematics professor was killed at Second Bull Run. His uncle’s former patient recognized him among the dead on the field of battle.

  In times of peace, sons bury their fathers. In times of war, fathers bury their sons.

  Maybe Reverend Finney was wrong. Maybe all is determined and all are damned. Maybe pleasing God isn’t arguing a case or cutting a deal.

  Burning cinders raced through the snow and blackened in the white swirl of the storm.

  68

  I arrived in Rochester an hour before dawn. The city still slept. The station was empty, and I napped on a hard bench until the sun rose, and then headed out to find the North Star office. The building was so small, I walked by it several times before noticing the number 25. The door was unlocked.

  I was surprised by the place. From here issued the cries of the wounded—the wounded who must do their own crying, Frederick Douglass said. Here free men organized, publicized, directed forays south. They had a network that ferried human beings all over North America, yet in this tiny place there was no place to sit. It was cramped, smelled of ink and the packed closeness of rolls of paper, stacks of newspapers, pamphlets, barrels of ink. It was busy, vigorous, urgent. And uncomfortable.

  At first I saw no one and I stood for a moment, wondering how war and the Emancipation Proclamation had changed the struggle. What would become of Douglass? What would become of the freed slaves? What would become of any of us?

  “Have you come for the Appeal?” asked an old Negro, appearing suddenly from behind several rolls of newsprint. I suppressed the urge to jump. How had I not noticed him in a room so small? The Negro wore a white smock, stained with so many shades of ink as to be a catalogue of black, gray and white, analogous to the colors of his tightly curled hair.

  “The Appeal?” I said.

  “Men of Color, to Arms.”

  “No. I read it in the newspaper. My paper, not yours. The Sandy Creek Times.” Small talk. Pointless.

  “Who would have thought Massachusetts would raise the first colored troops? When we have sounded the trumpet so long and so loudly.” The man was polite but strained.

  “It is a mistake,” I said, “which I regret.”

  “How may I help?” asked the Negro, his tone betraying a trace of impatience.

  “I’m looking for a man.” Now, perhaps, we might get somewhere.

  He looked skeptical.

  “A man my son and I helped to Canada.”

  The Negro crossed his arms over his chest.

  “A man named Gib Watkins.” I crossed my own arms over my chest.

  “You come from northern Oswego County to ask for him?” The old man shuffled a pile of paper. “I hope you find Mr. Watkins.”

  “I took him to Gananoque myself,” I said, not to be dismissed.

  “Perhaps you might seek him there.”

  “I thought someone here might know,” I said, raising my voice.

  “Who are you?”

  “The Honorable Mason Salisbury.” I rarely used the title. I used it now.

  The Negro paused and looked at me for the first time.

  “Have I heard you speak?”

  “I have spoken for the Cause.”

  “One of many voices,” he said, and went back to shuffling papers. After a long minute, he shook his head slowly, and said, “You come as an Assemblyman?”

  “I come as a father.”

  Snow melted on my beard. The old man wiped his hands on his smock and gave me a towel. He removed a pile of pamphlets from a loop-backed Windsor chair and said, “Sit down.”

  I was tired and hungry. The train had arrived at four a.m. Now it was barely seven.

  “Is Mr. Watkins in trouble?” he asked.

  I shook my head no. I didn’t like his forwardness or his lack of deference to the Assemblyman who had travelled such a long way for his son. Though I had his attention, and perhaps his sympathy, I doubted the Negro would tell me anything.

  “Why do you seek this man, Honorable Salisbury?”

  “He is my son’s friend and my son needs his friend.”

  “Where is your son?”

  “At this hour, passing a piece of silk through a hole in his ankle made by a rebel Minié ball. Antietam.”

  We talked for an hour and sure enough, I learned nothing useful. The old man did not know Gib Watkins, or at least said he didn’t. He brewed a pot of coffee and produced two stale rolls. I felt put off, patronized, possibly lied to, but when he said, “Let us get on our knees and ask the Lord Jesus for help,” I did it.

  69

  I didn’t wait in the hot, high-ceilinged waiting room of the New York Central Railroad Station. I stood outside by the tracks, overcome by deep desperation, a desperation as hopeless as the snow racing through the railroad yard. I had failed. The errand was a mistake. Gib was gone. He was lost in the winter in another country, if even alive. I walked among sidings and tracks, not bothering to shield my face. Men loaded and unloaded cars. Snow howled in gusts. I went behind a boxcar, sank to my knees, got the derringer out of my carpetbag, and put it beside me. I tried to pray:

  I sent my son to war. I cannot help him.

  The old man made a fool of me.

  What can I do?

  My knees froze in the snow.

  I looked around. What was I doing? I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be seen kneeling between cars, between God and pistol, praying for my son. I wanted it reported how the Honorable Mason Salisbury agonized in the snow and suffered. I wanted it known, if my son killed himself at home, in my care.

  Tears came.

  Why, what an ass am I! An ass! An ass! Nothing but an ass.

  My son braved unspeakable minutes in an unspeakable cornfield, and I was on my knees, hoping someone would see.

  “Be his father,” I said out loud.

  It was as if someone else had spoken.

  The snow stopped as I reached Rome. I thought of telegraphing that I hadn’t found Gib, but why send bad news? If there were bad news at home, I didn’t want it. I waited in the station. I didn’t want news or memories or gestures. I sat on a bench thinking, I’m not a hero. I’m an actor. I touched my wet knees. There’s providence in no one seeing you be a fool. I remembered Moreau
denying he was a hero.

  “I’m not a hero,” he told me. “Heroes are dead. Like Lyman, who the Rebs hung for breaking parole.”

  “Merrick is a hero,” I said.

  “Until he’s forgotten.”

  “A hero, then a ghost,” I said.

  “We’re all ghosts.”

  I had panicked in Rochester, but from Rome to Sandy Creek, I began to plan. I stared at the white fields and snow-canopied trees and decided to take the .44 back from Moreau. It had been stupid to give it to him. I was not his comrade—I was his father. I worried that taking the gun might not be enough. Men die in other ways. Hang themselves in barns. Die in the woods. Drown in Lake Ontario.

  What would I tell Mary?

  No Gib. No God. Only an actor.

  I tormented myself the long way back with what I hadn’t done. I hadn’t confronted Moreau. I hadn’t gotten angry. Hadn’t said hard things about him or myself. Hadn’t fought. I’d been proud and loving. I’d hoped—we’d all hoped—Moreau’s pride in being a soldier, in not being me, would make it right. Make him love us. Trust us.

  Now I knew it wasn’t enough. I’d have to mention the child. I’d have to show the letter. I’d have to say I lied, but had told no one. Say I’d string. I had to do what I hadn’t. What I feared. If that wasn’t enough, Amen.

  And take care of Mary and Helen.

  The ghosts will care for themselves.

  I got off the train at Sandy Creek. The sun set into a gray winter sky, leaving a momentary glow over the fields. The snow was blue and the wind promised a harsh night. A red-tailed hawk circled, then disappeared. I raised my collar and walked the three-quarters of a mile up Railroad Street.

  There was one last hope and it was me.

  Moreau

  Bottom

  March 19, 1863

  70

  In the stable. Five a.m. I look down the barrel of the .44, cock the hammer, and see horses, steaming pan, needle, silk, fresh bandages, good foot and bad foot. I look up. The lamp swings like a hanged man. Wind creeps and finds tiny cracks in the walls. Thoughts creep too.

  Does air freeze?

  Blood?

  I put the gun by the pan and think of Lake Ontario. Frozen, white. Gray ice trapping light. Killing day.

  The stable door opens. Shuts. Quick blast of freezing air. The lantern swings. John Brown neighs.

  “Are you going to kill yourself, Moreau?”

  I sway, sit up. Surprised. “Gib?”

  “Father.”

  I close my eyes. “Get out.”

  Father looks at the .44 sitting by the pan. He’s wearing his long black coat with the purple collar. Like a politician or an undertaker.

  He moves closer. Out of the shadow into the lantern light.

  I raise my hand and shake my head.

  We look at each other. Why is he here? He can’t string. He sent me to war.

  I look at the gun. Father looks at the gun. A yellow halo surrounds the lantern. Father won’t do anything. He moves closer. I want the gun. He wants the gun.

  I reach for the .44, but my hand doesn’t go straight. Father moves. A halo around his hand moves. He hits me on the side of my head. I crash onto the straw. Face hurts and I can’t see out of one eye. My ankle stings and my face bleeds. He never hit me before.

  He picks up the .44.

  I sit on the hard, frozen straw. I rub my head and squint out of one eye. The light is swimming. Ankle throbs. “Shoot me.”

  Father looks at me and shivers.

  “Shoot!” I yell.

  “It isn’t that easy, Moreau.”

  “Then give me the gun!” I shout. “It’s easy enough for me!”

  “Why are you doing this, Moreau?” He puts the gun in the straw by John Brown’s stall.

  “I’m already dead,” I say.

  “You’re not dead,” says Father. “You’re hurt. You’re a soldier. And a good man.”

  I spit. John Brown neighs. “Merrick is dead. Major Barney. Balch. Henry. Philo. Lyman.”

  “You’ve gone over to the heads, Moreau,” says Father. “Come back. It’s time.”

  I look away. Shadows dance on the varnished chest and saddles. “I’ve seen the elephant.”

  “The war isn’t over, Moreau. Don’t surrender.”

  “I’m not a good man.”

  “Do you think I am?” Father takes a letter out of his black coat. “This is yours. It was pinned inside your uniform.”

  “You said you didn’t find it!” Liar. Judas. “You son of a bitch!”

  “I have not betrayed you,” Father says. “Your letter remains private.”

  He hands me the letter. I rip it up and drop the pieces in the straw. “I never saw the child.”

  “Was the child yours?”

  “It was mine,” I say, angry. “With a whore. Should I bring Betsey here and show her off?”

  “I told no one.” Father picks up the pieces and drops them in the lantern. Quick red flame turns to black smoke that disappears in the draughty cold air. “I didn’t tell anyone when I thought you’d kill yourself. I didn’t tell anyone when your mother thought she’d lost you. I didn’t tell anyone when Helen despaired of getting you back.”

  “You think that makes me trust you?” I say.

  “What you do is up to you, Moreau. But as long as it remains secret, I will keep your confidence.”

  “The Honorable Mason Salisbury doesn’t care that he has a bastard grandchild?”

  Father speaks quietly. “Is the child not cared for?”

  “Not by me.”

  “Moreau, a father can only do as much as he can.”

  I snort.

  “Could you even find this woman? Would she let you see the child?”

  I look at the needle, the silk, the cooling water. The yellow bottle. I hate it. I hate what I have to do every morning. I hate everything.

  “You’re alive, Moreau,” Father says. “That’s what matters. What would Lorenzo give to see Merrick again?”

  I take a drink of morphine. “God damn Lorenzo and Merrick. And you.”

  “Your mother prayed every day and night for you, and this is how you act?” At last, Father is angry. His eyes narrow. His beard quivers. He is as angry as I’ve only seen him before a crowd. “Can’t you think of anyone’s pain but your own? No matter how you hate the war, or me, you have no right to treat your family like this.”

  I take another drink. I don’t want to listen, but he keeps talking.

  “Merrick is dead. That can’t change. Your son grows up with a man who isn’t his father. Sons have to live with the sins of their fathers. Who doesn’t live with that? You have a family here, Moreau. Take care of the people who love you. I know I hurt you. I accept that shame for the remainder of my life. You may forgive me, or not. We may never speak, if you wish. But stop hurting your mother and Helen!”

  I drink. The stable begins to waver and the lantern light dances. Thin smoke dissolves in the rafters.

  “If you kill yourself,” Father says, his voice steely, “you prove yourself the coward.”

  I drink again. I’m warm with morphine and full of easy, bright freedom. “Coward?” I laugh. “Who’s the coward, Father?” I spit the word out like a curse. “Who can’t string the wound of his only son?”

  He looks like he knew this was coming. He stands straighter, slowly takes off the black coat, and lays it over the gun. His white breath comes quicker. “All right, let’s try.” He picks up the needle. The silk is attached. Mother did that last night. He rinses his hands in the water, which already has a jagged skim of ice. I drink from the yellow bottle. “Okay,” he says, and lifts my leg carefully. He unwraps the bloodstained bandages. It doesn’t hurt. The morphine makes the freezing stable almost pleasant. Father looks at the wound, a red pucker surrounded by yellow-white scaring, small in front, bigger behind.

  “Nasty,” he says. He positions the needle against the wound and pushes, tentative. It doesn’t hurt much. He pushes i
t through. The wound bleeds. He pulls the needle out the other side, unties the silk, puts the needle on the table, and holds each end of the silk. He takes a breath and pulls the silk through. It turns red. He pulls it the other way, blood on his hands, staining his cuffs. He pulls slowly, steadily. He does not flinch.

  I think of the child, whose life I shall not know, look at Father, and think of Helen.

  “You’re no coward,” I whisper.

  “Not today.”

  He pulls the silk back and forth as my wound bleeds. The ankle throbs. The lantern swings in a yellow, morphine halo. Father works the silk back and forth for a full minute, then wipes the ankle and bandages the wound.

  He doesn’t do it well, but he does it.

  71

  I hobbled into the house. Father steadied me. Then he went back to the stable for the needle, silk, and pan. When Mother came in, I was leaning alone against the door, looking at the fire in the kitchen hearth. She saw the bruise on my swollen face but didn’t say anything. Father returned, and put the pan with needle and silk in it in the pantry. He probably had the gun in the pocket of his coat, but I didn’t see it. I noticed how old and tired he looked. Mother looked tired, too. I probably looked and smelled like a wild animal. I shook my head and sat at the kitchen table, leg propped on a chair. Everything was slow and warm. The dogs came in to be fed. Waldo licked my hand. Governor Tompkins put his paw on my good leg. Mother said, “I shall make breakfast.” Father nodded, and added wood to the stove, which warmed the kitchen and melted ice on the windows. He fed the dogs. The house filled with the smells of eggs, coffee, bacon, warm dogs, and toasting bread.