No Common War

by Salisbury, Luke;

  Helen came down, a blue robe wrapped tightly around her, her hair pulled back, covering her ears. She also looked tired. She looked at me, and said, “Isn’t it early for so much morphine?”

  “Father strung me,” I said.

  Mother and Helen stared. I don’t know if they believed me. Mother looked at my fresh bandages. Helen looked at my swollen face.

  “I want Dr. Bulkley to do it now,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” Helen asked.

  “I’m sure.” I got up and dragged myself to her. I whispered, “I love you,” into her hair. She said nothing, just hugged me. She trembled and I felt hope and worry in her shiver.

  “We’ll see,” she whispered.

  I kissed her. I was like Waldo and Governor Tompkins. Happy and slobbering and stupid. I was full of morphine.

  Mother hugged me. I felt her relief and her love. The enormity of my cruelty to her and to Helen, began to filter through the morphine haze. I didn’t want to feel it. I would feel it a long time.

  Father washed his hands in the sink.

  Mason

  Escape

  March 19, 1863

  72

  Mary prayed that night. I listened to her give thanks, and heard the power in the words “our Lord” invoked for Moreau and Merrick. Mary asked for mercy for Lorenzo, prayed for Merrick’s soul, and asked that Moreau let Dr. Bulkley attend him always. She prayed for Lyman Houghton, Henry Corse, and Jack Barney, for all the boys and their grieving parents. She prayed for Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln who had lost an eleven-year-old the previous winter. She prayed for me too.

  I lay on the bed and watched a solitary candle. It sputtered and finished and I was in the dark, remembering the surgeon and his knives, and mulling over how everything could change in a minute. I was there. I spoke. I chose. This morning in the stable was no different. I was there, I spoke, I hit my son as hard as I could. Maybe it saved him. Maybe it saved me. I shall hope. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, nothing else I could have done. There’s divinity in that.

  Mary lay beside me, eyes open. “What happened in the stable?”

  “I fought for him.”

  “You hit him.”

  “I hit him. There was no other way.”

  “You surprise me, Mason.”

  “We came to the end of words.”

  “Is that when men hit each other?”

  “It was the only way to break Moreau’s loneliness.”

  “Has Moreau been so alone?”

  “Moreau has been alone with the devil,” I said.

  “I thought he’d been alone with you.”

  Mary smiled. You can feel a person smile in the dark.

  “He was terribly alone,” said Mary. “Even with his mother.” She touched my face. “A father’s love is different. It demands and judges and it must. That’s why there are mothers and fathers.”

  “It is also love,” I said.

  “And hard to give,” Mary said.

  “Very.”

  “But necessary.” Mary sighed. “It’s why I wanted you to go to Rochester.”

  “Rochester? I went to find Gib.”

  “You might have, but I hoped you would fine something else.”

  “What?”

  “A plan. A design.”

  Some things are easier said in the dark. Easier to hear, too. I knew what she had wanted me to find.

  “I believe Moreau will stop eating his own heart now,” Mary said.

  “If Bulkley cleans the wound, our son will be fine.”

  “Perhaps we shall all stop eating our hearts.”

  Mary kissed me and put her finger to my lips. “There is more you are not telling me. More was said and more done in the stable, but I don’t want to know.” Mary put her finger to her own lips. “Some things are between fathers and sons.”

  There’s always more that doesn’t get said.

  “I love you, Mary. That’s all we can know. The rest is hope.”

  Mason

  Thaw

  March-May

  1863

  73

  Two years, two weeks, and two days after the Rebels fired on Fort Sumter, Moreau and I finally started speaking again. Moreau asked for a walk, so I put off a trip to Oswego. We went to the creek, near where we had found Gib. Moreau used a cane but walked with a firm step. We took no guns and expected to see no one. The day was sunny but cool, unlike the day we “found” the runaway. Bright North Country April. Clouds high, fast-moving, and very white. The creek was partly frozen after the hard winter. We came to the place where Gib had awaited us, concealed in the brush, waiting to help send my son to war. Moreau leaned against a leafless oak and looked at the creek. Water flowed around and under uneven ice. The ice, too thin to support a man, was jumbled and held branches and rocks and the grit of winter. The wind off the creek was cold.

  “She’ll melt,” Moreau said.

  I nodded.

  High overhead hawks, the color of old barns, circled. A murder of crows eyed us from a dying oak.

  Moreau looked at me and said, “What do we owe the dead?”

  I went to my haunches, Indian-style, and looked at the leafless tag alders, last year’s tall, yellow grass, branches and wooden vines hanging over scraggly brush. The snow was gone, clumps of leafless bushes looked thick as palisades and trembled in the wind. Once again, this wasn’t the conversation I expected.

  “Burial,” I said.

  “Those Salisburys, William and John, were they buried?”

  “In a pit. They got no stone.”

  “Merrick wouldn’t have got one, if you hadn’t come.”

  “William and John Salisbury,” I said. “Are they buried, Moreau?”

  “You mean, have I buried them?”

  “Yes.”

  We stared at the rapid water.

  “The night before Antietam,” said Moreau. “Merrick said the heads would be gone after what was coming. He was wrong. But they’re gone now.”

  “And the newly dead?” I asked.

  “I can’t bury the new dead. But they don’t scare.”

  “What we owed,” I said, “you paid.”

  “Merrick paid.”

  I lowered my head. When I looked up, I noticed my son’s color. His face had regained some of its old, ruddy luster, his dark hair was combed, he was clean-shaven. Moreau was becoming a young man again.

  “It started here,” I said.

  “Yes,” Moreau said. “And no. It started before Gib.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “I reckon it started with the heads,” said Moreau. “They were something I had to answer for.”

  We looked at each other, the creek, crows, hawks, fast clouds, the large sky.

  “Do you still believe in the devil?” I said.

  Moreau looked at me, the creek, me again. “Devil is a name for things I don’t understand. Never understood.”

  “Is war the devil?” I said.

  “War is war.”

  I looked at him. “War doesn’t stay away long. Killing Indians, fighting Mexico, stopping slavery. For me, the heads, the devil if you will, say, ‘This place began in violence and is violent still. Take your stand.’”

  He steadied himself. “I didn’t go for you.”

  I turned. High clouds streamed east.

  “Never liked slavery,” he said.

  “Families get caught in history,” I said. “Born at the right or wrong time, young when the world goes to war. Lucky or unlucky.”

  “It’s bigger than the heads,” said Moreau. “Bigger than me and you.”

  “Killing Indians,” I said. “Profiting from slavery. North and South are both part of it. Both are being punished. Slaves pulled America out of the wilderness and the wilderness got in America.”

  “The Salisbury debt is paid,” said Moreau.

  I wondered if he was thinking of his son, the child he’d given up. I looked at him. “I hit you.” I was afraid I wouldn’t say it. “I’m sorry.
”

  Moreau looked at the creek. “I thank you, Father. I do.”

  I looked at my son, lowered my head, and wept silently.

  74

  Spring came and Lorenzo found peace. Not a happy peace, but peace. I didn’t believe it, but Catherine said so. Yes, a woman visited and sat by the casket at night. The woman found peace, too. Catherine said, “Please don’t tell anyone.” It was private. Merrick’s secret made his death easier for Lorenzo. Merrick had found another mourner in the woods.

  In May the ice in the creek broke, ploughs returned to the fields, sparrows left the barns, and Merrick was buried in Stevens Cemetery on the Orwell road. Lorenzo dug the grave. On a warm Friday, he drove the casket and the stone in the cart drawn by the two white mules. He cemented the stone into a granite block so “nothing might knock it down till long after no one remembers Merrick Salisbury.”

  A procession formed behind the cart. Lorenzo told only Moreau and me, but people came, and many walked behind the cart. Lorenzo let me and a half dozen Salisburys carry the casket and lower it into the grave. Moreau walked behind using his cane. Sometimes he touched the casket.

  Moreau didn’t weep. He looked at the trees, alders, oaks, elms, maples, beeches, ash, and said, “I hope they get tall.”

  That’s all he said.

  Moreau

  The Lesser Wilderness

  June-July

  1863

  75

  Once I talked to God. Now I would talk to a woman.

  Everything else was smooth. Pretty smooth anyway. Father and I said what we had to say. Sometimes words do the work they should. There’s a little acting in speaking—all of us, not just father, are making speeches when we talk—but there comes a time to accept it. Making Father feel good made me feel good, which was a surprise. I supposed I needed Father’s best. I couldn’t tell you why.

  Mother was getting rested, and that was good. I drank morphine every morning. I had gotten used to sweats and crankiness and not sleeping. Dr. Bulkley strung and watched me get better. One morning he told me, “You got to stop drinking it sometime. I’m not telling you to stop, but I’m telling you that.” I started drinking less. That was hard.

  Things got easier, but I still hadn’t set everything right.

  In the spring Helen became beautiful. Her cheeks were ruddy, her walk more confident. She had come to a decision. I could tell. Sometime over the long winter Helen discovered a strength in herself she hadn’t known she possessed. She was tired of being a sweetheart waiting for a soldier. She was ready to be a wife. Father noticed, Mother noticed, and people in town noticed. I remarked on it. Helen said, “That’s just talk.”

  More than talk was coming. After worry, anger. Helen showed it, though quietly. She had reason.

  On the Ides of June, Helen and I took the buggy out. I brought a cane and a blanket. Helen brought lunch. John Brown would have preferred to sleep. We went to the place by the creek beyond Woodville. We hadn’t been there since I left for war.

  The morning was clear, but not warm. Big-shouldered hawks, crows, and gulls circled new-plowed fields. We went through Woodville, passed the Woodville Hotel, Woodville General Store, Baptist Church, carts and wagons, and the McTavish place. I waved to O. B. Scott by his shanty, and Nathaniel Wood of the Woodville Woods in front of the Wood place, then crossed Woodville Bridge. The creek ran high and wide and bright and splashed the limestone flats and ledges. It swirled in pools, broke over branches, carried sticks and pebbles and sand. The noon sun danced up and down Big Sandy as it ran to Lake Ontario.

  We didn’t talk. We went to parts unknown. Helen had thought this out. She didn’t smile. Her mouth was tight, her lips compressed, her eyes narrow. She didn’t look at me.

  We found our place, tethered John Brown, and spread the blanket. The creek ran muddy between banks populated by oak, tangled tag alder with tiny speckled flowers, gray ash, green willow, tall slippery elm, red sumac, balsam, poplar, new leaves everywhere, high grass and vines not yet knotted and woody.

  “Lie down,” she said.

  I half sat, half fell, my cane beside me. The creek was smooth and quiet.

  Helen climbed on top of me, pulling her dress out of the way. She kissed me roughly, putting her tongue in my mouth, and bit my lip until it bled.

  “Forget your damn whores.”

  She squeezed my ear, pulled my hair, tongued me, tongue against tongue. Then her tongue was in my ear. She licked and bit an earlobe. My ankle throbbed. My member throbbed. Helen was someone else, a woman who didn’t like me.

  She pulled my beard, rubbed my chest. My ankle bled and she let it bleed. She rubbed my pants. Grabbed me. If you’ve never done something, you do it too easy or too hard. She undid my belt and I got bigger. She pulled at it. Either she didn’t know how, or she wanted to hurt me. I didn’t make a sound. She didn’t make a sound.

  She tore at the buttons of my pants. I reached to help and she pushed my hand away. “I’ll do it.” I raised up to make it easy. My ankle hurt. She pulled down my drawers and put her mouth on it. No looking first, no discovery, no pleasure. She gagged and pulled back and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Put her mouth on it again.

  Her hand went around my balls and squeezed. Her finger dug around my fundament. I almost said, “How do you know about that?”

  Sucked. Fingered. Sucked.

  I got harder.

  She nibbled. Bit.

  My member hurt.

  I heaved and gasped.

  “Not yet.”

  She massaged my thigh, raked her fingernails down the inside. She kissed my ear. She rubbed my balls. Would she make me come and keep her clothes on, like a ten-penny whore? You get this. You don’t get love.

  She straddled me. She still wore her shoes. Her skirt was up like an umbrella. No underwear. No lacy tease. She took my member, put it against herself. It didn’t go in. I didn’t move. She pushed against me. She moved up and down. We were silent.

  Helen held me. Moved slow. It didn’t last long.

  I cried. Couldn’t help it. She tried so hard. Needed so much.

  She cried. I had been afraid she wouldn’t.

  “You will marry me,” she said. “You will stop talking about whores.”

  She slapped me.

  She was bloody. As was my ankle.

  She had brought bandages.

  My wound bled and Helen bled. We bled by the creek in the place the Iroquois call the Lesser Wilderness, where Americans ambushed the British and the Indians say the world began.

  Helen will be my wife and bear our child. Children will make it easier to think of the child I lost. Maybe having children with Helen, raising them together, providing what a father should provide, will make my guilt fade. Or maybe not. But if that guilt helps me to be a better father and better husband, then I will welcome it.

  Helen said she wants a little girl, one who looks like her.

  I’d welcome that too.

  76

  Uncle Lorenzo came to the wedding. He sat in the wagon drawn by the white mules. Then he and Catherine came down and joined us. July fourth. Some of the 24th came. Like me, they had mustered out on May 29. A few would go back.

  There was a fight at Gettysburg. Some say worse than Antietam. No one says worse than the cornfield. After Gettysburg, the swift sword went south.

  I couldn’t do it again. I say I could, but I couldn’t.

  The brothers are brothers again, but different. We like to be together, but don’t talk much. We don’t mention Keedysville. It made us different from what we had been. Jesus, we’re all different—Father, Mother, Helen, the brothers, all of us.

  77

  I am a miller now.

  I’m happy in the village and wouldn’t be anywhere else. Helen is happy too. The war, in a strange, awful way, wedded us to Sandy Creek. It took many, and now that we’re back, the quick and the dead, I won’t leave again. I like the creek, the smell of the mill, the sound of horses and carriages and
carts on Main Street—even winter that drives us to our fires and close beds. I like the Baptist church, though I don’t have anything to ask of God. Let that be for others. There’s a time to question and a time to recognize answers. You just have to sort them out. I like Sandy Creek—the answers and the sorting out are here.

  I was wounded and Mother and Father and Helen were wounded, too. Who gave us our wounds is not so important now. When I came back, the war was in me, and for a long time I couldn’t get it out of me, but finally I did. Most of it, anway. Helen says, sure, we were wounded, but wounds heal, and scars are for show to those who don’t have them. We have those too.

  We asked Father to stand for re-election, but he says he’s too old. I know what he means. We’re too old for old things. We’re ready for new ones. Helen says God’s newest thing is children.

  Helen is expecting.

  I won’t tell our child about the heads. I won’t tell about the cornfield or Keedysville or the stable. I don’t want our children thinking they must find a war, make fatal choices, or suffer impossible mornings.

  Let them find what they must by the creek.

  Mason

  Sandy Creek

  Christmas Day

  1870

  Epilogue

  My part of this story is true as I can make it, but truth is complicated. So is memory.

  The war is remembered differently from what it was. It’s clouded by Lincoln’s death, which somehow becomes the final word, the last lilac in the dooryard. Simplified, sanctified. If ever people needed a death, solemn and public, it was the American people, and the death was his.

  The cemetery across Main Street has new graves. Bodies buried at the battlefields were exhumed, identified, and brought north after the war. Most of Sandy Creek’s lost sons lie here.

  For some of us, memory stays fresh. For others, it’s already become something else. Terrible things get remembered soft. It’s also a kind of forgetting.

  Acknowledgements

  A historical novel needs much guidance and information, and I was very fortunate. Margaret Kastler, former Sandy Creek Town Supervisor, and Charlene Cole, Town Historian, were wonderfully helpful. David K. Parsons and Marie K. Parsons’ Bugles Echo Across the Valley: Oswego County, New York, and the Civil War was invaluable and a fine work of local history. I couldn’t have made so many trips to the North Country without the incredible hospitality of Bonnie Bliss, and the friendship, advice, and insights of Barb and Frame Chamberlain, who are the best. Civil War re-enactor and historian Brian Codagnone let me fire an Enfield rifle and introduced me to his regiment’s medical re-enactor. I have held a capital saw.