by John Sayles
It is still raining early in the morning when they pull them out of the jail. Dr. Lunceford is tied with rope to the others, to Ike Lofton and Toomer the patrolman and William Moore who represented the anti-vaccination crowd in court, to Arie Bryant the butcher and Bell and Pickens the fishmongers and Tom Miller at the rear complaining that his watch has been stolen. There is little slack so when the major raises his hand for them to halt each man bumps into the back of the one in front. At least their hands and legs are free, the deputies all on their first day of service and ignorant of how to attach the shackles.
White people, men and women, line the street jeering at them as they are herded to the station, nigger this and nigger that, some walking parallel with the soldiers to unload their contempt, a group of boys trying to time their spit to fly in between the gaps in the escort. It is very early in the morning for such outrage, and he assumes these are people unable for whatever reason to participate in yesterday’s action and feeling left out.
And then he sees them, standing on the other side of Third, his wife holding the broad umbrella and his daughter, looking exhausted, huddled beneath it. They are safe. Now he can bear anything. He catches Yolanda’s eye and she covers her mouth for a moment, then waves, regally, the way she does when she sees him off on any other train journey.
“When you think they’ll let us get off?” asks Salem Bell.
“Told me there’s a lynch mob waiting at every train stop from here to Washington,” says Frank Toomer. “I aint getting off till I seen the last of Dixie.”
“Close your yaps,” the major calls back to them. “Else I’ll put a muzzle on you.”
Dr. Lunceford wishes he could have been present to see their faces when they came looking for him and found his wife instead, in her parlor, when they got a dose of Yolanda Lafrontiere. They’ll steal the house, of course, they own the law now and there will be taxes due or ordinances passed and within months some white man rewarded for his participation in the coup will be sitting in his favorite chair. A house is wood and brick. His Yolanda has come through it safely and will be with him for whatever comes next. She will save what she can, will help Jessie bury her husband, and then, as is their long agreement, the plan almost a joke between them, she will reunite with him whenever she is able in the city of Philadelphia, on the steps of Independence Hall.
Jessie wants to follow him to the depot but her mother says no, he knows we’re safe now and there is so much to do. She means putting Dorsey into the ground. Jessie spent the night in the cemetery and then walked home, to her old home, to find the windows shot out and Alma weeping and her mother saying He’s gone, you poor child, he’s gone. She thought it was her father and then could tell from the tone it was Dorsey.
“Your father has been banished from Wilmington,” her mother told her, holding her shoulders and looking straight into her eyes, “and your husband has been murdered.”
Jessie is still shivering even after the bath and changing her clothes and her throat is raw, frantic and without sleep all night in the rain in the cemetery. There is a woman walking straight at them from the jailhouse, somebody she should know.
“Jessie,” says Miss Loretta. “Mrs. Lunceford.”
Jessie looks at her like she doesn’t recognize her. She hasn’t seen the girl in months and here she is on this terrible morning with her little belly sticking out.
“They have my father in there,” Miss Loretta says, indicating the jail. She wishes she could hold Jessie for a moment, for her own comfort if not for the girl’s, but even if it was allowed she is not sure it would be welcome. “He’s being sent away. I shall follow, I suppose.”
Mrs. Lunceford nods.
“He’ll be on a later train than your husband,” she says to Jessie’s mother, then smiles bitterly. “So there won’t be any race-mixing.”
Dr. Peabody says it is only a twinge, brought on by the Judge’s extreme choler and the unnecessary exertion. The old man lies in his bed upstairs, frowning out at the drizzle, Harry standing awkwardly to the side, hat in hand. He has not slept, and there is blood on his shoes, acquired while he was attempting to help the ambulance men with their gruesome duty.
“I have made my decision, Father,” he says. “Or, rather, it has been made for me. I will be leaving.”
The words do not seem to register.
“Today.”
The Judge turns his head to look at him then, eyes not unfriendly, nods. “Don’t let them make a yankee of you,” he says.
Alma is trying to get all the glass up from the carpet when Wicklow looks in.
Once the sun went down the shooting began, first the windows on the ground floor, then the second, and finally even some around the back. If it had been all at once it would not have been so bad, but they just come every half hour or so all night, shooting another pane out and yelling their filth and strolling away to brag about it. She sat on the upstairs bed in their big bedroom while Mrs. L wrapped the silver and sewed her jewelry into the lining of a jacket and fussed about what clothes she should bring for him if they had to leave.
“You folks made it all right?” asks Wicklow when he peeps through the open window.
“They kilt Dorsey Love,” she says, trying not to cry again. “Who my little Jessie married.”
Wick shakes his head. “Sorry to hear it. That was always a nice polite boy, Dorsey. They killed a good score more than him. Talk is about bodies in the river, people thrown in ditches and covered over—”
“Don’t make any sense.”
“Got what they wanted, I spose. Had to send my nephew off. Jubal. There’s hundreds pulled out last night, hundreds more gone follow as soon as they can. They made it plain enough that this aint a town for us no more.”
Alma leans on her broom for a moment and sighs. She has never felt this tired.
“Don’t make any sense at all,” she says. “Who gonna do all the work?”
Milsap knows he is already late for work but he doesn’t care. He has been drawn back to the blackened, dripping ruins of the Love and Charity Hall, no screaming mob now, no Kodak bugs snapping photographs. He steps into what’s left of the ground floor, rain collecting in the burned-away remnants above and funneled into little waterspouts that drizzle down onto the debris. There is a large hole in the ceiling where the bulk of the press fell through, machinery lying tilted on its side draped with a layer of charred newspaper. Milsap picks his way across the floor, poking with his toe till he finds a melted hunk of lead. It is still warm in the palm of his hand. He turns it over a few times, deciding that there is no telling what letter it was, then sticks it in his pocket with the brass N he found yesterday. He comes out from the ruined building, then absently switches it to the other pocket. Force of habit—you always want to keep your brass and your lead separate.
BOOK III
THE
ELEPHANT
CURRENT EVENTS
“Tis gggreat news from the islands,” says Gilhooley. “Victhry has bin wan at a pittance—the haughty Dago vanquished with barely a show.”
“Manila is ours, then?” queries Officer O’Malley, jiggling his keys.
“Fer the time bein it is, it is. The Stars and Stripes gallantly flappin oer the pallum trays, the downbaten Spaniard shipped home with his tail betwixt his legs. Whither we kape the place or not, that’s another tale altogither.”
“The Fillypeens—”
“Thousands of islands it is, from the size of the Auld Country down to some not bigger than Battry Park, each with its complymint of grateful salvages.”
“We’ve enough salvages already,” frowns the roundsman. “Or have ye nivver strolled through the Tinderloin on a Saturdy night?”
“It’s markets we want, Pat, or so says the powr behind the trone.”
“Mark Hanna himself, is it?”
“An appytite with legs and a mighty repository of balloon juice, but a jaynyus win it comes to the spondoolacs. Whin the President does a jig, it’s Hanna tha
t’s pullin the sthrings.”
“Markets in Manila,” muses the officer. “If it’s exotic goods I’m afther I could easily stroll over to Chineytown—”
“We’re not to buy from thim,” explains the horse-follower. “They’re to buy from us. As well as the Chinamen and the Japanese and the whole gang of yella monkeys as they’ve got over there. Providin a positive outflow of resarces and a ginerous influx of the auld roly-poly.”
“And can they afford it at all?”
“We’re only discussing the chayper sart of goods, O’Malley, nothin you or I might purchase. Have ye seen the suit that’s hangin in Hymie Ziff’s store winda?”
“What would a nekkid salvage be wantin with a chape Jew suit?”
“Ye’d be surprised. I’ve bin readin up on it—did ye know that on sortin iv the islands the majoority is Cathlicts?”
“They’re all Cathlicts on Skelly Michael back home,” says O’Malley, “and a more salvage, poorly dressed lot ye’ve nivver seen.”
“The idee is,” Gilhooley continues, “to bring thim the fruits iv dimocracy and cappytilism first, which projuices a desire for the finer things in life, like shoes or newspapers or whiskey.”
The policeman appears distraught. “Is there no whiskey there at all?”
“None that I’ve heard of.”
“Me admiration for our byes in uniform incrases.”
“Think iv all thim barefoot Fillypeeny byes who could be out rushin the cans fer the workingmen or shinin the shoes of thim what has shoes—”
“Unimplymint is a turrible thing—”
“—but instead have naught to do but hang about and kick the cocoanut.”
“A turrible thing.”
“Don’t I know it meself? Think if these new automobiles was within the means iv any but the Asthors and the Vanderbilks—no more horses. And without horses what’s there left staming on the streets fer yers truly to shivvel off into a wagon?”
“So it’s democracy, is it? Will they be sindin Croker over?”
“Not the Tammany brand, that’ll come later. No, I belave it’s Jiffersonian dimocracy will be the first dose.”
“The lucky divvils.”
“It’s all part iv a natural progrission—first you had the concept of immynint domain, then it was mannyfist distiny, and now we’ve got binivilint assimilation, which leads, inivitably, to cappytalism. Plant the desire to improve yer lot and thin install the twelve-hour day.”
“How long is their days at the present?”
“Sunrise to sunset, and not a moment of it spent in gainful implymint. Mostly they run errands for the friars.”
The policeman winces in sympathy. “Franciscans, is it? Ah, the poor, sufferin brown bastards.”
“Aye, Franciscans, and iv the acquisitive variety.”
“Now, Franciscans aren’t the worst of the orders. They’ll go easy with the rod, is my experience. But yer Christian Brothers—”
“Sakes, set them byes on ’im and there wouldn’t be a Fillypeeny left standin.”
The copper ponders for a moment. “So—we kape the flag flutterin above, injuice thim to buy our chape suits, and in the course of time innerjuice the finer concepts iv patronage and quid pro quo.”
“Tis the very thing Senator Hanna advises.”
“A sound course of action.”
“Ah, but there’s a sorpint in the Garden.”
“Wherivver ye’ve got pallum trays there’s sure to be sorpints crawlin about.”
“This wan’s name is Aggynaldo.”
“An Eyetalian in the Fillypeens! And is he an arnychist as well?”
“He’s only a Fillypeeny insurrictionalist, is all. Wan iv their ginrals that was on our side agin the Spaniard, and now perhaps he isn’t innymore.”
“That quick, is it?”
“Imagine, if ye will, what the poor monkeys are thinkin—here they’ve bin fightin agin the Spaniard since shortly after the Flood, and in stames Admiral Dooley to knock the tar out iv the Dago’s flotilla—”
“Our byes to the rescue, jist like at the San Wan Hill—”
“Ah, but there the Cubing insurrictos had their own flag at the ready—”
“Many’s the time I’ve seen it, hung outside the hoonta office on New Street.”
“And the Fillypeenys might’ve had some sort of a banner waiting, fer all I know, but the race goes to the swift, or in this case to thim what’s got the Great White Flate floatin in the harbor set to bombard Manila with dinnymite. So there’s a bit iv a dustup around the fort—Murphy, the policy banker from Twelfth Street, says it was in the bag before a shot was fired, and he ought to know—and poor Aggynaldo and his stalwarth companions look up to see the Star-Spangled Banner itself wavin high over the walls.”
“Ye say the battle was not on the up-and-up?”
“D’ye know Finnegan that works on the gas lines?”
“He’s felt the hard ind iv me stick more than wonst.”
“And d’ye remimber last August when his missus set out afther him with a lead sash-weight in her hand—”
“And Finnegan run into the station hollerin bloody murther—”
“And him no great friend of the byes in blue—”
“He’d curse us to Hell as soon as look at us.”
“Aye, but at the moment he was in mortal peril from a far more turrible inimy. Can ye imagine fallin into the hands iv Big Annie Finnegan in all her fury?”
“A fate worst thin Death itself.”
“Well, thim Spanish Dons trapped in the fort in Manila was thinkin the same thoughts as Finnegan. Better their kaysters thrown on a quick boat back to auld Madrid than their noggins on a pike in Manila.”
“Which manes this Aggynaldo is in Big Annie’s boots.”
“He takes a smaller size,” corrects Gilhooley, “but the principle is the same. He goes to Admiral Dooley, does Aggy, and he says—in Spanish now, fer that’s what the eddycated wans spake, none of yer googoo lingo fer thim—he says, ‘Thanks fer yer help in the matter,’ he says, ‘and whin exactly will ye be pullin anchor?’ And the Admiral strokes those great white chop-warmers he wears and he says, ‘Ye’ll be informed whin inny consinsus has bin arrived at.’ Bein a polite way iv tellin the little monkey to bugger off. So it’s our byes with their kit and rifle versus the salvages with their bolo knives, waitin fer the other brogan to fall.”
“And will they lift a man’s tonsure, the Fillypeenys?”
“Worst than that—they’ve got torters and depprydations to make a red Injin blush fer shame.”
“There’s bows and arras involved?”
“Spears even, like your African headhunters use. Oh, it’s a primitive type of conflict they’ll be wagerin on thim islands, what the Royal British who’s fightin the Boors in Praetoria are callin gorilla war.”
“Gorillas, too! A turrible thing.” O’Malley ponders. “What exactly is a Boor, then? I’ve hoord iv the thing, but I don’t have me finger on it—”
“It’s a type of Dutchman,” says Gilhooley, “that’s gone wild on the African felt.”
“That’s a soberin thought, that is—a salvage Dutchman. The worst iv two wurrulds.”
“Spakin iv red Injins,” says Gilhooley, “me own opinion is that what’s needed over there is Ginral Miles, late iv the gggreat victhry of Sandago Cuba, him that injuiced Geronnymo and his haythen band to come back on the riservation. He’s the bye fer the job.”
“Aye,” the policeman nods, “he’d make short work iv this Aggy fella.” He taps his stick absently against the wheel of Gilhooley’s wagon, thinking. “So—whin the Fillypeenys have bin subjude, d’ye think we’ll have another star on the flag?”
“Not on yer life. The Fillypeeny himself is somethin between a Hottentot and a Chinaman—with none of the positive attrybutes iv ayther race, whatsoivver as those might be. Them islands is more likely to become a Turritory, like this Porta Reeky or Oklahoma. As such they injoy some of the bennyfits iv citizenship, but kape
their noses out of trouble come Illiction Day.”
“It seems like a great deal iv bother to go to,” opines the lawman, “to sell a few chape suits.”
“Tis the white man’s burthen,” replies Gilhooley, bending once again to his task. “And we’ll all need to buck up and carry our portion iv it.”
COCKFIGHT
There are roosters at the front. It has been quiet along the line all day, even with the Americans setting up their artillery on the heights across the river, quiet enough for General Ricarte and Colonel San Miguel to join Aguinaldo and the rest of the general staff in Malolos for a ball to celebrate the new Constitution.
“Keep a third at the outposts,” the colonel called down to Diosdado from his rented barouche. “But there’s no reason the rest of the boys can’t have some fun.” And then was gone.
So there are roosters in the long pit dug just behind the sentry posts, at least three sets of birds preparing to tear each other apart, and torches stuck below ground level to light their battles. Diosdado’s men crowd around, betting coins and cigarettes, using old lottery tickets as promissory notes, bantering about the relative merits of Cubans versus Jolos, feathery birds versus sinewy, orange versus black. Gambling has been outlawed by General Aguinaldo, of course, but like many of his orders this one seems to be understood in principle and ignored in practice. The boys at the outposts turn to call back their observations to those in the pit, feeling persecuted to have drawn sentry duty on this night of celebration, the war over and Manila beckoning from behind the American lines on the other side of the San Juan River.
“I’m holding the Death of all Chickens in my hands,” sings out the one they call Kalaw because of his big nose. “You bet against him, you bet against fate.” Kalaw holds his champion, a squirming bundle of rage, within inches of the beak of the other combatant still pegged to the trench floor while his friend, Joselito, yanks the bird’s tailfeathers to anger it even more.