Two Roads

by Joseph Bruchac

  “All you here—all you there

  Pay the bonus, pay the bonus everywhere.

  For the Yanks are starving,

  The Yanks are starving,

  The Yanks are starving everywhere.”

  “Black vets and white vets together,” Corporal Dart smiles. “Here, leastwise for now, that color line’s gone. We have got us a piano across the river in Camp Marks. A redneck boy from Georgia and a brown boy from Harlem taking turns playing it, singing ‘It’s Only a Shanty in Old Shanty Town.’”

  We turn south. A jumble of buildings fills the block on Third Street. One big old structure stands several stories tall—its side wide open to the elements. All around are men and women, tents, rough lean-tos. American flags are everywhere, some hanging from abandoned buildings targeted for demolition, others being held up by men standing at attention.

  “Camp Glassford,” Corporal Dart says. “Named it for that chief of police. A vet himself. He’s been treating us all with respect. Especially since us vets have vowed to keep it peaceful, no matter what. But Hoover wants us all gone. You mark my words, pal. If they do bring in the army to drive us out, old Hoover is going to get voted out in favor of that new man Roosevelt. And now he’s about to let his big dog off its leash—General MacArthur, who views us all as commies.”

  I hear a muffled roar from back up the wide avenue.

  It’s people shouting. I can’t make out the words at first. Then, as the sound gets closer—like a flood rolling down a riverbed—I do.

  They’re coming.

  Now I hear the quick clop of hooves on pavement. A troop of mounted men coming into sight. Hundreds of them on horses as big and beautiful as Dakota. It’s a stirring sight for sure. Some of the vets across the street start to applaud. Maybe this is a parade to honor them for their service.

  Behind the cavalry comes the thud of marching feet. Infantrymen. Then, metal treads clanking, tearing up the pavement, half a dozen tanks rumble into view.

  A mounted officer raises his sword. The crowd goes still as the saber flashes in the sunlight like a kindled torch. Behind the cavalry, foot soldiers are fixing bayonets. They’re pulling gas masks down over their faces—no longer looking human now, but alien-headed monsters.

  “Lord Jesus, help us,” Corporal Dart says, his voice a harsh whisper. “Run!” He grabs my hand, pulling me back from the avenue as the cavalry officer shouts a command.

  “HERD THE CROWD NORTH!”

  A group of troopers ride straight at the peaceful onlookers, swinging glistening swords, hitting people with the flat of their blades.

  “MOVE!” cavalrymen are shouting. “MOVE!”

  The people are trying to escape, but the crowd’s too thick for anyone to move fast. A trooper slaps a mother with a small child in the back with the flat of his saber to push her along, knocking her to one knee. As he swings the blade back, its sharp tip slices the ear of an elderly man and blood spurts out.

  We’ve managed to get clear, south of the attacking cavalry, pressed against the side of a building. Bad as it is for the crowd, it’s worse for the vets on the other side. The men with gas masks are lobbing grenades into the Camp Glassford encampment. Vets are coughing, stumbling, falling back among the ruined buildings. Clouds of smoke rise as MacArthur’s soldiers torch tents and rough-built shelters. In front of one wooden shanty, an American flag on a pole waves—the rising heat stirring it into motion before it, too, blackens and bursts into flame.

  The acid scent of tear gas reaches us, burning my nose, making my eyes water.

  Corporal Dart pauses to pull up his moist kerchief. He yanks a second one from his pocket, pours water on it from his canteen, and ties it over my nose and mouth.

  “Pal,” he says, “we got to keep moving.”

  Men and women who’ve escaped from the encampment are running all around us, hoping to find safety across the river in Camp Marks.

  The drawbridge over the Anacostia is down. We pound across, not stopping to look back till we reach the other side. Crowds of coughing, crying people stretch all the way back to the distant Capitol. Smoke is veiling the Capitol dome and spreading out over the central part of Washington, but there’s no sign of cavalry, soldiers with bayonets, or tanks. They must have stopped at Camp Glassford.

  “You all right, Esom?” a voice says from behind us. It’s a tall, slender man with light brown skin. “War zone up there.”

  Corporal Esom Dart pulls down his bandanna and coughs to clear his throat as the man passes me a handkerchief to wipe my eyes.

  “Alive,” Corporal Dart says. Then he clears his throat. “So far. This is Will Black’s boy, Cal.”

  “Sir,” I say, taking the man’s slender hand.

  “So they finally did it?” he asks.

  “Yup,” Esom says. “Here next, I suppose.”

  I’m amazed at how clean and well-ordered everything is over here on this side of the bridge in what they’re calling Camp Marks. There are all sorts of makeshift shelters—from tents and miniature bungalows made from scrap lumber to the boxes and barrels Gale told me about. Streets are neatly laid out and named.

  For some, life’s going on as if everything was normal. Children are playing. Women are doing washing and preparing meals. People are sunning themselves. There’s that piano I was told about. A young brown-skinned man is sitting at it playing a catchy song while folks—white and black—gather around listening. They don’t know what’s happened.

  But down on the bank of the Anacostia itself are men and women acting as doctors and nurses. They’re binding wounds and washing the faces of Bonusers near-blinded by tear gas.

  “Look,” Corporal Dart says, pointing ahead of us. “There’s your father.”

  His back is turned and he’s fifty yards away, but I recognize him right off. He’s standing with a group of men—a policeman with a lieutenant’s bars on his uniform and several other D.C. police. They’re all listening to a thin, square-jawed man wearing an officer-style uniform speak, his face angry.

  “Camp Commander,” Corporal Dart whispers to me. “Captain Eddie Atwell.”

  We’re close enough now to hear what he’s saying.

  “We do not blame the municipal police department,” he says. “Your men have given us a square deal. But we blame the army and the president. We have drawn a line at the bridge.”

  The police lieutenant raises a hand. “Now, Eddie,” he says, “MacArthur is not about to be turned aside. Once that son of a sea cook makes up his mind, doesn’t matter how dumb it is, he is going straight ahead.”

  Atwell reaches out a hand to rest it gently on the policeman’s arm.

  “Ira,” he says, “you are a vet like us. You know we’re not Reds or criminals here. We’ve checked the papers of every man here at Camp Marks and they are vets, every one. We’ve been asking for our due. Peacefully. But if they come to the camp tonight, I will meet them at the gate.”

  “Eddie . . .”

  “No, I will kill the first man to put his foot across the line.”

  Those words send a shiver down my back. Those troops coming are cavalrymen with swords and infantry with fixed bayonets. They have tanks. If they cross that bridge and shooting starts, this could turn into a massacre. Just like what I saw in my vision!

  I don’t think Pop has seen me yet. But I’m wrong. Without turning around, he drops his left hand from his waist to point at the ground. He’s signaling me to wait.

  “Tell you what, Eddie,” the police lieutenant says, “let’s just keep talking, walk around and see what the situation is. You know they’re the army. And you’ve got seven thousand people here with hundreds of women and children among them.”

  Atwell looks behind him, taking in the camp, maybe imagining the chaos that might ensue.

  “Okay,” he says. “Let’s do that.”

  Atwell,
the policemen, and half a dozen of the vets gathered around him move off. Pop does not go with them.

  He turns to me, the expression on his face half concern and half delight.

  I want to tell him everything that’s happened since I saw him last, how my dream sent me here, how he has to leave before something awful happens.

  But all I can do is say “Pop!”

  Then his arms, thinner than when I saw him last but no less strong, are wrapped around me.

  “Cal,” he says, “Cal!”

  * * *

  • • •

  I’m sitting with Pop by the fire pit in front of his camp. His billet’s nothing more than a tent with a camp chair and a cot and a few rugs spread out on the dirt floor. But it feels more like home to me because Pop is there.

  I’ve been talking for the better part of an hour—even more than after our sweat back at Challagi. Pop’s just listened, not interrupting even once. I’ve told him everything, even about my vision, and he’s just listened, nodding now and then, understanding and believing me as he always does. Now that I have finally stopped squawking—like a jaybird—my throat is sore.

  “Cal,” Pop says, “that is quite a story.” He touches his heart, then holds his hand out, palm up. “I am sorry for the pain you’ve felt. But I’m glad for you, too. It sounds like you found some real friends.”

  I grab and hug him so hard it squeezes his breath out.

  “Cal,” he says, chuckling, “leave me one unbroken rib.”

  I let go of him and we just sit there, smiling at each other for a spell.

  “What now, Pop?”

  “Hard to say,” he says. “There’s no telling when MacArthur’s troops are going to come across. But one thing I know now for sure. No way are you going to let me try to make a stand at the bridge. Right?”

  My being here is going to change things. Pop’s not going to sacrifice himself with me by his side.

  I nod my head, the smile on my face now a grin.

  “Thought so,” Pop says. “It’s good just to sit here with you, son. I’ve missed you.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  I reach into my coat and pull out the letters I’ve written. Two dozen of them, all held on to for want of an address to reach him. I hand them to Pop. As he takes them, he wipes his cheek with the back of his left hand.

  “Got something in my eye,” he says.

  Whatever it is, it’s stubborn about being wiped away because as he opens, unfolds, and reads each of my letters, he keeps wiping his eyes with a kerchief he pulls out.

  It takes him a while because he reads each letter more than once—as if trying to memorize every word. Then he carefully refolds and puts each one back in its envelope when he’s done.

  “Son,” he says, stowing the big sheath of letters into a coat pocket near his heart, “I am going to keep these for as long as I live.”

  Just like I am going to hold on to the one letter I got from him.

  Eight hours have passed since the destruction of Camp Glassford. The fires across the river have died down. No more smoke is rising. We have still not been invaded. But it sure looks as if it’s going to happen soon. Pop and I are both standing near the drawbridge across the Anacostia. My pack is on my back. To my satisfaction, Pop has stuffed his own pack with a few of his belongings. His tent, the camp chair, the cot, and the rugs have been left in place. Maybe we’ll come back to them. But I suspect not.

  Tanks have been brought up on the other side of the river. They’re placed to block anyone from leaving or coming to help us. Behind the tanks are rows and rows of infantrymen. Hundreds of them. A big black army staff car, General Douglas MacArthur’s, no doubt, is also parked over there.

  But it’s not just the army. There are hundreds of civilians as well. They’re not there to support the coming assault. What happened hours ago has turned sentiments our way.

  As Eddie Atwell carries a big white flag across the bridge, some of those civilians start cheering.

  “HOORAY FOR OUR BONUS BOYS!”

  Though the sun has set, it’s bright as day. A big searchlight—like the one in my vision—has been set up over there.

  A tall man in a uniform steps out of the staff car.

  Civilians in the crowd start hooting.

  “DOWN WITH MACARTHUR!”

  “MURDERER!”

  “BOO! BOO!”

  “DOWN WITH HOOVER!”

  Half an hour passes. Atwell comes back across the drawbridge.

  “We’ve got an hour’s truce to evacuate!” he shouts.

  It’s as if an electric shock has been sent through the camp. The searchlight is being played on the front line of huts and tents of Camp Marks. People are starting to panic.

  “Time to go,” Pop says. His voice is calm, but it’s also sad.

  As we trot together away from the bridge, it’s chaos all around.

  “The soldiers are coming to kill us,” someone is shouting.

  Car engines are being started, mothers are calling for their sons and daughters. There’s no back road out of here, but cars might make it going across lots. Families without vehicles are running, carrying their children. They are heading toward the hills behind the camp. That’s where Pop and I are going, too.

  Our night vision being better than most, we help some of those frightened people. First a pregnant woman carrying a baby. Then an old vet, chest covered with medals. He’s gasping, lungs having been weakened by mustard gas.

  By the time we’ve reached the highest hill, the army has already crossed the bridge. What was once the home of thousands is a scene like hell itself. So many blazes have been set by the soldiers that the burning tents and shacks light up the sky. It is a night on fire.

  “Who would of thought this could happen here in our own country?” Pop says.

  I offer no answer. He’s silent for a bit before he speaks again.

  “Unless,” he says, “they were hoboes or Indians.”

  “Like you and me, Pop,” I say.

  That surprises him some. But then he puts his arm around my shoulders.

  “Ehi. You could say that,” he replies.

  Being experienced knights of the road, it was easier for Pop and me to figure what to do and where to go when everyone was driven out. We just waited on that hill till dawn. Four hours later, following trails and back roads Pop knew, we reached a rail yard in Maryland.

  Pop came to D.C. with nothing, so he had nothing to lose. And because I had come looking for him, I had everything to win.

  An hour after we were on a train, out of there. We had each other again.

  We kept heading west. Five days later, when we hit Kansas City, I spied a couple of quarters in a deep crack in the wooden sidewalk by the rail station. Pop and I decided we should treat ourselves to a movie.

  It was Destry Rides Again, starring Tom Mix. The film was pretty good, but what tickled us was that when Hoover’s face appeared on screen in a newsreel every single person in the theater hissed and booed.

  Pop and I didn’t talk much at first about what we’d both been through. We just traveled and made do. We worked whenever we could to earn an honest dime and lived by the code. Life wasn’t easy, but we were together.

  There was an election coming up. Hoover was going to be running against a man who’d promised a new deal. We all knew old Hoover’s goose was cooked. It wasn’t just the Depression but what he did to the BEF and what he said afterward.

  One day, as we sat around the fire in a jungle camp near Santa Fe, Pop looked over at me.

  “What now, son?” he said. We’d heard that another Bonus march was being planned to take place after the country got a new president.

  I stirred the fire with a stick. It was a question I’d been expecting. And I was half surprised at the answer I found myself giving.r />
  “Going back,” I replied.

  Pop knew what I meant. He and the other vets had to try again and keep trying until they won their rightful bonuses and Pop got that farm. He was never going to quit trying, so I couldn’t give up either. With Hoover gone—as most folks expected now—there might actually be a new deal. Pop taking up the fight again would also mean my going back to Challagi. The semester would be starting in a few weeks.

  “You sure about that, son?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I replied.

  Though it might take some explaining, I knew I’d be accepted back as a student after running away. Pop would come with me and clear things up with the superintendent. There was so much sentiment in the whole country in favor of the Bonus Army that my leaving to support Pop might even make me sort of a hero in Morrell’s eyes. Not only that, having another full-blood Creek on the school rolls would get them that government subsidy.

  As much as I loved being back with my father, I was also missing the boys in our Creek gang. Even Bear Meat. I’d never been with another group of people my own age who understood me and wanted the best for me—as I did for them.

  For all that was wrong at that Indian school, I had brothers who’d welcome me back. I could learn more about agricultural science, spend time in the horse barn and see Dakota again. I’d dreamed about him not long after we left Washington and I’m sure that dream of his being safe and sound back at Challagi was true.

  I might even join Ray Chapman’s track team. I was a gentleman of the road and would always be the son of Will Blackbird. But I now understood that being Cal Blackbird meant I also had another road to follow, the road of being a Creek Indian.

  I didn’t say any of that out loud, but Pop sat there nodding as I was thinking it and I knew he understood.

  He smiled.

  “Are you ready, Cal?” he asked.

  “You could say that,” I replied.

  Afterword

  Two Roads takes place at a tumultuous time in American history. While it is, first and foremost, a story about a young man trying to understand what path he must travel, its backdrop is 1932—when this nation was deep in the Great Depression.