Stand the Storm

by Breena Clarke

  He read it out again, then paused. “ ’Tis a grim story that follows, girl,” he said.

  “Go on,” Annie and Mary said together. They fell quiet for fear of hexing and Annie crossed herself from forehead and across the chest like the papists do.

  They threw their arms upwards to surrender, but were shot to death anyway! No quarter was the cry and the solemn vow!

  Many colored soldiers threw down their arms, pleaded to be taken captive, and were cruelly shot numerous times while on their knees begging!

  Some Negro soldiers feigned themselves dead until Union soldiers came along!

  Huts and tents were set on fire with wounded still in them!

  Some were shot while in the river and others were shot on the bank and kicked into the river to drown!

  Some soldiers that were not dead were made to dig graves and were flung in and covered when they had done it!

  Days after of rain and trampling confusion and still the ground around contained heads and arms and legs protruding!

  Annie gasped and Mary and Ellen covered their eyes for fear of their imagining. Their heads were bowed. The hands were stilled. Mary rose when Daniel stopped reading and gently took the sheet from his lap to spare the young ones more of the story.

  “T’aint a good thing to read long into the nighttime.” Annie fussed like a bumblebee, as if the bloody carnage at Fort Pillow would have seemed less in the daylight. Uncharacteristically, she wound and wound her yarn around her index finger in frustration. Daniel came to her and bussed her neck and petted her.

  Mary took the turn to put water on the stove. She drew her shawl with a shudder as she left the room for the pump in the yard. Horrible pictures coursed through her head as she worked the handle. Colored soldiers standing for tall, raising their hands above their heads, and them hacked down with vengeance because of their audacity! No quarter! No quarter! Why give no quarter—to these! They gladly accept it when it is given to them! The surging pump water made Mary’s water come and she put down her pan and dashed to the toilet. She sat to ruminate that rebel prisoners who surrendered and were spared the bayonet were regularly paraded through Washington—still with what was left of their hated uniforms upon them! Why was it that the same feel for colored to stand firm upon their rights was so odious to the sense of the Southerner? When these brave colored men stood to fight, they were given no quarter. They were cut down where planted like sugarcane! Whither Gabriel—how was he keeping, he and Mr. Millrace?

  Next came a thing the women had not expected. Amidst the crisis pulse of the town, regiments of colored soldiers marched under arms through the city streets. The Coats women fluttered to think of Gabriel, but knew he was not among them. These soldiers were brilliant in their uniforms. Annie, Ellen, Mary, Naomi, Ruth, Pearl, infant Hannah, Essie Millrace, and Winnie Wareham assembled along the thoroughfare to bless the colored troops’ passing. Upon these very ones headed south to secure the freedom rested the turning of the tide.

  “Ho there! Hallo!” Bad Eva, Ellen’s companion from the Blue Jug, hailed and waved exuberantly from the back of a sutler’s wagon trailing the troops. Only loosely attached to the town and jittery fearful of the coming battle, Eva had decided to go off south behind this tide. She had fashioned herself a laundress and had found work with the moving military.

  “Oh, oh,” Ellen cried at recognizing Bad Eva in the passing parade. “Farewell!” she called sincerely.

  As the city’s defenders headed south to fight, rumors of an attack upon Washington flew about. Newsboys hawked extras on the corners of every thoroughfare. Dubious information swirled about and was snatched up by confused citizens. Most folk now wrestled with whether to go or stay and, if go, where to go? Trouble was rumored coming from the north—north of Washington—in precincts held by Confederates. There was no escape for the colored who feared a tide that could carry them southward. Word was the Confederates had drawn around and were tightening a noose about the capital.

  Some like Eva had attached themselves as cooks, laborers, and women for pleasure, animal keepers, laundresses, bootblacks, nurses, and cobblers and moved off south with the soldiers.

  “No sense in us runnin’ now. We thus planted and we done stood this far.” Daniel cut into the quiet of the women around the nighttime table. “We must to provision the cellar and keep our heads down.”

  “Yes, Brother Daniel,” Annie answered him. “Where would our heart look for us if we let our gut take us on a runner?” Annie sat in her accustomed chair as if the hands in her lap were weighed with sinkers. Her thoughts were heavy and ponderous and oppressed with missing Gabriel.

  The newspapers that touted the Confederates at the door to the capital proved correct. The flood of country folk coming in from northwest of town carried word of secesh troops as close as Rockville and hard on the city. A great many of the sick and wounded troops in the city’s hospitals were roused up and pressed to defend the city. Colored troops and contrabands were rounded up to work on fortifications. Even staunch but peaceable nurses like William Higgins were given arms and put to defense.

  My mother,

  My dear Mary,

  My sister,

  Daughters,

  We have arrived in the Camp. I will not tarry on this page with descriptions of Camp Greene. We are training hard. We are given little free time. We are not to be allowed to return to our homes. We are awakened at 5:00 a.m. by bugle call of reveille. This is followed by roll call, breakfast, sick call, cleanup of the compound, guard duty or picket duty, and much drilling. We drill again after our noon meal then we assemble for a dress parade before we eat our supper. Many of the men have never eaten so much and so often—with so much regularity. Some ignorant ones fear we are being fatted up to feed the white soldiers. In truth our rations are meager. We are allowed a period of free time to attend to wants before the beating of tattoo commands us to our quarters. Our day ends with the bugle call of taps, for we are made to put lights out. This is a difficult time of day for me. It is at this time that my eyes fill with water. I miss all with my heart and soul, especially in the deep dark. I occupy myself with some knitting to pass these long hours of darkness, as I am unaccustomed to sleep so early. Though truly we reach this time of day in a very weary state. As I have little yarn, Mother, I undo and begin again. Mr. Millrace, too, yearns for his home when we reach our cots and try to close our eyes. In the dark he speaks of the young Miss Essie Millrace. He greatly misses her and his dogs.

  I am thankful that I am well equipped with warm clothing. Also, I am well able to trade the stores that I brought. We are kept apart from the town and have only our uniforms. Several of the men were amused at the large bundles that I carried. They are now thankful for the socks. The ground is very damp and our feet are often wet.

  We have also found that many who are already here have traversed much of the country on foot from the slave states. They have walked long to reach here. Many are without any shoes—let alone socks. I am requesting that you work diligently upon more socks that I may sell some, barter some, and give some away. Will you three jewels work hard on this task? No fancy, dear Ellen. Simply knit.

  The one who is devoted to you all,

  Pvt. Gabriel Coats

  Gabriel imagined the group at table—at work on the socks. He worried about their comfort and safety, as they must be worried about him. But his fears were soothed when he thought of them seated in the kitchen humming about their duties. The picture of Nanny, at head of them all, sitting and knitting, reassured him. If his mam was there, steady at her tasks and ringed by all the others intent upon their work, then all was well. When Gabriel contemplated his mother it was her finished work that he pictured. This “milk of the fingers” was nearly flawless when she wanted it to be. It was distinctive and distinguishable by him from that of any other. He imagined that it was only he who could see the impact of the mother’s fingers upon the work. Only a tiny—nearly invisible—-bubble was ever there in the fabric of her
quilting or a length of her knitting to tell that it had been Annie’s needlework. But this tiny bubble was instructive and it stamped a thing as Sewing Annie’s own. It was possible to begin here, contemplating his mother’s needlework, and dream of them all in turn with heads bowed somewhat and intent upon the growing in Sewing Annie’s lap.

  The women were hardly ever sitting and ruminating these days as Gabriel imagined them. During the daytime, the kitchen, the yard, and environs of the tailor shop had now been given over to washing laundry. The entire precinct was hung with sheets and what all else that was put to dry. Sweet and fine needlework was pushed aside for brute hauling and churning and punching suds for the Sanitary Commission. Mary applied all worrying energies not spent on Gabriel and the babes to the laundry barrels. Guarding the wooden laundry casks was essential, as the hunt for firewood imperiled any crate, fence, chair, or barrel in the town. It had become common to see a woman walk straight to a slat fence, kick it with her foot, and tear away what would come off to haul to an alley enclave.

  Daniel Joshua was a component of the increased commerce of the shop, for he used his wagon to collect wood and gather coal to feed the women’s water stoves. His help kept them efficient and, in some measure, safer. In times such as these, clubs like the Ladies of Olives were no better than twigs.

  With Gabriel gone at war and heartily missed, there was competition to sit latest in the kitchen—nursing loneliness and the fire. Ellen left the warm first. It was a tumbledown habit for Ellen to put the younger babes on their pallets while their mother worked on. Mary allowed Ellen to fuss with them to assuage her longing for Delia, but this comfort did not distract Ellen from worrying that the girl was safe. It lightened Ellen’s heart to know—from the letters she received through Reverend Higgins—that Delia thrived in Philadelphia.

  Mary soothed her longing for Gabriel with working late—pressing on to bone tiredness so that sleep would come easily. At very last Annie would send Mary ahead of her to bed with the admonition that she needed the rest to care for her babes. Mary must not, her mother-in-law insisted, fatigue herself with worry. It was a small tug between them that gave Sewing Annie the upper hand. She would be the captain of worry over Gabriel. As well, there were no private missives between husband and wife. All of the letters received from Gabriel were read out by Daniel to be heard by all. Mary keenly suffered the loss of marital intimacy with her Gabriel and was frightened for it—anxious lest it be gone forever. She became covetous of her babes’ kisses and huggings at night when they were settled to sleep in their upstairs room. These were Gabriel’s and hers!

  Twenty-nine

  Dear Ones,

  You must laugh at this, dear ones. As we colored troops are given little provision, most of the men are without any supplies for mending clothing. These men have recently left off the places they were held and so they have little or nothing belonging to them. It is only himself that each has carried off from one of the places around here—no pocketknife, no scissors, no tin cup.

  I am, as you know, well supplied. Also, I have the skill for mending. I have very little skill for such other as shooting and hunting and marching. So I have taken on the job of mending in spare moments. For this I am heartily appreciated and am called “Housewife” with affection. It is a joke doubly because the sewing kits given to the white soldiers are called “housewife.” We colored troops are given none of these. I am kept very warm as I have so many socks and shirts. I have given one pair of socks to each of the barefoot. When a coin circulates, they buy another pair. I am satisfied with this system, loved ones.

  Your devoted,

  Pvt. Gabriel Coats

  Dear Ones,

  Mr. Millrace and I are the subject of a good deal of fun. Many of the other soldiers are lately off their masters’ places and have seen little of a city. They have only the few clothes upon their persons. They think Mr. Millrace and I are popinjays, for our underclothes are clean and show little wear. We have great trouble to keep them so. Mr. Millrace is a rough and hardy fellow to be sure. He is used to the hard tasks of training and handling his dogs and is an expert at hunting and tracking. He is proficient with knives, rifles, and pistols. The fellows are impressed with him and are fond of his skill for snaring small game. Our regiment has had rabbits when others were eating only beans.

  I have run afoul of the regimental sutler in our camp. This is the fellow who sells us our goods. He has approached me regarding my socks and other items. He does not like my selling wares. He has the permit to sell exclusively in the camp. I must be wary.

  Pvt. Gabriel Coats

  Dear Ones,

  Oh, how high our spirits were when we left our base camp and boarded transport! At last, we felt ourselves being made good use of. A battle is coming! We have been here in Virginia for some weeks and we chafe at the inactivity. Well, we are not inactive at all. We are only kept from the fighting. And grousing does set in as we are used as mules by the army—and not as soldiers.

  We are mostly put to fatigue duty in the camp. That is, we are made to do the heavy labor that white soldiers are not pressed to do. We are put upon the level of the army’s animals. We are daily, nay hourly, submitted to insults by white soldiers in other regiments. They taunt us as cowards, saying we will not fight. They curse us as the cause of the fighting and accuse us of responsibility for the bad odors about the camp. At this last we are amused, for none of us—black or white—have had a good washing head to toe, and our clothes are so dirty and inhabited with lice that they would walk away if we dared take them off. We keep still in the face of insults, for our minds are on the battle. Mr. Millrace and I have become good companions. He wishes that I give greetings from him to you all. Mary, on your circuit of the town, please look in on Miss Essie Millrace and assure her that her father is well. Mr. Millrace has letters from her but is eager to know the temper of her countenance. Is she bright and cheerful or sorrowful?

  Mary’s blood throbbed at the sound of her own name singled out in her husband’s letter. “Yes, yes, dear one. I will do as you ask,” she murmured, and sealed it on herself as a pledge and a duty.

  Daniel read on with no pause.

  Mr. Millrace is often melancholy about his dogs. He worries that they are well and have something to eat. I tell him that dogs such as his are well able to look out for themselves. He worries that the old man he put in charge of the animals may have lost courage and abandoned them. He agitates over their care, for they are his livelihood and are like his own children.

  We are moving at last! We are transporting via railcars to the fighting!

  Your Gabriel

  The foot-weary men were forced aboard a train car. There was disgruntled display on the part of the trainmen and the conductor. The commanding officer attempted to quash the discontent by encouraging the colored men to sing as they sat in the train car. The officer thought this singing to be an effective way of calming the men. At first, some were reluctant and were themselves disgruntled at their treatment. Were they not soldiers fighting? But these softened and soon were singing. They began with spirituals. The voices of the troops rose and they sang with vigor. The conductor came into the car—the one who’d taken pleasure in forcing the colored troops to a separate car —and barked.

  “Shat up that racket!” he exclaimed, snuff juice trailing down his chin. “Stop that caterwauling! Hear me, Naygurs!”

  A quiet did descend on the car in response to the conductor. But he and the uniformed and armed men knew that it was not fear or respect that silenced them. They sat silently, ominously, in their Union blues. All of the troops turned eyes on the blushing conductor, then upon their pale commanding officer. They would not lower their eyes and the two white men realized themselves outnumbered. Raw feelings mounted in the car as the men tensed muscles and girded for conflict. A man called Matthew, one who styled himself a preacher, rose and commenced, in midst of the turmoil, to sing.

  Hush, hush, somebody’s callin’ my name

>   Soon one mornin’

  Death come a-creepin’

  The men joined in. All had cut their teeth upon this song and knew it well. They sang verse after verse. The men of the First United States Colored Troops proudly kept to their seats and sang absolutely all of that song. They proceeded through many another piece until they reached the military rail depot south of Petersburg.

  Gabriel’s letter home after the siege of Petersburg was as usual cheerful. It consisted mostly of an account of the company’s preparations, their monotonous marching, and the many small things they did to assuage boredom. Gabriel dared not write of the artilleryman whose headless body was dragged from his guns and replaced by another. He did not speak of the wounded men crawling on hands and knees—in circles, in confusion—until their bloodless bodies collapsed still. He did not speak of the fingers, arms, legs lacerated by whizzing minnie balls. Dead and wounded bodies leaked blood into the ground and it became soaked and spongy. What they did not know about would not touch them, he thought.

  Guiltily, Gabriel realized after the most grueling part of the battle that the only person whose life meant something to him had likewise survived. Jacob Millrace had not died! Gabriel had been so fearful that he’d been copiously ill in his guts. He’d recognized many of the varied pieces of his comrades—this man’s arm that bore the patch he’d sewn or that man’s hat or that man’s face that still bore a blank, unquestioning expression—but it was only Jacob Millrace that he’d looked about the battlefield for. As he had perused each corpse on the ground before him, he looked feverishly for only that one. For he’d wanted to hear Jacob Millrace speak again—to reiterate the last words they’d shared before the battle.

  “We know well who we are if this war be a game—a game of dominoes, let us say. We are the slack black pieces with the spots upon us, my friend. They will aim for us. We are certain . . . we will fall. But we will fall in the service of securing freedom!”