(The loss of the services of a servant is great),
But for our own good we have to answer
For all that has happened. Please. All.
I WILL TELL YOU THE TRUTH ABOUT THIS, I WILL TELL YOU ALL ABOUT IT
Carlisle, Pa. Nov 21 1864
Mr abarham lincon
I wont to knw sir if you please
whether I can have my son relest
from the arme he is all the subport
I have now his father is Dead
and his brother that wase all
the help I had he has bean wonded
twise he has not had nothing to send me yet
now I am old and my head is blossaming
for the grave and if you do I hope
the lord will bless you and me
tha say that you will simpethise
withe the poor he be long to the
eight rigmat colard troops
he is a sarjent
mart welcom is his name
Benton Barracks Hospital, St. Louis, Mo. September 3 1864
My Children
I take my pen in hand to rite you A few lines
to let you know that I have not Forgot you
be assured that I will have you if it cost me my life
on the 28th of the month 8 hundred White and
8 hundred blacke solders expects to start up
the river to Glasgow when they Come
I expect to be with them and expect to get you
Both in return
Your Miss Kaitty said that I tried
to steal you You tell her from me that if she
meets me with ten thousand soldiers she will meet
Her enemy
Give my love to all enquiring friends
tell them all that we are well
Camp Nelson, Ky. November 26 1864
The morning was bitter cold.
It was freezing hard. I was
certain it would kill my sick child
to take him out in the cold. I told
the man in charge of the guard
that it would be the death of my boy.
I told him that my wife and children
had no place to go and that I
was a soldier of the United States.
He told me it did not make any difference.
He had orders to take all out of Camp.
He told my wife and family that if they
did not get up into the wagon he would
shoot the last one of them. My wife
carried her sick child in her arms.
The wind was blowing hard and cold
and having had to leave much of our
clothing when we left our master, my wife
with her little one was poorly clad. I followed
as far as the lines. At night I went in search.
They were in an old meeting house belonging
to the colored people. My wife and children
could not get near the fire, because
of the number of colored people huddling
by the soldiers. They had not received
a morsel of food during the whole day.
My boy was dead. He died directly
after getting down from the wagon.
Next morning I walked to Nicholasville.
I dug a grave and buried my child. I left
my family in the Meeting house—
where they still remain.
Nashville, Tenn. Aug 12th 1865
Dear Wife,
I am in earnis about you comeing
and that as Soon as possible
It is no use to Say any thing about any money
for if you come up here which I hope you will
it will be all wright as to the money matters
I want to See you and the Children very bad
I can get a house at any time I will Say the word
So you need not to fear as to that So come
wright on just as Soon as you get this
I want you to tell me the name of the baby
that was born Since I left
I am your affectionate Husband untill Death
Belair, Md. Aug 25th 1864
Mr president It is my Desire to be free to go to see my people
on the eastern shore my mistress wont let me you will please
let me know if we are free and what i can do
Excellent Sir My son went in the 54th regiment—
Sir, my husband, who is in Co. K. 22nd Reg’t U.S. Cold Troops
(and now in the Macon Hospital at Portsmouth with a wound in his arm)
has not received any pay since last May and then only thirteen dollars—
Sir We The Members of Co D of the 55th Massechusetts vols
Call the attention of your Excellency to our case—
for instant look & see
that we never was freed yet
Run Right out of Slavery
In to Soldiery & we
hadent nothing atall &
our wifes & mother most all of them
is aperishing all about & we
all are perishing our self—
i am willing to bee a soldier and serve my time
faithful like a man but i think it is hard to bee
poot off in such dogesh manner as that—
Will you see that the colored men fighting now
are fairly treated. You ought to do this,
and do it at once, Not let the thing run along
meet it quickly and manfully. We poor oppressed ones
appeal to you, and ask fair play—
So Please if you can do any good for us do it
in the name of God—
Excuse my boldness but pleas—
your reply will settle the matter and will be appreciated,
by, a colored man who, is willing to sacrifice his son
in the cause of Freedom & Humanity—
I have nothing more to say
hoping that you will lend a listening ear
to an umble soldier
I will close—
Yours for Christs sake—
(i shall hav to send this with out a stamp
for I haint money enough to buy a stamp)
Clarksville, Tenn. Aug 28th 1865
Dear husband,
I guess you would like to know the reason why
that I did not come when you wrote for
and that is because I hadnot the money
and could not get it and if you will
send me the money or come after me
I will come they sent out
Soldiers from here After old Riley and they
have got him in Jale and one of his Sons
and they have his brother Elias here
in Jale dear husband If you are coming after me
I want you to come before it Get too cold
Florence, Ala. December 7th 1866
Dear sir I take the pleashure of writing you
A fue lins hoping that I will not ofende you
by doing so I was raised in your state
and was sold from their when I was 31 years olde
left wife one childe Mother Brothers and sisters
My wife died about 12 years agoe and ten years
agoe I made money And went back and bought
My olde Mother and she lives with me
Seven years agoe I Maried again and commence
to by Myself and wife for two thousande dollars and
last Christmas I Made the last pay ment and I have
made Some little Money this year and I wish
to get my Kinde All with me and I will take it
as a Greate favor if you will help me to get them
Fort Bliss, Tex. March 9th 1867
My dear sister I write you this letter to let you no
I am well I ask of you in this letter to go and take
my boy from my wif as sh is not doing write by him
not willing to gave him up go and shoe this letter it is
my recust for you to have him I doe not want her
to have my child with another man I would lik
for my child to be raised well I will be hom next fall
if I live a solder stand a bad chanc but if god spars me
I will be home
I am 60 odd years of age—
I am 62 years of age next month—
I am about 65 years of age—
I reckon I am about 67 years old—
I am about 68 years of age—
I am on the rise of 80 years of age—
I am 89 years old—
I am 94 years of age—
I don’t know my exact age—
I am the claimant in this case. I have testified before you
two different times before—
I filed my claim I think first about 12 years ago—
I am now an applicant for a pension,
because I understand
that all soldiers are entitled to a pension—
I claim pension under the general law
on account of disease of eyes
as a result of smallpox
contracted in service—
The varicose veins came on both my legs
soon after the war and the sores were there
when I first put in my claim—
I claim pension for rheumatism
and got my toe broke and I was struck
in the side with the breech of a gun
breaking my ribs—
I was a man stout and healthy
over 27 years of age when I enlisted—
When I enlisted I had a little mustache,
and some chin whiskers—
I was a green boy right off the farm and did
just what I was told to do—
When I went to enlist the recruiting officer
said to me, your name is John Wilson.
I said, no, my name is Robert Harrison,
but he put me down as John Wilson. I was
known while in service by that name—
I cannot read nor write, and I do not know
how my name was spelled when I enlisted
nor do I know how it is spelled now
I always signed my name while in the army
by making my mark
I know my name by sound—
My mother said after my discharge that the reason
the officer put my name down as John Wilson
was he could draw my bounty—
I am the son of Solomon and Lucinda Sibley—
I am the only living child of Dennis Campbell—
My father was George Jourdan and my mother was Millie Jourdan—
My mother told me that John Barnett was my father—
My mother was Mary Eliza Jackson and my father Reuben Jackson—
My name on the roll was Frank Nunn. No sir,
it was not Frank Nearn—
My full name is Dick Lewis Barnett.
I am the applicant for pension
on account of having served
under the name Lewis Smith
which was the name I wore before
the days of slavery were over—
My correct name is Hiram Kirkland.
Some persons call me Harry and others call me Henry,
but neither is my correct name.
GHAZAL
The sky is a dry pitiless white. The wide rows stretch on into death.
Like famished birds, my hands strip each stalk of its stolen crop: our name.
History is a ship forever setting sail. On either shore: mountains of men,
Oceans of bone, an engine whose teeth shred all that is not our name.
Can you imagine what will sound from us, what we’ll rend and claim
When we find ourselves alone with all we’ve ever sought: our name?
Or perhaps what we seek lives outside of speech, like a tribe of goats
On a mountain above a lake, whose hooves nick away at rock. Our name
Is blown from tree to tree, scattered by the breeze. Who am I to say what,
In that marriage, is lost? For all I know, the grass has caught our name.
Having risen from moan to growl, growl to a hound’s low bray,
The voices catch. No priest, no sinner has yet been taught our name.
Will it thunder up, the call of time? Or lie quiet as bedrock beneath
Our feet? Our name our name our name our fraught, fraught name.
III.
THE UNITED STATES WELCOMES YOU
Why and by whose power were you sent?
What do you see that you may wish to steal?
Why this dancing? Why do your dark bodies
Drink up all the light? What are you demanding
That we feel? Have you stolen something? Then
What is that leaping in your chest? What is
The nature of your mission? Do you seek
To offer a confession? Have you anything to do
With others brought by us to harm? Then
Why are you afraid? And why do you invade
Our night, hands raised, eyes wide, mute
As ghosts? Is there something you wish to confess?
Is this some enigmatic type of test? What if we
Fail? How and to whom do we address our appeal?
NEW ROAD STATION
History is in a hurry. It moves like a woman
Corralling her children onto a crowded bus.
History spits Go, go, go, lurching at the horizon,
Hammering the driver’s headrest with her fist.
Nothing else moves. The flies settle in place
Watching with their million eyes, never bored.
The crows strike their bargain with the breeze.
They cluck and caw at the women in their frenzy,
The ones who suck their teeth, whose skirts
Are bathed in mud. But history is not a woman,
And it is not the crowd forming in a square.
It is not the bright swarm of voices chanting No
And Now, or even the rapt silence of a room
Where a film of history is right now being screened.
Perhaps history is the bus that will only wait so long
Before cranking its engine to barrel down
The road. Maybe it is the voice coming in
Through the radio like a long-distance call.
Or the child in the crook of his mother’s arm
Who believes history must sleep inside a tomb,
Or the belly of a bomb.
THEATRICAL IMPROVISATION
Finally, a woman stands. Her body tightens.
She wrings her hands. At first, I didn’t think
I heard it. Then I saw his face and understood.
I was pulled and dragged.
And another:
I was dragged and choked.
And another:
A woman yanked mine from my head and told me
It was no longer allowed.
A man hawks,
Pretends to spit. We want these people
To feel unwanted. We want them
To feel that everything around them is
Against them. He puts a hand on his hip.
And we want them to be afraid. His free hand
Hangs in the air to his side as if steadied
By a tall stick, or a rifle with its butt end
On the ground.
And a beat. Strange weather
Moves across each face. The women pass
From fright to rage. They circle him,
Closing in.
He, too, is changed, steps back,
Drops. I was asleep outside—it was warm enough
To sleep outside the station. They didn’t know me,
I didn’t know them. I woke to their piss in my face.
Then they hit me with a metal rod. They broke my
Fingers, cracked some of my ribs.
They fidget
Over him like rowdies, then crouch down,
Level with his eyes: The only way this country’s
Going to turn around is—
It will be a bloodbath—
Tell him!—
And it will be a nasty, messy motherfucker.
The one stands slowly up. The four
High-five and sprint away.
The house
Is dark and not half full. There is a collective
Clenching in the chest.
A new actor shifts
From foot to foot. Cowers in the light.
Foreign workers gave us paper and told us to draw.
Some of us drew families fleeing. Some of us drew
Helicopters in the sky and our houses below burning.
Some of us drew men pointing guns at each other.
Some drew boats about to go under. Some filled
The page with angry water. Some drew our mothers
And our older sisters kicking their legs and grabbing
At air when they got pulled away by the hair. He
Stays there, gaze directed nowhere.
Others come.
The line of actors stretches past the wings, out
Into the street. Some with voices, some whose
Bodies speak, each dragging something dark,
Perceptible. A burden given or chosen. Even
The empty, the bereft—they’re saddled
With it, can’t without assistance put it down.
One, black, slim, a boy himself, stands beside
The child.
Another, broad, solid as granite,
Sputters into sudden tears.
A woman, white-haired, shuffles almost to him,
But stops, turns back.
A fat man in a suit, stooped,
Can still command his arms to flail as he rails Them!
Them and them and them and them and them!
Among viewers, there is the dawning sense
That this is mere rehearsal, that the performance
Has not yet been contracted, nor scheduled,
Nor agreed upon, nor even cast.
Back of the house,
A single person claps.
Then erupts a panicked
Applause that doesn’t know how to end.
Wade in the Water Page 2