Sweetsmoke

by David Fuller

  The ferry means more whites, more danger. Safer to cross at a ford, said Cassius.

  "White's Ford is not so far from Poolesville. But it will be difficult to cross with the horse and carriage."

  I go alone.

  "Out of the question, I cannot allow you to do such a thing," said Bryant.

  You and your wife already risked your lives for a stranger, a negro, said Cassius. You have my true gratitude.

  Bryant drove him to White's Ford.

  Cassius sent Bryant back to his home, and was much relieved to be on his own.

  He moved through the undergrowth and eventually came out on the southern bank of the Potomac River. He was rendered breathless, and his hope abandoned him. Never before had he set eyes on such a river. The far bank was five hundred yards away, but to Cassius, it might have been five hundred miles. He could not imagine how anyone could ford such a vast expanse of swiftly moving water. As if to answer his query, a man emerged from brush a hundred yards downriver, removed his shoes and trousers, and walked into the river up to his waist and did not sink. Cassius watched him walk the entire distance, the water only occasionally rising as high as his chest, emerging to claim the far bank in safety.

  Cassius re-concealed himself in the undergrowth and remained hidden until after midnight. He had a clear view of the night traffic as many more men made the crossing. As he waited, he counted out the days on his fingers and determined it was the 13th of September; no, it was after midnight, so the 14th. He watched closely each individual that crossed and imagined them stragglers attempting to rejoin their units, but he did not know if they were Yankee or Rebel. Each successful crossing rebuilt his hope. When there had been no travelers in close to an hour, he decided to venture out, following the bank downstream in the open to where he had seen the others embark.

  He removed his shoes and trousers, as he'd seen them do. He waded into the Potomac. The water moved quickly, washing up against his shins, then his knees, thighs, and waist. He hesitated. The bottom was sandy and unstable beneath his bare feet. He looked back, then forced himself to face forward. He tried to maintain a steady stride, and hummed to himself to take his mind off of his situation. As he walked, his eyes were drawn to the water flowing around his torso and he stepped into a hole, water splashing to his chin. He looked up and saw that while concentrating on the water, he'd gotten turned and had walked parallel to the bank along with the current. He quickly returned to the shallow ford, and in a panicked moment did not know which direction to go. He caught his breath and located the moon and then the Drinking Gourd, which told him where he was.

  He had watched so many men cross that he had imagined he knew how long it would take, but time moved at a different pace out here and he was only halfway across. He looked back. He shivered. He was alone and surrounded by fast water that delighted in luring and tugging him downstream, and he had a superstitious moment wherein he expected the river to carry away the footing and swallow him whole. He now wholly doubted the success of his crossing, and his breathing grew ever more shallow. His head felt light and his desperate mind took control of his reason; he had to return to Virginia as Virginia's ground was firm and the path ahead was chancy. He stopped then, turned his eyes on the constant moon, then considered the current, which also remained constant. He began to trust that the bottom would remain underfoot. He forced himself into a place of calm and pictured the dozen or so men he had witnessed complete the crossing successfully. His sane mind took hold again and reminded him that it would take no longer to reach the far side than it would to go back. He pressed on to Maryland and while he concentrated on the distant bank, he pictured what it would be like to get his hands on Whitacre, and before he knew it, the shore was close, very close, then he was knee deep, ankle deep, and he was on dry land.

  The ground beneath his feet was Maryland. He stood on Federal soil. Maryland may have remained slave, but the dirt of this ground, which he bent to collect in his palm, was the North. He was not free, but he was closer to being free than at any time in his life. As he let the dirt sift between his fingers, he was surprised to find himself in giddy spirits.

  He relocated the Drinking Gourd in the sky and walked toward the North Star. When daylight arrived, he moved to the road's shoulder to watch the emerging foot and wagon traffic. The road began to suffer supply wagons and the occasional Union soldier on foot. He saw a surprising number of blacks manning the wagons, and he imagined them to be contrabands working in support of Federal troops. How easy it would be for him to throw in with them. He stepped out of his place of hiding and entered the meager parade. He had grasped the tail of the army, and now he and the other fleas gradually made their way to the body. The Union soldiers were ragged, but not as ragged as James Purcell. He was aware that the men around him stayed clear of him, leaving him a wide path, and he had that old sensation of forced invisibility. He passed a limping soldier in baggy red pantaloons with a red sash around his waist, an extensively embroidered short blue jacket, and a red fez on his head. He might have thought the man a mental defective or perhaps an actor, but he used his rifle as a crutch and his outfit was filthy and worn in the way of the soldiers dressed in regular uniforms. Cassius was careful not to laugh.

  The day was hot, the road dusty, and travel was slow. He walked for quite some time before he felt comfortable enough to enter a dazed private reverie, keeping up with his shadow, watching it shift to his left, his right, then back to his front as the road ambled and twisted. Someone fell in step with him. He initially thought nothing of it until the presence did not stray. He looked to see a well-muscled Union soldier keeping his pace. He looked at the man's shadow and saw something long growing out of his head that was too thick to be a feather. With a glance he saw it was a bucktail rakishly attached to his dark blue kepi, sweeping back off the front band, waving on the bounce with every step he took. He carried a different kind of rifle, not a traditional musket. The soldier made a soft grunting sound that Cassius took to be a greeting, and Cassius nodded, wishing the man away. They walked along like that for a half mile.

  "Seem like you got all the parts," said the man with the bucktail on his hat.

  What parts? said Cassius.

  "Got a head, two arms, two legs, same number of fingers."

  Got a tail rolled up, hidden in my trousers, said Cassius.

  The man with the bucktail on his hat suddenly laughed loudly enough that other men on the road looked at him.

  "Got a working brain, too," said the man with the bucktail on his hat.

  I'm thinking you never met a black man before, said Cassius.

  "A few contrabands, but they ain't much for conversation. Curious about 'em, you hear a lot of things."

  Extra heads, three arms, like that? said Cassius.

  "You hear a lot of things," said the man again, emphatically.

  Cassius remembered Purcell and his friendly ways, and the cautious geniality forthcoming from this man put him on his guard. He looked at the man's feet and was relieved to see he wore shoes.

  They walked together a little farther.

  Cassius wondered if he might get away from the man. He walked faster, but the man matched his pace. He walked slower, and the man stayed with him but showed no indication that he was aware of Cassius's intent.

  Finally Cassius gave in, and said: Where you from that you don't see negroes?

  "Mountains of Pennsylvania. Wildcat district, McKean County. We don't bring in outsiders to do our work, we do it ourselves."

  What sort of work?

  "Lumberjack."

  Something growing out your hat, said Cassius.

  "Bucktail. Regimental badge of honor. You don't know it?"

  I don't.

  "Never heard of us?"

  Never did.

  The man did not seem insulted, but he did appear surprised. "We're the first rifles. Sharpshooters. Still nothing?"

  I believe you.

  The man looked at him with a tilt of the he
ad, but this time his laughter was softer and he continued walking alongside Cassius.

  "Might I inquire from where you hail?"

  Virginia.

  "Virginia's a large piece of property. Any particular place?"

  Tobacco country.

  "Bring any with you?"

  Did not.

  "Field hand?"

  No.

  "Something else?"

  Yes.

  "That's all I get, ain't it?"

  So far.

  "Contraband?"

  Could be.

  "You remind me of my pappy. He don't much like questions, neither. Mind if I walk with you a spell? I enjoy meeting new people."

  Not like I got much choice.

  "Wife says I can be a bore, so you tell me if I go on."

  You think that a likely occurrence, that I'd tell you something like that? said Cassius.

  "I'll try to be mindful of it myself," said the man.

  The man introduced himself as Hugh McLaren, and Cassius told him his name. A limping soldier saw McLaren from a distance and hurried to catch him, putting his weight on a walking stick he had fashioned from the trunk of a young tree. When he reached McLaren, he saw Cassius and his face fell. He backed off a step.

  "That you, McLaren?" said the limping soldier, but his glowering eyes never left Cassius's face.

  "Happy to see you, Seymour," said McLaren.

  "Sure that's you? 'Cause the McLaren I know wouldn't be walkin with the likes of him," said the limping soldier, indicating Cassius with his thumb.

  "Well, now, Seymour," said McLaren, but the limping soldier did not wait for McLaren to finish his reply. He turned aside and shuffled in the other direction.

  McLaren glanced at Cassius but said nothing, while Cassius stared straight ahead. What may have been a curiosity for McLaren, making idle conversation with a black man, was something else for other Union soldiers. But Cassius was impressed that McLaren continued to walk alongside him, all the way to the foot of Sugar Loaf Mountain, and on up toward Buckeystown.

  Hugh McLaren had been shot at a place called Second Bull Run. A bullet had hit his thigh but missed the bone. In what he referred to as a miracle, the doctor had not amputated his leg. He related a lengthy narrative concerning his wait in the line for the sawbones, but the doctor had passed him by as a fresh group of mangled and screaming soldiers were littered in. As his wait grew, McLaren found his pain tolerable, so he dressed his wound, noting that the bullet had made an exit hole; it had passed clean through. He didn't need to be bled, as the wound itself had done that to his satisfaction. He dragged himself over to the Bull Run Creek, not far from the doctor's tent, and bathed his wound and then himself. The water no longer ran red by then. He camped there and washed the wound twice a day and washed his bandages as well.

  After a day or two he thought he saw improvement. He now took pains to avoid the doctor, as the doctor had a wicked look in his eye and was a fair hand with a hacksaw. When the doctor did see McLaren, he indicated that he intended to have the leg. McLaren began to think it unnecessary to experience such a sudden drop in weight, and since he was attached to his leg, he would go to great pains to keep it joined to his hip at least until the next bullet. Weren't a large crop of one-legged lumberjacks in the mountains of Pennsylvania.

  One morning, he awoke with less pain so he tested the leg, standing without a crutch. He took one step, then another. They weren't what you would call pretty steps, he said, but he found he could walk without dragging his leg. The extraordinary number of wounded had been housed in local homes and churches to recuperate, and he used this time to help the nurses. It was pleasant to spend time with the female gender. One afternoon he saw the sawbones heading his way and he held his ground. The doctor told him that it had been his plan all along to force him to hang on to his leg, and it was time for him to rejoin his unit. That put him here, walking through Maryland, aiming to plant as many Johnny Rebs as possible in the ground of his homeland and send the rest home.

  At some point in McLaren's story, Cassius understood that Second Bull Run was the same battle as the one called Second Manassas by Confederates.

  I saw a man on the road, said Cassius. Unusual looking, wore red pantaloons and a strange red hat, but he carried a musket.

  "One of the Zouaves," said McLaren.

  Fighting man? said Cassius.

  "Oh, he's a fighting man, all right. Zouaves brought their uniforms when they volunteered. Started with the French. Met one who'd been a firefighter in New York, I think he said his whole unit was firefighters."

  So he means to dress like that.

  "Yes, that's intentional," said McLaren with a laugh.

  Never saw a rifle like yours, said Cassius, indicating McLaren's weapon.

  "Barrel's got grooves inside, makes the minie bullet go three, four times farther. More accurate, too. Breech loader, so it loads faster, too."

  Sounds like a benefit.

  "That it is, lad, that it is."

  They took time to scrounge for food. It was close to harvest time, and the state of Maryland had much to offer, even after the main army had passed through. They had little trouble finding fruit and vegetables. McLaren spoke to a farmer and came back with bacon and flour.

  McLaren led him off the road for the night, and when Cassius made to wander off to find his own place, McLaren called him back and invited him to bed down near him. He made a fire and they cooked the food they had scrounged, and one or two others came off the road and joined them, casting an uncertain eye toward Cassius.

  One fellow not much over the age of sixteen landed heavily on the ground near the fire, his shiny extra gear clanging, his new boots kicking dust into the flames.

  "Go easy there, lad. May need that fire for your supper."

  "Say," said the sixteen-year-old, his eyes wide, "I seen hats like that before!"

  McLaren smiled.

  "You a Bucktail is what you is. I ain't never seed a Bucktail before."

  "A Bucktail is what I am."

  The sixteen-year-old turned to the others around the fire, as if they hadn't noticed McLaren's hat before that moment. "This here's a Bucktail. Wildcat sharpshooters, they send these boys up to the front line when we're meetin the Rebs. Say, Bucktail, do the Rebs really run when they see you comin?"

  "Been known to happen," said McLaren.

  "Hell, they's excellent marksmen, the Bucktails, best marksmen in the country, hell, best in the damned world," the boy said to the others. One of them hid his eyes behind his hand, cringing at the awe of this green recruit.

  "Looks like a new uniform," said the man behind his hand.

  "Just joined up," said the sixteen-year-old. He turned his attention back to McLaren. "With you boys around, I'm thinkin the Rebs ain't got no chance a'tall."

  "Well, the Rebs may look like they fit every scarecrow in the South with a uniform, but who knew scarecrows could fight so hard?"

  The youth gulped. Cassius imagined that he hoped things would go easy on him, that the worst fighting was over and the war would end and he wouldn't die.

  "Say, I heard you boys killed Turner Ashby, that true?"

  Cassius sat up. Jacob had ridden with Ashby, and had revered the man.

  You killed Colonel Ashby? Cassius said to McLaren.

  "Sure enough," said the sixteen-year-old. "Ashby of the Confederate Black Horse Cavalry. Bucktails got him. Maybe it were you?"

  "Naw, warn't me," said McLaren. "They say it was Bucktails, but some New Jersey Cavalry picket been talkin like he did it. Since New Jersey said he didn't know who it was he shot that day and didn't find out Ashby was dead till the next day, and only then decided it was him, I guess I'll stick with the Thirteenth. We were there, all right, outside Harrisonburg. Reckon it was early June."

  "June sixth," said the sixteen-year-old.

  "And I reckon you know a little something about Ashby," said McLaren.

  The boy looked sheepish. "I used to read about his explo
its."

  "Well, then, you probably know he was General Ashby that day. Made General couple days before."

  The men were silent, as if that ironic observation was the way of the war. Time and again when something good happened for a man, it was but prelude to his death.

  "My favorite part of that day was old Sir Percy," said McLaren.

  "Sir Percy?" said the sixteen-year-old.

  "Sir Percy Wyndham. Soldier of fortune, Britisher. Boasted that morning that he was going to 'bag' Ashby. Word got back to Ashby on that. I met Old Percy once, he was a braggart and an adventurer, but not a bad soldier. Sir Percy charged Ashby's rear guard, but he neglected to notice he was charging all by himself. His men hadn't followed, and then Ashby bagged him. I did love to hear that. Comes the end of the day, Ashby had Virginia and Maryland infantry sent over to him, gave an order to charge, they all get up and they're running and we shot his horse down, but Ashby, he's right back on his feet to lead the charge on foot, waving that shiny sword, and a bullet went right through his heart just a few feet from his horse."

  Again they were silent, staring at the fire between them.

  "Same day that Colonel Kane was captured. That was some hard day. We got him back in August, I fought with him at Second Bull Run. Hear they might make him a general for that skirmish at the bridge. What day is it?"

  "Sunday."

  "Sunday. Maybe I'll sleep now."

  On the morning of the 15th of September, they caught up to the rear echelon of the Union Army of the Potomac at Turner's Gap in South Mountain. A fierce battle had been fought the day before and the Union had broken through for the first notable Northern victory that summer. Cassius saw the detritus of the battle spread across the rock-strewn ground, and it was a bad sight. Men were burying bodies under the hot sun, digging on the spot and dropping their friends into holes. He looked forward to where they were headed and saw both armies in the distance, no more than fifteen miles away.