by John Keene
Soon as the balloon was filled, all the white folks, save Mr. Edward and the receiver operator, and Ulysses took hold of the cables, easing them through the pulleys. Up Professor Lowe rose into the air, slowly, then more rapidly, finally hovering about 1000 or so feet above. Mr. Edward and I reeled out the telegraph wire until Professor Lowe was so far up we could see only the basket’s square brown wicker bottom and the immense tan curves and slope of the balloon’s globe. Professor Lowe gave a signal for the cables to be tied and staked, though several assistants still held on. Where I sat, along the slope of the real wall’s revetment near the telegraph operator I could see and hear Mr. La Mountain grumbling about something to Mr. Paullin, and Mr. Edward, approaching me and observing them as well whispered, “That one is the most notorious of vipers.” I didn’t dare reply but I had seen Mr. La Mountain and Professor Lowe, and Mr. Wise and the others arguing several times since I arrived. I continued watching them, Mr. La Mountain flailing his arms about then walking away towards a group of soldiers. As he left our area Mr. Ezra Allen came over and asked Mr. Edward how the transmission was going. The telegraph operator working at the receiver was writing down the messages as quickly as possible, which led Mr. Edward to say, “Just dandy,” provoking a double-take from me. Finally Nimrod appeared with an older soldier who asked both Mr. Edward and the telegraph operator, “Do you have the coordinates?” and the receiver handed them over. This continued for a while, Nimrod and that white man coming and going, taking the pages with them—
—Till suddenly two orderlies rode up and all around us curtains of gunfire and the periodic boom of cannonade. Professor Lowe is making signals with the flags, though I can’t tell what he’s conveying but Mr. Edward says he is helping to calibrate the position of the guns. But I don’t understand, and Mr. Edward repeats, “The guns, the position of the guns,” when something batters the outer walls of the fort and we all slide lower down the revetment’s slope, while others even lie flat on their stomachs on the ground. The fusillade continues without relent, more balls blasts the front palisades, while Professor Lowe continues high above making signs with the flags and Mr. Edward is raising his voice yet I can barely hear him above the gunfire, “We are taking the traitors out,” and I say, “But Mr. Edward, Sir, what is Professor Lowe doing with the flags?” and Mr. Edward hollers, “Neddy, Theodore, Neddy—and why don’t you just be quiet for a damned minute!” I shut my mouth as the orderlies ride in again, they and we all watching Professor Lowe, and this pattern persists, with fewer and fewer bullets or miniés falling our way though we can hear the cannons and field guns firing from our fort and the stench of the gunpowder lingers, Mr. Ezra Allen whistles, everyone, including me, stands and hauls Professor Lowe down, hauling on the cables as he releases the gas, descending, until the basket gently yet firmly hits the ground. All of us, save Mr. La Mountain, who has disappeared to who knows where, applaud him, as another military orderly arrives with a report from the generals.
After that there weren’t any more close scrapes and we spent most of our time at the Navy Yard in Washington, where Professor Lowe and the rest were assembling a series of balloons as well as a balloon boat, as Mr. Edward called it, to carry and tether several of them at once up and down the Potomac. One afternoon I went to run errands for Mr. Edward, dropping off his post and, though I didn’t tell him, mine: a letter to Jonathan and my mother, one to Horatio, and, on an impulse, one to Rosaline, recounting the vague outlines of my experiences thus far. I also was buying his favorite tobacco, Lilienthal’s, coffee and tea, some lead-tin solder, and a few other things from the general store, taking good care to avoid any trouble. I checked my watch after I left the main post office and saw I had some free time, so I decided to head up to where Dandy and me had stayed when we first came to town, to see if anybody had seen or heard from him.
I retraced my steps back there, straight up 7th St. through Mt. Vernon Square, past the market and the shops, every street, every tree, every building both strange to me and yet so familiar, to 9th and Q, where I saw the shack, so tiny and filthy it was hard to imagine that seven or more of us had slept and eaten in there at the same time! As I approached it I saw a woman I recognized, though her back was turned to me. Her name was Mary Agnes and she had arrived just before I left. She was standing outside the front door. “How do, Miss?” I called out to her, asking if she had seen or heard from Anthony Smith. That name made her whip her head around towards me, and snap, “Who the hell asking?” I answered, “His cousin, I even stayed here with you, Mary Agnes, don’t you remember, when we first came to the city—” and before I could finish the sentence she was shrieking, “Y’all, y’all, come out here right now, it’s one of them northerners that run a game on us,” and I said, “No, no, I didn’t run no game,” and she yelled even more loudly, “You gonna pay for what you did,” and I said, “No, you got the wrong person, ask Cyrus,” because I had even brought them food and left them money, but two men, both twice my size, came scrambling from the shack and across the street I saw another, wielding a carving knife, and I took off running, coiling my bag around my hand so I didn’t drop it, and cut a left on what I guessed was P and just zigzagged across the street, even hearing a gun go off behind me, three times, but didn’t stop running all the way to Mt. Vernon Square, where I darted behind one of the stalls and dropped to my knees to catch my breath and examined myself quickly to make sure I hadn’t gotten shot. Only then did I consult my pocket watch. When I peered out at the street I didn’t spot anybody chasing me, but I thought I should be careful so I turned my coat inside out and tied a kerchief around my head, figuring as I did so that I ought to take the roundabout way back, while also realizing that Mr. Edward was going to be cross if I returned too late. I started running again, but nevertheless the evening was already filling the sky by the time I reached the Navy Yard grounds.
Soon as I entered our encampment, I first heard then witnessed Mr. La Mountain once again yelling at Professor Lowe, this time letting everyone nearby know that down at Fort Monroe he was able to fly unsecured above the Confederate territory without a problem and was convinced that if they could just get the go-ahead from General McClellan, which Professor Lowe alone could guarantee, given that he had “the President and Congress in his pocket,” he, Mr. La Mountain would eagerly do so. He added, even more loudly, that he had never suffered the kinds of mishaps Professor Lowe and Mr. Wise had, downing balloons, crashing into enemy territory, that he could fly a balloon from “here to New York or New Orleans, if need be,” with his eyes closed and hands tied behind back. For his part Professor Lowe as usual was ignoring him and speaking determinedly with other members of the staff about their projects. Mr. Edward, an observer to the quarrel like everybody else, sidled up to me and said, “You would think that man is on the other side half the time.” While he spoke he extended his hand for the things I bought him, registering nothing about my lateness. When we were through I inquired of Ulysses if he needed any help, since I knew he had spent the entire afternoon assisting various members of the Corps’ assembly team attaching and reknotting the web of ropes from one balloon to its basket. He said he didn’t, he was done. But he asked me to fetch them, and by implication him, some water. At the pump, as I was filling the pitcher, Mr. La Mountain stormed over and shoved me out of the way to fill his cup. My first thought was to say something, though I wasn’t sure what I could say to someone of his rank and stature and not get punished for. Instead I brought Ulysses the pitcher and headed off to help Patrick, if he needed me, with mess.
That night, before Mr. Edward sent me on my way, he asked me to stroll
with him out toward the river. “Sir, is it safe,” I asked, and he said, “Theodore, why are you always so yellow with fear? There are federals all the way south to Alexandria Town, and more troops all along the Maryland coastline”—indicating these phantasms with a sweep of his hand—“so there is simply no need to worry.” Yet even after being down here for nearly a month, I didn’t ever feel secure, so I aimed as slyly as possible to keep him between the water and me. “I had to tell someone,” he was still going on, “since Johann—John Steiner—confirmed what Professor Lowe had promised, which is that I will get an opportunity to go up in the balloon first thing tomorrow!” I thought and then said, “Sir, that’s your wish come true, Mr. Edward, just wonderful,” and he said, “Neddy—and it is, Theodore, I almost can’t believe it. You’ll have to be up earlier than usual, because I need to be ready, and whatever trick you use to stay so punctual use it so that you are by my side as soon as the sun’s up.” Sure as the sun rose, I was.
The morning sky looked like it would split in two. For a while a heavy wind boxed the small balloon around, but it didn’t rain and things calmed enough that once it had filled with gas Mr. Edward could ascend to test it. I stood beside Professor Lowe, who this time, rather than me, was holding the telegraph wire, Misters Steiner and Starkweather, and several assistants, who were manning the cables. We all watched Mr. Edward as he opened the valve to regulate the height, and backed up when he urged us to as he snipped open sandbags to ascend. All the while he was calling out various things I committed to memory, knowing that although he had taken his notebook with him he wasn’t yet writing anything down. There was enough wind and slack that after he initially floated above the dock he hovered westward over the inlet, then rose higher and balanced not far from the buildings on M Street. The wind was strong and he coasted upward and eastward, until he was hovering above the neighboring market, then he floated over the open water, holding there for a while as most of the others, except the men on the cables, dispersed. Professor Lowe handed me the telegraph wire, and left with Mr. Steiner for a short while, both still talking animatedly about various aeronautical issues when they returned.
I trained my attention on Mr. Edward, who had gone so far up and grown so quiet I imagined he either was thinking or calculating. After a stretch of silence I grew nervous, and considered calling out, “Sir, everything well, Mr. Edward?” especially when out of the corner of my eye I could see Mr. La Mountain and Mr. Wise watching me, and when Professor Lowe and Mr. Steiner returned, they began glaring at them. The professor broke off his conversation with Mr. Steiner and said to no one in particular, as he stroked his thick mustache and studied his own notebook, “Linde should be brimming with observations.” He called out, “Everything well, Linde?” to which Mr. Edward cried back, “Optimal, Professor, summum visum,” then “I am beginning my descent!” Professor Lowe turned to find me still by his side, which startled him, and ordered me to not let go of the telegraph cable and retreat a little, while my boss slowly and carefully returned to the earth.
During a lull that afternoon, as most of the men played an impromptu game of baseball or listened to one of the naval bands, I went to fetch the mail, tobacco, stationery, and a newspaper. Along with the letters from Mr. Edward’s family there was one I could see from Jonathan, care of Mr. Edward, for me. As I trod along the edge of the canal I passed the letter from palm to palm, eager to tear it open but afraid to, almost so excited to read it I nearly dropped it into the murky water. It wasn’t until I reached the open expanse of one of the squares near Virginia Avenue that I grasped I had walked right past the Capitol, nestled serenely on its promontory, without even noticing. At the South Market, just blocks from the Navy Yard, I paused and squatted under a linden tree at the stalls’ edge, making sure I stashed Mr. Edward’s correspondence away so I didn’t lose it. With the greatest care I opened my letter, which I read, first aloud, then with my eyes several times, lingering on the large, slanted script:
Phil. Penna. SEPT 1861
to Theodore,
I write for Mama myself Lucius Zenobia+Zephira and all the Family when I says we MISS YOU something terrible and hopes you taken care given what we hear about the War. Follow His Word in everything BROTHER. I speak to Mr. Dameron and he say he’ll take you back so please think abt it. Red do a good Job for Mr. Linde son and we hold you in our HEART AND MIND always.
God bless+protect you big bro. Jonathan
At the very bottom of the letter I noticed something scrawled around a cross but at first I couldn’t decipher it. The longer I looked, the clearer it became, and I grinned when I figured it out: ra†io.
I sat there for some time thinking about the letter, about Mama and Jonathan, about my siblings and in-laws, my nieces and nephews, about my boy Hora†io, Ray-Ray, about my city and my home and how even though I hated scaling fish or shucking oysters, even if I liked it less than all of this, a lot less than all this, wringing a chicken’s neck was nowhere near terrifying as huddling at the rear of a fort or riding in a wagon while gunfire raged nearby, and for a second I began musing about the possibility of returning back north and how and when I might do so, what exactly I would tell Mr. Edward, maybe I could head back with him when he quit the Corps because he had shared with me one evening a week ago, out of frustration, when he thought he would never get to take to the air, that he was planning on further training in order to become a professor himself, especially if President Lincoln didn’t get around to awarding him and the rest of them official military commissions, and, he added out of nowhere, he was going to marry Mr. Peter Robins’ sister Alexandra. Soon as I recalled that I checked the time: I had been far too long in my reverie, so I ran the few blocks back to camp.
Mr. Edward was standing all by himself near the tents, waiting for me, his hands behind his back, spectacles on the tip of nose. He said, peeve coloring his timbre, “Boy, where in stars’ name have you been?” I told him that there were military officers holding up everything all along Pennsylvania, checking papers and such, and he replied, with obvious vexation, “Well, there are Confederates and their sympathizers all around us so you should take care not to dally in the city.” He looked in the direction of the water, which lay beyond the rows of buildings and boats. “They were looking for you to join Ulysses in a buck dance to entertain them but I told them you wouldn’t be doing so.” I could hear a banjo and clapping in the distance, so I said, “Yes, Sir, thank you, here is your mail, can I get you anything?” He raised his right hand, which was wrapped in a gauze, forming a tan mitt, and returning to his usual tone with me he said that he had burnt himself with the soldering iron. “Oh, Mr. Edward, Sir, I’m sorry.” I asked him if he had hurt himself badly but he assured me that it wasn’t as bad as it looked, but he would especially need my help now.
He had me sit down beside him, open and read his passel of letters. While his mother wrote about the family, her friends and garden and parties, the return of the fall social season, his father wrote to let him know his account was full, and to be careful and brave, and use “the sabre” of his great mind. His eldest brother Albert penned long paragraphs about his wife and children, his clubs and the insurance business. The middle brother, Frederick, spoke about his position at the brokerage in New York. His sister Katharine included clippings from the regular and society newspapers, and mentioned running into Mr. Bache, who urged that “Neddy” pay him a visit at the Coast Survey offices which sat just blocks from here. Most of his friends, after perfunctory comments about the “War” and the Corps, nattered on about the same things, themselves, clubs, businesses, mar
riages, trips, purchases, though Mr. Peter Robins punctuated his letter, nested in a copy of a new novel by Charles Dickens, with the question of whether Mr. Edward was ready to end his “experiment,” and “liberate your Liberian.” I studied Mr. Edward’s face as I read the line, but it appeared not to provoke any response at all.
When we had concluded the letters I asked to be dismissed, but he had me read the headlines of the Washington Daily Intelligencer—a paper he claimed to detest but read only because timely copies of the Philadelphia Enquirer were hard to find—which I did as swiftly as I could. I raced through auctions, politics at the local and national level, the war in western Virginia, which he made me pause on; the demoralization of the poorer classes in Norfolk and Richmond, debates on the war in Europe, articles on Utah and California, announcements for theater dramas and farces. I did not utter but winced when I came across the request, with a $50 reward, for the return of “Hansom,” a “small-statured Negro boy of sixteen years, light copper colored,” to his owner living southeast of some town called “Bladensburg.” After that I opened his tin of sardines and he let me have half the can, so I made sure to save some for Ulysses, then I packed his pipe with tobacco and lit it so he could smoke it, while he talked about the balloon and how he had been re-calibrating the altimeter, how he intended to go up at the end of the week with Professor Lowe, how someone had broken up a fight with . . . but I was halfway to Lombard Street in my head, paying attention only when I heard him say, “Thank you, Theodore, you’re dismissed.”