Of course, there was always a moment, just as an order was given, when a small, resistant voice would make itself known in the back of my mind. Then the necessary job was to ignore that voice. It was not a defiant or angry voice, particularly, just that little human voice, saying, you know: I wish to do what I wish to do, and not what you are telling me to do.
And I must say, that voice was never quite silenced.
Although it did grow rather quiet over the years.
But I must not over-complain on this score. I had many free and happy moments. On Wednesday afternoons, for example, when I would be given two free hours to myself. And all day, every third Sunday, if things were not too hectic. Admittedly, my enjoyments during these respites were rather trivial, almost childish: I will walk over and talk to Red. I will go to the pond and sit a bit. I will take this path, and not that. And no one could call out, “Thomas, come hither” or “Thomas, if you please, that tray” or “Thomas, that vegetable bed needs tending, fetch Charles and Violet and put them to work, will you, old boy?”
Unless, of course, such an interruption was necessary. In which case, naturally, they might, indeed, interrupt me. Even on a Wednesday afternoon. Or a Sunday. Or late upon any night all. As I was enjoying an intimate moment with my wife. Or was lost in a much-needed sleep. Or was praying. Or on the privy.
And yet, still: I had my moments. My free, uninterrupted, discretionary moments.
Strange, though: it is the memory of those moments that bothers me most.
The thought, specifically, that other men enjoyed whole lifetimes comprised of such moments.
thomas havens
How came you to reside in our pit, sir?
elson farwell
I was in town. On an errand. I experienced a pain in my chest, and—
thomas havens
Did they not seek you?
elson farwell
They sought me mightily!
They seek me still, I am sure.
My wife leading the effort, Mr. and Mrs. Conner showing their full support.
It is just—they have not found me yet.
thomas havens
This fellow was crisply shoved aside by a young mulatto woman in a white smock and a blue-trimmed lace bonnet, trembling wildly, of such startling beauty that a low murmur arose among the white supplicants.
roger bevins iii
Go ahead, Litzie. It’s now or f—–ing never.
betsy baron
* * * * * * * *
litzie wright
Silent.
eddie baron
As always.
betsy baron
What the f—– musta been done to her? To shut her up so tight?
eddie baron
Stepping up beside the mulatto came a stout Negro woman of some years, by all appearances a large, outwardly jolly presence in that previous place, who was not jolly at all now, but livid, and scowling; and her feet, worn to nubs, left two trails of blood behind her, and as she placed her hands (also worked to nubs) on the mulatto’s hips, in support, she left bloody prints in two places there on the pale smock, as the mulatto continued to thrum and shake.
the reverend everly thomas
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
litzie wright
What was done to her was done to her many times, by many. What was done to her could not be resisted, was not resisted, sometimes was resisted, which resulted, sometimes, in her being sent away to some far worse place, other times in that resistance simply being forcibly overcome (by fist, knee, board-strike, etc.). What was done to her was done and done. Or just done once. What was done to her affected her not at all, affected her very much, drove her to the nervous shakes, drove her to hateful speech, drove her to leap off the Cedar Creek Bridge, drove her to this obstinate silence. What was done to her was done by big men, small men, boss men, men who happened to be passing the field in which she worked, the teen sons of the boss man or of the men who happened to be passing, a trio of men on a bender who spilled out of the house and, just before departing, saw her there chopping wood. What was done to her was done on a regular schedule, like some sort of sinister church-going; was done to her at random times; was never done at all, never once, but only constantly threatened: looming and sanctioned; what was done to her was straightforward missionary fucking; what was done to her was anal fucking (when the poor dear had never even heard of such a thing); what was done to her were small sick things (to the accompaniment of harsh words from stunted country men who would never have dreamed of doing such things to a woman of their own race), done to her as if no one else were there, only him, the man doing it, she nothing more than a (warm, silent) wax figure; what was done to her was: whatever anyone wished to do, and even if someone wished only slightly to do something to her, well, one could do it, it could be done, one did it, it was done, it was done and done and—
mrs. francis hodge
Lieutenant Stone (shouting, “Back, SHARDS, get ye back!”) double-timed up at the head of a group of burly white men (Petit, Daly, and Burns among them), who brusquely cleared the black supplicants away from the white stone home, pushing at them with fallen tree-limbs held horizontally at chest-height.
roger bevins iii
Cries of outrage sounded forth from the black contingent.
hans vollman
Ah, said Mr. Havens. Here, as there?
mrs. francis hodge
Not so f——ing rough!
eddie baron
We know them. They’re all right!
betsy baron
Petit, Burns, and Daly, broad red faces distorted with rage, stepped menacingly toward the Barons, causing that couple to recede meekly into the crowd.
hans vollman
Upon a signal from Lieutenant Stone, the patrol now drove forward, pinning the black contingent against the dreaded iron fence.
the reverend everly thomas
(Which was not particularly dreadful to them.
As it only exerted its noxious effects on those of us who resided within its limits.)
hans vollman
Hence a standoff resulted: Lieutenant Stone and patrol, from nausea, could not advance close enough to drive the black contingent over the fence, and those individuals, having reached the limit of their willingness to submit to such depredations, continued to hold their position on this side.
the reverend everly thomas
Meanwhile, dozens of (white) supplicants rushed opportunistically into the space thus cleared before the white stone home, bellowing their stories into the doorway, until it was impossible to discern any individual voice amid the desperate chorus.
hans vollman
LXVII.
Mr. Lincoln heard none of this, of course.
To him it was just a silent crypt in the dead of night.
the reverend everly thomas
Now came the critical moment.
roger bevins iii
Boy and father must interact.
hans vollman
This interaction must enlighten the boy; must permit or encourage him to go.
roger bevins iii
Or all was lost.
the reverend everly thomas
Why do you delay? Mr. Vollman said to the boy.
roger bevins iii
The lad drew a deep breath, prepared, it seemed, to enter, finally, and be instructed.
hans vollman
LXVIII.
Only, then: bad luck.
roger bevins iii
A lantern-light appeared in the darkness.
hans vollman
Mr. Manders.
The nightwatchman.
roger bevins iii
Who approached looking as he always looks when among us: timorous, somewhat bemused by his own timorousness, eager to return to the guardhouse.
the reverend everly thomas
We were fond of Manders, who kept his courage up on these rounds by calling out to us congenially, assuring us that th
ings “out there” were as they had been; i.e., eating, loving, brawling, births, binges, grudges, all still proceeded apace. Some nights he would mention his children—
roger bevins iii
Philip, Mary, Jack.
hans vollman
And tell us how they were doing.
roger bevins iii
We appreciated these reports rather more than might be expected, given the facetious spirit in which they were delivered.
hans vollman
As he came tonight, he called for a “Mr. Lincoln,” now and then amending that form of address to “Mr. President.”
the reverend everly thomas
Though we were fond of Manders—
hans vollman
His timing was terrible.
the reverend everly thomas
Awful.
roger bevins iii
The worst.
hans vollman
He calls for my father, said the boy, who still stood weakly against the doorside wall.
Your father is President? the Reverend inquired wryly.
He is, the boy said.
Of? the Reverend asked.
The United States, the boy said.
It is true, I said to the Reverend. He is President. Much time has passed. There is a state called Minnesota.
We are at war, said Mr. Vollman. At war with ourselves. The cannons are greatly improved.
Soldiers bivouac within the Capitol, I said.
We saw it all, said Mr. Vollman.
When we were there within him, I said.
roger bevins iii
Mr. Manders stepped through the doorway, lantern blazing in that confined space.
hans vollman
What had been dark was now brightly lit; we could discern the nicks and divots in the stone walls and the wrinkles in Mr. Lincoln’s coat.
roger bevins iii
The pale sunken features of the lad’s sick-form.
hans vollman
As it lay there within the—
the reverend everly thomas
Sick-box.
hans vollman
Ah, Manders said. Here you are. Sir.
Yes, Mr. Lincoln said.
Terribly sorry to intrude, Manders said. I thought—I thought you might require a light. For the walk back.
Getting rather lengthily to his feet, Mr. Lincoln shook Manders’s hand.
roger bevins iii
Seeming ill at ease.
hans vollman
Embarrassed, perhaps, to be found here.
the reverend everly thomas
Kneeling in front of his son’s sick-box.
hans vollman
Open sick-box.
the reverend everly thomas
Mr. Manders’s eyes involuntarily drifted past Mr. Lincoln, to the contents.
hans vollman
Mr. Lincoln inquired as to how, without his light, Mr. Manders would find his way back. Mr. Manders said that, though he preferred the light, being somewhat squeamish, still, he knew this place like the back of his hand. Mr. Lincoln offered that, if Mr. Manders would give him just a moment more, they might return together. Mr. Manders acceded, and stepped outside.
roger bevins iii
A catastrophe.
the reverend everly thomas
They had not interacted at all.
hans vollman
Nothing had yet occurred, that might benefit the boy.
roger bevins iii
Still the lad did not come forward.
hans vollman
But only continued to lean against the wall, frozen by fear.
the reverend everly thomas
But then we saw that it was not fear at all.
The wall behind him had liquefied, and tendrils had come forth, and four or five now encircled his waist: a hideous crawling belt, holding him fast.
roger bevins iii
We needed time, to get him free.
hans vollman
Must somehow delay the gentleman’s departure.
the reverend everly thomas
I looked at Mr. Bevins.
He looked at me.
hans vollman
We saw what must be done.
roger bevins iii
We had the power. To persuade.
hans vollman
Had done it, even within the hour.
roger bevins iii
Mr. Bevins was younger, possessed of multiple (very strong) arms; whereas I, naked and constantly interfered with by my massive disability, was not well-suited to the strenuous labor that would be required to free the lad.
So in I went, into Mr. Lincoln, alone.
hans vollman
LXIX.
And Lord the fellow was low.
He was attempting to formulate a goodbye, in some sort of positive spirit, not wishing to enact that final departure in gloom, in case it might be felt, somehow, by the lad (even as he told himself that the lad was now past all feeling); but all within him was sadness, guilt, and regret, and he could find little else. So he lingered, hoping for some comforting notion to arise, upon which he might expand.
But nothing came.
Low, colder than before, and sadder, and when he directed his mind outward, seeking the comfort of his life out there, and the encouragement of his future prospects, and the high regard in which he was held, no comfort was forthcoming, but on the contrary: he was not, it seemed, well thought of, or succeeding in much of anything at all.
hans vollman
LXX.
As the dead piled up in unimaginable numbers and sorrow was added to sorrow, a nation that had known little of sacrifice blamed Lincoln for a dithering mismanagement of the war effort.
In “The Unpopular Mr. Lincoln: The Story of America’s Most Reviled President,” by Larry Tagg.
The Presdt is an idiot.
In “The Civil War Papers of George B. McClellan,” edited by Stephen Sears.
Vain, weak, puerile, hypocritical, without manners, without social grace, and as he talks to you, punches his fists under your ribs.
In “The War Years,” by Carl Sandburg, account of Sherrard Clemens.
Evidently a person of very inferior cast of character, wholly unequal to the crisis.
In “The Emergence of Lincoln: Prologue to the Civil War, 1859–1861,” by Allan Nevins, account of Edward Everett.
His speeches have fallen like a wet blanket here. They put to flight all notions of greatness.
Tagg, op. cit., account of Congressman Charles Francis Adams.
By all odds, the weakest man who has ever been elected.
Clemens, op. cit.
Will go down to posterity as the man who could not read the signs of the times, nor understand the circumstances and interests of his country…who had no political aptitude; who plunged his country into a great war without a plan; who failed without excuse, and fell without a friend.
Tagg, op. cit., from the London “Morning Post.”
The people have, for nineteen months, poured out, at your call, sons, brothers, husbands & money.—What is the result?—Do you ever realize that the desolation, sorrow, grief that pervades this country is owing to you?—that the young men who have been maimed, crippled, murdered, & made invalids for life, owe it to your weakness, irresolution, & want of moral courage?
Tagg, op. cit., letter from S. W. Oakey.
The money flows out, tens of thousands of men wait, are rearranged to no purpose, march pointlessly over expensive bridges thrown up for the occasion, march back across the same bridges, which are then torn down. And nothing whatsoever is accomplished.
In “Letters of a Union Fellow,” by Tobian Clearly.
If you don’t Resign we are going to put a spider in your dumpling and play the Devil with you you god or mighty god dam sundde of a bith go to hell and buss my Ass suck my prick and call my Bolics your uncle Dick god dam a fool and goddam Abe Lincoln who would like you goddam you excuse me for using such hard words wi
th you but you need it you are nothing but a goddam Black nigger.
In “Dear Mr. Lincoln,” edited by Harold Holzer.
If my wife wishes to leave me, may I compel her at arms to stay in our “union”? Especially when she is a fiercer fighter than I, better organized, quite determined to be free of me?
In “Voices of a Divided Land,” edited by Baines and Edgar, account of P. Mallon.
Line up the corpses; walk from end to end; look upon each father, husband, brother, son; total up the cost that way, and think (as our military men, quizzed upon this confidentially, all do) that this grim line of ruined futures is only the beginning of the tidal wave of young death that must soon befall us.
In the Allentown “Field-Gazette.”
Peace, sir, make peace: the cry of man since at least our Savior’s time. Why ignore it now? Blessed are the peacemakers, the Scriptures say, and we must assume the converse also to be true: Cursed are the war-mongers, however just they believe their cause.