Lost Cause (4 page)

When he got back to the Barracks it was seven
o’clock and Jack sat by the window in his undershirt and watched
the sun drop below the hills. In the two days since Campbell had
been gone the barracks had been quiet. The other occupants washed
their clothes and cleaned their weapons and made frequent trips to
Lupe’s cantina to drink and partake of whores until their money ran
out. There was word going around that a new offensive was to start
soon and the men were beginning to grow tense and wrote letters
back home. Jack thought of writing but there was nothing to write
about except blood and death and misery. He wished to God the war
would be over. Maybe it would end this summer if Lee could take
Washington. Maybe the northerners would crack and demand that
Lincoln capitulate and put an end to the wholesale slaughter. Some
people were saying the Confederacy was finished. It was just a
matter of time before they were forced to quit. They couldn’t keep
fighting without enough ammunition and food. Jack didn’t see it
that way; the south had more to fight for than the Union. Freedom
was at stake as well as the capacity to self govern and the ability
to make a living on land bought and paid for with the blood of
those who came before. The way Jack understood it, the only thing
Texans ever wanted was to be left alone to govern themselves as
they saw fit.

But the war was still raging and there was
fighting in the hills around Sabine Pass and the coastal regions of
Galveston and all along the banks of the Rio Grande. Marie Hayes
was a sweet distraction from the savagery, but as long as the
canons fired and the muskets spat out hot lead and men died like
rabbits in the field there would never really be a distraction from
the horror of the conflict. He wished she was there now so he could
hold her hand and listen to her crazy talk and maybe steal a kiss
or two. Maybe they could go somewhere quiet outside the town and
drink wine and discuss the possibility of marriage if they could
get the young priest to read the vows. Maybe she would pretend that
he was her beaux, the one who was killed, and let him into her
secret place where only a betrothed should be allowed to enter.
Maybe.

But reality was such that the night was full
of sounds of distant battle. Outside the open window small bats
flew silently hunting the moths dancing by the lantern light
conducting a war of sorts of their own. Jack had to conclude there
was no real peace to be had in that miserable place apart from the
sight and scent of Miss Marie Hayes.

Men talked too much at supper and the priest
drank a little wine and Jack had black coffee and talked with the
priest about family. It seemed he came from fine Louisiana stock
with a fine name and a long history of service to the Lord.
“There’s not much more to it than that,” the priest said. “My
father calls me father and my sister calls me father and even dear
old mum calls me father. Strange existence is it not?”

“Yes, father.”

“Good one Saylor. I haven’t seen Corporal
Campbell around lately. I sort of miss his chiding.”

“He’s on an escort mission. Galveston I
think.”

“Isn’t it dangerous on the water?”

“They went by train.”

Jack couldn’t resist a laugh and the priest
looked confused and Jack endeavored to explain himself. “Campbell
likes to travel by train. He sees it as a great adventure where
upon he might relieve some tension.”

“From the war?”

“Something like that.”

The priest said, “hum,” and sipped his wine
and Jack smiled pleased with himself for being so coy, though he
guessed he had committed some grievous sin by misleading the young
priest.

The conversation turned serious and the
priest denounced the war and slavery and the whole idea of
Americans killing each other over State’s rights or economics or
whatever it was causing men to slaughter each other on such a
horrific scale.

“You don’t think men have a right to live
free from the heavy hand of a centralized tyrannical government?”
asked Jack.

“I think men should be free. All men,” the
priest said.

“Ah, the slavery issue.”

“Indeed. Enslaving a man is an ungodly
practice.”

“That is if you accept the premise that a
black man is a man.”

“And you don’t?”

“Let’s put it in these terms,” Jack said.
“Suppose the Africans had been an advanced race instead of the
European Anglo-Saxons. Let’s say they sailed to England and landed
among the unsophisticated heathen populating the coastal region.
These people of course having white skin and speaking a different
language would appear to the culturally advanced Africans to be no
more than a higher form of animal, much the same as the monkeys
they were familiar with on the African Continent. Let’s also say
the Africans were an advanced agriculture based society with a need
for cheap labor to plant and harvest their crops. You don’t think
they wouldn’t take advantage of the culturally and intellectually
inferior Anglo-Saxons?”

“Even if it did happen that way, it still
wouldn’t be right,” the priest said shaking his head.

“I agree. But before you condemn the white
man, think about all the nations who have enslaved people weaker
and less sophisticated then themselves.”

“It’s still ungodly.”

“What about the Romans during the time of
Jesus? There were more people in slavery than free men back then. I
don’t recall reading where Jesus condemned slavery. In fact he
admonished slaves to obey their masters.”

“He also told us to treat our neighbor as
ourselves. Would you enslave yourself?”

“The key word there is neighbor.”

“Anyone alive is your neighbor, Jack.”

“Even those Yankees across the river
there?”

“All men.”

“You said you came from a rich family. Your
folks didn’t own any slaves?”

“We had servants, yes.”

“Black servants?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my dear priest, I am struggling not to
see you as a hypocrite. Am I wrong to think that way?”

“Perhaps. But we didn’t keep our servants in
chains and feed them slop. And they were free to leave our employ
anytime they wished.”

And you think that makes it alright? To have
a man subjugate himself to you because he has no other means in
which to support himself?”

“If it’s his choice, yes.”

“By definition, he doesn’t have a choice. Did
your folks pay these servants any wages?”

“They had comfortable quarters and adequate
food and clothing.”

“But no wages?”

“If memory serves, no they did not receive
wages.”

Jack retreated to his thoughts and the priest
finished his wine and Jack said, “The way I see it Padre we’re all
slaves to one thing or another. I to the Confederacy, you to your
God.” The priest smiled thinly and said,

“I can not argue one syllable of that
assessment, Corporal Saylor.”

At that point the priest left and Jack walked
through the town toward the infirmary. He found a seat on the bench
in front of the infirmary tent and waited for Miss Marie Hayes to
appear. The surgeon major appeared instead. “Evening Corporal,” he
said. “Marie asked me to tell you she’s not able to see you
tonight.”

“Oh,” Jack said. “Is something wrong?”

“She’s not feeling well.”

“Oh. Do you think I can call on her
tomorrow?”

“Probably.”

“Alright. I’ll say good-night then.”

Jack walked away feeling rebuked and lonely
and empty. He couldn’t help thinking the major had told him a lie.
It was true that he had lingered long over coffee chatting with the
priest and had failed to check his watch and probably enjoyed the
conversation more than he should have. Still, the hour wasn’t that
late. Surely Miss Hayes had time for one goodnight kiss or at the
least a warm smile to help him through the lonely night.

All war was hell, as Jack well knew,
including the war between the sexes. So far he had been out flanked
out maneuvered and out gunned. Miss Marie Hayes was turning out to
be every bit as formidable as any Union field general he’d ever
encountered.

Chapter 7

The next afternoon Corporal Campbell returned
with a disappointing report. It seemed he hadn’t needed his coat
after all. One of the civilians had corralled Nurse Mason in the
smoking car and chatted her up the entire journey back from
Galveston. During the trip Campbell had heard there was to be an
attack up the river that night and their regiment was to lead the
charge. Nobody in the camp had heard a thing about it, but the men
all oiled up their muskets and packed their haversacks with extra
cartridges and black powder and ate all their canned peaches in
case they didn’t make it back alive.

Around three o’clock that afternoon the
captain came by the barracks and said there was indeed a mission
planned for that evening. They were to muster at five p.m. near the
drill field and wait further instructions. The men all spoke in
hushed tones and sat cross-legged on their bunks and wrote hurried
letters to loved ones and passed them off to the mail clerks. Some
said prayers, others drank coffee and stared at the distant hills
knowing they would soon be marching directly into enemy canister
rounds and repeating rifles firing 44-40 caliber bullets with
amazing rapidity.

Jack slipped away and headed straight for the
infirmary and found Nurse Mason outside the tent loading supplies
into a horse drawn ambulance. “Miss Hayes?” he inquired.

“She’s busy. We’re all busy.”

“Please.”

She hesitated a moment then disappeared into
the tent and shortly Marie Hayes appeared wearing a frown.

“I stopped by to see if you were feeling
better,” Jack said.

“I’m fine. It was the humidity. Really sapped
my strength.”

“We’re going out tonight.”

“When will you be back?”

“In the morning. I hope.” She unclasped
something from her neck. It was her Saint Christopher medallion.
She put it in his hand.

“Come see me as soon as you get back,” she
said

He looked into her eyes and put the medallion
in a breast pocket and said, “I’ll keep it safe for you.”

“Keep yourself safe instead.”

“Well, I guess it’s goodbye then.”

“No,” she said, “Not goodbye. You come back
to me Jack Saylor.” She began to cry and Jack took her hand and she
cried some more. “Be safe, and please be careful,” she sobbed.

“Can I kiss you?”

“No, not until you get back. Go on now before
I make a fool of myself.”

Jack walked away and looked back and saw her
standing by the flap and she waved and Jack waved back and blinked
away a tear. He removed the Saint Christopher and held it in his
hand; a tiny silver orb on a circle of velvet with the warmth of
her skin and the scent of her perfume lingering on the ribbon like
a fading memory.

At precisely five fifteen they marched out
with the westering sun in their faces and headed toward the river.
The bridge groaned and creaked under their weight and men threw up
and other men cursed as they trod in the vomit and the officers
barked commands and the dust rose up like the smoke from a giant
furnace. The road curved across the river and the advanced guard
saw a group of red-shirted canoneers lounging in the rocks drinking
coffee. Jack’s regiment caught them by surprise and took their side
arms and a ten man squad marched them as prisoners back toward the
river. Then the remainder of the regiment advanced through the foot
hills and climbed a steep bluff off to the east of the river. Union
soldiers were camped on an opposite bluff a mile away their cook
fires beckoning like beacons in the deepening twilight. Jack looked
back down the hill and saw the smoke from the town’s cook fires
suspended above the trees along the main thoroughfare. He thought
of Marie Hayes, but only briefly as the regiment was on the move
again with the intent of flanking the Union line.

Beyond the hills the woods were void of
foliage and the regiment climbed through the rocks and then turned
down the shoulder of a long hill back toward the river valley.
There were trees along both sides of the river and through the
thick clumps of mesquite Jack could see the Rio Grande running
clear and swift and shallow where rocks protruded like thick
fingers from the dark water. Striations of black and gray pebbles
lay spread out on the sandy bank like diamonds on a jeweler’s
cloth. Further downstream Jack saw deep pools swirling and eddying,
the water pitch black and mysterious under the obsidian sky. He saw
the arched bridge in the distance and once again thought about the
pretty blonde nurse and the Saint Christopher medallion nestled in
his breast pocket.

The road turned sharply upward again and the
regiment commenced to climb back toward the bluffs overlooking the
town. Jack could look down through the splintered trees and see far
below where the Big River bathed in moonlight separated the two
opposing camps. They moved along the rough road and followed the
crest of the ridge to the apex of the bluff. Ahead the road dropped
out of sight through the trees. There were Union troops on the road
and some canon drawn by horses and mules hauling carts of
ammunition and dried beans and sacks of corn flour along with
canvas bags filled with U.S. mail. On the other side of the bluff
were the broken houses and decimated sheep herds of the Mexican
peasants who had regrettably fallen prey to the invading Union
army.

Jack’s regiment attacked the Union convoy,
who fought hard, but were soon out gunned and the ones who weren’t
shot down surrendered under the color of a white flag. Their
captain was the talkative sort and readily announced the position
of the main Union force. “They’ll be all over your ass’s directly.”
he said. Jack’s captain had the Union captain gagged and assigned a
man to guard him with instructions to shoot promptly if the captain
made a move to escape.