But that day was not propitious, and yet Colonel Barrett ordered us to ready ourselves and proceed against the gray traitors, which meant eight companies of our United States Colored Troops, which is what we became when the Army federalized our Missouri brigade, would head with the white 2nd Texas Cavalry Battalion under the command of Lt. Colonel Branson through Boca Chica Pass to engage the enemy, driving them back to Brownsville and capturing any we could along the way. All day we prepared for the evening march, though it was already clear that four dozen of the white men would have to proceed horseless, but both Anderson and Bergamire circulated among all the companies to say that as soon as we overtook the insurrectionists we were to requisition as many of their mounts as we could. Between readying and packing equipment I sat and composed brief letters, which Anderson wrote out in his steady hand, to Johnny O., who was with a regiment still stationed in Tennessee, and to Bessie Amelia, who was raising money for the troops all across Minnesota and Wisconsin, and to Louisa, who loved hearing about nothing more than the tedium of my daily military life. A fine rain began falling in the late morning, and I pointed this out to Anderson, who thought it might let up, but by the time we had reached the pass, the downpour had thickened into batteries of water, and the sky cracked open with thunder and foreboding light. Our progress was glacial through the high, wet grass, which now hid all its secrets, giving off strange waterlogged sounds and odors, the cattails fizzling like flares, the figwort emitting their noxsome fragrance, the nightshade extending its mortal embrace, but we followed the curves of the river throughout the night and caught a brigade of the Confederates unawares. The Texans took three of the traitors prisoner, and sent some of our men to husband the supplies from their bivouac, though Anderson had me help set up camp for the night and read the surroundings for any clues about the following day.
I woke that morning and studied the omens, which were ill but not fully open to interpretation, so I kept them to myself. By midday we were creeping on our hands and knees like turtles across green expanse at the base of Palmito Hill when a fusillade, followed by a brigade of Confederates, engaged us. I usually kept to the rear as I was ordered to, but Anderson urged several of us to crawl out to the far edge of the field, near the river, where there was a stand of Montezuma cypresses, which I did and when I rounded them flat on my stomach, creeping forward like a panther I saw it, that face I could have identified if blind in both eyes, him, in profile, the agate eyes in a squint, that sandy ring of beard collaring the gaunt cheeks, the soiled gray jacket half open and hanging around the sun-reddened throat, him crouching reloading his gun, quickly glancing up and around him so as not to miss anything. I glanced behind to see if Anderson was nearby, but he and most of the rest were proceeding to the north of me, along the open field of battle, a blue line undulating forward in the high grass, their mismatched uniforms behind the white men in their blue undulating like waves on the one side and the gray of the insurrectionists on the other, the gunfire crackling like the announcement of the end of something terrible, and I looked up and he still had not seen me, this face he could have drawn in his sleep, these eyes that had watched his and watched over his, this elder who had been like a brother, a keeper, a second father as he wondered why this child was taking him deeper and deeper into the heart of the terror, why south instead of straight east to liberation, credit his and my youth or ignorance or inexperience, for which I forgive him and myself but I came so close to ending up in a far worse place than I ever was, and I heard Anderson or someone call out in the distance, and raised my gun, bringing it to my eye, the target his hands which were moving quickly with his own gun propped against his shoulder, over his heart, and I steadied the barrel, my finger on the trigger, which is when our gazes finally met, I am going to tell the reporter, and then we can discuss that whole story of the trip down the river with that boy, his gun aimed at me now, other faces behind his now, all of them assuming the contours, the lean, determined hardness of his face, that face, there were a hundred of that face, those faces, burnt, determined, hard and thinking only of their own disappearing universe, not ours, which was when the cry broke across the rippling grass, and the gun, the guns, went off.
PERSONS AND PLACES
Editor's note: "Persons and Places" appeared in the print edition of this book as two columns, side by side. Due to technical limitations, the story appears here as one single column.
Cambridge Journaclass="underline" October __, 1890
Of what did this chilly afternoon consist? After lunch with Morgan in Mem. Hall, work and a swift visit to 20 Flagg, I took a round-about way from the Gymnasium for my breather. Past the Square terminus, dodging the chattering crowds and dust and clattering hooves that transform Cambridge at times into something of a mini-metropolis.
I was feeling rather out of sorts, for I once again had to put off Mrs. T[aylor] with a promise to pay in a fortnight and a smile. Throughout the meal I sat and ate, only moderately aware of my companion, Morgan. His jovial self as always, was he recounting to me last Saturday’s Hill festivities and his impressions of some new young Ladies on visit from Philadelphia, or did I only imagine hearing him say this? In truth I was concentrating on my questions for the coming meeting of the Philosophical Club, where Santayana, that new graduate student and my likely tutor, is set to speak on “Spinoza and the Ethical Sensibility.”
Indeed, as I was passing down Mount Auburn Street, I spotted his black-clad figure floating by. Ghostly, yet swarthy, an Iberian by birth, though perhaps not in temperament, something dangerous and daring in those black eyes. Our gazes met, glancingly. As he has been wont to do whenever we have seen each other, he abruptly turned away, striding faster than before he had caught sight of me. I continued on toward the river, where I thought I might walk for a while and observe the currents slowly pulling whatever traffic still lingered toward the Institute.
Why does he glower so? Is it fear, for certainly he has seen a Negro before, or can it be an acknowledgement of how deeply we are linked? Or does he, like nearly all the rest of them, not really see me at all? Of course there will be scant possibility of a friendship. Be he a Latin or the Statue of Liberty; for even Professor [Wm.] James, in all his eccentric allegiance, admits, when we are at the same table, of those unshakable walls that separate us. Still I know that at some point soon I shall have opportunity to probe his mind, share my inquiries—he and I alone, in an upper room—and he will come to appreciate our common humanity.
For fifteen minutes thus I stood, gathering impressions in the chill, until true cold settled in. Then I hurried back, darting between carriages and odd fellows, almost missing the news stand. I could only glimpse the evening headlines — a human bullet runs the 100 yard dash in under 10 seconds; the Abyssinian War continues; another lynching — making swift mental notes on all issues pertaining to my people, even though the various other national and international events of the past few weeks have not yet had a moment to sediment….