He had not returned to Paine Plantation to retrieve the mail, had not gone back to that place at all. He did not think he could bear it. He had steamed past, on his way to Yazoo City, looked at the hideous gargoyle he had made of the old oak, wondered what he had been thinking. Had he thought that was enough? Painting a tree? He did not understand then, as he did now, the sacrifice that needed to be made.
“I’ve got a letter for you, Mr. Paine,” the postmaster said. It took a moment for the words to register. A letter? Paine had been coming in every other day for a month and a half, and nothing had arrived for him. He had come to expect that, and the postmaster’s words caught him by surprise.
The postmaster held the letter out and Robley took it, stepped away, staring at the envelope. It was addressed to Captain Robley Paine, Yazoo City. In the upper left hand corner, preprinted, it read “Department of the Navy, Richmond, Virginia, Confederate States of America.”
For a long moment Robley just stared until his hands were trembling too much for him to read the return address any longer. He tore at the envelope, dropped it, retrieved it, tore it open. He pulled the letter out and unfolded it.
Dear Captain Paine:
I beg you to forgive my long delay in replying to yours of January 16th, but I am certain you can appreciate that matters of the service have me much diverted and in many different directions.
Your offer of the ironclad gunboat Yazoo River is a generous and patriotic one, and much in keeping with the grand spirit of the South and the magnanimous spirit of her people. It is a particularly timely offer, as it has become clear to me, by recent events, particularly those on the Tennessee River, that ironclad gunboats will be the deciding factor to winning the war on the Western Rivers, which, in turn, will be integral to winning the war overall.
On behalf of the Confederate States Navy I enthusiastically accept your offer to make the Yazoo River a commissioned vessel of the Confederate States Navy, and your offer to act as her pilot, as our experience has shown that skilled pilots are very difficult to come by.
As to the manning of the Yazoo River, I am currently reviewing the names and qualifications of those men currently available, but I am in no doubt that the kind of men you seek will be found and transferred to the Yazoo River as expediently as possible.
Once again, allow me to commend you on your patriotism and selflessness as displayed by this act. I remain,
Your humble and obedient servant,
S. R. Mallory
Secretary of the Navy, Richmond
Robley read the letter, fast. He was breathing shallowly. He forced himself to breathe normally, read it again, then read it again. Thoughts crowded his head, fought for attention, the emotions swirled like smoke.
Confederate States Naval Vessel Yazoo River …The words sounded like music in his head. At last, at last…
Then the darker thoughts clawed their way up. He had exaggerated some in his description of the vessel. He had called her an ironclad. And if he had his way, so she would be. He had written, sent orders, money, to iron foundries throughout the South, had written follow-up letters, had his attorneys write follow-up letters. So far, nothing. Not a scrap of iron had arrived. The Yazoo River was still a cotton-clad.
He had overstated his own qualifications as well. Mallory called him “Captain.” Naturally, the Secretary would assume an experienced river pilot would merit that title. Not a big problem—he could get around that one. Take a real pilot at gunpoint if he had to, so long as he was aboard when the CSS Yazoo River got underway.
He read the letter again. He had to get back to his office in the Yazoo River ’s wheelhouse. He had to write follow-up letters, find out where his gunboat iron was.
Jonathan Paine pushed open the back door of Miss Sally Tompkins’s house, clomped down the back steps. He held a big basket crammed full of filthy sheets and bloody bandages. The wind plucked at the red-and-white strips, pulled them out, set them flapping like banners. Jonathan turned a shoulder into the wind, hurried across the yard, along the path worn down to dirt and fringed with brown grass.
Bobby stood at a cauldron hanging from a tripod over a blazing fire. He agitated the contents with a big stick, like one of Shakespeare’s witches.
Othello plays in Macbeth, Paine thought, and the thought made him smile. He stepped quickly across the yard. He was moving well with his prosthetic leg now, walking more like a man with a hurt leg than a man with no leg at all. The limp reminded him of his father. Of the three boys, he had always favored his father’s looks the most. Now the effect was even greater.
He moved within the radius of the fire, caught what warmth he could. He and Bobby dumped the bloody bandages into the water and Bobby began stirring again.
For some time they just stood, enjoyed the warmth of the fire and the fresh air outside the stuffiness of the hospital, and said nothing. They were perfectly comfortable in one another’s company, could enjoy silent companionship. Jonathan wondered if this could have happened anyplace outside a hospital, where his wound and Bobby’s nursing had put black man and white on something like even ground.
“Been two months now,” Bobby said at last, never taking his eyes from the boiling water. A few itinerant flakes of snow began to whip around the yard.
“Month and a half. Since the last one.”
They were talking about letters home. Jonathan had written three, had been waiting for a reply. When he was healed enough that he could no longer stay on at the hospital as a patient, he stayed on as a helper, assisting Bobby in changing dressings, washing bandages, wrapping the dead. Not so many wounded now, mostly dysentery, ague, camp fever. What wounds there were were more often from accidents than the enemy. He nursed and he waited. He heard no word from his father.
“That like you daddy?” Bobby asked, looking up at last. “He the kind would jest not write?”
Jonathan shook his head. “No. No, that is not like him at all.”
Bobby nodded and stirred.
“Could be the mail isn’t getting through,” Jonathan said. “I can’t imagine things are running too well, as far as mail.”
“Could be. ’Course, ya sent three letters.”
Jonathan nodded. He did not believe that all three letters had failed to arrive. He could not imagine why his father had not written back.
“I have to go back,” Jonathan said at last. “I can’t wait to hear. I just have to go.”
He had not said that out loud before, because it frightened him. His world was closed down to Miss Tompkins’s hospital. The one time he left it had nearly killed him—he had been another two weeks in bed. Now the very thought of crossing the line of the white picket fence was terrifying.
He had never said it out loud, because doing so was like an announcement, a commitment, and he had not been ready.
Bobby nodded his head, and they were silent for a moment. “Yassuh. You gots ta go. An if ya likes, well, I’ll go wid ya.”
Jonathan smiled. “That’s right kind of you, Bobby. But it ain’t like you can just up and leave.”
“Why can’t I?”
“Well…well, hell, Bobby, you belong to Miss Tompkins, for starters.”
“No I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“No suh. I’s a free man.”
“You are? How come you never told me?”
“How come you jest reckoned I’s a slave?”
Jonathan smiled, shook his head. He had just assumed. He did not know why.