At the school, Mrs. Czorna cried, and the seventeen black waifs hopped and danced around Scipio, admiring the magnificence of his uniform: every button bright, no speck or wrinkle anywhere. He told Mrs. Czorna and her husband that the Christian Commission in Washington would continue to gather strays and route them to Lehigh Station from the temporary shelter in the Northern Liberties.
"It will not be the same," Mrs. Czorna wept. "Oh, never the same, you dear man." She hid her tear-streaked face on her husband's shoulder. She's right, Brett thought with mingled sorrow and pride.
Scipio Brown bid the children good-bye one at a time, leaving each with a hug and kiss. Too quickly, Brett found herself accompanying him down the hill again. Hazard's billowed its smoke into the October sky, dimming the autumn sun. Windblown laurel seethed on both sides of the path. Brown checked his pocket watch.
"Half past five already. I must hurry."
On Belvedere's veranda, she stood with one hand grasping a carved pillar — something she found necessary to steady herself. The western light blazed in her eyes, making it hard to see him. She feared the pitiless light and what it might reveal.
Brown cleared his throat. "I don't know how to begin this good-bye. You have been such a great help to me —"
"Willingly. I don't need thanks. I've loved every one of those children."
"When you feel just as much love for an adult of their color, you'll have made the whole journey. But you've come a long way already. An incredible distance. You are — " there was an uncharacteristic hesitation "— you're a wonderful woman. I can understand why your husband is proud."
His black silhouette loomed against the softly lit mountains across the river. Without conscious thought, Brett reached out to touch him. "You must take good care of yourself. Write to us —"
He stepped away from the hand on his sleeve. Only then did Brett realize what she had done.
"Of course I will, as time permits." He sounded stiff and punctilious suddenly. "I must go, or I'll miss the train."
He untied the hired horse, mounted gracefully, and cantered down the road toward where it curved between the nearest houses. Light from the west glared above their roof lines; everything below was shadow. She lost the mounted figure in that mass of dark blue and stood with a hand shielding her eyes, trying to find it, for several minutes.
Belatedly, she understood why she had touched him. She had been overcome with emotion: intense sorrow, affection — most stunningly of all, intense attraction. Although she couldn't quite believe it, neither could she deny her memory. For the tiniest moment, lonely and inwardly empty because of Billy's long absence, she had been linked by longing to the tall soldier making his farewell.
And it had not made a whit of difference in that moment that Scipio Brown was a Negro.
By now the emotion had passed. The recollection never would. She had been unfaithful to Billy, and though the infidelity had been silent and brief, her sense of morality generated shame. But it had nothing to do with Brown's color. He was worthy of any woman's love.
Down by the canal, a whistle blew its long, lonely plaint. His train. She wiped tears from her eyes, remembering something he said.
When you feel just as much love for an adult of their color, you'll have made the whole journey.
"Oh," she whispered, and turned and ran into the house. "Madeline? Madeline!" She dashed from room to room till she found her, seated with a book of poems. As Madeline stood up, Brett flung her arms around her, starting to cry.
"Here, what's all this?" Madeline began, her smile tentative, wary.
"Madeline, I'm sorry. Forgive me."
"Forgive you for what? You've done nothing wrong."
"I have. Yes, I have. Forgive me."
The crying continued, and Madeline patted the younger woman to comfort her. At first she felt awkward, then less so. She held her kinswoman close for some length of time, knowing Brett needed absolution, even if she didn't know exactly why.
116
Shelling had partially destroyed the redoubt, forcing the Eleventh Massachusetts Battery to abandon it. For the second moonless night in a row, Billy led a repair and revetting party to the site, working at frantic speed so the redoubt could again be occupied.
It was October, hot for so late in the year. Billy worked without a shirt, his braces hanging down over the hips of sweat-soaked trousers. The wound in his calf had healed cleanly and no longer impaired movement. The bullet's point of entry sometimes ached late in the night, but that was the worst of it.
Billy's laborers were the men of a colored infantry platoon, the same kind of work force he had supervised frequently in the past weeks. The platoon lieutenant and a corporal stationed themselves on a restored section of the parapet to keep watch, a customary procedure.
Not that much was visible. Billy could barely discern the abatis line in front of the redoubt and could see nothing at all of the rebel works, which here ran parallel to those of the Union, with only a couple of hundred yards separating them. Occasionally a match flared on the other side, or someone spoke. The Yankee and rebel pickets talked to one another a lot. They had lately worked out a protocol that helped each side. Neither would open fire unless an advance was about to start. Advances were infrequent, so for much of the time the pickets — and crews like Billy's — were spared anxiety about stray bullets. Unless, of course, they were fired by some hothead, always a possibility — as was a sudden rain of larger projectiles. Soldiers on the front were seldom warned of an artillery bombardment.
The Negro in direct charge of Billy's men was a heavy, placid-looking sergeant. Named Sebastian, he had skin as light as coffee with milk in it, a huge hooked nose, and slightly slanted eyes that didn't fit with the rest of his features. He drove himself hard and expected similiar effort from the rest of the platoon. As he and Billy sweated to raise heavy half-timbers into place, Billy grew curious about him.
After another was set in position, both stepped back. Bits of dirt stuck to Billy's wet skin. He judged the time to be two or three in the morning. He was so tired he wanted to fall down on the spot. He took several deep breaths, then asked, "Where are you from, Sergeant Sebastian?"
"Now or a long time ago?"
"Whichever you want."
"I live in Albany, New York, but way back, my granddaddy ran away from a South Carolina farm where he was the only slave. Granddaddy was what they call a brass ankle. Little bit of white, little bit of black, little bit of Yamasee red all mixed together."
"You mean red as in Indian?" It helped explain the contrasting features.
"Uh-huh. Granddaddy's name was the same as mine. He —"
A scarlet burst in the sky over Petersburg curtailed the conversation. Out by the abatis line, the pickets cursed the sound of the shell whining in. Billy shouted a superfluous command for the men to fall to the ground. Most were already down when he landed on his chest, seconds before the shell made a direct hit on the half-restored parapet.
Billy covered the back of his head with both arms. In the downpour of dirt and splintered wood, he heard someone yell, "Sergeant Sebastian? Lieutenant Buck's hurt or kilt."
Buck was the platoon officer on lookout. Sebastian wasted no time, scrambling up as other guns opened fire in the distant batteries. "I'm going out to get him."
"But it isn't safe while the bombardment —"
"Hell with what's safe. You heard Larkin. Buck's hurt or killed."