Glory In The Name

Taylor took a last gulp of whiskey, refilled his glass and Tanner’s. “And?”

“And I was wrong. Once Bowater realized our barge was gone, he called for volunteers amongst the other barge crews to go after us. Happy to say they all volunteered. Then Bowater, he jest let the paddle wheeler drift downwind and current, reckoned he’d fetch up where we did. Damned stupid thing to do, but he didn’t know no better. Then he sees our gunfire. Drops anchor, backs the paddle wheeler down on the beach until the last of them barges is right in the surf. He had ’em tied together, see, to form sort of a bridge. All we had to do was climb over ’em.”

“So that’s how he saved your sorry ass?”

“Nope. Problem was, those Mex had us under fire. We tried to go back across the beach, they would have come out and slaughtered us. So after a while, Bowater figures this out. Next thing we know, here he comes, leadin the barge crews, with whatever weapons they got, climbin over them barges and into the surf, and right up to where we was hidin. The Mex is firin at us, and we firin at the Mex and some of those poor bastards is getting shot down. But we held ’em. All night, in the damned rain and the wind, we held ’em off.

“First light we starts movin toward the barges. We had half a dozen of the fellows was United States Marines, and they was the only ones knew how to cover a retreat, like. So they organized the thing, and we backed off down the beach, got on them barges, and all the while we can see the Mex gettin closer, firin the whole time, and we’s nearly out of ammunition.

“’Course, as cap’n of the steamer, Bowater’s duty is to get on board her, get her ready to get underway.”

“That what he done?”

“Nope. He wouldn’t get off that damned beach until all of us was. Stupid bastard, and I told him so, but he wouldn’t go. Me and him, we was the last ones off that beach. See here…” Tanner bent over, pulled up his right pant leg. The lantern light shone on the smooth, hard skin of a scar that wrapped itself halfway around his calf.

“That was a Mex bullet I took just as we was gettin in the barge. Warn’t nothin would kill me, but I sure as hell wouldn’t have got off that beach if Bowater wasn’t there to help. None of us would. He never asked for permission to do what he done, just done it.”

Taylor nodded. “Very impressive. It must have been a tearful reunion, you two, up there at Norfolk, all huggin and carryin on about old times. Be enough to make a body puke.”

Tanner shook his head. “Bowater don’t remember me, and that’s how I keep it. I seen him on and off, over the years. Then when I seen him in Norfolk, and fightin for the South, then I said, ‘Wherever that sumbitch is goin, that’s where I want to go.’ That’s when I finagled my way on board, here.”

“All right. So Bowater saved your flea-bitten hide oncet. That’s got nothin to do with me.”

“No, it don’t. All’s I’m sayin is this. You think Cap’n Bowater’s a fancy, upper-crust sumbitch, got a broomstick up his ass, and I ain’t saying he don’t. But the man’s got grit, you hear? Kinda grit it took to come get us off that beach, that ain’t somethin a man loses. It’s somethin you born with. You seen him go after the fleet back there at Hampton Roads, seen him march right through them shells at Fort Hatteras. You may not like him, but he’s a man deserves respect. That’s all I gots to say.”

Taylor was silent, chewed on his cigar. “All right. You done said it.”

Tanner picked up the whiskey bottle, examined it, drained the last vestiges of whiskey. “Good night, Chief,” he said.

“Good night.”

Tanner opened the galley door. The wind whipped in, made the hanging pots clang against each other like bells on a buoy. Then he stepped out, closed the door, and it was quiet again.

Taylor remained sitting, looking at the door. Tanner was a good man. He had respect for a man like Tanner.

Well, goddamn… he thought. This sure as hell complicates things.

32

…I care not what they say of me there so long as it is evident here that I am trying my best to get ready to strike the enemies of my country and of mankind. That I will hit them hard when ready, if possible, I promise you.

– Lieutenant Isaac N. Brown, C.S. Navy

For the second time in his life, Jonathan Paine woke up to find himself staring up at Bobby’s face. He shifted his eyes. The ceiling behind Bobby was not the ceiling of the sitting room at Miss Tompkins’s. Jonathan remained still, looked back at Bobby.

“Where am I?” he asked in a soft voice. He was afraid.

“You in de Mechanics’ Institute. You done fainted.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Not more’n five minutes.”

Jonathan nodded. Five minutes? It felt as if he had been unconscious for hours. He could feel the sweat on his forehead. He felt disconnected, as if he was viewing the world through field glasses. “I think the fever’s back,” he whispered.

“Sure enough. We gonna git you back to Miss Tompkins, jest as soon as we can.”

“I need to write. To my father…”

“Oh, you gots a father now? Lord, don’t the army provide a power o’ things! This mornin you didn’t have no father at all.”

There was a bustle in the room and Jonathan opened his eyes and two men laid a litter on the floor beside him. They picked him up, feet and shoulders, and shifted him onto the litter and lifted him up. His head spun around. His breath was coming shallow and fast. They carried him out of the War Department building, laid him on the back of the buckboard at Bobby’s instruction.

The fever took hold on the jostling, bumping, agonizing ride back, and it did not relinquish its grip for two more days. And when Jonathan finally kicked his way up from the delirium and the sweats and the nightmare images, Bobby was there, and once again the black man was the only real thing in his world.

The fever broke at last, and Bobby helped him sit up in bed and he said, “Missuh Jon’tin, you wants to write to you daddy?”

Jonathan nodded.

He wanted to write. He had to. He had no remaining brother. He was it, the last of the Paine boys, and his parents would have no idea what had happened there at the Bull Run River. He had to tell them, in his own way. It was no longer a matter of wanting to go home. He had to. Now.

Bobby went away, returned with paper and pen and the Bible on which to write.

Dear Mother and Father,

When I wrote before, I was not aware of the tragic death of Robley Junior at the Battle of Manassas. As you grieve for the loss of your sons, so I too grieve for the loss of my brothers.

My last letter, written from this place, must have been something of a mystery to you. I will not relate the particulars here of the great sacrifice that Nathaniel and Robley Junior made on the field of battle, but rather will tell you all that I know when we are once again together. I am at Miss Sally Tompkins’s on Main St. in Richmond, Virginia. I am wounded with the loss of a leg but have recovered, and long for nothing more than to return home. If you will have me, I beg you send some money to this place, enough for me to pay my passage home. Until then, I will dream every day of being reunited with you, my loving parents, and will remain

Your obedient, humble son,

Jonathan

Jonathan folded the latter, sealed and addressed it, handed it to Bobby.

“I don’ know what you wrote, Missuh Jon’tin, but it sure seems to a done you a power a good!”