with a smile of feigned flippancy. “But even if they have made it through the censor, I very much doubt I shall receive any kind of response before my funeral. My advice to you, Lourdes, is to be careful, do your work, keep as clean as you can. Infection will lay you low here as swiftly as any sentry’s bullet.”
There was a sound of excitement outside, and Barclay turned his head in distraction.
“You ought to be going,” Bruegel said. “The ration wagon’s here.”
“Can I help you?” Barclay asked.
“Oh, no; someone will bring me mine. Or rather his. Since I can’t report for roll call, I am not issued rations. The colored men, they rotate the burden. Every day a different man gives up his daily bread for me. They’ve been very kindly.”
“You can add me to that rotation, sir,” Barclay told him.
“That’s not necessary,” Bruegel said. “But thank you. Isn’t there anything I can do for you?”
“There is one thing I’d like to ask, sir,” Barclay said. “Where might a man get a hold of some pencils and paper? For correspondence.”
“You want to write home?” Bruegel asked.
“Yes, sir. To tell my kin I’m all right.”
“Where’s home for you, Lourdes?”
Barclay took a breath. He found himself speaking low, as if the truth might be turned up and shot in this place. But he simply could not bring himself to lie to the dying man.
“New Orleans.”
Bruegel closed his eyes.
“Tell me about your home and your family.”
Barclay cleared his throat.
“Well, sir, my mother, she used to throw these grand soirees, her and my sister.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” he asked, his eyes still closed.
“Euchariste.”
Bruegel smiled and nodded to himself.
“That’s a cracking good name. Lovely. Go on.”
“My father and I were not much for parties. We used every excuse to get away. I can remember walking in the dark with my father, smelling his pipe smoke and watching the women in their big gowns on the veranda or twirling with the men in their suits through big bay windows. The crickets were louder than the orchestra, and the people seemed to sway to the music of insects until the evening wore on and they shook to the
calinda
and the beat of the drums.”
Barclay smiled, having become lost in the memory.
“I didn’t take you for a slave, Lourdes,” Bruegel said, opening his eyes. “Nor for a New England man, either. You’ve got an air of blue blood in you. It’s uncommon.”
Barclay swallowed. Clemis had seen that, too. He’d better rein it in.
“What about you, Major?”
“We make quite a pair,” Bruegel said, chuckling. “My father’s people were mostly poor Nickajack farmers. He was a trader, but once the tonic formula took off, he bettered himself by marriage.”
“He sounds like my own father,” said Barclay. “He was a runaway. My mother would scold him for going around the yard barefoot.”
“Confidentially, Lourdes,” Bruegel said, “my enlistment in the Union was not well received. My brother is in the 4th Tennessee Cavalry, and my in-laws veritably pepper the Confederacy. You may imagine, news that I took command of colored soldiers only exacerbated our estrangement. I’ve not had a letter from my wife in over a year.”
Barclay bit his lip. Why was he so open with this man? Maybe because he spoke to him as an equal, such a rarity in a white man. Or perhaps the confidentiality of a dying man need not be depended on. It all came spilling out, free of affect, of guile, of caution.
“I had a friend,” he said. “A white man but as close to a brother as I’ve ever had. He very nearly was my brother. Was engaged to my sister. You have to understand. I was a southerner. That was my home. My people were
gens du couleur libres
. Except for my father, we had never been slaves. We had no great love of abolitionism. We knew only that we were occupied, that the Union threatened our property, our land. I enlisted in the Louisiana Home Guard.
There was a sound of excitement outside, and Barclay turned his head in distraction.
“You ought to be going,” Bruegel said. “The ration wagon’s here.”
“Can I help you?” Barclay asked.
“Oh, no; someone will bring me mine. Or rather his. Since I can’t report for roll call, I am not issued rations. The colored men, they rotate the burden. Every day a different man gives up his daily bread for me. They’ve been very kindly.”
“You can add me to that rotation, sir,” Barclay told him.
“That’s not necessary,” Bruegel said. “But thank you. Isn’t there anything I can do for you?”
“There is one thing I’d like to ask, sir,” Barclay said. “Where might a man get a hold of some pencils and paper? For correspondence.”
“You want to write home?” Bruegel asked.
“Yes, sir. To tell my kin I’m all right.”
“Where’s home for you, Lourdes?”
Barclay took a breath. He found himself speaking low, as if the truth might be turned up and shot in this place. But he simply could not bring himself to lie to the dying man.
“New Orleans.”
Bruegel closed his eyes.
“Tell me about your home and your family.”
Barclay cleared his throat.
“Well, sir, my mother, she used to throw these grand soirees, her and my sister.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” he asked, his eyes still closed.
“Euchariste.”
Bruegel smiled and nodded to himself.
“That’s a cracking good name. Lovely. Go on.”
“My father and I were not much for parties. We used every excuse to get away. I can remember walking in the dark with my father, smelling his pipe smoke and watching the women in their big gowns on the veranda or twirling with the men in their suits through big bay windows. The crickets were louder than the orchestra, and the people seemed to sway to the music of insects until the evening wore on and they shook to the
calinda
and the beat of the drums.”
Barclay smiled, having become lost in the memory.
“I didn’t take you for a slave, Lourdes,” Bruegel said, opening his eyes. “Nor for a New England man, either. You’ve got an air of blue blood in you. It’s uncommon.”
Barclay swallowed. Clemis had seen that, too. He’d better rein it in.
“What about you, Major?”
“We make quite a pair,” Bruegel said, chuckling. “My father’s people were mostly poor Nickajack farmers. He was a trader, but once the tonic formula took off, he bettered himself by marriage.”
“He sounds like my own father,” said Barclay. “He was a runaway. My mother would scold him for going around the yard barefoot.”
“Confidentially, Lourdes,” Bruegel said, “my enlistment in the Union was not well received. My brother is in the 4th Tennessee Cavalry, and my in-laws veritably pepper the Confederacy. You may imagine, news that I took command of colored soldiers only exacerbated our estrangement. I’ve not had a letter from my wife in over a year.”
Barclay bit his lip. Why was he so open with this man? Maybe because he spoke to him as an equal, such a rarity in a white man. Or perhaps the confidentiality of a dying man need not be depended on. It all came spilling out, free of affect, of guile, of caution.
“I had a friend,” he said. “A white man but as close to a brother as I’ve ever had. He very nearly was my brother. Was engaged to my sister. You have to understand. I was a southerner. That was my home. My people were
gens du couleur libres
. Except for my father, we had never been slaves. We had no great love of abolitionism. We knew only that we were occupied, that the Union threatened our property, our land. I enlisted in the Louisiana Home Guard.
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