Sweetsmoke (45 page)

    The
ground beneath his feet was Maryland. He stood on Federal soil. Maryland may
have remained slave, but the dirt of this ground, which he bent to collect in
his palm, was the North. He was not free, but he was closer to being free than
at any time in his life. As he let the dirt sift between his fingers, he was
surprised to find himself in giddy spirits.

    He
relocated the Drinking Gourd in the sky and walked toward the North Star. When
daylight arrived, he moved to the road's shoulder to watch the emerging foot
and wagon traffic. The road began to suffer supply wagons and the occasional
Union soldier on foot. He saw a surprising number of blacks manning the wagons,
and he imagined them to be contrabands working in support of Federal troops.
How easy it would be for him to throw in with them. He stepped out of his place
of hiding and entered the meager parade. He had grasped the tail of the army,
and now he and the other fleas gradually made their way to the body. The Union
soldiers were ragged, but not as ragged as James Purcell. He was aware that the
men around him stayed clear of him, leaving him a wide path, and he had that
old sensation of forced invisibility. He passed a limping soldier in baggy red
pantaloons with a red sash around his waist, an extensively embroidered short
blue jacket, and a red fez on his head. He might have thought the man a mental
defective or perhaps an actor, but he used his rifle as a crutch and his outfit
was filthy and worn in the way of the soldiers dressed in regular uniforms.
Cassius was careful not to laugh.

    The
day was hot, the road dusty, and travel was slow. He walked for quite some time
before he felt comfortable enough to enter a dazed private reverie, keeping up
with his shadow, watching it shift to his left, his right, then back to his
front as the road ambled and twisted. Someone fell in step with him. He
initially thought nothing of it until the presence did not stray. He looked to
see a well-muscled Union soldier keeping his pace. He looked at the man's
shadow and saw something long growing out of his head that was too thick to be
a feather. With a glance he saw it was a bucktail rakishly attached to his dark
blue kepi, sweeping back off the front band, waving on the bounce with every
step he took. He carried a different kind of rifle, not a traditional musket.
The soldier made a soft grunting sound that Cassius took to be a greeting, and
Cassius nodded, wishing the man away. They walked along like that for a half
mile.

    "Seem
like you got all the parts," said the man with the bucktail on his hat.

    What
parts? said Cassius.

    "Got
a head, two arms, two legs, same number of fingers."

    Got a
tail rolled up, hidden in my trousers, said Cassius.

    The
man with the bucktail on his hat suddenly laughed loudly enough that other men
on the road looked at him.

    "Got
a working brain, too," said the man with the bucktail on his hat.

    I'm
thinking you never met a black man before, said Cassius.

    "A
few contrabands, but they ain't much for conversation. Curious about 'em, you
hear a lot of things."

    Extra
heads, three arms, like that? said Cassius.

    "You
hear a lot of things," said the man again, emphatically.

    Cassius
remembered Purcell and his friendly ways, and the cautious geniality
forthcoming from this man put him on his guard. He looked at the man's feet and
was relieved to see he wore shoes.

    They
walked together a little farther.

    Cassius
wondered if he might get away from the man. He walked faster, but the man
matched his pace. He walked slower, and the man stayed with him but showed no
indication that he was aware of Cassius's intent.

    Finally
Cassius gave in, and said: Where you from that you don't see negroes?

    "Mountains
of Pennsylvania. Wildcat district, McKean County. We don't bring in outsiders
to do our work, we do it ourselves."

    What
sort of work?

    "Lumberjack."

    Something
growing out your hat, said Cassius.

    "Bucktail.
Regimental badge of honor. You don't know it?"

    I
don't.

    "Never
heard of us?"

    Never
did.

    The
man did not seem insulted, but he did appear surprised. "We're the first
rifles. Sharpshooters. Still nothing?"

    I
believe you.

    The
man looked at him with a tilt of the head, but this time his laughter was
softer and he continued walking alongside Cassius.

    "Might
I inquire from where you hail?"

    Virginia.

    "Virginia's
a large piece of property. Any particular place?"

    Tobacco
country.

    "Bring
any with you?"

    Did
not.

    "Field
hand?"

    No.

    "Something
else?"

    Yes.

    "That's
all I get, ain't it?"

    So
far.

    "Contraband?"

    Could
be.

    "You
remind me of my pappy. He don't much like questions, neither. Mind if I walk
with you a spell? I enjoy meeting new people."

    Not
like I got much choice.

    "Wife
says I can be a bore, so you tell me if I go on."

    You
think that a likely occurrence, that I'd tell you something like that? said
Cassius.

    "I'll
try to be mindful of it myself," said the man.

    The
man introduced himself as Hugh McLaren, and Cassius told him his name. A
limping soldier saw McLaren from a distance and hurried to catch him, putting
his weight on a walking stick he had fashioned from the trunk of a young tree.
When he reached McLaren, he saw Cassius and his face fell. He backed off a
step.

    "That
you, McLaren?" said the limping soldier, but his glowering eyes never left
Cassius's face.

    "Happy
to see you, Seymour," said McLaren.

    "Sure
that's you? 'Cause the McLaren I know wouldn't be walkin with the likes of
him," said the limping soldier, indicating Cassius with his thumb.

    "Well,
now, Seymour," said McLaren, but the limping soldier did not wait for
McLaren to finish his reply. He turned aside and shuffled in the other
direction.

    McLaren
glanced at Cassius but said nothing, while Cassius stared straight ahead. What
may have been a curiosity for McLaren, making idle conversation with a black
man, was something else for other Union soldiers. But Cassius was impressed
that McLaren continued to walk alongside him, all the way to the foot of Sugar
Loaf Mountain, and on up toward Buckeystown.

    Hugh
McLaren had been shot at a place called Second Bull Run. A bullet had hit his
thigh but missed the bone. In what he referred to as a miracle, the doctor had
not amputated his leg. He related a lengthy narrative concerning his wait in
the line for the sawbones, but the doctor had passed him by as a fresh group of
mangled and screaming soldiers were littered in. As his wait grew, McLaren
found his pain tolerable, so he dressed his wound, noting that the bullet had
made an exit hole; it had passed clean through. He didn't need to be bled, as
the wound itself had done that to his satisfaction. He dragged himself over to
the Bull Run Creek, not far from the doctor's tent, and bathed his wound and
then himself. The water no longer ran red by then. He camped there and washed
the wound twice a day and washed his bandages as well.

    After
a day or two he thought he saw improvement. He now took pains to avoid the
doctor, as the doctor had a wicked look in his eye and was a fair hand with a hacksaw.
When the doctor did see McLaren, he indicated that he intended to have the leg.
McLaren began to think it unnecessary to experience such a sudden drop in
weight, and since he was
attached
to his leg, he would go to great pains
to keep it joined to his hip at least until the next bullet. Weren't a large
crop of one-legged lumberjacks in the mountains of Pennsylvania.

    One
morning, he awoke with less pain so he tested the leg, standing without a
crutch. He took one step, then another. They weren't what you would call pretty
steps, he said, but he found he could walk without dragging his leg. The
extraordinary number of wounded had been housed in local homes and churches to
recuperate, and he used this time to help the nurses. It was pleasant to spend
time with the female gender. One afternoon he saw the sawbones heading his way
and he held his ground. The doctor told him that it had been his plan all along
to force him to hang on to his leg, and it was time for him to rejoin his unit.
That put him here, walking through Maryland, aiming to plant as many Johnny
Rebs as possible in the ground of his homeland and send the rest home.

    At
some point in McLaren's story, Cassius understood that Second Bull Run was the
same battle as the one called Second Manassas by Confederates.

    I saw
a man on the road, said Cassius. Unusual looking, wore red pantaloons and a
strange red hat, but he carried a musket.

    "One
of the Zouaves," said McLaren.

    Fighting
man? said Cassius.

    "Oh,
he's a fighting man, all right. Zouaves brought their uniforms when they
volunteered. Started with the French. Met one who'd been a firefighter in New
York, I think he said his whole unit was firefighters."

    So he
means to dress like that.

    "Yes,
that's intentional," said McLaren with a laugh.

    Never
saw a rifle like yours, said Cassius, indicating McLaren's weapon.

    "Barrel's
got grooves inside, makes the minie bullet go three, four times farther. More
accurate, too. Breech loader, so it loads faster, too."

    Sounds
like a benefit.

    "That
it is, lad, that it is."

    They
took time to scrounge for food. It was close to harvest time, and the state of
Maryland had much to offer, even after the main army had passed through. They
had little trouble finding fruit and vegetables. McLaren spoke to a farmer and
came back with bacon and flour.

    McLaren
led him off the road for the night, and when Cassius made to wander off to find
his own place, McLaren called him back and invited him to bed down near him. He
made a fire and they cooked the food they had scrounged, and one or two others
came off the road and joined them, casting an uncertain eye toward Cassius.

    One
fellow not much over the age of sixteen landed heavily on the ground near the
fire, his shiny extra gear clanging, his new boots kicking dust into the
flames.

    "Go
easy there, lad. May need that fire for your supper."

    "Say,"
said the sixteen-year-old, his eyes wide, "I seen hats like that
before!"

    McLaren
smiled.

    "You
a Bucktail is what you is. I ain't never seed a Bucktail before."

    "A
Bucktail is what I am."

    The
sixteen-year-old turned to the others around the fire, as if they hadn't
noticed McLaren's hat before that moment. "This here's a Bucktail. Wildcat
sharpshooters, they send these boys up to the front line when we're meetin the
Rebs. Say, Bucktail, do the Rebs really run when they see you comin?"

    "Been
known to happen," said McLaren.

    "Hell,
they's excellent marksmen, the Bucktails, best marksmen in the country, hell,
best in the damned world," the boy said to the others. One of them hid his
eyes behind his hand, cringing at the awe of this green recruit.

    "Looks
like a new uniform," said the man behind his hand.

    "Just
joined up," said the sixteen-year-old. He turned his attention back to
McLaren. "With you boys around, I'm thinkin the Rebs ain't got no chance
a'tall."

    "Well,
the Rebs may look like they fit every scarecrow in the South with a uniform,
but who knew scarecrows could fight so hard?"

    The
youth gulped. Cassius imagined that he hoped things would go easy on him, that
the worst fighting was over and the war would end and he wouldn't die.