I learned these things from Mink.
Anatilda and Mink had left for Minor in a jump-seat buggy the day before Chula and me, as Mrs. Barrett had spoken. Their plans were to follow the railroad tracks to DeSoto Point for the crossing. These plans flew away as soon as they arrived in Monroe. They learned that the road along the tracks was still wet from the floods and that travel by buggy along this route was impossible. They went to the stationmaster and, as expected, were told that passenger service did not exist. Here Anatilda pitched a fit and seeing a locomotive there demanded that it be stoked especially for her. She declared her privileged status, saying her father owned stock in the railroad. The officer in charge explained that the Yankees had burned some bridges to the east and they were awaiting timbers to mend the damage. Anatilda said that she would wait also and when the repair train left she would be on it. She was, too.
That evening her money found a room in the hotel filled with refugees. She sent Mink back to Iron Branch the next day with directions to fetch another slave to return the buggy to the plantation and special orders to retrieve her forgotten bonnet and parasol. She stayed in the hotel for nearly a week, fussing at anyone who would listen about her chances of catching the itch in this place and spending her time at a prominent table on the shaded veranda. When Mink got back he tended her, slept in the livery stable, and watched her practice baiting man-traps.
Finally enough timbers were gathered to fill two flatcars. These, a coach for the work crew and the new engine, John Ray, made up the train. Anatilda and Mink boarded along with three Confederate scouts. All of them left under a cloud of worry because many said that a train is easy to capture, and rumors put Yankees behind every tree.
The engineer was cautious, and the train crawled along. He hoped to see such dangers as a twisted rail or a tie on the track in time to stop. All the bridges were inspected before crossing. The train passed Lafourche Swamp and Boeuf River without incident. On the Macon Ridge a small bridge over a creek had been partly torn down. The workers started repairing it directly but did not finish before dark. The engineer considered going back to Monroe, but Anatilda’s impatient words convinced him to stay the night there.
By mid-morning of the next day the repairs were completed, and they traveled on to Delhi and bad news. They learned that Yankee cavalry had razed the Bayou Macon trestle to the waterline the week before and that it would take weeks to rebuild. The engineer was relieved to know that he could not approach any closer to the enemy. He ordered the timbers unloaded and took on water. Anatilda and Mink stood on the platform and watched as the train backed away toward Monroe. Mink said the engineer was too scared to blow the leave whistle.
The Rebel scouts stayed too, and someone told them of a handcar on the tracks beyond the wrecked bridge. Anatilda heard them arguing about continuing on. One of the boys said he had joined the army just to get a daily cup of coffee, and now that that was gone he damned sure did not want to leak because of a Yankee bullet hole if he ever got another cupful. He said he was not going and walked away. Anatilda jumped right in and told them that she was going. The other two scouts did not stand a chance against her, especially when she told them Mink would do most of the pumpin’.
They found the handcar and were soon underway. Anatilda sat upon her basswood steamer trunk with her parasol and sang time to Mink and one of the scouts as they leaned over the push handles. She declared herself captain of the ship and issued orders to all aboard. Mink said she behaved as if she were on a Sunday afternoon lark instead of a mission to rescue her mortally wounded husband.
In time they came to the trestle over the Tensas River and passed with some difficulty. Danger caught them at the next sharp curve. As they rolled along, the chief scout sat on the front of the handcar with his legs dangling between the rails when suddenly he leaped up like a jack-in-the-box. Another handcar came around the bend toward them closing hard. Brakes were set on both cars. Each party struggled to identify the other. The handcars coasted now, eyes strained, and the distance became smaller. The Confederates recognized the two Yankees at the same time and reached for their rifles. One of the scouts fired. The Yankees ducked and returned fire. The moving targets spared everyone. All was frantic then. A scout abandoned ship. The other three soldiers reloaded in a maddened frenzy. Anatilda screamed and dug in her trunk. Mink knelt and prayed. The Yankees took aim on the tempest. The final Rebel broke his ramrod in desperation, lost his nerve, and ran away too. Anatilda slammed the lid of her trunk in disgust at not finding a suitable flag of truce. The Yankees hesitated and stared in disbelief as the woman before them stood, pulled off her white silk drawers and waved them in surrender. The handcars coasted to a stop ten yards apart. To say that Anatilda and Mink were captured would not be true. After another brief, bloodless skirmish the Yankees were captives of her tongue, escorting them on to the Point.
Her efforts to cross the river were no more successful than mine. Like me she was told of a chance to cross the following morning. On this night I slept on the riverbank between brush piles ready to be fired by the Yankees if the Vicksburg garrison tried to escape to the west under cover of darkness. A half-mile away Anatilda shamed a quartermaster until he gave up his wagon.
The next morning was the fourth of July. I felt lucky because of the number and because of the strange night before. Boats passed on the river all night, but the cannons remained silent. Soldiers in the Yankee camp shot fireworks into the dark sky, and the general scene was one of much activity and anticipation. I slept poorly and, wet from the heavy dew, rose two hours before dawn to tend overdue spiritual matters.
Between my campsite and the Yankees’, a small country church surrounded by cotton fields sat back from the road. Two giant cedars leaning over the path to the front door held their shadows close in the darkness when I went in to pray. To me, a place such as this petitions silence as a term of entry, and I trod lightly on the wooden steps to muffle their creaks. The door was ajar. I stepped into the sanctuary, seeing only as Chula did, and knew at once that I was not alone. A loud rapping noise rising from the altar froze me in place and launched my prayers prematurely. Though lacking thoughtful preparation, my appeals suffered not for gravity. In answer, the rapping stopped. I stepped forward and submitted a “hello” with propped-up boldness to the blackness. The clatter returned but quit abruptly when I halted. I moved, the racket commenced—I stopped, silence again. A force from Heaven pushed me then, shoved my shoulder blades, drove my legs on to the altar and the now wildly drumming clamor. I felt the letters carved into the front of the table—This Do In Remembrance Of Me. Hairy paws clutched my breasts. I cried for holy mercy and fell to my knees. Encouraged by my moans, the beast licked my neck and face as his tail thrashed a cadence on the altar leg.
The grayness of first light spilled through the open door to divulge a redbone hound overjoyed with his new-found company. In spite of the fright, I regained my senses after a while. If the Lord looked down on me during my requests, He was treated with a mighty peculiar sight. He likely does not get many opportunities to see a half-Indian girl sitting in a deacon’s chair, scratchin’ the ears of a half-starved dog, and praying for all she’s worth. God’s lesson that morning was strong on faith.
The walk from the church to the Yankee camp was short. Such was the commotion that I could not find the corporal again. Six steamboats were at the landing loading men and provisions. As many more were on the far bank or mid-stream. A great effort was being made to cross the Yankee camp over to the fortress that was indeed surrendering.
Anatilda had a red dress and matching berege talma that she often wore to town or church. She did not let the season interfere with her fondness for this eye-catching suit. I saw the flash of the dress as she gestured to Mink from the middle deck of a boat taking on hogsheads of flour. She looked toward me, and I stepped quickly behind a wagon. The movement came without conscious thought as a rider who grabs for a dislodged cap. I did not budge while black men rolled barrels down the gangway and stood them on end where a soldier pointed. In time the walk was lifted, the bell rang, and the boat backed away for the crossing. Anger came over me then—not anger at Anatilda but at myself for letting her presence make me feel ashamed.
Not until the early afternoon did I manage to cross on a small steamer that served as a courier for Admiral Porter. Her kind captain yielded to my perjury with sympathy drawn from personal loss. He said that like me he hoped to rescue an injured brother but that his chances of getting to a place called Belle Isle were dim.
At that time I had never been to a town as big as Vicksburg. In an ordinary situation it would have seemed fascinating to me. How can I even begin to tell of the feel of this day?
The landing was bustling. Men and mules labored to haul freight up the long cut in the bluff to the city. I heard that it was mostly food for the Rebel soldiers who had been living on a biscuit a day. Dust of a peculiar type, finer than flour, lay shoe-mouth deep in the roads. It billowed like a heavy cloud with the least disturbance and was terrible in the heat. A new and splendid courthouse was the pride of the town. It stood upon the highest point and challenged gunboat sailors upstream and down. This great building became my target also as I knew of no better place to begin my search for Minor.
The streets above the landing were full of people, mostly Yankee soldiers going to and fro purposefully. Town people were standing on the plank sidewalks and sitting on front porches watching—watching to see where this turn of events would take them. If they were relieved that shells were no longer falling on their houses, it did not show on the faces of these women, children and old men. It was not possible to read the faces of young southern men because there were none in sight.
I was surprised that the buildings had not been leveled to the ground during the many days and nights of bombardment. A person ignorant of the circumstances and dropped into certain places of the town might for a while not even notice the evidence. During the siege repairs had been made quickly with whatever materials were available. A closer look would reveal fresh patches on the roofs, a porch post that did not match, and window panes broken to the very last one.
The courthouse was different. It was like the southern army now, ragged and beaten, robbed of hope and glory, with future unknown. My own hopes diminished as I stood looking up at the pocked sentinel.
To get a lay of the town I climbed the courthouse hill, weaving among craters, and sat in the shade of the building. The Old Glory flag was freshly raised atop the courthouse. It hung limp at an odd angle from a hoe-handle pole. When I looked at it, the song “Victory In Jesus” came into my mind. It was a crazy thought, but I could not shake the melody.
Hell probably looks like the hills east of the courthouse did on that afternoon. They were naked and yellow. Only a few trees with broken, scarecrow limbs were left. Green was not a color to be seen, and gray-clad men milled about on one distant ridge.
I did not see anyone close by who looked as though he might help me. Many large houses were north of the courthouse. I decided to walk south though, back toward the business establishments. When an old woman rounded a corner and was about to pass me by, I asked, “Mam, can you tell me where I might find the soldiers’ hospital?” These words, the first that I had spoken in the state of Mississippi, came out distressed and too fast. The old woman stopped and stared at me with heavy eyes. There was patience in her answer.
“Child, this town is full of hospitals and all of ‘em are soldiers’ hospitals. Them that ain’t in private homes are being nursed by the Sisters of Charity. Theirs are marked by yeller hospital flags. Go down here to Clay Street just at the corner.” She reached and grasped my arm for a moment before walking away.
The yellow flag hung from a sign on a three-floored building. Before the battle it was a books and stationary store—Brooks, Burnell and Company. A Yankee soldier boy stood on duty outside the open door and nodded politely to me as I went in. For a moment I could not see. When my eyes fixed to the darkness, I saw a row of beds down each brick wall leading into the shadows. The beds closest to the door were empty. The air was stifling and foul. A strong feeling came over me to run from this place. Only a real voice stopped me.
“May I help you?” A nun in brown habit came forward from the dimness. She was plump and spoke with an accent that I thought was French.
“I am looking for my brother who was wounded.” I have since decided that I cannot lie without sounding foolish. The nun stared at me.
Finally she asked, “Does your brother have a name and home?”
“Minor Barrett from Union Parish, Louisiana.”
“He is not here and has not been here,” she said as a matter of fact.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite. Only boys from Mississippi and a few from Alabama are sent here. It’s a rule from the queer owner of the building. Go to the warehouse. It is our largest hospital. You must hurry because tonight the Yankees will begin loading many of the patients aboard boats to New Orleans where medicine and doctors are plentiful.”
The warehouse was part way down the river bluff. It seemed a strange place for a hospital because it was exposed to the gunboats. Sister Chloe was in charge. She said the Yankees knew the purpose of this building and dropped their bombs beyond it in the town and trenches. She assured me that God’s will saw to this matter except that for some strange reason He did let one shell fall into their well and ruin it just last week to their great dismay. “Besides,” she said, “there is death enough here as it is.”
I knew Sister Chloe was French because she called me “cher” like Mrs. Barrett did. Her voice was pleasant in a peaceful way and calmed me as I am sure it did her patients. I thought she would have been a good grandmother.
“More than a hundred men lie here today,” she said. “Most suffer from debilitas, not injury. If your brother be amongst them he’ll be at the back with the wounded.”
“His name is Minor Barrett from Louisiana,” I told her.
“I do not remember names in this place. They lay on my soul.”
Still, she checked the dead list back to May and did not find Minor’s name.
This hospital was dark too. Most light came in one of the open wagon doors and through slits in warped battens on the walls. It was cooler this way, and besides, flies shy away from shadows.
Sister Chloe told me to go down the center aisle and begin my search just beyond a half bale of cotton that was used to dress wounds. I do not remember the walk, but I know that I did not look to the side for fear of what I might see.
At the bale I stopped and forced myself to look. Fifteen or twenty cots lined the walls from this point on to more wagon doors at the end of the warehouse. In these beds were my greatest hopes and darkest fears. I tried to look at them all at once without focusing. They held lumps, some of them not whole people lumps. The lumps jerked and coughed, or they were still. From a few beds eyes bored into me, but not those dark eyes that had stared into mine and exposed my heart on Bayou de l’Outre. These were desperate eyes and despairing eyes. I think they were eyes yearning mostly for the sight of their mothers.
Nothing is blacker than a crow’s wing and nothing shines brighter in a sunbeam—nothing but Minor’s hair. The light flowed through a crack in the wall and spilled onto the back of Minor’s head. Though he faced away from me, I recognized him at once.
“He sleeps much of the time.” Sister Chloe was standing behind me. Maybe I had been staring at him for a long time.
“I have come to take him home,” I said.
“It is best not to wake him now. I cannot release him until he signs the parole papers, and that will be tomorrow. Let him save his rest, cher.”
Sister Chloe left to tend a calling soldier. I knelt down beside Minor’s cot and studied him. His face was new to me because I had never seen him unshaven. His short black beard looked soft and I wanted to touch it, but I did not just yet. He wore a shirt that I recognized as one given to him by Mrs. Carter when he returned from school. Some short person’s gray wool trousers came half way up to his knees. He was barefoot, though his tall boots stood at the foot of the bed. I could not see an injury. There were no apparent ragged scars or pools of blood as I had beheld in my nightmares. He was pale, but he did not seem near death. To me he was beautiful.
I watched him until suddenly I became afraid—afraid that he would wake up and see me—and because I did not have words ready to speak, ready to tell him why I was at his bedside at this moment. There was nothing to do but hurry away in a near panic, but not before I leaned over and kissed his brow.
Sister Chloe stopped me at the front door and told me of Minor’s condition. Her records showed that he had been brought here on May 18th, after the battle at the Big Black River. She said that he had been shot in the hip, with the ball passing clean through and exiting near his groin. For a month they had thought he would die, but the gangrene did not come and he lived. He had begun walking only a few days before, and too many steps started the bleeding again. Sister Chloe told me to come back the next morning at 10 o’clock with transportation for him. As I left my finally found darling, the sun was setting fast over the Louisiana swamps.