Colonel Draper had come into camp during the night and sent orders first thing the next morning for me to report to the regimental headquarters, at the home of a local Unionist, William Pool, down on Water Street. I knew the name Pool from hearing it spoken around the Etheridge House but could not recollect having ever seen the man, out there on the Banks or during a foray into Elizabeth City with John B. Although he was a Unionist, I knew Pool to own many slaves.
Fields had relayed the orders to me, and he lingered about the room as I dressed. “If you want,” he said, “I can get down to the wharf and find a transport headed for Roanoke, to carry your letter.”
I’d planned to rise early to write Sarah. Clearly, now it would have to wait. But I didn’t want to disappoint Fields.
“I’ll get it off as soon as I’ve finished with the colonel.” To deflect from my tarrying, I added: “I expect the three stripes on my sleeves will put a peck more express in its delivery than your two.”
He nodded but looked neither humored nor much contented.
The Pool residence put the Etheridge House to shame, boasting four imposing pillars out front and standing three stories tall. Lieutenant Backuss was already present when I arrived, gazing out a large bay window facing the water. The general, the colonel, and the general’s brother leaned over a heap of maps on a desk, surrounded by Lieutenant Colonel Holman, Major Wright, and a few other officers. Only Backuss noted my entrance.
Seeing him there, coldly following me with his eyes, I wondered if he’d reported my conduct outside South Mills—misconduct, according to him—when I’d disrupted our picket line to go after Miles Hews’s people. Had I been summoned here for some sort of summary punishment?
“Sir,” said I, broadly, toward all, so as to be noticed.
“Etheridge, good,” said Draper, looking up, then back down, searching for something among the papers afore him. His whiskers had got considerable in the few days since last I’d seen him and his eyes looked rest-broken. When he found what he sought, he pushed a stack of envelopes in my direction. “See that these are delivered. As to their billets, I’ve cited those I know. The rest you’ll have to make out on your own. Be sure to record them, though, for the regimental record.”
“Yes, sir,” said I, retrieving the stack.
Backuss’s rigid posture did not release one whit. I awaited more from Draper, but he only added, “And with dispatch. This is pressing.”
“Yes, sir,” said I.
General Wild never even looked up. I headed out the door.
As Draper had forewarned, more envelopes than not had been left unaddressed. I noticed, flipping through them, that there was one for each of our company commanders. Tracking down their billets would be easy enough, by simple inquiry along my way. It was a Saturday, market day. While the city was nearly empty of business activity, its streets hummed with colored troopers and run-off slaves, families entire. There was joy all about, save among the few tight-lipped and jumpy-eyed whites out on the streets, who moved from A to B with distinct purpose and notable haste.
Delivering the letters took the better part of the morning. As I made my way through the various quarters of the city, I found that other companies had not displayed half so much fair-mindedness in their choices of billets as F had. The Fearing Plantation Guestrooms, a stately colonnaded establishment that was highly regarded throughout northeast North Carolina, had had the foresight to dispose of the Confederate States flag that was known to hang over its great front doors, but not time enough for much else that might have given the impression of loyalty to the Union. Sergeant Jeremiah Gray, who commanded D as its three officers were infirm and in the Moses wagons, ordered the lodgers run off, then freed the few slaves remaining and claimed the “plantation”—and the adjoining domiciles as well, by dint of their proximity.
Captain Frye, who’d ordered butchered all those yard fowl outside of South Mills, had apparently been more diplomatic in his acquisition of quarters. His company, B, commandeered the side-by-side mansions of a man by the name of Creecy. Creecy claimed neutrality of allegiance, but spitefully so. Frye allowed Creecy and his kin to retire to their farm, some four or five miles below Elizabeth City, along with an older house slave called Ellen, who, I was told, objected to her confiscation. I suspected that Frye would seek permission to pay them a visit in short order, though, to liberate Ellen, whether she wanted freedom or not, and whatever others might be out there. It was a military issue. Slaves left to Creecy might just as well be considered in the service of the Rebel forces directly.
I noticed Livian Adams on the far side of the Creecy mansion and made my way over. He was directing a group of men taking down a gazebo that blocked the possibility of drilling in the broad and deep yard. When he saw me, he offered his troopers a break. We shook hands and exchanged the customary familiarities, then I said, “So you come up with Revere, did you?”
“I did. On the farm adjoining.”
“And his people,” said I, not quite knowing how to ask the thing I was after, “his ma’am and his paps. Were they about, too, or sold elsewhere?”
“His mama lived on the farm. Likewise his papa, given that it was his Mass.”
Which was exactly as I had supposed! I knew not how I’d divined it, but I just knew, and not merely by dint of our similar complexions. His insistence on making of me a sort of rival, the barbed comments—these seemed the product of something that maybe struck too close to home.
“Well, a ‘papa,’ if you will, as those things go,” Adams continued. “I expect some Masses take on colored gals because of feelings for them, attraction and such, or because of whatever be happening, or not, in the Mass’s bedchamber. Not so Jonas Peters. He aimed to increase his slave stock, and this alone. That whole goddamned farm be peopled of Peters’s mongrel weanlings—”
He stopped short then and dropped his eyes. “No disrespect intended, Etheridge.”
“None taken.”
But his account of Revere’s upbringing explained much, especially the cause of the man’s irascibility. It maybe also explained something about John B. and me. Revere’s coming up would seem to have been in blunt variance to mine in the Etheridge House. The interest John B. took in me, his expectations about my place in the colored Banker community—these things had surely prepared me for my role in the African Brigade and reflected now in my style of sergeanting. I recognized them as a great advantage. And I had to believe that this early training had primed me to take on even greater responsibility.
Hustling about the city had left me no opportunity to compose the letter promised to Fields. By the time of my return to the Pool house, a short stretch on into afternoon, Wild and Draper had moved from the library to the drawing room, and the place was overrun with activity. Locals, some loyal and some visibly not, as well as a number of our officer corps and some colored sergeants peopled the space. The general oversaw the varied proceedings. He spoke at this person, then turned to that other, passing along orders to his brother, then asking Colonel Draper’s opinion on a matter.
I noticed the rope-headed Maroon, Osman Golar, off in a corner of the room with three others. How I’d initially missed them I cannot know, for though silent and largely still, they drew the attention of everybody in the place, by either furtive glance or outright stare. It wasn’t so much the Maroons’ odd attire—as before, each one was wrapped in hides and furs—but the rest of it. Golar carried one of those old-style, short-stocked rifles with a mouth like the barrel of a bugle, a blunderbuss. John B. kept one mounted above the mantel at the Etheridge House, as a decoration, even though he, like all masters, locked up his arsenal. Yet, as antiquated as was Golar’s gun, it was the only proper weapon any of them had. The other three were armed of bows, with quivers of arrows affixed to their belts. Each carried a long knife, too, and one a tomahawk.
In another corner stood Revere. He saw me and looked to be querying for the cause of my presence. I used this as an excuse to make my way over aside him.
“Sergeant,” said I, formally, if cordially. I pointed toward the Maroons. “What’s all this about?”
He offered only silence as a reply.
“Colonel Draper has me assisting in the organization of our occupation of the city,” I said. “I could use a hand with it, relaying dispatches and such, if you’re not on to something other.”
Revere’s face went as flat as that of the rope-headed Maroon. “I am on to something other,” he said, though he did not suggest what.
It sounded like an excuse to me, to avoid the work. And further, I didn’t particularly appreciate the surly cast of his gaze.
General Wild broke from the rash of citizens who were beseeching something or other of him then, and he and Draper crossed to the Maroons. Draper, noting me, curtly waved me forward. “Etheridge, Etheridge! Come here now.”
I pushed my way through the crowd, though smartly—head high, chin forward—to counter the mortification I felt at his base summonsing of me.
The rest of the room closed in around as a parlay with Golar ensued. Golar removed his hat—in respect of Wild’s station as chief, I supposed, and for some reason this surprised me. Other than this, though, he stood back-stiff, bearing unbowed. Up close, his head was a marvel, not untamed gnarls of rope but coiling lengths of it, with the texture of sheep’s wool and falling nearly to his back.
Even from only feet away, his words were difficult to catch, as he spoke at a whisper—not submissive, just not overmuch concerned that he be full-on heard. “Two-score,” I made out—his reply to the general’s inquiry on the number of Maroons with him.
“With a detachment of our men, that would put you at about fifty,” said Wild, turning for confirmation toward Draper, “an appropriate size for a scouting party, for reconnaissance and other such missions.”
The colonel nodded in agreement.
Wild asked, “And for arms? Is this how you and your men are equipped?”
“Some has pistols,” said Golar.
This seemed news to the local citizens present, and none too delightful.
“And in the usage of them?” asked the general.
Golar’s whole face opened. “The fact of lacking guns don’t make us lacking in their proper usage.”
The general smiled, too. “I suppose not.” He said to his brother, “See that they’re properly provisioned.” Then back at Golar: “As to mounts?”
“More would be welcomed.”
Wild’s glance toward his brother communicated all that needed saying.
“You organize your men as you see fit,” said the general, directing his gaze now at Revere. “But the sergeant here will be my liaison to your unit and accountable for your actions. He will communicate to you my orders. Their execution is my sole motive in mustering and equipping your outfit. Are we clear on this?”
“Yes, sir,” said Revere, stepping forward. Smiles were rare on that man, but just then he looked downright wolfish.
Wild looked to be about to dismiss Golar, but then bent in close to Draper and whispered some consideration. The colonel nodded.
To Golar, Wild said, “And you’re certain your people will not come into the city, for transport to the security of the freedman’s colony?”
“Black Mingo men gone do as they gone do,” said Golar. “These ones here choose to fight. Them others hedging they bets.”
Thus ended the parlay. Golar hatted his wild head, and the crowd parted to let the Maroons pass. Revere followed after them.
When they’d quit the room, the crowd engulfed Wild, and the din of protests and demands resumed. Draper moved toward Backuss, off against the wall. He noted me lingering in place and made an impatient wave that bid me to join him.
He said to Backuss, “Company F is particularly disorganized, so we will use your men in various detached duties.” He turned to me. “And you, Etheridge, you’ll move your billet here. I’ll need you to serve as my aide-de-camp. Too much to do and not enough support staff to see it done.”
Backuss’s sour stare told he didn’t much like Draper’s choice of adjutant and would rather have seen himself in the position. Nothing seemed to be going his way.
I was no more overjoyed than he by the assignment, truth be told. “And my men, sir?” I protested. For I would rather have been with my company, soldiering, even if it wasn’t but picket duty.
“Lieutenant Backuss will oversee your men,” said Draper, and he said no more on it. He pushed back into the crowd, toward the general.
Backuss did not address me but rather exited at a clip. Me, I understood that I was to follow closely on the colonel’s heels, which I then commenced to do.
More dispatches took me around the city the rest of the afternoon. One, in proximity of the boat works, allowed me to venture in and gather my kip. I’d also hoped to find Fields there, to apprise him of my new assignment, but the place was empty.
Hanging about headquarters at suppertime, I came to understand that the orders I’d earlier circulated were instructions for a public rally to commemorate our triumphant arrival here. (Not so different from what I’d boasted of to Revere, really.) The ringing of church bells ushered in nightfall, accompanied by the booming of a battery of cannon. The general looked up from the map over which he, Draper, Lieutenant Colonel Holman, and Major Wright had been conferring. Wild said, “We must go.”
I followed them out the door, up Water Street, and over onto Main, to the courthouse square. A grandstand had been raised (just a scaffold adorned of company colors). The newspaperman Tewksbury was up there when we arrived, alongside the house-owner Pool and a few other local muck-a-muck Unionists. General Wild joined them, to oversee the proceedings, as did his brother, Holman, and Wright.
Colonel Draper kept himself nearby the scaffold but not atop it. He seemed to prefer this vantage point. I stood aside him.
The Stars and Stripes whipped lively from the flagpole above the courthouse. A crush of freedmen and women and children filled the walkways of Main Street, waving and cheering, as a combined corps of the regimental musicians—drummer boys and fifers and buglers, blazing “Babylon Is Fallen”—led the procession. Next was the principal body of the African Brigade, company after company after company. It was a rousing thing to see.
F was not part of the official proceedings. My unit was charged with manning sentry posts around town, as the joyous celebration could not be allowed to result in an unguarded enemy attack.
I noted Revere and the Maroons from earlier a short bit down the walkway from the colonel and me. Revere pressed closer when he saw that I’d seen him.
“Sergeant,” I offered by way of greeting, only to realize that his approach wasn’t meant for collegial banter. His eyes betrayed what was agitating behind: a puddle of dog shit would have been more warmly received than was my presence.
“Your proper place,” he whispered near my face, nodding toward the colonel, “as a lackey and a lickspit. Let the men, bona fide and proved, have at the mission of soldiering and emancipating.”
“Your proper place, too,” I shot back, indicating Golar and his swamp men, “at one step’s remove from wearing critter-clothes and living in your own filth.”
It was an infantile retort and not especially clever—and none too well appreciated either, by Revere or the Maroons. Golar in particular threw me a notably evil look.
“How much you despise your own black skin,” hissed Revere.
I don’t know why I did not on the spot strike him, except to acknowledge that I was shocked into a sort of dazed paralysis, one over which I tortured myself later that night and on others subsequent. I didn’t fear the man, not hardly. But his words had struck like a slaughterhouse hammer, with me the beef.
I watched as he backed his way through the crowd, glaring a hatred so profound that I puzzled at what could be its source. Golar and his swamp men followed.
Draper, oblivious, tapped a foot and bobbed his head to the brrum-brrumming of the passing drums. He had missed the entire exchange.
We would settle this score, Revere and I, and I could see by his expression that he relished the prospect of the encounter just as much as did I.